Right. I had better come up with some resolutions, hadn't I? What would be a New Year without some pointless plans and desires? It's a vital part of our culture. You quite simply cannot start writing down 2004 until you have made it absolutely plain to all of your friends next year you are finally going to stop eating chocolate, even if that was also your resolution for every single year in the last decade of the last century.
   So, I will split mine into groups. Physically I shall try to not gain any more weight than is absolutely unavoidable. I shall occasionally dine on something that is not deep fried haggis and chips and will walk stairs if I do not suffer from a hangover, it is not too early in the morning, it is less than five floors, I am on my way down and there is no lift.
   Politically I will try my very best to get in line with our politicians and see all the advantages of ethnically cleansing the Middle East. I will read up on the enormously moral act of torturing prisoners and will also try to realise Muslims aren't really human beings.
   On the relationship front I shall be nice not only to my girlfriend, but also to her mum and to both her cats, even though I am allergic and they like to sleep exactly where my head lays at night. The bastards. They do it on purpose, you know. I shall volunteer to make the early morning tea more often and promise to never ever again attempt to make breakfast in bed.
   Professionally I shall be a complete whore in selling out and I shall be offered crap jobs for loads of money. I will have even less principles than I have already. Also, I will continue writing this column until someone hires me to write elsewhere. I shall no longer slag off bands with musicians living in Edinburgh. And all the money I make I shall save up to go to Israel and Brazil.
   Socially I shall stop reading tabloids like the Sun and the Guardian and move onto serious journalism. I will continue to hate the Darkness. I shall not start drinking in trendy places that serve fourteen different types of coffee. And medically I shall not contract the bubonic plague, malaria or syphilis. I shall not break any bones in uncomfortable places, nor will I get paralysed, hospitalised or circumcised.
   Not too much pressure then. Happy New Year.

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I thought politicians were supposed to be good at making compromises. Isn't that what it says in their job description? To adjust principles until they are no longer offensive to anyone? Guess not. In an impressive feat of resolution the Scottish Executive a few years ago decided to ban most forms of hunting.
   Personally I don't give a toss about hunting. People want to dress up and chase a fox with a couple of dogs then the best of luck to them. I can think of worse ways to spend a Sunday afternoon. I can also think of better ways to spend a Sunday afternoon, but then perhaps that's just because I am a city boy.
   Apparently that is the problem with anti-hunt activists. They're too urban. Townies will never understand the thrill of the hunt. The joy of wearing white trousers in such a muddy environment. Living right on the edge. And they're right. I don't understand it. Nor do I have any intention of ever becoming one of the countryside crew. I like electricity, warm showers and the knowledge an ambulance only takes eight minutes to reach me.
   But, I have come up with a solution to this conflict. If the townies don't understand the thrill of the hunt, and the countryside folk want to control the pest of foxes, why not move the hunt into the city? Problem solved if you ask me. Best of both worlds. Instead of horses of course you'll need to use scooters. But foxes aplenty. In fact, I wouldn't at all be surprised if there are more urban foxes than there are feral ones.
   And the thrill would be even bigger. Because obviously we are not going to be stopping traffic, so as the hunters chase the animal through the streets they will have to be ducking and diving oncoming traffic at the same time. Extra fun! I'm sure even the anti-hunt lobby would secretly be glad to see one of these peasants in a red coat pinned under a Volkswagen Beetle.

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Am I wrong in assuming that most people take a deep breath and blow hard when they wish to put out a candle? Seems to be the normal way of doing things if you ask me. A wee puff and out it is. Safe, quick and simple.
   It would definitely be unwise to stick both your fingers into an open naked flame and pinch the burning piece of string reaching temperatures of up to exceedingly fucking hot. Fire is not good for you! You are not supposed to go anywhere near it. That's why we have invented long matches and buttons to light the hobs. It's why we have electric lights.
   Of course the theory is that when you wet your fingers and do it very quickly you don't get burned. Aye, right. And if you run really fast when it's raining you won't get wet either. Of course you get burned! Maybe not as bad as when you stub it out on your stomach, but most definitely you would be all the better off just taking a deep breath and extinguishing it by a quick burst of air. Safety first, children!

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The good thing about the Christmas holidays is that no matter what time you manage to drag your arse out of bed, there is bound to be at least one good film on the telly. For well over a week all television bosses get together and decide they are going to show a whole range of classic and brilliant movies.
   This of course almost makes it worth shutting the supermarket without telling us about these things. Christmas Day I had counted on, by Boxing Day I was getting hungry. It doesn't even have the word Christmas in it! How the fuck am I supposed to know they still count it? I mean, Christmas has twelve days according to the song, so when can we expect to buy a loaf of bread again?
   Still, as you are munching away on peanuts and dry crackers at least the Karate Kid is bound to be on. That'll help you forget about your stomach growling. With a wee bit of luck it will be followed by the Neverending Story and half a dozen Bond films. Disney usually throws in a few as well. Mindless and pointless fantastic entertainment.
   What I don't get is that if they have all these films the whole family likes to watch, why don't they show them the rest of the year? As soon as we hit mid-January Iron Eagle IV will be on again. Okay, we have food on the table, but we need telly, man! Do these programmers take a holiday after Christmas and let some intern do the sorting while smoking copious amounts of dope?

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Can you picture me at a cocktail party? Black tie, long dresses and kilts all around? Not to mention all those fancy drinks with impressive names. Personally I have to say a drink called sex on the beach doesn't sound very enticing. Shagging on a sandy surface is terribly uncomfortable. As you rub over each other it feels as though you are making love to sandpaper while some deviant is pouring bucketloads of dirt in the crack of your arse. Not my idea of paradise.
   I certainly couldn't picture myself at one of these things. Though fortunately neither did any of the other people at the party. Or the people throwing it for that matter. I suppose it could be argued I stood out a wee bit. Actually, I stood out like an elk on a fish farm.
   Not that I wasn't dressed for the occasion. I even wore a shirt. Well, I say a shirt; my shirt really. I only have one. And I think I can safely say my girlfriend is the first woman in my life, with the possible exception of my grandmother, to get me into it. Amazing persuasive talents she has. Well, both of them, really. Nobody argues with my nan either. I don't care how big you are.
   Perhaps I should consider becoming a member of civilised society myself. Stop going to pubs and start heading for the wine bar instead. Maybe even learn how to put a tie on. Though it would probably mean I can't wear white socks in black boots anymore. Apparently that is just not done. Don't know why. They're really comfortable.

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There is an entire world of flora and fauna out there that I have missed completely. I don't know what these things are called. If things are prickly, then they are called prickly things. I don't have time to study plants. I have better things to do in my life. Plants quite simply aren't of any interest to me. Once we have had another nuclear war and we have to start eating this stuff to survive; then I'll become interested. Provided I live of course. Otherwise I imagine the plants will take an interest in me.
   It was awfully confusing then to be given a pair of sharp scissors and told to go and chop off bits of holly. Just didn't sound right. One of my editors is called Holly. I can't take a train south and start stabbing her just because it's Christmas. She's my boss! She may be English, but still. There are some very basic principles of the employer-employee relationship that would be violated by the act of mutilating her.
   Wouldn't look good on my CV, would it? Fortunately there were some slightly more botanically knowledgeable individuals to point me in the direction of some trees. This obviously came as a great relief to me, as I imagine it did to my editor as well.

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After many weeks of relentless betting, predictions from radio personalities and people running to the shops to buy the latest Christmas single, finally we have the answer to the question who is Christmas number 1 2003. That's right! And the winner is not the Darkness.
   That's all I know. No idea who won. Don't really care either. Just the fact it was not that band of overgrown emasculated Welsh choir boys who have been watching far too much old Van Halen videos. The idea they now not only have no testicles, but also no Christmas number 1 fills me with so much joy it is hard to describe. And also with a glimmer of hope that perhaps the state of the nation is not quite as bad as may have been previously thought.
   I have also been informed they have gone over to the US. Good! Let's keep them there, shall we? Revoke their passports immediately. We can tell them we won't let them back into the UK until they start sounding like men. Like a band. Like rock stars! Not that one kid in gym class with his underpants pulled over his head.

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I refuse to take Christmas seriously. It's a stupid fucking festival, and it is on an inconvenient day on the calendar. Six days before Hogmanay, and then fuck-all for months. Spread the joy around I say.
   But I really hate it because celebrating Christmas puts you in a club I seriously don't want to be associated with. I mean, look at who are attending these special masses: the entire Bush administration, the Pope and Yasser Arafat. One big happy bunch of serial killers, racists and mass murderers. All praying for peace and goodwill towards men while they are killing off children left, right and centre.
   So I refuse to be serious about anything related to Christmas. I don't sit around commemorating Jesus Christ being born in a barn like the peasant he was. I don't put angels on top of a tree. And I don't go around molesting women just because they stand under a branch ripped off some poor plant. Nor do I stick my sock by the fireplace, sing songs about a reindeer with an infected nose or send people cards telling them how much I love them. Funnily enough I feel the same about people all year round.
   And I also refuse to go shopping for sixteen hours to find people presents they will treasure forever. In fact, I go especially out of my way to find them stuff they will hate. And I expect them to do the exact same. I still have a poster of Avril Lavigne in my bedroom. That's the quality of gifts I expect. And give. My anarchist flatmate was particularly pleased with his picture book of Prince William. See, still a time of overcoming our differences to keep in with the spirit.

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There are some things in life I don't suppose I will ever get to understand. Maybe I'm not supposed to get them. Perhaps nobody is. For example, I really don't get white supremacists. I mean, I don't get other kinds of supremacists either, but this whole theory about blonde blue-eyed people somehow constituting as a master race seems to me to be one of the most poorly researched arguments in written history.
   Yet it seems to be on the increase again. Asians were fine while they were picking up rubbish and teaching us how to make food actually edible to human beings, but ever since we learned to do it ourselves and have plenty of refugees from the Balkans to clear our streets this ever increasing group of shaven-headed dickheads wants them to go back home. For the vast majority of course 'home' is Birmingham, Glasgow or Manchester. Much like the home of all these fuckwits in hooded tops and white trainers.
   What makes us white people so special? Did we do anything in the last millennium or so that can be regarded as some kind of benevolent act towards the planet? I think I must have missed that in history class. For the most part it seems any tiny bit of culture we have spread around the world we nicked from somewhere else first.
   We certainly didn't come up with any decent music. You find any kind of tune with a swing or a beat to it and I will guarantee you we had fuck-all to do with it. Guitars, violins, drums and wind instruments? Not a white man in sight. What did we come up with? The fucking bagpipes. And don't get me wrong; I love the bagpipes. But I can't really argue with tourists when they plug their ears and hurry along.
   And not all whites are included in this whole supremacy thing. Jews can piss right off for starters. Preferably followed by any Mediterranean types hanging about. Apparently these are all inferiors. Not sure in what respect. Can't be an educational one. There is a good reason why Jewish history stretches back so much further in time than ours does. They wrote theirs down! We hadn't actually invented script yet. Or medicine for that matter. The Jews had an organised civilisation before the Greeks did and when the Greeks were building the Parthenon we were staring at the stars while chewing away on pinecones. I can see how that would seem superior to some.
   One of my Mediterranean friends was playing some bizarre board game with a Persian friend of mine recently. It's like checkers, but with pointy things rather than squares. Been about for a few centuries now. I can't play games like these to any decent standard. Nor can the vast majority of my white friends. These two had been playing them since they stopped trying to swallow the pieces. Of course their ancestors had been playing these games in roofed enclosures, smoking a pipe while mine were still rubbing their arse on a tree after taking a shit.
   We were fairly decent at sailing, but then anyone living in a climate like ours must have been keen to get the hell away from it. Meanwhile, when is the last time you heard a team of white people won the world championship of any sport popular around the globe? We win at curling, rugby and cycling because no other fuckers ever even considered competing in these things.
   Perhaps it's not a big surprise then that the vast majority of these self-styled skinhead neo-nazis can't add up their own toes, string together half a sentence or spell the name of the street they live in but are always looking to kick someone's head in. They are in fact a very decent representation of the state us white people have been existing in for some time now.

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It's a good thing I thrive on rejection. It makes seeking to make money from writing so much more fun. After all, half of the time you spend actually scribbling things down; the other half you spend in communication with editors and other such lovable characters.
   Obviously my style is not suitable for all. Only the other week for example I found an ad looking for writers to contribute to a Christian magazine for teenage girls. I thought about it for a while, and then decided perhaps this would not be my ideal audience. They were looking for things of interest to teenage girls, which I can do. But as they counted praying and worship as subjects, I don't think addiction to masturbating with a showerhead would have fitted in well.
   Most of the time you find an ad that claims all styles and subjects are accepted. But regularly when I submit I get an e-mail stating my story doesn't correspond with the theme or subject. Sounds slightly contradictory to me. It's not always the ad that's to blame for confusion of course. I submitted a story about shagging a complete stranger to a teenage magazine once, and was told by the editor she thought it was hilarious but wanted to remind me the teenage years (and therefore her readers) start at thirteen. And right she was. My mistake.
   I got one of the best rejections the other day. According to the editor they had read my story with great interest, extensively considered it and then found it to be of a standard too low for the magazine. To me, that doesn't sound like they are the smartest of people. If the theme was off, or the vocabulary not suitable for an American audience, fair enough. But if it was of poor quality, wouldn't you hope somebody picked up on this, say, after the second paragraph? Certainly not after considering it for several weeks.
   But my best ever rejection letter I received in the post from a Scottish magazine. It covered an entire page. So my guess was there was going to be an elaborate explanation of why my writing was crap and I should never ever bother writing another word. Instead I got one paragraph informing me my story was not accepted. Which left another seven or eight. These were used to explain to me how wonderful this magazine was, which writers had been accepted and whether I would be interested in subscribing for the next few months. Can you imagine being turned down by people that stupid? I wonder how many readers they have acquired this way.
   Come to think of it, rejection letters almost invariably seem to be ultimately more interesting than any letter informing me of the fact a story has been accepted. Perhaps with the exception of Defenestration, the first online magazine to be edited entirely by monkeys. Never had been sent a limerick before. Not even for my birthday!
   I think I am some kind of masochist. Perhaps I should find help. Just a nice therapist to explain to me boring letters with good news are better than interesting ones with bad news. But then I'd have nothing to complain about. Then where would I be?

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I have enormous respect for technical people. Computer experts, electricians and car mechanics I think are one of the most valuable members of our society. And I think we have a good deal. They, the techs, fix everything we, the non-techs, break and then we, the non-techs, proceed to take the piss out of them for not being able to spell or add. Meanwhile of course the next time we try and fix an outlet ourselves we invariably electrocute ourselves.
   Cars are something I don't understand. I know they work by some kind of mechanism, but how exactly I have no idea. Nor have I ever lain awake at night wondering about this contraption. It works, and that is all I care about. Until of course I am presented with a slight problem.
   I always thought that when it comes to car issues I was the worst possible moron. How wrong I was. It turns out there is an entire species out there, far worse than I could ever be. I am referring of course to women. Strange creatures to begin with, but combined with automobiles they seem to turn into some kind of state of complete recklessness and lack of wit.
   The dipstick is a thing metal rod resting in a tiny hole somewhere hidden deep under the bonnet. Even I could have told you that when you remove this thing perhaps you should park under a streetlight. Of course as is usually the case a man was called over to resolve the problem and for lack of any skilled ones I found myself elbow deep in the pitch-black cavity looking for a hole half an inch across.
   I'm telling you, it's like trying to find the clitoris! Coming across things you have never felt before and you hope won't hurt you. Just rooting around slippery things. And of course a woman moaning you are useless in the background while you are trying to focus and remember all the places you have been and didn't work. These things are too complicated! We should just leave them to the professionals.

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'The Lord of the Rings' has won the BBC's Big Read competition. Well done to Tolkien. I certainly didn't vote for him. I voted for '1984'. Show some culture, Britain! Fucking Lord of the Rings. A bunch of elves and goblins prancing about in a forest. Nineteen chapters to describe what a tree looks like. We've all seen trees, JRR! I realise he came from Birmingham, but still. An educated man should not be describing trees unless he is a biologist, and a sick one at that.
   Perhaps no surprise then that I didn't make it through the first part of that book. Even the bible seemed ultimately more stimulating. Less credible, and certainly less consistent, but all the more exciting. By the time that fuckwit of a Tom Bombadil had started singing the fifteenth song about himself I had a long look at the cover, decided that was shit too and gave it to someone for Christmas.
   I did go and see the film though. Roughly ten hours of cinema I can deal with. And now I know for certain what I have suspected for a long time: there was no need to make that book 2,458 pages long. Absolutely pointless. Even condensed down into ten hours there were still parts where yawning was only prevented by deep snoring.
   The good thing about the film of course is that Tom Bombadil is not in it! I don't know what nationality that Peter Jackson is, but give the man a knighthood. Even the dreary bits where the elves start whispering bollocks to crying hobbits I sat through with a smile on my face, pointing at the screen and reminding the people next to me no Tom Bombadil. A genius that man is.
   The end I have a problem with. The whole point of going to see that thing was to know how it ends. For some reason all those fuckers in anoraks and computer programming people who have actually read this book, usually two dozen times, will never tell you the end. Always tell you to go and read it for yourself. The bastards.
   Now, there is a point to this film. They need to destroy the ring. So that to me would be a pretty definite ending. No such fucking luck! It goes on and on and on. No more crying hobbits! Get them away! It's over. We have an imagination; we can work out which ones live in peace and happiness the rest of their lives. But most of all, we don't give a shit. An anti-climax to a normal film is bad enough; after four hours of sitting on the second row with my neck folded in a manner it has never been folded before I need a pint. Some popcorn perhaps. But most of all, Mr Jackson, I need a piss! So, for future reference: kill kill kill, boom, wow, bang, ahhh, credits. Got it?

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The ideal age for your partner is half yours, plus seven. Or so I was told recently while we were consuming copious amounts of alcohol and talking even more copious amounts of bollocks. As we usually do on Sunday nights. It is becoming quite a tradition in our flat.
   That would mean of course that partners of the same age are only perfect for each other at the age of fourteen. Talk about pressure. Find the love of your life at that age? Impossible. Of course it also suggests that really you should be ending relationships every two or three years. Which I realise it not too much of a difficulty for someone blessed with my personality, but doesn't really bode well for the marriage councillors of the world.
   Once I have reached sixty my ideal partner will be thirty-seven. That's cool. That means my prospective partner for then will be born about now. This gives a whole new twist to the paedophilia phenomenon. Scary stuff. Perhaps we should introduce a roof for this theory. At, say, forty-five. Fifty at most. And I also think that nine-year-old girls should keep their hands off four-year-old boys. You know, for the sake of future mental well-being.

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Every once in a while somebody gets you a present so cool that simply it blows your mind. One of the ultimate things to receive. For my birthday for example, I got a Snickers bar. It doesn't get any better than that!
   The amount of uses for a chocolate bar is unlimited. For starters you can throw it at people who are annoying you. If you keep it in the fridge for a while, or just walk around with the thing this time of year it becomes one of the most effective weapons to defend yourself with from muggers and molesters.
   But it doesn't end there. If you stick it on your desk you can pin pens and pencils into it. Or you could take it down to Leith, hold a lighter under it until it is starting to melt, smear the chocolate all over your body and get a hooker to lick it all off. I suppose you could even use it as a rudimentary sex toy.
   You could have a competition to see how far you can throw it, or feed it to the ducks to see how they deal with it. You could take the wrapper and create some sort of modern piece of art with it. If you live in a country where it still exists you can stick it in your ear to avoid the draft. And if you live in a country where it doesn't you could stick it in your ear just for the hell of it.
   If you tie a string to it and hide in the bushes you can make people bend over to try and grab it before you yank it from right underneath their noses. Children will shut the fuck up if you give it to them. You can save a diabetic's life. Or kill someone allergic to peanuts. Practical jokes can be played in ScotRail train service toilets. Or you can offer it to that really pretty lassie sitting all by herself. If she doesn't want it, you can always sell it.
   You could write a paper on how many household pets like to eat Snickers. Or whether it is a useful plant food. The chip shop may be willing to wrap it in batter and deep-fry it for you. And you could cut out the letters on the wrapper and use them to send threats to your local MP. You can shove them into exhaust pipes or lay them on the rails to get squashed by a train. Or dangle it in front of someone completely out of his head on acid.
   I suppose you could even eat it. But that would just be boring.

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Big dealings in Iraq at the moment. The new dictator has captured the old dictator. Everybody is jumping up and down with joy, announcing to the world that sceptics of the war have been proved wrong. We got him! And it only took 10,000 dead civilians to do it! So that was well worth it. Do you think the American authorities will now be issuing an immediate apology to Damascus for the repeated claims they were hiding him? Methinks not.
   Our government is absolutely over the moon. And rightfully so. It's not often they get something right. Of course now the question is what to do with him. And whether he should face the death penalty. Jack Straw and Tony Blair have both stated they are opposed to capital punishment, but will not object to the death penalty in this particular case. Spoken like a true Labour politician. Absolutely and utterly completely full of shit.
   It's simply not possible. You are either opposed to the death penalty, or you are not. Clearly, they are not. There is no such thing as 'special circumstances'. If you feel there is a crime that should result in an execution, you are not anti-capital punishment. Of course not every crime is punishable by death. Everybody has his own idea of which acts should qualify. If you know one, you are pro-capital punishment.
   Like me. And I would start long before genocide. Serial killers and child molesters, slave traders, hard drug importers and mass rapists I think all deserve death sentences. Won't lose any sleep over it whatsoever. So as long as Saddam's execution is neither public nor prolonged or painful I will most definitely not be protesting it.
   Let's not pretend he will face the death penalty for his crimes though. That's just the reason we won't mind. The actual reason Blair and Bush are so keen to have him tried and executed inside Iraq has nothing to do with justice. In fact, if we were to go for justice for the Iraqi people, Reagan, Thatcher and Rumsfeld would have to be extradited. And we're not going anywhere near anything that moral.
   Take the four most prolific mass murders this part of the world has seen in my lifetime: Saddam Hussein, Slobodan Milosevic, Ariel Sharon and Osama bin Laden. Two captured, two free. Two white, two Arab. All four committed an atrocity upon several thousand innocent people. Osama murdered 3,000 people in New York. Some died instantly, but many took to leaping from windows or were buried under tonnes of rubble before they died. It took months to dig them out. Ariel murdered 3,500 refugees at Sabra and Shatilla, many of whom were raped before they were killed. Their bodies were thrown on piles and left to rot. Saddam gassed 5,000 villagers in Halabja. All of them slowly suffocated. And Slobodan executed 8,000 in Screbrenica, many of them children, who were thrown in mass graves.
   All of them qualify for the gallows if you ask me. But how has the Blair government treated them? Well, two are in custody. Milosevic, who is white, has been given a comfortable cell in The Hague, is represented by international lawyers and will not face the death penalty. In fact, he wasn't even arrested by soldiers, but by his own people. We didn't care. Hussein of course is an Arab. He was captured by soldiers, paraded on television and according to Blair should face justice in Iraq, where he is most likely to die.
   Meanwhile bin Laden, an Arab, is still on the run, but has a price on his head. Dead or alive. Countless civilians have had to lose their lives in the hunt for the most wanted man on the planet. Sharon, the white man, is cheered on by our government and invited over for dinner. He has even been described as one of our allies.
   If two men commit the same crime, and one ends up your friend while the other becomes your enemy clearly the crime itself is not what you oppose. If you feel a white man should not face the death penalty for mass murder, but an Arab should then perhaps the issue is not the mass murder, but their skin colour. If mass murderers can be your allies if they are white but become your enemy if they are Arab then obviously in your eyes mass murder is not only not bad, but can even be a good thing. So what are you left with? Exactly.

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I have never been able to flirt with my boss. Mainly because pretty much without exception all of my bosses have been big, sweaty, ugly male arseholes. Which obviously doesn't quite tickle my fancy. In fact, I have often wondered how they managed to get laid at all in their lives. My guess is those new date-rape drugs or very close families.
   Of course now I am very slowly getting involved in the world where people make a career out of the written word I am increasingly dealing with intelligent creatures with an education. People who can spell their own names without checking their shirt first. And women. Complete with breasts, broad hips and other such features. I guess you all know what women look like. I am sure you have seen pictures.
   This is a bit of a cultural shock. I'm not used to minding my language when communicating with the people who employ me. In fact, in the case of most of the previous people I have worked for the addition of a few well-placed vile and insulting terms was the only way of getting my point across.
   As from January I will be writing a monthly column for the online music magazine Score, which is edited by two women. One of whom apparently has very strong feelings about men from this side of the Atlantic Ocean. So much so in fact that she decided to share with the world wide web she likes to play with herself while people talk to her in a British accent. And that perhaps employing one such person would offer her the opportunity to engage in some serious virtual office flirting.
   I'm thrilled of course. I'm a complete sucker when it comes to women stroking my ego. Not in the slightest bit interested whether it confirms the commonly held opinion I am a male chauvinist pig. My girlfriend is thrilled as well. She told me so herself, just before she incapacitated me with an especially well aimed knee right in the dangly bits.

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There are some strange people in the world. People who don't like Disney films for example. That's not normal. Or even worse, grown men who do like Disney films but pretend they don't. Some big hairy fucker stating a little too assertively that he has never seen Bambi in his entire life. Bollocks of course. You haven't had a childhood if you haven't seen Bambi. And if your kids haven't seen Bambi you should be reported to the NSPCC immediately.
   How is it possible that there are still beings out there, pretending to be human, who don't enjoy watching these films? I bet even Saddam Hussein has a soft spot for the Little Mermaid deep in his heart. I imagine Donald Rumsfeld isn't too keen on Aladdin, what with all those nasty brown people in it, but I am absolutely confident even he shoves Snow White into his video occasionally.
   Disney prepares you for life. It shows you that leopards and bears are friendly creatures that eat fruit. It teaches you to talk to rabbits. Kids with pets would be fucked without Disney. Admittedly when they do those songs you do want to grab hold of the biggest saucepan in the house and keep vomiting until the end of it, but other than that it is the ultimate experience when going on your first date, when you are stoned or nursing a hangover.

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The best thing about your birthday is that everybody by law has to be nice to you. Except your mum. It's a mother's job to be pleasant and caring all year round, but in contrast to everybody else she is the only one who is allowed to be nasty to you when you commemorate being rushed to hospital and delivered by a random bloke in a white coat shouting at trainee nurses so high on caffeine and adrenalin they miss the vein at least fourteen times.
   Mum then is excused from pleasantries. Though of course she can if she really wants to. Just not too early in the morning. If there is one thing I can't stand about birthdays it's the morning. I don't want to experience it. Birthdays start at about two o'clock in the afternoon, after rolling about in bed with your girlfriend for half an hour and having a nice cup of tea. Preferably, though not necessarily, in that particular order. I am suffering from so much guilt from all those years we made breakfast in bed for our parents on their birthday and came storming into their rooms at half seven in the morning with burnt toast, charred bacon and singing birthday songs not only out of tune, but at a volume only heavy metal rock concerts should be conducted at.
   To avoid such things I have adhered to two main principles. The first is that I make absolutely sure I don't have any kids, and the second is I unplug the telephone the night before my birthday. That generally works. I'm getting good at this stuff. But then very slowly I am approaching an age when you look at the calendar and in complete astonishment exclaim what? Again!?
   Birthday afternoons should consist of trying to remember the people you got postcards from. Though last year I only got one, and it had the wrong age on it. This only goes to show how many friends I have. Then have some cake and a few nice wee glasses of liquid alcoholic refreshments and talk of those days of past in which there was no speaking of interest rates and diets.
   Usually birthday evenings consist of going to the pub and bumping into some of your friends, who clearly remember they should go out for a pint that night, but can't for the life of them remember what the occasion was. This works well, because by now if one more person wants to hug you and ask you how old you are you feel you may very well start twitching your left eye and disembowel the nearest bloke with a baseball cap, using a rusty corkscrew.
   When finally the pub staff walk over to your table and politely ask you to get the fuck out of their pub you stumble home, making a very poor attempt at eating a kebab without covering yourself in sauce. Back home you then have a glass of whisky and roll around in bed with your girlfriend for half an hour. Usually, but not always, in that particular order.

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The endangered brown retarded chestnut owl is increasingly running out of places to live, due to continuous property development through the United Kingdom. Or at least that is what those environmentalist nutters keep telling us. They worry me. In the fight to save everything green and bacterial they seem to have abandoned all forms of logic and just whine whenever they hear anything vaguely technological.
   Take motorways for example. Or train lines. There's not too many of them. There are too many people who need them. So if the environmentally active really want to prevent these things from being built they should be campaigning for rigorous birth control. But of course condoms are not biologically degradable and therefore evil beyond human comprehension. They should be out protesting in front of hospitals against people who do not have abortions.
   Coincidentally these animal lovers are the same fuckers who object to zoos. Because it takes animals out of their natural habitat. The same habitat they claim is rapidly disappearing. Now, this may sound like stunning bit of logic here, but if the natural one is gone, wouldn't an artificial habitat be a great idea? The animals live, we get to see them; everybody's happy! Why make things more difficult than they are?

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After European parliamentarian puritanical nitwits decided that perhaps they should be debating the issue of smoking in pubs, some doctors have gone one step further and suggested smoking should be banned altogether. Because it's bad for you. Well, at least it's good to see that our medical professionals are keeping up with developments.
   Without having ever met these people I just know that they have been life-long members of the liberal democrats. Those people who think murderers should be sent to summer camp to be taught how to fish for trout but advertising chocolate bars before the ten o'clock watershed is unacceptable. People who go especially out of their way to be useless.
   Banning smoking altogether. That would mean no smoking outside, or even in the privacy of your own house. Your home may be your castle, but lighting up a fag should be illegal. How do these people come up with this nonsense? Is smoking really that big a killer that we need to stop making cigarettes? I can think of a few legal things that kill a lot more people and nobody has even considered banning.
   It strikes me as more than slightly idiotic that highly educated individuals are effectively proposing we start illegalising attempted suicide. That doesn't sound right to me. Shouldn't any adult in a right state of mind have the right to slowly kill his or herself? It's not like there aren't any warnings on cigarette packets. Everyone buying these things cannot miss the explicit prediction they will eventually cause death due to shrivelled lungs, blocked arteries and strange noises in all four chambers of your heart.
   I am all for freedom of choice, and that includes the choice to relieve stress while reducing your lifespan by a decade or two. I'm fine with this. If these doctors in home-knit jumpers want to protest something lethal I would suggest religion and cluster bombs. Neither one of which has a very impressive history of mixing well with the medical profession and both of which are extremely well known for killing small children.

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Just to prove that not all Germans are boring and without a sense of adventure a man is currently on trial for stabbing to death another man, and then eating him. That's to say, he is on trial for stabbing him. Cannibalism is not against the law in Germany. This sounds slightly worrying to me. Speeding is illegal. Smoking pot is illegal. Even peeing in public is illegal. But eating another human being is fine.
   This sounds to me as if perhaps there should be an introduction of new legislation. Surely if banning the consumption of human flesh were to be announced in the German equivalent of the Queen's speech there shouldn't be too much opposition. I hope not, anyway.
   I wonder how many animals eat their own kind. I know rats do, and I imagine vultures, coyotes and ravens probably do as well. But normally don't creatures stick to eating other species instead? Personally I wouldn't at all be comfortable chewing away on something I can point out on my own body. Maybe I am just unimaginative.
   In this particular instance the victim actually volunteered to be eaten, and before he was stabbed to death he agreed to have his penis cut off so the two of them could eat that together. If I ever get tendencies like these, please do me a favour; drug me until I am drooling all over myself, and just shoot me in the head. Point-blank.
   I'm not sure if euthanasia was such a bad option here. The eating him bit is a bit disturbing, but who are we to argue with German law? The only illegal thing he seems to have done is to kill a man who both wanted to die and eat his own penis. He clearly didn't object to being killed, and in all fairness I don't think too many mothers would want this man anywhere near their children. Glad I'm not in that jury.

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One of the best toys that came with my website is a daily report on how things are going. It's a bit like listening to one of the Star Trek crew explaining what is happening. Don't understand what any of the technical terms mean, but if the numbers in the yellow column are high then I know things are going well. That's my level of expertise.
   And it tells me which countries readers come from. Well, it attempts to. About half of the people visiting my site seem to live in the countries 'unknown' and 'international'. But that's good. You need a bit of mystery in your life. Even the Star Trek people don't always know what is going on, and they always survive the episode.
   Obviously the UK is quite prominent on the list, but the US, Israel and Australia have also got a permanent seat it would seem. And now they have been joined by Belize. Which just reminded me of those horrible days of old, when I was sat in a classroom behind a tiny desk, chewing my pen and looking at that one question on the test. I knew I heard of it. I even knew I had read about it somewhere. But somehow I had always thought it was a city, and I have no idea where on earth it could possibly be located. No wonder I failed geography.
   Of course nowadays I can cheat. I can look things up. That's what adults do. We remember absolutely fuck-all. We use calculators, bring our notes into important meetings, have tea and biscuits while working and look things up in encyclopaedias. I have absolutely no idea why all of these things were not allowed in school. Aren't they supposed to be preparing you for later life?
   Belize I guessed to be either in Africa or Asia. Not quite, it turned out. It borders Mexico. You learn something new every day. Of course I still don't know what language they speak, what currency they have or which side of the road they drive on, but it is incredibly cool to find out exotic foreigners are dropping by to have a look at my steadily increasing insanity.

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Julie Burchill recently wrote that people should stop demonising Israel because it is the only country in the Middle East where feminists and homosexuals can feel at home. Strange logic there. How does that affect me? Is that now the standard that we have to follow for countries? Ireland would immediately be degraded to the third world.
   It also doesn't do much for the image feminists have in my mind. Never been much of a fan of them anyway, but if Israel is the place they feel at home perhaps their priorities are even more fucked up than I had previously thought. Do equal rights for both sexes really come above the right to life? The current prime minister of Israel was after all never brought to trial for committing the largest act of mass murder in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict. An act preceded by the rape of several hundred women.
   So according to Burchill feminists would have no problem living in a country ruled by a man responsible for raping women. Or in a country that has no objection to this man standing in national elections. And here I was thinking feminists only wanted sexual liberation if it was consensual. My mistake, clearly.
   It implies one of two things of course. Either she really thinks feminists don't object to mass rape, or she doesn't consider Muslim women to count. And that seems to be the theme creeping into society. The idea that somehow Muslims don't really qualify as human beings. Even the language we use is happily adapting itself. In 2003 we have two rising problems in the English-speaking world: anti-semitism and islamophobia. That means we are against Jews and afraid of Muslims.
   Anti you can control. You make a conscious decision whether you oppose something. A phobia you can't help. It is not your fault you are afraid of something. If anything the concept you fear is to blame for it. At most it is irrational but demands complete understanding from the people around you. Isn't that convenient? Our own daily lingo suggests that the constant portraying of Muslims as evil and strange is not only acceptable, but a common psychological condition. It took 2,000 years before hating Jews was considered wrong in Europe; how long do you think we'll need to accept Muslims?

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Scottish football seems to be in deep trouble. Everyone's in debt and people are being sacked all over the place. It is so bad even, that it's mentioned on the news. That's got to be serious. Personally I don't give two shits. As we all know when footballers lie down on the pitch and squeal like women that doesn't mean there's actually anything wrong with them, so for all we know these managers are doing the exact same thing.
   Rangers apparently have amassed a debt of sixty-eight million quid. That's impressive. Not quite sure how you manage that. After all, all you need is twenty-two blokes, a bit of grass, one ball and six planks of wood to get one of these games going. And people pay to come and see this. How is it humanly possible to not make money on this activity? How fucking stupid do you have to be to mess this up?
   I say we should extend the goalposts a little, get rid of that silly net and just start playing rugby on these fields. Any footballer that can't adapt to this can go and play rugby for England, because they haven't attempted a try since the turn of the last century. But keep this crap off my news bulletin, because short of major rioting I really don't care what goes on in these places.

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If I come across one more life-sized singing and dancing Santa I may very well end up grabbing hold of a stick and beating people up with it. Unless of course I can get my hands on an M-16. This whole Christmas crap is starting to get right on my tits now. My birthday is coming up in a week and fucking Jesus keeps stealing all the attention. It's not like my birth was easy!
   Not to mention the fact Jesus was born in June. So why is he getting all this attention at the end of the year? We should be celebrating the birth of Christ in the middle of summer. Ultimately more practical if you ask me. We can have barbeques and beach parties, sleeping in barnyards and lying on your back looking at the stars. At least that would keep some of the original tradition alive. I mean, where did this arsehole in a red suit come from?
   Actually Christmas is a Germanic festival to celebrate the return of the light, when the days became longer. And the most common symbol at these festivities was the swastika, representing the fire in the sky. I know you are all feeling a lot better celebrating Christmas knowing its original symbol was the same as the one used by the perpetrators of the Holocaust.
   So I say we either go back to the original format (minus the swastika perhaps) and start setting fire to things like in the good old days before penicillin, toilet paper and nicotine chewing gum while moving the birth of Jesus to his actual birthday, or we just forget about the whole thing, celebrate my birthday and move straight on to Hogmanay. Bollocks to this bloody partridge. Burn the pear tree down is what I say.

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One of my columns recently appeared on Whim's Place and I decided to have a quick peek at their forum. Obviously immediately sticking my nose into their affairs we debated critiquing of each other's work. I said I usually just throw stories at people and if they were offended I knew I had done a decent job.
   I am not quite sure how, but from this we went to what Scots wear under their kilts. It wasn't too long until I was asked to offer an explanation why I refused to comment on the garments we may or may not have underneath our national dress.
   It is of course perfectly obvious. Anyone who has been to Scotland has undoubtedly stood at the bottom of our impressive hills, staring up in awe and wondering how on earth people could possibly have sex on those steep slopes. As every single flat bit of the Caledonian land has been used to house the population any act of sneaky outdoor nookie will invariably take place at an angle.
   This in itself is quite an achievement. A couple has to position itself in a manner gravity can only increase pleasure, rather than lead to a disconnection followed by a loud rolling down the hill towards the population below. It is a tricky business and therefore not an enormous surprise the population of Scotland is very limited.
   Soon after the introduction of trousers it became painfully obvious to the Scots that shagging up a hill with these garments around your ankles is not so much a health hazard as an absolute death trap. Being able to have complete control over where to place your feet is a vital necessity. Taking them off however equals losing them in the dark as you roll about.
   Hence kilts are so popular amongst the Scottish people. They lift easily and therefore cause no obstruction in the act of shagging. Once you stand up the kilt automatically falls back into position and you are on your way back to the pub.
   The only difficulty is presented by underpants, which obviously either get caught around your ankles or disappear into the darkness invariably surrounding you and your partner. So nowadays the population is split into two. Those who don't wear pants under their kilt because it complicates having sex, and those who do wear underpants because they never have sex anyway. To protect the wholesome image of the Scots then it soon became taboo to mention whether one wears knickers beneath the kilt. Silly question, really.

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I keep being absolutely amazed how early people can get up on Sunday morning. Just when I have managed to scratch the crust out of my eyes and with my hair pointing in all directions at once have poured myself a cup of tea before falling back onto the couch with a duvet wrapped around me somewhere in East Wales an entire congregation is singing songs in front of television cameras. Fully dressed of course. Even the kids have been washed and ridden of excess saliva before put into suits and dresses even doll makers haven't used since 1759.
   None of them ever look as though they want to be there though. Dutifully they make a poor attempt at sounding convinced when they sing about Jesus being their one and only god, whom shall reward them in the afterlife. At least I don't fight the urge to yawn. Doesn't make for very good telly if you ask me. It doesn't inspire me to do anything but scratch myself and go back to bed.
   I think we should do an alternative Songs of Praise. A Satanic one sounds good to me. We can do it on Friday night. Just a room full of people dancing about half naked with a cape around their necks, chanting hymns and pinching each other's butts. I'd tune in for that one. And if that doesn't quite correspond with our sense of British-ness, why not a pagan one? We have an ancient tradition of druids and other such numpties, so perhaps we can just film them trying to shag the stones at Stonehenge.
   We need to save Sunday morning telly! Breakfast with Frost is bad enough; we can't have a bunch of dreary half-dozing puppets pretending they have read the bible. So get them away and send them to a very dark place somewhere, where they can entertain themselves.

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We have decided that our pet needs a change of soil in its home. It's been a very good pet to us and obviously it deserves nothing but the best. The problem is that it's a tarantula. And that doesn't quite compare with the other pets I have had in my life. I realise goldfish, hamsters and cats don't have a hell of a lot in common, but when it comes to cleaning their habitat I think I can safely say the tarantula is in a league of its own.
   Cleaning up after a cat is easy. You pick up the cat, stick him on the bed with a rubber ball and tell it to entertain itself for a while. It will fuck about for a while, go to sleep and in the meanwhile you can do all the dirty business. By the time it wakes up you will be done and after it has sniffed about approvingly both of you are happy.
   Hamsters aren't too much trouble either. You stick your hand in the cage and lift out the rodent. You hand it to either your sister or the cat and tell them to amuse themselves for a while. Meanwhile you dump the contents of the cage in the bin, chuck new sawdust in there and toss the creature back in once it has had enough of being chucked up in the air by your sister.
   Fish are the easiest. You empty the contents of the bowl into the toilet and remind the family not to flush. You rub a sponge up and down the glass, fill it up with new water from the tap and fish your pet out of the loo.
   So how do you clean out a spider den? Nobody in my house is willing to entertain a thing with eight legs and fangs. I think we shall have to be very polite with this particular pet and perhaps see if we can reason with it. Barring that apparently they go to sleep if you stick them in the fridge. Never tried that with my cats.

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Wow. Things are going great in Europe, aren't they? It's unbelievable how many people you can stick in a room to debate things and still come up with absolutely fuck-all at the end of it. Glad to see we aren't spending all this money on hospitals and universities, because that would just be silly.
   The big thing now is a European defence force. Can you imagine this ever happening? I mean, can you find three countries in Europe that both get along in their current political situation and haven't been at war with each other in recent history? Best thing to do clearly is to stick a few thousand of these guys in a field, armed to the teeth with a nine-fold language barrier and then tell them to start shooting at people they don't like. It's asking for trouble if you ask me.
   But then Geoff Hoon is against it, which definitely makes it more attractive. This is after all the man who claimed tyrants take off their uniforms whereas civilised liberators fire cluster bombs into streets where kids are playing and that there was no indication depleted uranium is harmful. In fact, I don't think I have ever heard Hoon say anything that remotely made sense or had any ring of truth to it. At least you know where you stand with the man.
   The reason good old Geoff is opposed to this European defence force is of course that it may undermine NATO. That's the organisation formed after the US found that sitting at home watching defenceless countries get blown up doesn't necessarily mean you don't get hit yourself. Of course Geoff has no problem with undermining NATO; just a problem with not including the Americans. He's quite used to having his tongue up Donald Rumsfeld's arsehole and has become addicted to the taste of it.
   After September 11th 2001 NATO stated that as 'an attack on one is an attack on all' the entire organisation would stand behind the United States and would fight the perpetrators. And what did the Americans say? Fuck off. That's what they said. NATO suspended, the Geneva Conventions suspended; just countries doing as the Yanks said. That's how precious NATO is.
   But it gets better. President George Wanker Bush has signed a bill authorising the American armed forces to attack and invade the Netherlands should any American citizen ever be held at the International Criminal Court in The Hague. In other words if an American citizen is captured and charged with say, mass rape, genocide or ethnic cleansing, the American army can legally invade Holland to prevent him from facing trial.
   This in itself bewilders me. The idea that Americans feel they are above the law when it comes to mass murder. But The Netherlands is a NATO country. And an attack on one is an attack on all. So for the benefit of a single citizen the US is willing to suspend the whole of the organisation. No wonder they don't want a European army. God forbid we are able to fucking defend ourselves when they come charging over. At least Hoon will be cheering them on.

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My life can't possibly get any more exciting. Adrenalin is pumping through my veins constantly. There is not a dull moment in my life, and I feel as though I am quickly burning up all the energy allotted to me in this lifetime. I mean, life doesn't get much more exhilarating than watching the UK championships of snooker.
   Tensions were rising in our living room. After all, snooker is a highly competitive sport. It's like cheering on a rugby team. Or maybe that's just in our flat. We are slightly dysfunctional after all. But it must be thrilling if the BBC is paying five different people to deliver the commentary for a single match.
   Not the brightest of bulbs though. Or something very sinister is happening in the world of snooker families. When one of the many cameras was aimed at Matthew Stevens' partner, one of the presenters offered that she was eleven months pregnant. That doesn't sound right. Even I paid enough attention in biology to know that eleven months and pregnant only go together in the zoo.
   I mean, I realise the man is Welsh, but surely even there by now they have signed up to the Homo Sapiens treaty and have started conducting their pregnancies on a nine-month basis. At least the fact his girlfriend has been impregnated by another species didn't stop him from winning the trophy, so I guess there is some consolation for the man. Still, I think I would have preferred more human offspring.

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I am in need of some serious medication I think. Some kind of treatment to get back to my conscious and rational adult self. For the last week I have been stumbling about like a pubescent child worried about a maths exam. This is not normal.
   Just to prove not only opposites attract it would seem that a common hatred of squirrels can bring people quite close together. Some things never cease to amaze me. One of which is definitely asking someone whether they would like to meet up some time and not only getting a smile, but also a positive response. Even more so if said person is a very attractive member of the opposite sex.
   This of course is a highly unusual situation for me to find myself in, though not quite as unusual as waking up in the middle of the night for no reason. I slept through an earthquake once. And I went back to bed after I saw the second plane hit the Twin Towers. I didn't even stay up when we started bombing Afghanistan. So why the hell do I wake up when someone smiles at me?
   I even forget to have breakfast. Breakfast! Normally I can't function properly until I have chopped my way through at least three different forms of delicacies sliced off a pig. And all of a sudden I just don't even think about it. Approximately a quarter of a century I have been among the living now; somehow I expected to have mastered the art of having breakfast by now.
   But it definitely hit me I was going bonkers when my flatmate walked into the living room and enquired whether there was any particular reason I had left the butter next to the stove and placed the box of matches inside the fridge. I'm a freak. Please tell me this will pass.

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Is there any reason why cats are always portrayed as the evil animals in films? From James Bond through Dr Claw to that new animatronics film, cats are always the horrible creatures plotting the destruction of the planet. It seems we have gone from Jews to Russians to cats. A strange sequence, when it is perfectly obvious short people and koala bears have always been at the root of all evil.
   Dogs on the other hand are always the loveable big furry friend of the children while the nasty feline is attempting to come up with all sorts of nasty business. Just look at Tom and Jerry, or Sylvester and Tweetie. Always the big hairy growling thing in the doghouse comes to the rescue of the innocent creatures in danger from the evil pussycat.
   Can we get a second opinion on this? From say, a postie. How often do you think they get attacked by an evil cat? Personally I think the idea of a kittie rubbing up against their leg is ultimately more attractive than a big fuck-off rottweiler going straight for the throat. Has nobody in the film industry ever picked up on this? Generally while the cat is purring away in your lap it's the dog that is chasing your partially handicapped grandmother down the road.
   And at least cats have the decency to find a nice bushy area to have a crap. Or do it in a litter box designed especially for this purpose. Not dogs. Dogs will shit anywhere they feel like, and if you won't take them there then they will be more than happy to defecate all over your living room floor instead.
   Not to mention the fact cats have the decency not to sniff your crotch the moment you walk in the door. I don't know about you, but personally I am not too fond of that wet nose in between my legs before Friday evening. Cats don't do that. Maybe a quick prodding of your ear when you won't wake up on Sunday morning. That's it. Nice and friendly. No extensive invasion of your private property.
   In South Florida we had an Alsatian trained to bite people in the arse. That'll give you an idea of how friendly these fucking creatures are. They have far too many teeth, and the ability to very slowly tear strips of flesh from your body if they get peckish. That's not a pet; that's terror on paws. I don't know who came up with the idea that cats are evil, but I bet he was allergic.

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What is it about supermarkets that turn kids from smelly little monsters into seriously reeking annoying demons from Hell? For some reason when children enter Tesco they just cease to be recognisable as little humans. As soon as they set foot inside abandon all hope, because they will do their very best to make your shopping as fucking horrible as is possible.
   I mean, I don't think under tens should be allowed anywhere near the fresh food section anyway. Think about it. All you are doing is transferring mud, germs, snot and urine onto the freshly prepared ingredients you will be serving up to your visitors later that evening. It's not healthy. And the really little ones even go as far as to add the extra aroma of faeces to the lettuce.
   But besides the contaminating they do, kids also feel compelled to start shouting their fucking little heads off the moment they step through the door. And god forbid they don't get attention straight away, because that will just trigger a wail normally associated with emergency vehicles travelling at high speed through heavy traffic.
   And due to our fine government you can't smack these kids anymore. Well, not in public anyway. So all these people dumb enough to produce this offspring in the first place just ignore the bastards, and let us enjoy the full force of their crying and screeching. Which means I have to bite my knuckles to stop myself from running over there and kicking the little shit in the face repeatedly before battering its parents to death with a pack of frozen peas. One of these days it is all going to get terribly out of hand.

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I have a strange hate-love relationship with my computer. It is ultimately more practical than my record player to play music and sure as hell saves a lot of ink when I am writing, but then there are times where I can't help but feel my life would be so much less stressful if I just grabbed a sledgehammer and keep hitting it until the sparks stop flying out.
   My computer refuses to crash once. When it crashes, it will fucking crash all day long. You hit re-start and wait for that irritating blue screen to do its job. That takes considerably longer than making a cup of tea for starters. And when finally you get to the regular screen and try to open a document, the bastard crashes again!
   By the third time it generally starts crashing while re-starting. By which time I am counting my books to stop myself from ripping the thing from underneath my desk and throw it at my neighbours below. I can now properly kick the re-start button when I run at it at full speed and wearing size 13 boots. That gives you a fair idea how often we get into an argument.
   I always thought that computers would be like women, in the sense that there is lots of porn involved and they speak to one another in a language you can't follow, but without those things I don't understand about them. Think again, my friend. At least if you give women enough to drink they become quite pleasant and co-operative. You pour a glass of whisky into a disk drive the lights go off in your flat. I think I need more of a social life.

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With sectarianism rife in the north of the UK, anti-Semitism on the rise in Europe and the eradication of Islam high on the agenda of Western leaders church officials and human rights organisations are calling for more religious sensitivity and understanding. Perhaps schools could educate us about the various different religions we have. More allowances should be made for those who are not of the Christian faith during their religious festivals and holy days.
   Bollocks. Fuck religious sensitivity. And most definitely fuck religious understanding. I refuse to comprehend how people can talk to invisible characters who were made up in the first place. Let's face it, if you were found chatting to Bilbo Baggins they would lock you up. Hell, they'd put you away if you were found chatting to Napoleon Bonaparte, and we all know he actually existed. So quite why we should make exceptions for people talking to characters from the bible I don't understand.
   We don't need more allowances for people of other religions. We need less allowances for the people of religions we already have. To hell with the whole Christianity thing. We in the West think we are so very clever and civilised in our customs and religion, yet somehow we still believe that our omnipotent supreme being, whose will cannot be opposed, was actually killed by three blokes in leather underpants. Who's calling who primitive here?
   In other words, let's quit all this nonsense with closing shops on Sundays. And closing schools at Christmas. I don't even care if schools start opening on Saturdays. Freedom of choice is what capitalism is all about, so let the schools figure out a suitable weekend and let parents pick the one that suits their busy schedule. No more of this mindless queuing on Tuesdays while the roads are empty on Saturday.
   And let's stop all this fucking noise on the day of rest as well. All that clanging of bells is really starting to get on my tits. If these people are serious about their religion I am sure they will remember when they are supposed to be in their designated place of worship without being reminded by some poor sod with earplugs who clearly is exempt from the whole not-working deal.
   I think if we remove religion from our laws and educational system before long you would find everybody getting along just fine. Muslims would fill in at Yom Kippur while the Jews can work at Christmas and the Christians cover Ramadan. Imagine that, all these people working together to find a decent solution.
   The thing is that I don't give a shit what religious customs you adhere to. Don't care one bit whether you celebrate Eid, Easter or Erev Purim. Just be sure to send me an invitation. And make sure to remind me what it is we're celebrating and which book I should bring to read a story from. Nothing beats a great story after a good meal. Just don't pretend these things actually happened, because it will only screw up the kids.

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Am I alone in thinking that there is no need for lengthy advertisements for toilet paper? Especially the ones that go into detail. There are certain aspects of toilet paper that I think we can safely assume everybody is aware of and therefore need no more explaining. Next thing you know they will be debating the best way of wiping your arse.
   And where did all these animals come from? One brand insists on pretending cartoon bears use ultra-soft pink loo roll. Not only do I not think that bears and humans have very much in common when it comes to lavatory etiquette but somehow I don't think suggesting these things will teach our kids anything useful about those big brown creatures that hang around in woods and rip you apart.
   Another brand even has a puppy running into the bathroom and making off with the entire roll. Dogs in bathrooms with children. Surely there are some fundamental health issues to be addressed here. What are we teaching the nation's young? Get these bloody ads off our telly!

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The concept of time is an interesting phenomenon and quite frankly something you shouldn't spend too much time worrying about. When I was younger I used to wonder terribly how those 'back to the future' films worked. After all, if they went back in time to set something right then how would they know something was wrong by the time they came to the 'now'. But then I discovered beer and women.
   Some parts of it are pretty basic though, and really shouldn't present too much of an obstacle in daily life. However, as quite a few of us humans tend to have been born with a limited energy supply to the brain occasionally I am still amazed how some people manage to get confused over simple issues. Or worse yet, turn a simple situation into an incomprehensible mess.
   For example, someone recently left me a note saying Harry will drop by tomorrow. That was it. That was the entire message. No mentioning of who wrote it, why it was written and, most importantly when it was written. To me 'tomorrow' was Wednesday. But if it was written on Monday then Harry would probably be turning up today. It was in fact entirely possible the note was written several days ago and Harry had spent a good few hours standing in front of my door sometime during the weekend.
   This is not exactly advanced physics. The word 'tomorrow' is awfully confusing if you leave no indication of what today is. It gets even better when it involved telephone calls from Tasmania. After all, whose tomorrow are we talking about? Compared to their today we are yesterday, which means their today is our tomorrow. And when it is evening here it is morning there, because there it is later. Though morning comes before evening, doesn't it? Fucking just call it 'Wednesday' shall we?

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It's always a surprise when you walk out of your front door and realise that the streets are frozen over. Not one of the most pleasant ones I might add, and it usually involves either landing on your arse or twisting some part of your back you up until that point never imagined would be capable of bending. Nothing quite like yawning and breaking your neck at the same time.
   I really don't mind winter. I don't even mind snow. In fact, snow can be quite cool and in winter you have all sorts of legitimate reasons to head for the pub, drink a whisky or set fire to things. It's a fun part of the year. Just the slippery bit is a bit off. Frozen ponds and lakes I can deal with. Because things like that you can just avoid. I mean, walking on water. That's not right. As far as I am aware only one bloke tried that successfully and we all know how he ended up.
   So lakes and ponds I can avoid. Largely because we don't have too many of them in Edinburgh. Streets we have tonnes of. Streets fucking everywhere you look. Can't throw a dead seagull without hitting a street. So when they freeze over it is slightly more complicated to steer clear of the dangers icy conditions present.
   And it's not like you are paying attention when you are walking. Over the years a human being becomes to accustomed to putting one foot in front of the other that in time you barely notice you are doing it at all. So it comes as more than a little of a shock when all of a sudden your feet go in a direction you didn't move them.
   At least the first signs of icy roads came on Sunday, so as I struggled along the road I could imagine all the famously uptight ultra-religious Christians slipping up and sliding into the church door face-first. That gave me a little satisfaction.

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Hostility is an interesting thing. It seems to be the driving force in my life. I wonder if this is genetically determined or whether somewhere in my life I sniffed something in chemistry class I shouldn't have and it altered my sense of normality. Somehow warm and cuddly things are very scarce in my life, whereas of course all things horrible, unpleasant and plain disgraceful seem to be a recurring factor.
   It shouldn't have come as too much of a surprise then that I found myself in the company of a very lovely young lassie, who seemed pretty warm and cuddly, and within a matter of minutes of having been introduced we found ourselves discussing our common hatred of squirrels. And people wonder why I have trouble maintaining relationships. Any normal human being would have been searching for that annoying gypsy-type with the bucket of flowers and showering the girl with compliments. I was discussing the annihilation of airborne rodents.
   There is something fundamentally wrong with me, I am sure. Maybe there is a self-help book out there, detailing how not to share your hostility with the world. It will probably tell you to write things down you like and try to focus on them. But then you would just be dull. Except for football fans nobody gets passionate about the things they like. Just the things they hate. Or maybe that is just me.
   Tell you what. If she will see me again I will assume either I am normal or she is just as messed up as I am. If not I will be open to suggestions on how to confront, preferably aggressively, all this anger towards rats with bushy tails and other things that deserve to die. Personally I am kind of hoping for the first possibility, but don't tell anyone, because it'll ruin my reputation of being a miserable git.

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If you don't hear from me ever again after today this will more than slightly likely be due to the fact a local band have battered me into a state of unconsciousness and left me to die in some undergrowth on Arthur's Seat. So if my mutilated corpse is discovered in the near future that would be a safe direction to point the coppers in.
   A while ago I wrote about a band called Little Amber, suggesting that perhaps they should consider a career involving heavy drilling equipment instead. A bit harsh, some thought. I even received suggestions of what to do with my computer, though having studied biology in school I can safely say this advice is physically impossible to carry out.
   I was more than a little surprised then to receive an invitation to their next gig, going so far as to request whether I would write a proper review this time. This is highly unusual. Normally people don't invite you over when you are being openly hostile.
   My guess is one of three things is going on here. My reliable source was right in assuming the band were drunk last time I saw them and they are going to absolutely blow me away this time. The second possibility is that they are insane and thrive on being slagged off, moaning and groaning in delight as they are slowly ripped apart. Or it is simply a cunning trick to lure me into a dark room so they can proceed to slowly assassinate me. Personally I wait with baited breath. Fingers crossed.

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It had been a while since I last attended a protest march. I would say close to a decade ago, when we were protesting against a fascist party. Not unlike the protests going on now then. According to the BBC there were about 3,000 of us marching through Edinburgh on Wednesday night.
   Some strange characters turn up for these things. There was the local chapter of the communist party, the anarchists, the hippies, the socialists and the anti-capitalists. Personally I stuck as close as possible to the Amnesty International crowd. They seemed to be the safest people to be with. Still, it is quite amazing how Bush and Blair manage to bring so many different elements of society together. I don't think it is too often you see grandmothers with prams and amply pierced punk rockers walking side by side comfortably.
   The government and the United States president would at this stage like to point out that we should be happy we have the right to protest. And they're right. We were awfully glad we don't live in Saudi Arabia, where the US-backed monarchy crushes any attempt to protest. Or Kuwait, where the dictator installed by Bush snr doesn't allow any demonstration. We're extremely lucky not to live in Gaza, where American bulldozers crush to death protesters. And Indonesia, where American military equipment is used to kill protesters. In Baghdad American soldiers take matters in their own hands and shoot demonstrators. In other words we should be grateful that the US doesn't have a say in how our country is run. Which is why we were on the streets in the first place.
   And for those of you who continue to point out the hideous acts committed by Saddam, also with American weapons, perhaps you would be kind enough to explain which bit you oppose. After all, you applaud Guantanamo Bay's concentration camp. Nor do you object to sending prisoners to Egypt and Jordan to be interrogated under torture. You support the troops who killed their prisoners in Afghanistan and agree with arresting reporters.
   In other words torture and murder aren't on your 'bad' list. Neither is killing ordinary Iraqi's. The amount of depleted uranium and unexploded cluster ammunition lying around in Iraq is a clear indication a few thousand kids can easily be sacrificed. So if killing Iraqi's isn't bad, and torture is okay, what objection did you have to Saddam? Did by any chance it have something to do with his race, or perhaps his religion?
   Personally I am of the kind to look at the actions and then draw my conclusion, rather than forming an opinion and then finding ammunition to back it up. And I can only come to the conclusion that with the amount of carnage and torture the American government spreads replacing Saddam with Bush is like replacing Hitler with Stalin. Glad he's gone; not too chuffed about the alternative.

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I sometimes wonder what volume I speak at when I am talking to myself. Because I do that a lot. It is one of the symptoms of not having very many friends, but a great deal of imagination. Wherever I am, I constantly can entertain myself by debating issues with myself, imaginary acquaintances or real-life people who aren't actually present at the time.
   When I talk to the milk in my fridge I tend to speak loud enough for people in the kitchen to hear me. When I address my television set normally people in the next room can catch most of what I am saying. And when my computer and I get going even the neighbours get to enjoy the noise.
   What I wonder is how loudly I am debating with myself as I am walking down the street or am buying food at the supermarket. Besides the fact I am half deaf in one ear it is actually very difficult to estimate what you sound like. There is a very good chance several people living in Edinburgh have a fair idea how I feel about various editors, foreign policy, bands and strange women I meet in pubs.
   There is a good chance they will think I am talking into a mobile phone, as that is what people who talk to themselves now tend to be doing. This is an illusion that only lasts so long though. I don't have a mobile. And soon I find myself being stared at by half a community, while the other half are sifting through the yellow pages, trying to find a suitable home for me.

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Vampire stories don't usually bother me. Unless of course it involves some adolescent hopping around Lothian and Borders hitting people with a claw hammer and trying to eat their heads. That somewhat disturbs me, as much as these people would like to believe otherwise when the sun comes up they don't turn to a wee heap of dust.
   The fantasy tales relating to vampires very rarely manage to shake me. Except for Buffy the Vampire Slayer. That show is giving me nightmares now. In the middle of the night, especially when a full moon is out, I will wake up in a puddle of sweat screaming like a woman after having a really nasty dream about it.
   It is usually starts off quite well. Most of the time I begin by meeting Michelle Trachtenberg. She's the series' Bond girl. That is to say she is the prettiest out of the whole cast and her character effectively spends the entire story screaming, panicking, being rescued and asking stupid questions. She reminds me a lot of Avril Lavigne. That is to say watching her is a lot more enjoyable with the sound muted.
   About halfway into the dream, just as things are beginning to get interesting between us, from around the corner will come a bloke in a plastic mask you wouldn't be able to sell for half a quid. He will hold both claws up and growl a little. So far, so good. Then however, the rest of the cast turn up. And not just the cast. A whole crew of people with auto-cues and make-up bags appear around us, as we start blushing a little and quickly button our trousers back up.
   Invariably there will be an American actor pretending to speak with an English accent, which takes so much effort that all acting skills promptly vaporise into the unknown. This is followed by Buffy herself addressing the character with a twang usually reserved for the inbred, reading lines off the monitor that are only funny when you have been smoking dope continuously for the last 29 days straight, and the person attempting to be funny is holding a gun to your head.
   Just as they are about to start fighting both start doing back flips and handstands first, which of course has no relevance and serves no purpose when you are about to punch someone in the head. By this time in the dream I am increasingly keen to get Miss Trachtenberg and myself away from these people as soon as possible. But invariably she will have to look in a book to see if there is any reference to an arch demon that is bigger and stronger than anything they have ever faced before. Who somehow has taken the shape of the local gym teacher. I never do make it to the credits in my dream. Which is a shame, because in the actual series it is the only decent bit.

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Finally some common sense from our politicians. Signor Prodi kicked it all off last week or so, when he damned a poll in which not very many people in Europe were asked which countries presented a threat to world peace and a majority of these not very many people ticked Israel. It does make you wonder what he would have said should Iran have come top rather than second, but let's not dwell on the hypothetical.
   It is everywhere now. And I am glad all these people are trying to get it into our thick skulls that we are misunderstanding the Israeli government. Perhaps Bush can do a lecture while he's over here. Clearly this man is far more up-to-speed on this issue that us poor Europeans. After all, we keep inviting Israeli football teams to play in European competitions. That to me is a clear sign we don't even know where Israel is; let alone what is going on there.
   The problem is that in Europe we have this idea that principles apply universally. What nonsense. If we start having principles and applying them universally who knows what will happen. Perhaps even equality could break out! Can't have any of that. We have to recognise that it is not the actions that count, but the person responsible for them.
   For example, when Iraq ignores the UN for 12 years that is clearly disgraceful, but when Israel ignores it for 36 that only stands to reason. Similarly if Syria provides protection for those attacking innocent Israelis it's a crime, but if the Israeli army protects settlers attacking Palestinians that is only logical.
   The actions of Iran in regard to the non-proliferation treaty requires immediate international condemnation but the fact Israel has nuclear weapons doesn't matter, because they haven't ratified the treaty. And those experts constantly persecuted by Saddam when they spoke about weapons ambitions were clearly intimidated by the regime, but the man who disclosed Israel's arsenal and has been in jail for the best part of two decades for it after being kidnapped from Britain is only there for his own safety.
   The fact Israeli nationality is based on race is in fact a brilliant idea. Just because Hitler had the same idea doesn't mean we shouldn't support it in Israel. And when Israeli MP's stand up in Parliament to call for all Arabs to be driven into the Red Sea so that they can be drowned at the lowest possible point we have to realise they say so only with the best of intentions.
   The killing of UN humanitarian workers inside a UN compound can only be considered bad if it is done so by people with beards. When an Israeli soldier does it it's fine. It goes without saying the same applies to journalists waving white flags. And the torturing of prisoners. And collective punishment. And the killing of children. And occupying a foreign nation. Just because Israel has attacked and invaded Jordan, Egypt, Syria, Lebanon and bombed Iraq that doesn't mean they aren't trying to get on.
   It's perfectly obvious to me that when we will be telling our kids about this in twenty years we shall be able to explain exactly why bulldozing houses with people still in them is a normal practice. And it is even easier to explain that when Osama Bin Laden killed three thousand innocent people in a single day in 2001 that was an atrocity but when Ariel Sharon killed three and a half thousand innocent people in a single day in 1982 that was a humanitarian act. After all, unlike Osama at least Ariel had the decency to have his men rape a few hundred before executing them. Far more civilised.
   I think we should be counting our lucky stars our leaders have the insight to recognise a peace-loving state when they see one. And to recognise that unlike in the case of Zimbabwe, Iran and such nations opponents to Israeli actions are bigots, racists and supporters of terrorism. We should of course all be cheering on Israeli troops as they demolish homes, destroy livelihoods, humiliate a population, build a nuclear arsenal, torture prisoners and create settlements completely free of those considered to be of an inferior race. I'm glad we elected people of such great perception.

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I am not particularly fond of football. The game itself is played by a bunch of grown men tugging each other's shirts and keep whingeing, crying, complaining and hugging each other. And then the supporters seem to go to such lengths that should they disagree with the colour scheme on your shirt they will slash your throat with a Stanley blade. The whole fact supporters are kept apart by mounted riot police really does bring home the fact it is not a sport for the sane and civilised.
   Of course that didn't stop me from getting on a train to Glasgow to witness the aftermath of the Scotland v Holland match on Saturday afternoon. From the outset there was a bizarre atmosphere. Rather than the normal jubilation at the scoring of the first goal the whole nation seemed to be gripped by a sense of disbelief and confusion. This lasted until the end of the match, when all of a sudden it started sinking in that the lads in blue had beaten Holland for the first time in more than 20 years.
   I arrived in Glasgow shortly after the match and as soon as I got off the train was greeted by the Queen Street attendants, who were wearing fluorescent jackets so that they would stand out from the crowd. Apparently nobody pointed out that perhaps when there are a few thousand Dutch supporters in town wearing orange clothing, fluorescent or otherwise, may not be the most effective way of drawing attention to yourself.
   Much to my delight nobody was being dragged off by SO-19 and there was a clear lack of ambulances ferrying about. In fact the pub I was expected in was filled to the brim with people in red, white, blue and orange singing along with the kilted majority belting out he's gone, he's fucked, he's going to get the sack; Advocaat! Advocaat!
   To my complete astonishment Rangers and Celtic fans had called an unofficial truce, left the bats at home and were drinking beer with the Holland fans. This is the kind of atmosphere I expect at rugby matches, not the bloody football. Before you know it I may be actually watching these matches soon. We can't have any of that. At least in the hour it took the train to take me back home to the capital I was taught the songs we hopefully shall be singing all the way to Portugal and found myself a fully-fledged member of the Tartan Army. It's amazing what can happen in a night.

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Flipping through a brochure encouraging foreigners of all countries allowing their natives to travel to visit the wonderfully bonnie Scotland I came across an interesting claim. One I wasn't previously aware of. It turns out that Pitmedden Garden has a very rare moon dial as a centrepiece.
   Now I will be the first to put my hand up and admit I haven't the faintest idea where Pitmedden Garden could possibly be located. I'm sure it is one of our greatest gardens, but quite frankly I don't think I had ever heard of it before. Nor, barring flooding or fire, do I think it will at one point in my life become a place of any significance to me. You never know, but the chances as of yet remain fairly slim to say the least.
   The thing that caught my interest was the very rare moon dial. It has a certain ring to it. An absurd one. The fact that it is a very rare moon dial seems to suggest that other moon dials are commonplace. I have been on this planet for well over two decades now, and have spent most of it in civilised parts of the globe. Yet I can't recall having ever come across a moon dial. Sun dials aye. I even know how they work. You can tell the time or date by the shade. Ever seen shade in the middle of the night?
   Where are all those not-very-rare moon dials? Did any of you ever do a science project on these things? Is Homebase selling them at discount prices? And what could possibly have been the use for these things? Imagine this: we have had watches for well over a century now. Do you honestly think before that anyone could be bothered what time it was in the dead of night? That is if you can see the moon through the clouds, which in most parts of Northern Europe is a feat pretty rare in itself.
   I would love to see a herd of Japanese tourists flocking into Pitmedden Garden and pointing at this thing, saying (in Japanese of course) "wow. Look at that one! Much nicer than all the common ones we have seen lying around." Of course it's very rare. Every moon dial is fucking rare. Oh, and by the way, is this garden even open at night? I think not.

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I have found a wee loophole in the bible, that seems to suggest I may all this while have been right about the gender of the Supreme Being. All my life people have been going on about His, Him and the other, but it is perfectly obvious to me that God is of course a woman. Hence earthquakes, floods and the like when you least expect it and for no apparent reason whatsoever.
   So, have a look at what the Christians call the Old Testament and the Jews call Tanah. Moses climbs up an enormous hill. That's the first bit. A man climbing up the mountain while the women sit on their arses gossiping about him while he is doing all the hard work. No election or quick vote amongst equals, just a divine woman sending this poor bloke she expects to dedicate his life to Her all the way up there, in a time when there was no mountaineering equipment, only to drag back down with him not just one but two fucking stone tablets. Imagine how much that must have weighed.
   And then the tablets themselves. Ten commandments. Well, quite a few more, but under ten headings. Personally I think I have probably broken most of them. But that is beside the point. One of them says you cannot covet your neighbour's wife, house, field, manservant, maidservant, ox or ass. The latter in the agricultural context of course.
   Notice anything strange? You can't covet your neighbour's manservant or maidservant. Nor his wife. Doesn't say anything about husband... Little omission there. An accidental slip by the all-powerful being? Not very likely. She did that on purpose. Leave the door open for women to shag their neighbour's husband. You mean to tell me you never wondered why She has to be worshipped? You don't think this is just a very early version of 'tell me I'm beautiful'? And what about this graven images crap? Oh, don't take any pictures of me. My hair is all messed up.
   It would also explain why there is so much confusion amongst religious leaders. After all, most of them are men, and we all know men can never work out what it is a woman means. We also know men like to impress women and will go to extreme lengths. So when the female god said 'let there be light' she probably meant a little candle by the bed so that children can learn how to read. Male religious leaders set fire to people. When the female god said Israel was the Promised Land she probably meant the weather was decent and plenty of room for everyone. Male religious leaders ethnically cleansed the place.
   I think that if we all come to our senses and realise God is a woman we would soon come to the conclusion that the last thing we should do is take any notice of what She has to say, open up a beer instead and turn up the volume on the television. The world would be a better place.

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I was watching a film the other day, and noticed that during the obligatory scene in which man and woman show how much they love each other, they were shagging under the covers. Well, half under the covers. Does this actually happen? I realise that I haven't had quite as much sex as I would like to have had, but on the whole I don't think I have ever had sex with a big blanket wrapped around me.
   You can't do it, can you? You'd get stuck. Every time you roll over you would have to adjust the bloody thing. Not to mention the fact that while you are shagging you are creating enough heat to warm a family-sized igloo, and all of it is trapped right under the covers. All you need; more sweat.
   Besides, isn't part of having sex the visual stimulants? Surely if you have decided to have sex with people you would like to at least look at them as they are fucking you, or am I over-romanticising things here? Not to mention the fact I think quite a few positions in which being covered by bed linen would cause either severe technical difficulties, or perhaps even a health hazard.
   Perhaps it's just a Scottish thing. But we don't really do sheets. We have big thick duvets. Two in winter. Hell, half of the time when we have sex in winter it's to warm up before going to sleep. And it quite simply is impossible to shag with twelve and a half pounds of cotton, linen and various kinds of feathers on top of you. You'd die. Not the worst way of going, but still.

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An electoral conference in Edinburgh will be considering the possibility to allow people to cast votes online or by sending a text message, according to the BBC. This following an incredibly low turnout at the last election for the Scottish Parliament. The logic is that people might vote if it would be a less strenuous task than putting on your coat and walking to the local community centre.
   According to the Electoral Commission 50 per cent of the non-voters indicated they might have voted if texting or logging on had been available. Half of the non-voters. That's a million people! One million people in Scotland apparently would type in a text message, but wouldn't tick a box. Three hours by plane away people are being electrocuted and beheaded for demanding the right to vote and three minutes on foot away people don't want to pick up a pencil. No wonder we call ourselves civilised.
   Now, if people don't want to vote, fine. I do. At the last Scottish election I set out bright and early, stonewalled everyone trying to be nice to me outside and bounced straight down the stairs into a very cosy and presumably well-scrubbed crypt, where I was handed three pieces of paper. The deal is you put one cross on each and put them in a box. That's it. Didn't even have to bring my own pencil! Beats being electrocuted and having your head chopped off if you ask me. On the way back I got myself a nice sausage roll and was back home fifteen minutes after I set out.
   Not the most challenging of exercises then. Even if we do have to vote for three parliaments and a council. So perhaps what this conference should be debating is whether we should give a damn about the opinion of people who value democracy so highly that they can't be bothered turning up in person. Personally I really don't give a fuck. For those of us who are physically incapable of going out there already is a postal vote. Is folding an envelope now considered such an inconvenience the 21st century Scot shouldn't have to be subjected to it?
   So fuck them. If you can't be bothered, we can't be bothered. What worries me most about these people is that apparently they are too lazy to vote, but will participate in a poll about voting. That makes me feel a whole lot better about our electorate.

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Having a pint in Bannermans can be a dangerous affair. Just the other day two leftist extremists started beating the crap out of me for no apparent reason. Realising quickly I was in a right-wing minority and also that hitting a woman back is not very fashionable I ran away from my friends-turned-besiegers and joined the people at the next table, one of whom was wearing a crucifix around his neck.
   It turned out I had joined a small group of Christian choir singers who had just performed with Christina Aguilera at the MTV awards down in Leith. Being the opportunist that I am I couldn't help myself and took full advantage of the fact I was in the presence of real-life Christians. An event becoming ever more rare if you ask me.
   Perhaps it was a little provocative of me to mention I quite like making fun of religious people in general and Christians in particular, but at least my newest friends were more than happy to quite fiercely debate the issue. I couldn't just take the piss out of something that they so deeply believed in. I considered their point for a few seconds, and then decided that I most definitely can.
   Debating religion with people who actually adhere to it is somewhat of a challenge as in nine out of ten cases my knowledge is a little lacking in comparison. Not so, it turned out. I found it a little embarrassing to find that although they had clearly given this belief thing a lot of thought, they were a bit confused when it came to the facts. Whether a Big Bang or a God created the universe I have no idea, but I can tell you without a glimmer of a doubt that the New Testament was written not in Hebrew, but in Greek. We're talking basic stuff here.
   I was also a little surprised to be informed the New Testament is part of Judaism, and that Jews regard Christ to have been a prophet. My friends of the Hebrew faith were a bit confused as well when I relayed the message to them. Still, all up for learning I was pleased to hear the world is in fact billions of years old as I had been led to believe in school, but how and when humans got here was a wee bit hazy, except that Adam and Eve lived in Africa.
   Of course despite all the things they didn't know the fact they believe there is a God remains, and who am I to say that they are wrong? And therefore I can't take the piss. After all, their belief is absolute and the fact I don't agree with it doesn't give me the right to put it down. An interesting point indeed.
   Just to liven things up a little I chucked Islam and Judaism on the table again. Jews and Muslims, like myself, do not believe that some carpenter hammered to two wooden sticks 2000 years ago was in fact the reincarnation of God Himself. It's not often I find common ground with religious people but in that sense I feel that both the Jews and Muslims have an excellent point. Like is the case with Christians, that is their belief.
   Much to my relief I was informed that those religions were wrong. Probably not through any fault of theirs, but as long as they did not believe that Jesus Christ was the son of God then clearly they have got it wrong. In other words you cannot argue with faith, provided of course that it is the right one.

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It seems like the left-wingers are having an excellent week. If their media is anything to go by. Apparently there is a scandal looming, so big that it may very well spell the end of the monarchy. Front page news. The time of kings and queens may finally be over, and those of the republican and socialist persuasion seem to be shooting bucketloads of come into their underpants just thinking about it.
   Admittedly it is a tiny bit weird to read the front pages about accusations and implications, while there is no mentioning of what they actually are. The rest of the world knows about it, and technically speaking in Northern Ireland and Scotland the only reason we aren't told is out of a deepfound respect for English law. Because it has brought us so many wonderful things presumably. But the idea is that a single former aide saw two people in a compromising position, both of which deny it.
   So, as there is no evidence to support these accusations, apparently of a sexual nature and involving the future king, and it comes from a former alcoholic with a history of mental illness and making up things that didn't happen this must be one serious allegation that national newspapers are predicting the fall of the monarchy. I would expect at least a date rape involving a heavily abused farm animal of the Catholic persuasion.
   What on earth could be so horrific that we would change our entire system of government and re-write our constitution? And more importantly, why? If the misconduct of one head of state leads to the complete overhaul of the system obviously the idea to instate a president of Iraq sounds a bit silly. And Germany still has a chancellor, hasn't it? Besides, the King of Belgium collaborated with the Nazis and the royal family over there seems to be doing quite well. So, if collaboration with the enemy and genocide are no reason to reform the national institutions I am getting more and more curious to hear what on earth Prince Charles could have done to top that.
   That's if he did do it. I admit the man is a bit eccentric, but what fun would a royal family be without some seriously fucked-up characters? This island is obsessed with gossip and tabloids. Imagine us having to elect a different irrelevant braindead figurehead every four or five years! The working classes can't give a shit and the middle classes will elect a nice clean and sensible man to sit down at important dinners, shake hands with the rugby team and sit on his fat arse picking his nose the rest of his term, after which we will immediately forget all about him.
   The tabloids would be ruined! We'd have nothing to talk about! And besides, look at some of the dickheads republics have as figureheads. At least we are mentally prepared for whomever will be representing us on the next trip abroad. God only knows what deep dark secrets some complete unknown may be hiding. So keep your filthy hands off our Royal Family and sit in a dark corner contemplating your sins, such as electing Tony Blair. Charles would have to skin a whole lot of kids before he could outdo that man in wickedness.

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Not the best weekend for rugby fans like myself. Besides supporting my own country I thought I would be a good sport and also cheer on the Welsh and the Irish in the quarters. I guess I must be a jinx. Going into the semi-finals next week I have no idea who to support now. Australia I guess. New Zealand I have never been, French I don't speak and England I don't like. So the Aussies it is. Go Wallabies!
   Still, this weekend my love for rugby was definitely taken to new levels when I decided to watch the rugby first and then, quite unusually, watch the football. Why on earth is that sport called 'the beautiful game'? I think we should let the Yanks have the term 'football' and start calling what we do over here rolling about in the dirt. Jesus Christ, these guys go down faster than a Leith whore with a considerable crack addiction to maintain.
   Surely football is the only sport where grown men lie down and start crying when somebody tugs their shirt. You can hardly sneeze at one of them without him immediately diving down into the grass and whingeing like a woman. In fact, I think I can finally see why so many women play it around the world. It is the only competitive activity where you can pretend to play sport and complain about a broken nail at the same time.
   And let's face it, half of these players do suspiciously resemble those of the fairer sex. The average gay pride parade is bustling with testosterone compared to some of the football teams about. These people should be in knitting competitions. I say we should leave football to the women. At least then we won't have to be embarrassed when the players start wailing just because someone stepped on their toes.

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While keeping myself updated on such issues as sandwiches and university dorm rooms on the Korova forum I came across an announcement that in response to the MTV awards a local collective of bands had decided to provide some local noise as an alternative to Justin Timberlake. Not only did this indeed tickle my fancy, it was also in my local, Bannermans, which provided me with a good excuse to bounce over there and have a pint or two.
   Much to my dismay the pub had been divided into two. In the back the bands were playing, while in the front visual and stereo were tuned straight into Leith, where the kings and queens of teeny-pop had gathered to witness some stunning miming, jumping up and down and Hollywood film stars attempting to be funny. It came as quite a relief then to hear the first distorted music droning out from behind the closed doors to the back crypt.
   Well. The first band I got to see were recommended personally by a friend who shall remain anonymous. Why I don't think I will ever know. Upon entering the dark pit that is Thee Underworld it very quickly became evident that the walls didn't actually distort the music. If anything it filtered out some of the superfluous noise and distortion Little Amber apparently felt would add something to the music, but in fact only added to my quickly rising headache.
   I realise feedback is really cool in the post-grunge music scene, but really there is no need for it to accompany the bass player smoking a fag in between songs. Shut the fuck up if you feel the need, but that high-pitched wail you get when you can't be bothered to switch off the volume on your guitar I am sure was the reason half of the crowd dispersed even before we were treated to one of many pointless anecdotes the band felt like sharing.
   In between songs at least the effects-pedal induced crackling that drowned out any hint of melody was temporarily switched off. Though even that didn't manage to dim the abysmal sound of both blokes trying to sing at the same time, leading to not so much being out of tune as creating a noise I image a pregnant wildebeest might make as it is set upon by a nest of flesh eating bugs slowly chewing away at it. At one point I seriously contemplated going outside and watching Kylie Minogue.
   In the defence of Little Amber I have been informed that their lack of anything so much as hinting towards being a decent tune may have been caused by superfluous consumption of alcohol. If that is indeed the case I would suggest a quick change in their drinking habit. Goat's milk, tap water and herbal tea for a few months or so, until there is not a trace of alcohol left, and only then should they even begin considering performing in front of people blessed with the ability to hear.

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On my way to work I regularly pass a lassie in a red jumper, who happens to work right in between my home and my job. Pretty lassie. Insomuch as it's possible on my way to work she usually brightens the day a little. Don't know if she has any kind of character, or whether she can actually speak, but I am perfectly happy to remain a voyeuristic pervert the few seconds it takes me to walk past her.
   Which is exactly what is worrying me. She works in a day-care centre, and those kind of places do not mix with voyeuristic perverts. Having an erection while walking past a building full of playing kids I think we all agree is not a good thing. Somehow for some years now we have all come to the conclusion that when little children are about there should be no fantasising of a sexual nature.
   I am petrified one of these days I will be walking past, casually staring in to catch a glimpse of her, mumble something indecent and be noticed by one of the mums. Dads I'll be able to deal with. I would just point at the lassie, grunt something you hear in rugby locker rooms on a regular basis and we would all have a good laugh about the misunderstanding.
   With mums you won't even get so far as to turn around. Those female radar beams will have spread to every woman in the immediate area and while pre-pubescent girls cling on to your ankles the adult women will repeatedly hit you with prams, suffocate you with sanitary towels and tear you to tiny little shreds right in front of all the little kiddies.
   Now I am all up for adventure, but really have no intention of ending up in a Sainsbury plastic bag, weighted down and slowly sinking to the bottom of the Water of Leith. So I think it is very dangerous and utterly unacceptable to have lassies that pretty working with our young ones. It is simply irresponsible to put us innocent pedestrians in that position.

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Over the past few weeks Scottish milk has undergone a transfer of images. All of a sudden a whole range of brands have decided to adopt the picture of one or more large breasted and white teethed broadly smiling good-looking women, with a milky moustache for the sake of being cute. Now, perhaps it is my perverted mind, but when I see pictures of pretty lassies with big tits and white stuff slowly drying up on their faces I very rarely associate this with milk. Silly me.
   It's a strange marketing ploy anyway. The term 'false advertising' springs to mind. Big as those breasts may be, you can rest assured that the gallon of milk you are purchasing has been pumped not from the seductive blonde on the label but from a black and white heavyset creature in a field near Aberdeen, regularly going 'mooooo'. Which personally I think is very comfortable. You know. Every creature has their place in the grand meaning of things and women and cattle should not be crossing over into each other's field of expertise.
   This new labelling of course does make the milk blend in a wee bit more at the corner shop. Stick it in between the magazines and the tabloids and no one will ever be able to find it. Poor old ladies stumbling around thinking they may finally have to go and see the doctor about that medication their husbands have been on for the last few years. But on the other hand of course it may introduce our nation's young to something perhaps slightly more wholesome than Buckfast.

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I know it is not entirely consistent with my doctor's proposed fitness regime, but I really can't help myself. Every Tuesday night I am glued to the nearest television set to watch the nutters at Bristol city council tackling problems such as shit running down the street and people forgetting to take out the rubbish for a decade or two in the BBC series 'a life of grime'.
   My new favourite telly personality has got to be Ian Thomas, the pest control officer who calls himself 'the ruthless rat assassin'. Armed with various kinds of poison, a pellet gun and a hockey stick he sets out to exterminate the vermin of Bristol, informing people who enjoy the company of the furry creatures that the only good rat is a dead rat. A motto I am sure most of us will agree with.
   Big Brother type reality TV I really cannot be bothered with, but whenever Ian puts his boot on the body of a rat before carefully shooting it in the head, executing the little bastards in a carton box or pulls their corpses out of the freezer to show how he blew off its face I can't be pulled away from my television.
   This Tuesday, perhaps moving away from its regular themes, the camera crew followed a paranormal investigator sneaking around a haunted house with electrical equipment said to be capable of detecting ghosts. He, not surprisingly, does not work for the council, though those who do definitely had no intention of not letting him parade around the house and exorcise whichever evil spirit he may come across.
   The whole ritual seemed a bit bizarre to me. Mainly because it was a Christian ritual. Have we only had ghosts the last two millennia? Or have the spirits of the other world updated their catalogue of invincible adversaries who can drive them out of their habitat? Methinks not, and judging by the look on her face, neither did the mother of the family caught up in this. Perhaps partially because she was not Christian.
   How is Jesus supposed to catch spirits? Even if he did find time in his busy schedule to come to Bristol of all places, how the hell is he going to grab hold of them? He's got fucking holes in his hands! They would just squeeze straight through. Bugger Jesus, send the ruthless rat assassin after them is what I say.

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The good people of Edinburgh love nothing more than lighting up the sky with rockets and airborne bombs. Any excuse we get really. End of the festival, Saturday during the festival, Hogmanay, lighting the Christmas lights and so on and so forth. I think there is half a legion of people in Edinburgh who do nothing all year long but to prepare for the next fireworks display.
   Tonight should be good then. Aided by the general population I am sure they will manage to scare the crap out of any living organism while setting fire to the horizon. Fuck the MTV awards tomorrow, Bonfire Night is the place to be. Nothing quite like blowing things up and setting fire to them. While sipping tea of course. It is after all a British event.
   Strange custom by the way. We are being thankful a gunpowder plot was foiled, by lighting fireworks. Very appropriate. Commemorating an attempted bombing by blowing things up. Perhaps we should commemorate the battle of the Somme by firing up flares and chucking about some smoke grenades. That would work. But then who is to question customs?
   Personally I shall not be burning any effigies of old Mr Fawkes. Somehow I doubt he can still be considered a true enemy of the state. What with being dead and all. I was thinking more of burning some more recent enemies. Unfortunately most of them now are inside our parliament. That would be awfully confusing to explain to the kids.

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Has anyone else been following the Anglican comedy show over the past few weeks? It's fucking hilarious! Assuming for a moment that God does indeed talk to Her representatives, which I seriously doubt She can manage in between all that smoking copious amounts of dope, don't you think that perhaps it would have been slightly more logical to convey the same message to all of them?
   Since some community in New Hampshire decided they wanted a gay bishop Christians all over the world have gone absolutely bonkers. A few weeks ago the Archbishop of Canterbury, the overall chief of this particular cult, called together a group of people aptly called 'primates' to discuss whether they minded Anglicans slightly lower down on the scale of religious evolution having openly homosexual relationships. In other words, they were debating whether they could be buggered.
   Yesterday they were interviewing some more of these holy people to gauge opinion. I never realised there were degrees of reverend-ness. You can be reverend, very reverend and even most reverend. Which I guess means that a simple reverend is, in fact, not very reverend. This religion business is awfully confusing.
   The main problem the conservative half of the Anglicans seem to have with the new bishop is that he is openly gay. He lives with his boyfriend. Which I guess makes explaining not to have sex outside marriage a bit bizarre, but we have to deal with one surreal idiocy at the time. Apparently it would have been fine if he had just been a closet gay.
   Now, taken into account that church leaders are people as well, and the sheer number of Anglicans globally, logistically speaking it is highly likely that somewhere in the world there has been a bloke, reverend to one degree or another, doing some seriously unholy things. Like shagging a sixteen year old boy on top of the altar, inside the church, getting drunk and denouncing God as a little sissy. On a Sunday night. Picture that next time you are in church…

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What is happening to rock and roll? I seem to remember that while I was growing up rock and roll was music played by hairy fuckers taking drugs and shagging groupies. Maximum distortion, flaming guitars and big bollocks. Even the women.
   So where did The Darkness spawn from? One moment they were blissfully absent, and all of a sudden you can't stumble into a pub without having to listen to that abysmal voice shrieking through the speakers. Presumably fourteen-year-olds suffering from an identity crisis keep requesting this atrocity worthy of Pop Idol.
   Now I have been informed that the singer of this particular group is in fact male. But this is information passed on to me by a third party and not verified by any independent source. So why doesn't he sound like a man? Apparently adolescent spotty pop-whores quite enjoy his singing, but to me it sounds suspiciously as if Nicaraguan rebels have tied him to an electrified metal rack and while slowly sawing off his fingers are driving nails through his bollocks. And that, my friends, is not rock and roll.

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I sometimes wonder if there can possibly be something more exciting than darts. A whole room full of dimwits in wigs waving national flags and a whole range of banners and nibbles at enormously fat uneducated Neanderthals chucking a metal toothpick at a numbered disc. God, you can just feel the adrenalin pumping. Or dribbling out of your mouth as you fall asleep trying to watch more than three minutes of it.
   You have to admire the commentators though. They manage to distinguish things like ecstatic thrill in the eyes of the players, whereas us mere mortals can't even see their eyes due to the unusually low forehead. Let's face it; darts is not exactly a spectator sport.
   I think they should spice it up a bit. To begin with I think they should begin chucking these things in the opposite direction. Towards the crowd. That way they can follow the action more closely as well. Everybody wins! There must be paramedics there anyway. No way are they going to let men that overweight get emotional without a trained professional and a cardiac emergency pack at hand. So should anyone happen to forget to duck and end up with a dart in his arse the lads in green can remove it immediately, and in full view of the cameras.

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The United Nations still exists, contrary to a longing desire expressed by several American officials only a few months ago. And they have a new scheme! A brand spanking new idea that will make the world a safer place for our children to grow up in, with flowers and birds and organically produced soft drinks bubbling up from wells all around the globe.
   As one of the first steps towards this ultimate goal of universal giddiness, mirth and healthy skin is to disarm the Afghan warlords currently shelling one another. After all, if they don't have any guns, tanks and mortars they won't be able to hit each other. Presumably when we have managed to stop them from killing each other we can start working on stopping them to kill everybody else around them.
   When did these people become warlords? I must have missed that bit. I seem to remember my main objection to our glorious carpet bombing of weddings and other civilian events in Afghanistan was that our allies had in their previous reign of four years managed to slaughter 40,000 human beings and upon advancing on Kabul happily executed people by the side of the road. However, not only were these people considered a legitimate army of allies, when the Taliban fell some of these people were actually appointed government ministers. Like the ones chucking mortars on one another now for example.
   So they are not warlords. They are government officials. US appointed and UN recognised government officials. They are ambassadors for their country. Oh, and armed by the American military. And paid enormous amounts of money to keep kidnapping people to send to Guantanamo Bay. Don't you think it is a bit cruel to call these people 'warlords'? And take away the toys we only gave them six months ago? A little consistency in making the world a better place would perhaps reduce the number of protesters at the next anti-war rally.

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Jack McConnell addressed the Labour Party Conference in Bournemouth. That's strange. Bournemouth is nowhere near Scotland. Isn't Jack McConnell a member of the Scottish Parliament? Of course in that respect Labour is just like the Communist Party. Different chapter; same arseholes.
   Jack McConnell is the First Minister of Scotland. Actually, that is a shortened version of his title. Under a Labour administration the whole title is 'first minister to lie down on the floor in front of whomever he has chosen as his master and roll around with his tongue hanging out, begging to have his belly tickled'.
   In Jack's case it's Tony. Tony, tickle my belly! Tickle my belly, Tony! I'll do anything! Anything you want! You want to lock up toddlers behind barbed wire? I'll do it, Tony, just tickle my belly! Soldiers for a war the whole country is against? I'll do it, Tony. I promise! Just tickle my belly! Tickle my belly, Tony! I need you to tickle my be-he-he-lly!
   Tony does it to George, Blunkett to Colin, Straw to Donald and Tony and Hoon'll have his belly tickled by anyone. Just for fuck's sake don't ever stand up for your principles, British law or human decency or people might think we're right-wing. You don't need an entire week of party conference for that. You can explain it in a simple leaflet entitled 'principles are a thing of the past; let's kill all the Arabs'. Subtitled 'onward Christian soldier, whenever we tell you to'.
   Actually I was quite surprised by the whole affair. No flags or marching music and no singing of songs to remember old fallen comrades. I am telling you, these modern fascists have no idea how to put on a spectacle.
   At least they decided to have a look at what the public have to say, though only slightly in retrospect. I seem to recall a massive demonstration at the beginning of this year in which a few million people suggested Labour have a look at things going on over here rather than go and kill people over there.
   Now the demonstrators want answers to the killing over there and Labour decided to talk about things going on over here. Bad timing on the part of the demonstrators, clearly. When will these protestors learn to keep up with the will of the government?

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My brother phoned me the other day to proudly announce he had won a trophy. It is not often relatives of mine do that so naturally I was quite eager to hear what it was that he had done so well. It turns out that the event revolved around firing large calibre automatic weapons at targets while standing up and lying down. My brother, it turns out, is a natural when it comes to this.
   I'm not sure whether to be immensely proud or terribly worried. But one thing is for sure: I will never be able to beat him up again. The days that I could happily kick him into hospital when he was pissing me off are long gone. He may be younger and he may be shorter, but he can sure as hell kick my arse.
   Even without the gun, though that would most definitely be more than enough reason for me to stay well clear of the man. Last time I saw him was at the beginning of the year, when our grandmother died and we both decided to stay with my granddad the next few days. At about eight in the morning I woke up in the tiny spare room, with my brother urging me to get up and do fifty push-ups.
   Fifty push-ups to me is the equivalent of drawing a swastika on your chest and, waving a Palestinian flag, running towards the most heavily guarded check point in Hebron with a toy gun and a backpack. It is stupid, unnecessary and there is no chance in hell you will make it all the way. And so to spare the rest of the family the grief of a double funeral I decided to attempt three, failed miserably and proceeded to make us all a decent breakfast with a cup of tea.
   I think my record for push-ups is about four. I fell down drunk and that is how many attempts it took me to get back up on my feet. He does this kind of crap every day! Even in the weekends. Show-off. Though something tells me that I shall now be made to pay for every slap I ever gave him when he was a bairn, much as he may have deserved most of them.

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In a stunning feat of research, very smart individuals in the United States have been examining the genetic workings of a poodle. Though not, we are assured, to attempt any cloning or genetic modification to counter the current wave of famine in South East Asia. Shame.
   However, in a shocking revelation the Maryland team have concluded after completing the canine blueprint that dogs share more than 25% of their DNA with human beings. So technically speaking it could be argued that humans and dogs are one quarter related. That would make us cousins on the evolutionary scale. Well, I suppose that would certainly explain a few things we have seen emerging on the internet recently.
   Of course a good newspaper story wouldn't be complete without a decent comparison. Mice for example. Dogs and humans share more DNA with each other than they do with mice. The Guardian informs us that humans and dogs separated from a common ancestor much later than, say, humans did from mice.
   I feel a Nobel prize coming up here. Humans have more in common with dogs than with mice. And they needed DNA proof for that? Glad we didn't spend that money on finding a cancer cure. Let me just point out right here, as a non-funded public service, that we are also closer to cats than the slug, have a lot more in common with deer than sparrows and also are very unlikely to share more DNA with cod than we do with horses.

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Whenever I run into my friend Leaf I invariably think of the Queen. Which is strange. Bizarre even. Leaf looks nothing like the Queen. Doesn't sound like her. Nor does he move like she does. He doesn't have kids and grandkids running around the place and unlike Her Majesty's spouse, Leaf's girlfriend is quite pleasant. In fact, there are remarkably few similarities between the two. Leaf doesn't even like the Queen and even though I have never met her I am fairly confident the Queen wouldn't like Leaf either.
   The reason I have never met her is, in fact, Leaf's fault. Which is why every time I see him I can't help but think of good old Lizzie. I was going to. When she visited our lovely city to commemorate her fifty years stubbornly refusing her son his right of succession. I was going to stand along the Royal Mile along with several thousand other sad monarchist types and of course the Queen would have come up to meet me. Either that or Prince Phillip would have told me to get a haircut.
   But I never made it. Because the night before I decided I would go and have a quick pint. Notice the use of the indefinite article in that sentence, implying singular. However, my friend Leaf, on duty at the Calton Studios, has a way of making a pint last when he wants to. That is to say that when you sneeze, cough or go to the loo it has miraculously managed to fill itself to the top again. Customer service perhaps other venues may want to consider.
   So counting the glass container it could be argued that I did indeed have only one. Counting in liquid measures however I think we can safely say that I wouldn't have been able to drive. The next few days. Or, it turned out, walk. At the time I was living in Tollcross, which meant that to get home from Studio 24 I had to climb the whole of the Royal Mile.
   Now, as you will remember the Queen was visiting the next day, and as I mentioned, would be travelling along that very road. And so the whole length of it was blocked off with linking fences, and lined with police constables. Which to the average American or Japanese tourist is a bit of an inconvenience. To a drunk it is more like a paratroopers' assault course.
   Unlike most piss-heads I remain aware of my surroundings throughout my getting rat-arsed. Which means I realise that I turn into a complete twat when I am drunk and will put absolutely no effort whatsoever into pretending I am not. And so I decided that although perhaps not the most elegant, the quickest way was definitely to climb over the barriers.
   Much to the amusement of the constables unlucky enough to pull the night duty, I then proceeded to swing one leg over the metal fencing, balance myself uncomfortably and attempt to heave over my second limb, which was followed by me losing all control over my balance and gravity taking its ugly course. On the right side of the barrier, fortunately, which meant I could simply stand up, politely salute the officers of the law, who by now were wetting themselves, and stumble on to the next barrier.
   I have no idea how long it took me to tackle all these obstacles, or whether I will ever be able to have kids, but when I got home and had crawled into my warm bed the next thing I remember after was waking up, looking at the clock and realising that our royal had long left the city.

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It's been all over the news this week. Diets are bad for your health. They can even kill you. Especially ones where you stop eating bread and ones where you lock yourself in a glass box without food for several weeks. Though admittedly the latter is fairly rare and only undertaken by complete idiots we don't mind dying anyway.
   I was shocked by the news that dieting is bad for you. I even considered for a moment to quit my diet, which is a custom-designed one of no deep-fried haggis and chips. Just plain fried sausage and black pudding. But I decided against it. I am fairly confident that my weekly intake of beer will substitute for the lack of useful ingredients I am missing from my usual eating habits.
   Not only am I now approaching the third straight week of the no-deep-fried-haggis-and-chips diet, I have even devised a cunning exercise plan to go with it. To begin with, I will walk to work every day, except my days off, which would just be pushing it. However, on my days off I will walk to the pub, which is an even bigger challenge, as it is uphill.
   Admittedly I don't drive and there is no bus running to either work or the pub so as exercise plans go it was a bit of a flaw. So in order for it to look slightly better I have now added the extra option of taking the stairs. This is very quickly becoming a test of my endurance. That is to say my mental and culinary endurance when it comes to how long it will be before I start banging on the closed doors of my local chippie at four in the morning, demanding they chuck chopped up sheep organs in the deep fryer and my physical endurance in the sense that one does wonder how many stairs I can climb before collapsing and suffering a fatal heart attack.

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In Scotland we have parliaments coming out of our ears. We must be the most democratic country in the world. On a national level we get to vote for two MSP's, one MP and an MEP. The Scottish Parliament in Edinburgh deals with the Scottish law, such as murder, house breaking and battering someone to death with a hardened deep fried mars bar. Westminster Parliament , down in London, decides on issues such as nationality, immigration and anything to do with the army. And then there is the European Parliament in Brussels, which is supposed to deal with gross violations of human rights and unification of all the European states still in existence, but seems awfully preoccupied with the size and shape of bananas.
   And we are obliged to obey them all. Confusing, don't you think? Now they are even drawing up a European constitution. Fucking hell, maybe it's time we start looking for the pages we lost from the UK one. And I'm not even sure if we even have one in Scotland and if so, what century it was written in.
   But European law is definitely the funniest one. It only goes to show that if you cram enough nutters in a room in Belgium, eventually they will come up with some crazy shit. The newest thing is smoking. EU officials are saying that we have to start banning smoking from public places. All public places that is. Including pubs. Across Europe. Soon.
   Fuck. Off. Leave our pubs alone. What are they going to ban next? Showing the rugby? Singing perhaps. Or playing music. Here's an idea: let's ban drinking. What is all this nonsense? Since when did smoking become a crime against humanity?
   Of course smoking kills you. Good. The world is overpopulated anyway. Those wishing to leave early are encouraged to do so. Second hand smoke is also bad for you, and smoking leads to many deaths every year. So, the argument is that smoking is bad for the smoker and the people around them, and it kills people. Well, if those are the criteria, I have a few suggestions of my own.
Driving. Besides pollution, driving kills thousands each year, and not just the fuckwits behind the wheel. As smoking is mostly done in the pub driving should be banned from motorways first.
Marriage. One in four people suffer from spousal abuse and in some cases marriage leads to violence ending in death. A record number of marriages also end in divorce so what's the point of them anyway? Ban them from churches and city halls.
Fucking. Venereal diseases, crimes of passion and gangland shootings involving prostitutes are all due to sex. Also hurts partners who are cheated by their spouse. To be banned from bedrooms, club toilets and Calton Hill first.
Stairs. Every time a scientist plays down a major epidemic he will point out more people die from falling down the stairs. More lethal than sars. Not only can falling down stairs cause horrific injuries and death, but also puts in great danger those on lower steps. To be banned from high-rise buildings immediately.
Glasgow. Highly polluted, and rife of stabbings, glassings, football violence, shootings, rape, group beatings and too much fatty food. Wearing Glasgow teams' shirts will also get you killed in other parts of the country, along with any poor sod who may be accompanying you. The most sensible thing to do would be to ban it from Scotland first.

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It's been a wee bit chilly in Edinburgh the last few days. In fact, one could claim it is getting just a tad close to fucking freezing. It is the kind of weather that when you get out of the shower in the morning you make sure your privates are dry as they have never been, just to make sure your nuts won't freeze off when you leave the house.
   Contrary to popular belief, Scotland does have seasons. We even go through them in the right order. Just not the right length. Winter is about four months, followed by two of spring. Summer is generally pencilled in between the twenty-first of July and August seventeenth, followed by approximately five months of autumn.
   This year the gods have decided to start fucking with our heads. Summer started in June and lasted all the way until the end of August. That's bizarre. We even had a barbeque. Twice! The whole of the festival we baked in the sun. Autumn was terribly confused. So much so, that it has decided to move on to other parts of the world. We had about a fortnight of crappy rain and leaves and now we are straight on into winter.
   Though it seems only us southern folk are affected by this. People from Inverness have been moaning it is cold down here. Inverness! That's about a ten minute drive from the arctic circle. In a wheelbarrow. And it is awfully confusing. Every morning we wake up and expect crap falling out of the sky, and instead we find the neighbour's cat frozen to our letterbox.

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Yesterday both the Metro and the Sun announced that according to extremely intelligent and wise people cats carry a parasite that not only likes to nest inside human beings, but also alters our personality once it has crawled into our brains. So that's good news then. Not only do they claw their way through the couch, they are also treating us to a bug infestation.
   Apparently half of us are affected. Or so they claim. According to the Oxford people this parasite makes men grouchy, lazy, aggressive and on the whole not very attractive. So they look like the average male. And women turn into purring fun-loving sex kittens, which of course is a euphemism for slut. And they love to go out shopping. So no change in the average human being there either. Effectively what they are saying is that people who have cats are behaving like human beings. Big shocker.
   Funnily enough there is no mentioning of the people who are in contact with cats and react by crying continuously, their noses filling with copious amounts of snot, which is turn is launched at tremendous velocity through the continuous sneezing. Which I'd say would be a more noticeable side effect of the hairy creatures.
   But it gets better. Apparently cats get these microscopic creatures by hunting rats. Right. How many cats in 2003 AD do you know that still hunt for rats? Aren't all these fuckers domesticated and fed out of a tin now? Our cat would rather starve than actually move to get a proper meal. They don't give a fuck about rats. Especially twenty-first century urban rats, who have managed to live through all the crap we have been pouring down the drain over the last few decades. Think of the teenage mutant ninja turtles, apply that to a rodent and you have a fair idea of what city rats are like nowadays.
   So in actual fact these things would only apply to country people. Which would make sense at Oxford University. And we all know that farmers are grumpy unattractive twits. They live in the country! I'd be awfully miserable living in a field, having to put on wellies just to get to the loo. And the fact that all country lassies are slappers hasn't exactly been a secret either. After all, these are the people who shag sheep! Some research.

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Some anti-depressants given to kids may have led them to commit suicide. Don't they test these things on vermin first? I though they had entire labs full of rodents bred especially to be stuffed full of drugs and see how they respond. That is their purpose in life. To see if the human equivalent of vermin, kids, would suffer strange side effects.
   Now if scientists are looking for sign of improved spirits I can imagine they may overlook the steady development of bowel cancer or trench foot but surely hara-kiri falls under the heading 'depression'? At one point they must have noticed that the effect of the drug was somewhat the opposite of the purpose. If you start sulking and end up jumping off the Forth Bridge I guess we can safely say that not only does the drug not work effectively, but in fact is probably contributing to the misery it was intended to weed out.
   How do you miss that? And when did someone first realise something was wrong? Did one of the lab technicians pull a file someone had dropped behind a filing cabinet and noticed six dozen reports of bunny rabbits frantically throwing themselves up against the bars in a desperate attempt to top themselves? Maybe the person in charge of the experiment had been sniffing the stuff on weekends and one night decided to pick a fight with Davie from Bannermans. If that's not suicidal, I don't know what is.
   Wasn't there some sort of miracle acne cure that caused kids to try and hit the halogen light on the front of an oncoming steam engine with their faces? Or am I getting things mixed up? And at the end of the day, what are we worrying about? Isn't there supposed to be a percentage of kids topping themselves? That's part of natural selection. Everybody says that we need fewer kids per classroom. All we need is less pills and more bullies! All sorted!

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The Daily Star of Scotland reported last Tuesday that one in three Britons has sex less than once a week. Wow. A shocking revelation indeed. No wonder it took up half the front page, and the only part of it to include words. Shagging less than once a week; that is disgraceful. Fucking hell, I'll be lucky to have an X-rated dream once a week, let alone actually sharing my bed with a member of the opposite sex.
   A 'shock study' has also revealed that two thirds own a sex toy and that doggy-style is the nation's favourite position. Quite which bit is shocking, or which bit could indeed be described as a study I am not complete sure, but it took up three pages, so I am sure someone must have done their homework.
   Daily Star readers themselves have rubbished the claim of having sex less than once a week. The headline on page 4 claims they are at it 14 times every week. And you know that to be true, because if there is one group in Britain that leads in the department of romance and a healthy sex life it is readers of the Daily Star, with their knuckles dragging, illiterate and able to get their kicks from a half naked women on water-skis. Who could resist them?

---

I have found a full-proof way to world peace. Proliferation. We need more nukes! And I don't mean more for countries that already have them, but spread the happiness around a bit. First we need to tear up the anti-proliferation treaty. It's not like a single participant is sticking to it anyway. And then we need to start arming the rest of the world.
   We'll start with the tiny countries that can be blasted away by a single explosion. So Monaco, Luxembourg and San Marino are the first on the list. That will balance things out a bit, and may draw them into world politics. Then we move on to the ultra-religious countries. Vatican City and Nigeria get a few each, just to see how long God can hold out against technology of this magnitude.
   Not to leave anyone out the next country to be armed with nuclear capabilities is Japan. I know they are fiercely opposed to this kind of weaponry but then they didn't want the A-bomb either and we gave them two of those anyway. When they have been fitted with this wonderful equipment we can move to the Middle East.
   Every Arab country in the vicinity of Israel should have a nuclear bomb, but only one. Under no circumstances are they allowed to get two. The reason for this is very simple. As all these countries can't stand one another they know damn well that if they use it to attack Israel that means the fucker next door still has his, whereas they are now without. Similarly if they chuck it into an Arab neighbour Israel will invite itself in straight away.
   Mexico should definitely get one as well. Being stuck in between South America and the United States can be a wee bit stressful at times and it is always nice to have a wee bit of security on your side. Similarly all African nations should get one that they can sell to buy food, provided they don't sell them to any Arab state as this would mess up the plan. Ending world hunger is nice, but not if it fucks up my perfect vision.
   The New Zealanders should get one to feel good about themselves and Australia to make sure the Kiwi's don't start too feel too good about themselves. Belgium doesn't get one though, because the chances are too great they will set it off on themselves when instructions get lost in translation.
   What do you think? Next election I can stand as an independent?

---

My life is being taken over by computers. Every unsuspecting moment my attention is directed towards it, no matter how hard I try not to. But the thing is, it's not the internet and its wonderful gateways to information, art, literature and hardcore porn involving animals. Nor is it the intriguing world of programming and designing. It is FreeCell.
   FreeCell is solitaire with a twist. It's similar, only not suitable for complete and utter retards. And Microsoft has provided each of its customers with 32,000 combinations of this game to play. As I have nothing better to do, I have now completed over 600 of them.
   It started off as a harmless pastime while sitting around waiting to go home. A small tool to keep my brain exercised. Now, however, it has taken control over my brain. I can be standing in the shower, washing my hair and all of a sudden I will think that the six of spades goes under the seven of hearts.
   And it's not like I will be thinking of FreeCell. Or computers. Or cards. But right in the middle of a conversation with a drunk about the paramount importance of the use of the indefinite article in the title of Hollywood movies while sipping a pint all of a sudden inside my head there will be flash reminding me that shifting the red two across to the black three will allow me to release the ace underneath. Out of the clear blue.
   This can't be normal. You don't start thinking of random combinations of cards while you are playing pool with your mates. It is just not a normal or healthy thing. Perhaps I need some extensive psychotherapy. Or perhaps I just need a girlfriend.

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The Home Office, also known as the department of paranoia, harassment and institutional racism, has come up with a new idea. Tony Blair and his guide dog David Blunkett sat together one night and came up with a brilliant scheme, which will make us remember the Labour government in an even more hostile manner than we already do. The name of the game is ID cards.
   Soon enough we may all have to carry these handy credit card-style documents. That's good news, because we all know how long these things usually last. On it will not only be your name and age, but also a DNA sample, rectal temperature, picture of your eye, sexual preference, urine sample and country of birth (England, foreign, rogue).
   I am opposed to this for several reasons. First of all, the idea comes from David Blunkett. So it can't possibly be of any good to anyone, except maybe the Americans, whom he so proudly performs fellatio on whenever they so desire. David hasn't come up with a single good plan without somebody repeatedly hitting him over the head with the sharp end of a claw hammer. And we all know how often that has happened. Unfortunately.
   The second reason I am opposed to it is because it is the exact same measure the nazi's took when they occupied Europe. Not a good example to follow I might add. In fact, most ideas the nazi's had were pretty bad. Of course we are at a slight advantage in this country because proper deportation to Cuba can't start until we fix the railways, which might be quite a few decades yet.
   And last of all because it is expensive and pointless. Think about this one. The only time a copper needs to know who you are is when you have done something wrong, right? So when you have robbed a bank and three constables are sitting on you in the middle of the High Street they can ask you to produce your handy credit-card style document.
   And what if you show it to them? They will say 'thank you very much' and chuck you in the back of the police van to be forwarded to be detained at Her Majesty's pleasure. And if you don't, well, they will do the exact same thing. So that makes sense. That's well worth a few million quid.
   Of course if you are walking the streets, picking your nose and minding your own business and the coppers stop you, you may be in trouble. Asked to show them your card you may point out that you weren't planning on robbing anyone and so you thought you'd leave it at home. But that is illegal. You can't pick your nose without sufficient identification on your person. So you get arrested.
   In other words, it doesn't make a blind bit of difference whether you carry it while doing a drive-by shooting, but you can get arrested for buying a tin of soup without it. What a plan! Clearly Herr Blunkett is a genius. He must have spent a whole six-and-a-half seconds thinking that one through. Somebody get out the claw hammer please.

---

It's been a while since I have written about my complete mystification with women. I was secretly hoping someone of the female persuasion would send me and e-mail explaining the whole thing, possibly with a few diagrams to speed things up a bit. Nothing. Not a single line. Found a few that agreed with me, but none to actually help me out.
   So, we shall move on with part three. Why do women expect us to know things we have no interest in? I was talking to two lassies from London in Bannermans the other day and contrary to common practice we were being honest with each other and I asked them what their fixation with weight was.
   You see, when you ask a woman how much she weighs, she will lie. And then, when she does not lie she will tell you 9 stone, 4 pounds and 6 ounces, at nine fifteen that morning, but she has had a pee and an apple since, so it should about an ounce lighter. You ask a bloke he'll shrug first and then he'll tell you twelve stone. We don't do pounds and ounces. Someone asks me I tell them fourteen stone. Don't know if I am but last time I was on the scales the nurse told me I was, and until I get weighed again, that's my answer. Fuck it.
   And so as we were discussing mysteries of the universe I thought I'd bring it up. Neither one of them knew, but one was fairly sure that men were the same with their penis. Really? I never knew this. Nobody ever asks me about the size of my willy. And so I don't know. Never had the need to measure the thing. So, in complete astonishment I asked the young lass whether men really measure their cock.
   And then it happened. She shrugged and said you tell me. How the fuck do I know! How am I supposed to come about this piece of information? My personal experience with the male reproductive organ is somewhat minute, if you will pardon the expression. Surely I am the last person to be familiar with collected data of private activity involving one's penis. Hey, they've seen a few, they should know. They've observed more of them, and with their sensory instruments one hell of a lot closer.
   What do women expect? That after a friendly game of rugby blokes get together in the pub and yell 'hey Fred, I measured my penis yesterday, and it seems slightly thicker than it was last week! How is yours?' This is information not shared. This is information not even brought up in any kind of conversation as far as I am aware. Even women never enquire after the size of your cock, and they are definitely interested. What makes you think blokes would want to know?

---

According to the Guardian, the only left-wing tabloid available to Britain, and yet not covering any domestic issue outside the fourth Tube zone of England's capital, a beggar has decided to start camping outside the Queen's home. In protest. As you do. He's pissed off because Manchester has banned him from begging and annoying people in the city centre and having been arrested 97 times.
   Imagine that. He has been arrested ninety-seven times and he is pissed off. Shouldn't the Queen be pissed off at him? How many times do you have to be arrested before a judge will say 'fuck it; throw away the key'? Three strikes and you're out is a bit excessive, I agree, but by the time somebody is approaching thirty surely we can just stick him on an atoll somewhere north of the Hebrides and leave him to form his own system of justice with the crabs and the seagulls.
   Monsieur Hockey, as this particular vagrant is known, clearly attempting to get a moral point across in obstructing the view of Buckingham Palace, also has a 22,000 quid heroin addiction. Now correct me if I am wrong, because I am willing to learn, but isn't the possession of heroin still illegal in England and Wales? I know it is up here in Scotland...
   How the fuck does a bum acquire £22,000? I work sixty hours a week and I don't even dream of ever coming close to making that amount of cash, even before Brown deducts half to reduce the number of Arabs in the world. And that's just for the drugs! Add to that food, occasional clothing and now a ticket to London. The fucker gets twice as much money as I do, and he doesn't contribute one penny to the NHS! Labour at work, I feel.
   Mr Bum's solicitor, Ben Taylor, has already lodged a complaint about his being kicked out of Manchester city centre. Pardon me? His what? His solicitor? His fucking solicitor? I can barely afford to pay the council tax and this scrounger has the money to get a lawyer! How much cash does this leech accumulate of the working population during the course of a day? A lazy smack-head on the streets makes more money than I do working and he has the audacity to complain to our Queen when somebody tells him to fuck off and get a job!
   You would say that after ninety-seven warnings even the judiciary in Manchester would hazard a guess that perhaps Mr Hockey had no intention of giving up his addiction and was going to be a professional nuisance to the general public until he finally died.
   So why wasn't he sentenced to be tied down to a prison bunk with leather straps until he was clean? They could have ankle-cuffed a smack dealer to the bed with a wet cloth and a bucket with the job of seeing him through the whole process. That would constitute as rehabilitation for all parties concerned, wouldn't it?
   Now that he has escaped Manchester I have a suggestion. Maybe we can send a bloke up to him, pretending to be a dealer. Instead of giving him heroin however, he could stuff him full of acid. Then we could get someone else to exploit his paranoia and convince him his mission is to kill our monarch. In his attempt the Royal Guard can then pump half a dozen rounds into his junky skull and put him out of our collective misery.
   And they say I'd be no good in politics...

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Last year a total of 5,695 people were either partially or completely ripped apart by landmines in Chechnya, the ICBL has reported. A quick breakdown of that number gives you 13 adults every day and the average for kids is 18 per week.
   Now that's impressive. Who needs tanks with that casualty rate? Imagine being a suicide bomber in that country! First, you strap yourself with grenades, plastic explosives, nuts, bolts, screws and other implements the IRA uses to spread happiness and joy across railway stations and BBC studios. That's the easy part. Now you have to make it to the Russian soldiers, without stepping on a landmine first.
   Because that would just be embarrassing. Turning up at the hereafter to claim your forty-eight virgins only to be told by a bloke with a clipboard that even though your intention was to kill the bastard infidel, triggering a landmine on a dirt path, killing a sheep and two goldfish doesn't quite qualify as martyr material.
   Of course the UK doesn't use landmines anymore. We have moved up. Now we use cluster bombs. Cluster bombs are better because you chuck them out by the hundred, you don't have to bury them and the colour scheme is such that it brings the kids to the bombs all voluntarily! They are currently experimenting with Winnie the Pooh and the Little Mermaid bomblets to drop when the US tells us to invade Iran.
   Incidentally, we buy our cluster bombs from Israel. Don't you think it is slightly ironic that we bought weapons of mass destruction from a country run by a mass murderer, in violation of countless UN resolutions and torturing children on a daily basis to invade a country run by a mass murderer, in violation of countless UN resolutions and torturing children on a daily basis on the assumption they are making weapons of mass destruction? You have to appreciate and respect the morality involved in making that decision. Not only will this thing kill brown children here, but the proceeds will be used to kill other brown kids over there as well! Aren't we clever little sods.
   Which brings us to Iraq. Have we figured out yet why we went to war? It's getting a bit hazy at the moment. Every day in the paper it says Tony Blair misled us on the reason for going to war. I can't even bloody remember the reason we went in! The UN had something to do with it, and weapons that Donald Rumsfeld had sold them and were still not paid for. And regime change as well. And oil, plus supporting our troops. A debt to America. The twin towers came up, and Al Qaida along with Kuwait and Barney the Dinosaur. Which did we go for in the end? I seem to remember they could never make their minds up. Come to think of it, I don't think they ever told us why we declared war. If we declared war that is. Apparently we forgot in Afghanistan. Saves a lot of paperwork.

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At Tesco's there is now a microwave inside the store. A bit peculiar to stick it before the checkout, but then maybe that is just the next step in customer service and free samples. What I do not get however is the sign taped to it that proclaims: may contain traces of nuts.
   That's technology for you. We can now build electronic equipment using cashews. Well, it may be made out of nut. Apparently even the manufacturer is not sure of it. But as is the case with most equipment of a complicated nature I am really not in the slightest interested in what they're made of; only in how they work.
   Of course the warning is for severely allergic people. The anaphylactically challenged. The ones Darwin hadn't counted on. Survival of the fittest, my arse. I mean, if you can't even digest peanuts without developing spots on your inner thigh and your face turning the Stewart tartan perhaps you are just not equipped to deal with evolution.
   I can deal with dog allergies. These creatures were quite clearly not meant to live inside our homes. The teeth should really have been a fair clue. Not to mention the fact that after they lick their own bollocks they usually sniff the backsides of similar creatures. And when you see a poodle with sweatbands and a jumper on you are supposed to suffer violent convulsions, preferably involving violent kicking.
   But allergic to milk? Fucking dust? That exists! A dust allergy. People can actually have a fit and need hospital treatment because some fucker didn't Hoover the house properly! Surely that would qualify as a lost cause...
   What's next? A brick allergy? What about fish? Not when you eat it, but while they are swimming around in their bowl minding their own business. That should qualify, shouldn't it? And I'll be allergic to watering the plants. And cleaning the kitchen. God knows there are far more harmful things living in my kitchen than there in peanuts.

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People who buy books written by Adolf Hitler also bought books by Karl Marx, Amazon reports at the bottom of the page depicting 'Mein Kampf'. With a click of the mouse you will find 'Das Kapital' and 'the Communist Manifesto', both of which seem to be selling one hell of a lot faster than Mr Hitler's writing.
   I bet whenever you arrive at Highgate Cemetery in London you can hear the man laughing as soon as you get out of the car. He hasn't even applied for his place in Heaven yet, partly because he didn't believe in Heaven but mostly because he is too busy trying to get his laughter under control.
   Poor Hitler. It's the only book the man has ever written and less than a century later the only author his readers buy is not the fascist collective or the Ku Klux Klan, but a Communist Jew who died peacefully in London. His ashes must be turning in the sewer Goebbels poured them into.
   Amazon, not trying to be a killjoy, at least goes on to offer a private link to old Adolf. I am the author and I want to comment on my book it offers without the slightest hint of sarcasm. Now that is a commentary I would like to read. As I mentioned a while ago the Army of God have already established an internet link to the hereafter so perhaps Mr Hitler can log on one day under Russia_bad_idea@swastika.hell and give us a few footnotes for the publication.

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Newspapers are not only full of news and things you should be thinking, the other 80 per cent is usually filled with completely pointless information and pictures of people you have never seen before. The other day for example I found out that the chief economic advisor to the chancellor of the United Kingdom is a man named Ed Balls.
   Or a woman. No picture included. But for his sake I hope he is a man, because if he were not his name would be even more embarrassing. I have to say I am not impressed. As Scotland at the moment is very much involuntarily still part of the United Kingdom I find it slightly disturbing that the person responsible for steering our economy in the right directions signs 'balls' at the bottom of every document.
   He should have been a tennis umpire. Nobody would even look up when he's in the company of other tennis fanatics and would say: 'hello, I am Balls'. It would be his job to shout it at people. Or a football coach. If he had been a football coach I would have even gone along with regularly signing his name with an exclamation mark.
   But imagine the meetings with foreign dignitaries. 'Don't talk to me, talk to Balls over there. Balls is interested in these kind of things'. You can just see the diplomatic standoff waiting to erupt can't you? You can only hope that the meeting would also involve the former Dutch Prime Minister, whose name meant 'chef', but was pronounced 'cock'. That's a gathering I would like to attend. Ladies and gentlemen, I would like to introduce to you, misters Cock and Balls.

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This Tuesday David Aaronovitch decided to criticise an article by former minister Michael Meacher, which claimed that the US was quite happy to have two planes crash into the World Trade Towers two years ago today so they could invade Iraq and steal all their oil. Which I found a highly amusing coincidence because I read that particular piece and found it to be a ridiculous piece of crap. He had clearly first drawn a conclusion and then started investigating to prove his point and on the whole the article was so ludicrously full of inconsistencies, omissions and other complete and utter bollocks that I thought it was ghost written by Mr Aaronovitch. Which brings us full circle.
   David, who never fails to inform us that when he was just a lad he was granted the gift of being the bearer of ultimate truth, disagrees strongly with Mr Meacher. He feels that the American invasion was done purely out of the kindness of their hearts. Which would be a logical next step after twenty years of shooting them, blowing them up, dropping uranium on them, selling them gas, bombing them, arming their enemies, starving them and inciting them to riot against an army and then let them die. You can follow the logic surely. Wouldn't we all be glad to sacrifice a few of our kids to cluster bombs after that much love and affection?
   But then we have to remember this is the same man who went to make an investigative documentary on anti-Semitism in the Middle East and forgot to mention the Israeli occupation of three countries. Clearly done his homework. Call me a swat but if I were to make an impartial 60-minute documentary on the relationship between Muslims and Jews I think I could have fitted in about nineteen seconds on how Israelis who used to proudly call themselves 'the Zionist Sinn Fein' now send out their grandkids with the Star of David pinned on their sleeves to knock down Palestinian homes and use Arab kids for target practice. You know, just for the sake of actually doing my job.
   The good news is that if anyone knows how to spot an article so full of crap the stench is seeping off the pages it is David. After all, it takes one to know one. At least Michael Meacher has an excuse. He was in the Labour government. He has personally licked Lucifer's arsehole clean. For the rest of all eternity he will be doomed to talk shit and stab people in the back. Fucking Hell, Dave, what's your excuse?

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The whole country is getting overweight. Or so they keep telling us. If you ask me the country has been overweight for yonks now, but we just don't give a toss. Previously all the fat little kids were outside eating chocolate while the others were playing football and so the parents never noticed a thing. Now they are behind the Playstation 2 all day and all of a sudden it becomes blatantly obvious all these little shits are in fact not as little as we previously thought.
   The hip and trendy term now is 'obese', which is English for the Scottish equivalent 'fat bastard'. And I can announce that I have joined the ranks of the fat people, though I will be shot before I refer to myself as obese. According to the NHS a man measuring six feet and three inches tall should weigh somewhere in the proximity of between 12 and 13 stone. Now I have no idea what my exact weight is, but I can guarantee you right now that it is not even remotely in the vicinity of 13.
   And so the other day I came out of the shower with an elephant towel draped over my head and wearing just my fire-proof Tigger boxer shorts had a look at my gut comfortably bulging out of my underwear, providing a nice and cool shade for the cartoon character underneath. Turning to my flatmate and his girlfriend, who up until that point had been enjoying their breakfast, I asked them whether they thought I was slowly beginning to develop a beer belly.
   Both of them agreed that indeed there was a clear pattern of abdominal growth, but that it was probably the effect of deep-fried haggis and chips rather than beer. Which was excellent news to me, as I was planning to cut down on whatever caused the unplanned and unauthorised expansion.
   Of course the fact I have a beer-gut doesn't in the slightest bother me. It is very rarely that I wonder or worry about my physique and as long as I can both touch my toes and see my penis I really have no reason to worry. I have no girlfriend to pester me and on the rare occasion I am naked with a second person present both of us are too intoxicated and desperate to object to any such features anyway.
   It's just that I recently found myself running up three flights of stairs and arriving at the desired floor felt the urgent desire to be put on a ventilator. That can't be healthy at my age. You find yourself chatting people up on the internet because somehow your subconscious has figured out that the chances of pulling in the pub have been dramatically reduced in recent months. So for the next few weeks no deep-fried foods. Purely frozen pizza.

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Christianity is now officially the world's dumbest cult. I am sure being a Christian doesn't necessarily means you will end up completely screwed up, but I can't imagine it helps. And being an American Christian must be a heavy burden to bear. For example, what to do to encourage the nation's youth not to have sex before marriage?
   There are of course people who have considered this problem before. In Nigeria for example they have come up with the following: they tell you not to have sex before marriage and if you do they bury you waist high and chuck bricks at you until you get the point. Of course in the United States they have decided that if they are going to argue a lost cause, they had better splash out doing it.
   Hence the Silver Ring Thing project. A sexual abstinence programme. Which, according to the website, offers real life questions and answers about sex, though definitely more questions as they do not discuss details but they focus instead on the emotional, mental, and relational results of engaging in pre-marital sex.
   By the way, for those of you who think that I come across these crazy people because I spend all day surfing the web, I have to disappoint you. I read these things in the papers and have to find confirmation. In this case I read about it in the Guardian and as I always do with Guardian articles I didn't so much take it with a grain of salt as with the residue left on British coasts every year. So I typed in 'silver ring thing' on Google and voila.
   So, question one: how the fuck do you create a programme to not do something? How complicated can you make that? The site explains that you have to attend a two-hour meeting to learn all about the practice of not having sex. Two hours! And if that's not bad enough they also have a programme for parents. The whole fact that they are parents does somewhat suggest that perhaps the idea of abstinence is just a tiny bit tardy.
   But still, the project is immensely hip as it's featuring awesome lighting and video systems, hilarious skits, concert sound systems, high-energy music, TV's, computers, and a faith-based abstinence message. Excluding the last point there that sounds an awful lot like a nightclub. Which is ironic, because the only way you are ever going to drag me into one of those is the absolute guarantee I am getting a shag either in there, or after we leave the place.
   And if that is not enough, you can also join if you have had sex already! Apparently there is such a thing as a 'second virginity'. Which to me renders the whole project pointless but I am sure my ex will find tremendous comfort in the thought. So everyone can join. Just so that people can explain to you that sex ruins your relationship. What kind of relationship were these people in? Fucking hell, I have been in relationships where having sex was the only time we were enjoying ourselves.
   Once you have decided you have no self esteem and have actually joined this band of people who probably never got laid in school and have been miserable ever since you attend a meeting at which you sign the vow of abstinence and get a silver ring you can wear to show the whole world what a zealous little shit you really are.
   Hang on, did they just say 'sign a vow'? They did indeed. You sign a piece of paper stating you will not fuck anyone until you are joined in wedlock. As this is taking place in a part of the world where half of people are lawyers does this mean they will drag your arse to court if you decide to play hide-the-sausage? And what about divorce? Doesn't one in three marriages end in divorce? How does that work? Nobody mentioning that on the website. Maybe I should e-mail them.
   Though I think I had better not. Silver Ring Thing program is presented by a high-energy group of talented young people who possess an exceptional ability to relate to middle and high school students. Specific training in communications, leadership, drama, presentation stills, and technical support is provided by experienced adult staff who constantly monitor the quality of the presentations and the message being conveyed.
   In other words, scary people. Very very scary people.

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Leith has changed a bit. No sooner had 'Trainspotting' been made or six homosexuals in Versace suits turned up to redesign the whole place. So out went the dockyard bars where you were always sure to catch either the clap or a punch in the face and in came the trendy places with mirrors and bright shiny objects.
   The Lighthouse is neatly located right on the shore, which has become the main focus of the city council's desire to expel everyone who dares speak with a Scottish accent. The whole pub is full of three-piece suited arseholes, the trendy fuckwits with spiky hair and patterned shirts, students with daddy's credit card at their disposal and other specimens of infectious and horrific social diseases.
   Heads spin round the moment I set foot in the place and I immediately am confronted with looks I imagine heavy-set Arabs in long coats get on the number 11 in Tel Aviv. Somehow I get the feeling that my sort is no longer welcome around these parts. Which makes sense. After all, tattooed working class folk like myself have only been living in the area for the last, what, 900 years?
   I'm glad the occasion was a leaving party because that is exactly what I felt like doing. I still can't get my head around this though. We are actually being driven out by civil servants, English students and the nouveau-camp. What's this world coming to?

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There are now so many Americans in charge of Iraq it is hard to tell them apart. But one of them has now said that Iraq does not need a peacekeeping force or a stabilising army but troops willing to inflict and take casualties. Right. So he wants a war. He wants more people to come up and shoot at them and more people to come and help him kill them. An interesting approach. I bet he's popular.
   They have no idea what they want anymore. It is getting awfully confusing. One American even took to asking me, on the net, what kind of government we have, to see if we are slightly more fortunate than being run by a primate. What do I tell him?
   Well, perhaps mistakenly assuming they teach history in the US I told him we have a government not unlike that of Mussolini. Run by a man pretending to be a socialist, obsessed by evil foreigners, trying to destroy all that oppose it and when it comes to foreign policy they take their cue from a country with a bigger army, run by racist arseholes. And they are hell-bent on eradicating democracy.
   I was lying of course, but then to save face you do have to occasionally paint a slightly better picture than is the reality. Let's face it, I can hardly tell him the truth. The Home Secretary, despite being blind, is allergic to coloured people and because of being blind didn't read the part in his contract that said to look after the interests of the British people.
   The Foreign Secretary hasn't made a decision in two years without first consulting an American politician and has now taken to wringing his hands whenever one of his compatriots gets shot in the head by Israeli troops in a country where according to the UN there should be no Israeli soldiers. And his best friend the Defence Secretary is so occupied bombing Arabs he can't even get his own story straight and when questioned actually defends himself by saying he is so incompetent nobody even bothers to tell him anything anymore.
   And Tony, well, what can you say? I'd say being compared to Mussolini is quite a compliment to the man. With a flavour of religious insanity.

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These fundamentalists are freaking me out now. I mean, they were scary before, but this is just Twilight Zone stuff. Last month I wrote about the upcoming execution of the reverend Paul Hill in Florida, where he gave in to the urge to empty a shotgun at a doctor. Several times. And then said that Jesus would have done the same.
   Well, he's dead. Perhaps the first decision Jeb Bush took and I agreed with. They even managed to find an alternative for 'old sparky', the regularly malfunctioning electric chair the Florida board of governors doesn't in the slightest consider to be either cruel or unusual. Three days ago he was executed by means of lethal injection.
   Now his supporters have been very keen over the last few weeks in threatening everyone involved and explaining that not only was he right to kill the evildoing doctor, but Saint Peter would be awaiting his arrival in paradise with open arms and a bouquet of flowers.
   So yesterday I decided to have a quick peek on his authorised website to see what the Jesus-freaks had to say about his demise. Imagine my shock to find a link to e-mail him! It did state however that should you wish a reply you have to add a snail-mail address. Snail-mail is apparently the word nine-year-olds use when they mean the post. Heaven is only hooked up to receive e-mail, not send it yet. God has better things to do.
   Now if we are going to have Floridian gun-nuts with bibles and the ability to e-mail the hereafter I think I am entitled to panic. In fact, I think I am entitled to build a bunker under my house. Would also be a good way of getting rid of the neighbours down there.
   So, if anyone sees a bloke with a rifle slung across his shoulder and loudly reciting Proverbs twenty-nine while scouting for people to kill you may have just met one of Paul's buddies. Get out of the way. Unless you are in Iraq. Then it's Donald Rumsfeld. In which case you should get out of the continent.

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The Dutch government this week announced that it has decided to sell weed from pharmacies. Your doctor will be able to refer you and even will write out a declaration that you are checked and cleared to buy.
   Of course the drugs will be twice as expensive as buying them from local coffee shops but even to this the health ministry has an answer. First of all, the National Health Service will cover your using the stuff, and second of all the drugs will be rigorously tested to make sure it is the absolute dog's bollocks.
   I don't know about you, but that to me just conjures up images of a bloke in a dark alleyway, with a raincoat holding a handful of the stuff under your nose saying: "look at this. Top quality, man. You want to try the others, carry on, but you'll be back."
   Perhaps the Dutch NHS is also going to employ some goons to collect payment with an Alsatian and a spiked baseball bat. My guess is that government officials have realised that drugs are now Holland's most profitable business and want a piece of the action. At least it is nice of them to provide the very best the narcotics industry has to offer. I wonder how long before the Colombians move in...

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What is the attraction of animals to Scottish universities? They are obsessed! For some inexplicable reason the main field of expertise in Scottish science seems to be the intensive study of the animal kingdom.
   Now we all know that for some time now the Caledonian people have had a very close relationship with sheep. Both in a culinary and a social way. Now, however, it seems we have branched out. So a project was launched, with funding from our own government, to produce a food product that would reduce cows farting. That's good for the environment you see. Not just to stop them stinking up the living room.
   Then our friends at St Andrews decided it would be a good idea to get a whole bunch of mice, and get them all stoned. I am sure that they never gave these mice any drugs but smoked it all themselves after convincing some nitwit to give them funding and supplies for the project, but you have to wonder how close they got to these rodents while in their care.
   Now they have gone one step further. Biologists at the universities of St Andrews, Edinburgh and Leeds combined have discovered that fish are manipulative, cultured and socially aware. In other words they are more fit to represent us than the Labour party.
   Fish. Fucking fish! You tell me how they can possibly justify the funding for that one. How on earth can this benefit anyone? What is the value of knowing that fish have social awareness? Somebody please explain this to me. And what's most worrying is that someone will get an award for this. Somebody is going to receive a title for figuring out fish have the ability to organise tea parties.
   I shudder to think what the next project will be. Perhaps we can investigate the nail care of piglets. Or try and discover the meaning of life according to the slug. Whether seagulls get ticklish. Or how often a squirrel gets horny. There are too many stupid questions to be asked about animals, and far too many scientists to ask them.

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At the start of this year Saddam Hussein had an entire arsenal of nuclear and biochemical weapons at his disposal, and could fire these at Bournemouth within 45 minutes of waking up with a hangover. His scientists were also extremely keen to tell us, the UN inspectors were incompetent and army experts would be able to dig up all these rockets in two days. We had pictures of chemical labs and indisputable evidence from African countries that nuclear material had been bought. And there was Al Qaida hiding in the country.
   Also, when we went to war we would be able to kill all the soldiers but not harm any of the citizens and the people of Iraq would love and cuddle all our soldiers for years to come, just for showing up. We would bring justice and freedom to the country and not harm any of the people. The world would be a safer place.
   Now we know Saddam had no nuclear and biochemical weapons and the only thing he could fire within 45 minutes and as far as the other side of the room was a well-aimed fart. His scientists have nothing to tell us and the UN inspectors found more in three weeks than the army experts in three months. The pictures of chemical labs and laboratories were fake, as was the documentation from the African country. The only Al Qaida found were living in the one area Saddam had no control over.
   We killed 7,000 innocent civilians, plus several reporters. Our soldiers can't fuck off soon enough according to the population and some have even taken to shooting them to get rid of them. We have installed a foreign dictator, who answers to the man who sold Saddam anthrax. The justice brought is the shining example of Guantanamo Bay, the freedom is to be shot by US soldiers immune from prosecution. Several protesters have been killed and according to the experts we are now more than ever at threat from terrorists.
   Somehow those two pictures just don't seem to correspond. Jack Straw and Tony Blair are sticking to their story though. They will continue to state they can breathe underwater until at least one of them dies. Here's my view of the situation. As their story doesn't even remotely resemble the actual facts there are two possibilities.
   Possibility one is that they lied to us in order to go out and kill some Arabs, or just because they have been offered Green Cards and other treats if they will do by Bush's bidding for the next few months. Which is treason and they should be deposed, arrested and then hanged. Possibility two is that they actually believed everything they said, which means they are too fucking dumb to run this country. Depose them and stick them in a nice wee room with soft padding and feed them pudding all day long. But for fuck's sake can we please get rid of these racist, incompetent, treacherous, lying arseholes. Even our sense of humour can only be stretched so much.

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Last week a fire crew was shot at on their way to a fire in Glasgow. Fortunately it was a pellet gun and the two shots did not pierce the front window, but later that day youths came back to pelt them some more. The police have said they have urged the community to help them find the culprits, because this is a potentially dangerous situation.
   Not good enough. I think we need to introduce new laws on this, and I have drafted a wee bit of them for you. It should apply to those specific arseholes who block fire engines and ambulances. You'd be amazed how often cars will simply not move to let through the lads and lassies in green while some poor sod is turning blue somewhere.
   Their punishment should consist of three different stages. First, the valuable lesson being learnt. So, in case of blocking an ambulance you take the little shit to the top of an extraordinarily high staircase, and kick him all the way down. Hands tied behind his back of course. In the case of blocking a fire engine you hand him a glass of petrol, which he can use to style his hair, drink or dunk his bollocks into. And then you set fire to him. And let him burn for as long as he held up the crew.
   Part two is the mandatory incarceration. We should open a special wing in Barlinnie for this, where all inmates are housed nine to a cell, and twenty-three to a shower. They can share with child molesters, serial rapists and Labour MP's.
   And finally, upon release I suggest we allow them back into society by chucking them out of the back of an aeroplane over Belfast. Of course they are allowed a parachute, provided it is bright orange.

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The fireworks display is a fond final farewell to the French, Finnish, Friesians and other fat fucking foreigners filing out of the festival city. It is also a warm welcome to all those students who will be occupying the pubs the rest of the year, pretending to be studying hard for titles that will mean nothing to them at all.
   It's a strange affair, the fireworks concert. How often do you see 'chamber orchestra' and 'fireworks' in the same sentence? Surely in these days of terribly confusing advertisements we should really stick a warning label on announcements like that. Trained orchestra, not performing in chamber. Please do not try this at home.
   But then we do want people to try this at home. Edinburgh lights more fireworks every year than any other place in the world, with the possible exception of Disneyland. We need pyrotechnics specialists. Or pyromaniacs as they can more accurately be described. Any excuse they can find and Edinburgh city council will try and blow something up or into the sky.
   It's only natural to eventually think of combining fireworks with a classical orchestra and try to synchronise the two. Hell, we've tried it with everything else. You like it, we'll light it. Even in the pissing rain. The orchestra was a bit delayed, possibly because of new terrorist legislation. Hey, he had a beard; we had to check him out! That's another festival down. See you all next year.

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Has anybody else noticed recently that for a man who is supposed to only have pure thoughts pope John Paul is spending an awful lot of time contemplating, debating and discussing penises? And more importantly, what you can and cannot do with it. I suspect this is a bit of a trial and error situation here. One night the pope was trying to get a Durex around his erect dick and something went wrong. We all know how painful this can be. The next morning, bruise still visible, sitting in the bath John Paul decides that all this paedophile nonsense can wait and immediately decrees that under no circumstances is anybody ever to use a condom.
   It's got to be something like that. Can't wrap your cock in rubber, can't play with it, can't have another man play with it, can't have a woman you are not married to play with it. Basically the whole religion is anti-sex, which at least offers us that slight glimmer of hope that numbers will soon be decreasing and they will have to rethink their policy to get more people in.
   Fortunately the high council of Roman Catholics is not the only one to put a smile on our faces. The main leaders of the Israeli Orthodox Jews have come up with an even better one. It is now a sin to pick your nose on the Sabbath. Sounds like a Calvinist idea to me. No matter how much it itches, just suffer it. God does not want you to pick your nose.
   They sure have their priorities straight, don't they? You will remember that it is mainly the Orthodox, along with the army nuts who simply like to kill people, who are the firmest supporters of ethnically cleansing a big pile of warm sand. In fact, the Orthodox are usually the ones explaining that, their own children excused of course, all Israeli boys and girls should stick on a flak jacket and a helmet and proceed to kill as many brown people as possible.
   So there you have it. Dress in desert fatigues, fire missiles into a street, torture people if you really want to, but don't pick your nose on Saturday, because you'll be straight off to Hell. Makes sense to me.

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Never will I ever refer to the SSPCA as hippies again. The Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals is a fine institution that we should all appreciate for its excellent members always willing to give out useful advice.
   I realise this is a bit of a change from my usual attitude towards animals and all those that want to hug and cuddle them. Bestiality is illegal for a good reason, leave these poor creatures alone, you sick bastards! Anti-hunt lobbyists and people who chain themselves to trees to save the speckled fluffy drill bit woodpecker I think should all be stuck on their own little island far north of Iceland, where they can make their own laws until they come to realise that we have to focus on humans before worrying about our furry friends.
   Yesterday however my world was harshly rocked. I had only just woken up and stumbled into the kitchen to make myself a cup of tea when all of a sudden I noticed, on the other side of the glass, a baby pigeon looking at me. Which is unusual. It seemed awfully interested in my standing there in my bare arse, pouring hot water on a teabag, wondering how on earth a baby pigeon would get on my windowsill.
   Still, it's a free country for the moment, and as I wasn't planning on using the ledge I decided the pigeon, whom I have named Barry for no reason whatsoever, was welcome to stay there if he so pleased. I took my cup of tea and had a shower. Barry clearly had no intention of moving.
   After several hours Barry was beginning to look slightly bored and even occasionally started flapping his wings to no desired effect. Even I started to feel just a tiny bit sorry for the poor creauture. I even gave him some of my sandwich, which he eyed suspiciously and then left where it was. So I thought: fuck Barry.
   Yet after several more hours Barry was still being miserable out there and by now I was considering charging the bastard rent. Not sure how the legalities work I decided to ring the SSPCA. I explained to the operator that there was a small bird sitting outside my window and that I was pretty sure it wasn't supposed to be there.
   What I was told is that this is part of nature. Apparently, when pigeons are about one month old, the mother chucks the chicks out of the nest so they can learn to fly from the ground. All pigeons learn to fly from ground level. Staring out of the window and into the deep I pointed out that Barry was about twenty feet short of the ground, where, incidentally, the neighbours keep their barbeque. Surely she was not suggesting I push the poor fucker off the ledge?
   The reply, and I quote, came: you can if you want to. Or I could wait until his own mother came to kick him down. How refreshing is that? None of this 'save the birds' crap. Just give him a good shove and watch the poor sod tumble to his unfortunate destiny. If this is the new attitude of animal lovers I may even consider donating to them...

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I am sure much like me everybody is looking forward to the rugby world cup, which is coming up soon. Everybody is going to be there, which is good news for the Scotland team, because it means we might actually win some games for a change.
   The world cup committee people deciding things to do with this particular sport and event have decided to stage the next one Down Under. That is good news for the fans, and even better news for me, because it means I can pretend to be an expert. You see, I have been to Australia, have written about Australia and even had an Australian girlfriend once, which means I have more experience with this particular country than pretty much any other nation on the planet.
   So as I am such an incredibly nice person I thought I would offer you all a bit of insight into the Australian land. What you will all be happy to hear is that all Aussies are complete and utter slappers. They will shag anything that even looks like it's moving. Whores all around. The bad news is none of them are actually living in Oz. There are 16 million Australians in the world, 237 of which are current residents. All the other ones are working in our pubs or performing oral sex in dark back alleys in any major city in the UK or Ireland. Sorry.
   At least this will avoid getting you into a situation I managed to strangle myself into in Sydney a few years ago. Having run out of condoms I decided to walk into one of the enormous stores in the city and aimlessly started wandering about, as I usually do in any kind of store. Not having even located the right floor after about ten minutes I decided to call in the cavalry and grabbed hold of the first spotty teenager with his name on his shirt.
   Of course I should have just asked for condoms, but being a typical holidaymaker I decided I didn't trust the foreign variety and certainly wasn't planning on experimenting with the quality of contraceptives unknown to me. My rebellious and inquisitive spirit will only extend so far you will understand. So instead I asked for Durex, and tagged along as the poor shop attendant trawled through the isles to guide me to my desired purchase.
   Well. It turns out that they don't have Durex in Australia. That is to say, they do, but not quite in the department we would generally associate it with. The brand name proudly adorning the top I was, with a polite smile, handed a roll of sticky tape. And what did he expect me to do with that? Cello tape my dick until it's watertight? Surely he was not suggesting that Down Under they consider sticky tape to be an effective form of contraception? Though admittedly once you have tried it once I imagine you will definitely not be having any kids any time soon.
   So, for those of you lucky enough to make it to the world cup, bear in mind that clearly common sense is not quite as common as you would expect it to be. Also, if anyone has a spare plane ticket, I will be more than happy to act as guide. The key word in that sentence being 'act'.

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I like our National Health Service. Even though I realise that the nurses are getting paid less than the average street sweeper and half of the staff is currently on holiday in the Gulf to avert the spread of nasty things, such as Arabs. But still. I also know that the staff we can hire at slightly below minimum wage are all from Malawi and other nations slowly rotting away from the inside because we keep nicking all their medical staff, but on the whole you have to say that the result is pretty damn impressive.
   I mean, you have to appreciate the fact that when a fifteen-year-old joy rider swerves off the road and knocks you straight through a butcher's shop window into the carcasses strung up by impressively sharpened hooks, the lads and lassies in green don't stand over you, shine a light in your eyes and then shout "do you have insurance, sir?" Unlike some nations I could mention.
   Even better is the scheme to check us all for venereal diseases. These kind of things should be encouraged. It's a bit back to front at the moment, with nobody explaining to us how to avoid getting them in the first place, but hospital staff more than happy to discuss how to get rid of them. Still a good idea though.
   You'd be amazed how many fucking things you can get nowadays. When I went for an annual check-up the list was so long I get worried when someone sneezes in a public lavatory now. And they come up with the most bizarre discoveries. A nurse told me it was a good thing I don't smoke, because they have found a link between smoking and genital warts. They should stick that on cigarette packets. Smoking causes big brown spots on your dick, with hair growing out of them. Now that would be effective.
   The vast majority of these diseases for some reason have been given names that mean fuck-all to anyone. Why can't call it by a name we understand? This disease is called the scratch, because it will cause you to scratch until you have no testicles left. Instead we have names that make diseases far easier to contract than they are to spell.
   I have to say that I don't think I have ever had two women so intensively being interested in my private parts, though if every time that happens one of them sticks a plastic swab in the hole of my cock I think I will pass next time the offer comes up. And you haven't pulled your trousers above your knees or a needle gets jabbed in your vein to suck out your blood. They have a different test for every disease apparently. Either that or they are sadistic bastards.
   Correct me if I am wrong, but I am fairly confident that these kind of clinics are the only place where you can still legally say things that suggest gay people are more likely to have diseases and nationality is an issue when choosing partners. That is to say I was asked where my last partner was from. Which I didn't know. Sounded Scottish to me. I'm not fussy. Sad and lonely doesn't go well together with fussy.

Today's column can also be found on Writing.Com.

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How come we never read anything about 'Christian fanatics' in the papers over here? Every day there are news stories about Islamic fundamentalists blowing up Hindu pilgrims or Jewish extremists clubbing to death Arab children, but you never get any headlines about Christian nutcases. That is to say we do, but they never call them that. Invariably the newspapers and television broadcasters will talk of 'rival African factions' or 'the US State Department'.
   How is that possible? Surely if Pakistan has an Islamic government and India a Hindu government then we have a Christian one? And if Saudi suicide bombers are killing in the name of Allah because they shout his name then surely the US is killing in the name of Christ because they keep invoking him to bless them.
   Somehow we seem to have this notion in the west that Christians quite simply do not kill one another because of God. Strange logic in a country responsible for a dozen or so crusades but on the whole the impression we are force-fed is that we are all children of Jesus and we are only nasty to people for perfectly normal reasons.
   Take the example of one Paul Hill, who has spent many a day curled up inside a little room reading the Good Book. Mr Hill, like many other people in his home state of Florida, felt that abortion is wrong. Not only is it wrong, but Mr Hill also argued that had He been alive today, Jesus Himself would have taken a shotgun and fired eight rounds into a car carrying a doctor at an abortion clinic, his wife and his minder, killing the men and injuring the woman.
   Which to me conjures up imagines of Christ taking a long run and doing his magic trick of walking on water by sort of sliding off the waves while firing two Uzi's at the same time. But then I do have a very extensive imagination.
   But it gets better. Clearly Jesus has not yet returned to us because of smog and other landing difficulties and so in his absence Paul Hill decided to do it himself. And, surprise surprise, in a week they are going to execute him for it. Good. Or so you'd think. However, some people are taking exception to this. Take the Reverend Michael Bray for example, who writes we think of clemency as mercy given to a wrongdoer. And as we acknowledge no wrong in Paul's service, clemency is an inaccurate word to describe the relief that we seek.
   So there you have it. Perfectly okay to shoot a doctor, because god agrees with you on this one. The Army of God have even set up a website for the Lord and for Paul Hill. So he's in good company. Next to his picture (Paul's, not the Lord's) it says "True American Hero". It then proceeds to explain that Dr Britton, the victim, was a babykilling abortionist, dead and in eternal hell fire, followed by quotations from every part of the bible that seems to encourage the good Christian to go out, multiply and massacre. With the execution a week away their supporters have now taken to sending biblical prophecies and bullets to state officials, obviously to appeal to their sense of reason and humanity.
   Begging your pardon, but would it not be justified to say we can accurately term these people as fucking Jesus-freaks? I mean, is there seriously another term for these people? Here, devout believers, armed to the teeth, ready to kill for their god and convinced the established order is out to destroy them. Ring any bells? We bombed them in Afghanistan; are we going to see B-52's flying over Disney World soon?

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I was working my way through the Sun the other day, in search of a word consisting of more than four syllables. It is amazing what you will do when you get bored. Not that there are too many words in that particular newspaper, except when you count the drivvel that is 'loves to go waterskiing, Australians and thinks all French people should be forced to speak English', which is the average commentary on page three.
   It seems the Sun will only lower itself to actually using words when it comes to the heinous acts of asylum seekers, usualy because there is no photographic evidene. Oh, and immigrants. They are the new Satan apparently. According to our omniscient friends, the spread of AIDS is caused by Africans arriving in this country. Funny; here I was thinking we'd have to fuck them first. Judging by the commentary in the country's number one newspaper you can be infected just by having someone living next door to you. Here's a tip: condoms. Also works to prevent a far bigger problem we indiginous white folk can't seem to get under control, namely teenage pregnancies.
   But then the editorial team is desperate to stop the influx of foreigners arriving at our shores. They are awfully worried that they might mix with the pure Angels, Saxons, Celts, Picts, Welsh, French, Romans, Normans and Danes, who clearly have been living here since the dawn of time and still never mingle. The general gist seems to be that the country is full, an assumption clearly made by someone who hasn't driven up to Inverness in recent centuries.
   And don't be fooled by all their sad stories of brutal and horrible things they have been subjected to either. These countries are really perfectly safe. Which is strange coming from the same people who actively supported the carpet dropping of uranium on these people. No, they are just making it up and are only here to disrupt the British way of life.
   Have any of you ever seen the editor in chief of the Sun, Rebekah Wade? If that is the face of pure British breed, bring in immigrants now! Establish a mandatory minimum of people to come and live here every year. For fuck's sake, please don't let any of my children come home with a skeleton albino. I say we bring in some more foreigners to even the odds a bit. Make them come over. Drag them to this island if you have to. If they stop coming over because of the fucking weather build a new empire for all I care, but please, god, don't ever allow that genepool to reprocuce without some serious alterations.

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Those of you who have been reading my stuff for a while now will probably remember I didn't particularly get on with our neighbour, or as we called him, the cunt upstairs. Perhaps it was because of his evening sessions having sex with circus animals, or maybe because his favourite time to use a power drill was seven o'clock Sunday morning. I think it was his whole personality combined. And his wife was a bitch too, and fitting in perfectly with the bestiality theory.
   Well, they have moved out. Of course we weren't jubilant in the slightest, unless you count standing outside our door while they were loading stuff onto the moving truck and attempting to fire the champagne cork as far in as we could manage. Or singing 'so long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu' in our best sound-of-musical voices as they drove off.
   This was a man who once banged on his floor, my ceiling, when I was playing Pink Floyd at three o'clock in the afternoon on a Wednesday. And then stood outside my window with a circular saw at nine on a Sunday. Go figure. They both speak with English accents so hopefully they are planning to move to Kashmir, where everybody loves them...
   At least our new neighbours have a sense of taste. I found this out when I came home the other night and noticed a familiar tune above my head. At full volume and with suitable distortion in the room above the one I sleep in there was an individual, with a guitar, practicing 'smoke on the water'. So that's a hell of an improvement on the power sander then. Yet there is room for improvement. To begin with, the song lasts longer than nine chords. I am tone deaf, have limited control over the fingers on my left hand, am impatient, have never had guitar lessons and my fingers are too big fro the strings and even I can play fucking 'smoke on the water'.
   So, either our new neighbour will very quickly learn to start keeping me awake with some decent tunes, or I am afraid we'll have to explain that there is still an outstanding war between our house numbers. Fingers crossed.

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I realise I drink a wee bit too much alcohol, my exercise level is minimal and generally my meals do not exactly cover all main food groups, but nonetheless I feel that at my age I am really too young to be dying of a heart attack. It just doesn't look right on the headstone.
   Getting killed jumping out of aeroplane I can deal with. It would be shame I wouldn't be able to do my great deed later in life, but as I haven't really thought of what deed I would like to perform I don't think it'll be on too many people's minds. Dying in a white water rafting accident I could cope with I guess. But heart attacks should not occur until I have reached the age of forty at least.
   It is therefore not funny, people, to pin a note on my door stating your ex just had a bairn. I really want to get this news sitting down, followed immediately by irrefutable proof that I had nothing to do with it. But no, never mind about the fucking details, such as which ex; just get on with it. You know how difficult it is to count backwards when it comes to months? Especially while you are preparing two electrodes to attach to your chest.
   How devious do you have to be? First my heart stopped for a few moments. Then it decided to give one big thump, only to die on me again as I am sure my face turned white as a sheet. So in future can we please refrain from such needless antics to spare my poor old heart the embarrassment of having some pathologist prodding it and concluding that indeed I should have been eating healthier.
   I am very happy to announce that it is a boy, and even happier to announce that I can state with absolute certainty that I had nothing to do with any of it. Which I imagine the world will be forever in my debt for.

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I'm getting a bit confused by this Hutton inquiry. Somehow it seems to suggest that driving one bespecled government official to commit suicide requires several weeks of intense investigation, but killing 7,000 civilians in Iraq doesn't.
   On Wednesday Geoff Hoon will give evidence. Or rather, they will ask him questions, and he will lie. That is what I like about Geoff. When Tony Blair or Jack Straw speaks their aim is to confuse you by occasionally throwing in something that is true or suggests they have a conscience. Jack Straw is especially good at this. He will tell you it is terribly unfair and then do it anyway. Hoon doesn't do this. When he opens his mouth at least the first nine rows know to get out the umbrella and prepare for several waves of bullshit flying in their direction.
   Only under Tony could this man have made it this far. He reminds me a bit of a newborn three-legged kitten. Wet behind the ears, completely clueless and everybody feels sorry for him but on the whole it's better to just put him out of his misery. It's going to be such a shame on Wednesday. He feels like a teenage girl the morning after clubbing now. That is to say he has just been repeatedly fucked by people who up until then had pretended to really like him.
   What I'd like to see is an exercise of telling the truth. Some very smart people say they have invented a truth serum, though until I have personally witnessed this crap tested on my ex-girlfriend please pardon my scepticism. But wouldn't it be great to give him a quick jab in the head with this? And then ask him to explain the dropping of cluster bombs on Basra. The official reason for this is that it kills a lot of people very quickly in a large area and saves them using nuclear weapons to achieve the same effect.
   The actual reason is that basically it is a suitcase chucked out of the back end of an aeroplane, which opens up and spreads a few hundred 'bomblets'. Bomblets is a euphemism by the way, because these things are the equivalent of a hand grenade. But the extra special bonus of these things is that only four in five go off and the rest lay there, live, waiting for someone to prod it or step on it. In other words, if we miss the dirty Muslim fucker with the kalashnikov, at least we will still rip his kid apart a few days later. And this of course is fantastic.
   I think we should have some parents interview him. Preferably mothers. Of the poor sods currently holidaying in Umm Qasr while Geoff was out skiing or windsurfing or performing fellatio on Donald Rumsfeld in the deep dark forrests of Colombia. These mothers ripping him to bits, now that would make some enteratinment.

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The Edinburgh Festival is a quaint time of the year. It really is the only place I know where people will pay to be squeezed into a subterranean vault that must have once served as a nuclear shelter and where the temperatures reach highs not seen in Caledonian regions since the last major volcano erupted, only to sweat onto other people while a five-foot English comedienne explains how she spent her school days being fingered in the park. You know you can't make this shit up.
   Having left the Lucy Porter show in the Underbelly I stumbled across to Bannermans to cool down a bit, only to find myself in the company of yet another stand-up seeking fame, fortune and all the other wonderful things that come with openly and shamelessly selling yourself to drunken and sweaty crowds in derelict structures claiming to be festival venues.
   Actually the particular structure Lucy Jennings was appearing in is lucky to be there at all, its neighbours having burnt to the absolute foundation last December. A thought that crossed my mind as being highly desirable during some of the earlier acts of the evening. Jennings herself at least sent us on our way with a smile on our faces. In my case smiling all the way along with her to Teviot Place, where security for some reason mistook me for one of the artists and ushered me into the lounge. Must be the hair.

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We all know that under no circumstances are we ever to trust the Germans. It is hardly a secret that all they do is sit around in their lederhosen, drinking beer and planning the renewed bombing of Coventry, Birmingham and Glasgow, though it is more national pride than sentiment towards those cities that make us object to such intentions. In actual fact a few explosions might do the world of good.
   There is a good reason for none of us liking them, and having a whole range of unpleasant names for those people who were devious enough to be born inside the borders of Germany. If it were up to them we would all be subjected to a diet of sauerkraut and bratwurst and would have to fill out request forms in triplicates before being allowed to go for a pee at work. Not to mention that ridiculous goose-stepping all of them seem so keen on in all those German films.
   Bearing this factuality in mind then it is awfully confusing that in recent weeks I keep finding myself in the company of Krauts, I mean Germans, and getting along with them. Disgraceful, I know. But more often than not in my household the contribution of Teutonic origin consists of happy things, whereas it is usually me that nearly burns down the entire neighbourhood as I attempt to fry sausages.
   You have to start worrying when one morning you realise that not only you, but also two out of three of your siblings open their eyes, and look at a German lying next to them. I mean, we're starting to feel like the Royal Family here. Not that any of us are complaining of course.
   My theory is that it may be a plot the German government has set up to lead us to believe that they are all sweet and cuddly so that when their compatriots come flying back over we'll not suspect anything. Though after the other night we have decided to play them at their own game. We have contacted MI6 and have offered our services to entertain and possibly wake up next to friendly acting Germans coming over. All in the name of patriotism, obviously. As of yet MI6 have no replied, but I will keep you updated.

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I was pleasantly surprised to find there were even female readers who agreed that women are like calculators. Well, one anyway. The others were threatening me with various nasty consequences, such as lawsuits, the stake, prolonged subjection to household chores and lesbian sensitivity training. And so I have decided to go straight ahead with episode number two.
   Men are completely uninhibited to say what they think. That is generally what leads people in general and women in particular to refer to us as 'male chauvinist pigs'. Like that's a bad thing. Someone informed me the other day I was a Scottish chauvinist pig, the first part of which, much like the adjective 'male' I really have very little control over and the rest of which I really don't consider very offensive.
   Though it was one of my Jewish friends who took the trouble to point it out, which I suppose makes the reference to pigs slightly more suggestive. After all, when my Christian or atheist friends call me a pig I can always imagine they mean a jolly creature that doesn't mind getting down and dirty and is, on the whole, very tasty. When those of the Jewish and Islamic persuasion refer to me in such a manner I guess it is leaning more towards a creature that even after death should only be touched with a ten-foot barge pole and whose whole purpose in life is to roll around in shit.
   Still, men really have no problem expressing their emotions in public, which is in complete contrast to the public myth that men have more trouble communicating than women do. It is just that we don't pretend to worry about baby seals being clubbed to death. Men will tell you anything they think, even if you have spent the previous five minutes begging and pleading for them not to.
   How come women don't do this? Well, not to a mixed audience anyway. A woman asks a bloke why he fancies a certain lass he will explain it is the size of her breasts without mumbling, stuttering or blushing. A bloke asks a woman she will invariably come up with some crap excuse about pale blue eyes to drown in in front of a winter hearth somewhere in the Highlands on Christmas morning.
   Bollocks, clearly. In a group consisting solely of women the explanation is sure to involve the size of his hands, feet and nose, from which apparently it is possible to derive the size of one's cock. Though quite in which proportion I am not sure. When in the company of men you never hear women complain they are getting awfully bored with their vibrating rubber toy and are desperate to be bent over the bonnet of a random car in full public view.
   Men don't have this problem. Two pints and they will explain to you exactly which internet site they regularly visit after stumbling home from the pub and don't want to go to bed with a hard-on and then, pointing at random clusters of women will tell you exactly what they would like to do to them should they not think he is a complete drunken tosser. And they say we are the ones incapable of expressing ourselves...

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Whatever happened to men of their word? You know, those people in the Olden Days, usually speaking with an accent suggesting they had been spending most of their lives shagging their fellow public school boys, saying 'I give you my word' and then either keeping it or subjecting themselves to eternal hell fire.
   I suppose in modern times of political correctness gone bonkers we would refer to them as people of their word. If they still existed. It's strange really. The need for people doing as they say has been dramatically reduced. As has the effort they would have to put in.
   You can picture in times of honour, chivalry and stainless steel knickers one bloke dying of cholera and his mate promising to find and tell his sister. Laden with clothes still recognisable as the animal it once was the man would have to climb on a mule and face wind, rain and typhoid to risk life and limb being the bearer of bad news. Those were the days.
   Recently donkeys have gone out of fashion and have been replaced by the wheel and e-mail. No more getting lost in rural Yorkshire on a quest south. As long as you can spell it is pretty much impossible not to convey news from one person to the next. And really the days of caring for the ill and disabled went out of fashion with the introduction of the health service. Most promises nowadays seem to revolve around curry houses, telephone numbers and pirated cd's.
   Which to me begs the question why there is such an abundance of fuckwits out there, incapable of punching in eleven digits on a phone. My prediction is that in five years we'll be signing contracts when we agree to meet in the pub, just to make sure both parties will turn up.

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Ever more frequently when people protest the killing of unarmed protesters or the dropping of cluster bombs in playgrounds politicians and other public figures resort to waving these protests away by claiming they are fuelled only by anti-American sentiment. Generally this statement is made in a tone that suggests the beef with America is their poor quality hamburgers, or jealousy of their freedom to arm bears.
   So I thought this would be a good occasion to just confirm this. The dislike of the USA does in no way stem from the fact that it is only one of half a dozen countries on the planet to allow and carry out the execution of children. Nor is it because the American government has stated that all Americans should be above the law and cannot be judged under international law should they commit genocide or crimes against humanity.
   It is also not because despite non-proliferation treaties the US is expanding its arsenal of weapons of mass destruction, nor is it because it has overthrown more democracies than it has created. Or because of the dictatorships it has installed. It also has nothing to do with the fact that the same people now damning Saddam Hussein and his arsenal were the same people who sold it to him in the first place.
   Furthermore there is no link between the dislike of the US and their recent building of a concentration camp to house inmates so dangerous they have had to release several dozen because they had done nothing. Or to the fact no American soldiers have been charged over the numerous killings of the civilian population in the countries they occupy.
   Nor does it involve the refusal of the US army to stop using landmines like the rest of the world. Or their active support of a brutal occupation of Palestine, which is now in its fourth decade and only able to continue because the US blocks all efforts by the UN to aid the people living at the mercy of a racist occupier by using its veto on the security council.
   There is also no connection to the fact the electric chair and the gas chamber are not considered cruel or unusual in the United States. Nor to the backing of guerrillas in South America and the invasions and murders American commandos committed there. Or that it is the only country in the free world to allow schools to organise parties according to race.
   Besides that it is also ridiculous to claim holding 1,500 people for over a year without even seeing a lawyer because they were born Arab has anything to do with it, which also goes for the beating to death of inmates at Bagram Airbase and the money and power given to the warlords responsible for 40,000 deaths last time they held power.
   Also in no way involved is the fact religious zealots have banned the teaching of evolution in large parts of the US and have replaced it by a theory that man and dinosaur lived together, because God says so. Or the fact children have to swear their undying obedience in school rather than be taught to use common sense.
   In fact, the dislike of America stems purely from the Walt Disney Company, Ronald MacDonald's cheesy grin, the Georgian accent, Baywatch and the Boston Red Socks. Makes sense, doesn't it?

Today's column can also be found on Realism Today, under the title "anti-American sentiment".

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Some pratt was moaning about the metric system the other day. His point was that the Americans were so ultimately wise they were sticking to the imperial system, whereas we in Britain were basically surrendering to Brussels by accepting yet another stupid EU condition.
   That must have been a briefing I missed. I realise that informing the general population isn't very high on Labour's list of priorities, but I am fairly confident I would have picked up on something like that. Common sense really dictates that it wasn't the European Union that decided the UK should start counting in metres to fall in line with the continent. If it were, my guess is we'll be switching to driving on the right soon.
   But common sense very rarely enters into the argument of the anti-metric lobby, because, well, the metric system is too logical. For me feet and inches are ideal, as long as we are talking about single digit figures. My size 12 boot is exactly a foot long and my thumb is an inch thick. So three feet, nine inches I can quite easily count. After that it gets complicated.
   For example: 3487 inches put in more comprehensible terms, would lead you to do the following. 3487 inches divided by 36 (inches in a yard), comes to 96.8611. Which means there are 96 yards. 96 times 36 is 3456, which you deduct from 3487 and leaves you with 31 inches on top of the 96 yards. Divided by twelve (inches in a foot) that equals 2.5833. Which leaves us with 96 yards, 2 feet, plus a bit. Two times 12 is 24, which you deduct from the 31 and add to the yards and feet. 3487 inches therefore equals 96 yards, 2 feet and 7 inches.
   3487 centimetres into metres goes as follows. Divide by 100 (centimetres in a metre), which equals 34.87. Take the 34 metres and add everything after the point as centimetres. 34 metres, 87 centimetres. Done.
   See the difference? It's idiot-proof! It was designed to make sense to even the most feeble-minded. It may quite possibly be the saviour of British education. Even that one kid that hasn't quite figured out what orifice it is customary to stick your finger in when not paying attention can't mess this up. For fuck's sake, the New Zealanders get it! If that's not proof it's simple I don't know what is.
   Really the thing seems to be that the imperial system is based on pure coincidence whereas the metric system is based on decimals. Of course there are not much things that work in tens. Not counting fingers and our entire numeral system obviously.

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To me, women are suspiciously like calculators. One of their main purposes is to help us multiply, they come in all shapes and sizes and only when you ask them simple questions there is a chance the answer will make sense. But mainly because I have no idea how they work. They have a lot of buttons you can push, some of which I am quite familiar with, other ones I have never even thought of going near, usually because I haven't the faintest clue of what possible use they could be.
   Recently one of my very good, and very short, female friends pointed out to me that I don't even come close to beginning to understand women and that in all likelihood I never will. A statement clearly formulated after extensive research and skilful observation. And admittedly there are many things I don't understand, but do wonder about. So I thought I would share this with you.
   As this is the first episode we will start early. Early in the morning, on a day you have to go to work. And you are alone in your bed. When there is a second, or possibly third, person in bed with you your whole routine changes. All of a sudden the first thing you say is 'good morning', or in some cases, 'who are you and what are you doing here?'
   Assuming then it is a normal midweek morning and you are asleep on your own, in your own bed. My personal sequence of events is generally as follows: from my alarm clock will spill a noise that suggests that the world is just around the corner from coming to an end and god wants us all to be awake to witness it. At this I will swear at my alarm clock, turn around, slam my fist on the thing, miss, swear again, and press the snooze button. Muttering and swearing I will go back to sleep.
   When god calls in for round two of Armageddon I will swear, switch off the machine, curse the world in general and holding on to the bedpost I hoist myself out of bed. Bouncing off a doorframe I will stumble into the bathroom, scratching myself in a fashion that suggests it is more custom than fighting an itch. In the shower I will try and prevent myself from rhythmically slamming my forehead into the wall in desperation and wait until I have successfully established which way gravity is applied. After which I will not shave, because it involves putting a sharp blade to my jugular, and putting on my clothes and taking in warm caffeine I will spend a good five minutes feeling enormously sorry for myself. When I do make it into work I generally look like I have been hit by a train and dragged along for a good few miles.
   Yet I never see a woman walking in in the morning with the appearance of someone who has just been trampled by a herd of wild elk. Hair brushed, face painted, tits out, shoes polished. Most of them are even smiling. How is that possible? How does morning not affect these creatures? Surely the laws of nature apply to the fairer sex as well as to the more useful one.
   And it is not like women are not grumpy by nature. From birth they will never be pleased to the extent they expect. On some occasions they will temporarily be uplifted by the sight of a shiny object, which could possible explain the term 'bird' to describe those of the female gender, but it is in their genes to be miserable, unsatisfied and fucked-off. With the additional treat of an extra period of sunshine during those lovely days at the end of the lunar cycle, which for some reason is put down to hormones rather than plain operational failure on the part of evolution.
   So how is that possible? Is there a different dimension I am not yet aware of? Surely it must be a phenomenon akin to the Twilight Zone. And it's bloody frustrating to know that somehow it works, yet you can't work out how. Even worse is that unlike calculators, you can't chuck them out of the window in pure frustration.

Today's column can also be found on Writing.Com.

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There is an abundance of wankers in the world. Some might even argue that there are far more wankers than there are people we do get along with. And they come in all different sizes, shapes, colours and types. There are the famous wankers, which you see on the telly and you can't help but retch or scream in agony. Jamie Oliver is a good example of that. Then there are faraway wankers, that you read about in the papers. And wankers in politics. A lot of wankers in politics.
   There are wankers you have never met and yet manage to piss you off the moment you walk into them. Or rather, when they are so bored the only thing they can think of is obstructing you as you are walking along. Wankers at sporting events are also a fairly common occurrence.
   Some of your friends can even be wankers, though generally they will stop being your mate once you have informed them of this fact, something honest and common courtesy does dictate. Really there is only one type of wanker that is excruciatingly hard to battle, and that is your mate's wanker friend.
   Usually you just tell people to get the fuck, especially if they are annoying little tossers, but because they are befriended with one of your own friends you really cannot slap them without at the same time making a statement about your friend's taste in mates. Which rubs off on you. After all, if your mate's pal is a plonker, doesn't that make you a pratt? A difficult and slightly philosophical predicament.
   What makes them the worst type of wanker is the fact that you have to endure them. Clearly wankers are wankers twenty-four hours a day but because you either run away from them or chin them after five minutes generally they only annoy you for a very brief period of time. Your mate's wanker friend however will be a prolonged suffering of an unbearable kind. You will have to experience extensive episodes of continuous agony with nothing to garrotte but an innocent table leg.
   This is the point where all your boundaries are being tested. You find yourself trying to focus on the slot machines and predicting the possible outcome of the next play. When that doesn't work instead you concentrate like you have never concentrated before on the dark-haired barmaid pulling pints. But every time your attention is drawn back to the entity that has now in your head become the mother of all wanker-ness.
   In desperation you put your fingers on the tip of your thumb and outstretching your arms you close your eyes, mumbling 'ommmmmm', yet you still cannot get away from the sound of the ultra-wanker trying to invade your head. You try harder and harder and even pray to Yogi, the god of yoga but still it won't go away and no matter how hard your try and resist you feel the urge grow stronger to leap across the table and rip off the wanker's head at the base of the neck to place at the top of your front door to remind all your mates that when they come over to watch the rugby under no circumstances should they even consider ever bringing a wanker with them.
   Or maybe that's just me.

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The Edinburgh Festival is not only a fantastic chance for tourists, international performers and other foreigners to enjoy the largest art festival in the world, it is also a great opportunity for us locals to practice our German, French, Italian and Japanese. Usually all at the same time, and generally when addressing a Norwegian.
   Of course in most cases we have to resort to waving our arms and legs about to give any kind of directions. I can now properly sign 'left turn', 'right turn' and 'straight on' in fourteen different languages, and 'fuck off' in an additional nine.
   Being the friendly lot that we are when people approach us most of the time we are perfectly happy to provide assistance in finding your way, provided we ourselves are not so drunk that we cannot find our own way home. Yet sometimes boundaries are pushed. Directions to the Royal Mile or Princes Street will be dished out in two seconds and twelve languages, but asking where the castle is really is unacceptable.
   Funnily enough it is usually an American, so at least the language barrier is minimal. Walking along the city centre you will suddenly be approached by a man with a baseball cap, shorts, sunglasses, a camera and three kids. And when you point at the gigantic stone structure on top of the highest hill in Edinburgh they all look at your hopefully, thinking that will be the first navigational landmark in your set of directions.
   The most frustrating part is when you are told by a third generation inbreed redneck from Kentucky that "it doesn't look like a castle". Really? I suppose they have a far more impressive one in Cuntsville, deep down on the prairie of the good old Wild West. What do these hicks know about historical structures? Or history for that matter.
   I'll make you guys a deal. You don't ask us annoying questions about buildings even the blind can find after they have lost their dog and we'll not mention the fact you are the only nation on the planet to invade Canada, and lose.

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I am generally not in favour of corporal punishment, nor of painful executions. But in this case I will make an exception. A firing squad will quite simply not do. I think we should take these people and hang, draw and quarter them, slowly, before thinking of doing something even nastier to them. The whole process should take a good fortnight or so.
   It's bad enough that we have to deal with the rape and torture of mortal human beings and other animals. Can we not at least try and prevent the same thing happening to our cultural and artistic heritage? I thought that the Taliban had fallen by now and history should be safe from molestation.
   Not so. I was watching telly the other day and noticed there was a film on called 'Great Expectations'. My favourite book by Charles Dickens. Grabbing the remote to the 99-channel digital cable super black box navigational device sitting on top of the TV I hit the info button.
   Ethan Hawke? What the fuck is Ethan Hawke doing in a Charles Dickens tale? How on earth could Ethan Hawke possibly, Gwyneth Paltrow? Gwyneth fucking Paltrow? What kind of crap is this?
   A modern adaptation of the classic tale... What was wrong with the old one? Anyone? Nothing! So what I'd like to know is which nimrod sitting in his mansion in the Californian hills, smoking dope and sipping cognac, read that book and then thought to himself: I like this book; let's fuck it up completely.
   I realise that a large proportion of the world population has access to a television set yet still can't read, sad as this might be. So I also realise that for these particular unfortunate pig farmers we have to put into images that which the rest of us can decipher from the scribbles on a piece of paper. Educating the ignorant is a thankless job, but someone has to do it.
   It's just when Hollywood hippies get their claws on these fantastic manuscripts that the shit hits the proverbial fan. Let's do 'Rob Roy' in Poland during World War Two. Hands off! Fuck off and crawl back into the infernal pit you clearly spawned from.
   From now on there should be warnings on these films. Instead of any resemblance to actual persons, either living or dead, is purely coincidental, perhaps we can include any resemblance to the original plot is purely because we are too fucking stupid to think of one ourselves. Though the slow painful execution I am sure will work as enough of a deterrent.

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How brave must you be to deliver death threats to a man who is already taking a run up to the bucket he is about to kick? According to the Daily Mirror Idi Amin has been threatened. I bet he's scared. He must be quaking in his boots. If he's conscious of course. If the man is still aware what planet he is on for that matter.
   Can you picture the assassination of a man connected to so many machines he looks like the star ship Enterprise? I imagine taking a magnet into the room will get the job done. Though probably shouting 'boo' at him would work as well. The man has been vegetating for weeks now. And his fitness regime was not exactly of a kind that inspires confidence in his chances or recovery.
   Must be strange for Idi to be lying in a hospital in Saudi Arabia. He can't remember ever invading that particular country. But then after a dozen or so they do kind of become a blur. This is after all the man who said Hitler didn't kill enough Jews and would have continued to up the total if it weren't for the fact there was a slight lack of them in Uganda. Fortunately for him though there were plenty of other people to butcher, such as cross-eyed people and people living where he wanted to build a new swimming pool.
   Something tells me it's going to be tough thinking of all the people who may want to kill him. By the time they've finished compiling that list in all probability he'll have not only died of natural causes, but will be in an advanced state of pushing up desert flowers.

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During the festival the city is always full of people with strange passports. I'm sure every possible country must be represented in August. Including, obviously, the United States. Edinburgh is full of Americans anyway, but around these times they seem to be taking over the whole affair. And every time you have a beer with one of them you get asked the same question. "How come everybody hates us?"
   Of course we don't hate them. It's not like we want all of them to die at the soonest possible opportunity. We're just a bit confused. You see, this side of the Atlantic people still get taught about evolution and, well, they really don't fit in with the whole theory. We're supposed to grow smarter with time, aren't we?
   We get the wrong impression as well. Whenever we watch American TV the hero is always the misfit who refuses to obey orders and instead just uses common sense. And then we get the news and see the exact opposite. I mean, nowadays Americans will do anything as long as their president tells them a good patriot does it. Bush could introduce monthly rectal exams for the whole population and they'd line up, as long as the probe is red, white and blue. You can't expect us to understand anyone taking orders from a monkey who can't tie his shoelaces without help.
   How much rebellious spirit is left in that country? Pledging allegiance every morning and now laws called 'the Patriot Act'. And what's with all these flags? Every house in America seems to be having the star spangled banner hanging from the front, the purpose of which escapes me completely. When I wake up in the morning I know where I am. Not always whose house or how I got there, but when I open my eyes it is very rare for me to wonder what country I am in.
   And it's not like the country is so small you might have accidentally stumbled into another one. I mean, I can understand flags in Luxembourg, but in the States it is perfectly obvious when you come across a border. It will have at least half a dozen hairy fuckers being snotty and rude to you and checking your bags and passport, followed by people speaking another language.
   So relax. Have fun. We don't hate you. We just think you are funny. Just not in a good way.

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This week I decided to go and stock up on life's vital supplies. In our household that means peanuts, malt whisky and ice cream. You never know when, but you can be sure that sooner or later you will need some when the shops are closed. And as the weather was more than comfortable I decided to dig up my boots and head over to Tesco's.
   As my sense of clothing is largely based on indecision and colour-blindness you will usually find me strutting about in black combat boots compliments of the Royal Infantry my brother is so proudly part of, black combat trousers and a black T-shirt depicting skulls, illegible band names or general insults to an unsuspecting ageing population. In times of sunshine this is generally combined with an unobstructed view of my tattoos.
   So perhaps I was asking for it. Just as I was crossing the road, two ladies were crossing in the opposite direction. I hadn't noticed them until one, upon seeing me, stopped dead in her tracks and turned around to catch me once I reached the footpath. Call me a racist, but generally when I find a pitch-black woman whose height matches her circumference, smiling broadly and dressed in colours that quite simply do not exist naturally in the Caledonian flora or fauna, I assume she is a tourist. Ergo lost.
   However, upon closer inspection I found the smile to be a malicious one, with the woman fully intent on taking the piss. And so she did. Just as I asked if I could help her I was given a leaflet about a South African gospel choir performing in a local church and she bounced across the road giggling her head off. Christians 1 - Damien 0.
   Sometimes I wonder why I don't have a religion. Besides being the son of Satan obviously. It's just that I can't think of what denomination I would want to be. We're spoilt for choice really. Which is good. It's what capitalism is all about when you think about it. And all this nonsense about religion being the biggest killer in the world is also a complete load of bollocks. If there were no religion we would find another reason to knock each other's heads in in no time whatsoever.
   In effect all religions are the same. God loves you, you love Her and you should try very hard to love everybody else as well, even though they never signal before they turn. It's just all the stuff you can't do that separates them, and exactly the thing that gets on my tits.
   Muslims can't drink alcohol, which means no beer and no whisky, which equals no chance. Hindus can't eat cows, which means no hamburgers and no steak. The day I give up hamburgers is the day they plug me onto life-support.
   Jews can't eat pigs, which for me would mean no breakfast at all, and that can't be healthy, surely. Rastafarians can't have life-saving hospital treatment, so that's that one out of the question then. And Catholics cannot even masturbate. Fuck that. Then there's Protestants, who as far as I am aware are not allowed to have fun at all. So I think I'll pass.

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If the festival has any kind of impact on Bannermans it is difficult to see. Whereas all other places in Edinburgh all of a sudden put shows on every night in August, this pub has been doing that all year round. They just stay open longer and put more staff on, who are capable of pulling a good pint, unlike most places.
   Festival mania has made all pubs double their staff and a worrying amount of them now have waitresses running around whereas before you were lucky to get served at the bar. Which is awfully confusing for the locals you will understand. And they will hire anyone. Even if they had never seen a pint glass in their lives before they came to Scotland, in August all you need is blond hair and big tits.
   To prove Bannermans is not in the slightest impressed by such features when I walk in I immediately bump into Davie. The man who dissolves trouble by sneezing. Due to his gender he has no big breasts. Nor does he have any hair for that matter, for no other reason than the fact he is a very scary person indeed.
   Which he amply demonstrated when he corrected a group of misguided youngsters, who clearly mistook the pub for a playpen and chucked out the bulk of them, in the process considerably cutting to size the following of punk band Korova.
   Nonetheless they took to the stage and even managed to hold on to their instruments this time, instead launching themselves off the stage. Despite their clear frustration at a lack of a teenage audience Korova still entertained the adult crowd with their antics. The band very much understands the importance of visual entertainment as well as the need to play the right notes. We can only hope they have a qualified first aider in their midst.

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Contrary to everything we have been led to believe, being a lazy fat bastard is your mother's fault. Or so the English Guardian tells us, which gets its information from the Yanks at the American Physiological Society, which in turn relies on a bunch of Kiwis from Auckland University. But, as is usually the case, we'll go along with it as long as it is good news.
   And it is. In my case the news is expressly fantastic even, as children of low birth weight have been shown to develop obesity in adult life. Excellent! I weighed ten lbs upon birth and much as my mum will disagree with me on this point, that sounds like good news to me.
   The whole point the New Zealanders are making is that exercise may not be effective for people who are biologically destined to be fat anyway. So does that work the other way as well? If I am not destined for fatness does that mean it doesn't matter if everything I eat was fished out of a deep fryer?
   Of course as of yet this is only a theory, set after repeatedly poking and prodding an extensive amount of rats in the process of being pregnant. Clearly this is a good indication the same would go for people, because we have such enormous similarities. Still, fingers crossed.

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At the risk of sounding like Benito Mussolini, Slobodan Milosovic or Ariel Sharon I would hereby like to suggest the immediate mass murder of an undesirable and inferior species plaguing our country. It is my firm conviction that reasonable debate has failed and the only possible solution will now be to resort to disproportionate and degrading violence of a kind not equalled in modern times. These seagulls will have to go.
   At first sight the birds bear a striking resemblance to Glaswegian neds. In the sense they seem to constantly be stuffing their faces with rubbish, polluting both the scenery and the environment, attacking people indiscriminately and without reason, not to mention breeding disproportionately. Except seagulls don't wear baseball caps.
   And apparently the fuckers are protected by law against any form of culling or other pre-emptive action. The birds I mean, not the neds. The latter I realise have to have some recourse to the law, albeit perhaps not quite as much as human beings. But you are not even allowed to throw the eggs off the roof of your building apparently. Gloucester council is advising the sterilising of the eggs by oiling them. Oiling them! Fuck that. You take a miniature hammer and crack only a tiny bit of the shell, about a week before they are supposed to hatch, so that you can hear them screech as they slowly die an agonising death.
   Also, as we have all been denied the pleasure to chase a fox across a field I think the least they can do is allow us to wipe out a decent amount of these bloody creatures. We could pay people to catch them so that we can fire buckshot at them upon release. People would be more than willing to fork out a few quid for that. I certainly would.
   Or how about this one? You clip their wings and then stick them in a spacious cage by the hundred. Then a bloke with a meat clever has to chop off as many heads as possible within the space of sixty seconds. You could hold entire tournaments of that. The local council could sponsor the event and the kids could play games involving chucking chicks at moving machinery. Definitely more entertaining than cricket, you will agree.
   It is also a good sport for unemployed teenagers that don't want to go to school. You just issue them with pellet-firing pistols and tell them to bring back at least a dozen seagulls by the end of the day, which the more studious teens can then dissect. My brother used to have one of these things. Maybe I should ask him to lend it to me so that I can set a trend. Though I am not sure if he still has it. He has since joined the army, which seemed awfully eager to equip him with a more technologically advanced device of the same nature. And even I think fully automated machine guns may be a bit drastic to shoot the fuckers down.

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Really when it comes to household chores I can best be described as lingering somewhere in between the state of Cro-Magnon and Al Bundy. That is to say I know how the Hoover works, but it makes far too much noise to use it on a regular basis.
   When it comes to washing then I am not all too sophisticated either. I generally create three piles. One white, one black and one in between. The latter one goes on the smallest pile and in the washer it goes. Turn the knob to ON, stick washing powder in, press button and then give it a good kick. Much like myself the thing rarely does any work unless you use physical force.
   This lack of interest and knowledge perhaps explains why up until now I had never realised there was a label inside my Tigger boxer shorts. It's hardly one of the most interesting places to study intently and even I can usually tell which side goes where in the morning. So it came as a bit of a surprise when I found it, though not nearly as much as when I read it: keep away from fire.
   And I'll tell you what; I'm glad they told me. As a matter of fact I was just about to warm my bollocks with a cigarette lighter, fully convinced that I was the proud owner of fire-retardant underpants. Who came up with that one? Surely that is the best one since the warning not to stick your pets in the microwave.
   Are there any items of clothing that should not be kept away from fire? Or any other items for that matter? Really in my experience the things to hold close to a naked flame are cookery pots, candles, cigarettes and the nozzle of a fire extinguisher. Other than that we should by now have figured out that fire is not good when it gets too close. I mean, come on people, get with the programme! We discovered fire, what, a million years ago? Surely by now it has managed to filter its way through evolution into the human consciousness.
   Especially people wearing Walt Disney pants. We have all seen Bambi, haven't we? We have known fire is evil for yonks now. I realise common sense is a bit pretentious for a company promoting talking rodents, but on the whole I think we would be so much better off with useful advice, like 'wash your hands after having a dump' or 'clean underpants will help you pull'. Just a wee suggestion.

Today's column can also be found on the Amateur Writing website, entitled 'Tigger gets hot'.

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I think we can safely say that ITV have no intention of improving the image of the Americans. We all thought they were gun loving hick hamburger-munching idiots, and ITV happily provides us with the evidence.
   Previously they showed police across the UK dealing with major football matches and pub fights. Clearly not a big ratings hit, and so they have now switched to the version from across the pond. Retired Sheriff John Bunnell, sitting in a helicopter, explains to us how coppers around the globe have to be ready for any eventuality. He certainly is, clutching a rifle for no apparent reason whatsoever.
   Wearing his leather jacket and walking along police officers pretending to be on an actual case rather than just being extras Sheriff Bunnell shows us some footage of a women under the influence of a considerable amount of alcohol, crashing her car through a fence. To illustrate how stupid the woman is, he adds it is the nineteenth time she has been drink driving.
   Nineteen? How many times do you have to get caught before you lose your license over there? What was that judge doing after the eighteenth time? Picking his nose, scratching his arse and fingering his ear hole I hope. Imagine him thinking it was safe to let that woman back on the road.
   The car chases and crashes on these shows are spectacular. Though not quite as spectacular as the claim that high speed chases, like baseball and hot dogs, were an American export. I wonder who claimed the patent on that one. And when it caught on. I can just picture this car thief sitting in a prison in Dusseldorf, watching a Hollywood movie and thinking to himself: "fucking hell! How stupid am I? I should have bleeding accelerated!"
   Even more worrying is that the rest of us seem to be doing it a lot better. The best crash definitely went to the fifteen-year-old in Auckland, New Zealand. And when it comes to high-speed pursuits it has got to go to the idiot racing along in Thames Valley in good ol' England. At least he could drive at over an hundred miles an hour and actually avoid hitting the other cars. Well, except for that big fuck-off lorry at the end. Still, commentary to a car chase sounds so much better in proper BBC Queen's English. It gives the whole ordeal a bit of sophistication you don't generally associate with stealing cars.
   The absolutely brilliant finale had me more worried than impressed though. Two bank robbers in sunny California in full body armour, firing at police with, wait for it, AK-47's. With armour piercing bullets. Might as well go all the way. The footage clearly shows that the cops and their little guns don't stand a chance, because the bullets just bounce off. And clearly they are trying.
   Fortunately one of them suffers from a rare stroke of genius. They need bigger guns. So where would a Californian police force get guns big enough to stop these 'crooks'? The police weapons depot? An army ammo dump perhaps? No, they drive around the corner to a local gun shop and borrow five M-16's, which are for sale to the public. And then proceed to shoot the bank robbers.
   I can't tell you how happy I am that continental drift is pushing us away from these people. And it is an even bigger comfort that Geoff Hoon is on holiday there this week. Fingers crossed.

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This David Kelly thing is getting out of hand now. Ever since his suicide it has been the hottest topic of the national press. Tony Martin contemplated suicide; John Leslie considered suicide and so on and so forth. Only Blair just won't die. Is everybody in the news the next few weeks going to confess to secretly trying to kill themselves now? In that case I would like to nominate a few candidates to be put into the spotlight in the near future.
   There are even conspiracy theories about the death of Dr Kelly now. And, considering I live in a household of left-wing nutcases, they do filter down to me eventually. The latest is the theory that he was murdered, by order of the Blair department. They can tell because his glasses were missing.
   Bollocks. Unless Hoon did it himself. That man would fuck up wiping his own arse. But generally I would say the chances of MI5 stealing his glasses would be fairly minute.
   I don't trust our intelligence services to be honest with us. I don't even always trust them to looking after our best interests. Nor do I think that MI5 have fully realised that a secret service only works if you occasionally tell people what is going on. No point in five people sitting in a dark room debating the impact of a bomb going off at the BBC and not notifying the ambulance service.
   But if there is one thing I will trust these fuckers with, it is bumping people off. They have had practice for bleeding decades now! They have an entire programme of teaching their employees how to murder people. Had it been our intelligence agency responsible for the death of David Kelly the last thing they would do is steal the poor man's glasses. When it comes to murder, trust your spooks!

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Last night at Bannermans it seemed like the pub had decided to split in half and create an age gap of epic proportions. With me in the void. Whenever I looked to the left I felt like a puppy caught up in a foxhunt and looking the other way I started to think about a pension plan.
   Last week one of the bartenders told me to turn up for last night's gig. And this is a man that looks as if he can create emergency exits by running at a wall. When he speaks, you listen. And so I made my way all the way uphill to the Old Town, having agreed to meet local punksters Korova there as well.
   The main attraction, The Vibrators, drew a crowd of leather-clad and amply pierced punks. It is not uncommon to see that many T-shirts depicting the Sex Pistols and the Anti-Nowhere League, though it is fairly unusual that the faces sticking out of them are rough enough to have been there when Never Mind the Bollocks was first released.
   In complete contrast at one point I was completely surrounded by people who were debating the statement the best band in history was Nirvana. You get my point. Time to head to the gig. The Vibrators did not disappoint. They have been around too long to waste time making conversation with the audience. Songs were belted out in rapid succession and for the first time in years I was drawn into a sweaty mosh pit of spikes, studs and beer.
   While I was jumping, singing and moshing along with the ancients inside, outside the kiddies were sitting in the corner drinking sticky sweet stuff and wanting to go home early. Somehow this seems fundamentally wrong to me. Not to mention upside-down. I know I drink a lot, but come on... Maybe I am just getting old.

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You have to wonder what it is they do all day at the Vatican. This tiny little city that still hasn't joined the EU or the twenty-first century as far as I am aware, with its own website and being the centre of faith for oh, I don't know, a billion people. Let's say 15 per cent of the world population. That's quite a few, you will agree. Even more than read my column. More people than watch Buffy the Vampire Slayer even.
   So what do you do all day long? Bearing in mind God is watching. So no sneaking off into the Holy Loo for a quick wank. No torturing squirrels in the back garden. Personally I don't think She gives a crap, but then what do I know? I haven't read the bible. I couldn't even get through Robinson Crusoe quoting from the bible, so I am not quite sure how the whole thing works, though I have been informed somehow people in it got the impression God is a bloke. Which is clearly nonsense.
   Every morning I presume they get up and have breakfast. Pass the wine, for it is the blood of Christ. No wonder he never comes back if people keep sucking him dry. And then what? What does the papal staff do all day? Look for new saints perhaps. In order to become a saint you have to a) have been a good Christian and b) have died horribly. Though generally the latter one is of greater importance.
   Quite how this benefits the one billion people still alive I am not completely positive about. So what do you get for being a Catholic? What's in it for me? There's got to be more than the old man clinging on to a balcony and chanting things in Latin. veni vidi futui, in ventum homo sapiens non comminget and so on and so forth. Surely they have better things to do.
   Well, they have. In fact, they have so much time on their hands they have written to all their representatives, named after a chess piece, to tell them that homosexual marriages are not in line with the will of God. Presumably along with using condoms to battle aids. It is not natural, deviant and immoral apparently.
   Hands up who cares. I for one am in complete favour of homosexual unions. Not only because the more men sleep with each other the less I have to compete with. Nor just because lesbians by definition would never feel attracted towards me anyway. The main reason I want to see same-sex unions is for one reason only: divorce settlements.
   Can you imagine gay divorce settlements? Just think of two raving homosexuals flapping their arms about trying to land a punch without hurting the other one. Nothing like two poofs having a row if you ask me. And it gets better with lesbians. One of them walking out of court crying and the other one shouting at her to get back and fight like a man. And they don't hold back. Uppercuts you have never seen the likes of. People pay for that stuff, you know. For the good of public entertainment I will have to agree with the words of the late Bob Marley: legalise it.

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As was to be expected I got to spend both National Foreplay Day and National Orgasm Day all on my lonesome. Sometimes you just have to face facts and read a good book instead. Or stick your head in the proverbial sand, connect to the net and find a cyber girlfriend in the Ukraine. This is always a viable possibility. Though you can never quite be sure who it is you are talking to. At least when I am reading Lewis Carroll I know I am reading the words of an ugly paedophiliac looking for dirty pictures.
   Fortunately for some, apparently lots of people did get to celebrate these new discriminatory holidays. In fact, according to the Daily Mirror, people in Scotland got to enjoy it even more than people in England. It is claimed that whereas couples in England spend an average of 34 minutes on foreplay, this side of the border couples indulge in it for 45.
   I really don't know how to tell you this without smashing any fragile little ego's out there, but if you have even the vaguest notion of how much time you are spending on sexual activity, well, you are not exactly concentrating on the right thing. If you keep staring at the alarm clock I am afraid I have to tell you there is more fun to be had in life. Jesus Christ, where do the English come up with 34 minutes? Is this the average time that goes by before they receive a new text message? Do they set a stopwatch?
   Other useful information provided by the Mirror is that 62 per cent of women prefer foreplay to penetration. Which to me means one of three things:
1) the poll was conducted at a conference for British lesbians
2) every single woman I have ever slept with fell within the minority category
3) 62 per cent of the women polled are lying
   In my personal experience I would have to go for the third option. Eight per cent of men also didn't know what the word 'foreplay' means. Worrying, I know; and not just for linguistic reasons. Though when you bear in mind that ten to twenty per cent of all Britons suffer from one serious mental disorder or another I dare say that on the whole we are doing pretty well as a nation.
   Naturally the paper also added a quote from a leading expert on the subject. Well, Jordan anyway. She said sex without foreplay is like toast without butter. Or indeed tits without silicone. We usually call it 'natural'.

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Just to point out I am not making this up, I came across this while I was on the Reuters website. Apparently the American troops in Iraq are being taught how to deal with a hostile population, by their British colleagues. This makes sense. After all, by the time the Yanks had only just managed to struggle their way out of nappies, British soldiers had been pissing off locals on every populated continent on the planet. One does learn, one might say.
   According to Miral Fahmy, Reuters correspondant in Iraq, Staff Sgt. Dean Davidson said part of their training involves making the Americans aware of the "soft option" when dealing with the public, such as knocking on a door before opening it.
   Challenging stuff, clearly. I wonder whether they are also instructing them not to talk with their mouth full. Or to wash their hands after having a piss. Where did these people grow up? I knock on my sister's door before walking in. And my sister is not exactly a complete stranger my colleagues have just dropped bombs on and when panicky tends to reach for a fully automatic Kalashnikov.
   It's not like Americans don't know how to knock. Well, the Ohio ones maybe, but in general even in the United States of America people knock on doors. Some of them are quite good at it, actually. I seem to remember one particular police officer in Fort Lauderdale, who managed to rap his knuckles on my door so hard I thought hurricane Andrew had decided to drop by. Guess they didn't send him over then.
   The reason I was on Reuters actually was to look for the world's oldest woman. According to the Guardian they found a 124 year old in Chechnya but since not even the tabloids had picked up on it I was beginning to think they made it up. And guess what, no mentioning of it on Reuters. Doesn't mean it is not true of course, but we have bear in mind it is the Guardian and they do occasionally employ David Aaronovitch as a reporter. So truth can't be much of a priority then.
   Still, if it were true, the article claims that Ms Khachukayeva is a devout Muslim and prays five times a day, obviously not counting quick and desperate calls to God when Russian soldiers point the barrel of a tank at the house. Now, praying five times a day, multiplied by her age, would mean by now she must have prayed well over 200,000 times. You think Allah is still listening by now? Bloody hell, I get fed up when somebody tells me the same thing twice in a year. Imagine 2,000 times! Patient bloke, this Allah.

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Today, believe it or not, has been declared 'national foreplay day'. I can't quite recall who declared it that but then I doubt many people will give a fuck.
   Personally I think this is bleeding disgraceful. It is clearly an attempt to frustrate and psychologically damage us poor single people, who are struggling enough as things stand. Tomorrow is 'national orgasm day', which is obviously a far more universal holiday. After all, more often than not when single men and women in general have an orgasm, it is without the presence of a second party.
   You see, despite not being Irish, on Saint Patrick's Day I can quite easily pretend to be, much like I can pretend to be a Christian at Christmas. But what the hell am I supposed to do on national foreplay day? There are some things that quite simply require the help of a second individual and last I looked grabbing the nearest lassie in the pub still results in being detained at Her Majesty's pleasure for indecent assault.
   In other words, I firmly believe that this has got to be the most exclusive holiday of the year and marks a return to elitism of imperial proportions. I am profoundly pissed off and more than a little jealous.

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Why are there no laws covering infinite fucking stupidity? There are laws for playing music, putting the rubbish out, crossing the street and watching films so why is there no way of preventing and rooting out complete idiocy? It would certainly increase the quality of my particular life. We could start by prosecuting the people I work for.
   Yesterday morning my grandfather was transferred to an intensive care unit of a hospital near Rotterdam. I would say this is a decent cause for concern, and I am sure most would agree with me. The good thing about the man is that he is he is consistently too stubborn to die, no matter how hard the Grim Reaper keeps trying. When in 1940 the Nazi's bombed Rotterdam everybody ran for the shelters, except for my granddad, who casually strolled out to take a picture.
   Obviously he has aged a bit over the last few decades. The last week he has been in hospital and has consistently been chatting to the flowers next to his bed. I don't know what kind of drugs they have been giving him, but I definitely want some.
   So clearly when I was told they took him away from his flowers and wheeled him into intensive care I felt I was entitled to, at least at a minor and civilised level, panic. It is not exactly as if Rotterdam has a motorway running up to Edinburgh so there was definitely the possibility of airlifting myself to be considered should the situation deteriorate.
   Obviously this would mean not making it to work and so being my always accommodating self I phoned my bosses to inform them of this possibility. Well, according to one of them we should plan my time off right then and there, so that they could arrange for someone else to cover for me. Unfortunately I didn't have my crystal ball handy.
   Mental note to self: once granddad has recovered - which he looks to be doing - tell him next time he wants to collapse he should submit a request in triplicate to my bosses at least seven days in advance.

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Confusing times we live in. Apparently it is a great day when you kill a fourteen-year-old because his granddad wouldn't give up his job as leader of a country that doesn't want him. And Tony is refusing to resign. Does that mean we can see how many cluster bombs fit in Cherie's mouth? Surely these things apply universally.
   But mainly I'd like to know who is going to run this country after all this nonsense. I imagine the same old people would turn up to get their old jobs back. So Blunkett will come and explain that it is vital we allow our citizens to be tortured because Colin Powell tickles his beard while he is fucking Dave up the arse. Which, when you think about it, is quite an accurate metaphor of the relationship between the UK and the US.
   Not completely impossible either. The two are bound to get on. Think about it. Colin must love Dave because Davie gets a hard-on every time he hears an American accent and can't actually see Colin is not nearly as white as he would like to be. And Davie loves Colin for the exact same reason. A romance made in heaven. And it would explain a lot.
   Maybe it is not romance. Maybe the Home Secretary just feels it is his national duty to have his anus stretched to maintain our 'special relationship' with the United States. What does that mean anyway? Is this one of these 'he's not an idiot, he's special' kind of things? I mean; open-heart surgery is pretty special. As is electronically stimulating your private parts to cause ejaculation. Doesn't mean it's good! Or in any way desirable.

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My satanic powers are wearing off. Perhaps it is time I go back to a dark forest near Loch Ness and butcher a goat to regain my strength. Clearly something is not well. Usually people will realise I am the antichrist once they know my name and have seen my tattoos, or have spent five minutes in a small room with me, depending on which one happens first.
   At half seven in the morning then there should be no mistaking my identity as at that time Beelzebub himself looks like a character out of Sesame Street in comparison. Having 'fuck off - I'm grumpy' tattooed on my forehead would possibly even improve the chances of seeming cheerful. In other words you would have to be pretty high on drugs to approach me at this point.
   So when an enormous backpack approached me this morning and the happy-clappy Christian attached to it asked me for directions to a church it is safe to say I felt a very tiny devil's son indeed. Perhaps she thought I was just on my way there myself. Do I look like a person on my way to church? At eight o'clock in the morning? Is she suggesting I look like a fucking fundamentalist?
   Let me just make it clear I have no objection to happy-clappy Christians. A bit of a sing-song definitely beats all the Abel begot Jonathan, who became his wife and believed in berating the bereaved before becoming beset by the betraying Belial. And his son's wife's daughter's cousin slew the Barbarians who had raped the priest, who had castrated the unbelievers and begot Joseph who begot nineteen children and converted before being boiled in hot oil and eaten by the six servants of the pharaoh's lover in the sand-strewn sea known as the desert.
   A bunch of people dancing about has got to be better than sitting in a cathedral worshipping the severed mummified penis of saints hung upside down by their toenails until they died of dizziness. In fact, I believe happy-clappy Christians should branch out. I think we should get a horde of enormously fat black women from Alabama to teach all Muslims and Jews to sing 'oh happy day' and give them a balloon that says "my god loves you too". That should sort out the Middle East.
   It is just when they fail to recognise me as the son of Satan that I get upset. And when people start assuming I know not only the name but also the location of churches in Edinburgh I think something about me must be misleading. The particular happy-clappy Christian who approached me this morning, smiling a radiant smile that is more associated with copious amounts of narcotics and dental operations than with very early Sunday mornings, must have sensed something about me that I can assure you is not there.
   Being my usual helpful self I pointed to a building across the road and offered that it lived up to all the major elements churches have in my experience. High pointy roof, headstones all around and it makes a hell of a noise every Sunday. Not the one she was after, it turned out, but it would do. After all, one can worship in any place of God. Quite. I'll stick to planning the corruption of mankind over a nice cup of tea. May She bless and keep me.

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Nothing like a night of having the crap kicked out of your pride and self-esteem. My fragile little ego is probably bruised beyond recognition, though as it is also still battling the remnants of the alcohol it was swimming around in last night it is somewhat difficult to tell.
   And it started out so well. One moment I am in Cockburn Street, surrounded by mad scientists with haemorrhoids, the next I am in heaven. Heaven being Bannermans on Friday night, with a beer and my arm around the prettiest lassie in the pub. Sometimes things do go right, you know. Not very often, but still.
   I will have to point out that though the person sharing a windowsill with me was definitely the prettiest, my flatmate’s girlfriend is also very good looking. And I feel very obliged to state this at this point in the proceedings, as she knows where I sleep.
   So now that I am safe we can return to the aforementioned windowsill, where I was being increasingly happy. Well, it turns out that I need to buy conditioner for my hair, which is strange because according to the green thing I usually squeeze over my head it is shampoo and conditioner, and up until last night I had no reason to believe the manufacturer would be so devious as to mislead me. You need a woman to point out these things really, and as it involved her being very close I was hardly going to argue.
   Now as I am not fully up-to-date on female behavioural patterns in the twenty-first century and none of my other companions could agree on it either I am going to make the exceptional decision to admit I have no idea and put it to the general public. As most of my readers are profoundly insane I am sure one of them will come up with a satisfactory explanation.
   I was being polite, not drunk, friendly, buying the drinks and as far as I am aware I do not smell, though on the latter one I may have to double check with individuals not affected by two decades of personal sensory adjustment. And she left me for her sister’s boyfriend. Should I worry? And if so, to what extent?
   My flatmate’s girlfriend obviously took pity on me and attempted to chat up a curly and curvy blonde on my behalf. We were not certain whether her carefully worded ‘fuck off’ derived from her dislike to my appearance or the fact she was a lesbian. Some things are better left unexplored.
   Quite how we ended up with the Northern Irish arsehole and his mates I am not sure, but they led us to a pub where the doorman told me I was a scruffy bastard on account of wearing trousers right out of the wash, but with pockets on the sides. Which is a crime against fashion in the West End.
   And so it came to be that I crawled into bed with my poorly conditioned hair after rejection from an extraordinarily pretty lassie, a curvy curly lesbian and a shaven-headed but probably hairy-arsed bouncer, with the exhilarating prospect of the alarm clock going off three hours later. I know my place…

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It is amazing what kind of strange things you start wondering while hoovering the house. Like why we haven't bought any bags that actually fit in the damn thing. Or why the idiots upstairs aren't moving out faster than they are. And how cyber sex works.
   As things develop over the internet faster than anywhere else by now we should have reached a state of extremely advanced sexual experiences on the net. But how on earth does it work? You slip on the virus scanner for protection obviously, in case you catch something. After all, you have only just met. That is where I start getting confused, if only because presumably the computer itself does not function as a body, so you will have to do everything manually, which leaves you less able to operate a keyboard, surely?
   So now that cyber sex has developed over the years do we have cyber foreplay yet? And has hotmail provided us with wee icons for this particular type of chat? I can picture it now. Press control, alt, shift, backspace plus L and you end up with an icon of a wet finger. Either that or you delete your hard drive, which is what usually happens when I start messing around.
   And at the end, when both keyboards are sticky, what happens then? Do both parties then get down to the inevitable cyber cuddling? Presumably there will be one icon for the women, in the shape of a towel and one for the men, which simply shows a saw digging into a log of wood.

Today's column can also be found on Writing.Com.

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I know it is not very politically correct to divulge in national stereotyping but then I doubt anybody will ever be irrational enough to claim I am. You see, I am a fond traveller. Me and my teddy bear Kirstin have been to many a place and met many a people, most of whom I can barely remember at all, let alone recall their names.
   It is on my international escapades that I have learned not only how much fun, but also how accurate stereotyping can be. It is always a pleasant surprise to find a Canadian with a sense of taste, a Swiss with a sense of humour or an American with a sense of direction. "Is this Belgium?" "No, Sir, Belgium is in Europe; this is Asia."
   Before I die though, I would love to meet a Tibetan who is afraid of heights. Or a Cayman tax collector. And perhaps a militant Swedish revolutionary, or a Dutch mountaineer. Just once I would love to run into a Libyan on skis, preferably with goggles in red, white and blue. If I'm really lucky, a Kuwaiti bartender.
   Though my absolute goal would be either an Estonian windsurfer or an Israeli hippie. I did meet an Israeli at a hippie campsite once (don't ask me what I was doing there), who looked and sounded the part, but then he started to tell me stories about blowing holes in Palestinian homes when they got bored in the army. Which is not a very Janis Joplin kind of thing to do really.
   But they are bound to be out there! Somewhere they are hiding with a formula one driver from Vatican City, a Tasmanian solarium entrepreneur and a Lebanese tourist guide. If you find any, let me know.

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A new record was set this week, when Tanya Streeter held her breath, allowed herself to sink 400 feet into a see near Turkey and then swam back to the surface again before exhaling. Thrilling stuff. My record for doing the same stands at approximately twelve feet I think, but then to my credit I did it without intensively training several hours a day. Two beers I think it took me, and the reason was I dropped my key in the pool.
   The reason this feat is even more extraordinary though, is that it is said to be the first time a woman has beaten a man to break a record. How sad is that? I can't even begin to count the amount of times I have been hit over the head claiming that women simply are less capable than men. Every time I am assured women are in fact just as able, if not more, than us, and to demonstrate I am usually treated to a knee in the bollocks.
   Clearly it is nonsense. After all, as predictable as men are, women still haven't managed to beat us at chess. The absolute low has got to be darts though. A game practised only in rainy countries where people have nothing better to do than hang around in the pub and drink beer. Even at throwing a pin at a board from five feet away women cannot beat men. And let's face it; we all know how poor we are at aiming for anything…

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At least there was no mistaking I was home again when the plane landed yesterday and the pilot announced he couldn't find a parking space. Whereas the tourists sighed, the locals immediately looked out the window to see if there was a traffic nazi hurrying down the runway, ready to slap a ticket on the cockpit window.
   Of course returning to Edinburgh after a weekend off means I have to return to work. And I really do hate my job, but for lack of anyone wanting to pay me for using my intellect, creativity or education I guess for the next few years I will be stuck doing it. Still, despite the misery that comes with my occupation, after a weekend in Birmingham you can't help but appreciate Edinburgh castle appearing around the corner.
   Apparently people online haven't forgotten about me either. Especially Californian drug companies offering all kinds of medication that will make my penis even bigger than it already is. Imagine that. It would be no good though. I would only need some pills to make my hands grow as well.

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Though they are definitely rare there are still people you can always count on. A small minority of them even live in Birmingham. Lucky for me, because as I was sitting in Dudley with my friend and her fiancé last night, the phone rang and the person on the other end politely informed me that I could fuck off, die and preferably remain dead for some time to come, and then hung up. Why exactly I don't suppose I will ever live to find out.
   Now this is not unusual for me, but as said individual had offered me a place to stay so that I would be able to catch a flight this morning I was now somewhat proverbially screwed as Dudley, perhaps unsurprisingly, is not very well connected to any of England's transport networks. But, as I said, there are still some pillars we can count on and I was welcomed into my friend's house to the tune of a dog licking me, six cats sniffing me and two kids attempting to drown me with various water propelling devices.
   And so it came to be that this morning I stumbled out of a house in the south east of Birmingham and promptly got lost trying to find the railway station. Clearly when God was designing me She did not think it necessary for my instincts to work at half past six on a Monday morning. Fortunately I was saved by an early bird on her way to work, who kindly took me under her wing and led me to the train, on which we happed to find out we went to the same diving school. Which in itself is extraordinary enough, but considering this particular school is located on the east coast of Australia I think we can safely say the chances of this happening are close to it-could-only-happen-in-Birmingham.

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Birmingham always guarantees a host of feelings and memories. Two years of college in the stinking hellhole, about half a dozen IRA bomb scares and one actual explosion do sort of make you never want to come back ever again. But of course there are the old friends and well, most Brummies tend not to travel so to see them really you have to get on a plane and fly over.
   At the airport they have even embraced technology and replaced the bus with a monorail linking the airport with the train station. It even nearly works. Having sat down the intercom announced "doors are closinkh", which was followed by the doors opening.
   The city centre has changed a bit since I was last here. There used to be a gaping hole in the middle, which is now replaced by a giant jellybean packed in bubble wrap. Typical of Brum then; completely incompatible with anything surrounding it and bloody awful.

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I had never been to Dudley before and now that I am here I am beginning to see that perhaps there was a good reason for that. As much as the locals struggle with my accent it is not nearly as much of an insurmountable task as me trying to work out what on earth they are on about.
   Obviously at engagement parties that involve enough alcohol to knock out a small herd of elephants verbal communication takes a back seat to a lot of waving arms about frantically and falling over nonetheless. Which obviously suited me fine, as it drew less attention to the reason I was the only one not wearing an England shirt or having St. George's Cross tattooed on my arm.
   Part of the reason I didn't quite make out what some of them were saying was also that even when I could decipher the words the actual thing they were saying didn't make any sense. For example, what would your response be to the question "when you look at Britain, and you have Wales at the bottom, is Scotland on top?"?
   Really there is no answer to that, is there? The reason it came up was that the person in question was in the army cadets and about to go camping in the hills of Scotland. When I assumed out loud they would be staying in the Highlands she decisively retorted that they had definitely said Scotland. Time for another beer, methinks.

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Tony Blair yesterday tried his hardest as ever to bring the British people into as much historical disrepute as is humanly possible. Short of extending his right arm he basically stated that the white man would once again rule and defeat the infidel, while destroying all those that opposed them. A new Hitler on the rise.
   In his address to the American ruling bodies he showed exactly what the people of Britain have been fearing for a long time; he is no longer a representative of the people of the UK, but a megalomaniac on a power trip, possibly in his own eyes appointed by God.
   He addressed the people who happily locked up 1200 people without being able to see anyone to represent them on the basis they were born in the wrong country. He joked with the people who built a concentration camp to execute prisoners on the evidence of confessions extracted under torture. He treated them as friends and portrayed them as heroes. He pretended to speak for a country that has long lost faith in their self-appointed dictator.
   The front row was an interesting bunch. When Tony Blair spoke of the crisis in Israel Colin Powell applauded. This, you will remember is the man who spoke about Iraq's weapons of mass destruction, torture, mass murder and failure to comply with UN resolutions and then stood in front of an Israeli flag defending Israel's weapons of mass destruction, torture, mass murder and failure to comply with UN resolutions.
   Dick Cheney was there to hear him speak about liberty, which must have sounded interesting to the man who voted against black people getting equal rights and opposed the release of Nelson Mandela. And of course Donald Rumsfeld applauded him on the weapons of mass destruction he personally delivered to Saddam Hussain.
   Who does this man think he is? How dare he stand there as spokesman for this country and claim that the United States should use its power to inflict carnage at will, under the cover of immunity from prosecution and the use of torture. It is reminiscent of Japan claiming that as it had signed no Geneva Convention, their actions could not be deemed illegal. Tony Blair is actively supporting tyrannical rule not seen in the Old World since the Middle Ages and wants us all to collaborate in this new fascist world order of western supremacy. The man should be hanged for treason, not applauded.

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Summer is the ideal opportunity for us in Britain to practice our favourite pastime. I am talking of course about complaining. We revel in the act, and some of us seem to even regard it as a sport, trying to accumulate as many points as possible.
   Last year in October a colleague of mine spent some five minutes complaining about the amount of wind and rain that had been plaguing his particular part of England, in a tone and manner suggesting that in all the years he had lived there, October had always been a sub-tropical rainforest between the end of September and the start of November.
   And so now that summer has descended upon us for a few days, everybody in the southeast of Scotland has started moaning about the fact it is hot. Including myself, though my complaint is not so much the climate as the fact I have to dress up for work and spend twenty minutes battling through the sweltering heat to get to where I am going. The weather is fine; it's just my boss that's a cunt.
   Fortunately my friends in the American and Israeli deserts are always there to remind me that 28 degrees Celsius is when you put on a jumper and not spread yourself out on the pavement outside your flat, drinking cold beer and sweating like a pig. Strange people, them foreigners

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Read this in Metro yesterday: "Men who smoke cannabis could be reducing their chances of fathering a child, scientists warned yesterday".
   Who would have guessed that? I wonder whether these people get paid to come up with statements that bleeding obvious. And what do they mean 'could be'? When is the last time you saw a bloke stoned out of his head on cannabis so much as show interest in a pair of breasts, let alone father a child? Most people on cannabis I meet are either up to their rectum in the fridge-freezer, munching away at anything remotely edible, or staring intently into an open flame of a cigarette lighter, or in the case of really good parties, the furniture burning.
   "Scientists at Aberdeen University examined the impact of cannabis on mice," the article continues. Now it starts making sense. Bored with getting their mates stoned obviously the students at this famous university in the middle of nowhere decided to get their pets high instead. Ah well, as long as they are keeping them away from the sheep.

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Tony Blair had dinner with Ariel Sharon last night. I imagine that before his arrival decorators were called in to wrap all the furniture in plastic and covered all the carpets. With the amount of blood on the hands of those two some of it is bound to drip and as much as Cherie encourages people to spill it, that doesn't mean she would like it on her own dining room floor.
   You have to wonder what they talked about. Privately I mean. Tony obviously looks up to Ariel and let's face it, if you want advice on how to mass murder Arabs and get away with it, he is the man to talk to. Tony was still in nappies when Ariel committed his first act of genocide. And even before Blair had any kids Sharon was already ordering shooting them while their mothers were being raped by his troops. Obviously Tony feels there is a lot to be learned from this great man.
   There are points of disagreement as well of course. Whereas both agree that good people are invariably white people Tony still can't get his head around why so many of us good, clean white people are not proper Christians, as God clearly intended us to be, whereas Ariel feels that any person not Jewish serves only to two purposes. First to kill other people and then to die. Perhaps they are hatching a plot to send all Jews in Britain to Israel and then in return all the Christians will be kicked out over there to come and live here.
   Presumably Mr Sharon will also be bringing up 'reporter' David Aaronovitch. As the Israeli government has trouble selling its struggle for ethnic cleansing to a wider audience they are in desperate need of a good minister of propaganda and much like Sharon, Aaronovitch does not differentiate between Jewish and Israeli, which is exactly the stance they are looking for.
   I think it would be a great opportunity for David. Over there he may be able to further work on his theories that all disapproval of Israel stems from anti-Semitism rather than occupation and torture, and that there are no Scottish Jews.
   Over desert the two Prime Ministers will probably have watched a slide show, prepared especially for them by the US defence department, with some comforting pictures of six-year-old children with only one arm left, so that they will never be able to fuse together a bomb to kill all us righteous superior white people. Amen.

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The French are not strange. Just quaint. Special. Today is their big holiday. They are celebrating liberty, equality and brotherhood to the tune of bottles of grapes squashed with their bare feet and a dinner of frogs' legs and snails. Ah, the joys of national custom. And then they have fireworks and start hugging and kissing each other until they wake up with a headache next to people they have never met before and given a choice would rather not have met at all.
   All good fun then. My kind of holiday really. Can't afford the flight but otherwise I would be straight over there singing 'oh Champs Elysees' until I drop or am dragged home by one of the Gallic lassies desperate for foreign sex rather than romance with the locals.
   It's just the whole reason thing. I mean, I realise we have a party every November because we tore someone into four pieces but it is not exactly our national holiday is it? For the dying race we monarchists are it just seems a tad strange a whole country can get so cheerful over chopping off the King's head. But there you go. Vive la difference.

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Whenever England win any kind of sporting event for some reason every major TV channel feels it is obliged to repeat the news until the whole of the UK realises that despite all evidence to the contrary there is still hope for good old England. Why we never hear about victories from Wales, Scotland and Northern Ireland may be a conspiracy involving a devious plan to re-colonise us all, or it may be because we win even less often than the English do. I am not suggesting either way.
   It was because of this that last night we were being treated to cricket until we could stand it no more and in desperation went on a drinking spree and passed out. Or maybe that was because it was Saturday night. Again, I would not want to suggest either way.
   During the Channel 4 news coverage of this spectacular victory over the South African team we were treated to a spectacular knock by one of the English batsman. The cameraman clearly felt that the correct place of the ball in this shot was at the bottom of the screen, while in the middle we had the chance to feast our eyes on one of the spectators.
   Now I can understand the showing of fans in their national colours, and I don't exactly object to showing girls flashing the camera, but why on earth they felt they should show us a bloke, in his mid-forties, about nine stone overweight, with his legs apart and casually scratching his bollocks I don't suppose I will ever know. I realise that is how most of us watch the cricket at home, but on daytime television I am sure we can do without. No?

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We are blaming the wrong people. In general. We keep blaming tyrants who are clearly mentally defective whereas of course we should be focussing on all the jackasses who should know better and still go out and come out in support for them.
   Look at Arafat. Clearly a man with his scruples in a twist. You can't blame a senile old man for being an idiot. Instead you should be looking at all those young people around him who keep nodding their heads in agreement and sending out desperate teenage fools to blow themselves up in rush hour.
   Or Osama Bin Laden. Another good example of a man clearly two waves short of a shipwreck. Now if a man comes up to you with a plan to kill thousands of people, what would you do? Have a chat perhaps. Or have him committed. The man is obviously not in a clear state of mind. You would definitely not give him three billion dollars, would you? Especially if you are generally known as the Central Intelligence Agency.
   Similarly you would say that five million Israelis would somehow know better than to elect and then re-elect a man responsible for the torture and death of more people than most major fatal diseases. Somehow I would think there are more pressing things than the wiping out of an entire people.
   That is why MP's are getting on my tits recently. They found out that the nuclear reactor and mobile chemical labs Colin and Jack showed us pictures of were actually a disused children's playground and a fleet of ice cream vans heavily airbrushed out of focus. So now they are pissed off with Tony for duping them into dropping cluster bombs on not-so-disused children's playgrounds.
   Somehow this is all Tony's fault. They didn't do anything wrong. That is to say they wouldn't have done anything wrong if they had been in the army. Those are the people whose job it is to agree with the government. Last I looked the job of an MP is to represent the people. If we all think that the motorways should be painted pink than that is what they should vote for. And if it is against their principles they can resign and get a proper job.
   So who gives a fuck whether they were lied to or not? With two thirds of the population against invading their job was simply to vote 'nay'. Can't be that bleeding difficult. The insane tyrant Blair wanted to kill people and you lot went out of your way especially to accommodate him. So for god's sake stop whingeing and make your way to The Hague. My MP is excepted. As much as I would like to see former Edinburgh City Councillors in jail, he did vote against.

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In Scotland we don't have any of this road widening nonsense. We have exactly the roads we need and as long as no bombs get dropped on them anytime soon we don't really need to pour more tarmac. We have one big road between Edinburgh and Glasgow so that the Glaswegians can drive over for some culture, the festival, countless museums, galleries, the parliament (both current and pending), architecture and history and make it home in time for a pint. And of course the people in Edinburgh can drive over to Glasgow for, erm, well they can drive over anyway.
   All our other roads lead to distant places in the middle of nowhere, which are usually visited by people who want to be alone, enjoy the scenery, and be eaten by midges. Of course the moment we'd have a motorway running up there whole caravans would migrate up there, it wouldn't be nice and quiet anymore, and in turn nobody would want to go, which in turn would render the whole widened road pointless. You get the point.
   Our neighbours down south however have been saddled with a Transport Minister who doesn't care about England, as he is the MP for Edinburgh central. And so he is basically planning to connect every bit of England to every other bit of England, and widen the roads already linking the various aforementioned bits. Just to piss them off. It may be part of a plan to destroy all the natural habitats of foxes, thereby making the whole hunting debate obsolete.
   Well, well, well. Mr Darling is in for a surprise. He obviously hadn't counted on… the hippies. That is right, they still exist. Original peace-loving roll-up smoking tree-hugging hippies. The great unwashed. They have descended upon a forest somewhere to save the squirrels and woodworms from certain death by cherry picker. Can you imagine having to face a horde of these types when you come to evict them? All of them on sandals holding hands and swaying from side to side to maximise the global sense of togetherness in one enormous load of bollocks?
   Apparently there are notices on every tent and tree house to inform the executers of the rightwing fascist regime that they need a court order to evict them. How does that work? It's not like trees generally have addresses. Or have the hippies registered themselves with the local council as the proud owner of a leaf-coloured tent with no plumbing as we don't bathe because of our religion?
   The best thing was the apparent technique of the new and improved tree hugger, which includes tying a rope to the door of your tree house and fastening the other end around your neck so that you get suffocated when someone tries to open the door. How cool is that? I can picture it now. A balding fat illiterate security bloke in his forties on about three quid an hour drags his lardy arse up a ladder, fastens his hard hat and then frantically starts pulling the door while yelling down to the councillor in a suit and tie the door seems to be stuck.
   Meanwhile inside a slowly exasperating hippie is trying to warn him about the murder he is in the process of committing. Read… the… notice… ugh… you… fucking… wanker… urgh. And the bloke next door, affectionately called Smelly by his fellow activists, is trying to help but has swallowed the key to his rusty ecological handcuffs, with which he has chained himself to a badger's nest.
   Now that I think about it, perhaps this is well worth getting an extra road for. Let's get planning, and phone the hippies.

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How to cram six foot three inches of me into a five-foot bathtub. Or: what to do when the shower breaks.
   When your electrical shower breaks down it is very likely you will end up with the situation I am currently in, being that you are left with no other alternative than to submerge yourself in a tub barely big enough to float a miniature boat in. Here is how you do it.
Step one: roll out your towel on the bathroom floor and using it as a prayer mat invoke any deity you can think of, praying that your flatmates have not used all the hot water.
Step two: plug the tub and open the taps to acquire a temperature of your liking. Remember to take off your clothes and step into the slowly filling bathtub.
Step three: Hold on to both sides of the bath as you lower your backside into the far end of the tub, all the while keeping your knees somewhere near your chin so that both arse and feet fit inside the tub.
Step four: slide arse towards the middle of the tub. This means by the time your shoulder blades have reached the inside of the tub your arse will have met the back of your feet and your knees are now sticking out like the current Scottish Parliament towers, equally unwashed as of yet.
Step five: wrestle one foot free to control the taps while folding the other one in an unnatural bend to submerge it to wash off the sweat you have worked up in this exercise so far.
Step six: stick both legs up in the air like a woman giving birth and slide to the edge of the bath to allow your head to be under water. Be sure both arms are free and above water, or you may drown in this position generally associated with torture practises.
Step seven: get out of the bath and get to the pub to find a girlfriend with a shower.
   Here endeth the lesson.

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The rapid response squad has done it again. Swift as a kick in the bollocks by a lesbian feminist the Foreign Office has marched forward waiving the Union Jack and in Her Majesty's name has demanded that British citizens be immediately released from their illegal and indefinite capture in inhumane conditions.
   Well, not quite. In fact what's happened is that the Foreign Office has said that it would be greatly appreciative of the Americans not hanging two Brits. And it came after 18 months of them stuffed in cages with the prospect of exactly that. Nobody has actually had any charges brought against him, but as they have already started building an execution chamber the suggestion does seem to be that it is somewhat of a foregone conclusion.
   So where was the Foreign Office for the last 18 months? Well, they were, ahem, helping the people about to hang them. That is right. Better yet, in the recent war in Iraq the British army was told to hand over all its prisoners of war to the same people running Guantanamo Bay. Apparently this is the way forward. Let me see if I remember this correctly. They forcefully had both their heads and faces shaven, had their eyes, ears and mouth covered, were injected with sedatives, shoved in cages, forced to kneel in painful positions, denied sleep and have no access to any form of representation. But they weren't mistreated. I recall one guard saying that they just occasionally 'nudged' them with their steel toe capped boots. That must be American Newspeak. We in backward old Scotland still call it kicking people. And now, as there is no evidence whatsoever, they are going to be hanged.
   They are of course the lucky ones. The nearly 700 who have made it to this concentration camp have survived everything else. It means they escaped the fate of some of the other people in Afghanistan, who were stuffed into a metal container, which was then left in the burning desert sun for two days after which air holes were made by firing bullets into it, with the people still inside. The American soldiers watching this apparently found this very amusing. Not quite as amusing as losing several dozen prisoners though, who later turned up in a shallow grave along the road with American bullets in their skulls. Do the math. Or the two prisoners at the transport camp Bagram Airbase, where two prisoners were beaten to death by their US interrogators.
   What was the Foreign Office doing at the time? Oh, yes. They were inviting the people responsible around for tea, signed an agreement allowing the US to request and immediately get any British citizen they wanted with or without evidence, absolved all the American soldiers from any responsibility towards the international justice system and then gave the US military the full use of the British army.
   Apparently now they are going to record the concerns of MP's and present it to the US ambassador. Present? If this had been Bolivia doing the same thing we would have called the ambassador in to come and explain himself, pronto. Not a mere informing of our reservations after a year and a half. Who is in charge of this fucking country?
   Tory MP Douglas Hogg, whoever he may be, said this was 'damaging to the Americans' reputation'. He is wrong of course. The reputation the Americans have is pretty much impossible to damage. There is nowhere to go from the absolute low they have reached over the last few years. Whose reputation it will damage is ours. It was us that helped Rumsfeld create this concentration camp and it was our army that handed the inmates to their camp commanders while our Prime Minister defended it as necessary.
   The country that once on its own stood up to the Third Reich has been brought down to a collaborating force of occupation, oppression, torture and racism. The idea that the people behind this now have all of a sudden developed a conscience is an insult to anyone's intelligence. If we are going to hang anyone, can we not pick the people who sent our teenage soldiers out to die so that their allies can kill and torture their compatriots?

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One sporty summer spectacle hasn't finished yet, and the next one has already kicked off. That is right, Le Tour de France, which offers the Froggies the opportunity to show off their scenery and of course the fact that over there everybody is wearing sunglasses whereas in SW19 the whole crowd are huddled together under plastic sheeting.
   As I am not part of the politically correct crowd I am not sure if we are still allowed to say 'France' after their disgraceful act of making a democratic decision not to kill people, but as usual there are several hundred people on bikes racing around the Gallic countryside. Of course nobody knows the names of any of the riders or could point out any of the places on a map, but sitting back with a cold beer while they are sweating their bollocks off is entertainment enough.
   And of course television is there to endlessly repeat the crashes that leave riders in hospital and us entertained. Let's be honest, the best thing in the Tour ever was the policeman who clearly hadn't practised the zoom function on his camera a few years ago.
   Watching the highlights last night there was a fantastic bit of footage where the camera man got so close that the rider caught the cord hanging from the camera and went flying while the car behind him had to swerve into the aforementioned French scenery.
   Now as much fun as that was, what I would like to see is the footage of that particular cyclist grabbing hold of that particular cable and slowly garrotting that particular cameraman with it. Assuming they haven't eliminated that particular rule from the statutes. Vive La France.

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Am I alone in thinking that Tony Blair is actually a cartoon character? Besides the ears, which are clearly not of any human origin. The whole thing. I mean, in real life we wouldn't allow a man to drop cluster bombs in areas where kids are playing on the basis of an airbrushed milk float presented as a chemical weapons factory, would we? Or allow him to lock people in cages measuring 8 by 7 foot indefinitely in a camp that has started building an execution chamber because it is sure there will be death sentences, despite the fact no charges have been brought against anyone yet. Or allow British soldiers to die so that the Americans can make money. Or agree to hand over any Briton to the US without question, while exempting those same Americans from any kind of prosecution.
   Tony has now berated the BBC for a serious attack on his integrity. Which to me proves that the BBC are a lot more capable of finding targets than the army is. While the army apparently can't even find 40 feet rockets capable of destroying half a city the BBC news crew have apparently unearthed that puny little thing known as Tony's integrity. Anyone capable of attacking things that tiny should be in microsurgery and up for the Nobel Prize if you ask me.

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This week a West End actor was rushed to the A&E and admitted to hospital after sparking a chemical imbalance in his blood. By drinking water. The fluid that comes out of the tap. Or in the case of Orkney out of a well. The clear liquid you can buy bottled in the supermarket. The stuff Robinsons tells us we need to drink God knows how many glasses a day of.
   When I was younger and I was thirsty my mum would always give me a glass of water first, and only then pop. Now it turns out she was putting my life at risk. Where was the bleeding NSPCC then? "Excuse me, madam, you are aware that making your child drink water can seriously damage his health?" Nothing! I feel that this is clearly a case of severe negligence on the part of the government. They warned us about uranium didn't they? Well, the civilian population anyway. Apparently they forgot to mention it in conversations with the army.
   Does this mean we will soon have depressed gothic teenagers killing themselves by downing twenty pints of cool and refreshing tap water? Are we going to get warning signs on water coolers? Can we sue the water company for personal injury sustained from their product? Perhaps we can ban the whole thing altogether. You know Blunkett; he'll sign anything killing us, as long as the Americans benefit.
   It reminded me of a night a few weeks ago, when I was in my favourite pub, Bannermans, with an East German communist. Hey, shit happens. The thing was, she persistently drank water. So every time I walked up to the bar I got to order two pints of 80, three Stella and a glass of water please. The bloke behind the bar, in great Scottish tradition, looked at me and then said "a glass of what, pal?"
   From now on he can just refuse to pour the stuff. "Sorry pal, can't serve you that. Health and safety reasons. Water is for putting out fires." So there you have it. The invisible killer. Kids, in the name of healthy upbringing, demand to drink pop. The rest of you, let's have a pint.

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According to the personality disorder test it is very likely I am anti-social. Must be true. It is, after all, on the internet. According to the results the only disorder I am very unlikely to have is obsessive-compulsive disorder, which is a good thing, because if it had said anything else I would have probably spent the rest of the evening retaking it just to make sure I wasn't.
   What I was most likely to be is paranoid. Me! Paranoid! Where do they come up with that one? I can't help it that MI5 are parked outside my flat to keep an eye on my flatmates looking to overthrow the monarchy. Doesn't mean I am paranoid. The government maybe. Nothing wrong with me.

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Something tells me MI5 have now set up camp outside our flat. I imagine it took them quite some time to get a parking permit for their surveillance unit, as the traffic nazis in Edinburgh are infamously ruthless, but I am sure that by now they are sitting around here somewhere, drinking Tesco discount instant coffee and peering into our flat to catch us doing something subversive.
   The thing is this. I am living with two very suspicious people. In complete contrast to myself obviously. My theory is that e-mail is partially to blame for all of this. You see in the old days to write to someone you had to respectfully lick Her Royal Highness's backside and glue her head elegantly onto the top of an envelope. With all these modern innovations however there is no longer a need to behold the Queen in all her glory and people quickly forget how important our Royal Family is.
   I should know. My one flatmate is related to a former advisor to an unnamed European Communist Party, whereas the other has now started corresponding with an equally unnamed but world famous anarchist. By e-mail, of course. I have taken to hiding my stamps now, in fear that when the revolution comes they give away my monarchist views. Besides comments like these on my own internet page obviously.
   Really the question now is which will happen first. The leftist revolution or the MI5 raid. I wonder which one will be more confused when they burst into my room. Across from the computer with the Israeli flag pinned on top of it is the communist manifesto next to Orwell's '1984' and my books on Hitler and his cronies while Slayer and the Clash alternate on my stereo. The photograph on my desk shows a bombardment by the Nazis and the map above my desk depicts the world with the US at the centre of it. At least the monarchist stamps are well hidden.

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Yet another example of complete and utter sexism on the telly. While the European Parliament is discussing banning naked women on the telly I am sat watching an ad for a new car that apparently comes with the option of disconnecting the front from the back. Which I am sure many a parent would find a very welcome innovation to the automobile industry.
   The parents are being happy and smiley in the front, as if that would ever happen. No arguments over whether they left the gas on, locked the door, forgot the parent meeting or never giving her an orgasm.
   Meanwhile in the back are two ten-year-old boys smiling happily for a good reason. They have just picked up a pig-tailed twenty-odd woman with a blinding brushing-three-times-a-day-with-Colgate kind of smile. They pick her up, and strap her in with the convenient middle seat belt.
   Now imagine the kids were two girls and a bloke in his twenties would hop in with them and bearing his teeth… He would have been arrested, stuck on the sex offenders register and would have to report to his local police station every week for the rest of his life!
   This is a conspiracy I am telling you. The women of this world have come together with a plot to rule the world. These tactics are designed to make them seem harmless and cute wee creatures. And when we are not paying attention because we are off our guard they will strike! Remember Lorena Bobbitt! No such thing as a sweet and innocent woman. They are evil. Evil I tell you.

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Women's tennis is a bit like the live sex shows performed in the sleazier parts of Amsterdam. That is to say, when you are not actually watching it. Sitting in the next room all you can hear is a continuous high pitched moaning and screeching, building up to a climax, which comes in the form of a bloke shouting out something sounding like "oargh!", followed by applause from an excited and satisfied audience.
   Wimbledon is of course the sign that the British summer has arrived. Hence the court evacuations when the heavens open. The usual faces have lined up. The completely colour-blind Serena Williams for example. This tournament must have the simplest dress code on the planet, so quite what part of 'white' she doesn't understand I am not sure but then she is scary enough to get away with bright orange.
   And of course little Timmie. Tim may look like he is about nine years old but he is currently the single hope of the UK. The question is of course whether he is capable of winning what is possibly the most prestigious tennis tournament in the world. It is a matter of weighing his strengths and weaknesses. His strengths are the fact he was born in the Wimbledon turnstiles, he is nice to bees and all women want to cuddle him because he looks so innocent and cute. His weakness of course is that he far too crap to ever in his life win Wimbledon.

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Not reading any papers for a week does my blood pressure good. There are quite simply too many stupid people in the world and not nearly enough people to slap them in the face repeatedly. And so I usually end up debating issues with people in newspapers, despite the fact neither they nor anybody else is anywhere near. Of course you do end up reading a week's worth of newspapers all at once, which at least makes me forgive the relatively less idiotic comments.
   It turns out that last week the Israeli Holocaust memorial council has berated Oona King. I had never heard of her either, but she is a Labour MP for some place I have never had the pleasure of visiting, and judging by the sound of the name, I very much doubt I ever will. She wrote an article a few weeks back in which she described the situation in Gaza, and said she could not imagine the founding fathers of Israel ever to have intended inflicting humiliation and abuse upon a people after just escaping similar persecution themselves in places such as the Warsaw ghetto.
   The council apparently went apeshit. Now presuming the Guardian has not misquoted the council they said it was "illegitimate and malicious" to compare the two, as the Israeli-Palestinian conflict was a "conflict between two nations" about "conflicting claims of territorial sovereignty" and "neither side aims to annihilate the other", all in contrast to the situation in Poland.
   Two things worry me about this. The first obviously that it is bollocks. Where Hamas regularly calls for the destruction of the 'Zionist entity' Israeli cabinet ministers will quite happily compare Arabs to vermin in public and call for all Palestinians to be 'driven into the sea'. The idea that it is a fight between nations, not ethnic groups is equally ridiculous. Under current Israeli legislation a Jewish Ukrainian has more rights than a Christian Israeli.
   But the most worrying thing is the source. What on earth has a Holocaust memorial council to do with the situation in Gaza? For those of you who are not quite up to speed with modern history, the Holocaust is the general term for the deaths of about twelve million people at the hands of the Nazi's because they were Jewish, Gypsy, mentally disabled or otherwise 'inferior' to the original inhabitants of the Germanic nations. As we are currently well into the third generation after this has happened and the one having experienced it first hand increasingly is dying out we need councils to make sure we do not forget. Mainly so it doesn't happen again.
   So quite why it would get out of its way to defend killing and occupation of any kind is beyond me. By changing from a memorial to a political force downplaying the suffering of a people it risks undermining its own significance and paving the way for a repeat. And I think we have quite enough people doing that in present day.

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The downside of having moved to the New Town of Edinburgh is that my trip to Bannermans is now largely uphill. The good side is of course that on my way back home I can lie down and just roll to the front door, but on my way to my favourite pub you will usually find me panting across one of the bridges for lack of proper exercise since chasing a drug dealer down the street with a baseball bat in South Florida five years ago.
   Fortunately when I do finally arrive at the Cowgate I am immediately cheered up by the fact that although the building next to it was completely annihilated by the December fire Bannermans is pretty much like it has been for years. That is to say it is still dark enough to aid me hiding my lack of handsome features, the staff knows how to pour pints and the couches are still so deep and comfortable that all the change in your pockets instantly disappears into the deep dark depths underneath. An instant tip jar.
   Last night we were treated to a band called Korova. It took a while for them to actually make it onto stage, but having met the fan base I have to say that I too would have trouble tearing myself away. In fact, after hearing the girl in pink was with the guitar player it began to dawn on me that perhaps I should have chosen another form of the expressionist arts. You know, if I hadn't have been tone-deaf.
   Korova are a local trio of amateur sadomasochists and jousters. That is to say that while they are playing the guitar player repeatedly runs at his bass player as if to impale her, only to have the crap kicked out of him. All this while beating out suitably distorted catchy songs, demolishing the drum kit and, when there is not enough applause in the end, chucking his guitar at us all, which was ultimately more spectacular than the picks and drum sticks they couldn't keep hold of and came flying in our general direction.
   As I am trying to balance myself on the way down the hill towards my flat, fridge and fry-up the only thing that worries me about Korova is their anthem. 'Cockburn Street' is gritty, entertaining and instantly imprints itself into your subconscious. Whereas the actual place is a constant and annoying avoiding of twelve year olds with Slipknot tops and green spiky hair. I'll have to ask them how that came about next time they are playing.

This piece can also be found on the Korova website, in the reviews section.

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It's a shame that the television complaints commission does not except complaints based on gross insults to human intelligence. If it had I am sure yesterday's channel 4 documentary 'blaming the Jews' would have received a record number. Of course if you want to make a documentary about anti-Semitism in the Middle East you had better send an independent reporter with an open mind and the ability to compare.
   Trust David Aaronovitch to make the most one-sided documentary since the invention of television. I have seen documentaries about the Holocaust that had a more balanced view and put a more human face to the perpetrators. Big Dave however was not in the slightest interested in balanced reporting and went straight for the kill.
   And so he found the ridiculous, and quite frankly hilarious, claims that behind the start of every war is a Jew, and that there is a big Jewish plot to take over the world, which, surprise surprise, does not exist. And there were the people saying that all Jews are descendant from pigs and apes, and quickly in the passing we will mention this also goes for Christians.
   But then Dave gets on a roll. He starts the documentary with an interview. The subject is quite clearly not very intelligent and her husband is quite possibly one of the worst racists in the country. Obviously a good choice if you want the view of the people in the streets. The first point he gets across is that if the hatred is really for Israel, why do they keep calling them 'filthy Jews'? An interesting question, David. You think perhaps because the Prime Minister of Israel, who speaks for less than half the Jewish world and also represents about a million gentiles, constantly talks of 'Jews' rather than 'Israelis'? David instead picks on the adjective, hoping nobody at home will notice the fact he is talking bollocks.
   So, in 1290 AD all the Jews are banned from England. Just to show that Dave has done his homework. So while everybody else was being treated fairly and squarely, the Jews alone were being persecuted just because they were Jewish. Of course David did not point out that in the 1290's AD the English were still wiping the blood off their brows from killing several million Muslims in the Middle East, not to mention they had just annexed Wales and launched a full blown war on the Scots in the North while at war with France in the East.
   For the sake of getting an even more objective view of things he visits a school full of twelve-year-olds in Gaza. There he finds a teacher still convinced Jews descended from a monkey shagging a pig. I hope it was not the biology teacher. When a boy says there will never be peace with the Israelis Dave repeats the claim, though this time replacing the word 'Israeli' with the word 'Jew'. Good independent reporting there. He also failed to mention that the soldiers knocking down their homes are walking around with the Star of David on their sleeves and people are only evicted to house Jewish Israelis. Not Muslim Israelis. Or Christian Israelis. Or anything but Jewish Israelis. It's called context, Dave; you should look it up sometime.
   Mr Aaronovitch sat watching television footage of hateful, biased and historically incorrect footage of bigots wanting to make a point but only able to achieve it by ignoring half of the story. He said he felt depressed afterwards. Which begs the question why he then proceeded to do the exact same thing.

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Tesco is selling Tim Tams. And my fragile little mind is incapable of ingesting this. Tim Tams, when seen at all, come packed in bubble wrap in a box marked 'Melbourne'. Not on the shelves of your local supermarket. It takes the whole luxury away from them. To me Tim Tams are a reminder of New South Wales. Along with Kangaroo burgers. In fact, the first marsupial I saw was in the Blue Mountains, and had been chopped up to fit onto my plate.
   Tim Tams are an Australian tradition involving dunking the stuff into your cup of tea and then making sounds of orgasmic delight as you suck the warm chocolate of the biscuit. Which is possibly why I got even more fond of the stuff when I started going out with an Aussie last year.
   But why export it? It's not as if they haven't enough other exports. Mainly their entire population. Honestly, you go into a pub in Edinburgh or dive into a Loch up North and guaranteed you will trip over a drunk Australian lying on his back with a pair of sunglasses despite the fact there hasn't been sunshine since 1967. But you step into a bus station in Ulladulla, New South Wales and there will be a Brummie on a gap-year. Not a single Aussie left in the whole country.
   So my theory is that they have finally come to their senses and have decided to move back to the more civilised parts of the planet, and are very slowly moving all their crap across in instalments so we won't notice what they are doing. Keep your eye out of pet koala's, that is my advice. At least other immigrants bring over culture, cuisine and colour. What possible good can Aussies bring? Besides Kangaroo burgers, obviously.

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It's good to be recognised by complete strangers. I like it. I can get used to it. In fact, as soon as I am desperate enough to construct a mission statement for my writing career, I will incorporate that in there. Perhaps one day I will even be recognised by people who like my writing, rather than one that have seen me in a dark nightclub holding on to the bar for dear life.
   I realise momentarily my fan base is somewhat limited. Most of my readers are probably fifteen-year-olds Googling 'Avril+Lavigne' with one hand while breathing heavily and accidentally coming across my dear diary. But perhaps we can work on a slow transition from drinking to writing.
   This week I was staying in a hostel near Loch Ness (don't ask me why), in a town called East Lewiston. This because eight of the inhabitants live on the east side of the road and have separated from the remaining fifteen who live on the opposite. And I use the word 'road' in the broadest possible terms here. It is a track leading to Saint Augustus, a town legendary for not making it onto any self-respecting maps.
   Having spent the night in a room with an Englishman who managed to wake me up with the sheer vibration of his snoring and his friends, who were quiet asleep but all the more annoying when awake, I stumbled into the kitchen less than amused and with both eyes screwed shut.
   Imagine my surprise when a sweet voice asked me if I would like some orange juice. Meeting pretty lassies upon waking up is somewhat of a rarity in my life anyway, but them then proceeding to offer me breakfast I think we can safely say is a feat about as regular as contracting the plague, though obviously on the opposite side of the scale of pleasantness. I looked at her, felt my heart tingle, and felt like proposing.
   Upon loading the car to drive to Skye this gift from the early morning goddesses came darting out and decisively claimed to have seen me before. Now if getting drunk will get me beautiful women at Loch Ness introducing themselves to me, then surely writing should get me even further. I can get used to this. So, if you see me looking lost in some godforsaken hole in the middle of nowhere, come up and say hello. If you are fifteen and search the net for Avril though, make sure you wash your hands first.