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 w