The problem with Hogmanay is that you need to come up with resolutions beforehand, then drink yourself silly on the actual night, and are expected to remember what it was you had decided when you wake up on the first of January. Not very practical really. Usually I can't even remember where I left my boots, let alone anything I might have said about my health. Which is another subject best avoided on New Year's Day. Quiet recovery is all you need, not pointless restrictions on your normal routine. But then it is traditional.
   On reflection I didn't do too well when it came to last year's resolutions. As is sadly demonstrated by the fact this Hogmanay I shall have neither money nor someone to kiss at midnight. Pretty dismal you will agree. So let's hope next year I shall manage to keep some of my resolutions more successfully.
   Here goes. Professionally I will start reviewing more unsigned local talent, and I shall be published with my name spelt correctly. I will write at least one story long enough to be considered a novel, and I will sell my writing to anyone willing to pay for it. As for my health. I will not quit drinking, but this year I will not only walk down stairs but also up them. I will learn to positively identify at least one vegetable. Preferably a green one. And I will not hack into my fingers while cooking this year.
   I will continue to give blood, and shall do so the moment they let me again after having my tattoo done. I shall also continue saving up to visit Israel, whether they decide to stop killing each other in that region or not. What I will also continue to do is to think, say and write what I believe, not what I am told. I will not join a cult, nor will I convert to any religion. I will however keep hoping my ex will come back to me this year, and I get that kiss next New Year.

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I have often wondered why it is so many people instantly dislike me, rather than taking the time to get to know me and start seriously detesting me afterwards. It would only be the polite thing to do. Yet most just look me over once and decide I am scum. Long had I suspected it was the beard. Or perhaps the tattoos. Obviously narrow-minded people thought only complete bastards would have such features, and therefore they concluded I too must be unreliable and thoroughly unpleasant.
   Recently however I have come to learn it is not at all because of me. I have a double. A rather nasty one I suspect. So my new theory is that all these people who don't like me have simply met my mysterious twin, and mistake me for him. An outlandish theory, I know, bordering on paranoia, but I do have some, be it highly circumstantial, evidence to back it up.
   As I was walking down the street casually, minding my own business as usual, a police car stopped, turned around and chased me down the street. Or rather, it would have had I been paying attention. As I ignored it perhaps 'chase' is not the correct word to use. I only acknowledged its presence when it drew up beside me, a window was lowered and a friendly copper stuck his head out and requested a quick word in my ear.
   As I am a good-natured, trusting individual, well-behaved and always willing to cooperate with the good people keeping our streets safe, I replied that of course he could, and sauntered over to the car. Just as I was approaching I could hear the second police constable mutter it's not him, and I was sent on my way after a quick apology.
   See my point? I obviously look like someone known to the coppers, and this is making people think that I am a complete scallywag. But there is no reason for this. I am perfectly friendly, polite and caring. Lothian and Borders Constabulary will vouch for me.

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It's a good thing I do not shave. It is a very bad idea to give me anything sharp anyway, and then scraping it across my jugular is an activity we shall reserve for professional Turkish barbers and some mugger trying to kill me in a back alley somewhere. But more importantly it's a good thing because it means I can safely ignore all the adverts for razors on television.
   I think since I quit shaving the standard razor has acquired an extra blade, added to the one that appeared in between me starting to shave and giving it up again. By 2007 the ultimate shaving sensation, as it is invariably billed, with require at least six blades roughly half a millimetre apart. It's pointless. Only a bigger hassle to clean out the hair you have already managed to cut off. If you can shave yourself clean with a single stroke, you didn't need to shave in the first place.
   Of course we now have David Beckham advertising Gillette. The best a man can get, or so they say. I disagree. I will take a professional barber from Turkey over a plastic piece of crap any day of the week, whether the man speaks English or not. Not to mention I do not think David Beckham is in any position to tell me what is and what isn't a good idea. But most of all this new razor he is promoting has a battery in it. So not only do they want me to hold all these razorblades up against my cerotic artery, but they then want me to hold an electric appliance under the tap. I think I'll stick with the beard.

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Have you ever sat around at a party (at your nan's or somewhere equally sedated), and been asked whether you are a cat or a dog person? Normally it is not so much a question as a tricky introduction to a tale spanning several decades of living with someone's puss or pooch, often involving heartbreaking tales of intimacy that human beings should never achieve with an animal. If it is a choice between the two I am most definitely a cat person. I used to have a cat. Lived to be eighteen and a half. Long enough for me to develop an allergy. Which is more than he ever did. He stuck mainly to eating and sleeping, very occasionally varying his daily routine by stretching.
   Recently however I have been introduced to a whole new kind of person. The tarantula person. Or, as I like to call them, arachnophiles. They seem to gather mainly -here's a surprise- on the internet. I imagine them living in a basement somewhere, reading Manga comics and pinning pictures of their pets onto the wall. And every day they log onto their favourite tarantula website to check up on all the latest developments in the world of seriously big spiders. And thank god they do.
   You see, we have a new addition to our household. It's not very big, so nobody really objected, so long as it stays in its cage of course. When I say it is not very big, I mean it can easily balance itself on a 5p coin and scratch itself without fear of falling off. Though I have been led to believe the Mexican Redknee, which it is, can grow up to the size of my hand. So you can imagine it will take some feeding. Which is where the arachnophiles come in.
   I don't know how to take care of anything that tiny. It goes against my nature. Anything that fits under my boot is too delicate for me to handle. And this one seems particularly nervous. I was told to feed him crickets, but when I chucked one in, it ran away. The spider that is; not the cricket. So I joined the intriguing world of spider-loving computer geeks.
   I like them. They make me feel less disturbed. So far I have been advised to take a cricket, and crush its head before feeding it to my pet. Seemed a bit sadistic, though not quite as much as the suggestion I take a cricket and rip off its hind legs. Which is a challenging one, because I have big hands and only have one pair of tweezers. A third person kindly proposed I did away with crickets and fed it a meal worm instead. Just remember, he added, to pull its head off first. My kind of people.

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It's a shame I don't have any neo-Nazi friends, because I read the other day a company in Germany has brought out a diary for 2005, commemorating all the wonderful things Nazism has brought us. No self-respecting thug should be without one. Of course printing one of these things in Germany, where anything mildly Hitler-related is banned, was a bit tricky, but apparently they have managed to circumvent most of the obstacles. So instead of saying it's Hitler's birthday they just print a picture of him.
   I don't think anybody who would buy one of these things would need to be reminded of old Adolf's birthday anyway. It's like reminding Christians Jesus was born on the 25th. They know. Fortunately for our ultra-nationalist friends the calendar also mentions long-forgotten SS holidays and other memorable events from the good old days. No swastikas though, because they too are illegal. Fortunately even the most illiterate of skinheads can draw a few in all by himself, perhaps aided by a ruler. A DIY calendar! What more could someone possibly ask for?
   Despite the lack of curious Nordic symbolism and the odd birthday, the Times mentioned it did contain some anti-Semitism, such as the claim that Israel is behind world-wide prostitution. I am not entirely sure where in the year that would fit in, but it also confuses me. If you seriously own a diary commemorating Nazism with pictures of Hitler in it, the only chance of ever getting laid will be paying for it. You'd say they'd be grateful for prostitution.

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Don't you love it in stories when someone has been saving a special bottle of wine, preferably hidden in the back garden, throughout eight years of occupation, to drink it with his mates when they are finally liberated? There is something incredibly appealing to being the proud owner of such a bottle. Something to stare at while you wait for that one special moment.
   Well, I now own such a bottle. It is a limited edition cask-strength bottle of single malt from the smallest distillery in the single best whisky making country in the world (that would be us by the way). Liquid gold that requires a very special occasion indeed. Unfortunately (poor us), we are neither occupied nor oppressed by an ultra-religious regime (yet). And I am not quite willing to wait for an invasion, to then hide it and wait for liberation.
   Still, only the most joyous of occasions will do to open this beauty. So, in no particular order of likelihood, I shall keep this bottle as an unopened treasure until one of four things happen. When Tony Blair gets struck by lightning, there will be peace in the Middle East, my ex comes back to me, or my first book is published. As my brother pointed out, it's a good thing whisky doesn't go off.

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There is something about Christmas that makes it incompatible with me. Certainly not its religious connotations, because I couldn't give a shit, or the fact it is in the middle of winter, because I am used to the cold. Somehow it just doesn't work. I think it first dawned on me when I was scribbling 'peace on earth and goodwill to all mankind' on one of the cards I was going to send and noticed you could see the big cut right above my eye in the picture on the front.
   Of course I do tend to have one injury or another year-round, so it was good to find I am also crap at Christmas decorations. I am sure I know what holly looks like. I have seen it. Hundreds of times. I scratched myself assaulting a tree (holly grows on a tree, right?) last year, and again only a few weeks ago. So I have seen holly. I have held it in my hand, and I have put it up. Therefore it came as a bit of a surprise to me when I was pulling down the by now dead holly I put up several weeks ago to replace it with fresh branches, and someone pointed out it looked very lovely, but it wasn't holly.
   The fact I hadn't hurt myself on it should have given that away, really. Or the colour. The shape. Or any other recognisable feature of the damn stuff. The berries threw me off. I found the nearest tree with red berries, climbed into it and started ripping bits from it. How I ever passed GCSE biology is a mystery to me. It's a good thing nobody has ever asked me to point out a reindeer. I would probably point out a fighting bull. And then we'd be in real trouble.

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Bloody hell. Blunkett hasn't left two minutes, or Jack Straw is explaining it is not the courts but the cabinet that decides what is or isn't legal. Why do we even have a justice system? Remember the courts have already said it is not a problem to rely on evidence obtained under torture, but now the Labour government is upset because it will have to actually try people to hold them. They are more comfortable just holding them indefinitely without actually telling anyone why. Very popular way of doing things. In South America.
   The highest court in the land has ruled, surprisingly, it is not in line with everyone's human rights to detain people indefinitely, without trial. Pretty harsh on their part obviously. But the government is now hitting back pointing out even though the UK signed up to the European Declaration on Human Rights, we opted out of the clause that gives people the right to a fair trial. Somehow if it were me I would not mention that.
   These are the people you will remember who went to Iraq to install the same values we have here. Unlimited detention without presumption of innocence and based on evidence gained under torture. Just what all these Iraqis have been waiting for all these years. The government keeps complaining things are lawless in Baghdad, yet it seems at least some laws are still observed there. In Downing Street they can't be bothered.
   So, this is how the new justice system will work. The prosecution is allowed to use any information that was beaten, drowned, electrocuted or sexually abused out of any prisoner in any country, provided the person doing the torturing isn't British. They can also use any information provided by the 'Security Services'. Not only does that abbreviate to SS, but these are also the people who swore blindly Saddam Hussein was hiding an entire arsenal of bio-nuclear weaponry that could destroy the whole western world within the time it takes to make a cup of tea immediately underneath his kitchen sink.
   So the prosecution does not have to worry too much about facts. Nor of course will the defence, because the defence is not allowed to see any of this highly trustworthy evidence. Or in fact know what their client is being accused of. And the judge, well, it doesn't really matter what he thinks, because in the end it is the cabinet that decides what is legal and what isn't. Anyone sleeping any better now?

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I thought this was the season to be jolly. You know, fa-la-la-letcetera. Time off work, drugging the kids with alcohol, lighting the fireplace. Or Christmas tree if you are so inclined. Candles are nice of course, but certainly do not compare to an entire tree ablaze in the front room. Plenty of light, heat and it saves you dragging the thing out on the street after New Year's. It's the season to be singing songs and wear stupid hats. Surely that should involve a good piss-up.
   Not if the police have anything to say about it. Binge drinking is now officially a crime, and you can be fined 80 quid on the spot. Well, you can if you get caught in England and Wales. I can already picture piss-heads stealing a car and running for the Scottish border to escape the Old Bill chasing them with wailing sirens and flashing blue lights. Perfect place to blend in. Nobody would notice another alcoholic up here.
   On-the-spot fines will now be dished out to anyone fighting, urinating or throwing up in the street. Here was me thinking fighting normally involves assaulting someone. If 80 pounds is now the standard penalty for assault I think the anti-social behaviour bill needs to be re-examined. And what is this about peeing in the street? It rains every day on this island. It's going to washed away long before anyone could possibly be offended by it.
   But puking takes the cake. Giving someone a ticket for being sick is just cruel. The poor bloke is feeling bad enough as it is. Most people will testify puking in public is one of the worst things that can happen to you, and certainly taught me not to mix my drinks. Just because every time you think back to the night you will remember lying in a gutter trying with both hands to sweep the vomit away from your jacket as it is slowly sliding towards you. If some copper would come up to you after that it would put the whole thing in perspective and make it seem less bad. I think the police should encourage people throwing up in the street. It would smarten people up.

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We have a curious political system in the UK. After centuries of evolution and experience, there is still a set of regulations on how to communicate with one another in the House of Commons. This includes of course the rule of never addressing the person you are actually talking to, which continues to confuse the crap out of me. Whenever Michael Howard is speaking of a right honourable gentleman I can never figure out who he could possible be referring to.
   And there is a list of words and things you cannot say. 'Cunt' I can go along with. You can't even say that on television before night time. But 'poppycock' is taking it a bit far. In addition you are not allowed to call a member of the house a liar. A liar! That's like visiting a lunatic asylum and not being allowed to say they're mad. Or going to a prison and being banned from calling the inmates criminals. There are exceptions, I know, but generally I think politicians should put 'liar' whenever asked to provide details of their occupation.
   It got one of the Scottish MP's in trouble. She called Geoff Buff-Hoon, the infinitely respected and wise (this is the man who claimed depleted uranium is harmless) Defence Secretary, a back-stabbing coward. Terribly unfair, I know. He could never stab someone in the back. His suit would get all bloody. Besides, his nose would get in the way.
   How can you question someone if you aren't even allowed to use perfectly acceptable words? Perhaps someone should take serious issue with this. Instead of throwing Blunkett's undoubtedly dreadful book through the Commons, just chuck a dictionary at the speaker. A nice big one. Containing only decent words if you wish, but after it has bounced off his head perhaps he could use it to check up the English language whenever somebody is speaking. It's highly unlikely anything interesting, or truthful, will be said anyway.

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Ah, Christmas time. The season of festivities, gluhwein and suicide. When grandparents are taken out of nursing homes and rosy-cheeked children are locked in the back garden to play and annoy the neighbours. The time of giving, being nice to one another and dressing up. Not to mention lying to your kids. Very stressful, I have been led to believe. And very expensive as well. All sorts of the experts have been informing us all how to celebrate Christmas without being in debt for the next seven months. Always one to follow trends, I too have come up with a few ways.
   One. Don't have kids. They are always the most expensive. They keep bothering you for toys they don't need and are relentless in their torturing you. In addition there are too many people on the planet anyway, and they smell.
   Two. Don't be nice to people. The fewer friends you accumulate over the year, the fewer presents you will have to buy at the end of it. Stop saying please and thank you, don't cover your face when you sneeze and yawn whenever somebody is telling you something.
   Three. Steal all your presents from a Bethany shop. This way you will not have to pay anything and because of the nature of these particular shops they will have to forgive you for robbing them and not report you, especially as it is the time of year we remember the birth of their Lord Jesus.
   Four. Pretend you have a very painful and extremely contagious disease. This is guaranteed to keep people well away from you, and they will be forced to ask you how you are feeling when you see them next, which means they cannot demand their presents.
   Five. Convert. There are plenty of religions out there that do not celebrate Christmas, and most of them are looking for people just like you to come and join them. You may want to read up on other customs they have though, because some religions demand unnecessary and highly painful medical procedures be carried out on you before you get to join.
   Six. Save yourself all the hassle of worry and depression over the holidays, and instead kill yourself on December 23rd. There's really no need to hang about when you think about it. You might get the odd snog under the mistletoe and a pair of socks to cheer you up, but suicide notes are not very expensive and you will beat the post-Christmas rush at the funeral home.
   Seven. Become obsessed with Cromwell. Famously devoid of a sense of humour he hated Christmas and immediately cancelled it when he had chopped off his King's head. In memory of the puritans decide that this year you too will not be getting festive, and instead sit around and plot a coup.

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I sometimes feel I am not quite as repulsed about golf as I should be. People like myself are supposed to be abhorred by such an activity, even if it was a Scottish invention. Yet I can't bring myself to hate it. There is something strangely attractive about a bunch of multi-millionaire industrialists playing a fortune every year to maintain a large piece of grassland. Beats building a nuclear plant if you ask me. But then what do I know?
   When it comes to golf, I know very little. Rest assured if you find me wandering around a golf club it will not be voluntarily. You will certainly not find me swinging a stick about. I refuse to play sports I can't even be bothered to watch on television. If you can classify golf as a sport of course. It seems more like a pointless outdoor activity to me. At least in baseball when you whack a ball someone else has to go and find it, if it comes back at all. Hitting it away first and then tracing after it yourself seems like an awfully moronic way of spending an afternoon.
   Now it turns out, or at least this is what has been established by Golf Pages, that in addition to it being boring and pointless, it is also a single-sex activity. Where's the fun in that? If I am going to be waving my equipment about there should at least be some lassies to witness it. Or is that just me? Perhaps it's just because I am not easily embarrassed.
   It seems men do not like to play golf with women, and vice versa. Men feel playing with female company stops them from swearing. What kind of men are these? Not swear in front of women. Bloody hell, my mother taught me how to swear. In addition men are afraid of losing. This I can imagine, but presumably the chances of losing are just as great, if not greater, when you are playing another man. I just don't see what the problem is. Losing to a girl at arm wrestling is embarrassing. Losing to one when it comes to knocking a ball into a hole is just, well, nothing. Well done. First round is on you.
   Women have even dumber excuses. They do not like to play with men because they worry about their wives. If their wives could give a crap I am sure they would be there themselves, wouldn't they? In addition, men are bad losers. Granted. Never met a woman who didn't enjoy a bloke throwing a good tantrum after losing though. And to top it off men cheat and walk too fast.
   How do you cheat at golf? Find ball, hit ball, count how many times you hit it. Not a lot of margin for dishonesty there. And walking too fast. Well. One thing I do know about golf is that women get a head start anyway. If you still cannot keep up then perhaps it is time women just learn how to drive properly, so they can use these buggies. They may not have a make-up mirror, but it would allow you to keep up with the boys.

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Have they still not decided on whether Blunkett stays or goes? I am getting fed up about writing about the man. He is extremely unpleasant as it is, the last thing I need just before the festive season as I am trying to get into the spirit of forgiveness and joy is listen to him pestering me. If he wants, for fuck's sake let the man go (preferably in front of traffic during rush hour), and if not can someone tell him to shut up until after the holidays? He is putting me off my pudding.
   What was it he said? Something about straight-talking and honesty being of the utmost importance to him, both as a politician and a man. That was regarding this whole affair business. Though at least he makes a clear distinction between politicians and men, which I think is hopeful. But then he apologised to his colleagues for saying all sorts of nasty stuff behind their backs in a new book.
   Make up your fucking mind already! Are you going to be honest and straightforward or are you going to apologise every time somebody takes offence? In this particular case I think he has actually managed to get the whole thing back to front. He should have just said sorry for shagging someone else's wife, just to show he is serious about tackling anti-social behaviour. On the other hand his assertion Blair, Buff-Hoon and Straw are utterly useless bastards made so much sense to me, and he is apologising for it. We're not asking for miracles here, just for the man to make up his mind.

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This dancing stuff is dangerous business. It looks so flash on television. You know, where all these, ahem, celebrities come charging down the dance floor to the enthusiastic applause of several hundred local pensioners who would have trouble making it to the toilet unaided, let alone do the twist. Everybody is smiling and doing perfect turns and shuffles all over the place. That's not what dancing is like in real life. Well, not in my life anyway.
   As a rule, I do not dance. Usually I blame this on the traumatic experience of being forced to dance with girls in my class in primary school with a balloon wedged between us and all sorts of threats being levelled at us if the balloon should happen to fall. But really, I am just not very good. And I usually spill my pint. Or step on people's toes. On the whole then I have decided long ago dancing is not for me.
   There is only one girl I will dance with, and only to one band. But I am thinking of packing this in as well. I'm sure she didn't mean to, but there is something highly unpleasant about being head-butted in the eye as you are happily swinging away. Being kicked in the head at a Motorhead concert by a complete stranger I can deal with, but having my head split open by my ex-girlfriend dancing to folk rock in my own bedroom just seems off.
   Nobody ever warned me about this. Somehow nobody ever felt it necessary to inform me that dancing might involve drawing blood. Isn't this what my primary school teachers were for? Instead they were shoving two unwilling youngsters close together with a party balloon and then standing back to enjoy the sight of all of them uncomfortably shuffling about and trying not to sweat all over their designated partner. Thinking back to it now I am pretty sure even back then there must have been laws against this kind of behaviour in supposedly responsible adults with respectable professions.

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Technically speaking having a tattoo done is a relatively painless and minor medical procedure. You have some skin scratched away and some ink inserted. Couple of weeks of healing and you are all done. Nothing to get excited about if you ask me. It sounds a lot more healthy than having some scary lady sticking knitting needles through your head to cure asthma.
   The thing about tattoos that appeals to me, and presumably puts off most people looking at me disapprovingly whenever I take off my shirt, is that it involves dealing with people considered highly unsavoury by the majority of the population. My kind of people. The kind that hangs out in grimy pubs and settles arguments with pool cues. Friendly people, most of them, but most people never come close enough to figure that out.
   Before you decide to have a tattoo, you had better make damn sure the person about to stick a needle in you knows what the hell he or she is doing. This is not something to experiment around with. Now who are you going to trust when asking for advice on tattoos? Some skin cancer consultant in the hospital, or the biker bartender with the three sixes tattooed on the inside of his left ear?
   Anybody who does not look anti-social will not know about a good tattooist, I can guarantee you. If I walk into a tattoo shop and the person behind the counter is dressed in a suit, I am walking straight back out the door. I want to know what horrible abcesses and scars are hidden underneath those sleeves. The cleaner they look, the sloppier their work is bound to be. I would rather deal with a skinhead. Provided the swastika on his forehead looks sterile of course.

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This world is very slowly to Hell, I think. The other day I was casually strolling through Sainsbury's, having completely forgotten what I came in there for of course, when I passed the section with personal hygiene products. I notice strange things in there. For example, pregnancy kits are next to the condoms. Could be me, but I do not feel inclined to purchase contraceptives which are shelved next to a product required when they fail. There is just something odd about that.
   As I do not require such items at this particular time in my life anyway I calmly wandered on, trying to remember what I was doing there in the first place. A few yards further I found a sign stating that razors, razor blades and pain killers are now available only from the kiosk. At first this sounded fair enough to me. But then I realised what an usual combination of products this was.
   I would imagine razors go with foam, and pain killers with cough syrup. Am I a seriously morbid individual when I think the only thing these products have in common is that they are popular methods of suicide? With all the positive energy and imagination in the world I cannot think of any other link between razor blades and pain killers.
   This makes me wonder. Why will they not sell them from the shelf? I can imagine you would keep pain killers in a glass case so you can check how many are being bought, but unless you are planning a cult-like mass suicide generally one razor blade should do the trick. It seems to me there are only two logical conclusions. Either people have started topping themselves in the toilet paper section of Sainsbury's recently, or suicidals are now considered a high risk when it comes to shoplifting. Though why anyone would want to save money on a razor when they are going to die anyway is a mystery to me.

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I am not easily annoyed, as you will know, but one thing that truly brings out psychotic tendencies of mutilation in me is people wearing outside clothing inside. If people want to look stupid in a woolly hat because their ears are cold, I sympathise with them completely. I have been known to wear such items myself, not in the least bit worried it makes me look like a teapot with long blonde curls. But once you walk into the pub, could you please take these fucking things off already. You are inside!
   The same thing goes for baseball caps. If your team is playing and you are watching, you are allowed. All people watching their teams play are allowed to make pricks out of themselves. But no light bulb in my house is bright enough for you to need a cap. Sitting around and clearly not respecting my hospitality by wearing a baseball cap is an open invitation to have your head set on fire. Who do you think you are anyway; Oliver Twist?
   Why is it that these people need to cover their heads up? Is there something terribly unattractive about the top of someone's head and nobody has ever mentioned this to me? Because I don't care how much gel you normally use to style your hair, I would rather speak to someone with shaggy hair than some prat mumbling at me from underneath a visor which may or may not constantly obstruct eye contact. If you do not want to look at people, stay the fuck at home.

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It strikes me as bizarre that David Blunkett, the Home Secretary of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland, would ask the courts for anything. After all, he is their boss. Presumably it would save everybody involved a whole lot of time if he just came out and told them what he wanted. That way all these legal people could just get on with dealing with actual criminals that need locking up. Saying please and thank you is all very nice, but presumably there are more pressing matters to be attended at the High Court.
   Let's face it. There is not going to be a fair trial here. Can you picture the case of the plaintiff? My Lord, my client, who has an excellent reputation, is great with children. He has just supported cutting a few hundred in half with cluster bombs, and was a keen proponent of dropping depleted uranium on expectant mothers. In addition he is closing down maternity wings all over the country and is the foremost champion of torturing human beings. Can he have custody of this two-year-old child here?
   I don't know about you, but I would feel more comfortable leaving children with an alcoholic with a temper. It's a bit like asking Atilla the Hun to chaperone your teenage daughter. Unless on a serious amount of painkillers, no independent judge in the world would allow Blunkett to keep a hamster, let alone a child. If the kid doesn't get scarred I am sure the rest of us will be made to suffer once it grows up and starts spouting horns.
   It does make you wonder how this whole court affair is being run. Presumably the day before the trial a small cordon of police officers arrives at the judge's home, and pull him out of bed kicking and screaming. They drive him over to 10 Downing Street, where he is put in a back room to await the arrival of Blair and Blunkett. When they do arrive they simply show him a few pictures of Guantanamo Bay, and politely ask whether they have made themselves quite clear. After that, it doesn't really matter just how full of shit his barrister is, does it?

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Here's one for the philosophy students. If I had been Jewish, today would have been my birthday. That doesn't quite correspond with my sense of all of us together experiencing one universal time. God moves in mysterious ways I know, but I had always thought time was fairly constant. But there you go, I am not a scientist, and therefore not qualified to make such assumptions.
   Still, Jewish. Just because the Hebrew calendar is, well, wrong, basically, I would have had two birthdays! But I am not Jewish, and therefore nobody gives me any presents for my Jewish birthday. This seems awfully unfair to me. After all, my actual birthday is based on a Roman calendar and I am not a Roman either. I feel discriminated against here. It's a racist plot.
   Who decided we were going to be on Roman time anyway? The Romans were in Scotland only very briefly, and if I remember correctly they did not enjoy themselves very much here, so I doubt they instituted it. Which means those dastardly Christians must have introduced it here. And I am most definitely not a Christian. In fact, I am more Jewish than I am Christian for the very simple reason I too believe Jesus was an unlucky son-of-a-carpenter, not the personification of God on earth. As I still have to go life with a Christian name as well, I demand my Jewish birthday be celebrated today, and of course I fully retain the right to change my mind about this again before my Roman birthday comes up.

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I have such compassionate friends. Always willing to do charitable work. They deserve medals, all of them. Of course they will only cough up. I have to do all the work. Or rather, not do any work. Their idea is to sponsor my recent spell of celibacy. Most people climb a mountain, run a marathon or swim across a pond somewhere. I have to stay away from the opposite sex. I always thought these sponsorship deals were for endurance tests. This is just plain cruel. First my testosterone levels fall below detectable and now my own friends are turning it into a fund raiser. That's all I need.
   This I will not be able to explain away. How am I supposed to relate this to the general public? Just picture someone explaining they are not going to have sex because they have given it up to collect money for people who may have less to eat but are certainly getting laid more often. You'd think he was insane. Some sort of sex-addict. And really I was never that active anyway. There is a very good reason for this of course. I have a thing for independent-minded women with an attitude. Trouble is, they don't seem to like me very much.
   So I am running out of excuses now. Therefore I have decided henceforth I shall re-assume my virginity. This is of course a very precious thing to have, and as a result I shall only offer it up to a very special person indeed. Nobody is going to argue with me over that, are they? I'll just stand there sheepishly and helpless. It's a hard life, but at least we can do wonders for charity.

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Life is not cruel, it just has terrible timing. People often confuse those things. When their dog gets run over the day they get dumped by a lover they always tend to say life is cruel. It's not. Dogs get run over all the time. In fact, I can't remember the last time I heard someone say their dog died of natural causes. And sooner or later your lover will get fed up with you and piss off with someone else. The fact both happen at the same time is unfortunate, but to say it's cruel implies some sort of intention. And because I am feeling nice we shall assume nobody is that callous.
   My life is filled with bad timings. Depression for example. Most people get depressed around Christmas time, steadily get worse over the last days of December and finally top themselves on Hogmanay. Not me. I have my fit of depression somewhere around the end of October, marching steadily on into November. And there is nothing worse than being miserable all by yourself. You don't need someone to complain to, you need someone to complain with.
   In addition I am at my most creative when I am feeling terrible. There are a hundred and one things I want to write down. The trouble is, I am depressed and therefore cannot bring myself to work for more than ten minutes at a time. By the time I have cheered up I have completely forgotten about everything I was going to scribble down. Not to mention that when I am depressed I want to be left alone, which would be the perfect opportunity to get some work done. By the time I have come around I want to sit in the pub with my mates.

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It's that time of year again. The time when people start asking me what I have planned for my birthday. What I would like for my birthday. When exactly my birthday is again. How I feel about my birthday. The answer to all of which is roughly the same as last year, and the year before that really. I am not very imaginative when it comes to my birthday. Though I did celebrate my twenty-fourth on my nineteenth birthday and five years later did the opposite to balance things out. That confused a few people.
   It seems most people either love or hate birthdays. Personally I really don't rate it enough to do either. As I will have a drink to celebrate Easter, the new year or the national holiday of Botswana it would be silly not to do so on my birthday. So celebrate it we shall. Trouble is, my birthday falls just after my American friends have celebrated Thanksgiving and my Dutch friends St. Nicholas, and usually around the same time my Jewish friends celebrate Hanukkah. For extra laughs it is scheduled just before Christmas and Hogmanay. So most people feel my birthday is highly inconvenient. And who can blame them?
   Nonetheless I have decided this year I shall make an effort and actually decide all the things I would like for my birthday. At least I have a good excuse to be greedy these last few days before Christmas. Here goes. I would like a pen that works. I have a multitude of pens lying around the house but I can never find one that actually writes without first rubbing it up against the bottom of my army boots. And I want a balloon which I am allowed to pop the day after my birthday. I would like to sleep late, have a big breakfast and not be told the story of my birth (rather stressful I have been led to believe, partially due to my slight weight problem, though I certainly have no recollection of any trouble I may or may not have caused) until after I have consumed said breakfast and had at least two pints.
   I would also like to have a slice of cake, if at all possible with a candle. And I want everybody to give me a hug at least once, unless they have head lice or other transmissible nasty things, in which case a handshake will do. In addition I would like everyone who sends me an electronic card over the internet because they are too lazy to send a real one or an e-mail to get a viral infection that makes their fingers go numb and their eyesight hazy. I would like people to buy me a drink and for Channel 4 to air 'Psychos' again.
   Someone making me a cup of tea would be lovely as well. I want to play decent music, and would like everybody else to do the same. I would like to have my ex-girlfriend back. I want somebody else to do the washing up and if anybody passes out I want someone else to drag him or her home, though if a door needs kicking in a again I want to do it. And I would like a sausage roll.

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This is truly astounding. According to Unicef, in Iraq there are now twice as many kids suffering from malnutrition as there were before the invasion. Or liberation. Whichever term you prefer really. That is quite simply baffling. And I do very sincerely hope they are talking in relative terms here. Because in absolute terms a few thousand children would have to be disregarded on account of being dead, which is one way of solving the problem of lack of food, but not exactly a positive one.
   How can there be two times the amount of starving kids in Iraq? For twelve years the whole world has been starving this country, and the little food and medicine that was sent over Saddam Hussein never distributed. And yet within a year and a half Iyad Allawi and his American friends have managed to double the crisis. It does make you wonder whether they do it on purpose.
   The country is filled to the brim with troops supposedly there to save the civilian population from all the doom we were led to believe they were about to suffer, aid agencies are working overtime and everybody is promising to cooperate with the rebuilding. So how exactly do you make such a situation worse? This would require an amount of fucking up mere mortals are not able to grasp. Unless of course, they don't care.

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I really don't see what all the fuss is about. According to the newspapers, David Blunkett is fighting for his political life. Sounds unlikely to me. This is a high-ranking member of a government that makes up rules as it goes along. Don't think he'll be losing a job because he, admittedly rather contrary to his usual inhibitions, has arranged for someone to stay in the UK.
   One tabloid even claimed Blunkett had said dark forces were out to get him. That's the trouble with dark forces; they can't be trusted. He has been a loyal servant of His Satanic Majesty for some time now, and all of a sudden he finds the Lord of Darkness has turned against him. Some ally. But then I guess he should have seen that coming, so to speak of course.
   What people do not understand is that this nanny he has, allegedly of course, helped to get a visa, was of vital importance to him. It was in all our interests David can concentrate at work to keep us safe from terrorists, and therefore he shouldn't have to worry about nannies telling his lover's husband of their affair. And of course the kids must be kept quiet as his American partner sweetly whispers in his ear in an accent he has been in love with ever since he met Donald Rumsfeld.
   Naturally I hope they will get him. I hope they nail his head to the floorboards. But I had rather it would be over something like his fondness for torture. Frankly I do not think his private life is very interesting. I don't think anybody should have their private lives invaded like this. Trouble is, he does. With his DNA database, retinal scans, phone tapping, electronic tagging and satellite tracking he could have guessed sooner or later the average British nobody would get as interested in his personal life as he seems to be in ours.

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That is the last time I am going shopping on a Friday night. The place is like a madhouse. These people should be hanging around in pubs, working late in the office or coming home to good lady wife and/or husband, not blocking up the isles when I am trying to buy a few pints of beer and a pizza. That should take ten minutes in the absolute worst case, when I am too drunk to remember where in the store frozen pizzas are kept. The last thing I need is to find myself knee-deep in screaming toddlers and trying to duck and dive spotty adolescents in T-shirt proclaiming 'I am here to help', when it is perfectly evident they are there to scare the kids and put you off your dinner.
   Maybe it's just me. I can balance a whole tower of pint glasses and wriggle my way through a dense pub crowd when I am drunk nae bother, but supermarkets are not my regular surroundings. It's an entirely alien environment, and I lose all sense of direction. I bump into elderly gentlemen and accidentally ram expectant teenage mothers with my basket. It's one of the reasons I do not use a trolley. The result would be devastating. There would be staff being knocked onto shelves with the Rice Crispies. Limbs would be scattered amongst the fruit and veg.
   It doesn't help when I am confused enough as it is, trying to find food products that I can barely recognise, let alone classify into any of the groups proclaimed on the signs dangling over the isles. I keep promising people to cook for them, and to my astonishment people sometimes agree, though more often than not the people who accept my offer are first-time invitees. As a result I am stumbling along a supermarket on a Friday night in anticipation of a night of cooking. I just hope my efforts will be appreciated.

---

It seems some time ago scientists have found that masturbation is actually quite good for you. It was in the papers a while ago. Did anyone really need to be reminded of this? Was anyone in doubt masturbation is one of the greatest gifts that has been bestowed upon mankind? These research projects are pointless. It is just a case of doctors wanting to bring their work home with them. Let them go and cure cancer. Testicular cancer if they prefer, but don't come telling me things I know already.
   I can think of very few things that are better than masturbation, actually. It relieves tension, does not require expensive working-out equipment and can be done anywhere, any time. Or at least it should be. If breastfeeding in public is considered trendy nowadays I do not see why people can't get away with a quick wank. Provided it is done tastefully and discreetly of course. Perfectly natural act, isn't it? A beautiful part of nature. That's what I am always told when some complete stranger gets her tits out to shut up her troublesome offspring. Well, so is masturbation.
   Some very scary, normally strictly Christian, people allege that it may lead people to want to have sex so desperately they may go and rape someone. These people do not know what they are talking about. After a wank most people can't be bothered to make a cup of tea, let alone go and jump some poor student in the park. And I imagine the more often you do it, the lazier you get about finding someone else to worry about. So it is perfectly clear masturbation is good for you. The thing is though, nobody really cares whether it is.

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Never mind about getting a bunch of washed-up nobody's out of a well-paid jungle holiday, when can we get those two twats, generally known as Ant and Dec, off my television screen? One day they will cause me to lose my temper and thrown our telly out of the window, which would be rather unfortunate for the people living below. Every time they get excited, I need tranquillisers. And it's not like there's any avoiding them. They are in ads, magazines, even on the night screen.
   What have we done to deserve this? Okay, pensioners might like them, but that is only because they can't see very well and they think they are a pair of circus midgets, which I think they might be. And they are giving Geordies a bad name. Geordies are the only English we tend to get along with, and then the two of them turn up. It's a disgrace. If I were in charge of Geordie-land I would immediately revoke their birth certificate and demand if they want to acts like tits, they should do so in an appropriate accent. Say, East Anglian. Or Brummie. And punishment for disobeying should be nothing less than instant removal of the tonsils and other assorted loose bits in the back of the mouth, using a pair of piping hot pliers.
   Actually, that I would watch. The two of them being led up to a scaffold, different camera angles and a few replays of course, and then tied to a post. Hey, they think torturing B-list celebrities is fun, so I don't see why they can't join in themselves. Prise their mouths open, stick a nice wooden stick with pointy ends in their mouths so if they bite down it will go straight through the pallet and into the brain cavity or out of the chin, and then very slowly start tugging at the first red fleshy bit you see dangling about, before moving on to the vocal chords. Maybe the viewers can vote who loses what. Whoever passes out first loses. Sounds like a far more enjoyable show to me.

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Apparently I do not inspire a great deal of faith in people. This worries me slightly. I am nothing if not consistent. Yet people still assume silly things, for no reason whatsoever. You are in love once, and immediately people assume you change into a bumbling idiot, drooling on himself, writing poems and studying colour combinations for the next bouquet of flowers to buy. Someone actually asked me whether I had started believing in a 'one true love'. That's taking it a bit far isn't it? How mushy do they expect my brain to get?
   I like this concept. That somewhere in the world is not only someone that you will fall unconditionally in love with, but that said person also feels the same about you. It is strangely comforting. Trouble is, there are over six billion people on planet earth, and as of yet nobody has managed to prove there aren't any more somewhere out there. If I do have one true love out there, how am I going to find her? She may very well speak a different language. Statistically the chance is actually quite considerable.
   And what if my true love just happens to have been born in Rwanda or Palestine? She may have died as an infant. All of a sudden the level of comfort has dropped substantially. It seems to me most of the people who believe in a single true love are normally ultra-religious hicks from the south of the States, who usually find this one person just happens to live seven doors down the road in Crapville, population 2,587. I have a slight logistical problem with that idea.
How much effort is supposed to go into finding this one true love anyway? Presumably it is considered bad form to just sleep around until you come across the one. But then it sounds like a lot of work to actually go out and try to locate this single special person. And it would be a bit of a coincidence if this person not only exists, but is somewhere nearby and happens to come across your path. It sounds a bit like divine intervention to me. Maybe that's why all these Americans believe in it. Which I suppose means us heathens will just have to settle for a 'next best thing'.

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You have to wonder; do mercenaries have a sense of pride? If you are going to be a contract killer presumably your sense of morality is just that tiny bit askew, but surely everybody has a limit. I am just asking because it seems drug dealers in Manchester have put out a contract on the life of a prison employee. In itself hardly the most unusual thing you will hear this week, except that said employee is actually canine.
   It turns out one of the sniffer dogs at Manchester prison is so good at his job local hoodlums want the pooch taken care of. So seriously are prison officials taking this, that they are refusing to name the poor dog, in case it is traced and put down by an assassin. It's difficult to see how, but perhaps in the north of England it is common to list your pets in the phone book. Maybe he has been awarded a medal by the Home Secretary (well, he does seem rather fond of dogs; he is always following a bitch around), and has been included on the electoral roll.
   But what I would like to know is how they know this. Has the prison received a letter in the dog's name, written in letters cut out of newspapers and spelling out a death threat? Or has one of the informers on the inside squealed? Perhaps an attempt on its life has already been made and the failed hired hand confessed to it all when he was arrested. More importantly, has the dog been made aware of the threats? Has he been offered counselling and a safe-house? Surely the Home Office has a duty of care towards its employees.

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I do try to limit my political commentary to a minimum, but this week politicians have just been kicking up so much of a fuss it is simply impossible to ignore them. First some prick in the Labour party gives in to his instincts and decides to set fire to a building for no reason, and then Boris Johnson gets the sack because he slept with one of his columnists. Shouldn't these people be running the country or doing something equally unimportant?
   I do sympathise with Boris. For a great number of reasons. First of all, he is not in the Labour Party. This implies character to start with. I also approve of editors shagging columnists and I am not just saying that because I work with attractive and exclusively female editors. In addition I do feel, though Boris' wife will probably disagree with me on this one, that setting fire to a building is worse than shagging someone you are not married to. Not to mention the fact Michael Howard and morality are two things that should not be included in the same sentence unless they are separated by terms such as 'complete and utter lack of'.
   Apart from the circumstances I have always been a great fan of Boris. He has an honesty not a single other politician has. In politics there are three types of politicians. Those who pretend to be in touch with the working class, those who are, and Boris. When you put Tony Blair or Oliver Letwin anywhere near a council estate, heavily protected by police officers naturally, they invariably start to look like a baboon who has just realised he is about to be forced to do a bungee jump. And yet they always make sure to tell the reporters they feel completely comfortable. On the other hand of course you have Tommy Sheridan, who wouldn't know what to do if he is not surrounded by people in shellsuits and carrying knives.
   And then there is Boris. Boris doesn't do working class. Boris barely does middle class. Boris, quite frankly, uses a version of the English language that baffles even those of us who are quite familiar with it. I studied English in college but up until last week I don't think I had ever come across the word 'piffle' before. It's like reading German. You can pick up what it means from the context, but I had to look it up nonetheless to make sure it meant what I thought it meant. And they sent the man to Liverpool!
   Boris is completely unashamed he does not fit in with the rest of the world, and therefore probably the most honest Tory of the bunch. Whoever he wants to shag is a matter entirely for him and his wife, and certainly not an issue Michael Howard should get involved in. Let's face it; would you like to have Michael Howard having a say in your sex life?

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As it stands, we are still allowed to breathe. But not too loudly. And it may all change. The way they are currently banning things I am surprised we are still allowed to pee in a cup at the doctor's office. Or pass water at all. This week alone they have been going on about banning smoking in pubs, outlawing happy hour and other drinks promotions and cutting adverts for junk food. As if banning happy hours is going to prevent people from binge drinking. It is merely going to mean they have to pay more money, get further into debt, buy more expensive drinks and leap off a bride somewhere. The latter certainly being an effective way of stopping binge drinking, but perhaps not the preferable one.
   And why just junk food on telly? Isn't coffee bad for you? We should impose an immediate ban on all adverts for coffee or coffee products. And how many people die in traffic every year? Axe car advertisements, and all ads that end with a Motorway exit. I can also think of one or two good reasons to get rid of the MoD commercials if we are looking out for the safety of the target audience. Movie adverts only encourage people to sit around in a cinema and munch popcorn, so that will need to go as well.
   And I seriously wish they would lay off my pubs already. Smoking is seriously not the most pressing issue here. Some people claim other people smoking next to me may kill me slowly, but they still allow these same people to put on Jon Bon Jovi songs on the jukebox, and I know for a fact that is slowly killing me. You want to make the pub a safer environment? Put an immediate ban on Australian bartenders who do not know the difference between beer and lager. These people are a serious health hazard. Both to mine and their own. Or loud Americans. Students. Ugly people. Stupid people. Shit, smokers are the only people I get on with in the pub.

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I have a confession to make. On occasion I have been known to read the Daily Star. But I have never actually bought it. But that is immediately where my defence ends. It is inexcusable, I know. It doesn't even have Hagar the Horrible. But it does have a very good advice column. And some very interesting articles. According to a recent one, five years from now our love lives will be completely run by mobile phones.
   This is bad news for me. Though I am currently still in an intentional state of celibacy, I was not exactly planning to continue this policy for the rest of my life, and as I do not own a mobile phone it would seem ever having sex again is going to be problematic. Just my fucking luck. Just because I happen to think actually talking to someone is more interesting than sending them a txt msg, I am doomed to remain abstinent for the rest of my days.
   Fortunately I do think phone companies may have overlooked a few things, and I predict that if in five years indeed all sexual advances will be made through the airwaves and satellite link-ups, there will be a vast group of people going underground, into the domain of internet chat rooms and ill-lit public houses, to hide from the spreading menace of the mobile phone.
   For one thing, according to the people behind these claims you will no longer have to flirt with a faceless person through text messaging, your phone will actually let you see the person you are trying to chat up straight away! I have a sneaking suspicion this will not be to everybody's liking. Being faceless for many is the only way they are going to ever receive sexy messages. Their dreams will be ruined. Basically what I am leading up to is that I will end up sleeping only with technophobes and ugly people, but at least I will not have to worry about how big my handset is.

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I have great respect for Michael Moore. I really do. He is a great writer and an even better filmmaker. In many respects I even agree with him. But occasionally he just irritates me. On occasion he makes me realise just what it is about liberals so many people, including myself, hate. Not all of them of course. Just the radical, green-wingers. The ones that keep telling us it's society that is to blame. The people who feel sorry for child molesters who were beaten by their parents.
   Mr Moore, which is of course the only proper way of addressing a man of his stature, is planning to make a sequel to his recent masterpiece, Fahrenheit 9/11. All good news so far. But he is doing this because he feels Bush's reelection was due to the people being misinformed, and if they can be shown the truth they will all see the error of their ways. For an intelligent man he does seem to spend an awful lot of time in La-la-land.
   These people are not misinformed. The fact they did not go to school, cannot spell and get an erection every time they see John Wayne on television is terribly sad of course, but this is not why they voted for Bush. They voted for Bush because they are cunts. Complete and utter fucking fascist cunts. They are the reason so many people across the globe do not want to talk to Americans. In the last thirty-six hours I have read a report in the Times casually mentioning a sergeant murdering a wounded man trying to crawl away, watched American television footage of a soldier murdering an unarmed man and saw a BBC report in which a lance corporal with the US marines admitted to shooting a man who was asleep. They also get these reports. They know. They also know about Cheney's support for apartheid. They know about the concentration camp, the murdering of civilians and the police state that is being created around them. And they love it.
   I am not suggesting all Americans are bastards of course, but 51% per cent of those who turned up to vote did re-elect a man who in any decently run society would have been tried, convicted and executed for war crimes a long time ago. Most of the others do not have too much a problem with him and almost everyone would follow the man if they were told to do so. This may be difficult to swallow for many, but a lot of Americans are simply very unpleasant people.
   If you look at the Iraqi people, only a very tiny minority of them actually supported Saddam Hussein. A minuscule portion of the population agreed with all the torture and killing. Consequently statistically speaking at least the vast majority of people killed by our troops were actually enemies of Saddam. Yet in the United States the tyrant ruling has the support of his people. Which means to combat the rise of fascism you would be better off firing a missile into New York than you would be to fire it into Baghdad. In the former you would kill mainly people who freely choose to live under the rule of a maniac, whereas in Baghdad you would hit mainly helpless victims of one.
   The problem is that people like Michael Moore like to think the vast majority of people are actually quite pleasant. They are not. We are an extremely nasty breed of creatures. America is just a shining example of human nature. We like to wipe out species we consider inferior, and we like to watch them suffer as we do it. Like kids ripping the wings off an insect we watch people being killed in Iraq. And Americans are not alone in this, because next year you can rest assured Labour too will be re-elected.

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As worrying as extremism may be, I have always taken great comfort from the fact the vast majority of extremists are a bunch of simple nitwits being manipulated by the far more intelligent ones. All forms of extremism are based on this. When was the last time you heard of a university professor suicide bomber? Not that I am implying stupid people can not be of use to an extremist cause, they are normally the heart and soul of any offensive, but you do need them in great numbers. One simpleton alone is society's greatest hope.
   So it came as little less than an utter shock to me to learn that German extremists are actually starting to get quite observant. Some of them have come up with frankly quite genius manners of evading the strict anti-Nazi laws and yet still manage to piss off grandmothers and left-wingers. Take the clothing company Consdaple for example. They make T-shirts or jumpers with the brand name on the front. All the dedicated skinhead has to do is unzip his or her jacket and cover up the four outer letters. The result is a clear NSDAP. Shocking, but fucking clever of them.
   Whether you agree with the anti-Nazi laws in Germany or not -personally I don't-, I am sure everyone will agree that if a bunch of white-power extremists can think of clever ways to get on our tits, we should immediately do the same. I think therefore we should all write to IKEA and demand henceforth all products come with nuts and bolts that require a six-pointed metal thingy to screw them in. I am sure having to stare at a Star of David every time they look at their furniture will make them so much happier little skinheads.

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I think it is high time we start putting this anti-terrorism legislation to good use and immediately bang up this Mike Watson in the secure section of Barlinnie. That'll fucking teach him to try and set fire to our wonderful city. These Labour politicians just can't help themselves, can they? Every time they see some sort of historic site they have to raze the place to the ground. I think it's because of all our opposition to the war in Iraq. He probably saw a Muslim walking around the hotel without being shot or tortured and got so upset he immediately tried to burn him alive.
   It does go to show, doesn't it? This man is a respected member of the Labour party and even sits in our parliament. He probably has protection provided by the state (meaning us tax payers). We pay his salary. And what does he do? He tries to set fire to a hotel. I realise he represents Glasgow, but surely burning down the capital is hardly the most mature way to vent your frustration. That's the trouble with politicians, you see. Once they get started with destroying property for no apparent reason they can't stop.
   There is good news as well of course. Because of his own party's policies we now no longer need to provide any proof of guilt. So, tie a couple of electrodes around his testicles, smack him around a few times and off to Guantanamo Bay it is for Lord Watson. Or maybe we can just parachute him into Fallujah with nothing but a handgun and a pair of Union Jack underpants. If he likes to watch things burn, he will feel right at home there.

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When I was hitch hiking in the United States a few years ago one of the people kind enough to give me a ride spent a good ten minutes following along the motorway an armoured van transporting cash. He realised damn well it wasn't very likely, but he had a point when he said every once in a while you did read one of these things burst open and two weeks later red-faced police officers stand around at a press conference pleading with the good citizens to please return the five hundred thousand bank notes still missing and needed to prevent the local economy from collapsing.
   I thought it rather amusing. But I find myself doing the same thing. As I was casually strolling through Tollcross, having forgot entirely why it was I had gone there in the first place, I noticed one of those enormous Reliance prison transport trucks rolling past. Now I know these things have all been tested rigorously since the last person managed to climb through a hole somewhere, but I couldn't help myself from stopping and watching the thing in the hope a hatch would fly off and one lucky convict would emerge on the roof before making off like greased lightning down Morrison Street. Or into the pub.
   Isn't it typical we all expect some fuck-up? We don't follow money-vans in the hope it safely reaches its destination, do we? And I was awfully disappointed when all the dangerous characters inside that truck were safely tucked away in their cells that night. A few years ago I actually watched the opening ceremony of the World Series when Bush threw the ceremonial first pitch, just in case somebody shot him. When nobody did it ruined the rest of the game for me. Somehow when everything goes according to plan things aren't interesting. Maybe that is why the A-Team is no longer on the telly.

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These are strange times to live in. I am getting awfully confused and do question my ability to think rationally anymore. Some might even argue I am not really myself anymore, but we shall leave that to the philosophers. It's all to do with sex. How very Freudian. Though in my case my relatives have nothing to do with it. Or anybody else for that matter. That is the whole issue.
   I have gone through extensive spells of celibacy in the past of course, but never before voluntarily. I'm beginning to feel like one of those scary American fundamentalists taking pledges in church to retain their virginity until marriage. It's not natural. And to add to the whole confusion, I have found monogamy is difficult when you are in a relationship, but even more so when you are not. 'Mono' may suggest only a very small number; it is most definitely more than none. You try and be loyal to someone you are not with. Quite a challenge.
   This is not the worrying part though. What is truly troubling is that somehow my whole being is getting used to the idea. During previous periods of involuntary chastity I had testosterone cascading out of my ears, now it only surges up along with adrenalin when some English twat head-butts me in the face, mistakenly thinking he is some sort of alpha-male. It's only a matter of time before I pick up flower arranging or collecting interesting postage stamps.
   Somehow men pick up on testosterone levels in other men, and I have noticed recently other big hairy blokes like myself are not in the least bit bothered to leave me alone with their girlfriends. That's just embarrassing. The fact I have no intention of sleeping with them shouldn't mean I am not to be considered a threat. I am a dangerous man you know!
   To top it all off I was genuinely excited when I came home from the pub the other night and found sprawled on my bed, lying seductively and quite naked with all sorts of kinky accessories, a laptop computer. What is wrong with me? Soon I shall be discussing gadgets, joining sci-fi clubs and shy away from women while muttering all girls have cooties. I will be everything I have learned to despise! I might just as well learn how to put on a tie. This cannot be allowed to continue. Someone come and slap me. But not too hard, because I am feeling a bit fragile at the moment.

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I have no idea where this notion comes from, but The Netherlands is not a tolerant society. Never has been as far as I am aware. This is the country that welcomed German Jews in the thirties by interning them in camps, located near the German border for extra convenience. And after five years of occupation its first priority after the war was to reassert control over its colonies with ruthless policies of persecution. The fact gay people can now marry in Holland by no means stops it from being an extremely racist state. In the last few years the Dutch people voted overwhelmingly for a politician so disgustingly anti-Muslim he makes Kilroy-Silk seem like the model of tolerance, and unlike people in Britain have not the slightest problem with their army backing US soldiers butchering, mutilating and torturing tens of thousands of Arabs in Iraq.
   And yet they still manage to amaze me. It seems like the whole country, from the government down, has gone insane after last week's murder of filmmaker Theo van Gogh. He has instantly turned into a popular legend and martyr of free speech. Not bad for a man whose idea of humour was cracking jokes about the Holocaust in front of Jewish colleagues. Though of course that is certainly in line with the Dutch sense of tolerance.
   In response to his slaying mosques have been set on fire, an Islamic school has been blown up and the government has promised to crack down on Islamic extremists, stripping those Muslim fundamentalists with dual nationality of their Dutch citizenship. Now get this: van Gogh's murderer will be prosecuted under anti-terrorism legislation, and the bomb attack on the school is considered to be a backlash. In other words stabbing and shooting a man is terrorism, but blowing up a school is not. Nor does anybody point out perhaps Holland's policy of persecuting Muslims at home and abroad (the Dutch were one of the first confirmed US allies before the invasion and occupation of Iraq) may have been the trigger and the murder itself was a backlash.
   Suppose I fly to Amsterdam tomorrow. I'm blond, so I will have no problem getting in. In broad daylight I find a Muslim and stab him a multitude of times before carving a swastika in his forehead. And then suppose the next day an Islamic extremist blows up a Christian school. Who do you think is going to be charged with terrorism? I can guarantee you it will certainly not be little blond me.
   The same goes for the crackdown. I am all for getting tough with fundamentalists and stripping them off their nationality. The problem I have with any government declaring war on Islamic extremists is the adjective. I would have thought the problem was with the extremism. But if it is, why add Islamic? Why not all extremism? Why not strip American/Dutch dual nationals of their citizenship if they are members of the KKK? What about Dutch/Israelis in the Occupied Territories?
   One Dutch politician has already vowed to form a new political party to put a stop to immigration. An interesting idea, especially if you consider the film that caused van Gogh's murder was written by a Nigerian living in the Netherlands. A severely anti-Muslim one. Is she going to be kicked out as well? Or just Muslims? The Dutch are already repatriating Iraqi refugees because apparently it is perfectly safe there. Perhaps they should just re-open these camps.

---

I am slowly approaching the age where people telling you to get your life sorted start to make sense. Whereas in younger years you could dismiss them as a bunch of scaremongers and boring old farts sooner or later you will have to realise your hairline will begin to recede and resurface in your nose. And being carefree, without a job and single is pretty cool at first, but before you know it you shall spend your working days filling coffee cups for rich pricks and your retirement playing checkers with a man whose name you can't quite remember.
   First things first. I have decided upon a career. As soon as I can find someone willing to hire me I shall commence work giving advice to poor souls writing into magazines and newspapers. My extensive research into this field leads me to believe I am perfectly capable of doing the job. Just advise people to leave their husbands, visit their GP's or both, depending on the gravity of the situation.
   Relationships I think could be my specialty. Some would argue the fact my last girlfriend moved to the opposite end of the country after we broke up indicates I am completely useless at these things, but actually it shows great personal improvement, as my previous girlfriend moved to the opposite end of the planet after we broke up.
   Preferably I would like to hold a position with a magazine based far away, such as Canada or South Africa, just in case a particular piece of advice I give out does not go down well. In such cases it would be better if it's published in a country I am unlikely to visit anytime soon. The United States springs to mind as the most obvious example of such a nation. Wouldn't I be a great person to advise fat American housewives on how to live their lives?

---

Flicking through my scrapbook of newspaper cuttings I came across a letter sent into the Times regarding the making up of new words. As we are all aware if you fail to pay full attention for a couple of weeks you will miss at least three terms our youngsters, corporate team leaders or the armed forces have introduced into our wonderful language. It is now entirely possible to 'offshore' your contracts, 'gitmo things up' and be 'wicked' in a good way. And if you managed to follow all of those you will undoubtedly also be aware of the tremendously popular noun-turned-verb to text, which in its relatively short existence has already proved to be so versatile it has two versions of its past tense: text or texted.
   I am proud to be more of a traditionalist. I refuse to abbreviate using numbers, do not use singular verbs with plural pronouns and do not employ accusatives when I should use nominatives. Most importantly, if I do not know how to spell or pronounce a word, I do not use it. This means of course I am incapable of having a conversation with anyone born after 1985, but rarely have I been tempted anyway.
   The good thing about the aforementioned letter was that it contained a new word not based on abbreviations or modern technology, but a firm Latin root. The word in question is the verb to testiculate. To wave your arms about and talk a load of bollocks. Conjugated as a regular verb. I testiculate, you testiculate, Donald Rumsfeld testiculates.
   To combat the rise of adolescent-speak and the decline of words with a classical background I feel it is my duty to try and introduce this word into our daily vocabulary. It would greatly help if everyone could start using it to describe speeches by elderly relatives and I am greatly looking forward to hearing it mentioned on the six o'clock news.

---

Things were going so well. All through the American election night there was a comfortable calm upon me. To me an election between the Christian Right and the Extreme Christian Right is indeed a battle of two evils, but the lesser still being enough of an evil to be invited over to Lucifer's for dinner. So I didn't give a toss. Kerry took the lead, and I shrugged. Bush won, and I shrugged again. All was fine. Until that bastard opened his fucking hole.
   Bearing in mind the man is paid to be prime minister of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland I found it rather unsettling to hear Tony Blair announce America had spoken, and the world should listen. Is this his idea of the new world order? A bunch of Yanks say jump and we leap up as high as we can manage? This kind of masochism may give him a warm tingling feeling in the scrotum, but no matter how many Americans speak, they can all fuck off as far as I am concerned. It's one of the many reasons I live here and not over there.
   But it does indicate how serious Blair is about democracy. The world didn't vote for the Bush administration. Even with the largest turn-out and the most votes any US president has ever received, less than one per cent of the world population voted for the man. And many if not most of this tiny minority are white, male, anti-abortion, anti-gay ultra-religious Christians.
   This is the democracy Blair promotes. Where the majority have to obey the miniscule group of pre-selected members of the preferred race, religion and nationality. If he is compelled to do their bidding he is more than welcome to renounce his citizenship, move to Mississippi, put on a pointy hat and set fire to crosses, but don't come telling the rest of us we should listen to these extremists.

---

I have very many talents. As far as I am aware most of them come naturally, some developed accidentally and others were inflicted upon me by hapless figures of authority or other people of great significance I have come across in my lifetime. The result is astonishing. One of my single greatest talents has to be the ability to in very little time and without any harm intended upset people so tremendously they either run away to sob in private or kick me in a very sensitive part of my body and let me do the crying. It comes natural to me.
   And that's not all. I also possess the almost super-human ability to set fire to food products deemed entirely inflammable, make police constables like me instantly despite being a loud long-haired pisshead and I am possibly the only person on the planet fervently adored by infants even though I am actually petrified of them, rather than the other way around. And I can pronounce words in both French and German.
   But most impressively of all, I have the ability to surprise myself. Seriously catch myself off guard. This makes life so much more interesting. It's amazing to find yourself in the process of doing something you hadn't previously imagined yourself capable of. It's like meeting a new friend. A friend you will probably end up in therapy over, granted, but a companion nonetheless.
   Some of these cohorts worry me a little. While I wasn't paying any attention last week one of them sat around playing Rammstein albums and writing a rather disturbing tale of mutilation. When my regular self read it back chills ran down my spine. Not because it is that scary, but merely because it seems deep in my subconscious there lurks a very sick mind indeed.
   Whereas I just plain worry myself, people in my surroundings are getting more than slightly distressed. You see, my morbid self wrote the piece, but it is my regular self who is having it proof-read. We can safely conclude people are concerned about me. When you are informed you have a twisted mind by a man who plays in a death metal band and wanted to vomit over a church entrance for the video it indicates a level of mental degradation that often requires medication. Strangers nudged their friends to move over so they could sit farther away from me, and the chances of reconciliation with my ex are slimmer than ever. I just hope it impresses an editor somewhere.

---

I am sure everybody was as happy as I was when the news people this week started informing us all once again that the following report was subject to military censorship. And to add to the whole Comical Ali reminiscence immediately after this we were subjected to some American tit in full uniform talking unashamedly out of his backside.
   Perhaps this is the rule of law they keep promising to restore. They will be restoring the Saddam laws regarding the free press. Entirely different situation of course. Whereas Saddam didn't want the truth to come out, our good friends in Washington merely wish to reassure us. You know, so we can sleep at night knowing nineteen more five-year-olds will never grow up to come and kill us. All a matter of kindness.
   How close are these so-called embedded reporters to these troops anyway? Are they allowed to be present as prisoners are executed by the side of the road or forced to rape one another? Or are they just watching as a helicopter pilot machine guns a few dozen civilians in the street? After all, if they are not there would hardly be a reason to censor them.
   It's for operational reasons. You see, one of the our main aims is to show presence. To let the Iraqis know there are plenty of soldiers. And if journalists go blabbing where these soldiers are, well, that would actually be helping. Can't have any of that. Imagine these people start relying on the troops. Trusting them even. That would be horrible. They would expect these soldiers to be nice to them. And that most definitely is not why Blair is ending over all these kids to kill and be killed.

---

It is a universal fact of life that values change. You may very well be lumbered with a social stigma that won't exist anymore in twenty years time. Or didn't exist in the past. They seem to come in waves. Americans talking about spreading democracy around the globe are also openly anti-gay, even though democracy was invented by a group of people who practiced homosexuality freely and proudly. And here in Britain the same old-fashioned conservatives complaining about men with long hair like to wear a wig when they are in court.
   So let's do away with all this nonsense. From now on no more stigmas. Hair grows naturally, men shagging other men seems to work with very little complications and while we are at it I think cannibalism should also be considered normal. It would make sense. We are called omnivores for a good reason. We should eat everything. First-year biology stuff here. Hardly university science involved.
   After all, a few nasty diseases aside, what harm can it do? We are running out of burial plots at an alarming rate, so why burn a body to a cinder when instead you could just bake for a few hours and serve as a healthy and nutritious meal for the whole family? Add a few veggies and some herbs et voila! We could even feed unclaimed corpses to the homeless. I think it would do our society a lot of good.

---

It is always good to hear Scots excel at something within the UK. Or anywhere for that matter. So it was great to hear we are now officially the fattest of all Britons. This takes some effort, and we should all be proud of ourselves. Have another cake and a pint of dark ale and give yourselves a pat on the shoulder. On average we men have an average waistline of 50 inches, which is a good 12 above the British average. That's a foot more of us to love.
   I just love scientists who try and make us laymen understand what it is they mean when they come up with their figures. Apparently we will not be able to understand their jargon. Especially when it includes fruits. Because fat people are now classed according to the fruit they resemble. There's apples and pears. Apples carry excess weight on their waist (beer belly), and pears store it on their hips (fat arse). We would never have been able to work that out for ourselves.
   Now besides the fact this makes Scots not only renowned for their tendency to knife people, beating their wives and smoking like chimneys but also for being fat slobs, this raises another interesting point. Apples, which we are at the moment, are more at risk from heart disease and other things that kill you when you least expect it, so these wonderful people are now suggesting, no kidding, we aim to go pear shaped.
   Naturally slimming down would be even better, but hey, we are not expecting miracles. Now, I don't know how others feel about this, but I have very little desire to lose my beer gut only to need two seats on the bus. Blocked arteries and heart attacks notwithstanding, big hips are for girls. It looks good on them. Who are these people? First they tell everybody we are the fattest, and then they want us to try and look more feminine on top. That way the people down south can claim we all look like fat chicks up here. Great idea.

---

That's it. I am converting. From now on I am going to be a Christian. A charitable one even. I believe it to be my calling in life. How hard can it be? You cross yourself before dinner and twice a year you go to one of those tall buildings where children get molested. Piece of piss really. Not quite sure which branch of Christianity I shall be affiliating myself with yet, but frankly, I don't care.
   The thing is, I am getting into the whole religion thing to get a shag out of it. I have noticed the lassies working in the Christian charity shops are extraordinarily pretty, and I will need a good excuse to get talking them. I suppose I could pick out an old Judas Priest LP and ask them whether they have played it backwards recently, but I doubt this will have the desired effect.
   I have legitimate business in these shops, I will have you know. It's not like I stalk these people. I don't stand in a corner of the shop, hands in my pockets, rubbing myself, tempting as it may be. It's one of these things you have to do in your life. Shag in a graveyard, vomit on a police officer, piss on a church, pour a pint over a politician, masturbate in public. The essential achievements. But no, I buy audio equipment from my Christian brethren. I know. It usually comes as quite a shock to them as well.
   Sounds great though. I have blessed speakers. It is great to know that poor people will be fed holy soup because I want to play Black Sabbath through a dozen speakers, some installed under my bed so it vibrates in tune with the song. If only I could get one of the assistants to join me there. Now that would truly be a religious experience. Well worth converting for.

---

Very rarely have I considered the use of my left middle finger. It's just one of those digits you never think about. That you only use in conjunction with the fingers next to it. Come to think of it, it may very well be the least used finger I possess. I don't even use it for typing. The only reason for its existence that I can come up with is the fact I may lose another one and after extensive training I can use it to substitute the missing one.
   Nonetheless it came as a bit of a shock when I nearly chopped the top off. It wasn't my fault of course. I was neither the person who set the house rule that Damien is under no circumstances to touch any of the sharp kitchen utensils, nor was I the one breaking the rule by handing me the biggest, shiniest, sharpest, most menacing blade we own. The kind of knife rebels in South America use to chop up bodies.
   I would like to say I screamed like a little girl. But I didn't. It was far worse. Worse even than a grown man accidentally hitting his thumb with a hammer. I wailed like a dog being kicked in the testicles. A little bit of an exaggeration for a finger I don't even utilise to pick my nose. Besides, I had managed to only chop my way through the nail, and all the fleshy parts were still attached. Nonetheless I have found just how underrated this finger is. You use it when you are unbuttoning your trousers. It's amazing what you can learn after an evening of cooking.

---

It is with great delight that I found the other day apparently there are no flak jackets in Ariel Sharon's size. This came as a bit of surprise to me, but a welcome one nonetheless. It is comforting to know the Israelis can exile 6 million people, build an entire wall to steal huge tracts of land, blow up kids without any sense of morality, yet can't make a bullet-proof vest for their prime minister.
   What good would it do anyway? You would need one hell of a high velocity bullet to penetrate that much of a gut. Shit, you could probably pump a few of those explosive rounds into him and you'll still only get down to the seventh protective fat layer. But we can always hope. I wonder how big they do make flak jackets. Do they have them in Dick Cheney's size? What about Colin Powell?
   Any half-decent assassin will have to take these things into consideration of course. For example, if you were to shoot Geoff Buff-Hoon you couldn't aim for his head. Would have no effect whatsoever. I suppose you could shoot him in the arse. Stop him talking out of it for a while at least. But won't kill him. I don't think any contract killer could shoot Blair in the head either. You'd get awfully distracted by the ears. And they do have flak jackets in his size, but unfortunately no post-natal abortion sets that would rid us of the man. So he would be a hard man to kill. I suppose we would have to go for the Mussolini approach. An entire firing squad and suspended upside down from a lamppost somewhere. Problem is of course if you want to do the entire cabinet you would need a post strong enough to hold John Prescott.

---

Regardless of the sport you may be watching on television, you can rest assured there will at least one shot of a big-breasted fake-tanned blonde wearing expensive jewellery. No professional sportsman should be without one. You don't have to be too good-looking, clever or even good at whatever sport you may be paid for; there will always be a voluptuous woman there to show her face on telly.
   That is to say, all sports except for darts. One could easily argue that chucking a few pins at a board is hardly a sport, but then neither is 22 men who by all accounts should be sitting around in a hair salon kicking a ball about. You stick four wives of professional darts players in a room, and any hapless spectator will expect a market pig sale to commence shortly. It is one big gathering of chain-smoking overweight monsters and their sidekicks.
   It's obvious to see why of course. They play darts. These people live at home until they are 31. And they only leave then because they have found a woman remarkably like their mothers, who has offered to feed them, support them financially and iron their comic book hero underpants. It is perfectly understandable. But there is no reason to subject us poor viewers to it.

---

There should be a rule. In fact, let's instate this rule right now. The rule is that when two people fight it should be physically obvious who won. The loser is the one who should look like he has just taken a beating. It would make sense, wouldn't it? It doesn't make any sense when it is the other way around.
   I mean, it was obvious I won. There was not a doubt in anyone's mind I had won the fight. Three guys had to drag me off the bloke after I had put him on his arse and had my knee on his throat. I had beaten my opponent. As my name obliges me, I was victorious. Unfortunately I was also the one bleeding all over the shop. It is not fair. Here I am, having vanquished mine enemy, and I am the one with blood dripping down my face.
   The guy walked away with a few bruises I am sure. Where he landed presumably, and in all probability where my boot connected, but I was being pulled along the road by three complete strangers before he could get hurt any more. He didn't have alcohol poured on his open wounds by kind bar staff. So from now on there will be no more of this crap. Whoever loses the fight can wipe dried blood from his chin, and the victor can go and drink a beer.

---

I am suffering from a rare psychological disorder. Somewhere somehow evolution screwed up. How it happened I have no idea, but I am suffering from belated puberty. I didn't really go through it when I was a teenager. That is to say, the annoying pointless rebellion part of it. Naturally I did start growing hair in very private places that are normally kept warm by several layers of clothing anyway, acne had its cruel ways with me and my voice went from an embarrassing squeaky kids voice to a deep masculine grunt that is only good for scaring old ladies in dark alleyways or selling coffee on television.
   But I never did the whole standing around the corner from my house for an hour just to be late. Nor did I throw tantrums whenever we had broccoli. And I certainly never played crap music just to annoy my parents, or started disliking good music just because they liked it. It could easily be suggested that I was quite a boring teenager when it came to the generation battle.
   But now, a decade on, I find myself engaged in such mindlessly childish activities it frightens me. Just to spite people. Only the other day I found myself feeding squirrels. Just because my ex hates them. And I don't even like squirrels. It's actually the first thing we ever agreed on, that squirrels were the spawn of Satan. And here I am sacrificing perfectly good biscuits to make them happy.
   And for what? The squirrels are pleased, I am not and without a shadow of a doubt if my ex found out she would give less than a shit. Which is the exact reverse of what I was aiming for. And at least had I done this when I was sixteen I wouldn't have to explain myself. Some responsible adult would have questioned me over it, and I would just lock myself in my room with Motorhead's greatest hits. Now I am the responsible adult, and it is very difficult to storm off from myself. What kind of a biological clock have I been lumbered with here?

---

These bible stories are wilder than I had ever imagined. I am actually starting to feel sorry I didn't read this stuff any earlier. Though I do now understand why I was raised an atheist. Just from reading Genesis. Never, not even in Greek mythology, did I come across so much incest as I did in the first book of the bible. You try and draw a family tree of that lot. You wouldn't stand a chance. You would need 3D sketching and one hell of a diseased tree for that.
   With that kind of background it is hardly surprising then that Moses had a slight disability. In fact, it is quite a miracle he wasn't born with a third eye or something. If you consider the fact his mother was also his grandfather's sister (his dad married his own aunt), he was awfully lucky to get off with only a speech impediment.
   This is something nobody had ever told me. I grew up with all sorts of religious people all around me, yet I can't remember any of them ever mentioning the person splitting the Red Sea having a cleft pallet as well. In fact, it doesn't say what kind of speech impediment he had, but I am terribly amused by the idea of the man coming down from Mount Sinai and announcing thou shalt not k-k-k-k-k-kill. Or thou thalt not thwear falthly. At least it does show that God had a modern mind, because She was obviously an equal opportunities employer.

---

Conspiracy theorists are going through a difficult time at the moment. These theories only really work if nobody believes them. Because most of us believe Neil Armstrong landed on the moon in 1969, claiming that the American government lied about it qualifies. Similarly I don't know single mentally stable individual who actually believes the Israelis were behind the Twin Towers attacks, so that too is a valid theory.
   Trouble is, our government is now coming out with so much crap, nobody believes them anymore. And as such the conspiracy nutter, be it of the left or right-wing persuasion, casually blends in with the masses, which is exactly where he or she does not wish to be. Take the latest decision not taken by the government. We are now going to send 650 Scottish soldiers to the American zone in Iraq. According to Geoff Buff-Hoon no decision has been made yet, but they will go.
   According to Geoff we would fail as an ally if we did not send off our lads to die for the American cause. That is certainly one way of looking at it. Another would be to say he wouldn't be much of a collaborator. Only last year these same people were telling us if they wanted the Yanks could do it all by their lonesome, and it was out of pure kindness to us that they allowed us to join in the fun of blowing up people and torturing the ones that lived. Now they are telling us they can't even control their own sector. So which one is it?
   Of course this has nothing at all to do with the election in the US. Of course not. It is to do with the carpet bombing of Fallujah, which itself isn't at all scheduled to take place conveniently after the polls have closed in case some American teenagers get slaughtered by the people defending their homes and protecting their daughters from an invitation to be raped in Abu Graib. It is baffling to see how gullible the Labour government thinks everybody is. I'm surprised they even bother announcing it. They're going to do it anyway.
   And another thing. Why a Scottish regiment? Surely there are a lot more English soldiers over there. If I remember correctly even the majority of Scottish MP's voted against this war. Perhaps we are returning to colonial policies of sending in darkies, Micks and Jocks first. Not to put too fine a point on it, but the majority of the American people was in favour of this whole debacle. The majority of the British people was not. If they want to sacrifice their kids for the pro-apartheid Dick Cheney and his merry band of murderous criminals they are more than welcome to, but don't expect our soldiers to do your dirty work. Over here we still serve Queen and Country, not an American President with the Prime Minister's tongue up his arse.

---

It must be great to think you are someone else. There are a whole host of people I think I would rather be than myself. Being me isn't interesting in the slightest. But imagine if you could be Julius Caesar for a day! That would surely be a thrilling and enlightening experience, provided of course it is not the day he was stabbed a couple dozen times by his best friends. I will take my boring and lonely life over having a blade thrust between my ribs any day.
   Still, it makes you wonder how many people are out there who are absolutely convinced they are Napoleon Bonaparte, Mary Queen of Scots or Jesus Christ. Most of them will have been safely incarcerated in loony bins and medicated so heavily it doesn't really matter who or what they think they are anymore, though some of them must still be walking around. And it makes walking the streets so much more exciting. Imagine bumping into Attila down the pub. That would liven things up a little.
   What I don't understand though, is why people always think they are people that are dead. Why don't people believe they are David Beckham? That would at least give you the opportunity to give them a hefty kick in the bollocks. Of course it would mean there would be two of the same people, which is unlikely, but on the other hand dead people don't tend to walk around either and besides, if you are that insane logic doesn't really enter into anything, does it?
   I especially love the ones who think they are the reincarnation of Jesus. Mainly because Jesus didn't believe in reincarnation. This seems like an obstacle even the most fervent schizophrenic won't be able to avoid. It's a bit like an English Joan of Arc, or a Jewish Hitler. I think these people shouldn't be locked up; they should be allowed to run amok. They would make life on this planet so much more interesting.

---

Every once in a while someone feeling awfully philosophical will look at you in all your misery, and then tell you whatever doesn't kill us makes us stronger. Provided your obviously irrational friend means well, this is supposed to cheer you up after you have just learned you have testicular cancer, your girlfriend has run off with the other half of your award winning badminton duo, or half your family has just been involved in a plane crash.
   Who came up with this ridiculous idea that if something doesn't kill you it makes you stronger? And more importantly, who are all these twits who use it without so much as questioning it? I've been thinking about this one, and it just doesn't add up. If you were to chop off my leg this would probably not kill me, but you can rest assured it will not exactly strengthen me either. Kidney failure, lung transplants or an arrow through your eye socket qualify as well. I would love to see the doctor explaining to his patient having only one kidney that he has borrowed from someone else will make him stronger.
   People shouldn't talk such nonsense, especially in an age where people die from peanut allergies, breathing in their asbestos-ridden homes or diseases passed on one Friday night in a dark alleyway by a lass in a short skirt with your cock in her mouth. What doesn't kill you will quite probably leave you infertile, disabled or comatose. So if you are trying to cheer people up, please try something slightly more sensible.

---

I don't know how big pockets are in the American offices of the Jewish Publication Society, but here in Scotland they are designed to make absolutely sure nothing can accidentally fall out, and as a result their pocket-sized version of the Tanakh will not fit unless I tear out a good few pages. And even then it would produce bulges in my trousers that will very likely get me thrown out of most respectable establishments.
   The good thing of course is that if someone is dumb enough to break into my house I can use this book to throw at him, possibly making my request for God to damn the bastard more likely to reach its target, and with a single blow to the head knock the bloke unconscious. So I am not complaining. I don't think I was planning to walk around with a copy of the bible all day anyway.
   The thing they didn't tell me in the adverts was that the Hebrew-English version is in fact the Hebrew version with an English translation. Which is all very well, but the story is printed on the same page. As a result Genesis starts roughly two thousand pages from the front, and I have to flick the pages backwards as I am reading on. If that doesn't confuse me, I am sure a few people on the train will be giving me a few strange glances.

---

I am so glad I am not a football fan. It would just be too depressing for me. Life is complicated enough as it stands, and having to bear the trauma our national football team is inflicting on its followers is a task I do not think I would be up to. So it is a great comfort I really only give a damn about rugby and baseball. I can safely wear my national rugby shirt when having a family photograph taken, itself an activity that could do with a referee and a few stewards, as we're not playing at the moment, and therefore not losing. And my baseball team aren't doing all that bad.
   In the meanwhile our football team is drawing with Moldova. Moldova! Not to be mistaken for Moldavia, which in all probability would have beaten us. I can't get over this. Moldova. That's not even a country! I mean, without cheating by looking it up, can anyone point out Moldova on a map? I sure as hell can't. In addition I do not know their system of government, head of state, currency, language or average beer consumption per annum. And therefore it doesn't exist.
   After all, what is the point of existing if nobody knows about you? You would only be laughed at when you try and get through passport control. Where are you from? Bresvaklia? Fuck off. Come back when you have acquired a nationality people have actually heard of. As far as I am aware these qualifying matches are regional, which suggests this Moldova must be somewhere in the vicinity of Europe. When did this happen? What side were they on during the war? And most importantly, why can't they be bribed into losing a football match?

---

I would love to be able to crawl into the mind of Jack Straw. For various reasons. The obvious one being it would present me with the wonderful opportunity of releasing parasitic critters slowly chewing away the inside of his head, causing him to slowly waste away, bleeding from the nose and eyes. But it would also be fascinating to look at the world the way this man does.
   As a member of the Labour government, Jack supports a ban on hunting with dogs. He feels it is cruel to inflict suffering upon an animal that is widely agreed to be a pest. But he does not object to Israeli soldiers hunting Palestinians in tanks and helicopters. In fact, he seems quite keen on the sport. Only last week the murder of eighty Palestinians was not considered bad enough to warrant a demand from Labour to cease the massacre. Meanwhile sixteen blokes in Wiltshire chasing a fox or two are considered cruel.
   This of course means that in the mind of our Foreign Secretary foxes have more rights than Palestinians. Both can be driven from their homes, both can be locked up, both can be shot, but foxes have to be treated humanely, whereas Palestinians can be run over, riddled with bullets, hunted down, blown up or tortured. It must be such a comfort to the hundreds of thousands of Palestinian refugees in Iraq that one of the main people supposedly there to help them considers them to be less than vermin.

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Well, I am now officially a published writer of fiction. It makes me feel very important and sophisticated, it has to be said. The whole world has changed now. And of course I should start acting like it. To begin with, I need to start smoking a pipe. And I need to get a hat, and wear it even when I am in the house. That would make my appearance correspond with my current status, I think you will agree.
   My piece A Quick Guide To Tasmania, written in 1999, appeared in Cutting Teeth last month. As far as I can tell there is one typo in the two-page story, and two in my eleven-letter name. Impressive to say the least. Of course my name is only of secondary importance to the actual story, but as it is the first actual professional publication in tangible form in my life, I am now doomed to be staring at a framed article by a bloke named Damian Callis for the rest of my days.

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Being in foreign countries allows you to enjoy a culture completely unlike your own. One minute you nearly end up under a lorry because you could have sworn traffic has to travel in the opposite direction and the next you find yourself drinking beer that may be very tasty but leaves you with a hangover the likes of which you hope will not plague you, your family or friends for generations to come. You find yourself stuffing your face with food products that very wisely never have the ingredients stated on the package, which you are ultimately grateful for.
   Airports are the best places to enjoy some of the cultural heritage. Shit, you don't even need to go anywhere in a country; just visit the airport. They have all the correct cultural items, traditional cooking and classic art you will ever be able to find in the rest of the land, all within three terminal buildings.
   I was very impressed with the Dutch national airport. There was a McDonalds, as there is in every other airport in the world, and amazingly regardless of the continent you are on, their hamburgers all taste of the same kind of cardboard. Other cultural items of significance included Belgian chocolate, German beer pots and a self-adhesive clothes patch with Che Guevara's face on it. Famous Dutchman, Che.
   And of course there was Anne Frank's diary. In English. No, that is a lie. It is written in modern-speak American. I just have trouble trying to imagine a teenage girl in Second World War Amsterdam speaking hip American. It confuses the fuck out of me. Why can't they just sell a more original copy? These people must be terribly proud of their heritage.

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As most people in my surroundings are well aware, I am hardly an opponent of capitalism, marketing and free trade, but there are limits to what I can understand. I can understand people taking money from drug dealers to turn a blind eye. I don't agree with it, but I can understand the logic behind it. Yet on the plane I found myself confronted with the exact opposite. I didn't object to it, it just baffled me.
   Can anyone think of a single reason why anyone would want to advertise on a standard issue mass-produced paper airline vomit bag? I'm not sure if I would want my company associated with people spewing at take-off. And who is this aimed at? Are we now expected to read the vessel we are depositing our regurgitating bodily fluids into? At what point in the proceedings would this happen? Am I supposed to try and hold my breakfast behind my teeth while I inspect the advertisement, or am I supposed to take this in afterwards, when I am inspecting the thing for leaks?
   And if it is not for the unfortunate soul actually barfing up a perfectly nutritious meal, how sick do you have to be to be staring at someone puking his guts out and still take an interest in the writing on the side? What's next? Perhaps soon we will find toilet paper with adverts on it. Wipe your arse with your favourite brand!

---

Going to an army base is all very exciting, but I have to say I have a small objection to the time we are supposed to be assembling there. Nine o'clock in the bastard morning! Do these people have any idea what time people in the civilian world wake up? Besides the drive over there my morning ritual of showering until I can positively identify 'up' and having breakfast with a cup of tea needs to be observed, or people will die, regardless of how much training they have had.
   What do they expect us to do at nine in the morning? Observe the flag being hoisted up a pole? Are we expected to sing a national anthem of some sort? They can do all of that without me, I am sure. Or are they going to feed us first? A nice wee bowl of army gruel might very well be a wholesome and tasty meal. Well, wholesome anyway. Or have they moved up to bacon and eggs already? May not be as wholesome, but certainly more tasty. An army may march on its stomach; I on the other hand have feet for those kinds of activities. And they need very little feeding.
   I'm not sure if my alarm clock works that early in the morning. Or whether the sun is prepared to rise at such an ungodly time. Thank Christ I am not driving. I'd fall asleep and hit a tree before we had reached the end of the street. I think I shall prepare a nice flask of extraordinarily strong tea and make derogatory remarks all through the day. That I think I can manage. I just hope yawning at officers is not considered insulting in the military.

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Just when you thought things couldn't possibly get any worse with Labour, they invariably do. The unions, supposedly strong and proud men of great principle and all for equality, have overwhelmingly supported the murder of civilians. Provided of course they are not their paying members. While they continue to claim violent repression is the work of a bunch of right-wingers, they themselves have no issue with it whatsoever.
   En masse they adopted a motion that states British troops will only stop helping the Americans rape, mutilate and torture people if 'Iraq' asks them to. This sounds like a highly unlikely scenario. What are the odds of a desert asking us anything? You need to consume a serious amount of drugs before a country will start talking to you. And we are certainly not going to be asking the Iraqi people. Well, maybe a few of them. Not the ones currently being detained of course. Or the ones who have lost their entire families. The ones who have lost their homes, been humiliated in front of American soldiers with video cameras or are still recovering from the latest 'precision strike' that wiped out half a block of women and children.
   No, we are going to be asking the people we have installed there. The people who have only just returned to Iraq after spending decades lying and fantasising about weaponry they knew didn't exist but were more than happy to make up to get a war started. The people supporting the carpet-bombing of their own people, and are exonerating rapists, torturers and murders. The people who would be the first to stand trial for war crimes if an actual democracy were to accidentally break out. Frankly, the chances of them asking for the withdrawal of their private bodyguard are only slightly lower than the desert making such demands.
   It makes you wonder what these union bosses were offered in return for their support. An extra ten pence an hour for rail workers? More tea breaks for postmen? The blood of children is easily bought amongst members of the Labour party. I wonder how these people watch the news. When they watch prisoners with electrical wires attached to their testicles or lying in body bags with grinning American soldiers hunkering over them, do they think: "hey! My pay rise!"?
   And why stop there? If the government were to offer them a ten percent improvement on their pension plan, would they support the opening of another concentration camp such as Guantanamo Bay? How about better medical insurance in return for supporting the invasion and occupation of Iran? Shorter hours for routine torture of prisoners perhaps. Or I will tell you what, why don't we promise them an extra week's paid holiday per year and we start operating the gas chambers again.

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We have bookstores coming out of our ears in Edinburgh. It is after all a city of literature and education. We are very proud of our ability to read. It's what sets us apart from most of the rest of Scotland. And as a result we have dozens of bookstores selling new, used, rare and large print books. There's nothing you can't find if you try. Nothing, that is, besides the Torah. Nowhere to be found. Been in print several thousand years, but hasn't quite made it to Edinburgh yet.
   What kind of anti-Semitic bullshit is this? The only copy I could find was second-hand and in Hebrew, which is a very lovely language and all, but, let's face it, is written in the wrong direction. So that is no good. I'd have to get a dictionary and a mirror, and I suspect it would leave me with a terrible headache. Why can't they just stock a couple of them?
   After all, they have the bible. Too many of them. The bible, the holy bible, the King James bible, the St Arsehole bible, the good news bible, the bad news bible, the bible explained and god knows how many other ones. The Koran you can even get as the Quran, the Qu'uran or simply as the Koran. The closest thing I got to the Torah was a fifty-page book called 'Judaism Explained'. And if you can explain Judaism in fifty pages I am greatly looking forward to your leaflet entitled 'how to become a nuclear physicist in three weeks'.
   This is a conspiracy. Or are there simply no Jews in Scotland? Seems unlikely, considering there are all these synagogues about. Those haven't been put there just for the architecture, have they? Or maybe this book is only available to true devotees, and I have to chop part of my penis off before I can read it. Seems a bit extreme to me. What the hell is going on here?

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It is frightening to think while I was giving blood Tony Blair was being operated on. Imagine helping that man survive. I'd never be able to forgive myself. Giving your blood to Tony Blair would be like moving Staufenberg's briefcase. Good intentions are all very nice, but you have to realise there are consequences to be taken into consideration. And I for one would have trouble explaining myself if I unintentionally helped the man survive. So let us all say a quick prayer his operation has left him with a festering abscess in his chest and his organs slowly rot from the inside out, causing a slow and agonising death and he accidentally strangles one of his kids in his death throes and say no more about it.
   You can give blood every three months, which means the next time I am allowed to donate is New Year's Day. And regardless of the amount of accidents using up vital reserves in the blood bank on Hogmanay, no amount of desperation will lead to any medic going anywhere near my veins on January first. It would be like tapping into untouched reservoirs of pure alcohol. You'd have people going under feeling fine and waking up with a hangover and the feeling the room is spinning. Can't have any of that. So maybe a few days later.
   As was to be expected half of the people promising to donate switched off their phones and refused to come to the door when it actually came down to it, so in the end only four of us made it to the Old Royal Infirmary, where we were eagerly awaited by a keen pack of nurses. You know, I have in the past been told I have a really lovely smile, cute eyes and a sexy bum, but I had never been informed I have nice veins. Needless to say, I was awfully flattered. Turns out she meant nice to stick a needle into. Ah well.

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Has anyone ever heard of a new sport known as train-surfing? All the craze in America they say. It involves waiting for a train to come hurtling by and then jumping on top of it. And holding on presumably. It comes as news to me. It had never occurred to me that this was a viable form of entertaining yourself. How unimaginative on my part. And the only reason I heard about it recently was that some kid in England had seven points deducted from his overall score after his legs were sheared off by the train he was surfing.
   And here I was thinking kids are getting lazy nowadays. After all, no self-respecting teenager in this day and age would even consider living on without a stereo, computer hooked up to porn websites, Playstation and the latest mobile phone. So why would they bother setting foot outside? Fuck knows I wouldn't if I could afford all that stuff. Though I guess I would want to get laid every once in a while.
   Maybe that's why these kids are going out as well. Not sure how standing on top of a train is going to get you laid though. Killed yes, but even if you are successful in your attempt, wouldn't you just be a blur to the members of the opposite sex watching you? So it stands to reason these kids are doing it purely to amuse themselves. I think this is highly encouraging. If they sit around playing Lara Croft all day they'll just get fat. Actually going out and defying death will keep them on their toes. Unless their feet get cut off of course, in which case it would keep them on their stumps.

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I never realised just how much of a nuisance having a phone can be. And I am not even talking about those cancer-inducing mobile pieces of annoying technological shit. Just my regular house phone. The one that plugs into a wall and transmits through cable instead of via satellite. You never quite realise how much you hate the thing until all of a sudden it stops working. Okay, so if the house catches fire or I accidentally electrocute myself while I am hooking up my sixth set of speakers to my prized new stereo I will in all likelihood be quite severely fucked, but in the meanwhile you have no idea just how relaxing it is when not a single sales person contacts you. These people are relentless. We have informed them everybody on their list has died in a tragic plane crash, and they are still phoning us at least once a day. Dead men tell no tales, but they may need double-glazing.
   It broke the other week. Well, when I say it broke I really mean I tripped over the line running from the outlet conveniently located in the single most illogical place in the flat to the actual device, which led to a rather embarrassing tumble involving a spectacular spin in mid-air, quite a large amount of swearing and a landing not entirely as elegant as one would have hoped. And it killed the telephone, but it certainly deserved it for tripping me up in the first place.
   Not once am I woken up by people deciding it would be a good idea to phone at half eight in the morning, or calling for someone who isn't there just as I have tucked a tea towel in my shirt and am about to attack a roasted chicken in front of my favourite television programme. Things can't get any better. And who is going to phone me anyway? It's not like I am expecting a call from the BBC to debate the filming of my latest short story is it? The chances of the United Nations envoy for the preservation of beer breweries in developing nations calling over for a chat are fairly limited I would imagine. So I think I can do without it for a while.

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Recently a friend of mine was involved in a serious traffic accident. Not in the usual tragic way of someone not paying attention and crossing the road while a driver half asleep and trying to fiddle with the radio at the same time ploughs into him, but more in a kind of Sylvester Stallone action movie way. It involved a lorry jack-knifing and her being flung from her motorcycle and being airlifted to hospital. Lucky girl. I have always wanted to ride in a helicopter. Not sure if I would be willing to have both my legs crushed for it though.
   You'd be surprised how many people it takes to save someone's life after they get hit by a lorry. Paramedics, helicopter pilot, trauma doctors, surgeons, nurses, intensive care staff and half a dozen blood donors to start with. You'd need to buy out an entire florist's just to thank them all. Your hand would go numb if you were to thank them all personally. Besides, these are all terribly important and rare specialists, who have far too many lives to save to bother with you harassing them. Or so you would think.
   Actually a vital reason my friend is still alive today is the two-and-a-half litres of blood that were intravenously pumped into her body as doctors were feverishly operating on her. The five donors involved probably had no medical training whatsoever. They could just as easily have been brickies, shop assistants or school teachers. People like me. I wouldn't know what to do with a scalpel, can't put bones back into place and haven't got a clue how to fly a helicopter. But I can give blood. I can and I do.
   I have been assigned squad leader this week. It is my job to make breakfast for the gang, and then to show the way to the blood bank. My friends and I feel we owe them at least five pints, but are hopeful we will be able to surpass that. All together of course. We are committed, but not insane. One pint of my blood will do just fine. I get a bit woozy after that. Not sure if my breakfast-making skills will entice too many people to join us, but you never know. I make a mean burnt-to-the-core black pudding after all. And quite a nice cup of tea. Well worth having a needle stuck in your arm for if I say so myself.
   So if any of you out there feel the need to do something nice, make me feel happy or want to be in God's good book (it was Yom Kippur last week, after all), please find your nearest blood bank and go and give them a pint this week. The doctors will be very pleased, my friend very thankful, God probably impressed and I will make you a cup of tea some time. When's the last time you pleased that many people and be promised one of my famous cups of tea, all in one hour?

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As if there weren't already enough reasons to start drawing up your last will and testament. The news keeps informing us all we are about to die, pesticides keep making it into our food, there are people out there who seriously dislike me and I am probably going to a war zone soon, so I guess if I want to stop my friends and relatives from clawing each other's eyes out over my record collection I should really get writing stuff down. And now it seems there is even more cause, just to stop them from coming up with some bizarre ritual to dispose of my corpse.
   It turns out someone believing himself to have a good sense of humour this year fired rockets into the sky over Edinburgh, loaded with the ashes of one of his friends. So just as I am walking around the Old Town munching on my sausage roll, small bits of charred intestine are softly raining down upon me. What kind of sick fuck came up with this? Other comedians have been turning their loved ones into diamonds that they can wear on their rings. That's all you need; your granny on your finger.
   So let me make it perfectly clear my corpse is to be left in one piece and stuck into a nice box, which is then to be placed into a grave in a lovely and quiet Edinburgh cemetery. Got it? Good. Don't you bastards go and cremate me or something. I mean, you wouldn't do such a thing to your pets would you? Your funeral is basically a more elaborate version of the ceremony you would treat your pet to. Instead of a shoebox you use pinewood, and instead of a pebble you have a headstone made. You don't throw your hamster into the fireplace, so there will be no burning my remains either.
   And there will most definitely not be any dipping me in liquid nitrogen. This is coming to a funeral parlour near you in the not-too-distant future. The Home Office has given it its blessing, which makes me suspicious immediately. It involves a corpse being lowered into the liquid, and then reduced to powder by vibration. In other words they freeze-dry your corpse and then shake it until it breaks into little pieces. Fuck that. We used to do this with roses in physics class. If we had suspended so much as a dead bird in the stuff we would have been clipped around the ear whether corporal punishment had been abolished or not. But human beings is fine and trendy.
   So there will be no setting fire to me, and no sticking me in the deep freezer. I do not want to become a coral reef, and my DNA is not to be mixed with that of a tree. No medical experiments, donating parts to musea or mummification. Anyone even considering these kinds of options can rest assured I will be haunting their grandchildren.

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You have to try everything once, don't you? If an opportunity presents itself you simply have to jump up and grab it. Provided the circumstances are relatively safe you cannot forego the pleasure of experiencing something entirely novel. I'm still waiting for the invitation to participate in a camel race. Or to go hang gliding. It's just one of those unexpected offers you can't help but accept. Such as a threesome with two attractive Canadians, backstage passes to a Slayer concert or attending a Christian church wedding. It doesn't matter you have no clue what to do; it'll come to you naturally. You just go with the flow.
   So when I was invited to a presentation regarding military activity in Bosnia, to be conducted by a member of the armed forces at a military base I didn't have to think about it for too long. It's only been recently that I have begun to wonder what the hell I am going to be doing there. So I have decided to draw up a list of things I shall not be doing. Seemed easier to me, and probably more comfortable for them.
   Ergo there will be no mentioning of Screbrenica. These people in NATO have enough trouble as it is, and there is no need to remind them of previous lapses of concentration. Upward and onward! But not in the kind of crusader fashion, so there will also be no singing Onward Christian Soldier in case of any marching. And I will also not be asking what all the top brass will be doing while the mere troops will be walking around armed and in constant danger of being shot at. Dictating casualty lists is a vital part of army life, and there will be no snubbing it.
   Which of course leaves me wondering what I can do. Yawning would be a bit rude, and I don't think I will be able to get away with asking for a quick lesson in chucking hand grenades or firing a rifle. You know, exciting shit. Abseiling down buildings and blowing them up afterwards. That's what these people do all day, isn't it? Surely someone loyal and trustworthy like myself would be allowed to, properly supervised of course, set fire to something or other?

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If you ever need to consider just how much of a fuck-up you really are, I can whole-heartedly recommend you get in touch with your ex girlfriends. Over the last fortnight through a complete coincidence I have seen or otherwise been in touch with half of all the girls I went out with since I was still in school, and it struck me as rather funny such a sobering experience can drive you to drink. Nothing quite like being told how happy people are since you disappeared from their lives.
   It reminded me of the book High Fidelity, in which Rob goes around his exes to feel good about himself. I was going to read it again, but then I realised, ironically, my ex still has my copy. You know, when I look around my house I often realise I have managed to accumulate a lot of crap over the years, and it worries me to think just how much rubbish is still lying round in other people's homes. Recently I was pondering what happened to half my clothes, and found out last week my ex is walking around in them.
   I don't care how good a writer Nick Hornby is, or how comfortable, cool and trendy my clothes are; when your ex openly admits she is glad you have gone but your stuff hasn't there is something fundamentally amiss. And I am not even rich. I don't have flashy crap. So if even my possessions are more pleasant to have around than I am I must be one shitty individual to have as a boyfriend. It's depressing. It makes me want to sit in my contemplation chair and play my favourite blues album. Unfortunately, my ex still has it.

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We've hit a snag, people. We all know that we have to start worrying about the environment before we all drown in swelling rivers and raw sewage and that cars are part of the problem. But I have come to the conclusion public transport sucks. It just doesn't fucking work. It has long been established that buses are a waste of time, but trains are just as bad. The other week I was trying to get from Birmingham to Edinburgh by getting on a Virgin train. Now Virgin is an incredibly posh company that provides you with outlets for your laptop, but doesn't actually provide you with a seat.
   Let me tell you, there is very little in life more frustrating than boarding a train with a large rucksack and my teddy bear, only to find the only place I can squeeze myself in is in between carriages, next to the toilet with the electric and malfunctioning spinning door, which is in constant demand by people attempting to step over you and invariably end up treading all over you. And if that doesn't piss you off fortunately some woman on a high-fibre diet and in hemp clothing has brought a toddler determined to shout, scream and cry every single moment it will spend on the train and certainly won't be dissuaded by his mother, who feels the child is entirely entitled to share its worries with the world.
   It is only when the cow and her offspring have left the train that you start noticing the fact some bloke in his fifties is retaining a fair amount of phlegm in his throat and will spend the vast majority of his trip trying to grunt and scrape it out in short and very loud bursts. If you do manage to force yourself to sleep in the middle of this pandemonium, don't get too comfortable, because some tit in a uniform will come and check you have paid to enjoy the privilege of sitting on the floor in the middle of health hazards and public nuisances. If it's a choice between that and floods, I'd rather take a car next time.

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We can all relax. Apparently things in Iraq are going just fine, but the media are deliberately focussing only on the enormous amount of people who are being butchered by all parties. If we were just to ignore the torture, kidnappings, bombings, murders and shootings we would see that actually the country is quite stable and peaceful. This does beg the questions whether beneath the surface things were actually quite pleasant under Saddam Hussein, but we will never find out considering media outlets not toeing the line are being banned from the country.
   Iyad Allawi and Tony Blair, both prime ministers, both executing American policy and both entirely trustworthy, assure us everything is fine. Except for the small matter of the hostages. And on this issue according to Mr Blair, there is a clear right and wrong…and that is to be with the democrats and against the terrorists. Though he fails to address whether that is the right or wrong, and as of yet it seems entirely uncertain which side he means when he talks about democrats, as there has been a clear lack of elections in Iraq as well. What both of them are saying is that the demands of the kidnappers will not be met.
   The demands are that all female prisoners be released from Abu Graib and Umm Qasr. According to the Americans there aren't any. This brings with it a few questions in itself, questions it would seem our neutered media are not about to ask. If the US was holding female prisoners who had supposedly been carrying out attacks and all of them have been released, that suggests these people were never charged or convicted of anything. They were however raped by the American soldiers holding them. This seems to suggest it is American policy to rape innocent people, and then send them out into a society where rape is considered so shameful these women will quite possibly not survive, and certainly not be sharing their experiences with the outside world.
   In other words, the soldiers who have raped these women will leave Iraq with Allawi's blessing, to be awarded medals when they return home to the States. This is why Allawi thinks things are going so well. Supposedly there to look after the interests of the Iraqi people he is supporting the molesting of the female population and the butchering of those who oppose him. They are getting away with it. The newspapers are so busy reporting the horrors westerners are facing in Iraq, people who have chosen to be there, that they are entirely forgetting about the atrocities inflicted upon the Arab population, people who couldn't leave even if they wanted to. The crimes against humanity perpetrated by Allawi and his allies. The unelected democrats. The CIA torturers and army rapists. Now that truly is progress.

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Much to my surprise I found The Passion of The Christ rather an uplifting and positive film. Yes, the Jews are all evil, and the poor man has to go through some pretty unpleasant ordeals, but in the process Mr Gibson has re-educated me completely. I always thought the Romans were the most evil bastards in the history of mankind, destroying cultures, committing genocide, wiping out religions and setting fire to both people and cities on a regular basis, with Pontius Pilate being outdone in cruelty only by Nero. Turns out they were actually quite decent chaps. There are a few exceptions, but they all seem to be coming round by the end. All the ones in charge are actually quite fond of this Jesus fellow. And who are we to question Mr Gibson? After all, it is written in the ancient scrolls: Mel Gibson dicit, ergo veritas est.
   He does confuse me, this Jesus. For starters, that business of stepping in at the stoning. Putting himself in front of the poor lass about to be killed. It always reminds me of those orange-vested people in Palestine trying to stop bulldozers from knocking down homes. So by all accounts the current government in charge of Jerusalem would have declared him a terrorist as well. It's amazing how some things never change. Still, he (or He, if you prefer) doesn't really strike me as the sharpest pencil in the box. If Pilate asks you a question, you wouldn't go and argue with the man, would you? I mean, talking back to a Sheriff in Dundee about a parking ticket is a bad idea, messing about when you are discussing your crucifixion with the governor of Judea is just not very clever. Yes or no answers will suffice, Mr Christ.
   In the film it was perfectly obvious to me he was the son of God. Can you think of a single non-divine creature whose wounds heal miraculously? First they rip entire strips off flesh from his ribs, and only a few hours later they have all turned to scars. You or I would need at least three and a half thousand stitches to stop us bleeding to death. Neat trick, I dare say. One thing I will say: Mel sure knows how to make an entertaining film.

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This hunting debate is beginning to interest me. Really it has nothing to do with me, as it is already banned in Scotland and I live in a city, but it is making the news and apparently posh people and peasants are joining forces, storming parliament and having their skulls bashed in by the police. And what can possibly be more interesting than that?
   Normally I have no position on the subject. I disagree with both sides. The pro-hunt lobby is saying people in cities shouldn't ban what they don't understand. That is clearly nonsense. Most people will never be able to grasp the idea of child molestation but that doesn't mean we should ban it. On the other hand I think it is more than slightly hypocritical to be in favour of killing people but against killing foxes. So I don't care. They can ban it or they can encourage it.
   However, it would seem that the arena has shifted slightly. The hunters are becoming the hunted. And this I very much agree with. I didn't see the riots on Parliament Square, but I am in complete favour of police on horseback charging pro-hunt protesters, chasing them across hurdles and releasing the dogs on them. After all, that is sport. But even better is the shooting of foxes. This is not banned in Scotland, and they are not going to ban it in England either. Instead of the fox being chased by a dog (max speed, what, 30 miles an hour?), it is chased by a bullet travelling at just above the speed of sound if I am not mistaken. That's fairer, apparently.
   One activity that involves shooting foxes is known in rural circles as 'lamping'. This happens at night. Just so we townies don't think we are the only people with an exciting nightlife. Lamping involves people with bright torches lighting up the woodland and the rest of the party shooting foxes when the light reflects in their eyes. Very high-tech. Also very difficult to tell a fox from a human being apparently, as they found out in South Devon last week, when one bloke with great enthusiasm shot dead his thirteen-year-old step-son.
   This is entirely legal by the way. Only last month a man was acquitted of seriously injuring some environmental nutcase who was creeping around with night vision goggles. This makes hunting a lot more interesting. It really makes it an exciting sport when it is a matter of kill or be killed. This is one form of hunting we should be advocating. Just send eight people into the woods with three torches and tell them to start shooting at everything with eyes. It would be so much more fun than running after a fox with a bunch of hounds.

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Writing is a messy business. It has so many pitfalls you are still wiping brow after missing the one as you are tipping headfirst into the next. People don't realise this. They think people writing for a living are nothing but lazy bastards who are work shy and incapable of doing a decent day's work. The opposite is true. Just think how long it took you to learn how to play football. Maybe a minute or two before you figured out which way the ball flies when you kick it from certain angles, and a couple of weeks before you understand the object, line-up and offside rule. If you are really clever in that same time you would have been able to remember the alphabet. Then you still have grammar, sentence structure, spelling and handwriting to go.
   So writing in general is a complicated exercise, and requires a great deal of education. And then it becomes even more complicated. Especially if you start reviewing. I love doing it. I think it is great fun to stand in the back of a club with a pint and a note pad, squinting to make out what I have written and being stared at by people who regard you as the lowest form of scum on the planet, though normally at rock gigs at least part of this stems from a deep rooted jealousy of your ability to spell.
   The problem is that you have readers. Readers are the worst possible people you will ever run into. They have all sorts of opinions, most of them utterly wrong. They have no idea what they are talking about, but that doesn't stop them from disagreeing with you. And they are hopelessly stubborn about their views. So when you are reviewing a band you have to actually consider these horrible people, just because they read your stuff. Disgraceful of course.
   So, first of all you have to be truthful. You can't say you are at Murrayfield when you are actually in a grimy pub half the size of a public toilet just by the waterside of Leith. And you have to get the names of the bands right. So far, nothing but trouble. But at least this the pest that is known as your audience cannot debate. Then you have to be entertaining. If you are not they get all snotty and tell you to go and pursue another career. Which is just cruel. After all the effort of learning how to write they still tell you you suck. So if you get all of that right you still have to explain whether the band is actually any good.
   Now that is the real snag. This is where people all of a sudden know better than you do. Which is fine. They can delude themselves as much as they want, provided they don't bother me with it. If you think that Kurt Cobain was a brilliant musician that is entirely your disability, and I do not have enough cash to fund the designated charity for your particular ailment. Worship him in private. If you are going to object to something I write, make it something interesting.
   The other week I received a rather interesting e-mail, claiming I was useless at reviewing. This is a fair opinion, and I am sure shared by a great many people. However, in it the author claimed all bands have good sides and bad sides. This is clearly bollocks. There is absolutely nothing positive to be said for McFly, HearSay or the Darkness. They should be despised, banned from the airwaves and never be allowed to tarnish our collective conscience ever again.
   And the same thing goes for the Painted Little Men, which was one of the bands I reviewed that night. Deaf people who weren't even there objected to this band. Dogs outside would have howled if they weren't so busy trying to cover their ears with their paws. It was an atrocity the likes of which I have rarely experienced. The ancient survival instinct of flight had to be violently suppressed. So when people tell you it wasn't all that bad you can't argue with them. You would have to delve so deeply into your fictional abilities anything you say will sound like an adventure Peter Pan and Tinkerbell would find themselves involved in.

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If I had normal friends we would end up talking about Scotland's chances of making it to the football World Cup (none), or perhaps the latest developments in the Middle East peace process (also none). But because I hang out with people who are equally strange and misguided as I am we end up talking about quantum physics (of which my knowledge is none), the amount of points we would score on an imaginary list of qualities in men (none) or stalking.
   Now stalking gets a bad press. The people engaged in it are generally called obsessive, relentless and loners. This is just a matter of opinion if you ask me. Obsessive and relentless might just as well be described as loving and loyal, and I am absolutely convinced that lonely people are very rarely a problem. When is the last time you had an argument in the pub with a lonely person? It's always the loud obnoxious people that are the trouble, and they are never lonely.
   I would be stalker if I had the stamina. Getting out of bed to do work I get paid for is hard enough, the last thing I want to do is start setting my alarm clock to crawl around in nettles and running after moving cars. Unless technology allows me to start staling people properly and still be able to do it while having a cup of tea I may change my mind, but until that day I will stick to downloading pornography.
   It turns out most women have had stalkers. Or so they claim. Women scare easily, so it may just be that they are making it up. But I have to say I was intrigued by the actions of their stalkers. It would seem to be elevated to stalker status one needs to send text messages all the time, turn up when it is least expected, keep phoning to see how one's stalkee is doing, send flowers and take an unhealthy amount of interest in the subject's affairs. Which is why I can't do it. I am too lazy, hate flowers and don't have a mobile phone. Funnily enough it is also why I don't have a girlfriend.
   That's what my ex kept telling me. Buy flowers, take an interest, phone up, turn up unexpectedly. It turns out being a stalker is exactly the same as being a good boyfriend, only in one case you are a sweet creature of which there aren't enough in the world, and in the other a complete nutter. That's reassuring.

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The law in the UK is entirely open to interpretation nowadays. Even though for centuries now torture is not allowed and evidence gained under torture inadmissible, the High Court has recently reversed this. Apparently justice was more reliable in the Middle Ages. The rest of the people involved in our courts have also made it perfectly clear incitement to racial hatred is not a crime and killing tens of thousands of people is perfectly legal.
   It has also completely exonerated Blair and his pals on the invasion of Iraq. According to them whether there actually were weapons of mass destruction is entirely irrelevant, and they are not particularly bothered whether he believed it himself either. The fact Saddam had used them in the past and was an evil bastard was more than enough reason to go and blow up impoverished and half starving people. Hey, some of them were already dying from the uranium we dropped on them a decade previous, so really putting them out of their misery was an act of kindness.
   The thing is, according to tradition, we are all equal under the law. So we should all be able to get away with senseless violence if we can claim good intent. For example, if someone should see the prime minister in the road, it should be perfectly acceptable to walk up to him, tell him a wasp is about to sting him and then punch him in the nose with such force it shatters the bone. When he falls to the ground it should be perfectly okay to jump on his head until his skull cracks like a piñata and his brain splashes out onto the pavement. After all, wasps have been known to sting in the past, and the actions did scare off the insect. And if there was no wasp at least you would have killed Tony before the wasp would have a chance to do it in future. And at the same time it would have prevented the evil man to commit any more atrocities. The High Court can hardly object to such bloodshed in the name of human kindness.

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Science is one of the most interesting things in life. It contains enormous amounts of truth and knowledge, and at the same time is bursting at the seams with nonsense and hearsay. Scientists are the people who said when you take the square of a number it will always be a positive one, and when we had all written it down as we were supposed to, added "except one…". They are bastards. Useful ones to be sure, but still bastards.
   At least they get to attend interesting-sounding meetings, such as the British Psychological Society Conference in Edinburgh, for which I did not receive an invitation, much to my dismay. It would have been the highlight of my year. Especially because a team from Derby University presented to those gathered the stunning results of their latest experiment, which is that men suffer from PMT. This sounds like bad news to me. I know what the M stands for and I really am not very comfortable with the idea that kind of business is taking place inside of me right now.
   Fortunately, like the negative square thingy, it is the same but not. We don't menstruate, we just get all the wonderful little side-effects that go with it, which includes monthly periods of irritability and pain. This due to internal biorhythms and other such wonderful technical terms that nobody as of yet has managed to prove exist at all. In many ways this is great. It means women will have to stop harassing us about all the suffering that they have to endure due to their mystic adhering to the lunar cycle. That is of course if it is true, which it isn't.
   I may not be a scientist, but I can shoot this one down right here and now. There is a perfectly logical explanation for male PMT: women. I bet you a caramel biscuit that these periods of stress and mood swings are directly related to the most important woman in his life. When she has PMT, so will he. Women cannot suffer on their own, and men are far too susceptible to suffering. We are very delicate creatures with fragile little egos, and so when women start taking their physical inadequacies out on us, we get grouchy. This is the time we watch Rambo III repeatedly, just to remind ourselves that even though we can't get our wives or girlfriends to listen to us, at least we can always go and kill a couple of gooks. It is sad, but very true.
   Women cause headaches, loss of concentration and irritability. There is no need for fancy scientific experiments to prove that fact of life. So really the best cure for all of this is not munching chocolate like a complete maniac, but to become gay. This requires some adjustment I know, but then science has always been the place where the impossible happens.

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Regardless of what medical research may suggest, boxing is great entertainment. There is something basically primal about it, and it satisfies our innermost basic needs when watching sports. Nobody watches motor sports to see twenty grown men going in a circle at high speed. They are hoping for a spectacular crash. And god knows the only reason people watch the high dive at the Olympics is just in case one of those dickheads in a pair of Speedos slams into the water at the wrong angle and dislocates his left testicle. Boxing doesn't pretend to be anything else than it is: blood sport.
   There is nothing barbaric about boxing. Beating somebody up who doesn't want to be is barbaric. These people have volunteered. Who are we to tell them how to live their lives? Besides, you don't hear people complaining when some bloke has his penis pierced, do you? And I don't care how sterile the environment is, I would much rather have some bloke punch me in the head a few times than have a needle pushed through my cock. Wouldn't it make more sense to ban piercings?
   In addition boxing is a sport open to people of all backgrounds. You can do it in the back garden of a country estate or on the top floor of a council flat. Equipment is absolutely rudimentary. They don't even wear shirts! All you need is a pair of shorts and two tea towels around your knuckles and you are all set to go. Anyone can afford that. That's why there are so many black and Asian boxers. All the rich white kids were out playing cricket, fucking rounders or some other sport that requires so much equipment it needs to be ferried in by wheelbarrow.
   So I like it. To watch it obviously. There are certain things that are enjoyable to do but boring to watch, such as abseiling, and then there are things you rather enjoy watching, provided it is some other poor bastard getting battered half to death. What I don't understand about it is the fact they are always talking tough before the fight, and then start hugging at the end of it. Beforehand they are spouting their mouths about destroying their opponent, and the moment it is over they are the best of friends. How exactly did this guy repeatedly punching them in the face improve their relationship? Regardless of my feelings towards my fellow human beings, once they have taken to hitting me I tend to like them a whole lot less. This is one of the most brutal sports in the world; hardly the place for pleasantry and politeness.

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Being single isn't easy you know. Okay, that is a big fat lie; being single is an absolute piece of piss. Life is at its least complicated when you are single. It's just very frustrating. You find yourself eating chicken and not having anyone to pull the wishbone. That can seriously get you down. And there is the lack of sex of course. So perhaps these lonely heart columns are actually quite a good thing. Everyone knows they are for sad and lonely people, but the last time I did a headcount the vast majority of people around me are showing all the symptoms of being sad and lonely, myself included.
   So it is not that I think writing in to these people in any way diminishes my self-esteem. It's just that I don't understand what they are talking about. Take this for example: Professional female, 60 years old, enjoys dining in/out. Doesn't that mean she likes eating? Or are there any other forms of dining that I am not yet aware of? And if that doesn't confuse you, what the hell is a genuine female, 40? As opposed to what, I can't help but wonder. And more worryingly, why would she need to contrast herself to it?
   Some just go overboard. stylish, intelligent professional female, 53, non-smoker, into swimming, the gym, shoes, pampering and the arts seeks similar male. Similar. Mmm. I hate to be stereotypical, but I am going to be anyway. Any man you find that is stylish, into swimming, the gym, the arts and shoes is going to be gay. Which is cool with me, because they definitely have the best ads. Bisexual male, 45, would like to meet cross-dresser, transvestite or transsexual, 50+. Just let your mind wander on that subject for a while. A man, over the age of fifty, who either dresses as a lady, or has had his willie cut off. That's enough to make me feel conservative.
   Back in the world of F seeks M, a warm and curvy 31-year-old from Dundee would like to meet a tall, generous, honest male, good sense of humour. That word 'generous' sounds awfully suspicious to me. I think perhaps it would be more traditional to wait until at least the second date before you start demanding things.
   One thing you do realise when you are flicking through the ads: none of them describe you. Okay, I am tall, which seems rather popular, but I am not in the slightest bit interested in cooking, gardening, animals, walks, the countryside, sailing and loving caring conversation. Which means even the saddest most pathetic people in Scotland, who are so desperate they start placing ads in newspapers, think I am not worth dating. Now that really is a depressing thought.

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No sex please. We're miserable old sods who are absolutely terrified our cute little children are going to end up infertile, pregnant or walking around all day scratching themselves in highly inappropriate places. According to a BBC poll, as polls go generally quite reliable, 86 per cent of people think there should be tougher restrictions on sexual imagery in television programmes and literature aimed at kids. This took the BBC by surprise if the newscast was to be believed, which was more of a surprise to me than the actual result of the poll.
   This is a thing that comes with age. All of a sudden people forget just how profusely they used to masturbate over class photographs and Penthouse magazine, and how their existence revolved mostly around sexual fantasies when they were in their early teens. Now that they are adults, and with steady partners, they feel that young people should be discouraged from having casual sex.
   This is the dumbest idea ever. And they top it off with the idea they should not give out condoms to under-sixteens. Talk about a recipe for disaster. There is a large crowd of extremely hormonal and physical people out there, and they are very frustrated. We have long forgotten this, but life is very fucking unfair when you are fifteen, and this needs to be expressed physically. And rugby quite simply does not do it. If we are going to tell these kids that they can't have sex they will find another outlet to vent their frustration. And I am not an expert, but I think when you check a teenager's computer the two main things you will encounter are porn and violent videogames. I know which one I would prefer them to realise.
   It is all down to this absurd idea people are having sex at a younger age nowadays. Bollocks. Complete and utter bollocks. Go and check at what age people got married in the twenties. And then bear in mind they probably usually started shagging before that. Not to mention the government idea we have to tackle rising youth crime, obesity and anti-social behaviour. Obvious solution: encourage kids to start fucking at a young age. It keeps them off the streets, is great exercise and relieves tension. Just make sure they use condoms.
   We have to start realising our kids are not the special little people we need to overprotect. In fact, the vast majority of kids I know are obnoxious loud little shits who are in urgent need of a good smack across the back of the head. I can't wait for them to finally get laid and start relaxing a little.

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Sometimes I wish I had the unshakable faith in my country's so-called leaders that others seem to possess. It must make life so incredibly easy to know for a fact they are the good guys, and all that oppose them are evil beyond any comprehension. Sleeping must be so much easier. But I can't get myself to understand it. It doesn't make any sense to me. Reading the Times on Monday and Tuesday I kept feeling like I was missing out on a great state of mind. One of unconditional loyalty to the us versus them system, which incidentally is directly linked to the good versus evil scale.
   With the atrocities in Beslan still in the headlines, and probably not fading anytime soon, William Rees-Mogg led the way, denouncing the hostage takers as equally evil to the people responsible for 9/11, the attack on Pearl Harbour and the SS soldiers running Auschwitz. Jack Straw followed suit, also comparing them to the Nazi's, and Michael Gove explained how Beslan is very similar to Belsen. In other words, the people callously massacring several hundred children are as despicable as the most devious people in history.
   This came as a bit of a surprise to me. Especially considering the same people are usually very quick to condemn anyone comparing Israeli tactics to those of the Nazis and the scale of Israeli atrocities far outstretches that of the Beslan slaughter. How can that be? Rees-Mogg was so severely appalled by the cruelty inflicted upon children that he was glad these events have few parallels in the history of evil. Perhaps he would like to go and explain that to the tens of thousands of people in Vietnam who are walking around with the childhood scars they picked up when American pilots dropped napalm on them. Or the kids who are born today with birth defects as a result of the Agent Orange sprayed on their grandparents.
   But that is exactly the point. That is not evil. These people are all decorated heroes fighting for their country. At the massacre in My Lai women and children were subjected to gang rape, torture and execution at the hands of American soldiers. Babies were clubbed to death. More than 500 people, all unarmed and civilian, were butchered for no other reason than the fact they were Vietnamese. Why is Beslan not compared to these events? At the moment the two presidential candidates are arguing not over who opposed these atrocities in South East Asia, but who did most to support them. Why are we not comparing them to the Nazis?
   The answer is of course that they are on our side. They are 'us'. The killers in Beslan are 'them'. We do it for all the right reasons, they do it for all the wrong ones. Well, we must do. We are after all the good guys, aren't we? Actually what happened in Beslan is very much like our tactics. Us wonderful people actually use weapons developed especially to cause as much civilian carnage as is humanly possible. Take the cluster bomb or napalm for example. The theory is this technology can take out large numbers of concentrated troops. Except of course this hasn't happened since the Napoleonic wars. No army attacks in densely packed rows of soldiers. Only civilians move in large groups. Which makes these weapons so appealing.
   Everybody knows that depleted uranium causes cancer and deformities in babies. So why did we use it in Iraq? Our armed forces were vastly superior to the Iraqi soldiers trying to fight off the invasion, so why use such enormously disproportionate weaponry unless you wanted to kill off as many people you can? It is because our leaders think exactly like the hostage takers in Beslan. They don't consider their victims to be human beings, only means to an end. They are sending out a message they will stop at nothing to achieve their goals. They are, in effect, terrorists in their truest form.
   And it must be great to be convinced there is such a thing as a good terrorist. To think that September 11th was evil, but Saba and Shatilla wasn't. That the kids in Beslan were innocent but the kids at My Lai weren't. It must make the world so much easier to sort out. But then there must be downsides as well. When a hundred raped and mutilated children's corpses are found in a ditch somewhere I can honestly say that is atrocious. When you are Rees-Mogg or Gove you can't. You will have to know first who did it. It must be awful to base your judgement not on the act but on the criminal. I don't think that would work in my head. It goes against all principles of equality. It goes against everything Jack Straw claims to be fighting for. It is the same rhetoric as that of Osama and his merry band of lunatics, only expressed from left to right instead of from right to left.

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I have a fun job. It allows me to hang out with bands and demonstrate to them just how rock and roll I am. Incidentally my level of being rock and roll rates roughly at 'not very'. I carry earplugs with me, do not take drugs and when I am meeting people for a video shoot before the end of the afternoon I will be grunting like an old man, sipping large amounts of very strong tea. That's right; tea.
   Still, there are worse ways to spend an afternoon than to hang about with local band The Tyrant Lizard Kings, consuming enormous amounts of intoxicating spirits, harassing the good people of the Lothian Fire Brigade and stealing kids' go-carts for the purpose of nearly castrating the director, frighten onlookers and quite intentionally and utterly publicly throwing up all over the road. I am not entirely sure how all of this will be pieced together for the final clip for the Black and Red Madonna, but I have this sneaking suspicion MTV will not be showing it without some serious editing.
   I was supposed to appear in the video as a zombie. Unfortunately so were a further thirty people, and about twenty-five of them failed entirely to show. And we were all realistic enough to admit no amount of camera angles was going to fool viewers into not noticing there were only four living dead creatures stumbling about the place. So we ended up shooting in a fire station and on top of a wheelie bin. Now there is an adventure. You try and balance a drummer and his drum kit on top of one of these things. This only works when you are drunk, I swear to you.
   At least we all survived the day. Relatively injury-free. There were times when it seemed perhaps this was not going to be the case. So it is a comforting thought we still have another day of filming ahead, involving a rather larger and more unpredictable live audience. I am bringing a helmet.

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Being a writer makes being famous slightly more complicated than, for example, being an actor or a rock star. Or a serial killer. The people who are expected to lead interesting and exciting lives. Writers are generally sickly and secluded, balding with bad eyesight and a terrible dress sense. Which makes regular television appearances rather unlikely. That's cool though, on the way to fame and fortune I have been led to believe the real fun is in the fortune part of the arrangement.
   Of course there are always exceptions. For example, somehow the city of Edinburgh has recently decided we don't have quite enough statues around town. Quite how they came to this conclusion I am not entirely sure, but then the people on these committees probably haven't walked around the city since the early seventies and have therefore entirely forgotten we have statues of people not only no one has ever heard about but, more importantly, nobody gives a crap about.
   And if that wasn't bad enough, they want to put up a statue of J.K. Rowling. You know, that woman that has written the same book seven times but keeps making it longer. The one that is more repetitive than a broken record. And, most importantly, is still alive. Just despicable. As of yet we have a statue for a bloke who was a pioneer in the field of anaesthesia but not of Robert Louis Stevenson. And now that they want another writer we have to get the wizard crone.
   As it stands we won't even know if people will be reading these books more than twenty years after they were first published. Stevenson's books are bestsellers a century after he died! He belongs on a pedestal. Rowling belongs on telly, doing interviews with talking cotton rodents at nine o'clock on a Sunday morning kids' television programme. The only concrete we should be pouring for her is the stuff we drop her books in before dumping them all in the Forth.

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Admittedly there aren't quite as many students as there were tourists last month, but at least the tourists came with great shows all across Edinburgh. What are these university pricks contributing to our wonderful little community in the capital? Nothing but loud and obnoxious sing-songs in the pub, a constant yammering about daddy's money and puddles of vomit in front of your door. Hardly an appetising prospect you will agree.
   They are an unusual breed, students. You know witty, amusing and intelligent ones exist, and yet you always seem to run into those other bastards with their polo shirts and serious attitude problems. It is strange to think universities are given the authority to pick whichever students they happen to like and still they can't manage to get half a decent crowd together. I bet if you were to change entry requirements at Edinburgh uni it would be the most popular university in the UK.
   Something simple. Mature intelligent students wanted, sense of humour preferable, moaning about the weather not permitted. Must be housetrained and possess personality. Americans need not apply. Something along those lines. Something that prevents me from tripping over the irritating little bastards on my way to the bar, just because some twat in his third year feels the urge to show all his new fellow students what a pub looks like on the inside. They are supposed to be enjoying uni life to the max. Take chances, live dangerously, work it out for your fucking self. If at all possible, quietly.

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Mussolini's autobiography reads a wee bit like a speech from Tony Blair. Self-congratulatory, utterly one-sided and completely fantastical. Yet strangely funny. For example, the wounding of fifty fascists during a parade was the most unworthy episode that ever happened under the sky of Rome in any memory according to the man. Which is a rather interesting outlook on history, as I seem to remember under the very same skies of Rome an emperor or two had the nasty habit of nailing people to wooden poles and setting them on fire while they were still alive. Or maybe my sense of injustice is just warped.
   I do also suspect there was a medical reason for Mussolini's insanity. Part of this must have developed while he was still a child. According to his autobiography he urged Italy to join the First World War, demanded he be conscripted and quite enjoyed life in the trenches. This in itself is a worrying characteristic if ever I did hear of one. However, it gets worse. Even getting wounded didn't dampen his spirits.
   Apparently, on the 22nd of February 1917 the Italians, not exactly renowned for their fighting skills, managed to launch a grenade into their own trenches. This is hardly advisable, though in this particular case it almost did us the favour of wiping Mussolini off the face of the planet. No such luck, obviously, as history books have been recording ever since. Forty-four pieces of shrapnel were pulled from his body, and he swears he went through no less than twenty-seven operations in a month, only two under anaesthetic. This I think explains a few things. Not quite equipped with CAT scanning equipment, I think poor Benito was knocked on the head slightly harder than he has admitted to since.
   And if that doesn't do it for you, later on he explains he has been involved in two plane crashes. Incidentally he doesn't mention who caused it, though he does admit to flying the thing. All of this in between being mobbed by rioters and barricading himself in. The average boxer gets fewer punches to the head than this guy must have endured. He must have been walking around with a sore head permanently. No wonder he was such a grumpy bastard.

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Recently the families of those soldiers who have been ripped to pieces in Iraq have been asking our glorious Prime Minister to withdraw British troops from the country. In return they have been assured by the omniscient Tony that what they are doing over there (killing children, handing people over for torture, carpet bombing cities, supporting a repressive government) is so important that sacrifices can be made. Dead soldiers, civilians, reporters and aid workers are all just a minor inconvenience in the grand scheme.
   So I have been thinking. As both Tony and his human rights lawyer wife Cherie are so keen on this whole situation, why don't we kill a few of their children? Murdering underage offspring of utterly insane tyrants is a great tradition for the Americans. Gadaffi, Mullah Omar, Saddam Hussein. So why not Tony Blair? He keeps smiling when people are shot in the head, and Cherie thinks it is all perfectly okay, so I guess they would have no objection to some of their own kids dying.
   We'll start with Euan. He can be fitted with a nice orange jumpsuit and make a desperate plea for troops to be withdrawn. Then his dad can come and explain we will not give in to terrorists, after which a video will be posted on the net of Euan being put on his side and a bloke with a bread knife sawing through his windpipe and his neck before holding up the head to be inspected by the viewer. A sacrifice Labour is more than willing to make if their rhetoric is to be believed.
   Now of course these militants are not part of our armed forces, so Leo we will kill in a slightly more traditional way. The cluster bomb sounds like an excellent manner of getting rid of the toddler. Cherie and Tony I am sure will be more than happy to do a quick press conference after they have just buried their child in several pieces because his tiny body was literally ripped apart by the ordnance. All in the name of a good cause after all. Hardly a violation of human rights, Cherie would probably point out. After all, the effect a cluster bomb has on an infant is so powerful little Leo won't have a human shape anymore anyway.
   Don't you think they could use this to their advantage on the next campaign trail? Twin pictures of Leo's intestines splattered up against a wall and Euan's head held aloft by his executioner? A clear indication of a government determined to see out the ride. Or do you think perhaps if it was the Blairs the Prime Minister and the human rights lawyer would all of a sudden decide that perhaps this is one sacrifice the nation is not willing to make?

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What would a sporting event be without a few nutcases running out of the crowd and messing everything up for the participants? It would be one boring episode wouldn't it? Hell, I freely admit it, most games I watch I do so in the hope something dramatic or exciting will happen. When I sit down to watch a football match I expect some seriously foul and dangerous play, followed by a serious string of swearwords at the referee when he produces a red card. I only watch cricket in the hope some naked idiot starts bouncing about with various parts of his or her anatomy flapping about in the wind. And much as I hate the opening ceremony of any baseball game, when George Bush came out to throw the ceremonial first pitch at the World Series I not only watched but taped the event, just in case we were lucky enough somebody would shoot him on live television.
   So I guess some Irish priest grabbing the leader of the marathon and dragging him off the track is really to be commended. It adds to the game in many respects. For the viewer it is a welcome break from watching a bloke basically demonstrating how to put one foot in front of the other, and for the athletes it makes the whole race a bit more of a challenge. Bit of a shame it cost the poor bastard his gold medal, but at least he still has his health, which is more than can be said for the guy who ran the first marathon.
   What does worry me though is the fact that this priest was there at all. This man is from Ireland and last year he ran out in front of moving race cars in England. This, you may be aware, is not to be recommended. Race cars are very fast, don't brake terribly quickly and on the whole are not very impressed by bipedal organisms of less than 200 pounds. A collision may not necessarily lead to death, but it certainly is a viable possibility. Running out in front of these things therefore is not very healthy. And if that wasn't bad enough, once he had been dragged off the track, Mr Cornelius Horan declared that the Messiah will be seen by shaking the religious arena, the sporting establishment and the government.
   Now even by Irish standards that surely classifies as being fucking nuts. Why do they allow this bloke out of the country? There are a lot of lunatics in Ireland, granted, but you would say this gentleman is held in a soft padded environment and regularly handfed some seriously effective drugs, wouldn't you? Not allowed to go and travel to Athens. I don't want to bump into this man on public transport. It wouldn't be safe. It is clear to me that the Irish government is purposely putting us all at risk by allowing this man to go where he pleases. You can't trust any of them.

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I like lefties. As people go they are by far the most interesting ones around. They have the best comedians, the best bands, the best writers and even though they may not always share our sense of hygiene you would much rather spend a few hours on a mountain top with one of them than with a conservative with a moustache. So I have a firm affection for lefties. They just confuse me.
   With last week's blockade of the nuclear base behind us I have since been informed of the structure and functioning of the anti-nuclear movement, and it had me scratching my head continuously. These people are without a shadow of a doubt the most contradictory individuals you will come across. These are mainly communists, anarchists and other such wonderfully politically involved people, and the first thing they have done is introduce strict rules to adhere to while in camp. A camp with rigorously enforced laws. How right wing.
   And it gets better. The nation's conscience has a firm no drugs and no alcohol policy. You will remember these are people who put on a wetsuit and swim up to submarines armed with nuclear weapons, but they are worried about the effects a sherry will have on you. The people who cut through razor wire with the express intention of getting lifted and charged with a criminal offence object to illegal drugs. It makes you wonder what their slogans are. Fight The Power - Bring Down The Government - Say No To Drugs! It makes taking them seriously so much more difficult.
   Not to mention the fact most of these people are either vegetarian or vegan. Now biology has long taught us that as human we occupy the 'omnivore' slice of the animal kingdom pie. This means evolution has gently guided us towards eating animals over the last million years or so. These people claim they know better than Darwin. In this of course they are not alone. Extreme right Christian fundamentalists will agree with them evolution is merely a fantasy. So I guess they find themselves in good company.

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You see, when you say a woman should do her best to look good before heading out in the morning, you are a sexist. We don't have that attitude anymore, you will be informed, mysteriously incorporating you, the addressed, in that first person pronoun, even though you have just done quite an impressive job of countering that assessment. Women are no longer objects to be desired in their beauty and preoccupied entirely with their looks. Anyone claiming anything remotely to the contrary will be castrated forthwith. Unless of course you are a health organisation.
    The Portman Group, promoting the more boring things in life, are launching a national campaign to advise women drinking is not good for your skin and may make you less attractive. This is a rather interesting approach. Despite the fact we live in the twenty-first century and no longer 'do' sexism, that would never get off the ground if it were directed at men. Yet apparently it is perfectly okay to aim it at the female population. We should sue. We too need to be informed alcohol makes our peachy skin feel rugged and brittle. Clearly the Portman Group don't give a shit about us men, the bastards.
   To drink responsibly women should not consume more than 3 units of alcohol a day. This is typical of such organisations. Who the hell counts in units? That confuses the shit out of people. It basically means scientists, who never set foot in a bar, are talking about units, while the people actually drinking them talk about pints. So, for the benefit of the more social of you, a unit is half a pint of beer or a small glass of wine. And women should drink only three of them. That would take, roughly, an hour. At most. The pub would be empty.
   If women decide to drink in excess of three glasses of wine this may lead to (turn away now if you are easily disgusted) bloodshot eyes, dehydrated skin, broken veins around the nose and cheek and, indirectly, weight gain and bruising and scarring, though I am fairly confident the latter is largely due to the fact women insist on wearing high heels rather than the amount of alcohol they consume. How awful! But the absolute cream has got to be the fact ten percent of alcohol you consume is not processed by the liver, but directly excreted in the form of sweat, giving off an unpleasant odour. As if that stands a snowball's chance in hell against the perfume, skin cream, make-up, hair products and god knows what else is sprayed onto the female body to make it smell more appealing. Thinking anyone will notice the smell of alcohol is comparable to belching during a nuclear blast and thinking it will impress people.
   Besides, what is all this nonsense about dry skin? Considering all the good-looking people are invariably taken, you need a good few drinks to pull a bloke you fancy on a Saturday night, and it is a well-documented fact of life that sperm is extremely effective skin cream. Surely the two would cancel each other out? And in the bargain you can get pissed and laid in the same night. Sounds like a great deal to me. Yet these bastards at the Portman Group have the sheer gall to make it sound like a bad thing. Who employs these people; Satan?
   Or perhaps the government. Naturally when something terribly important such as this comes up David Blunkett can't keep his big fat fucking nose out of it. He was quoted as saying While there was little evidence that women are causing pub violence…, where we can comfortably cut him off at the pass. I realise he has a rather limited social life, prefers to wreck happy homes rather than find single people in a pub and is, well, blind, but surely he has creatures besides his dog informing him of the world around him? Women are one of the largest causes of pub violence in the history of mankind. Perhaps not as big as football, but still.
   Take a closer look at the next pub brawl you see. Provided the people involved are not wearing football tops there will be at least one woman standing around looking on. She started it. Perhaps not intentionally, but she will be at the very heart of all this punching and kicking. So really if these cretins were seriously concerned about our welfare they would have to suggest that in addition to kids and animals we start banning women from pubs as well.

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In the good old days the poor kids used to leave school and get a job. The rich ones used to leave school and go to university, and then get a job. Nowadays, with the Olympic Committee considering to cut baseball but add lazing around to the list of events, the single most hip thing to do is to take a 'gap year'. This is supposed to be the year between school and uni, during which bored teenagers who want to feel adventurous go out and be a waitress in Sydney. Really it is an expression of being different with several thousand people around you doing the same thing.
   Of course this does involve a lot of risks. With natural disasters, corrupt police officers, war, terrorism and insane stalkers on the increase, travelling around the world can be a dangerous affair, and god forbid some of these spoilt brats gets killed or castrated during his travels. Having spotted a market, Planet Wise are now offering courses in how to deal with the various difficulties you might run into. Obviously I am not going to spend several hundred pounds for the full three-day course, but I quite happily browsed through some of their complimentary hints. If this is not the most useful set of rules you have ever laid eyes upon, I don't know what is.
   Tip number one: always remember to bring emergency toilet paper. This one had been thinking for a long time. What on earth is emergency toilet paper? I have heard of stretchy, extra-soft, bouncy and quilted toilet roll, but emergency? I have no idea what this stuff is supposed to look like. Besides, where are you going to be keeping this emergency stash of bog roll? In your backpack. And what is the first thing you leave behind when there is an emergency? Exactly. Not to mention the fact that when you are caught up in a serious emergency, guaranteed you will be busy crapping your trousers long before you have dug through all your possessions.
   Tip number two: before you travel, bear in mind the political situation of the country. If anybody needs to be reminded of this, perhaps dying is merely an accurate demonstration of Darwinism at work. Nobody would be stupid enough to read Playboy on an Iranian train. Or wear a T-shirt with a big swastika and the words 'white power' in Tel Aviv. It makes you wonder how much time they spend on these matters.
   Last but certainly not least, tip number three: if necessary, scream and run away. This is an absolutely vital part of the course, because normally when you are surrounded by a group of locals, seemingly angered by your presence and waving big sticks around, your first natural inclination would be to slowly approach and smile at them. I do not need to be told to run away if necessary. In fact, I will be running away long before it becomes necessary. Just to make sure I have a decent head start.
   Why don't they teach these kids some useful stuff? For example, when setting off on your travels it is absolutely vital you do not send every single person you have met since the age of fourteen weekly updates about things you have done and people nobody gives a flying fuck about. Unless you have been involved in a plane crash or have been the victim of armed cannibalistic kidnappers people are not interested in what you have been eating. Leaving was a great start, if only these people could shut up while they were gone as well.

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As is customary around this time of year, the police and navy were getting ready for a blockade of some size or another. It's usually the 'big blockade', or the 'really big blockade', so presumably this time it was the 'enormous blockade', or perhaps the 'gargantuan blockade'. Whatever they called it, basically what happens is that several hundred anti-nuclear protesters, hippies, anarchists, peace activists and environmentalists picket Faslane, making life as uncomfortable as is possible for them, in the hope the government will scrap the nuclear programme. And the best of luck to them.
   Some of the more colourful people were there of course. My ex was there. The clergy were explaining Jesus would be against nuclear armament. The greens were there, as were the socialists. Hell, even people I do vote for were there. Rosie Kane took Tommy Sheridan's place to get arrested this year. He eventually spent two weeks in Barlinnie at Her Majesty's pleasure, for a breach of the peace. As far as I can work out he and most other people who were arrested didn't really breach any peace. Besides the fact there was an awful little peace to breach in the first place, it seems most of them did absolutely nothing at all. They sat down, and then didn't get up when they were told to do so by the police, which apparently constitutes as a breach of the peace. Not only does this show the nation's troublemakers are getting awfully lazy -lounging around on their backsides- but also that Strathclyde Constabulary apparently fail entirely to comprehend the basic meaning of the word 'blockade'.
   I wasn't there. Much as I would have relished the animosity directed at our government, I am actually quite fond of our nuclear arsenal. It fills me with a great deal of comfort and a fair share of hope. Please allow me to explain. As little as fifteen years ago, Saddam Hussein was one of America's best friends. I am not talking about a previous administration here; the same people in power now loved Saddam to absolute bits. They gave him anything he wanted, including enough weaponry to exterminate any ethnic group he saw fit. Fifteen years later all the horrific mutilation and torture is being used to justify the systematic carpet-bombing of Iraqi cities and their populations. Now have a look at what our army is doing. Again with the Americans they are butchering entirely innocent people who never were a threat to us until Blair decided it would be a good Christian idea to go and decimate their families. Adding to this that the vast majority of the evidence of atrocities levelled against Saddam was fabricated, from the incubators to the mobile laboratories, god only knows what kind of twisted fantasies can be used to augment the atrocities committed in our name today.
   So, imagine if you will a hypothetical 2020 (you may find it difficult to imagine another kind), in which our Home Secretary, unlike David Blunkett, thinks concentration camps are a very bad idea, and systematic torture on racial grounds an even worse one. Admittedly it is highly unlikely such a person can spawn from either Labour or the Tories, but supposing this new Home Secretary thinks using evidence gained under torture is unacceptable in a civilised society, and sending people off to show trials before being executed is simply inconsistent with everything we are supposed to believe in. Imagine our government deciding we will not only stop contributing to the genocide of Muslims, but will actually oppose it. What is to stop the Yanks from dropping a few missiles on our heads? What would prevent them from forcing our citizens to rape each other? This is hardly an unimaginable prospect. After all, it is happening on every single continent, including ours, every day of the year, in many cases funded, executed or approved by the American defence department. If they are willing to subject South Americans, Arabs, Africans and Asians to it, why not us? Because we have a nuclear arsenal to protect ourselves. That's why.
   What if in 2010 we decide that over four decades of degradation, humiliation, suffering and death in Palestine is enough, and we send over troops to protect the population from the barbaric treatment they are receiving at the hands of the Israeli army? Do you honestly believe the Israelis and the Americans, who have spent decades trying to starve and obliterate nations, would not kill a few thousand Britons if they knew they could do so from a safe distance? They destroyed ancient Babylonian sites to murder women and children; what does Manchester mean to them?
   However, with our nuclear deterrent the chances of being attacked by another nation are minimal. Iraq would never have been attacked if it had half a chance of defending itself. People like Bush and Blair attack only defenceless nations whose only available weapons are a desperate population willing to strap explosives to their own bodies. In other words, scrapping our nuclear arsenal would be the equivalent of banning all parties but Labour. We would have to keep participating in mass murder, toe the line in supporting repressing regimes and under no circumstances are we to actually go out and protect people.
   Because who would come to our aid? The French? They very nearly elected a Nazi. The Italians? They did elect a Nazi. And the Dutch not only elected a fundamentalist Muslim-hater, but they did so after he was already dead, so determined were they to have a racist government. Our alliances mean nothing. Iraq was an ally in 1989, an enemy in 1990. Most of the countries Blair considers friendly are dictatorships instable to the verge of collapse in only the best of cases. If ever we are going to be liberators instead of occupiers we will need our nuclear weaponry. It is not the weapons that are the problem, it is the arsehole using them.

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It has been suggested by some people that youth offender institutes and other prison facilities may not be as comfortable as had previously been suspected. Apparently they can tell from the amount of people who top themselves while on remand or supposedly safely incarcerated. Especially kids. Teenagers have in the recent past managed to hang themselves while on suicide watch. Some of them after trying several times. You'd say that would be a fair warning sign, but clearly not.
   Regardless of all the sad implications that come with an increasing amount of youngsters finding highly inventive ways to kill themselves in prison cells, you have to admire the ingenuity and determination that comes with a successful attempt while on suicide watch. If we could harness this amount of resolve we could do miracles. It also highlights how incredibly full of shit these mock depressed teenagers are.
   You know the type I mean. You find them hanging around heavy metal nightclubs, hair dyed black and constantly hanging in front of their eyes, dark clothes and permanently miserable. Pour a pint down their throat and they will start bemoaning their existence and voicing their desire to die. At this point I normally feel sympathetic to their cause, if not their misery. If you are going to top yourself, get it over with already. Of course they will inform you they have tried at least half a dozen times already.
   Bollocks. Nobody who is not under strict surveillance in a mental hospital or a prison ward tries to commit suicide twice. Failing once is fair enough, shit happens. If you fail twice you just aren't trying very hard. If half a bottle of pills doesn't do the trick at the first attempt any person serious about their intention would take two bottles and down it with a bottle of absinth the second time. By the third attempt you should really have moved on to leaping off the North Bridge onto the railway below, preferably with an oncoming train on it. If you survive three attempts you quite simply do not want to die. This incidentally makes you a very well adjusted human being. Maybe that's what bothering all these kids. The fact they are completely normal.

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It amazes me how often people, and usually American people, think they can take a perfectly good ancient story, and make it better. Where on earth do they come up with this nonsense? As if these things have been popular for several hundred years and all of a sudden a Yank in designer glasses and Tommy Hillfiger underpants is going to turn it into something even more fantastic. It is not going to happen.
   It shouldn't really have come as too much of a surprise then when I found out some twat decided it would be a good idea to make Troy, though fortunately at least they had the decency to admit it was merely inspired by Homer, rather than adapted from his book. The battle of Troy took roughly ten years. It was a big city with big walls. It took the Greeks ten years to get through. According to Hollywood they managed in just over a fortnight. On that scale the Second World War would have been over in little more than a week.
   Not to mention somehow the Greeks spoke English with American and Australian accents. I understand in the world of film everybody speaks English, even if that language wouldn't be spoken for oh, a millennium or so, but Australian English? At the time of Troy the people of Australia were still blissfully unaware of the people who would later develop the English language.
   And that's not even the worst of it. Besides leaving out a deity or twenty-three, somehow managing to turn Achilles into a mere mortal, leaving out Kassandra, adding people called Mohammedans roughly two thousand years before the birth of Mohammed and killing off Agamemnon, it is the children's version of the story. It's like fucking Disney made it. With people complaining about how desensitised kids are to violence, the battle of Troy has been diluted so much the comparative level of violence between the Iliad and Troy is roughly the same as between the A-Team and Sesame Street.
   Kids were thrown off the walls so they would scream all the way down before abruptly stopping but making a loud thud. Hektor was dragged behind a cart not with his feet tied together but with the straps through his ankles. That's right; through. With a hole in them. Women were sacrificed on graves. And most of them were gay. The men. The women as well perhaps, but it seems most of what they were doing consisted of either dying or predicting other people dying. Normally with great accuracy. What happened to all these gory details? War is a messy business, people, and we need to enjoy it fully.

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They are about as popular as testicular cancer, but a fact of life is that gangs of youths bored with life will gather outside shops and either block your path or hurl abuse at you. If you are really lucky, both. Normally they gather outside places that are open until late, so they can hang about after the street lights come on and pretend to have friends. This has become a worrying trend for Co-op. They do funerals as well, I know, but I think they are referring to their supermarket chains. Hordes of adolescents in baseball caps and with terminal attitude problems that prevent them from functioning normally in human society flock to these places, scaring the crap out of staff and customers alike.
   Co-op, in its infinite wisdom, has come up with the solution. And a brilliant one it is. Classical music is to these kids what rapidly flashing lights are to an epileptic. It sends them into violent convulsions and when they do not curl up into a wee ball, they run screaming for mercy. As they never spend any money in Co-op stores, management has started playing some Beethoven outside their stores. Presumably these CD's had already been in use at the funeral facilities, so really it is just bringing the supermarkets in line with company policy. And it works! Hallelujah.
   Naturally there is bound to be a downside to this. Youths out of the way is fantastic of course, but I am terribly afraid this new policy of playing classical music outside stores may attract the other social pariahs bored of life with ample time on their hands to harass our communities: the elderly. Obviously they will be even less likely to loiter around the funeral branch of the business, but they can still cause havoc at the supermarkets. With their constant whingeing they may very well be gathering round store entrances with hipflasks filled with sherry, popping prescription pills and lecturing the younger folk. Comparing the latest technology in hearing aids and talking of the good old days they may very well take to threatening young police constables, explaining they were in the army you know.
   I'm not sure which is worse. Some ned questioning your sexuality or a group of pensioners demanding you get a hair cut. You can't go round sending community liaison officers to talk to these people. Though perhaps we can get them to fight running street battles with the younger crowd, to settle territory disputes. Before you know it senior citizens will be forming gangs and intimidating shoppers. Perhaps Co-op need to think about their strategy a wee bit longer.

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I'm glad Scotland is catching up with our southern neighbours when it comes to staging some seriously riot-prone events. Clearly the Orange Order parades and Old Firm matches are not enough for the good people up here. Fortunately the National Front is coming over to help us out with this rather deplorable lack of hatred and popular uprisings. Unfortunately they have decided to stage it in Aberdeen. Fucking Aberdeen! They are planning a family event to celebrate St Andrew's day, according to the local Metro.
   So not only are they staging it in a city miles away from any form of urban society, they are inviting kids along. What kind of a riot is this supposed to cause? Are we going to be flinging water balloons and have cake at the end? If there are fascists marching down the road I expect some boarded-up shops, coppers on horseback and guys with mohicans lobbing petrol bombs over the army cordon. I want to see wooden clubs with nails driven through them, not lollypops and fizzy drinks.
   Obviously the minority community leaders are up in arms. Or at least they should be. Instead they are lodging complaints and bemoaning the fact these bastards will be parading down the road. It has already been estimated the entire parade will comprise of roughly 100 demonstrators. How difficult can it be to round up 700 volunteers before the end of November to stage a counter demonstration? Forget about lodging complaints. Organise your own event, demanding every white person unable to name the capital of Wales (at least three quarters of the national front) be castrated with a rusty pair of hedge cutters, in public. And hand out a couple of these things to the people at the front of the demo.
   Or we can make it really interesting. In addition to the National Front, invite a few hundred Yardies to parade in the name of black power, gather up all radical Asians you can find to demand the execution of any man having served in India, get some extremist Jews to demand an immediate annexation of Lebanon and that Muslim group who want to turn Britain into an Islamic state. Tell them all to bring some fireworks. Especially that last group. And then stick them all in opposite corners of a central square, remove the fencing and stand well back. Now that would be a family event!

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They just don't give up, do they? It is physically impossible for them to stop spreading misery and death across the globe. No sooner had the US defence department, a curious title if ever there was one, lost interest in investigating such trivial matters as torturing journalists in Iraq, or Donald Rumsfeld flew over to Afghanistan to congratulate himself on the success story unfolding there. And a success story it is. It may be a wee bit difficult to see it, but underneath that huge pile of corpses there is a grand future for all the people handpicked by the Bush administration.
   There is only one problem, according to Rummy. The enormous amounts of opium being grown throughout the country are a serious threat to the stability of the country. Yet another curious phrase. 'Afghanistan' and 'stability' are two words that simply should never be incorporated in the same sentence, unless they are separated by terms such as 'absolute lack of'. But then we have long known the English language has always been somewhat of a problem for Americans in general and their administration in particular.
   Ignoring this small matter then, Rumsfeld has a point. Drugs are very very bad for Afghanistan. Trouble is, it was the American government who first bombed what was left of the country into oblivion, and then started funding and arming extremist warlords, happily executing, kidnapping and mutilating people to exert their power, to hunt down remnants of the Taliban, leaving them to introduce rules and regulations at their will, regardless of whether these are suspiciously similar to those imposed by the former regime they are now hunting. In addition, these people are growing opium in record numbers. In other words, American taxpayers are funding the dope that is now flooding the streets of Britain. Thank you America!
   But fortunately Rumsfeld has already found a model on which to base the efforts to eradicate the drug trade: Colombia. You know, that country in South America where the US defence department colludes with government-supported death squads. That wonderful and free country where people are being kidnapped and tortured by people carrying what looks suspiciously like American weaponry. Fucking Colombia! How sick do you have to be to subject a country still suffering the aftermath of several decades of civil war and invasion, currently being torn apart by our wonderful allies and their humane ways of administration to the treatment the Colombians have been enjoying at the hands of the American government? It is not possible this man is mentally capable of functioning in society. Let alone be responsible for the lives of others.

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I like it when newspapers attack David Blunkett. I like it even better when it is decent newspapers, and preferably ones that quite like people like Mr Blunkett. So when the Times starts publishing editorials that accuse him of being prone to knee-jerk reactions -who, Blunkett? Never- I happen to enjoy it. Davie spends about as much time thinking about new legislation as the average bloke spends taking a piss. Possibly less. Which is probably a good thing, because the more he thinks things out, the dumber they get.
   The funny thing about this particular piece was that it suggested we cannot make laws against things just because we don't like them. Which is where I lost the author completely. The whole fundamental purpose of a law is to outlaw things we don't like. As a society we agree on things we disapprove of, and then we ban them. People who do things we don't like, we lock them up. And voila, a justice system is born. Walking down the street bare-arsed and squatting over the edge of a bridge to take a crap into the river below is not harming our country or the people in it. It is a perfectly natural process of transferring organic material to a suitable environment. We just don't like it very much. And that's why it's illegal.
   In fact most of our laws are based on a structured society we have created all by ourselves, and could just as easily have been different. If you consider the world is vastly overcrowded genocide should really be considered a good thing. In the animal kingdom aggressive behaviour is perfectly acceptable as a way of asserting one's power. If you are human you go to prison. And many girls from a biological point of view are ready to reproduce at the age of twelve, yet having sex with them before they turn sixteen is not allowed. Odd when you think about it, that we should create rules that run counter to our own instincts and nature, just because we happen to believe they're bad. But the Blunkett runs counter to everything we are and believe in, and he's in charge of the whole system. Now that truly is mind-boggling.

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I like to think I do not possess the correct qualities to become a disturbed serial killer. Perhaps a trait here or there, but I have never tortured an animal bigger or less deserving than a wasp, masturbation is not a fixation, yet, I did not wet the bed until my teens and most of all the literature I keep on history's worst tyrants are all of an academic nature. In fact, it could be said I am a fairly sane human being. Serial killing is more for people who carve little swastikas on their foreheads. Or who read The Lord of the Rings more than three times.
   Yet sometimes I worry myself. Halfway through an act of rather futile violence I will realise all of a sudden this kind of behaviour is not typical of a well-adjusted human being. But I can't help myself. When The Times prints a picture of Julie Burchill for example without even thinking about it I fold open my stapler and start smashing tiny metal fragments into an image of that racist cunt. It's not even that she doesn't deserve shards of metal in her head. If any writer in Britain can drive you to be a suicide bomber it is undoubtedly this poor excuse of a self-absorbed condescending specimen of a woman. It's just that I wonder what effect it has on the people around me.
   How would you react if you saw someone rolling up a newspaper with a picture of Tony Blair on the front page, and ceremonially set fire to it? Would you applaud, or perhaps stand back a few feet and admire the beautiful flames engulfing his ears from a distance? It is entirely possible people would get suspicious of you. After all, who would want to destroy a picture? Before you know it people in white coats will want to talk to you about your rage towards inanimate objects. And what can you tell them? That you will promise to stop attacking pictures and start focussing on the person they are depicting? You'd never get out again.

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Very occasionally, by pure chance, you come across something that is both so incredibly cool and at the same time so incredibly unusual you have to have it. For example an attractive and likeable American who will not stand me up. If ever I find one I am keeping her. Whether this will be to her liking I am not entirely sure, but the chances of a culmination of all these things happening both to me and in my lifetime are slim enough not to worry about such trivial matters too much.
   Though I did stumble across something equally intriguing the other day, as I was stumbling around the Old Town in my normal grumpy yet observant manner. Outside a second hand bookstore, subjected to the ruthless elements of the Scottish climate, there was a brown cardboard box, with a sign above it. One pound each, four for two quid. This seemed like a good deal indeed, and despite the fact I must now own at least ten books I haven't read yet, I couldn't resist. Imagine my surprise when in this box I found a book entitled my autobiography.
   Hardly the most original of titles I admit, but you may have guessed from the lack of an additional and more sensational subtitle such as 'the eternal determination' or 'my life in purgatory' that this is not a modern book. Quite the opposite. Its author is one Benito Mussolini. The same. This in itself rates very high on my 'me want one' list, and at the price of a single pound a bargain indeed. I never knew Mussolini wrote an autobiography and as I am having increasing trouble wrestling myself through Hitler's piece of abject boredom and irritation the idea of the other bloke's misguided insane fantasies seems rather attractive.
   This particular copy however comes with an added bonus. Several of them. First of all, it comes a foreword by the American ambassador to Italy from 1921 to 1924, Richard Child, who notes in our time…no man will exhibit dimensions of permanent greatness to those of Mussolini. Indeed it was this man, representative of the red, white and blue greatest country on the planet and defender of the free world who took the dictation from the man himself. Who would have guessed it, eh? In addition the introduction of the Hutchinson paperback persistently describes Mussolini in third person present tense and talks of his 'magnificent achievements'. As I was studying it, slowly it began to dawn on me this was published before, probably quite long before, the man and his permanent greatness were suspended upside down outside a Milan petrol station. Now that certainly is well worth a pound.

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It is truly bizarre how everybody forgets how awful a state we find ourselves in when the festival is in full flow. You'd say you remember for the year before. Yet every year we start musing about the great acts that are coming to town, and it isn't until you actually try and cross the road in Princes Street that you remember how tempted you were this time last year to just kick someone in front of a bus. Just to create some space. And perhaps a wee bit of satisfaction.
   Even the tramps are getting into the spirit. Never before have I seen them with fluorescent signs proclaiming just how badly they have been treated by the system. And of course they are raking it in. These tourists have no idea most of our beggars are professionals who make more cash than I do. At least they add some colour to the streets.
   But the next person that asks me whether I am here for the festival gets a punch in the mouth. And god forbid one more person has the gall to explain I have a strange accent. Instant dismemberment with a pair of tweezers. Some guy was telling me the other day that us locals must really hate the festival. I pointed out to him we actually quite enjoy the festival. We just hate the tourists. He left.

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I read through this document once. It was some kind of a piece of paper that had on it all the things people should have, and we in the west especially were going to defend it with all our might. I believe it is known as the universal declaration of human rights. Or at least it was. It is toilet paper now. The Americans have been wiping their collective arsehole with it for some time now, the UN has swiftly followed suit and now the newly installed and entirely undemocratic interim government of Iraq has too decided that rights are all subject to personal taste.
   Iyad Allawi is taking his role of Saddam's successor very seriously. Especially the part where he likes to kill his own people and impose draconian measures to stop anyone from reporting this. Hence Al Jazeera has been told to stop working in Iraq. You can see why. They don't have the patriotic flag waving American stations have, and do not abide by something we in Britain call the taste and decency guidelines. Which means that if a pregnant woman is blown to bits and parts of the baby are on the street, they show it. This is awfully dangerous. It is inciting people to dislike the people who dropped the bomb. And we can't have any of that.
   Of course FOX and ABC will still be able to work in Iraq. They are not inciting violence are they? They just provide a nice stage for people like Ann Coulter, who are of the opinion we should invade the Middle East, kill all their leaders and forcefully convert them all to Christianity. Bad news for the Iraqis, sure, but not for Iyad. He is after all not a leader, but an installed puppet ruler. And he knows damn well that as long as he is nice to the Americans he can kill and torture as many people as he sees fit.
   Think about it; when is the last time he complained about the wanton destruction of several towns across the country he is supposed to be rebuilding? Or the fact future generations will have to deal with the effects of all the depleted uranium? Have you ever heard him mention the unexploded ordnance that is denting the pre-teen population every day of the week, but is never reported? When a bomb from WW2 is defused in Wiltshire it makes the papers, but when a nine-year-old has half his head ripped off by an Israeli-made British-dropped cluster bomb while Italian soldiers are sitting around fondling themselves nobody gives a shit. Least of all the Iraqi prime minister.
   Just another US installed tyrant rampaging through his country. He will decide which militias will be hunted down and which will receive arms and funds. He will to his dying breath defend the people torturing his citizens and raping the men and women he is supposed to protect. As long as they continue to do it for the right reasons, though I have to admit they have long escaped me, and I certainly think he never gave them too much thought either.

---

It is rather frightening to think just how much authority writers seem to possess. I mean, it provides us with a great deal of hope, but it doesn't necessarily mean the greater common good is being particularly boosted. After all, how many books have been written throughout the ages and have since been proven to be a) true, b) useful and c) convenient? For a book to help the human race it needs to be all three, and let's face it; you don't need a lot of shelving space to store all of them.
   During the very brief period I studied archaeology the opening line in my notes was a quote from some eminent professor or other, who had claimed, with great accuracy it has to be said, that all archaeologists are liars. Which certainly proved to be a very true and amusing opening to my studies, but at the same time also managed to discredit roughly every fact and theory presented thenceforth. Most of the books I have read since suffer from similar difficulties, though they very rarely come with as clear a warning as my respected teacher, one Dr Middleton, gave us.
   Take the bible for instance. On second thought let's not take the bible. It does more than a decent job of discrediting itself through its incalculable contradictions, so there really is no need for me to do so. But other such books. There are still people convinced the sun revolves around the earth. Just because a book told them so. Similarly I used to work with a bloke who would swear all the people involved with the Nuremberg Trials, from the judges down to the guards, were communist Jews, all out to get the Nazi's, who were actually quite decent human beings. It was in chapter seven of a book written by a man who went to university and read other books on the subject.
   It worries me. How is it possible that people switch off their minds entirely, and will trust anything in print because it got a good review or, god forbid, an award? Surely there is one tiny part of our brain that kicks in when we are presented with dubious information. For example, very few people will challenge Michael Moore when he writes George Bush is a cunt, but that doesn't necessarily mean he is not full of shit on other matters in his books. Bill Bryson went so far as to claim in Mother Tongue that in Britain we took over the Latin alphabet and then added the letter 'g'. This implies that the Romans had emperors called Augustus and Caligula, who sent legions (legiones) to areas they named Gall and Galilee, yet didn't have a 'g' in their alphabet. Seemed curious to me.
   I don't think I have ever read a book I believed from start to finish. Certainly not anything they gave me in school, as at the time we were informed some of this crap had been updated, which led me to conclude the possibility the new material would more than likely be discredited sooner or later. Perhaps that should be my quest in life; to find a book I agree with all the way through. Unlikely I will ever find it, but how else can you make a challenge interesting?

---

There are great advantages to having homosexuals hanging around. You are never short of a hairdresser. Not quite a professional I consult on a regular basis, the last time was when I was twelve, but you never do know when you will be in a situation where a stylist is absolutely vital and you can grab the nearest bloke who is fashionably gay and well in touch with the trends. They also seriously cut the number of blokes you have to compete with when desperate for a shag, and in most cases eliminate the most eligible ones. I am therefore a fond supporter of homosexuality.
   However, nothing good lasts forever. Much as I appreciate equal opportunities, there is the small matter of toilet facilities open to the public. When I stand over a metal trough, attempting with all my might to make a dent in it while grunting in a relieved manner, I like to savour the moment in relative peace and solitude. One of the unwritten but certainly well observed laws of behaviour at the urinal is that everybody minds his own business. It's what separates us from animals and women. We are capable of both co-existing and ignoring one another. It's a small step towards world peace, but you have to start somewhere.
   It is awfully disconcerting then when the bloke next to you starts taking an interest all of a sudden. It is completely opposite to all behavioural instincts and traits we have managed to build up over the years. And I'm not even bothered when a complete stranger starts staring at my privates. Especially if it's a guy. You can be absolutely sure it really is nothing he hasn't seen before. As long as they keep it to themselves. The moment an attempt is made to relay his thoughts and feelings on the matter, social and biological alarm bells start ringing.
   When I enter a lavatory all my defence systems shut off. My skills of communicating and thinking at the same time vanish without a trace. That's what loos are for. They are a place where everybody can be completely alone together. So when London homosexuals start hinting towards possible acts of an indecent kind I am not prepared. It worries and it scares me. And it may result in a black eye for the other person. I am sure psychologists will put it down to repressed homophobia. Personally however I think it all the more likely I would react the same way to a bloke trying to sell me tickets to a show.

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You know that feeling when you are walking around the house in your underpants, casually yawning and scratching yourself while you make your way to the kitchen for a cup of tea, when you all of a sudden get this sudden feeling you are dreaming? I had that the other day. Just as I was in the middle of massaging that spot right above the right buttock my eye fell on a letter from the Inland Revenue, which informed me I have been paying just a tiny bit too much tax over the last few years.
   When I say tiny bit, I mean I have been funding the government with enough money to have Blunkett's dog dine on the very best canine meals available. So now that I have it back I have decided to go and spend it in Israel. Bearing in mind how our government seems to be spending our money nowadays in all probability it would have ended up there anyway, so I might as well go and bring it over myself, and take in some of the scenery while I am at it.
   I suppose I had better start working on my Hebrew. As I can wrap my tongue around the challenges of Scottish English as well as some of the other, more difficult, Germanic languages, I suppose theoretically speaking I am well-equipped to try my hand at the throat-scraping phlegm-spitting that is the language of Israel. So far I can only say 'hello' and 'cheers', though fortunately the same words also mean 'peace' and 'to life' respectively, so that is four for the price of two right there. A bargain indeed. I feel Jewish already.
   I did pick up some Yiddish throughout the years, but unfortunately it is all fairly insulting. So I guess I am just going to have to learn some brand new phrases. As is normally the case when I go abroad, I will first try and find out how to say 'I am a stupid bloody foreigner', which was without a doubt the single most useful thing I said when I was in Spain. But of course I will also have to learn other important things, like 'two beers please', 'thank you' and 'where is the nearest British embassy please'.
   So far I have been unable to find any travel guides to the Holy Land. Strange that is. It sounds like such an idyllic serene place. Ah well. I guess I will just have to go over and kick up a fuss myself.

---

I hate buses. They don't make them my size. I suppose one could also argue I was not made the right size to fit in buses, but that would ultimately lead to the concluding statement I hate my mum, and frankly I don't think I have either the time or the money to therapeutically work at an issue of such magnitude. Therefore, I hate buses.
   Now your average city bus is a pain, but you can normally kick a handicapped woman off the spacious reserved seat and usually a trip on it doesn't last too long for clots to start blocking your vital arteries. The really vicious bus is the coach type, hauling between cities or countries. There is simply no possible way you can make yourself comfortable in one of these infernal machines.
   Invariably I will end up wrestling with the seat in front of me, which I realise is the exact same size as mine, though looks so incredibly bigger from where I am sitting. When I have battled it out and come to a compromise I can hold without screaming for more than three minutes, nine times out of ten there will be half a dozen passengers in a vehicle of similar size staring at me.
   The only defence you can mount against this is to attempt to force your face into an as close to a Mongoloid grin as you can manage, and wave at them with all your might. This works. Most of the time. And this will allow you to focus all your efforts on wriggling your knees off the metal strips stapled around the bus for no apparent reason. I really do hate buses.

---

As you know, we are all about to die. It's inevitable. Our sense of freedom and prosperity is seriously pissing off those who don't have it in the first place, and so they are going to come and kill us in some spectacular fashion or another. Which is why our benevolent government and all affiliated organisations (the Sun, Sky and so on) are dishing out useful hints on how to combat terrorism, and what to do when an actual terrorist strikes.
   Unfortunately all this is in Labourspeak, so very difficult to actually absorb. Therefore I will try and explain exactly what it is Labour wants you to do when you are caught in a terrorist attack. First, panic. It is absolutely vital you panic. It is when you are at your most vulnerable and we will be able to shove anything down your throat. You will let us get away with anything provided you panic hard enough, so practice this at home. Second, do not listen to the Red Cross. This is an evil and antiquated organisation that still doesn't understand Muslims are not people. Remember that while we were protecting you by dropping uranium on schoolchildren in Iraq it was the Red Cross that tried to save their lives. They are the enemy. Listen to David Blunkett. He knows what he is talking about.
   Help us identify terrorist sympathisers. This witch-hunt is no fun without informers. Let us know about Islamic charities, Islamic aid agencies and any other thing that starts with 'Islamic'. In the case of a suspected chemical attack for god's sake do not start running around infecting everybody else. Sit down, do as Blunkett tells you, and be decontaminated. Unless of course you are a member of parliament. When the Labour government has been infected there is no reason for the remainder of the sixty million inhabitants to carry on living, so when you suspect you are infected run outside immediately. Normally the people gathered outside the houses of parliament are mainly students and the media, and they aren't too keen on us anyway. Infect as many people as possible.
   Do not oppose emergency legislation. Just because other governments have used terrorist attacks to put their countries in strangleholds, imprison, torture and murder thousands of people and abolish everything democratic doesn't mean we cannot trust Labour with it. And last but not least, for the love of the saints try your very best not to be an Arab. This is just a bloody nuisance. Over the last few years we have tried our very best to make life as impossible for you as we could manage, and it is simply inconsiderate to still be alive by now. Besides, we can't have paramedics trying to treat people with Arabs walking around, because we have made our emergency services so paranoid about people from the Middle East they may not be able to focus properly on treating their human patients. And don't forget to vote Labour the next election!

---

It has been haunting me for some time now. I simply cannot get the idea out of my head. It is just too weird. At the English church wedding I attended recently, two people informed us all marriage involved three, with God always in the middle. This sounds awfully worrying. Surely if you were to keep your marriage interesting you would invite a young busty blonde with an oral fixation to constantly be in the middle. Not a supreme being who has been around since the dawn of time. I'm not trying to be ageist here, but it just sounds perverted. And surely God has better things to do than have breakfast with you. You wouldn't always say so, but I certainly hope so.
   Now having God in the middle of your bed is a frightening prospect in any religion. But I do think in Anglo-Catholic circles this is especially daunting. As the young lady leading us in prayer mentioned His being in the middle I could not help but rest my gaze on the Lord in the shape He always appears in such places of worship; a bleak and suffering corpse nailed to a wooden cross. It's enough to give me nightmares.

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Somewhere, at one time, in a meeting that involved moustachioed men with cigars and a laptop, somebody suggested it would be a neat idea to allow small children onto rock festival grounds. Clearly this person had neither kids nor had he ever seen the chaos that is Glastonbury, but as a result you can now be going out of your mind to Motorhead and find you have just stepped on an eleven-year-old. After which its parents, who were nowhere to be seen when it happened of course, will get pissed off at you. I mean, seriously.
   This issue has divided the fans into three groups. First, there are the absolutely insane ones, who think kids should be allowed to experience the whole rock and roll experience right from the front lines and send them happily to their mutilation with a smile and a pat on the shoulder for encouragement. These are the people who should sterilised forcefully and immediately. To let a fifteen-year-old go to Type-O-Negative is cool, but a twelve-year-old at Slayer is just not healthy without proper tall and hairy supervision.
   The second group consists of people who rightfully think kids have no place in the mosh pit, but wrongfully think this means they can bounce them around like an old patchy beach ball. The kind that thinks anyone in an adult situation should be treated as such, though strangely enough never try to run into a cripple in a wheelchair. They might hurt themselves on the metal you see. Kids are nice and soft.
   And there there's people like me. Sensible people you will have gathered. Who feel that children up to the age of fourteen belong in a playpen, but there is no need to seriously injure the ones who manage to escape. This means at the front of concerts we will invariable be shielding the little cretins from the rest of the world. Not that they will thank you for it of course, but somehow we always end up being elbowed in the back of the head by some skinhead trying to muscle his way forward, just because some half-witted sperm donor and his receptacle decided it would be a fun plan to take their genetic mismatch to see their first punk concert. We're too good for the world.

---

I was never very good at science in school. Mainly because it didn't seem to bear any relevance to my life. Nor have I since found any practical use for maths. Never have I been in a situation where the square root of the letter B should be calculated from an equation involving the radius of an unknown semi-circle. In fact, of all the science subjects I have ever studied, only physics I have used since I left school. And that only when we were trying to figure out how to keep our beer cold on holiday.
   So perhaps I am not the best person to be pondering these issues, but then I quite happily stick my nose in where it doesn't belong. It is a well-known fact that the Earth revolves around the Sun rather than the other way around. Even the Catholic church has come round to this idea, about five centuries after everybody else, and about one decade before announcing condoms have holes in them. But that is a different story altogether.
   Yet when I was watching a BBC programme called Space a few years ago, the omniscient Sam Neill told me that our entire galaxy is constantly on the move. So if the lot of us are spinning around and twirling up and down the universe, how can we possibly establish which planet circles the other? After all, we have no idea where the universe ends, and so we cannot determine where the middle is either. Without a stable centre, how is it possible to know what moves in what direction? It seems to me it is entirely possible that the very centre of the entire universe is the inexplicable stain in the third kitchen cupboard from the left at 23 Bedford Road in Milton Keynes, and everything else revolves around it.

---

I don't pretend to understand people who go clubbing. Never in my life have I been hip enough to be part of the crowd attending the trendy places. Even in my mid-teens I was shunned by bouncers at posh venues, telling me people with long hair and wearing army boots were not welcome to join the well-off and terminally popular, some of whom strangely enough sat next to me in Latin class.
   Ever since I have only felt at home in dark grimy pubs playing rock music round the clock and the customers settling disputes by kicking the shit out of one another until either the barman threw both of them out, or a well-aimed whack with a pool cue proved one of them right. I have always been part of the suspicious crowd, the undesirables and troublemakers. And as such people who dress up in glitter and go dancing in nightclubs baffle me.
   Some of them may very well be very nice, but they do seem a little weird to me. The other day I strolled along from Bannermans and into the cultural disaster that is the Opium rock club on the Cowgate, and found a lass that looked about as far removed from the legal drinking age as I am but in the opposite direction, leaning up against the business end of a booming speaker approximately ten foot high and six foot wide. I realise there are people who actually enjoy the utter crap they play up there, but why on earth would anyone go and stand in the front line of that aural assault voluntarily?
   What can possibly be the reason for that? I love loud music, but that is taking it twelve steps too far. Not to mention the fact you can't hear an air raid siren blaring overhead, let alone anybody trying to have a conversation with you. But perhaps that wasn't the intention. Maybe she was merely attempting to look cool. It may very well be that this is the difference between the clubbing crowd and those of us who hang out in pubs. Their aim is to look interesting, while we try to be interesting.

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News is never as interesting as when it is reported right from your doorstep. The fact rockets are being fired at the Indian parliament is ultimately more spectacular than politicians getting stuck in the lift at the Scottish one, but you cannot help but be interested in Holyrood, simply because it is a building you can spit at without requiring a visa. And obviously a dismembered corpse in a back garden or a headless body in a graveyard right around the corner simply demand your curiosity.
   So when headlines are screaming all our pets are at risk, I pay attention. We only have one pet, and we would hate to lose our dear old tarantula. Turns out they were only talking about quadrupeds, who are seemingly at risk from attack by urban foxes. Or so the experts tell us. The experts also tell us the reason for this is the fact we are all using wheelie bins. An interesting twist, to be sure.
   This is an interesting claim. I stumble around the streets of Edinburgh drunk on almost a daily basis. Never have I ever pissed against a wheelie bin. Some might construe this to mean I am a well-behaved individual, but those who have known me for more than a week will conclude from this these objects are simply not there. Very rare is the occasion I venture out to the outskirts of the city, so perhaps this is where these bins are causing all the fuss. In the centre we are all leaving our bags out on the street, where any fox can rummage around in it if it can fight off the seagulls the council is so keep to protect.
   I'm not an expert on foxes, obviously, but where I work we have Bill. Bill is a fox. I know this because people have told me so. And because he looks like a fox. It is generally acknowledged Bill is a fox. And I can assure you right now Bill is no threat to anybody's pet. This animal would be hard pressed to keep up with its own shadow. The only pet he is going to eat is a cripple hamster in the first stages of rigor mortis. Bill is not a threat to anyone, and these newspapers are conducting a highly despicable smear campaign to assassinate his character. Leave the poor bastard alone.

---

You know, being stood up isn't nearly as bad when you are in your local. Now that I am enjoying single life again I am also going through the highly recommendable sitting in a pub waiting for someone who had never intended to show up in the first place. It happens to me more often than not. In fact, it is such a regular feature in my life I walk around with a book in my pocket, so I can look lonely rather than desperate.
   People tend to notice me anyway. I think is may be the hair. So when I have been sitting in a dark corner of a random bar, regularly spying over the top of my book to scan people's faces, the rest of the establishment soon gets more than a little nervous. You can tell from their faces. Is he about to snap? Is he planning a spectacular robbery involving well-trained bloodsucking bats? Or he is he just plain dangerous and on license from a maximum-security facility just outside of Aberdeen?
   Within the first hour of sitting there staff will have been alerted by customers, and discreet phone calls will have been made. There is a unit on stand-by. Not in my local. Of course I still get the stares, but when they approach the bar staff they will be informed aye, I am very strange, but no, I am not about to cause anybody any harm. It makes being stood up all the more enjoyable.

---

There must be a terrorist living in my street. And your street as well. In fact, if all the reports are to be believed every seventh person you shake hands with is somehow involved in terrorism. Soon we will all have been converted to the religion of terror, and we shall be the first fully-fledged terrorist country on the planet. I am not holding my breath. In fact, I would very much like to see how many people in this country are actually thinking of becoming suicide bombers in comparison to, say, people who are considering to be active necrophiliacs. They are certainly a tiny minority compared to rapists and child molesters, yet our kids are still allowed to play in the streets. In all probability you will find there is a whole range of highly unsanitary people out there, who add up to much larger numbers than terrorists.
   It's just that they don't make the papers. Nobody cares about swindlers operating from the boot of their car. Doesn't have the same impact. So now we shouldn't buy counterfeit DVD's because they are being made by terrorists. Seems a little strange to me. I always pictured terrorists sitting around with bags of fertiliser and a copy of the Anarchist Cookbook rather than tapping away to Alanis Morrisette as they are burning discs.
   And what kind of terrorists are we talking about? When they kill people terrorists are always linked to some kind of group or master terrorist. When they make DVD's they are just terrorists. I think if they are going to make claims like this, they should have some evidence to back it up. Who has been benefiting from copying American Pie part 2? The IRA? Columbian rebels perhaps. Ansar al Islam? There are too many terrorist groups around nowadays, so they will have to be slightly more specific. Are these the Irish freedom fighters who tried to blow me up in Birmingham, or perhaps the type of terrorist found at Guantanamo? You know, Middle Eastern with a beard, but no idea how to fire a gun or make a bomb.
   I suppose soon we will be hearing about the technological advances these evil people have been adding to the films. It won't be long until somebody warns us of the subliminal messages regarding killing your western neighbours in the pirated version of the Lion King.

---

If the good people of East Anglia had seen a bloke in a kilt before they certainly managed to hide it well. It started with the hotel receptionist, who politely managed to slip in an inquiry about the veracity of the rumour regarding undergarments worn by men in Scotland while I was hunched over a local map trying to figure out where the hell I was going. She was not alone. Soon a little boy hanging from a car window was gazing at me intently, dividing his efforts between staring at me and poking his index finger up his nose as far as he could manage. A well-mannered lad if ever I did see one.
   After which one of the locals apparently felt it was his duty as a full-time wanker to inform not only his friends but also everybody else in a two-mile radius there was a bloke in a skirt walking down the road. Initially I did consider retorting it was a great pleasure to be sharing this road with such a fine example of a sad and lonely man, but I soon realised he and his friends, none of whom had any dress sense and all of whom were in dire need of dietary advice, would only come running across the street to make up for their lack of a functioning penis and as I was walking around with a dagger in my sock I would end up stabbing one in the throat and being arrested.
   You will understand I have no fear of being arrested by the Lincolnshire constabulary for severing the cerotic artery of an overweight and annoying Englishman and spilling blood all over his football top, but the prospect of having to explain to the mother of the bride why I did not make it back to the wedding reception terrified me to a degree I don't think I will ever be able to transcribe. So instead I decided to do the same smile I cannot help but smiling when faced with retarded infants and took my skirt back to the party, where it was more appreciated.
   Not least by the Iberian girlfriend of the bride's brother, who, during a rather acrobatic performance on my part, happened to be staring right up it and proceeded to inform every last person present, up to and including the bar staff, that she had just seen my willie. She declined to mention whether this view impressed, aroused, shocked, disappointed or disgusted her though, which I imagine is probably a good thing. We'll let the people down south get used to our dress first, and then move on to our genitalia.

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Hot stuff! The festival is coming to town. It happens every year of course, but it is hard not to get into a state about it. Most people love it, some people hate it. The people who live here usually balance their emotions between entertained and irritated. It means of course that some of the world's finest musicians, dancers, actors and comedians show up on our doorstep, but it also means for an entire month we have to put up with roughly one million tourists, all of whom are invariable lost, dazed, confused, rude, obnoxious, fat, annoying and/or American.
   It's a bit like living in Disney World. There's simply too much to see and you will never be able to either do or afford all the things you want, but those who are seeing all the plays you will miss at least have the decency to litter in your front garden, should you still have one. Most people in rented accommodation will find their patch of green has been leased to a travelling group of Jordanian belly dancers performing along the Royal Mile.
   There's always something to moan about. Hell, with six separate festivals and a British attitude there is bound to be something wrong somewhere. In this case it's the human rights activists claiming it is inappropriate to ask soldiers from the People's Republic of China to bang drums together at the Military Tattoo. You'd say they would appreciate the fact that while they are over here playing folk tunes they are not killing students in city squares over there. And let's face it, if human rights were an issue we should be asking some serious questions about our own troops participating in the event.
   I'll just moan about the Fringe. I mean, how is this supposed to be a decent festival without Rich Hall? This is quite simply not possible. And not they have put on some extra Terry Pratchett events either. Just one musical. Instead the regulars returning are the highly irresponsible duo performing Puppetry of the Penis, a show I think I will give a miss this year. I am still having trouble getting erections since I saw that bloke spin a beer mat around his cock before urging us to try these things at home.
   In the meanwhile we will just savour the last few weeks of quiet before the invasion. After that this place will be just like Iraq. A bunch of Yanks walking around talking bollocks and feeling superior until one of the locals lands a good punch and paramedics stretcher him off to the infirmary. If the crowd lets the ambulance through of course. I think I shall start stocking up supplies.

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Honesty and politics are a funny combination. It's not that there aren't any honest politicians, because there must be, but that we don't expect any of them. Think about it. When was the last time you sat down with someone who was actually convinced Tony Blair is an honest man? Even his staunchest of supporters must realise deep down the man is incapable of telling the truth more than three times a day. And who honestly believes Jack Straw is not a hypocrite?
   The thing is, even though we despise them for it, nobody expects any different. Your grandmother will tell you even in her day politicians were liars, and they always will be. Your dad will explain he too once had principles, but has long given up because even the politicians who seemed cool and groovy turned out to be nothing but arrogant and self-serving cheats. Nobody gets upset about lying politicians. It's the way of the world.
   This is of course a fantastic escape route for governments in general, and the Labour Party in particular. As long as you can convince people to focus on the fact you are a lying bastard rather than on your actions, you are safe. As of yet we have not had a single inquest into whether or not Iraq possessed weapons of mass destruction, but we have had several on whether Labour lied about it. Of course by now everybody knows they didn't have them and Blair did lie about it, but we choose to focus on the latter rather than the former. Why? Because if we were to address the issue of actual weapons we would have to talk about the thousands of dead people currently lying rotting in Iraq. This is an uncomfortable subject. The public is not too keen on death. It tends to put them off their leaders. If we just talk about the dishonesty regarding these weapons, people expect no less than to find heaps and heaps of it. They simply do not care.
   In other words, whatever atrocity is committed by Tony and his chums, they need a big fat lie to accompany it, just to draw all the shit away from the actual act. The moment they were to stand up and actually admit their intentions, they would be fucked. Look at the BNP and Kilroy. When they were honest they were racists and criminals. Now that they are flatly denying there is animosity towards Asians and Arabs they are merely hypocrites. And which would you rather vote for? A politician who is proudly carrying on with the tradition of dishonest politics, or a man who hates coloured people?
   The same goes for Labour. The moment they say they think it's a good idea to kill Iraqis they are fucked. As long as they do it but not say it, they are fine. So in effect the survival of the Labour government hinges entirely on the continuation of dishonesty. All this talk about making us all trust them is a smokescreen. It is absolutely vital there is no trust between the public and the government. As the democratic principle has long been abandoned they are free to rule as they fit anyway, and as long as we are convinced honest politicians do not exist we either don't turn up at the ballot box, or believe it makes absolutely no difference which way we vote. This can only work to their advantage. The less we believe them, the more chance of survival they have.

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We were pointed in the right direction by a cheeky wee lad in pinstriped trousers and wearing a pink cravat. The bride's side was the far end of the church, we were informed by the aforementioned ruffian, whose incredibly smart appearance may have fooled the elderly part of the guests, but certainly didn't for a moment distract me from his mischievous grin. Gingerly we stepped into the old church, and paused for a second.
   No flames! I wasn't struck down by lightning, the roof didn't come down and the earth didn't tremble beneath me! God likes me. I knew this already, but it is always nice to have such things confirmed. I straightened my kilt and happily took my place with the rest of the congregation. I don't go to church very often of course, but you know me; I'll be whatever I need be for a party. Irish, Jewish, posh. Hell I'd be Botswanean for a day if you tell me when their national holiday is, and I don't even know where Botswana is. So being a Christian for a wedding is hardly trouble.
   Plenty of leg room in English churches, which is more than I can say for the train down there. Not that you need it of course. This is a joyous occasion, so drag your butt off that pew and sing till you can't sing no more! The King of glory and of grace! // One with Himself I cannot die, // My soul is purchased with His blood; // My life is hid with Christ on high*. Not exactly kicking stuff musically, bet let's be honest; rock bands have been banned from the airways for less provocative lyrics. Happening stuff, I am telling you.
   Something can be said for English church weddings. Quite a lot can be said for them actually. I am a bit of a sucker when it comes to tradition anyway, but it was fantastic to see my friend in a long white dress and a veil led to the front by her father, who had a joyous look of relief on his face when handing her over to her future husband, though I am not entirely sure whether this was because it meant the end of his participation in the ceremony or because she was now the other bloke's responsibility. The vicar even asked if anyone knew any reason why the two should not be wed and to speak then and there or forever keep their opinions to themselves. At this point some of the relatives did flash me a look of warning, but in my role of committed Christian for the day I behaved myself perfectly.
   Incidentally, if you ever need to wipe away a tear at a wedding, don't use the corner of your kilt. It reaches to be sure, but when the people in front happen to glance behind them they may be confronted with a picture not normally appreciated in the more religious circles. Find a woman with tissues. Or a bloke. As I was both male and was wearing a skirt the bridesmaids thought I would be the ideal individual to be lugging their handbags about while they doted on the bride. A very fetching image according to the majority of wedding guests.
   I have decided therefore that English church weddings are cool, and though I will sooner rip out all my toenails with a pair of pliers than have one myself, never shall I speak a bad word against them. Amen.

*From "Before the Throne of God above" by Charitie L Bancroft

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I didn't know this, and as I have only read about it I am still not entirely sure whether somebody is taking the piss, but it has been claimed that in North America there are now colleges where people can learn how to snog. You wouldn't think this is a subject easily lending itself to educational investigation, but apparently people are willing to pay money to have an expert teach them on how to kiss their lovers.
   From what I have managed to gather I myself am quite a good kisser. There are two completely alternate yet equally credible theories as to why this is. The first is that I simply possess great skill and instinct when it comes to sticking my tongue down someone's throat. The other is that snogging seriously impairs my ability to speak, and therefore prevents me from saying something stupid. Either explanation will do me fine.
   It does make you wonder what these people are being taught. After all, isn't every individual different? Slobbering all over the other person is probably not very acceptable in most instances, but with a wide range of sexual appetites you may very well bump into someone who likes a large amount of saliva dripping from your chins. Similarly some people are quite turned on when teeth are involved, even though in polite and good Christian relationships these kinds of practises are not only highly irregular, but also seriously frowned upon.
   According to an article I read about the subject, one should practise on a peach. You should not bolt it down, but let your tongue linger, lick the skin and nibble before biting down. To begin with, you can be arrested for lurid behaviour if you do this in public. I will guarantee you right now that if you sit down in a public park and start tonguing a juicy fruit while staring at the general public two gentleman in black uniforms and a hat will come and ask you politely to fuck off. On the other hand of course if you bite down at the end of what started off as a romantic snog, you may very well do serious injury to the other person involved. So whatever you do, do not practise on a peach.

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I have been selected for a very dangerous and highly secretive mission. This weekend I am attempting to make it to the English border, penetrate some 200 miles into enemy-held foreign territory and infiltrate a church. It may very well prove to be difficult, and should I be caught there is no telling what will happen to me, though there have been rumours relating to Leicestershire housewives tickling captured spies until they give up all their secrets. This is certainly a frightening prospect, though risks have to be taken during these dark and dangerous times.
   During my mission I shall be very cleverly disguised as a wedding guest, which allows me to walk around in the midst of my foes while armed. There are not many cultures in which it is traditional for the men to carry a knife, but fortunately in ours it is. Presumably because it is also part of our culture to dress in a skirt, and should one be attacked by skinheads one needs to be able to defend oneself. Therefore I shall be able to mingle with an unsuspecting enemy, safe in the knowledge I can always fight my way to freedom.
   I was of course the logical choice for this adventure, as I studied in England. I know how to act whilst among the English, and can understand their somewhat bizarre brogue. Their weird ways are alien to most of my compatriots, but after two years of intensive studying I am able to comfortably blend into their society without fear of being unmasked.
   The part where I infiltrate the church may prove slightly more complicated. My experience with religion is limited to a few confused encounters with pushy people carrying bibles stopping me in the street because they felt they needed to convert me and save my soul. I always explain to them there is no need, but somehow they are never reassured when I inform them I have a very close relationship with God and had tea with Her only last Tuesday, when we were discussing the matter of the imminent apocalypse. So I will have to improvise. Wish me luck.

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I am sure animal wealth inspectors and those of you who are unhealthily attached to your relationship with the animal kingdom will disagree with me, but I think bullfighting is a great sport. It is man's duty to do battle with nature. And I am not one of those sadistic bastards who kicks kittens over a clothesline, or some macho arsehole who likes to use hedgehogs as a football. I pet dogs when I come across them, am nice to people's pets and always try to kill insects with a single blow rather than make them suffer a slow and agonising death. I just think a guy in spandex fighting it out with half a tonne of solid meat is both stimulating and entertaining.
   In addition to this, the annual bull running in Pamplona manages every time to rid us of those nasty creatures that have taken to swarming Europe over the last few decades. I am talking of course about Americans. Guaranteed when you see a picture in the newspaper of some bloke with a horn entering his left arse-cheek and emerging again from between his third and fourth rib, the shish kebab in question will be a Yank. They can't help themselves. They see something stupid they are not qualified for, they have to join in. It's somehow stamped into their DNA.
   Just imagine how much better off the world would be if every city in Europe would stage a yearly running of the bulls. We'd be American-free within a matter of years. Entire hordes of dimwitted Yanks (often considered a pleonasm) would flock to these events, and even the ones who are clever enough not to participate we could always push in front of the rampaging stampede. In addition we could offer all those who outrun the beasts a free lesson in bullfighting. Using a real bull of course. And just to please the animal lovers, any bull that kills the matador gets released. Sounds fair to me.

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I am getting more than slightly fed up with the amount of press dedicated to explaining why driving Arabs off their land is entirely acceptable, and we shouldn't whinge about it so much. Column after column is filled to explain that objecting to the policy in Gaza is anti-Semitic and one university lecturer went so far as to suggest that hating Ariel Sharon, the man responsible for the rape and murder of three and a half thousand refugees, automatically meant hating all the Jews that have ever lived, live now and will be born in future. So at least our educational system is in safe hands.
   Recently I read a brilliant article in which the writer attempted to justify Israel's refusal to cooperate with the UN on nuclear weapons while it still expects the same agency to disarm all its neighbours, including the ones it occupies. It was because the Nazis persecuted Jews, and Britain didn't do enough to stop them. This of course has roughly as much to do with one another as woodworm does with cholera, but why let logic get in the way of a good bullshit story?
   The argument was roughly that because 60 years ago the British government let the Jews down, Israel now shouldn't try and work with the rest of the world, and all Jews should mindlessly support any policy the country decides to adopt for no other reason it is run by other Jews. Of course by those standards nobody should be cooperating with these organisations and everybody should hate us, because over the last six decades between Britain, France, the USA, Germany and Holland alone every single race, creed, colour and sexuality has been persecuted to lengths best left unimagined.
   But most of all it gives a fantastic excuse to any Islamic fundamentalist. If we can really dig into the past to excuse violence today perhaps we should stop criticising all these insane suicide bombers. Let's see. While the kings back home were inciting pogroms across Europe, they were also conducting crusades to rid the Holy Land of unbelievers. While the word 'pogrom' is invariably associated with an act of evil, the word 'crusade' is now used to describe a noble act of bravery or charity. Strange that is, that we should use a word that translates roughly into 'holocaust' in such an approving manner.
   Of course it gets better this century. Besides robbing the Middle East blind, the first ever act of bombing a civilian population was carried out on its inhabitants, by the British. To relieve the persecution from the British the Nazis took over for a while, though soon enough the Arabs and Muslims were 'liberated' by their previous oppressors. Ruled by British-imposed tyrants, armed by the Americans to wipe one another out, brutally ruled by the French and driven off their land by the Israelis, Arabs have had it great over the last 60 years. And it is only getting better!
   If the persecution of Jews in the 1940's is an excuse to approve of rape and murder, then perhaps we should start re-evaluating our opinion of Al Qaida. But you'll never read that in a newspaper. That would simply be ridiculous.

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One of the technical consultants on this website recently decided to draw up a list of qualities and stumbling blocks that sometimes come with women, and attributed bonus and penalty points to them. This presumably so that the rest of us could rate our girlfriends or one-night-stands. Normally when blokes venture into such dangerous waters we risk wrath not seen very often, and more often than not we end up with a lacerated face or bruised nuts. He's Irish though, so he gets away with it. Must be that hilarious accent.
   The cumulative ratings system has a somewhat strange score sheet, the difference between top and bottom possibilities being 310 points. According to the author the best woman will score 175 points, for which she would need to be a non-smoking funny easily pleased exotic domesticated barmaid who practices one male hobby only, is a good cook, gives regular massages and gives good head at least once a week. The worst possible woman will come in with a score of minus 135, because she is a moody fickle English vegan artist drama queen with issues and 'wank' parents. Though in order to manage the lowest possible score she would have to be both a clean freak and unhygienic, so at least it is easier to be perfect than it is to be hopeless.
   The single highest quality in a woman seems to be the ability and willingness to dish out regular and frequent blowjobs, while smoking is one of the worst possible aspects of her life. As both are signs of a woman who likes to have something in her mouth all the time you wouldn't really expect them to be at opposite ends of the scale, would you? The most mystifying quality however remains the 'any exceptional body part', which results in five bonus points. An infected boil under the right nostril, bordering the lip, leaking pus almost continuously in my book would definitely qualify as an exceptional body part, but certainly not something I would award extra credit.
   Maybe I just lack imagination. Or maybe my technical advisor is a pervert. Bordering one perhaps. He does after all refer to 'boobs'. Which is obviously far more adolescent than breasts, but certainly considerably more clinical than boobies. And you have to admire the term 'general front curvature'. This may very well refer to the chest area, but it could just as easily be a coded hint to his fetish for the female nose.

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You may have heard that the ultimately wise gurus of American science have found that stress actually boosts our immune systems. This will come as great relief to those developing cardio-vascular diseases over the years. After all, it is great to know that those dying of a heart attack at the age of thirty-nine will not have to spend any days off work to lie in bed due to a minor viral infection. In other words, stress will not only shorten their lives, it will also prevent them from enjoying the time they do have left.
   Of course not only people with crappy jobs are affected. According to The Times other things that cause considerable stress are occasions such as sitting an exam, parachuting from a plane or delivering a best man speech. Well, I have done all three, and I take issue with this. First of all, sitting an exam is not stressful. I was perfectly at ease when I sat my A-levels and as of yet I have not heard any argument suggesting this would have been any different had I not spent the entire previous evening in the pub.
   Delivering a best man speech is not very difficult either. I have been able to read from a very young age, and could speak even before that. Reading from a piece of paper must be very complicated for the mentally challenged, but for those of us with moderate to extraordinary capabilities when it comes to day-to-day activities it is hardly something to break into a sweat over. Writing one is stressful. Even for writers these things are awfully tricky. Normally I don't give a fuck what anybody thinks when I write, but all of a sudden you have to start thinking about other people. That's stressful. Reading out loud is primary school stuff.
   Parachuting isn't very stressful either. Discomforting definitely. Terrifying perhaps. Don't think at any time I felt stressed. At no time during the proceedings did I feel like I needed to have a time-out and someone to rub my back. Though I do remember I lost all ability to be polite. When my instructor, who was strapped to me so tightly I don't think I had ever before or have ever since been so close to another male human being, ordered me to stick my left leg out of the moving plane I shouted back at him to both go fuck himself and to put his left leg out of the plane.
   That's not stress though. That's common sense kicking in at the last moment. I simply couldn't feel stressed while I was connected by twenty-seven hooks to a man in sandals, shorts and a Wallace and Grommit T-shirt. It has a very soothing effect on a human being, regardless of whether he orders you to leap out of a perfectly good aeroplane at ten thousand feet. So I think we can safely say my immune system is pretty well fucked.

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The Braveheart image is doing damage to Scotland, according to the people pretending to be in charge of the country. I am not quite sure what this means, but my guess is they are not talking about the complete disregard and savage raping of historical events and customs, or the fact the film seemed to suggest the nation's most famous nationalist terrorist sounded like what can only be described as an American with throat cancer during elocution sessions.
   The result of this image is that people think we have wonderful albeit somewhat rainy scenery, but are not especially tempted to come over here. This is an enormous problem, says Jack McConnell, a man in some serious personal denial. The biggest problem facing Scotland in general at the moment is Jack McConnell himself, followed by the incompetent stumbling stooges around him. At least half of the problems facing our shortage of visitors is the fact Jack decided to represent Scotland in New York by wearing a skirt. This is unacceptable of course, and so the whole blame has been shifted on our Braveheart image.
   One result of this image is that businesses are reluctant to base themselves in Scotland, presumably for fear of being overrun by a horde of painted savages breaking into their bedrooms on horseback, sawing off their heads with a butter knife and having the horses rape their daughters. This country not only has the most famous golf course, but an additional several hundred all over the place. It's any suited businessman's wildest wettest dream. And their daughters are safe as well. It is a well-known fact Scottish men are only attracted to sheep. You didn't honestly think it was a coincidence the first cloned mammal was both a sheep and Scottish, did you?
   I have come up with a marvellous solution to this crisis. We find about ten famous Scottish politicians responsible for making us look bad, including Jack, Blair, John Reid and Cathy Jamieson, and draw up a rota. Every day we take one to Glasgow airport and one to Edinburgh airport, and hang them upside down from a rafter by stapling their toenails to the beam, and let any visitor give them a single whack with a cricket bat. People would be lining up around the border!

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I wonder where all these politicians live, and who on earth brought them up. Their obsession with children is getting worrying. Perhaps they are all petrified this Operation Ore will lead to them sooner or later, and before SO19 kick down the doors at the houses of parliament to confiscate all the images of small children being molested by peers they want to bolster their defence by doing some nice things for the kids. So from now on parents won't be allowed to smack their kids. Or at least, not very hard.
   Pretty difficult to draw the line you will understand. But between reddening of the skin, causing bruising and outlawing grabbing a kid by the ear I think every single person involved in my upbringing would be in deep shit. I don't think grabbing someone by the ear should be made illegal. From what I can remember my grandmother had a very effective way of holding on to it that was horribly painful if you resisted, but not all that bad when you cooperated fully.
   Banning smacking is a dumb idea. I think parents should be encouraged to smack their children. Not beating them on the shins with a broom handle because they won't finish their broccoli of course, but when kids are chucking clumps of mud at senior citizens doing their shopping really the only viable chastisement is smacking them across the back of the head so hard they tilt forward to the point where they almost tip over.
   In fact, not only do I think parents have the right to hit their kids, I strongly believe the rest of us should be allowed to do so as well. If you find some neighbourhood scallywags torturing your cat in the street as far as I am concerned you are fully entitled to grab the little bastards by the throat and slap their faces until it goes purple. And then you are perfectly within your rights to kick them in the bollocks to boot.
   The idea kids will be better behaved if you stop them from watching telly is both unproven and complete cobblers. You have pre-teens hanging out of windows with air rifles, shooting at police constables and the disabled, and somehow threatening they will not be allowed to watch Hollyoaks is supposed to put an end to this. Nonsense. Public flogging is what we need. Most old cities across the UK will still have their old places of execution, so we could easily start twice-weekly floggings at these sites. In Edinburgh the Grassmarket would be ideal. You can easily fit large crowds, and there are plenty of pubs. And I guarantee that if you start whipping a dozen kids twice a week, the whole of the constabulary will soon be able to dedicate time to more serious issues.

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Good news, people. Racism has been legalised! According to the Crown Prosecution, whose name somewhat hides its true allegiance to the Labour Party, has announced you can defend the killing of innocent people by explaining they are evil on account of their ethnic background. Isn't this fantastic. A great day for freedom of speech. And a great day for bigots, fundamentalists and those encouraging people to ethnic cleansing.
   Yup, Kilroy is off the hook. Apparently there is no reason to prosecute someone defending the actions of pilots dropping depleted uranium on children by explaining all Arabs are women oppressors, limb amputators and suicide bombers. Of course the coincidentally ex-Labour politician has long defended his comments by pointing out he merely meant Arab states, not individuals. Not a strong grasp of the English language then, or perhaps thinking 'Arabs' is short for 'Arab states'. Either way he failed to explain how an Arab state can be a suicide bomber. Limb amputators sure, and women oppressors easily, but it is very difficult for a state to be a suicide bomber. Not an issue for our judiciary.
   This of course paves the way for all of us to be as hateful as we want, and to put down any group we feel like. Just remember that even the actions of a tiny minority can be ascribed to an entire race of people. So, as HIV is a big problem in Africa and Mugabe is persecuting white people while gun violence is rampant I suppose it would be fair to say all blacks are gunrunners, racists and spreading Aids. Latinos could be drug dealers, kidnappers and guerrilla executioners.
   We Europeans have plenty to choose from. There is after all Milosevic as well as all the people joining in the fun in Iraq. Plus of course our quaint little customs, such as domestic violence. So we would be rapists, mass murderers and wife beaters. Jews of course can be ethnic cleansers, invaders and child killers. All Asians can be torturers, child prostitutes and executioners. A nice comfortable way to sort the world, and all with the blessing from our very own judicial system.

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It is a well-known fact there is a lot of shit on television, and the sheer boredom and frustration night-time telly inspires is only outdone by those programmes around breakfast time. Hardly the stimulus you would hope for at three o'clock in the morning when you are trying desperately to stay awake with the help of a whole range of caffeine products of both the legal and illicit kind. If they are going to repeat shows anyway, why not the good ones? Des and Mel will not keep me awake, though it may lead to me shedding the last fragment of sanity I retain and killing someone with a CD case and a rechargeable battery. Surely nobody would like to have that on their conscience.
   Decisions decisions. On BBC1 we have ONE Life. With added person signing for the deaf. Imagine that. As if being deaf isn't bad enough; the only time the poor buggers can watch television is the middle of the night. If I wasn't such an insensitive bastard I would complain about it. According to The Times, tonight's episode is a Documentary following 20 years in the life of a heroin addict. A repeat. Someone thought we should all watch this again.
   Now besides deciding immediately I am not going to watch this as I would much rather watch Talk Greek on BBC2, this sounds like a very irresponsible programme. Can you imagine two decades in the life of a heroin addict? Hardly an effective way of putting people off drugs. If this person can spend over 1,000 weeks injecting drugs into his body and still live then heroin must be getting a lot of bad press, because I seem to remember being told this stuff will kill you one way or another.
   Drugs killed Keith Moon. Keith Moon! This man was as indestructible as they come. The man who took gorilla tranquillisers and jumped off hotel roofs into swimming pools he could barely see from the top. And he died from drugs related to his alcohol problem. Supposedly heroin is far worse than alcohol, isn't it? I am getting confused here. Is this programme focussing on the achievement of doing heroin for twenty years, or merely suggesting it isn't all that bad? It's a good thing this is on when all the kids are in bed.

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Once you have noticed the attractive woman sitting in a rowing boat without any clothes on, and you have taken in the slightly exaggerated smile for the photographer, you will notice at the top of the full-page advert it says 'Be Happy Naked'. There seems to be no reason for capitalising the first letter of all three words, but this is advertising so there is no need for logic or accuracy. Looking back at the woman, crouching a little to hide the interesting parts of her anatomy for decency's sake, you realise she is far more embarrassed than she is happy.
   The ultimate goal of this advert is that you read the rest of the text. Drink Evian. Evian makes your skin look better. Better skin will lead to you wanting to show it off. This will get you naked, and the combination will make you happy. That is roughly the train of thought they want to inspire. Rather tenuous link to an embarrassed naked lass in a boat of course, but we live in an age of unsubstantiated claims and glorious results.
   There is of course a small problem. I am happy naked anyway. If it didn't offend the people I live with I would walk around the house naked all the time. The only reason I draw the curtains when I get changed is that otherwise pedestrians might phone the coppers and I get dragged to a police cell and have to appear before the Sheriff. Being naked is great. Provided it is warm of course. No amount of French natural spring water is going to make me feel better or worse when I am bouncing through my flat bare-arsed and bits dangling freely. The only thing an extra litre of water will do is make me want to pee more often. And this is an activity better done in private.

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I am not entirely sure at what point in time it happened, but recently it seems the single most desired thing to have is a flash ring tone for your mobile. There are ads on the telly, newspapers are flogging them and every magazine you flick through offers the latest and greatest in digital ditties for your phone. It is almost as though modern man cannot live without being reminded every ten minutes what the latest pop hype is. Somehow the radio just isn't enough. Everybody else on the train may not yet be aware, and need some help.
   The only good news on the mobile front phone lately seems to be that using one severely cuts down your sperm count. Excellent. This is very good news indeed. That would suggest both a slow decline in the population level, and more kids growing up in an environment where they actually have to look at someone to have a conversation with them, rather than sitting seventeen feet apart with a walkman on full blast, typing text messages in a language that resembles, at best, an attempt at English by a blind autistic toddler with a severe muscular disorder.
   Though I am not entirely convinced this research can be trusted. I have this sneaking suspicion that blokes who walk around with Britney Spears on their mobile phone may not have been the most fertile human beings anyway. No real man would even consider such nonsense. Anyone who does quite probably has low potency in the first place, and is attempting to fill the void by mindless tunes that keep his mind off the deplorable situation in his trousers.

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I am not normally one to use biblical comparisons, but one couldn't help but notice Bush playing Pontius Pilate this week, washing his hands to rid himself of the stupendous amount of Arab blood on them, and happily letting the Iraqis take all the blame and responsibility for the mess that he has caused. Everything is jolly now, if the Bush/Blair cretins are to be believed. Sure, people are still going to die, and soldiers will still be exempt from prosecution the next time they force prisoners to rape each other, but it's their problem now. Oh happy day.
   At least Saddam will get a fair trial now. Tried by a completely independent and democratic panel. Right. The five judges in charge of the trial were handpicked by the new Iraqi government, which was of course handpicked by the Interim Authority, which in turn was appointed by the head of the Coalition Authority. He was picked by an American Secretary of State, who was appointed by the US president. As we all know he was appointed by the Supreme Court after losing the election, and the judges on the Supreme Court were all appointed by former presidents. So this independent democratic judicial panel is actually a bunch of appointees to the seventh power.
   At least the prosecutor can claim only six, but he is related to one of the chief architects of the false pretence on which the whole invasion was based, so the blatant nepotism more than makes up for that. You see, all this optimism is coming from Americans who have convinced themselves they believe in equality because they once played Little League with three black players, yet in the meantime all they know about Jews they have learned from Jerry Seinfeld, and they wouldn't let a Muslim into their home without strip searching them first.
   Everybody with half a brain knows damn well that this would have been unacceptable had the accused been white. After all, if Saddam should answer to the people he has killed shouldn't Milosevic be handed over to Kosovo? Don't be silly. They might be nasty to the poor pale man. All he did was murder Muslims. That is a white man's god-given right. And the mere idea of making Sharon pay for the ethnic cleansing in Palestine or Lebanon is sending chills down the spine of any do-gooder Christian fanatic now explaining why trying the monsters in Iraq is good for the Middle East. This has nothing to do with equality; this is only showing the world that we reserve the right to treat Arabs as we damn well see fit. So sleep tight, world. Tomorrow it may be you.

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Very few men I know are as in touch with their roots as I am. Most of them are walking around all day attempting to prove their own success in negotiating the evolutionary ladder. To me this is nothing but self-denial and insecurity masked by our very skilful ability to put on a pair of grey socks on the morning. Therefore I will be no part of it.
   Occasionally my lack of respect for the wonderful things Darwin has done for me is only too evident. For example, when people walk in to find me draped over the couch, staring at the telly while gnawing away at a bag of peanuts in their shell and a banana to stick to my crisp-free diet, there is little mistaken I am deeply in touch with my inner monkey. Half man, half chimp I am.
   And why not? We are after all related. We might as well start acting like it. Perhaps a new television programme could be based on this principle. A bunch of apes can go and live in a house for a few weeks, while some human beings can start swinging from trees and de-lousing one another. It would certainly be better than Big Brother…

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Blair is giving Americans entirely the wrong idea about us Britons. Just because he is an insane religious fundamentalist who honestly believes he can talk to God doesn't mean that any of the sane inhabitants over here feel the same. And we all know you have to be very clear with Yanks, or they'll completely miss the point.
   It's too late now. They're here. The scary Christian cult known as the Silver Ring Thing have arrived to save our teenagers from themselves and from the Satanic carnal lusts they may be battling in their lives. They are here to explain condoms don't work, three quarters of all girls get infected the first time they have sex, and that everybody should wait until their wedding night before performing any act you wouldn't feel comfortable doing with your parents in the room. Their words, not mine.
   I have long been intrigued by these obviously very well-meaning but awfully disturbed creatures, who make their members sign an abstinence vow and make them all wear a ring to show that they are waiting for their true love, and with it true shag. Sailing over to these isles certainly promises to be exciting on their website. Apparently all over the UK a silver ring will set you back 10 quid, except in Dublin, where it will cost 15 Euros. As Dublin has not been part of the UK for roughly a century now I cannot help but wonder if their medical research is as up-to-date as their geography.
   This vow they have to take seems to be a closely guarded secret. I can't find the damn thing anywhere, and as of yet no concerned confident conservative Christian has taken the time to reply to the e-mail I sent them a while ago. This makes me very suspicious. What is in this vow that I am not supposed to find out about? There must be some kind of secret clause in it that refers to the end of life as we have grown accustomed to, or some other bizarre passage that the rest of the world cannot find out about. If this is not a true sign of a cult, I don't know what is.

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Sometimes, usually when it is dark and I am all alone with nothing to do, I wonder what exactly is the difference between a healthy sexual appetite and perversion. I mean, there must be a border somewhere. We all realise that staring at an underwear advert and realising the woman on it is highly attractive is perfectly normal, whereas staring up a schoolgirl's skirt is unacceptable. But where do the two meet?
   Maybe it has something to do with whether what you are staring at is intended to be on public display. For example, looking at a porn film is not perverted because the people in it both are intentionally shagging for you to watch. So if the university students next door intentionally cram their tits in a top not nearly big enough to hold all of them, can you freely stare? After all, if they do not want them to be seen, why put them on display?
   I get confused about these things. What is perversion anyway? As far as I can tell it is perfectly acceptable in modern western society to admit openly you get turned on by big breasts. Yet not when you get off on feet. In the meanwhile you will probably be slapped across the face when you stare at someone's breasts, but you can quite easily get away with answering you are staring at their feet when they ask you. Provided of course you don't answer with both hands in your pockets, making very suspicious movements.
   Similarly I wonder whether two people leaving the curtains wide open as they cavort half-naked are the perverts, or the people walking past and not quite able to avert their gaze. This is awfully confusing stuff. Some lass walking around in a skirt shorter than her knickers is obviously trying to parade the interesting pattern on her underwear, but can I look at it? And if so, only if she is my age? I wish they would come up with some guidelines on this subject. Maybe some magazine could devise a test. Are you a pervert? Answer these twenty questions and find out! I think I can safely predict the outcome in my case though.

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Quite how the national media hadn't noticed it itself I suppose we will never ever come to find out. It had seemed perfectly obvious to me for years now, and really only lobotomised blind and deaf people who get an epileptic fit every time they switch on the television could have missed it. But, finally, after an extensive study by scholars, the only to get anything done these days, we have learned that perhaps the media is more than slightly biased towards the Israeli-Palestinian conflict, favouring the Israeli side of the argument so much many British teens believe the Palestinians occupy rather than the other way around.
   The most amazing part of this is of course not that somehow the British media quite casually decided to ignore four decades of occupation, but that this comes as a surprise to people. How far do you have to ram your head up your arse to not notice this? Take a random Hamas leader. The late Dr Rantissi for example stated that the targeting of civilians was perfectly acceptable. An extremist, right? A fundamentalist extremist terrorist according to the media. So could you explain to me what you would call an Israeli minister who demands all Arabs be driven into the Red Sea so they can be drowned at the lowest point on earth? According to our wonderful media reports this man is a 'hardliner', or a 'rightwing politician'.
   So, advocating the murder of innocent bystanders and individuals is somehow considered to be worse than advocating the eradication of an entire race of people in the most degrading manner feasible. Or so the BBC would have us believe.
   This is not true of course. Nor is it fair to single out Israel in its treatment of the Palestinians. This is how we see things now. We are viewing the whole world through a pair of Labour-tinted goggles, with a set of blinders fixed to it. Blair and Bush are advocating just as much of a genocide as Sharon is, and yet again the entire media gather round to support them in this. Murder is now the act of killing a white person, perpetrated by an Arab. Check the news. There are no trials involved in this. A white person dies, it's murder. An Arab died, well, he's just dead. At most he is allegedly killed, but never murdered.
   Bear in mind that both Blair and Bush are advocating not only annexing Palestinian land, but also denying three million Arab Israelis the right to return to their homeland, forcing them into what will be left of Palestine, surrounded by barbed wire and Israeli watch towers. Working together to create a bigger and whiter westernised Middle East. Somehow the media is not interested in the fact these men are suggesting that the Arab population should be artificially contained. We do this in Britain as well. With squirrels.
   Can you imagine the US Senate deciding tomorrow that they will cap the number of blacks allowed to live in America? Or Germany deciding too many Jews would ruin their national identity? There would be an outcry. The whole world of television would make comparisons to Hitler. But not when Blair does it. Why? Well, clearly Arabs aren't as human as blacks. And not nearly as cute as squirrels.

---

It came as a bit of a shock to all of us, but when we woke up on Friday the world was still there. It was even still turning and, as far as anyone could tell, roughly travelling in the same direction it had been before. Which seemed to counter all the reports and claims that Armageddon had finally arrived, and there would be no life ever again on this planet. Turned out in the end England had only lost to Portugal.
   I'm beginning to sound like my mother. For God's sake, it's only a stupid fucking football game. It may come as no surprise to you I learned much of my swearing from my mother. It was a major news item on ITV! They even had a reporter standing next to the penalty spot, explaining that the people back home all thought the team deserved to win. And let's face it, when it comes to an independent opinion, who better to ask than the fans?
   You'd say that a team losing as often as England do by now they had learned to accept defeat graciously. No such luck. I can't remember the last time England lost because they were crap, though from what I have seen they most definitely are. There is always some obscure reason they were unfairly denied a victory, and these things never seem to come out until after the game. Who knew that the assistant referee had been operated on his left testicle in 1965, which makes him lean slightly more to the right, which just happened to favour England's opponents, eh? And the traffic drives on the right over there, which is highly distracting for the players in the stadium.
   I really don't think they need to spend ten valuable minutes of the news explaining that 'we' were robbed. We were not robbed. We lost to Holland 6-1, because 'we' are crap and 'they' are not. England missed penalties. From that magic penalty spot which seemed to cause all sorts of problems for the English players, but by some mystical sorcery was perfectly okay for the Portuguese. 'T was a conspiracy, to be sure! But then that is hardly surprising if you consider that the referee was Swiss and Switzerland did not make it to the quarters because England did.
   Are you writing these things down? In comparison some of my mates at school had some pretty credible excuses why their homework wasn't done. One even claimed he was late because a group of Greenpeace activists had chained themselves to his moped. On the whole ultimately more likely than England losing through no fault of their own. Perhaps they should take a leaf from our book. Realise you're crap, and just relish any game you do win.

---

As I get a look of strange looks anyway, it is often hard to distinguish between a conservative look of disapproval of my nose piercings, a concerned look because my shoelaces are untied and a look so hateful you should be glad the sender isn't armed or you would instantly be mutilated, murdered and disposed of in undignified manner. I have learned over the years to ignore all of them, but occasionally you do realise that a polite smile at such people can sometimes do ultimately more harm than good.
   At first glance very little can go wrong when on a sunny day you open your window, and sitting back in your cosy contemplation chair place both your oversized feet on the outside of the window. Sure, this means that they are pointing towards the street, and people on that street can stare straight at your crotch as you comfortably place your feet a few inches apart, but as I was fully clothed this in itself would not cause too much offence.
   So I was more than a little surprised when the looks I was getting seemed to be more of the hostile variety. It took me a while to realise, but the majority of people glancing over at me certainly did not seem to approve of whatever it was I was doing and offended them. Now if I had been masturbating I would have seen their point. But I was merely reading a book. And what confused me even more was that the passers-by were getting more hostile as time went by, even though they were all completely different individuals.
   It didn't really strike me until somebody asked me what I was reading. Then it slowly began to dawn on me. Obviously the people walking past before were only unhappy about my long hair and perhaps my smelly feet, but certainly didn't take any exception to my reading Bill Bryson's Mother Tongue. However, after finishing this very entertaining piece, in complete innocence I grabbed hold of the next book I had finished yet and slowly sipping a cup of tea in full public view tried to wrestle myself through Mein Kampf.
   Perhaps the view of a tall blond young man in black combat trousers and wearing a T-shirt depicting a skeleton playing the bagpipes reading a book by Adolf Hitler gave them the wrong impression. You never know.

---

It is not often I am completely lost for words, but that kid in Glasgow really managed to shut me up and had me snapping my mouth like a goldfish. This brat, this little Glaswegian heap of shit, still wet behind the ears from passing through the birth canal, asked me for ID. How mentally retarded do you have to be to think I am under the legal drinking age. I can legally drink in any country on the face of the planet that allows the serving of alcohol.
   I felt like slapping him across his autistic head. Do I have ID? Of course I don't have bloody ID. There is no feasible reason I would ever have to prove my age. Never in my life have I been asked for ID. Not even when I was underage. And I am not taking any liberties for the sake of artistic expression here. No poetic licence taken. No bastard has ever been dumb enough to assume I was seventeen.
   Not until this baby-faced twat still waiting for the first evidence of hair shooting through his face anyway. Must have been stuck in the birth canal or something. Certainly would count as a recent tragic event in his short lifespan. But there is no need to start dragging me into the personal misery he may have suffered in the miniscule amount of time he may have been roaming around.
   These first ten years of the twenty-first century happen to be the fourth decade I am experiencing on this planet, and by now really when I order a pint of poor quality but ridiculously priced lager there should be no cause to insult me like this. Fucking hell, by now little snot-nosed infants like this particular bar-steward would be addressing me as Sir. I hope his mum sent him to bed with no supper when he got home for being a twit.

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There are a lot of things on television I do not understand, but occasionally I stumble across an idea so ridiculous I hate it before even watching it. Big Brother being an excellent example of this. And now there is a new abomination about, called 'Queer Eye For The Straight Guy'. A reality format (surprise), which seeks to improve the life of a heterosexual male by introducing him to several homosexual ones. These aforementioned homosexuals will tell him how live his life, which apparently will make him more attractive to women.
   How would they know? What would gay men know about women? By definition these people are the least qualified group in society to tell men how to treat women. I can picture straight men explaining to one another how things work, or women telling men. But something is fundamentally wrong when you start asking for advice from people who quite simply do not care. Or shouldn't anyway.
   According to my TV guide, the queers will teach the straight how to shave. Is this guy twelve? Surely he knows how to shave. Unless they are talking about shaving hair that does not grow on a chin. Maybe the idea is that if this guy shaves the hair off his arse women will find him more attractive. Which is sick. And teaching him to cut off facial hair is stupid. Unless you use a straight razor used by Wellington to cut leather straps off dead soldiers at Waterloo there is not much of a challenge to shaving. You may slash your face five, six or seven times, but really classes are a bit over the top.
   Isn't it bizarre that gays have been telling straight society for years it is none of own business how they live their lives, and just as the more stubborn and narrow-minded of us hetero folk are getting the message, they start telling us how to live our lives. Well, they can fuck right off as far as I am concerned. My private life is nobody's business. And if they start pushing us, I think we should have our own parade. Just a bunch of blokes drinking beer while watching the rugby, scratching their bollocks and belching in tune with the national anthem. The Be Proud To Be A Pig Parade.

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Summertime is festival time. All over Europe marquees are set up, stages are erected in bogs nobody has bothered building roads to, and tens of thousands of spotty teenagers with bad personal hygiene habits turn up to see their favourite acts perform live. It is a great time to have some time off, and a great time to get pissed and fall asleep in the mud.
   My days of working crowd control are unfortunately over. Nothing quite like being kicked and punched by crowd surfers as you try and secure the safety of the entire audience. One of the best jobs in the world, which unfortunately for me and my colleagues was made near-impossible by men in suits who feel that keeping teenagers safe is not very much of a priority when publicity is bad. I imagine that once a few poor sods die as a result of these idiotic measures they will start hiring people like us again.
   Nowadays I am at the other side of the barrier. Still not sure if I want to go and see any of these festivals though. They all seem dominated by over-rated teeny-boppers like the Darkness and Metallica. Not really my idea of either a good time or decent music, and I am certainly not planning to spend a small fortune if I don't at least get half a day's worth of actual music by people who still care about what they do.
   Staring at programmes I'd say it doesn't bode well. The Live and Loud offers us the enticing prospect of Busted, Peter Andre and Emma Bunton. Doesn't sound very loud to me. Or live for that matter. You need a band to perform live, and most of them don't seem to have one. The ones who do usually forget to plug in their guitars, which for the dedicated music fan is a fair clue you are hopping along to a recorded version of a song you didn't write in the first place. I miss Keith Moon.

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This whole Euro 2004 nonsense is doing nothing but confirm my intense despise of the so-called 'beautiful game'. I fail to see the beauty of the affair completely. Twenty-two overpaid blokes with an attitude problem running after a ball is not a pretty picture. In fact, it is a rather boring picture, and only made worse by the people who pretend to be experts in the field of kicking a ball down a pitch and talk tonnes of bollocks.
   It is bad enough that these players feel they should wear the latest fashion in head wear and get their nails done before and after every match, but these commentators are really not worth running down in your four-by-four. I actually heard one of them say the other day, that he was beginning to wonder what someone had to do to get a penalty. Funny. I thought something had to be done to you to get a penalty. An accidental slip of the tongue, revealing the true nature of football. Lying down and crying, cheating and moaning seem to be the main objects of this particular 'sport'.
   A bunch of wimps and pussies they are. Go down faster than a Thai whore in the poor neighbourhoods. Another commentator was absolutely appalled that a player who tugged someone's shirt did not get booked. That was almost assault, according to the self-proclaimed pundit. I don't know where this dickhead lives, but I have had worse in the checkout queue in the supermarket, by ninety-seven-year-olds. This whole shambles is doing nothing but teach the nation's young to cry on command, whinge and spend an hour doing their hair. Beautiful game indeed.

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The other great advantage of not having a religion to worry about, is that you can celebrate your holidays whenever you please. I have therefore decided that I shall be taking my holidays in July and that they shall all be related to the focal point of my being: my bed. Better than any religion I can find in the library. I am having a holiday to relax, and shall set out to do as little as is humanly possible.
   However, as all other religions always want to involve people on their special days and events, I too shall be implementing a strict religious etiquette, which will be enforced with militant zeal. Therefore, everybody in or around my house will observe this new atmosphere of calm and relaxation, on pains of severe physical suffering. There will be no sporting, running around or more than the absolutely necessary cleaning of the house.
   I shall expect all those in my immediate surroundings to loaf about, sticking their smelly socks outside the window as they read a decent book and scratch their arse occasionally. There will be no alarm clocks set during my period of religious festivities. Anybody so much as wearing work gear shall be punished immediately, and extensively.
   Insensitive and uninformed heathens daring to disturb my holiday will be hit on the head in a leisurely fashion and with an object normally associated with laziness. They will then be re-educated into accepting the ways of my deities by being tied to the sofa and forced to watch several episodes of Fraggle Rock with a beer and crisps with dip. Anybody still eager to actually do stuff after that will be shot upon sight. Again in an entirely laid-back manner of course.

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There are some god-awful establishments in Edinburgh. The lack of taste people can learn to live without never ceases to amaze me. They'll put up with anything, provided there is a big guy with a bald head outside and a Kiwi with a superiority complex not easily charted running the place. Just advertise in a grimy youth hostel and within a matter of weeks the whole place is filled to the brim with the experimental, the desperate and the under-aged.
   It is really rather deplorable. There is no reason whatsoever to ever set foot in one of these places. Not ever. Certainly not if Bannermans is just around the corner. This is a well-known fact, of which I am constantly aware. Even more so when I myself walk into one of the aforementioned shitholes.
   You will understand of course that I am in no way responsible for this. The fact I happen to find myself in these places is entirely the fault of the people around me. I may have a free will and a mind of my own, but I will swear before god almighty, the high court and my grandmother that I could not help myself because I had fallen in with the 'wrong crowd'.
   I can hardly be blamed for following pretty lassies into a pub. On invitation by the way. I don't want you to get the idea I stalk them and sneak in behind them before hiding behind a pillar near the dance floor and stare at them intently with both my hands thrust deep into my pockets. Contrary to common assumption I am still capable of having a normal and healthy relationship with other human beings. Quite why I happen to hang out with people who have taste however remains a mystery.

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It would seem my appeal is changing. More and more visitors to my site are from outside the western world, and more and more are from the Middle East. Which is very cool. I have never been to Saudi Arabia, and neither have I ever met anyone from the kingdom, but at least one person there is apparently interested in my continuing ranting. Living proof that if the internet doesn't bring people together, at least people listen to what I have to say. And that's all that's important really, isn't it?
   All of a sudden I am interested in meeting someone from Saudi. Similarly I am still hopeful one day I will receive an e-mail from Belize, a country I could not point out on a map until recently. In fact, I didn't know it existed and had no idea what continent it was on. And now apparently I have readers in Lebanon. Now I can point out Lebanon on a map, and I even know a bit about the goings-on there, but wasn't as yet aware they had a working internet connection.
   I could start an entire network of friends, family, lovers and acquaintances, stretching from the Mediterranean to the Gulf of Aden. Let's face it, if you are going to have a lot of friends, the Middle East is without a doubt the most interesting place to have them. Throwing relaxed dinner parties might prove a wee bit difficult, but a little hostility never hurt anyone. I think I shall patiently await correspondence from the Arabian Peninsula.

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I guess documentaries featuring the criminally insane are always good for some decent ratings. Especially if the subjects are disturbed beyond the normal bounds of human insanity. If, for example, they murder old ladies and then cut out their hearts, as happened in Wales three years ago. Or stab a friend twenty-two times in a flat in Germany. Well worth a documentary, obviously.
   These people worry me terribly. I have no problem with a bunch of guys dressing up like Count Dracula before feasting on extra-bloody roast and some red wine, or squeezing into a corset six sizes too small and head over to a local club. But so-called hemophiles, people who consider drinking blood of another human being is erotic, are giving Saturday night Goths a bad name. Drinking human blood is a big safe sex no-no.
   According to documentary makers these people are being influenced by black metal bands like Cradle Of Filth. Nonsense. I think Buffy's boyfriend is to blame. You see, I have met Danni Filth, and couldn't help but conclude that short as he may be, he is the perfect English gentleman, and he is more than welcome at my place for tea and biscuits any time he fancies. That vampire guy shagging Buffy on the other hand looks like a right dodgy bloke.
   It is not fair to blame Bram Stoker. This man was a creative genius. The makers of Buffy the Vampire Slayer create well-marketed valueless crap. Clearly any sixteen-year-old confused about his sexuality and a bloodsucking alter ego is ultimately more likely to have been influenced by the kitsch latter, rather than the cultured former.
   I am a bit baffled by these kids anyway. Immortality is all very nice, but who would want to spend eternity in the body of a sixteen-year-old? You'd wait until you have some hair on your chest, wouldn't you? The mere idea of having to worry about pimples and spots for several hundred years is repulsive. Perhaps this is an issue we should bring up more often. You never know, it might just help prevent a few murders.

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It really doesn't matter whether you give two shits about football. When the European Cup is on, you know it's happening. Even if your own country isn't in it. I suppose we should be happy this will save us a fair few riots over the next few weeks, but on the whole I would rather be watching a repeat episode of A Touch Of Frost than watch twenty-two men from countries I cannot point out on a map chase a ball for an hour and a half while forty thousand poorly educated and loudly farting people in silly hats shout abuse at them.
   I am in the enviable position that I can support almost every team. As my own country isn't participating, and I don't really care, I reserve the right to cheer on any country where I have friends or I have been. As such I can openly and proudly support exactly half of the teams participating, plus quite a few who didn't qualify. Because I live in Scotland in addition I am also free to support any team playing England. I dare say there is a fair chance at least one of my teams will make it to the final.
   Though I cannot help but feel this championship is a bit boring. Not enough teams about if you ask me. I think we should expand to a few more teams and really hot things up for the entire continent. To do this we need a few new rules regarding the competition. To start with, all countries with a population less than one million should qualify automatically. This would include Malta, Luxembourg, Cyprus, and Monaco in every major tournament. Not to mention Vatican City. Wouldn't you love to see the cardinals running around the pitch in their robes, with the pope as head coach swearing from the sides? Fuck, I'd watch every match.
   I am also a great supporter of giving separate territories their own team. To begin with, Gibraltar needs a football team. They might run into some trouble practicing on a rock, but nobody is expecting them to do well anyway. In addition I think the Basques should have their own national side, as do the Friesians. They have their own language, so why not have your own team? Israel can play, and that's not even in Europe. If the Israelis can play, so can the Friesians. It would also give an even more international appeal to the sport, as these regions defy national borders.
   It would make the whole thing so much more interesting. Still not interesting enough of course, so I also suggest we start publicly flogging players not trying hard enough. In addition fireworks should be launched during rather than before and after the game, and last but not least we should get rid of all the footballers and play rugby instead.

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What strikes me as absolutely amazing and even more incredible, is that I cannot remember the last time an evil westerner was killed in the Middle East. For some reason every single pale-faced person walking around there was a little angel, sent down by God Herself to bring happiness and light to the poor little Arabs who have been mistreated so badly by other Arabs. Not only do the good guys wear white, they are white as well.
   No matter how or why an Arab is killed, there is always a good reason. He was an Al Qaida terrorist. Or a Saddam loyalist. Or a sympathiser. Or he was the estranged adopted cousin, nineteen times removed, of a man who once took a piss against an American army jeep. The rest were all in the wrong place at the wrong time, which is entirely the fault of the other person who was there and was considered to be the legitimate target of the pilot firing missiles into a crowded market place.
   Yet white people are innocent by definition. A civilian contractor has been killed trying to rebuild Iraq. An interesting statement in itself, as the whole prefix of the word 'rebuild' is a result of the thousands of tonnes of ordnance dropped on the country by the same people hiring the contractors. Thousands of these civilians were sitting at home wringing their hands as the air force dropped bombs on people's homes, killing their children, so they could go over and charge them for rebuilding their houses, washing the remains of toddlers off walls accidentally left standing.
   Other contractors have been involved in setting dogs on people in Abu Graib, or smearing faeces on prisoners before ritually humiliating them. If this is what they are contracted to do, these people are professional torturers. In Saudi they are aiding the regime, arming them, training their repressive forces and helping to launch attacks on neighbouring countries. But when they get shot they were tragic victims.
   When is the last time you heard a guilty Israeli was killed? A militant is a militant twenty-four-seven. If a man has once participated in an attack on an army check-point, he is marked for life. Whether he is still a member of the organisation that carried out the attack is irrelevant. He can be carrying a grenade launcher or he can be kissing his two-year-old goodnight. When he gets killed he will be reported a dead militant. So why does that not go for Israelis as well? In a country with universal conscription and years of reservist duties how can it humanly be possible to kill 800 people and somehow manage to hit only conscientious objectors, children and orthodox?
   Apparently when a westerner changes into civilian clothes he automatically becomes a respected innocent civilian. Just because we say so of course. We have decided this all by ourselves. When a westerner in Saudi gets shot, he is murdered. When an Iraqi is kicked to death by an American 'contractor' in prison, he is only allegedly murdered. How can this be? What century are we living in? Do we really need two sets of laws and two sets of standards, one for whites and one for Arabs?
   If these people want to be considered innocent civilians they should act like them. And this umbrella term' civilian contractor' is designed purely to make murderers look respectable. Next time somebody gets killed perhaps they can explain what kind of contract this person was on. Perhaps he was working for Dick Cheney's cohorts, squeezing as much life out of Iraq as they can, or was he fixing water pumps for the UN? Was this guy driving food to starving Iraqis or beating to death hooded prisoners? Perhaps if more news agencies would care to explain just what some of these people are doing there, then perhaps we would all understand why these people hate us so much.

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I have come to realise why men have facial hair, and because of it am beginning to suspect getting rid of my beard was a decision taken on account of very friendly and honest, but nonetheless ill-informed and faulty advice. As I worked my way through the thing on my chin with a pair of hedge trimmers, scissors and finally two razorblades it became all the more apparent how ugly men are. As my face had been obscured by a large bushy object for several months I had entirely forgotten just how unattractive male features are. I see other men all day of course, but clearly never look long enough to notice these things.
   This is why we have hair all over the place. Women have lovely bosoms. With nicely curved breasts and proper nipples. We have fuck-all, and therefore whoever decided to create us one day decided to cover the whole atrocity up with a tuft of hair here and there. It all makes sense when you think about it. The armpit is hardly the most attractive part of one's body, and therefore has hair on it. It also explains why builders often have a hairy arse. I don't even need to mention the fact people of all sexes have pubic hair.
   Beards are just another gift from Her upstairs to remind us of our imperfections, and at the same time a welcome tool to mask them. I feel naked without it. People stare at me. It is entirely possible people stared at me before of course, but I have become more aware now, as if they are about to turn to one another to point out how grossly misshaped my face is. If only growing one was as quick as getting rid of it.

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A bad week for Blair means a great week for the world, so this last week it wasn't just the weather that was favourable to us mere mortals. He's still not gone of course, and unfortunately there are no signs of his imminent suicide either, but he must be feeling pretty stupid by now. Despite desperate attempts at rigging votes and volunteer storm trooper employers threatening their staff with the sack should they fail to vote for the ruling elite of murderers, Labour got humped like no party has ever experienced in documented history.
   Of course he hasn't resigned yet. He did promise he would when he would become a liability to the party, but when you start using the word 'become' in a manner so unrelated to the principle of time I guess you can't really expect him to keep any of his promises. Nor is he going to change his policy on Iraq just because the British people want him to. What do we think this is? A democracy?
   And to top things off, one of his greatest examples died. Poor Mr Blair. He must miss Reagan terribly. After all, how many Christian fundamentalist arseholes does he still have left to turn to? It is hardly surprising he attended the funeral. Without Reagan, Blair would have nothing to do.
   For starters, no Reagan would mean no Osama. If it wasn't for Ronald's continuous sponsoring of Bin Laden and his band of suicidal lunatics they would never have grown into the wonderful and caring organisation they are now. Millions of dollars were given to Osama to carry out an attack such as that on the WTC. Of course preferably in Moscow, but it was Reagan who was especially keen to see thousands of dead at the hands of this fanatic.
   Of course we shouldn't forget how he kept us safe from nuclear obliteration. We shall omit from this argument the fact during the Reagan years more and more lethal weapons were developed, and we shall just go along with the argument that the Soviet Union somehow needed help with collapsing. Nor shall we mention the Berlin Wall didn't fall until eleven months after Ronald's presidency had ended. We should all be grateful for the wonderful protection we received from him. Especially the people of Lebanon, who were butchered by the thousand by the Reagan-supported and encouraged Israelis and their Christian Lebanese murderer allies. In particular the hundreds of women refugees who were raped before being murdered by Reagan's pals.
   Throwing bombs on innocent people because you don't like Libyans is perfectly normal practice of course, especially if it involves children. And if you don't feel like doing it yourself, you could always give them a helping hand killing each other. That's why Reagan sent Rumsfeld to Iraq, to help that wonderful and caring Saddam Hussein kill as many Iranians as possible. Not without informing and arming the Iranians of course, to stretch this battle out as long as humanly possible to increase the body count to its absolute maximum. More dead Muslims!
   And if you get bored killing people in the desert, being palls with Khomeini, Saddam and Osama Bin Laden, you can always focus on the situation back home. During the rule of this delightful individual, sixty-three human beings were strapped to a wooden chair and literally fried and cooked alive, while an additional three were slowly suffocated by lethal gas. One child offender was electrocuted, and two more killed by lethal injection. Certainly sounds like a man out to change the world for the better.
   Or you can kill a population slowly. The main objective being that the rich stay rich, the black stay poor and everybody is a devout Christian. And by all means don't allow poor people to have abortions, because we may need those kids later. And on that point he was proved right. Where are all those kids born into poverty during the Reagan years now? They are all in their late teens and early twenties. Military age!

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My attempts to lose weight are being frustrated by ill-educated marketing and advertising pundits. They simply do not manage to motivate me. Not because I hate advertising you will understand. Just because they are crap. I want them to be like the person who made the ad about speeding. When I see that child being hit by the car driving five miles over the limit in slow motion I immediately decide I will never speed. And I don't even drive!
   So good and successful advertising does exist. Just not if you are trying to lose weight. Guaranteed that if you want to buy healthy wholegrain non-fat diet muck you will be enticed to do so by a picture of a beautiful slim woman with bigger-than-average tits or a handsome bloke with big biceps, whom we are to assume eat this crap every morning with a smile on their faces. This doesn't do it for me.
   No matter how great science is these days, porridge is not going to make me handsome. It is not going to happen. Every person looking to get in shape and with half a cubic inch of brain in their overweight body will realise that regardless of what you eat and drink, your facial features you will have to learn to live with. I have known this for some time now. I don't want to be the beautiful people, I want to shag the beautiful people. And what they had for breakfast is entirely of no interest to me.
   I need to be properly motivated. I want to see extraordinarily fat people on the box, with a big caption explaining this tub of lard did not eat this food. Preferably fat and ugly people that I do not like. Say, Anne Widdecombe. Or Richard Whitely. If that's what happens to you when you do not eat shredded cardboard for breakfast, rest assured I will be forcing it down my throat even if it means using goose-feeding equipment. And if they can get John Prescott to feature there is not a doubt in my mind it would encourage me to eat stuff I wouldn't feed to a hamster if it was dying of hunger.

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It's always good to see a humane side to the government. Like when they are building a prison especially for women. While men in Scotland still make do with crapping in a bucket, for the ladies in England and Wales we were thinking slightly more classy. You know, day-care, changing facilities, exercise equipment and the like, not forgetting of course all will be fitted with pleasant materials and an overall pastel colouring. All part of an effort to make their stay more enjoyable.
   I must have misunderstood the use of prisons. I thought it was where we lock up criminals. It's not supposed to be pleasant. The whole point of going to prison is to be punished, not nurtured and loved by your fellow man. Fuck that. And as if things aren't bad enough, all of this nonsense only applies to women. What have they done to deserve this kind of treatment? So far they seem to be getting off with a lot more than men do anyway, so imagine how hard they must have tried to land themselves in custody in the first place.
   But what is really worrying is the realisation all this madness did not come from women. Women are now perfectly at ease with the feminist principles. They want everything, except for those few little things, and anything they may think of at a later date. Their stance, ideals and demands have long been discovered as egotistical, unequal and downright ridiculous, and true feminists have given up ages ago, leaving only the insanely fanatic to carry on and make fools out of themselves.
   No, these ideas have sprung from the minds of fake feminist males, who have been pussywhipped into a state where they believe all women want is to be listened to, which in their dictionary means 'obeyed'. It is these soft sad men, who have had all their testosterone surgically removed and replaced with the latest and greatest invention in the field of styling gel, that we can thank for a system in which women can demand all they like, and not bear any of the consequences. They ask people to design a prison with a female population in mind.
   If they can vote, do the jobs they please, get the same pay and still have the gall march down the street demanding more immediate equal rights, they can damn well learn how to shit in a bucket.

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Everybody vote yet? What a wide variety of choices you had. Nutters, arseholes, cheats, murderers, hypocrites, corporate swine, anarchist dogs, fannies, fuds, loners, schizophrenics, psychopaths, pricks, free-range health protesters who haven't washed their armpits since before John Major was in charge, bastards, fascists, fuckwits and fools, wankers, self-congratulatory public school boys, xenophobes, homophobes, cunts, crooks, cretins, criminals, dobbers, dickheads, window cleaners wanting a change, twats, tossers, skinheads, idiots, liars, moudies, the Labour Party, other nazi's, insane liberals, dimwits, weirdos, numpties, terrorists, morons, neds and Robert Kilroy-Silk.
   Very rarely have I not voted for a party I considered to be the lesser evil, but as things stand with this election even that is hard to figure out. Still, as long as you did not vote Labour, there is hope. I have to say I quite liked Tony Blair on the campaign trail. They have now admitted that yes, Iraq is a major issue, but people also realised that public services and the economy were being run well, so they still deserved our support.
   Based on that standard then the Nazi's were doing fairly well in 1939. Sure, millions of Jews were on the run or in hiding, and plans were already drawn up to kill the rest of them while the people of Poland were in constant fear of their lives and the Gestapo was torturing prisoners to extract what the Americans would call 'vital information', but at least the trains ran on time! And everybody had jobs. So by all accounts we should never have gone to war with them. Too bad we didn't have Tony around for his wonderful insight at the time.

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It is a well-known fact that the average person in the United Kingdom has less than impressive mental abilities. The success of Big Brother is not an accident. And the most worrying aspect of such a national average is that it automatically means half the population is even dumber than that. It's enough to send chills running down my spine. But then we have long been aware that when addressing the masses, invariably a large proportion of the people you are talking to is not capable of independent thought.
   It is therefore the duty of the intelligent section of the population not to confuse their compatriots unless it is absolutely necessary. And most certainly not if you are a member of the responsible media or a health care official. Use clear language, and at all times avoid statements that could easily be misinterpreted. Can't be that fucking difficult, can it?
   Or so you'd think. With Venus making a very poor attempt to block sunlight from reaching our beautiful blue planet the newsreaders and papers made it absolutely clear that when the two planets align under no circumstances should you feel tempted to stare straight at the phenomenon, as it will permanently impair your vision. It reminded me a lot of the warning when the moon did a more decent job at creating an eclipse, when we were all warned not to stare at the ring of fire created around the moon at full eclipse.
   There were differences of course. I actually saw the solar eclipse. Venus was a bit harder to spot with Scotland having severe clouds at an altitude of roughly nine feet. But the warnings were identical. When the amazing feat happens, do not stare directly at it. This is real advice from the medical staff of Britain.
   People, please take my advice on this. I know I am not medically trained beyond vital life-saving techniques without medical equipment, and I have never attended any university classes on the subject, but in this case it seems I do happen to have the best advice available. So, please, don't ever stare at the sun. Never ever. Whether there is a planet in front of it or not makes fuck-all difference. Looking at the sun is not a good idea.
   Why would they try and confuse all these poor people? Is this some sort of intellectual snobbery, where they will dish out information in small chunks only, just to tease their audience? Or are they wondering how many dummies will be staring at the sun the next day and be admitted to hospital as a result, which would make a great news story? These people are being wholly irresponsible.

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Doesn't it make you sick to your stomach to see people like Bush and Blair setting foot on Normandy soil, where thousands upon thousands of Allied soldiers were shot to pieces defeating exactly the totalitarian racist slaughter of the innocents these two men have come to represent in the twenty-first century? It's depressing to think the guests of honour are the people adhering to the same ideology that was supposedly flushed out in those last two gruesome years of the Second World War.
   How the tide has turned. While sixty years ago the people living at the White House and 10 Downing Street decisively declared they would not tolerate occupation and persecution, their current occupants are doing exactly that. Poles used to fly RAF planes as liberators, now they collaborate with the occupiers. Jewish Palestinians volunteered by the hundred to fight tyranny and oppression, now the Israelis have become the personification of those acts. The Danes and Dutch suffering under the heel of occupation are now enforcing it.
   At least the Italians still stand firm. Bastards then, bastards now. But then that is hardly surprising with a man who considers Mussolini to be a near idol of the Italian people leading the country. I suppose with fascism rooted that deeply into society you could hardly expect any different. And Jack McConnell at least had the guts to admit he would rather play golf than stand on a windy beach to praise people who would nowadays have been fighting against everything he stands for. In the end he only went because the people of his country wanted him to. A hypocrite to the end, that man.
   The whole ceremony was a disgusting and spectacular act of denial. Those beaches should be considered sacred ground, blessed with the blood of those young men who perished to save people from torture and all the other wonderful acts the US military has so eagerly copied from the SS. Besides posing next to corpses with grins on their faces, soldiers have now testified medics tried to cover up the injuries of those beaten to death in custody. With the air force attacking hospitals and ground troops firing at ambulances it is becoming painfully clear that even a red cross no longer bears any meaning to these despots who stood there commemorating an act of sacrifice only rarely seen throughout history. Hopefully one day we shall be gathering to commemorate their downfall as well.

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I have decided that horse racing is actually quite an animal friendly sport. As far as there is such a thing besides volleyball. Think about it, when you go fox hunting, the idea is to kill the poor thing, and it doesn't even get eaten. Hardly a useful way of spending a Sunday afternoon, is it? At least turkey shoots are for food, but you get so many chances it is no longer a challenge.
   No, the idea is to seriously challenge both the animal and the human participant, and eat the fucker at the end. The former I mean, unless you live in Uganda, in which case you probably eat the latter. That's why I like bullfighting. No waste product. All of it gets munched up the day after, and when a matador is half asleep he will be soon be taken care of by a process of very natural elimination. My kind of sport. But not very friendly. Even if the hunk of prime steak manages to gore his opponent, they still come and kill it. That should be against the rules if you ask me. It hardly a competition as it stands.
   Horse racing doesn't have this. If the horse doesn't keel over, they won't make it. It only gets shot when it lies down all by itself. A great incentive for the animal to participate in the game at hand. And if you do have to shoot it, you can always eat it. Double joy from the same animal. Though I do still believe that if the rider is to blame, the rider should be shot. I bet that would boost ratings as well.

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Has there been any news from the space agency people recently? I miss those nerdy fellows talking at press conferences as though what they are saying actually makes sense. They all seem to be either completely nuts, or insist on using a tone so condescending it makes you want to slap them. Just because they are rocket scientists doesn't mean they're clever. Every time one of those smug fuckers appears to inform us we should leave these complicated things to intelligent people, I can't help but point out that I never blew up two billion dollars because I couldn't tell the difference between miles and kilometres.
   I thought we were all moving to Mars with George W. That seemed to be the general plan put forward a while ago, just after we lost all contact with the British Mars lander. How dumb are these scientists? They send a probe over with music, and they choose Blur. Blur! I bet there was nothing wrong with the thing, but the locals immediately beat the crap out of the machine the moment that thing started going pling plong.
   What kind of way to make friends is that? We haven't even met these creatures and we have already started torturing them. What are they sending over to Europa, I can't help but wonder. It's all water, so probably a sonar beam that annoys the crap out of anything with the ability to hear, feel or see. Just so they can all enjoy a collective ejaculation when they find a million years ago there was earthquake! We shouldn't encourage these people. It is about time they come to realise their fascination is neither interesting nor beneficial to the development of the human race.

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Being one of Scotland's greatest supporters of safe sex amongst people up to the age of seventy-six I never cease to be astonished by the amount of children likeminded individuals are sprouting. It's hard to believe condoms fail that often, which means either they are lying about their commitment to the cause, or I am infertile. I'm hoping on the latter, because I'd hate to think my friends are being dishonest with me.
   As I am not very good with faces anyway, it is awfully difficult to try and remember whose kids look like what, and as the little monsters have a tendency to continuously change shape you might as well give up immediately. Of course even if you do by pure chance happen to vague remember one of them, it is still considered common courtesy to also remember its name. I can't even remember my own age. What chance do I stand with kids' names?
   At least in America people still have the decency to have babies by appointment, so you can pencil them in on the wall calendar. It's one of the great advantages of living in a country where everything is controlled, planned and approved in triplicates. Quite a bit of German influence in that country you know.
   One of my friends recently gave birth in the Thunderbird Hospital, which to everyone here was extremely hilarious, but the humour of which is apparently completely wasted on Yanks. They have no culture, nor a sense of humour. I think I mentioned before there were a lot of German immigrants. This didn't give them a sense of language of course, because when I phoned the hospital the following day the assistant answering the phone seemed to have considerable difficulty understanding what I was on about, as I speak English with an accent formed by centuries of cultivation and she obviously could only manage the infantile dribble New World inhabitants tend to babble.
   Still, we won't hold it against them. Nor to the little fellow known as the twelve o'clock delivery, whom we shall in future try to call by his slightly more unique Christian name of Erik. If only he will agree to spend the rest of his life walking around with a big Viking helmet on his head I am sure I will remember this one.

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It can't be a coincidence the vast majority of evil people in history were also short. There is a clear and undeniable link between the forces of darkness and little people, and it is only because of insane political correctness that we cannot take preventive measures to ensure our short fellow men and women do not eventually destroy this world of ours for no other reason that Satan himself has spawned them and sent them here to taunt and obliterate us.
   It's hardly surprising of course. For my mind to end up in the gutter I'd have to get drunk and fall over. Short people have theirs there pretty much continuously, and when the talk you can never quite tell whether that noise from down there originated from their mouths or their arses. It is simply not possible to trust any of them.
   Stalin was only 5'4". So did he decide to go and mine for diamonds with six of his friends, like he was clearly meant to? Of course not. He had a chip on his shoulder the likes of which had never been seen before, he was moody, vindictive and mean, and murdered millions. Typical short-arse. It must be because they are so close to the smell of their feet or something.
   So why don't we just nip this crap in the bud, and just ban short people? We could make one of those signs they use in Disney World to see if you are tall enough to ride the roller coaster and stick it outside schools and recruitment centres. You don't pass, you have to move to Lilliput, a new county we will create especially in Cornwall, with a wall around it. About five feet high. Just enough to keep the bastards in. The world would be a safer place.

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Just one more week till the election, and already the whole country is gripped by chaos. Ballot papers that haven't been delivered, don't fit in the provided envelope or don't make any sense, and of course the general feeling this is all complete and utterly pointless. Not to mention the bickering within parties and television companies refusing to air ads that may make Tony Blair seem untrustworthy, unfriendly, or completely insane. After all, this is politics, and the truth has no place in that.
   The biggest problem the British population faces, if the lying scheming bastards in the main parties are to be believed, is the UK Independence Party, also known as UKIP. They stand to take third place in the elections, and want to take us out of the European Union altogether. This has struck a chord with people. After all, God didn't stick us on an island for nothing!
   The new face of UKIP is Robert Kilroy Silk, better known as plain Kilroy. A nice grey-haired man from the television, with a slight speech impediment. Old ladies love him because he can talk bollocks for hours on end without even taking a breath. For those of you who are not aware of this particular specimen of the British human race, Kilroy should be in jail. In fact, he would have been in jail had he openly and bluntly incited racial hatred towards blacks or Asians. Cleverly he only encouraged racial hatred and violence towards Arabs and Muslims, and well, that's allowed.
   Don't think we are talking extreme-right here. The media and the Lib-Dems would love to pin the whole fiasco on right-wingers. In fact, the racist anti-Arab face of anti-European, anti-immigrant UKIP is, you guessed it, a former Labour MP. Straight from the breeding ground of pro-ethnic cleansing and torture politicians. But they have fallen out with one another. How can it possible be that Tony and Kilroy, who clearly agree on ripping small brown children apart with cluster bombs, disagree on an issue such as Europe?
   Well, Kilroy isn't very clever, and certainly not very well informed. For example, he used Iran as an example of an Arab country, which only goes to show he is a traditional racist, capable of hatred only because of ignorance. Tony doesn't have this. He realises full well that at the moment the UK does not have the facilities to build its own Guantanamo Bay, and partnerships on the continent could seriously improve our chances, especially with Poland now joining the EU.

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I do have strange pastimes. Besides an obsession with peanuts and The Simpsons, I spend far too much time sitting in my contemplation chair, walking around the kitchen trying to remember what I came in there for, and writing stories in the pub. And I proofread. For fun. And the benefit of my friends. Whereas most people spend their lives in pursuit of happiness and a healthy relationship, I have the annoying habit of using my ability to spot grammatical errors and awkward spelling.
   It does have certain advantages of course. Sometimes it even makes me feel clever. Especially when I receive an angry e-mail denouncing my views of the world, and explaining I am an utter sack of shite. In such cases I take great comfort in the fact the sender apparently can't tell the difference between 'there', 'their' and 'they're'. Petty perhaps, but it makes me feel smart.
   What does not make me feel smart is sifting through a PhD paper about structural engineering. In fact, reading through a technical report regarding the building of silos makes me feel like I didn't pay attention in school, and that perhaps I should be picking up a dictionary slightly more often than I do. It's very frustrating to correct spelling and add punctuation throughout fifty-seven pages of a paper written in the English language, and at the end of it not having the first idea what the damn thing was about.
   For example, a load case representing the load transmitted from the bulk solid primarily by gravity loads on the hopper, which the produces tensile axial membrane forces could just as well be instructions to build a nuclear ballistic missile as it could be part of a recipe to made chicken soup as far as I am concerned. I'd like to think I am not an imbecile, but I cannot even begin to picture what such a thing could possibly be, mean, prove or represent.
   How am I supposed to improve my self esteem when all these people around me know things that I don't? This is highly embarrassing, and from now on I intend on only befriending people who are less intelligent than I am.

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Kids are now getting so fat around the UK that three-year-olds are having heart attacks due to their obesity. I am trying to picture a three-year-old so fat it has trouble getting off its arse, but unfortunately due to my complete lack of sympathy towards children I can't help but smile when I imagine the little fatso unable to stand up and annoy me in the supermarket. I am sure there are people who love these baby whales, but I am also confident they visit websites banned from most countries around the world.
   Experts have warned they regularly see children who have accumulated so much fat in their miserable little bodies that it is blocking not only veins, but restricting the windpipe when they sleep. As such they are slowly choked to death by their own flab. To me this is the modern variety of natural selection, but to the doctors and nurses who have to look at the horrible creatures it is a matter of great urgency. It is simply not very pleasant to look at overweight youngsters, so they want to see some action being taken. I am sure the Catholic clergy will follow shortly.
   To me all kids are repulsive, so the fact they are fat is hardly going to make them more or less endearing to me. But I have to say I do like the idea of chubby children. Purely out of self-interest you will understand. Much like priests I rarely think about anyone but myself. When you drop a child, especially young ones, they break. No common sense in these things whatsoever. They fall and go kersplat. A wee bit of protective layering may help the bastards bounce a little, and perhaps avoid injury, which saves me a lot of explaining when mummy and daddy come back to check on Fatty, whom they so irresponsibly left with me. A bit of a beer belly never hurt anyone.

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My beard will have to go, I have been informed by reliable sources. It seems it is severely reducing the chances of my ever getting laid again. A frightening prospect you will agree. Can you imagine; not having sex for the rest of your life? And not even because you can't move your legs, have lost the ability to have an erection or are horribly disfigured, but because you have some hair on chin.
   I thought it looked quite masculine. A virile feature of a hard hairy hunter, your-cave-or-mine kind of person. Turns out the modern female half of the population is more into the scented suited my-shaver-has-four-settings-you-know personality you see in Gillette adverts and expensive business lunches. I might as well give up now. I simply have too much other hair I am not prepared to gel and style to ever become part of them, and frankly I don't see why anybody would want to have sex with any of them anyway. It's very difficult having a decent shag with anyone keeping an eye on the London Stock Exchange at the same time.
   This is quite a dilemma. My sheer and utter abhorrence and hatred towards the vile act of shaving is well documented and will undoubtedly feature in my epitaph, but before they do stick me in a plot with flowers on top I would quite like to think I will enjoy at least a few sexual encounters with members of the opposite sex. So sex and shaving or a beard without sex. These are decisions nobody told me about when I was in school. Surely if they are going to prepare you for all eventualities in life, such important issues should be raised at least in passing.

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Kids are out of control. For some reason you just don't seem to be getting the respect of children the way you used to in the good old days, before sanitation had been properly applied. They don't turn up for school, swear like dockworkers and keep nicking sweets from the corner shop, hurling racial abuse at the poor shopkeeper on the way out and raising a grubby middle finger at the police constable blocking his path. And thanks to the wonderful Lib-Lab coalition in Scotland, even their parents are allowed to smack them anymore, let alone the old man they push over for the sheer hell of it.
   In order to prevent these little monsters from tearing society we know it apart, the authorities have decided to take firm action. Or rather, they say in parliament they are awfully concerned. And I'm sure somebody in a stuffy office is copying a report from the internet. According to the socialist party we aren't even allowed to call kids 'neds' anymore, because it is offensive. I think they miss the point.
   Perhaps they should go and have a look in Malaysia. They have come up with an innovative way of putting kids off crime. You have to catch them young, so the people in charge have decided it was high time they bring corporal punishment into the classroom. Not your average spanking with a cricket bat of course. They aren't even touching the children. They strap a dummy to a wooden pole, and demonstrate how people are caned in the country's highly luxurious prisons. After which there is a short pause for the person with the big stick to catch his breath, a quick round of pictures of gaping wounds and flesh torn apart, followed by a brief intermission for anyone who feels he or she would like to hurl in a bucket.
   I feel this is an educational trend just waiting to be adopted in Scotland. Perhaps they could show them before and after pictures of teenage louts hanging around council estates and picked off by army snipers. Winners all around if you ask me. The army gets some valuable training, the estate will be a lot safer at night, and kids will never have had more of an incentive to become doctors and scientists. Classroom demonstrations could involve anatomically correct dummies with pockets of red paint that get ripped open as the bullet goes through. Oh, what fun we could have in schools, if only the Executive would allow us.
   I do wonder whether this is a common practice in Kuala Lumpur. Is this a thing they do routinely, or by order of a judge? I'd hate to think all prisoners get a weekly beating. Doesn't sound very productive either. You would get a lot better value for money if they spend all day folding paperclips, and a bit of health does wonders if you want a productive workforce. And if it is only to punish people with wonky paperclips, these kids don't have any reason to be frightened. Just pay attention in creative art class, and then go out and rob a bank. Perhaps they should put some more thought into this.

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According to my TV guide, the final episode of Friends is a big deal. It is not. It merely means six actors with no ability to put on any kind theatrical performance will have to start making money by doing crap films and awful commercials. Most are well on their way already. It also means that pre-menstrual girls will have to find a new abomination to collect everything from. But it most certainly is not a big deal. Especially not if you remember repeats and highlights will continue to haunt our screens for years, if not decades, to come.
   I have never liked Friends. Mainly because it is not good, though that certainly doesn't stop me from watching crap like The Bill. The few episodes I have forced myself to watch, or have been shoved down my throat by extraordinarily frustrated female acquaintances of mine, irritated the hell out of me, and let's face it; weren't funny.
   The moment I really came to realise how big a plague this sack of dung is, was long before I had actually watched it. It was at a party a few years ago, during which I found a complete stranger in my kitchen, wiping down the counter. Pointing out this was fairly futile during a party that consisted largely of college students still living with their parents, I was told by said individual she was, like, so Monica. In my mind this bore no relevance to the matter at hand, nor did it seem a very common way of introducing oneself. I have never felt the need to introduce myself as 'very Damien'.
   As it turned out, she wasn't Monica to any degree of adverbial expression. In fact, she was Julie. Being, 'like, so Monica', apparently referred to a fictional character of very attractive appearance in a New York-based American sitcom. I failed entirely to see the resemblance. And I continued to stare at her blankly when she tried to explain wiping my kitchen counter somehow related to this aforementioned, and fictional, character. It did not ring any bells.
   Have you ever seen the face of a five-year-old after you have just confessed to not knowing who Tinky Winky is? Or perhaps a thirteen-year-old when you explain you cannot name all members of the Backstreet Boys? Well, that was roughly the look I got from this lass in my kitchen that night. It was a combination of stunned disbelief, combined with an utmost sense of pity. In her mind the fact I didn't religiously follow the exploits of an imaginary group of thirty-something losers for years on end, somehow meant I needed to get a life. Anything responsible for destroying the minds of people to such a degree should have been banned long ago.

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Just two weeks till the elections. Undoubtedly these will be the worst attended in recorded history, as it is largely to elect people whose main job it seems to be to pile mountains of red tape on us all, and need twenty-three translators each to try and make sense out of one another. Still, these are also the fuckwits who try to ban smoking in pubs, want everybody to wear body armour on a bicycle and think all bananas should be shaped in the right way, so if we can get rid of them that would be an excellent idea. I, therefore, shall certainly be voting.
   The problem is that I am now obsessed with what everybody else is going to vote. Whenever I walk into a house or watch someone on telly I try to figure out which box they will be ticking. And I have found in many cases it is quite easy to spot. For example, if you see a bloke with an incredibly low forehead and a Union Jack in his bedroom, guaranteed his illiterate vote will go straight to the BNP. You'll find the Daily Sport on the coffee table, and books on the SAS with lots of pictures and diagrams.
   Conservative voters however only hang out the flag on national holidays. But you might very well find a picture of the Queen. Usually The Times will be neatly folded up on the breakfast table, or already deposited in the gentleman's suitcase, with his packed lunch. This in stark contrast to people voting for the Liberal Democrats, who insist on reading The Independent, especially on Saturday. Undoubtedly you will find a 'save the whales' poster in the lavatory, and very intellectual literature attempting to explain how drug-addicted rapists are merely the product of a loveless society and need a hug every twenty minutes until they either feel better or stab their social worker, which is a very productive means of expressing your frustration. Some will even have a European Union flag lying around somewhere.
   And then there are the most worrying people of all. At first it is very difficult to spot a Labour voter. They seem to have disappeared underground quite a bit. But if you look closely, at the bottom of their bookcase you will find a big scrapbook. When you open it, you will find a whole range of newspaper pictures featuring dead Palestinian boys and little Iraqi girls ripped apart by cluster bombs. Some of the pages are stuck together because the respected Labour-voting gentleman of the house has been masturbating over the pictures profusely, when everyone has gone to bed and the curtains have been drawn.
   What a colourful society we have in Britain.

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I can never remember which sense is supposed to be associated with memory, but I know it's not one of the obvious ones. I have this suspicion it may very well be smell. Works for me anyway. Whenever I smell the inside of a car I instantly think of all the times I have thrown up in my life, and get sick immediately. When I smell those delightful fumes of country life, such as grass, mud and dung, the first thing to spring to mind is boredom, and I want to go somewhere loud, busy and smoky.
   It works for people and places as well. My house doesn't smell the same as anybody else's. For starters, very few homes around the world have an aroma of burnt food emerging from the kitchen, and the smoke from years of failed kitchen experiments seeped into the ceiling. It's all part of the aroma that lingers in my flat. And you recognise it immediately. You come back from your holiday, fall back onto your bed, close your eyes and take a deep breath, realising you are home.
   Over the last few weeks I have been collecting my clothes from all sorts of places where they had been lying around for ages. So when the other day I was in the process of pulling a rather offensive heavy metal T-shirt over my head, all of a sudden I realised it had been at my brother's place. Just by breathing. So I stood there for a while, with a T-shirt draped across my head and undoubtedly confusing passers-by, thinking of playing the guitar and having beers in the back garden. And then I sneezed. He has cats.
   Similarly when I pulled my less offensive Toy Dolls T-shirt over my head the other day, I was instantly reminded of the very narrow bed my ex and I had to crawl into, and I was regularly chucked out of. A nice comfortable smell of snugness and warmth. And then I sneezed. Fucking cats.

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It must be great to be an American. If you can successfully come up with the most ludicrous legal argument in modern history, guaranteed the Supreme Court of the United States will be more than happy to accommodate you. Take David Larry Nelson. Mr Nelson murdered two people over twenty years ago, and has been on death row since 1982. You would say this would have provided him with more than enough time to sort out any legal wrangling before being strapped to a gurney.
   Not so, apparently. In fact, his stay of execution came a mere three hours before he was supposed to be put to death. That's Yanks for you; they like a few spectacular twists and turns in their stories. But if the timing is bad, the reason has got to be worse. The reason David Larry was not executed is not because he might be innocent. It's because the United States bans cruel and unusual punishment. This sounds like a very noble and sensible piece of law making, but we have to bear in mind this is the same supreme court that does not consider the gas chamber to be cruel or unusual. Which it isn't of course. By Nazi standards.
   So, what could possibly be even more cruel or unusual than strapping someone to a chair in front of two dozen witnesses before poisoning the air around him? Sticking a needle in your arm, apparently. Not as a general rule you will understand, but Mr Nelson had enjoyed a bit of a drug habit in his life, and his veins are all fucked up. So this needle would have to be pushed through flesh and muscle, which could result in unnecessary suffering on the part of poor Mr Nelson.
   Now regardless of your feelings towards the death penalty, any person with enough intelligence to wipe his own arse should really be able to conclude that if pumping four different kinds of solutions into a condemned man to knock him out, prevent him from breathing and stop his heart is part of the execution process, sticking a needle in his flesh is surely the least of his worries. And this is Alabama! A state that technically allows the execution of retarded sixteen-year-olds by means of the electric chair. I fail to see how this could possibly be considered to be less cruel.
   Not to mention this whole problem seems to have a very obvious solution. According to the Death Penalty Information Center the state of Alabama is more than happy to oblige if any prisoner requests electrocution. Their website also refers to the execution of volunteers, which I find very hard to fathom, but if this is true the whole deal seems solved to me. No needles involved with the electric chair! Two thousand volts being applied to your body and cooking your brain yes; needles no. If the issue here are his abused veins, he could always request to be plugged into the mains. Surely this way everybody would be happy?

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As I shall soon be in the company of some of England's most ferocious Darwin-bashers, I have been looking in to this whole creationism thing. I have to say, it doesn't sound bad, provided of course you also believe in the Tooth Fairy, and are absolutely convinced Frodo Baggins lives in Salisbury under an assumed name.
   As far as I can tell, the whole thing took seven days. That's a plus point over Darwin, who took a hell of a lot longer to get from primordial soup to Janis Joplin. God gave her a guitar on day four. But I'll get back to that. In seven days we went from fuck-all to a happy horde of incestuous creatures smashing each other's skulls in, and have remained in this state ever since, though apparently at one point God did decide to give us men our missing rib back.
   The Jews came up with the whole thing, so we'll start the week with Sunday. On Sunday God created Herself. Tricky one to explain, but as is the case with most stories, stuff doesn't get interesting until the end anyway, so who'll notice? As we started with nothing, and She made the whole shebang, the first creation must have been Her. Duly noted. No woman can live without a mirror, so She created water to have a look at Herself, which took up the rest of Her day.
   On Monday I think She woke up with a cold, having just spent the night in a big puddle of water. She sneezed, and spread Her tiny droplets of snot into the dark sky above, creating the stars. Then She made the sun to dry Herself off, and made some land to dig a pool in for the water. This was the earth. Sunglasses and white wine came next, and once again She was entertained all day.
   Tuesday was a far better morning. It was nice and warm, and Her cold had cleared completely. The sun however had been shining down on her all night, and She noticed She was sunburnt. In annoyance She grabbed hold of the sun, and tried to kick it to the opposite end of the globe. It is of course a well-known fact that women cannot play ball sports, and the Almighty is no exception. She kicked it far too hard, and the sun has been spinning around the earth ever since. From this you will understand I am going by a more traditional version of the story, rather than by some of the crap people in Darwin's day have added. She sat down to mope, and poured herself another glass of white wine.
   On Wednesday God had a hangover. She poured another glass of wine, and sat by the pool. Once She was feeling slightly less nauseous, She decided She needed a companion and entertainment. That's when She created Janis and her guitar. Together they created chocolate ice cream, and I imagine most of the animal kingdom was done as well. Let's face it; the caterpillar. That must have been one of Janis's.
   Thursday was the time to invent some human beings. Gods and demi-gods are all nice company, but without some little white creatures killing little brown, red and yellow creatures, Janis would have nothing to sing about, and there would be nobody around to remind God just how omnipotent She really is. So She created people, and work, and war. And the teapot.
   By now the whole world was pretty much finished. There were beings scurrying around all over the shop, and they had started creating all sorts of things for themselves. Including something called work. They did it all over the place. This was not to the liking of the deity. It reminded her too much of doing things. On Friday she invented labour laws, and unions.
   It is well known that since that Saturday God has been on strike.

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I have far too big a mouth for my well-being. I simply cannot help but be honest. Especially when I get relaxed. Or get drunk of course. I tend to forget that we live in a culture where polite lying is customary. You know, nice to see you and the like. Normally I am fairly well adjusted, and go along with the whole charade. And if I happen to think somebody looks silly in a dress, I will not tell her she looks great; I just keep my trap shut.
   But when you catch me off my guard, my socially aware defence system shuts off, and without realising it I tell people exactly what I am thinking. Not a very good character trait to have if you intend to climb the prestigious social ladder. In fact, some might argue you are better off with Tourette syndrome. Fortunately I don't really aspire to too much, and as such rarely get embarrassed. Occasionally someone does angrily come up to me to remind me I once referred to him as an obese annoying fuckwit with big ears and lacking the ability to hold on to his own cock without a manual, but only rarely do I not fail to see his point.
   So it came as more than a little bit of a shock when at the wedding the groom's mother accused me of suggesting she should have a shower more often. It's the kind of moment your internal engine room comes to a grinding halt, and in your brain little creatures with hard hats start going through the files. In this case they drew a blank. To all my knowledge I had neither cause nor opportunity to make such a claim, and concluded this must have been a misunderstanding.
   Question was of course, who would believe me? Suggesting someone should wash would hardly be one of my more creative advices I give out to the general public. With two dozen relatives and friends at hand to kick nine shades of shit out of me, I slowly began to worry. In this case it turned out she was referring to my mentioning I always get my best ideas while in the shower, but I think perhaps it's time I start being a bit more tactful to avoid similar, actual, situations. Well, I think I should try anyway. Or try to try. You get the picture.

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Having a better half is quite pleasant. Just by joining up with a better half, by comparison as a couple you will be better than you are on your own. Unfortunately, if you do happen to have one, this better half will invariably be in the slightly less enviable position of being stuck with a worse one. And who would possibly want to walk around all day with the knowledge that at home is waiting a person you have to compensate for?
   It is therefore preferable to be the worse half. You don't have to deal with any of the drawbacks. You just have to provide them. In my case this is not the slightest bit of a problem. One could almost claim it is what I was born to do. It takes very little effort, and you are permanently impressed with your partner. Problem is, there is very little incentive for the other half of the arrangement.
   There are of course good things about being single again. For example, all my records are back where they belong. There are few things as satisfying as sitting back with a cup of tea and enjoying the view of a complete record collection. Which only goes to show how being on my own again has immediately restored the exciting life-style I am accustomed to. And my tube of toothpaste lasts longer. Not to mention the fact the lack of cosmetics really cleared out the bathroom.
   Of course it also means I have to remember to set my own alarm clock again, and that in company I have to pretend to be interesting. When you are with someone you just stand there, act dumb, look pretty and curl your hair around your finger every once in a while. Now I have to try and remember all the amusing anecdotes I used to entertain people with.
   And I have to start flirting again. Not one of my greatest talents. Somehow wearing revealing tops and having long blonde curls only attracts members of the opposite sex if you are a woman. No, let me correct myself there. Wearing revealing tops and having long blonde curls only attracts men. And much as I am terrible at the whole courting business, I am not quite willing to change my sexuality over the issue. Very inflexible of me, I know. But I'll just keep making a fool out of myself in front of women. I'm used to that.

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A quick lesson in Middle East policy. As you may have heard, the vast majority of Iraqi people were not exactly keen on their president, Saddam Hussein, murdering people all over the shop. So, first we helped him kill some more, then we started killing them ourselves, starved about half a million of them, and now continue killing them left, right and centre.
   In Afghanistan again the vast majority of the population wanted to get rid of the rampaging and murderous Taliban. So, we killed thousands upon thousands of them. And then handed them over to a whole new bunch of murderous bastards. In Syria again the Ba'ath party is hardly representative of the Syrian people. So, we support the occupation of the Golan Heights, impose sanctions, do not object to missile attacks on them and regularly threaten military action. And the population of Iran can be certain that they too are a favourite target to die for a government they themselves want to get rid of.
   However, in Israel the majority of people not kicked out of their own country support Ariel Sharon and his policy of killing children, making people homeless and exiling those of the wrong ethnic groups. In return they can come and study in our universities even if they have been involved in these atrocities, get military support from the Americans and are hailed as a freedom loving people.
   The lesson to be learnt here? Support ethnic cleansing and you will be showered with love and money. Oppose it and get your head blown off, but not until you have lived to see your children torn to shreds. We are actually killing people standing up for human rights and equality, while we praise those who oppose it. This would suggest that if the people of Tehran would start cheering a bit more at public hangings, they would not only protect themselves from the extremists at home, but also from the extremists in the foreign office. A comforting thought.

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The good thing about staying with friends who have small homes is that regularly you have to curl up all snug and together to have a comfortable place to sleep. After all, a decent host wouldn't expect guests to sleep on the floor, and in turn a grateful guest is hardly going to allow a good host to lie there either. So, pillow fights kick off to determine who gets to sleep next to the wall, and soon all parties concerned are tugging at the duvet and wishing each other a good night.
   Things get even more interesting when three people are crawling into a double bed. Personally I am a great fan of this practice, as it is far warmer than two people curling up. Especially if you are in the middle. The other week I found myself in such a position, and being very warm indeed. So warm in fact I woke up a few times. This is very annoying. You open your eyes and find yourself lying in bed with two scantily dressed very attractive lassies, realising gee, my life really sucks, before wrapping an arm around each and going back to sleep until one of the limbs goes numb and wakes you up to remind you of the deplorable situation you find yourself in.
   Alarm clocks are very dangerous equipment when it comes to these situations. When they go off in the early hours of the morning, or afternoon, they create absolute pandemonium. Not having a hell of a lot of room to manoeuvre, any of the three occupants of the bed may cause havoc by trying to reach the snooze button from a random position and hindered by one or more bodies blocking access. There is only a limited amount of space, and therefore caution should always be exercised. When faced with the prospect of sharing your bed with two other people then, one should always decide to sleep in.
   I feel this whole deal of three people in the same bed could become quite popular. It would encourage people to make more friends, save on the cost of central heating and it would save so much space it would also rubbish the idea put forward by our far right parties that there isn't enough room for everyone. Not to mention the person in the middle will feel his or her self-confidence boosted significantly. Winners all around.

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With the new holocaust in full swing, it is amazing how many people you would expect to have read history books seem to be completely oblivious to the similarities between the actions of the Americans, the Labour party and the Israeli government and their German counterparts of the thirties and forties. What with reprisals for the assassinations of invaders, ghetto creations, executions, concentration camps and routine torture of prisoners in the ruthless persecution of those considered to be unfit to live in the utopia they have created in their very tiny and entirely diseased minds, like Hitler and his cohorts all is done in the name of progress, space to live and sheer hatred.
   It is not surprising then that this genocide too has attracted a wide variety of deniers. Like little David Irvings they are popping up from under all sorts of rocks, seeking to justify the murder and mutilation of thousands upon thousands of innocent people. But unlike traditional Holocaust denial, this particular form is very fashionable indeed. It is an issue bringing together left and right, religious and atheist, black and white, rich and poor. Every newspaper has an entire arsenal of people seeking to excuse or question the ethnic cleansing carried out in our name.
   One commentator took great comfort from the fact the people torturing prisoners at Abu Graib were 'only human'. So that makes it okay then. Presumably the same would have applied to Uday and Qusay, whose corpses were cut up and presented to the world media while one of their children was lying on a slab after being hit by deliberate mortar fire aimed at him by freedom loving liberators. Except of course they are Arabs, and therefore the word 'human' couldn't possibly apply to them.
   But most of them go straight back to David Irving's textbook. Whatever evidence is produced against your case, ignore it. And question the intention behind all other bits of information. Irving therefore questioned the testimony of all Jews at Auschwitz, pointed out the Red Army was hardly fond of their enemies, mentioned the lack of corpses and reasoned that as Hoss was tortured during his questioning, all of it must have been a lie. Similarly the British armed forces have now decided to ignore all eye witness statements, testimony from Danish medics, Red Cross and Amnesty reports and pictures of Iraqis suspended from fork lifts, and have instead focussed on a series of faked photos in the Daily Mirror. When faced with an uncomfortable truth, just talk about something else.
   Like Jack Straw and Tony Blair, Hitler was well aware public opinion was of the utmost importance. Therefore the vast majority of the death camps were in Eastern Europe, where they were unlikely to be noticed by either the German population or the British. With modern technology the middle of nowhere is slightly more difficult to locate, though apparently the Afghan desert and parts of Cuba are still excellent places for mass executions or torture. Similarly banning reporters from jails in Iraq afford the wonderful Republican-Labour coalition the opportunity to torture people in private. The fact some pictures might get out only means they have to kick a few soldiers out, but with personnel being shot every day that is hardly a major sacrifice on their part. And they can always blame the media for inflaming tensions on the ground, rather than, for example, blame soldiers drowning people.
   Even opponents of this ethnic cleansing are merely debating whether Hoon and Rumsfeld should perhaps resign their position, whereas of course they should be debating whether they should be shot or hanged. Only goes to show, even genocide can be fashionable when marketed correctly.

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I don't care how you twist or turn it, four entire Euros for the Saturday Times is simply fucking ridiculous. The bloody thing was printed in Belgium and all! What kind of special endangered species of wood do these Europeans use to print a daily? Four Euros. I could buy two beers and still offer the blond at the end of the bar a drink for that much cash.
   Other than the complete rip-off to experience the pleasure of reading a newspaper that makes me frown more often than laugh my holiday was a great success. Naturally, as I am tempered in a Scottish climate, I got sunburnt three times, but roughly the entire time I spent drinking cold and cloudy beer in warm and sunny weather. Except when the rest of the stag night decided to try and hose not only the future groom but also his best man into a murky pond with two high-powered pieces of fire fighting equipment. Then I just got wet. Very wet.
   And the wedding was fantastic. It was like Heaven in a squeeze bottle; stuff simply doesn't get any better than this. And let's face it, how many people not waking up to the smell of dung every morning can honestly say they have addressed a wedding reception in Friesian? I can. Just after swearing in front of the priest. During the ceremony. I am unique.
   I also found myself on my own when a two-inch and very scary bug came flying in, and nobody agreed with me someone should slam a newspaper on its head. In cases like this the right-winger really comes out in me. It doesn't look like me, it's smaller than I am, and it doesn't listen to me: kill the fucker. The rest of the company decided however to give it a careful escort to the great outdoors, where I am sure they then hugged a few trees before coming back in to sing a song.
   It was quite a good song. We were very proud of it. We weren't quite as good as the bride's sister on the piano of course. Didn't stand a chance in hell of beating her on matters such as keeping a tune, or finding one for that matter. Nor could we keep up with her lyrical talent, or her incredible good looks, but we sure as hell beat her on alcohol-fuelled enthusiasm and sheer volume. All the important stuff.
   I am not afraid to admit it when I am wrong. Weddings can be enormous fun.

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That's it for a while, lads and lassies. I am off on a very well deserved holiday. And about fucking time as well. I can't even remember the last time I spent an afternoon lying on my back in the sunshine, only getting up to pee or pour another beer down my gully. So I am quite looking forward to it.
   I realise most people go on holiday during the summer months, but I am trying to avoid the rush. Besides, I am best-manning at a wedding, so I figured I might as well spend some time playing tennis and visiting local landmarks. You will forgive me for not writing out two weeks of columns in advance, and certainly for not spending any time on a computer while I am away. And if not, well, sod the lot of you.
   In the great tradition of my old French teacher, who used to give us assignments for the summer holidays to save some time the year after, I shall leave you with some homework. Every day think of something really funny, or pay close attention to the crap the media come out with. You can have fun all by yourselves! I'll pick up again on Wednesday the 19th of May.
   Incidentally, if I crash, get blown up or hit by a train on my holidays (what side do European trains drive on?) I want to be buried, not cremated. And I want everyone to cry their fucking eyes out. Understood?
   In the meanwhile, if your own imagination lets you down, may I suggest the following columns? You can ration them any way you please.

A British Jig and Reel
(Score! Music Magazine)
- A Profuse Apology (January)
- Never Mind the Budgies (February)
- More Drinks! More Sleep! (March)
- Birthdays and Firearms (April)

The May column (A Soundtrack to War) will be out around the second week of May. You will be able to find it here


Multiplied by Twenty Three
( Muso's Guide)
- One (Legends)
- Two (CD players)
- Three (Grunge)
- Four (Review)
- Five (Sex Symbols)
- Six (Depressing)
- Seven (Amateurs)
- Eight (Record Stores)
- Nine (The Real McKenzies)
- Ten (Avril Lavigne)
- Eleven (Bad Taste)
- Twelve (Kurt Cobain)
- Thirteen (Crowd Surfing)
- Fourteen (Holiday) - This one will be out on Monday 17th May


Have fun!

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I agree there is not enough emphasis on people's duty to their country. There's sixty million people in the UK, and surely together we could create a better society if everyone joined in. I just have a problem with the notion the best way to do this is to go over to countries that are no threat to us, and start killing children, tying electrical wires around people's testicles and kicking their teeth out. To me that sounds an awful lot like stirring up shit, rather than cleaning it up.
   I don't think I would very much enjoy shooting people, unless I had a damn good reason to do so. So instead I have decided to my part by focusing on the medical side of the argument. As such, I donate my blood. While our brave boys in green are daring terrorists all over the world to come and blow us all up, I am helping the doctors who have to deal with the aftermath. Call me a wimp if you like; at least I'm not fucking around with anybody else's blood.
   And to make sure of that, I make sure every year I get tested for all the crap I can possibly pass on to people. Once again morally a lot more responsible than dropping cancer-inducing material on an innocent population. I make sure I don't infect consenting human beings, they infect people who most certainly didn't. Call it decency.
   It's a fairly simple procedure. They stab you in the arm a few times, jam a swab up your cock and make you piss in a tube. Not my idea of a great way to spend a Thursday afternoon, but then, I've had worse. And you get free condoms. And not only decent HIV-preventing and anti-pregnancy condoms; they give you fun ones! Flavoured ones, coloured ones, ribbed ones and so on and so forth. That's the NHS for you. Apparently it is in the nation's best interest that my partner and I get extra kicks when we are shagging. You have to love our healthcare system.

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I wonder at what point people will consider you to be insane. There must be guidelines for these things, especially now that people have to be mentally competent to stand trial. Is there a handbook on this? Twenty-three ways to spot a lunatic. Presumably you can't just let psychologists make up their own mind… They're all human, and most of the ones I have met I have to say personally I wouldn't allow to pick my wallpaper; much less decide whether or not I am sane.
   For example, if I talk to myself all the time. Does that make me a bit crazy? I do talk to myself a lot. Usually I think of what I am going to write, so I don't end up chewing a pen for hours on end when I sit down to actually transfer my ideas onto paper. But try and explain that to people in the supermarket. They all think I am stark raving mad.
   I suppose I could always argue I was talking to God. That's a legitimate excuse. There are laws against people discriminating against me because I talk to an invisible deity. Generally talking to God is more socially acceptable than talking to yourself. Which is rather bizarre when you consider the fact I have a birth certificate, and, well, exist. Something God has so far still not convinced everyone of. So talking to imaginary figures somehow is better than talking to one that is here.
   Yet if I start talking to Samantha, people get even more suspicious. Any criminal psychologist will accept your talking to thin air if you explain you are talking to God. Provided of course you do not claim She actually talks back to you. If your answer is a firm 'Samantha' that is immediately two ticks towards the asylum. Whether she responds or not, talking to Samantha is not considered very sane.
   This all sounds awfully confusing. What does God have that Samantha doesn't? At least Samantha can decide what her name is. I think I should be allowed to talk to whoever I damn well please, without being judged for it. Least of all by a bunch of psychologists.

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I have seen a lot of funny things in my life. However, up until very recently I had never seen a man being hit in the head by a cooker. And when I say cooker, I mean 150 lbs of oven, grill and four gas hobs. Not normally things you would expect to come flying out of nowhere and bouncing off your face, is it?
   You see these things on telly occasionally, but never had I dared dream one day I would stand four feet away when it actually happened. And the only reason I didn't collapse into a heaving bundle of giggles right then and there was that I was still holding on to half of the bloody thing and didn't want it to crush as well as bruise its victim, who was just as much amused as he was in pain.
   We should sue the company. There were no safety labels on the cooker to advise us these machines are prone to attack without prior warning. Which is strange, because they put stickers on potato peelers to warn an unsuspecting and not very intelligent public these things are sharp. Now I am not putting down the dangers posed by sharp kitchen utensils, but if you ask me in comparison a flying cooker can do slightly more damage, and especially when we are talking fatal injury it scores a hell of a lot higher on the lethal objects list.
   Can you imagine testifying at a coroner's hearing that the appliance gave no indication of its intent just before it crushed someone to death? And what do you stick on the headstone? I wouldn't be able to make it through the eulogy without wetting myself. No matter how close of how dear the deceased was to me, if he was killed by a flying cooker I would have to wear a nappy to the funeral. Though in that case perhaps cremation would be the more appropriate means of disposal.

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This week American television showed pictures of Iraqis being tortured by American soldiers, after which the Mirror immediately followed suit and printed pictures of British soldiers kicking a prisoner in the head, breaking his teeth and then pissing all over him. Oh, what a wonderful liberation it has been for them! They must be thanking Allah on their bare knees for these fantastic troops. Well, they will once they have been kicked and punched and had a gun put to their heads.
   One American, promoted to the rank of sergeant, who has just been suspended (rather than incarcerated or, say, charged) for taking part in torture not unlike that routinely applied by the SS, has complained he didn't know anything about taking care of prisoners and hadn't seen a copy of the Geneva Conventions until after he was taken off duty. Which seems to suggest he somehow thought that tying electrical wire to someone's testicles would not be considered bad in the document. Nor did any of his several dozen colleagues looking on approvingly. Or his commanding officer.
   The whole political establishment has been quick to point out this is merely a rogue element. Not in the slightest common practice. However, at Bagram Airbase two prisoners were beaten to death two years ago. Several hundred prisoners were executed by the side of the road. Not to mention what went on in Guantanamo and such wonderful holiday camps. And now Amnesty International has announced it has been informing the 'coalition of the willing' of such abuses all over Iraq since July last year. So why weren't these people on the telly before, telling us how disgusted they were?
   Well, previously the media didn't get their hands on the pictures, that's why. Even when nine months ago British soldiers were caught after trying to have photographs of their torture practices developed at the local chemist, the pictures were sent straight to the army. They are currently serving in Kosovo. Bit of torture never hurt anyone, and certainly shouldn't damage anyone's career. And in this case CBS only aired the thing to prevent Al Jazeera getting there first, and they still delayed the thing two weeks because the timing was a little inconvenient for the Bush administration. I think that is what we refer to as independent media.
   From Blair and Straw to Buff-Hoon and General Sir Michael Jackson down, these people have known about torture, be it by American or British troops, for months. They aren't shocked or disgusted; they're caught. They can't deny this. They can call Hutton out of retirement to clear their name, but it is perfectly obvious to the world that the whole lot of them are nothing but fascist tyrants out for blood. Jackson appeared before cameras to say these soldiers have besmirched the army, while in the meanwhile blood was dripping from his hands.
   These pictures are trophies. So far we have heard of three people being caught. Do you really think we have found all three of these examples? Of course not. There are dozens, if not hundreds, of trophy pictures out there. They are being shown off to friends and colleagues in pubs and living rooms all over the US and the UK. And why not? What is the worst thing that can happen? This Iraqi judiciary that is completely capable of washing its own dirty laundry won't be allowed anywhere near these bastards. They don't honestly believe they will be able to judge white people, do they? They can hang as many Arabs as they please. The more the better. But the civilised westerners smashing people's teeth get to home with a slap on the wrist, a medal from Tony and a promotion in sight.

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I am not very popular. Never have been as far as I am aware. It's too easy to piss people off, and I am far too good at it. Can't open my mouth or someone or other wants to smack me around. It's amazing how much offence people can take. But then normally people not liking me is good for the advancement of my career, and as long as the majority of them live on another continent I am really not that bothered.
   It gets far more interesting when people closer to home decide they want to pick a fight. In Scottish culture shouting abuse at someone is fairly normal, and giving somebody a good shove in the back instead of excusing yourself to work your way through a crowd is not exactly uncommon either. It takes a fair few good knocks to get a pitched street battle going.
   So these guys must be planning something interesting. Apparently a small group of local dickheads, I mean blokes, got it in their head to beat me to a pulp. Not over something I did, or something I said. Not because of something I wrote, or because I have a big nose. I don't even know these guys! It seems the plan is to run off with my girlfriend. An interesting and very ingenious plan indeed. I am not sure what makes them think leaving me in a bloody heap will somehow make them look more attractive to her, but then I don't think this plan has been very well thought out in the first place.
   For example, where are they going to jump me? Getting me in the right place at the right time on the street might involve a considerable amount of stalking. And I presume they won't pounce on me on my own turf. For people their size attacking me is a pretty heroic excursion to begin with; doing so in my local would be nothing less than suicidal. So perhaps they will try and lure me into one of the establishments they hang out in, where they can count on the loyal support of fifteen-year-old skater kids with greasy hair. Or even drop by my house and hope I have lost my baseball bat.
   You know, I am almost beginning to hope this isn't just a rumour. It has the potential of being hysterically funny.

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Obviously medical research over the years has led to breakthroughs curing diseases and other such wonderful innovations, yet it remains perfectly obvious that universities are spending far too much cash on pointless experiments. All you need now is the ability to write a half-decent proposal and be willing to dish out some sexual favours and the scientific community will be happy to fund you in proving whatever bizarre theory you may entertain.
   In the United States two people, who I assume are incredibly clever and very wise indeed, have proved we are all racists at heart. Using techniques the Times did try and explain, but made very little sense to me, they found that when we are pissed off we tend to lash out against people who are different from us. I can't wait until someone brings up this study in court. Your Honour, I admit I called him a dirty Paki. But it is not because I hate Asians. I am biologically programmed to vent my frustration on those of a different ethnic origin than my own and can therefore not be guilty of a racially motivated crime.
   And apparently the people you least expect it from are the worst bigots deep inside. The Times describes these people as tolerant and open-minded. Which to me is one of the most worrying aspects of the article. Tolerance is applied when people are purposely trying to provoke you. When you resist smacking a child that is out of line. Things out of the ordinary require an open mind. Black people are neither. Being tolerant and open-minded towards people of another race suggests we are doing these people a favour. I think the word the Times was looking for was normal, or perhaps ordinary.
   Am I the only person who gets offended when people suggest we 'tolerate' Asians and have an open mind when it comes to Jews? What fucking century do we live in? It sounds like we have introduced apartheid again. According to this newspaper I have to be politically correct to have non-white friends. How the hell does that work? I reserve the right to have a drink with Iranians and still take the piss out of them. In their faces. And I wholly expect them to return the favour.
   Perhaps this is going to sound radical beyond the point of comprehension for the nation's broadsheets, but I have no intention of checking my politics, race, creed or colour when I am meeting people. I'll let the media label me as liberal and left, and I'll just stay the evil bastard that I am.

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Holidays are no fun. I am an extremely material individual, and without all my stuff I get cranky. 21 kilos of baggage they let you take on board an airplane. Twenty-one kilos. My record collection weighs more than that. I have to leave behind all my precious discs. My dearest and most precious possessions. How am I going to spend two weeks without playing any of them? And how will my neighbours cope with all the peace and quiet?
   At least they let me take my girlfriend on board, though they did insist I pay extra. Before you know it, they will be charging to bring pets along. Or kids. It's disgraceful. You're not allowed to bring along anything that's fun. You can't play with your walkman in case the pilot gets distracted by an inspiring guitar riff, and you can't set fire to things to pass the time because it gets the stewardess awfully nervous.
   My toothbrush hasn't been banned yet, but my toothpaste might very well be double checked by the explosives department of customs. Actually, I very rarely have trouble at airports nowadays. Up until three years ago I couldn't sneeze without having my bags thoroughly searched. But the same blonde locks that used to inspire fear and mistrust are now seen as a clear sign I am on the right side of the war on terror. From potential and suspected troublemaker to potential and suspected ally in the space of two planes slamming into New York. Pretty damn impressive, I'd say.
   Is it safe to drink the water in mainland Europe? Or should I lug around a few gallons of fresh water from the Firth? See, packing is a nightmare. Do I bring my tartan boxer shorts or my Tigger ones? And where will I hide all the narcotics and other contrabands? Maybe I should pack a pair of wellies, in case the dykes break. Some goggles perhaps. Or just an inflatable tyre to float around on, quietly sipping a cool refreshing lager and enjoying my well-deserved holiday. I can't wait.

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Summer is always a bit of an event in Scotland. You never know whether it will last the day, the week or the month. In the rest of the world barbeques don't come out until people are walking around in bathing suits. Over here we start in April, just in case the sun disappears until August immediately after. Though it is not uncommon for snow to fall around this time as well. We go with the flow.
   This year it certainly seems like summer is upon us. Besides the fact there is an unfamiliar yellow thing in the sky and a clear lack of water running down the street at alarming speed, it is very hard not to notice the bugs have arrived. During those blissful winter months, all forms of insect seem to either die or hibernate somewhere quiet and private. The moment it stops freezing they crawl out of the woodwork, and do not waste any time attacking innocent passers-by.
   The ones that move in clusters annoy me the most. Do these creatures have any purpose whatsoever? Besides obviously trying to make a nest in my left ear every time I pass a tree they have decided to gather under, fluttering about and being useless. They are the most pointless organisms I come across every day.
   Perhaps part of the reason I hate these things is that for some inexplicable reason they all find my rather oversized nose very interesting. It is simply impossible to walk the street without at least once finding a winged insect of miniscule proportions lodging itself firmly up my nasal passage and refusing to come out without some seriously disgusting noises being made and a finger thrust up there.
   And it is even worse now that I have a beard. I can just imagine half a dozen of these things getting stuck in the hair on my chin, and creeping out when I am having dinner to announce their presence by creeping up my nose. I hate summer.

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Imagine this, if you will. You are the only elected Nazi party in the country. You believe that all non-white inhabitants of Britain should be encouraged to go 'back home', except of course those with a dark skin colour and born inside the UK. Those should just 'go away'. You have a host of theories regarding foreigners, their lack of speaking English and the amount of crime they are responsible for. And your first and foremost aim is British independence from everyone else, most of all the European Union.
   So, what do you do when you prepare for a European election? Well, for starters you come up with a good reason to stand for a seat you think you should be abolished in the first place. When that fails you invite a foreigner who doesn't speak any English, but has half a dozen criminal convictions, to encourage people to kick out non-English speaking foreigners who supposedly commit crimes.
   What good is Le Pen going to do for the BNP? I mean, I am not trying to put the man down in any shape of form of course, I am sure he is a very decent chap, but he doesn't exactly look like the Master Race, does he? None of them ever do. I can't even remember the last time I saw a neo-Nazi with blond hair and blue eyes. Let alone a tall one with broad shoulders. They're all tiny little scary people, their eyes extremely close together under a low forehead and walking as though they very desperately need a shit, but can't get their overly tight trendy jeans off.
   As one writer in the thirties pointed out, a decent Nazi is as blond as Hitler, slim like Goring and as tall as Goebbels. My theory is they are merely very frustrated bisexuals who never manage to pull tall, attractive blondes. Well, we are highly desirable you know. That's where this whole Aryan idea comes from. A bunch of self-depreciating little nitwits projecting their sexual fantasies. That's why they want to stick people with traditional Germanic looks on a pedestal, obviously still not understanding even from up there most of us wouldn't bother pissing on them if they were on fire.
   They can fantasise all they want. We are never going to be impressed. And if they can't even convince so-called Aryans of their own supremacy, what possible chance do they stand of convincing the rest of the population? These people need to seriously consider a hobby involving interior decorating, or flowers in the back garden. What with their obsession with colour, they'd fit right in.

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It is a shame that people who are very depressed can seem so extremely entertaining to the rest of us. I like people being miserable around me. For some reason people start behaving in some kind of primal fashion. It's like watching monkeys at the zoo when you get a few really pissed off people together.
   It intrigues me. I know there are many different ways of dealing with feeling down for example, but what determines which is the best? In the case of women, we all know they resort to either slobbering up a good gallon of ice cream, or they start munching away on their extensive supply of chocolate. But are there different reasons for both things? When they have a fight with their boyfriend, do they opt for the chocolate, and when their boss is being a bitch do they prefer the ice cream?
   I don't even know how it works for blokes. Sometimes I feel like sitting in a dark room, playing Wish You Were Here at a volume normally associated with formula 2 racing on a noisy track. And other times I feel like dancing with complete slappers after getting blind drunk in the pub. There must be a part of my brain that determines which one I go for, and I want to know which one it is. Now.
   Perhaps it works in degrees. When you are only mildly down you would watch very bad old movies, while the Pink Floyd ground would be reserved for serious bouts of depression. I suppose taking a dive from the Forth Bridge would be the suitable reaction to the ultimate feeling of despair. Or perhaps picking a fight with Big Davie in Bannermans.
   There is an entire research market to be tapped into here. A sadistic psychology or sociology student could write a study on the phenomenon. Subject all your volunteers to constant bullying, breakdowns of relationships and rejection, and then record their habits after the streetlights come on. Even if you fail to reach a half-decent conclusion, you would certainly have plenty of fun researching the whole thing.
   I worry myself sometimes.

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I don't normally read The Scotsman, but as it was the only paper in broadsheet format left in the shop I figured it might be good for some entertainment value. And it was. In the letters page, a lady from Glasgow would like to point out there are as many Jews in Scotland as there are in Gaza. And she would also like to thank the good people of Scotland for not killing them, and also for not starting ethnic cleansing like the Palestinians are trying to do over there.
   Clearly the dear woman is well up to speed on developments in the Middle East. Such as the fact that the areas the Jews she is talking about live in were first ethnically cleansed of Arabs, and then populated by foreigners claiming they own their country, and who in settler lingo refer to areas free of Arabs as being 'sterile'. Something I believe does not apply to Scottish Jews, unless of course you are a conspiracy nut believing the Jews are secretly running the planet.
   Or the fact that the Palestinians have a problem with the Israeli occupation. The fact these people are all Jewish is because three million Arabs are not recognised as Israelis, and the one million who are lose their citizenship if they move outside of Israel. In other words, you have to be Jewish to be an Israeli settler. It is the one quality you need to possess. If these had been ethnic Iranians they would have had a problem with Persians. So effectively she has a problem with Israeli policy of picking settlers. On that matter then, we are in complete agreement.
   But, as she can clearly speak for all Jews without polling them first, I shall happily do the same for the people of Scotland. I would hereby like to point out there are roughly as many people in Scotland as there are Palestinian refugees. We would like to thank her for only supporting their violently enforced statelessness, and not ours. We would also like to thank the dear woman for not encouraging the occupation of three and a half million of our fellow citizens, and demolishing their homes to make way for a more acceptable race of people. And we would like to thank her for her shining example of bigotry, which will surely improve the standard of living in Scotland.

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It feels as though there is something missing from my life. Somewhere in between having a crappy job with a moody boss, hanging around in pubs and flirting with complete strangers after trying to sort out my taxes, keeping deadlines and remembering to water the plants I am lacking a very basic yet important aspect of my life. I need a hobby.
   Everybody has hobbies. It keeps the mentally normal sane, and it keeps the lunatics off the street. It is the glue that keeps society together, and I think it is about time I join in. The problem is, I have no idea what kind of hobby I should commit myself to. I am having trouble imagining myself collecting stamps or piecing together ancient Spanish battleships inside a clear empty wine bottle. Chances are not only the ships will never be finished, but I will end up removing shards of glass from the ceiling after losing patience with the whole project.
   Does stalking count as a hobby? Maybe I could start stalking someone. Though of course this does require a level of commitment I do not believe myself capable of. I suppose I could start developing a mild obsession from a safe distance and on a part-time basis, but that would hardly qualify as a proper hobby. I'm technically challenged, so I guess anything in that area is doomed automatically.
   I'm starting to get frustrated with my hobby already, and I haven't even started yet. Just thinking about it gives me a headache. I'm not feeling relaxed in the slightest. Imagine how stressed I would get from actually having a hobby… This is clearly a very bad idea indeed. Hobbies suck.

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I worry about my fellow human beings. Not just when people in Glasgow chop up their friends and spend three days burning the body in an oil drum positioned centrally in a public area. This Lord of the Rings film has got me worried as well. As I never made it beyond the ninety-second page of Frodo hugging trees I thought perhaps it would be worth nine hours of my life to go and watch the whole thing on celluloid. Naturally, it wasn't.
   Obviously, as any decent marketing executive will tell you, the subsequent release of a film on video and DVD will have to feature some sort of extra entertainment to make people who have already seen it, buy it as well. In the case of this film I would have suggested a condensed version. Perhaps a five-hour version of all three films all in one.
   Instead, they made an extended version! More than two hours of bonus material. That means there are people out there who are looking for a film of eleven hours and god knows how many minutes of your life you will never get back because you wanted not only to watch two midgets with big feet sauntering through a forest, but an extra long version of two midgets with big feet sauntering through a forest.
   They are sick. They need our help. If not professional help. Someone needs to show them affection and open up their custom-made elfish curtains to show them there is an entire world out there, full of people, pubs and pubic regions dying for exploration. Find yourself a fucking hobby! Go hang gliding or something. Do something creative. But get out of the house.
   At least Peter Jackson has made the world a lot easier to sort out with this film. Much like George Bush he has conveniently split the world into the good and the evildoers. And, much like Bush, he has split them up according to race. Some creatures are simply born to be evil. In the case of Peter Jackson it is those species with green eyes. For some inexplicable reason the goodies all have blue eyes, and the ones with green eyes are out to destroy Middle Earth.
   Which makes sense if you consider I too have green eyes. Nonetheless I feel offended by the suggestion me and my kind are devious by birth and should be battled till we are all dead to prevent us ever flourishing. We happen to be very kind and caring beings by nature. I think we should sue.

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What kind of an example are schools setting nowadays? These institutions are supposed to be teaching the nation's young to lead a good, clean and legal life. Not encourage them to break the law. Yet three quarters of schools are doing exactly that, usually because they claim they don't have time to abide it. A valuable lesson to be learnt for all the poor kiddies paying close attention to the actions of their elders.
   And it is not like we are talking petty offences here; these people are failing to offer worship to the Almighty, which they are obliged to do every single school day. I never knew this. And with the BBC you are never sure whether they are talking about England or the whole of the UK, so I am not entirely sure if it applies to Scotland. Either way it seems the law clearly states all kids should have religious worship several times a week as part of their quest for knowledge and wisdom.
   I think this is a brilliant idea. As long as we do not subject these children to boring Christian prayers and lectures. And fuck Islamic, Hindu and Jewish sessions as well. If we want to involve kids in religious rituals, we should make it more interesting for them. I want to see an hour of Satanic worship every Tuesday. And on Thursdays we should bring in a Maori to teach them all that really cool dance they do. Or a quick lesson in Rastafarian dope smoking.
   The remaining three days of the week we should do guest appearances. Philosophy teachers could be used as human sacrifices to Wodan. That'll teach them to question the existence of a supreme being. And plenty of virgins about in schools, so that could make for some very interesting rituals involving ancient Asian gods and goddesses. Every fortnight the whole student body could chant magic incantations to worship the deities of the Mayans or Aborigines.
   I want to see blood flowing, people. Ritual and senseless slaughter of the innocents by the dozen. At least that will prepare the youngsters for the harsh reality that awaits them after they will leave these centres of education. Sex education could be combined with spiritual orgies in the name of the ancient Persian goddess of multiple orgasms. There is so much we could teach them that they would be able to use in their adult lives. Thanking God for our daily bread just doesn't help.

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It is amazing how stupid some advertisers think we are. Or perhaps how stupid they know we are. Either these people didn't pay attention in English class, or they know for a fact most people can't draw a straight line with a ruler, let alone any logical conclusion.
   Some bloke who I think used to be a sporting personality in the days when steam engines were still fashionable appears on telly, with his entire family, to explain that people who have a healthy heart tend to eat more whole-grain food. Think about that sentence for a second. What do we care what people with healthy hearts eat? And for that matter, what do they care? They already have a healthy heart.
   Short people tend to have more trouble breaking records at the triple jump. And obese people tend to have more heart attacks, just like extremely clever people tend to do better in school. The list is endless. Why are they telling us this useless crap? I want to know how people with a heart that is less healthy can prevent dropping down dead from a cardiac arrest before the age of forty.
   How is that advertising a product? Apparently the people you are aiming for are already eating this muck. Surely the aim of advertising is to get me to buy it as well. I need my fragile little ego stroked; not told that if I have this stuff for breakfast I join a club of people more fortunate than I am.

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Admittedly, watching a programme about abstinence in West Texas did make me realise that half the people interviewed should definitely not be allowed to reproduce. They scare me beyond any biological and mental reason. If ever there was a living example of brainwashing the youth of a town, this is it. It is simply not natural to ask your parents for forgiveness because you had sex with your boyfriend. I realise these people had to endure George W. Bush as their governor for god knows how long, but that is no reason to completely and utterly lose your mind.
   If you want to believe that Jesus Christ is the lord god almighty, fine. But keep it the hell out of your bedroom. These people are going to church and signing contracts promising God (as if She doesn't have anything better to do) not only that they will not have sex until their wedding night, but also that they will only date Christians. Because obviously having sex before marriage will kill you, but sex with Jews means certain death even in matrimony.
   And what is this crap about condoms having holes in them? While we are discrediting science why not keep claiming the sun revolves around the earth? Not that all research is bad of course. If you do decide to get married, a local clergyman will take you through a course in sexual intercourse, during which he will explain, with the help of graphs and statistics, that women and men have different needs in the bedroom.
   Apparently people are like toothbrushes. People don't like used toothbrushes, because you don't know where they have been, what they have been doing or who they have been doing it with. Whereas a fresh toothbrush is wonderful because it comes wrapped in plastic. Like a cock in a condom. No wait. A fresh toothbrush is nice because, erm, I'm not sure. I'll use someone else's toothbrush no bother. They are probably afraid a non-Christian may have had it in his or her mouth. I assume God told them so.
   Besides getting very frightened watching these people, it also made me wonder how this whole sex in marriage thing actually works. For example, can you have a threesome when you are married? Surely having sex with two people is still within marriage. Your wife is there after all, and she is involved. They also didn't mention anything about animals. This is redneck terrain after all. I don't think they have thought it through properly.

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Apparently being a man is very complicated. Whereas women have been pretending to be complicated (read: difficult) exotic and mysterious creatures for decades now, there are men out there who feel that if this whole equality deal is going to work properly, we need some seriously in-depth studies of why men do what they do. Something which is meant to produce an entire range of experts, who can then pretend to understand your innermost needs because they wrote a book about it.
   I find this highly unlikely. I also can't imagine what these people could possibly be focusing on. If someone is going to explore the male being I will start taking him seriously when he can provide me with an acceptable explanation for the Monday Morning Erection. Steve Biddulph does not. There are a lot of things Steve does not. Just by looking at his picture on his book I can inform you, for example, that Steve also does not look like the kind of man you want to be taking advice from. Nor does he wear glasses acceptable in today's society. And that's something, coming from me.
   In his book "manhood" Steve - I feel as though we are on first-name basis after flicking through this truly masterful work of literature - attempts to explain to me how my life works, even though he has never met me. It is therefore perhaps not surprising that he fails miserably. Feminism was bad enough, the last thing we need is blokes getting the same bizarre notions about their gender.
   Under the heading 'self-love', Steve Biddulph, who I do not believe has any academic qualifications of any kind, claims masturbation is an exercise in sexual independence and in practicing sensuousness and by experimenting, we become more skilful and sensuous lovers. So there you have it. Wanking improves your shagging.
   Basically this man is encouraging his readers to jerk off as often as possible, (the majority of men need all the practice they can get!) to have a healthy sex life. An interesting point of view, and certainly supported by the well-known fact serial killers often masturbate profusely. How much more sensuous can you get? Jeffrey Dahmer especially had a very light touch when he drilled holes in his victims' heads while they were still alive.
   This is a man who feels rock videos degrade both men and women. But showing early warning signs of psychopathic homicidal behaviour is encouraged. I feel this man may very well be a little too comfortable with his body.

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It's a good thing experts are at hand to view tapes of hostages in Iraq. He looks scared, they conclude rather patronisingly. After which they will explain that being kidnapped is not at all a pleasant experience. Insight you can only expect on the most serious of news programmes. Usually just before they will explain these people cannot be negotiated with, because it will only encourage them.
   I'm sure I am supposed to be shocked when an American soldier is paraded on television. But all I could think was that he wasn't shackled, hooded, drugged and gagged while being kicked along by brutal guards who had just forcefully shaved him and made him kneel in painful positions for hours on end. Similarly they hadn't been executed by the side of the road, or locked into metal containers and left in the burning sun for several days. Neither had they been beaten by interrogators until they finally died as a result of it.
   In short, these evil Iraqi militias seem to be a lot more humane to their prisoners than the US army and all their wonderful allies are to theirs. Not to mention that these fighters apparently do not have the support of most Iraqis. All commentators, reporters and politicians keep reminding us the vast majority of ordinary Iraqis reject violence.
   Which is in sharp contrast to, for instance, the US. Over there millions of Americans are supporting the execution of Iraqi soldiers and the continued holiday excursion in Cuba for a few hundred Muslims. So while the American brutality is far outdoing any Arab atrocity, they can count on more support from their people. In any logically run situation then, the Iraqis should be organising an American government, rather than the other way around. They are clearly the far more civilised party involved.

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I don't really need a new flatmate. The old one is still functioning, and I am not obsessed with all things new and shiny, so much like my old furniture and my ancient record player, there is no need to replace him. It's a shame then that he has decided to go and live up north. In itself a decision worthy of some very serious experimental mental therapy. And it means we have to look for someone to share our home with.
   Picking a flatmate is not unlike picking a pet. Some look a lot cuter than others, and the fact you like what you see in the store doesn't mean they won't piss on your carpet or have a tendency to bark in the night when you bring them home. And then there are considerations such as the fact males smell a lot worse than females, and that some don't play well with other ones.
   And, like is the case with pets, if you don't pick one quick enough, someone else might run off with the one you would have chosen in the end. I thought I had left these decisions behind me when I decided at the age of nine that I was not going to buy any more hamsters. Mainly because they didn't get along with our cats. Well, the cats quite liked them, but, well, you get the point.
   Unlike with pets though, these people also have to like us. If a dog doesn't like the looks of you he can howl all he wants and still end up in your living room. Flatmates need to consent to these kinds of arrangements. Demanding creatures they are. So how do you convince people who are nice enough you want to live with them, to share a flat with the likes of me? This may very well be a very interesting challenge.

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I am not having a very good week. In fact, I would go so far as to say that my week has been rather unpleasant indeed. On more than one occasion I have felt the urge to just stop and mutter bugger. Only if no one could hear me of course. The fact I am not enjoying myself is never an excuse to hurt other people's feelings. And behind every cloud of rain there is a beautiful sun shining down on us all.
   Or so I keep telling myself. It's part of the new me. Polite, sensitive and acutely aware of the plight of my fellow man in the street. As long as I keep repeating that a few hundred times the houseplants I keep might start believing me. Though no guarantees there either. I wish I had done yoga, so I could do some breathing exercises.
   During one of my endless recitations of messages of calm and happiness my eyes fell on the Canadian hard men on tiny boats in the arctic circle, wielding what seem to be rudimentary gardening tools. I thought it rather bizarre to be searching for weeds on a polar cap, but then they were Canadian. Of course the brave North Americans were actually using the sticks with metal ends to gently tap baby seals on the back of the head.
   It struck me as such a sensible thing to do. That would certainly calm me down a wee bit. It would be the ideal weekend activity for people who keep bottling up their aggression. What you do is, you take a couple of people like me, and team them up with Glasgow football hooligans. You give everyone a pair of thick boots and a machete, and then set them all loose on a flock of seals. Entertainment for all of society!
   Fuck all these camping programmes for violent youths; let them club a few of those bastards to death and they will be relaxed for weeks. I feel this is a chance simply waiting to be grabbed by the Scottish Executive. They could even organise trips for paying businessmen with high stress levels. Triple contribution to the economy from the seals: meat, fur and sport. I would like to reserve a ticket up front please. In case the serenity thing doesn't work out.

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Strangely enough it came as a little bit of a surprise to me when I woke up to the sound of a bloke I had never met in my life drilling a hole in my bedroom wall with equipment I think is normally used to make holes for oil pipes. These things tend to not only make me wonder where the hell I am, but also put me in a mood not unlike that of psychopathic serial killers low on drugs. In which case leaving sharp electrical tools lying around is really not the smartest course of action for people in my immediate surroundings.
   Didn't seem to bother him in the slightest. In his mind, fire prevention was an important issue we all have to deal with, and if I have a heart attack in the process, then so be it. At least he had the decency to screw the fire extinguisher to the outside of my wall. Next to the front door, on my way out. Somehow that makes very little sense. This means that if there is a fire into my house he suggests I run away from it, to the safety of outside, stop, pick up the tiny bottle he thinks will make a difference, and then run straight back at the fire.
   Now I may not be the cleverest of cats, and some might even suggest I am only that tiny bit crazy, but suicidal I am not. Either I tackle a fire to get to safety, or I run the fuck out of my house and dial 999. When the extinguisher is next to the exit that leaves me with the far more enticing option of the street instead of a flaming inferno.
   Besides, if he really thinks I am going to stand in the middle of my burning hallway with a red canister roughly the same size as my sister's shoe, he is seriously mistaken. To start with, I shall be busy chucking my record collection out on the street. And then I am going to be taking a clean pair of underpants with me. If by then the fire brigade has not yet arrived, I will be writing a letter of complaint. There is a whole list of things I can think of that are more productive than making an arse out of myself with a tool slightly less effective than a water pistol. If some dickhead is going to wake me up at some ungodly hour, at least let it be for a decent reason.

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It is amazing how George W. Bush simply refuses to let me get used to how incredibly fucking stupid he is. I really do believe he would make more sense if he were to try and make words come out of his arsehole, and yet even with that firmly in mind I keep being stunned when he appears on television. And how incredibly dim the average American must be to still believe a single syllable that comes out of that man's mouth, or arse.
   He can't even read out from a specially prepared piece of paper. Though admittedly he did make a lot of sense when he admitted he does not care about polls. After all, he didn't care about polls during the election, did he? And so if ignoring the people is necessary to achieve democracy, then gravity has started working upward. He doesn't care. And now apparently he is going to personally ensure that Iraq becomes a sovereign, free and democratic nation.
   Funny how he thinks giving sovereignty to a country that already had it before he took it away is somehow a good thing. But how he thinks we will fall for the free and democratic line I will never understand. The American have for decades now been sponsoring the persecution of nine and a half million Palestinians and Arab Israelis, six million of whom currently live in exile enforced by American weapons and American vetoes in the UN security council, and the remaining three and a half million are being tortured and used as human shields by American sponsored Israeli troops. Freedom my arse.
   So that leaves democracy. Bush was not elected. Not a single western country involved in Iraq had the support of the majority of its population. And then of course there are Kuwait and Afghanistan, who had their leaders installed by the US government. And Qatar, Pakistan, Uzbekistan and Saudi Arabia all have their own forms of dictatorship. This whole coalition of the willing was built upon a lack of democratic rule. They have very little to fear from foreign terrorists and dictators abroad; the biggest threat to this so-called coalition is democracy at home.
   That's why there will be no elections in Iraq. These people we are going to hand power to will have to be hand-picked by the same Americans who will be staying around with a couple of thousand heavily armed soldiers with complete freedom to kill protesters and beat to death prisoners. Free from any form of prosecution by American, Iraqi or international courts of course. The same people who talk about crushing insurgency and are signing death warrants for dissident voices without any form of judiciary involved. Some would call it ruthless persecution; we call it freedom.

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Be honest. My name is really not that complicated, is it? Damien Calis. D-A-M-I-E-N C-A-L-I-S. Eleven letters spread out over five syllables can't be too complicated for the human mind, surely. Especially when you are looking at it when you are writing it down. You would have to be on a seriously big amount of sedatives and assorted painkillers to have trouble with that many letters.
   I have a friend called Siobhan. Now that is difficult. Some of my friends even have names transcribed from Arabic, and feature combinations of letters that normally do not go anywhere near one another in European languages. There is no reasonable excuse to misspell 'Damien'. It makes me want to smack you. It is bad enough people keep insisting I am from Edinburg or Edinborough; there is no need to start vandalising the words people use to address me.
   Maybe people have started using the Google dictionary. Personally I still look things up in a thick book with a large unconvincing penguin on the front, published several decades before the Spice Girls had any influence on the contents of such works. But when I type in my own name on the internet search engine, it rather patronisingly demands to know at the top of the page whether perhaps I meant "Damien Callis". No, I did not mean Damien Callis. I don't like that guy. He is a dickhead, and he has a silly name.
   Yet I recently found one of my reviews, with my name correctly at the bottom, on another website, claimed to have been written by this Callis arsehole. I have never met the bloke, but he too is clearly after a good punch in the teeth. Having an embarrassing surname does not excuse plagiarism. Apparently there is also a Damian Calis, so I presume sooner or later Damian Callis will also rear his ugly face. I just hope I can find the hole he intends to crawl out of and plug it before he gets a chance.

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And the big bad Roman man asked Paul how he too could be saved, in other words how he too could become a Christian, and Paul did tell him to put his faith in Jesus. In the morning the evil Roman and all his spotty teenage children, praise the lord, were baptised and lived their lives like good Christian men.
   But not before they sharpened a sword and cut off Paul's head. And only that because he was a Roman. Peter was nailed to a cross, upside down. Where do these people find all these stories? Not in the bible, that's for sure. The oldest known version of the bible doesn't even have capital letters, and is also extremely short on definite articles. So the Son of God he most certainly was not. A son of a god perhaps, but then in Roman times you couldn't fling a dead rat without hitting someone claiming some form of divine heritage, what with the gods constantly shagging mortal men, women and children in one disguise or another.
   I am not complaining of course. My significantly better half decided that Easter was a time to remember Jesus, not Moses, and decided to pocket a sandwich at the church buffet so I could have it. I suppose God wouldn't mind, knowing it is going to such a thankful soul like myself. I even gave thanks. It was, after all, a holy bacon roll. Presumably to avoid having to feed any Muslim or Jew infiltrating the service.
   To prove my gratitude, I even watched some of the church services. On the telly of course. I haven't set foot in a church since I went to see Columbus's grave, and this week I heard it may not even be him. Nothing but broken promises in these places. However, besides horrible Romans being converted to Christianity, apparently Mary Magdalene went to the cave to anoint the body of Christ with oils and spices.
   Oils and spices? What were they going to do? Eat him? My flatmate smears this stuff all over hunks of meat we have for dinner. You don't go round seasoning corpses. In fact, I am sure there are laws against this sort of thing. Very sensible ones. No wonder Jesus didn't wait around to be prepped for dinner and instead ran away as fast as he could.

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Christian religious festivals are not my strongest point. But I do know Christmas and Easter are opposite festivals. Jesus was born on one, and died on the other. So, logically speaking, if Christmas is surrounded by a spirit of giving, the Easter must be about getting, or taking. Right? Makes sense to me. Unless of course you believe at Easter Jesus was born around. Christ - The Sequel perhaps. Mel Gibson could make it. He's on first-name terms with the man.
   As is well known the Romans were a friendly people, and gave little Jesus half a tree and a DIY kit for Easter. Plus two friends to play with. Spoilt brat as he was, Jesus immediately proved three is in fact a crowd, and would only play with his favourite friend, leaving the other all on his tod. Love thy fellow man indeed.
   I always got eggs. Paint them first, and then hide them outside, so the rest of the family could go and look for them. Never took long in our house. Not so much because we were good at finding things as because we lived on the sixth floor and had extremely little outside to hide things without tumbling to an unpleasant demise.
   Dying at Easter is a bit of an inconvenience anyway. Besides the fact some relatives might want to celebrate their religious circus, you also have to wait three days before burying someone, just in case he or she proves to be the Second Coming. Or first if you are of the Islamic or Hebrew persuasion. The last thing you want is to accidentally bury the messiah alive. That would certainly reduce your chances of getting past the pearly gates.

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Isn't language a fantastic thing? You can so easily use it to confuse the shit out of people. Something professional government officials and advertising agents do every day to try and make us believe things that aren't true. That's their job. When journalists start doing it you have to start wondering whether these people are reporting events, or trying to persuade us of something.
   We all know that the Sun, the Daily Star and the Guardian cannot be trusted to ever give a balanced view of anything other than the weather forecast, but when you start paying attention you will find even the BBC, quite possibly the most impartial news provider in the UK, if not the world, is seriously committing itself to set several standards for the same issues. All through the subtle use of language.
   Iraqi soldiers die in air raids, but American soldiers are killed in attacks. And Iraqi civilians are shot while American ones are murdered. Over the last few days I have been hearing nothing but mentioning to the horrific murder of four Americans at the hands of Sunni tribes. Who decided this was horrific? Which editor at the BBC decided to add that word to the autocue? And on what grounds?
   The people in the newsroom seem to suggest that all the other people dying are doing so quite pleasantly. Such as the three unarmed Palestinians who were killed by Israeli tank fire because they looked suspicious. Well, of course they looked suspicious; they're fucking Arabs aren't they? They all look awfully suspicious, especially when they are walking around in their own country.
   Talking of the Israelis, why was Saddam's rule brutal if Sharon's isn't? Apparently the Shi'ites were oppressed while the Palestinians are merely occupied. The Kurds were murdered, the Palestinians, erm, culled? Put out of their misery? Irish terrorists are paramilitaries, while Arab paramilitaries are terrorists. Saddam was a dictator, but Bremer is an administrator. They just happen to have the same powers, and use very similar methods. Meanwhile Muslim killers are extremists, but Christian killers are pro-life.
   And then there are just clear lies they come out with. For example, as the American people voted for Al Gore and got George Bush, the US is not a democracy. And in Britain we don't elect our government. We elect our representatives. And Leeds is only in the north if you live in England. These people are not stupid. They know damn well what they are doing. The fact they have to pretend to be impartial doesn't mean they can't try and influence your thinking.

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It turns out that people who pay too much tax by mistake can actually get it back. Theoretically speaking of course. The whole process is dependent on you being able to show the Inland Revenue a stack of paper that is not only so big it can produce a fire big enough to warm the inhabitants of Lithuania for several months, but also originated from their own offices. I had always presumed they kept copies, but apparently their filing system is only slightly more organised than the average hamster cage.
   Essentially all the documentation involved in trying to squeeze any money (your money) out of the government exists in triplicates. Whoever paid you money has one copy, you have one copy, and the Inland Revenue has one copy. Again, theoretically speaking. So this week I received a summons to produce forthwith several dozen scraps of paper they themselves have chucked in the nearest bin long before the turn of the millennium, yet they somehow expected me to have stored in a fireproof metal box in the loft. Unfortunately I don't have a loft.
   I do however have several very large brown envelopes with STUFF written in bold black letters on both sides. I was cleaning the house one summer afternoon in 1999, and decided to gather all important material in one place before sorting out the whole affair. The first part was no bother in the slightest, but as of yet I have never found enough time to set out on the second half of the adventure. And since that rainy day the envelopes seem to have multiplied.
   Besides the fact I have absolutely no desire to sponsor Labour for even a penny more than I absolutely have to to prevent being sent to prison, I found another reason to submit every last piece of information the tax people asked for. It struck me as slightly menacing when the envelope on my doormat did not only have my name on it, but also a considerable streak of blood right across. There is no way of telling whether this is human blood of course, but this is hardly a chance you are going to take, is it?

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No sooner had I slagged off marriage, weddings and all the surrounding brouhaha, or I had been asked to be best man. I guess my feet and my mouth are roughly five feet, ten inches apart, and yet I seem to have this unique athletic talent of jamming one in the other with comparative ease.
   I'd never been asked such a thing before. What is the common reply to a request like that? I certainly don't know. It doesn't happen often I am lost for words, but for once, I certainly was. Though this may have had something to do with the size 13 military issue black leather boot stuck between my teeth. After prising it away from my face I eventually managed to mumble something in the affirmative, and then grabbed hold of the nearest bottle of malt to celebrate.
   Apparently my part in these proceedings will be to stand there and look smart, which I shouldn't imagine will be too much of a challenge, and put my signature to a document stating it is a good idea these two people should get married. Which is nice and all, but how do these people know I can be trusted? I could be a serial killer for all they know. Or a convicted bigamist.
   Still, the idea any kind of authority recognising my wisdom does me the world of good. People should take an example from these fine civil servants providing us with all the joys we have come to expect in life. I'm not holding my breath.

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Americans are strange people any which way you look at them. But their recent congressional upheaval over the showing of a naked human breast really does beggar all belief. And what is the fuss about nipples? How on earth can a nipple possibly be considered to be the most offensive part of the female body? Only female mind you. Male nipples are perfectly acceptable. Which is strange, if you consider male nipples have no purpose and could therefore be considered to be freakish elements of nature.
   Banning nipples is ridiculous. Banning plastic nipples is a sure sign of absolute complete and utter insanity and a loss of connection to the real world. Alanis Morrisette, performing in Canada, decided to wear a body suit with big fake nipples, and was instantly informed that these would have to be censored on national television. Now I have been warned in advance by one of my friends that I am not allowed to make fun of Alanis, and as she has recently been taught how to kill people by the Israeli army I think I shall comply.
   However, whoever keeps blotting out nipples needs to be incarcerated immediately and subjected to heavy mental testing before ever being allowed to have another job. What is so bad about nipples? We're showing dead people on television. We can watch tornadoes ploughing through homes, attack helicopters firing missiles at streets, planes being flown into buildings, pictures of the holocaust, police officers beating protesters, thousands of human skulls dug up after African genocide, people punching each other in the head for sport, lions sauntering about with a wildebeest's spinal column in its mouth and excrement being pumped out of sewers, but tits are evil!
   And what worries me most is that all this censorship comes from ultra-Christian circles. Where do these people think breasts came from in the first place? Surely if God did not want us to look at nipples, She would not have made them stick out so clearly and openly. And found another way to feed babies. It's bad enough these nutters have a problem with human inventions; if they start questioning the very Creation they want to convince us of, it's rather difficult to take them seriously.

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I have little desire to constantly follow my girlfriend around as she and her friends go to busy nightclubs and get sweaty on the dance floor with complete strangers who buy them drinks afterwards. I'm too old and wise for that now. Instead I sit in my contemplation chair, have some single malt Highland whisky, play some Leonard Cohen and download some hardcore pornography before going to bed, where she can join me when she is done cavorting with the rabble that hangs out in the establishments she frequents.
   It has always struck me as more than a little ridiculous to be towed around town only to make sure she acts in a manner befitting a Scottish lady. It's pointless. What am I going to do; pour the beer down her throat? Bollocks to that. I'd only end up paying for all of it. I'm sure if they do bump into anyone she would consider running away to the Bahamas with, the rest of the females in the pack would scratch her eyes out to get to him first anyway.
   There are limits to my convictions of course. Moments do occur when I think that perhaps it would be a good idea if I start tagging along on these nights. Especially when she and her friends start spending an hour to determine what they shall wear. Guaranteed one of them will end up wearing a skirt that disappears entirely underneath one of those big fashionable belts, and a top that serves only to carry a message like 'take me roughly from behind', and certainly not to cover their tits.
   This I can deal with. Hell, most of the time I will encourage it. But when I find my own girlfriend walking around in trousers only worn by serious Avril Lavigne devotees and other skater creatures you find in public squares practicing their skills and knocking over unsuspecting old ladies on a Saturday afternoon, I get upset. These things are so big you can fit your arse in through the leg. Not that anyone can see you have an arse in them. It's three large pockets and nine feet of belt wrapped around the top. What will people think of me? Other guys are told their girlfriend looks like a slut. I get told mine looks like she listens to Blink 182. It's not fair.

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Somewhere in a stuffy office in West London there must be a bloke, presumably with glasses and an 'I love Microsoft' coffee mug, in charge of making the spell checker for the UK version of the Word programme. I imagine his name being Justin. And he's a dickhead. With a haircut that's been out of fashion since the early seventies, which incidentally is also the last time he got laid. Just because he has a ridiculous salary, doesn't mean he is not full of shite.
   There, shite has all sorts of squiggly red lines under it. Why? Perfectly acceptable word on this island, as well as in Northern Ireland. Just because Justin hasn't seen the inside of a pub in twenty years shouldn't mean the rest of us are told off for using a language he should be up-to-date with. Give this guy a good firm kick up the arse and get him a job he knows how to do. Cleaning toilets or something.
   According to the spell checker, a sgain dubh doesn't exist. Which is funny, because I own one. It may be a Gaelic word, but it certainly is used in the English language. But Justin only did French in school, so croutons, eau de toilette and baguettes are all allowed, but a Scottish ornament has been banned from the vocabulary. Bloody racist it is. We should take him to court. Him and his fucking coffee mug.
   Or we could demonstrate what kind of a fashion accessory a sgain dubh is exactly. Might be a bit painful on his part, but at the same time it should be a very cultural experience as well. It might even encourage him to set foot outside his flat and find to his great amazement the world is bigger than just London and the internet. And if not we could always stab him.

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Colin Powell this weekend had admitted that, basically, all the crap that came out of his mouth at the United Nations meeting in which he first tried to persuade and then decided to ignore the world was perhaps not true. Not his fault of course. He was merely misled by the intelligence services. Mr Powell himself, who is a general and has been involved in roughly every single American war since the sixties, wasn't at all trying to rally some support for dropping bombs on market places.
   It does make you wonder. If Saddam has crawled out of his hole and admitted he was a complete bastard, would we have been expected to like him? After all, Colin has just told us he is a liar, and now wants us all to trust him. What planet are we living on?
   The whole world has been turned upside down. Apparently killing someone, setting fire to them and cutting them into pieces is bad, and putting the corpses on display is disgusting. But dropping cluster bombs and depleted uranium on people, which leads them to die, burn and be cut to pieces, is commendable, and you will get a medal for it. Oh, and inviting the world media in to marvel at corpses is the only decent thing to do.
   Once you have got your head around those explaining how up is really down and left is almost always right will be a piece of piss. Though it definitely brings home the expression "with friends like these…" Aren't we lucky to have such wonderful allies?

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I have never been to a stag night before. Not because I don't have any friends of course, which I do, honestly, but because the vast majority of them are reasonably to highly intelligent human beings and, as such, don't get married.
   Or so I thought. Fucking wedding proposals left, right and centre all of a sudden. There must be something in the water supply, because there simply is no way all this madness came naturally. You don't just ask someone to marry you without a decent excuse, such as an advanced stage of pregnancy, loss of inheritance and a serious fear of God. Short of that, it's plain ridiculous.
   That's not to say I won't turn up of course. You know Scots; any excuse to put on a skirt and have a few drinks. Be it rugby matches, weddings, funerals, executions, divorce hearings or the fact it is Friday. Living in a climate like ours dressing up and getting pissed is almost vital to survive, and indispensable to retain our sanity.
   And I have been to weddings before. I went to my grandmother's wedding. There's a bizarre experience. But never have I been on a stag night. I imagine it is roughly similar to a pub-crawl, only with the distinct notion one in your midst will soon be put through ceremonial torture voluntarily. I picture an air of celebration mixed with the scent of fear.
   We'll be all right after a few drams of whisky. And the stag night shouldn't present a problem at all.

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I don't know how this came to be, but there is something about me that makes women think it's alright to approach me quite casually and discuss my willie. And not even in an erotic kind of flirtatious manner, but just cool hard facts about the functioning and general appearance of what is supposed to be a prized and most of all private member of my anatomy.
   It usually happens when I least expect it. On one occasion an American I had never met before demanded to know forthwith whether I was circumcised. Taken a wee bit aback I thought about it for a while, and then decisively countered this was absolutely none of her fucking business. A reaction I still believe was a perfectly reasonable and proportionate one.
   Unfortunately such replies are hardly an option when questions are fired from quarters closer to home. So this week I found myself to have been appointed advisor in the raging debate whether or not my good friend's baby boy shall undergo the circumcision ritual once he has been born. This really is news you do not want to receive until after you have had breakfast and a good few pints of dark ale.
   I'm not sure what people expect me to say about this whole thing. How likely is it I will advise any parent to tell a doctor to take a sharp knife and slice off part of their son's private parts? Do I really look that sick? And I know damn well that the foreskin is hardly the most useful body part, but then I am also still retain my appendix, earlobes and both my nipples, and as of yet nobody has ever suggested amputating them.

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Has anybody noticed a postal strike going on? Normally these things tend to be all over the telly, and disgruntled middle-aged men and women in silly uniforms gather around a litterbin, which has been set ablaze to prove they are hardened ruffians who will never bow to the powers of the evil and corrupt police state we live in. Or at least I think that tends to be the message.
   Nothing of the sort anywhere on the news at the moment. Just complicated surgery being cancelled because the attending doctor had an extra helping of croutons in the canteen. And I really wish I had made that one up. Presumably then the postal service is not engaged in industrial action, and letters can still be sent up and down the country under the safe understanding they will arrive at their destination within, say, a decade.
   My plan to be my own boss and work exclusively from wherever I damn well please does somewhat depend on the trusted postie to actually turn up on my door and shove assignments through my letterbox. At the moment it seems the Pony Express would do an ultimately better job at getting a live giraffe from Pakistan to Iceland than the Royal Mail at getting a CD from England to Edinburgh. So my plan is on hold.

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Apparently, to get the most out of my keyboard, I should read the Safety and Comfort Guide. Unfortunately I do not own a copy of this magnificent-sounding document, though it has certainly provoked a hell of a lot of curiosity. What is this booklet going to tell me about using a keyboard? Up until this moment I had always found the object a rather self-explanatory tool. Now however, I am deeply intrigued.
   It seems unlikely that of all the components of my computer it is the keyboard that requires extensive safety instructions. Short of not dropping it in a bucket of water and realising there is electrical currant running through the grey piece of string sticking out of the back there can't be too many ways the inexperienced user could accidentally kill or injure himself. One would hope not, anyway.
   The comfort aspect worries me even more. I have always been a strong believer comfort is entirely a matter of taste. The fact most people find being bent in awkward positions is highly painful doesn't mean it can't be very pleasant for those people practicing yoga. So who is to tell me which way of typing is most comfortable? I'll be the judge of that. It is after all my keyboard, and I shall bloody well do with it as I please.
   I realise that whacking someone over the head with a keyboard is fairly uncomfortable, but as the majority of keyboards have only a limited amount of lead someone would have to be very willing to be hit in the first place, and stand pretty close. And people apparently not realising getting your foreskin caught between the J and K is potentially rather painful shouldn't be allowed to operate a computer full stop. So they can take their Safety and Comfort Guide, fold it a few times, and stick it in an uncomfortable orifice of their choice.

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What with East Anglia doomed to sink into oblivion within the next half a century, the government has decided all of a sudden it is awfully concerned about saving the planet. Hundreds of people are being paid vast amounts of our tax money to come up with clever ways to prevent this whole island melting away and drifting off into the Arctic Circle.
   So, what are we doing to do to save the earth? Are we going to stop dropping explosives on innocent desert people, stop funding nuclear technology, or perhaps stop the Americans from building a missile defence system in our countryside? Of course not. We are going to recycle! Banana peels and empty sauce tins are the answer to our problems. These can all be recycled and re-used as cluster bombs.
   Just to prove the Labour party is not only useless on a national level, the council spin-off of the same government is now leafleting residents to inform them of the joys of recycling. Are you getting this? They are printing off millions of bits of paper to explain to people we are being wasteful with the stuff. That's a bit like throwing bricks at people to promote safety helmets. Or shitting in the street to dissuade dog owners from letting their pets foul the area.
   We do our fair bit in our flat. However, these collection bins are so far from the house we have to load all our rubbish into a car, which emits pollution, to do our part for mother nature by recycling leaflets about recycling paper. It's a good thing they employ such intelligent advisors. I would never have thought of such a brilliant scheme.

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Either I am becoming really unpopular amongst the people reading my column, or someone is making a very bold and persistent effort to infect my computer with a virus. Spam I can deal with, but this is just mean. Just as I am thinking hard about the incalculable contribution to contemporary society Avril Lavigne is making, a message pops up from the makers of my virus scanner, informing me another adolescent skipping school has decided in between wanks to treat me to the latest version of an affliction named after an insect.
   Don't these people have anything better to do? Surely there are more exciting activities to be found than roaming the net in search of poor sods dumb enough to leave their e-mail address plastered all over the place. What every happened to pushing over rubbish bins? Or the old-fashioned tradition of beating the crap out of other kids. Those were fun ways of misbehaving. I can think of no pleasure anyone would get from the knowledge I am sighing as I hit 'delete'.
   Hardly a way to make friends, is it? Admittedly only slightly more annoying than complete strangers with an emotional disorder sending out letters of hope, love and universal understanding, which I think should be punishable by being tied to a lightning rod in a thunderstorm, but nonetheless these people must realise that this is not going to get them a girlfriend that doesn't come with a valve.

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I must admit I feel a bit guilty about wanting to see a Mel Gibson film. But it is simply kicking up such a storm any half-decent writer with a morbid curiosity has to go and see it. Though I am certainly not setting my hopes too high. After all, I have seen Braveheart. Mel's credibility to make historical movies somewhat went straight down the toilet with that effort. Whereas at first I tried to correct some of the mistakes, misconceptions and downright fantasies of that film, I later decided it would be ultimately more convenient to just admit that in all probability it did rain a lot. But the rest was made up.
   I realise Jesus has a few more monuments than Wallace, but I am by far more inclined to believe Wallace slept with the Queen of England than I am to believe Christ was the son of God. So the two balance each other out comfortably. As I never managed to work my way through the Old Testament, let alone the new one, but did study Latin, this Passion of the Christ should be quite an educational piece of entertainment.
   Of course it has been widely criticised by the Anti-Defamation League for depicting the Jews as evil and vicious. Personally I have not been too impressed with the League since they handed out an award to Berlusconi, the man who still claims Mussolini wasn't all that bad. Which is not to say they are wrong about this one of course, but it does suggest at least part of their board is completely insane.
   I know there is some kind of interpretation of the story that suggests the Jews had something to do with the crucifixion, though all the bits I had to translate from Greek suggested that they key players were the Romans convicting him and then nailing him to a plank of wood. But if I am not mistaken back in the Middle Ages the philosophy the Jews were to blame for the whole thing was already spread like gospel, long before little Mel was born. Perhaps it's not Mr Gibson, but the story that's anti-Semitic.
   Maybe he's just misled. This is after all a man who thinks his own wife won't make it into heaven. Once you start believing all these bizarre stories and conspiracy theories who knows where you will end up? And by the way, Mel Gibson made Lethal Weapon 4 and Mad Max 3. Any notion he himself stands any chance of getting into heaven is based entirely on the assumption God has no sense of taste whatsoever.

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I love living in a country that has laws dating back to times the sun still revolved around the earth, and still has the power to enforce them. Though presumably any offence carrying the death penalty would have to be dealt with in a manner acknowledging hanging has been banned from Scotland for some years now. Well, six. Technically speaking death by hanging was still on the books in 1998, but not used since 1963.
   Violation of a sepulchre is not a capital offence under Scottish Law. It does, however, carry a maximum sentence of life imprisonment. A bit harsh for these days perhaps, but then the last time anybody broke into a mausoleum and decided to steal part of a corpse was in the 1800's. So there has been very little reason to amend the punishment. Until now of course.
   I have seen a lot of fucked up kids in my life, but I don't think I have ever before heard about teenagers decapitating mummified remains in ancient cemeteries for the sheer hell of it. Not anywhere outside the fiction section of the local library that is. And right around the corner from my local! I was probably down the road while these two kids were dragging a putrefied corpse around the burial ground.
   How do you deal with that in court? I imagine if it is brought up suggesting these youngsters may not be mentally all there will be hard to deny. Unless someone can come up with a good reason to cut off skulls from dead bodies. It seems impossible to argue they had their wits about them. Perhaps a lengthy sentence in a home for the terminally disconnected from the civilised world would be fitting. Life imprisonment seems a bit much though. A few hundred hours of community service working with a police coroner perhaps. They can turn their hobby into a skill helping the community. And keep them well away from my local.

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In the aftermath of the assassination of Sheikh Yassin all of a sudden all the experts come out of the woodwork. Well, I say experts; I mean opinionated journalists who think they have sussed it all out. I read in the Times that killing Yassin was a good idea, because the Israelis had to show their strength in Gaza before pulling out. I don't know if you have seen Gaza, but it has pretty much been levelled over the last forty years. It's perfectly obvious who has the military might in this conflict.
   And one of the main opinions seems to be that the withdrawal from Lebanon in 2000 was a bad idea, because it led the Palestinians to believe that terrorism worked. Funnily enough nobody thought of suggesting that perhaps not the withdrawal, but the invasion of Lebanon was the problem. Or in fact conclude not that bombs work, but that occupying a country and oppressing a people doesn't. Once again the thought that perhaps killing Arabs was wrong never sprang to mind.
   I decided to do some maths on this. You can't switch on the telly without being told how all those nasty Arabs are going to kill us all, and that we are effectively sitting on a ticking time bomb, despite all the wonderful things we have done for these people. So here's some figures. Where in doubt I will always shift the balance in favour of the Labour information machine.
   We'll start with 'us', the West. The combined population of the current EU, the US, Israel and Australia is roughly 650 million people. Since the turn of the millennium there have been several targeted attacks on these countries and its civilians. 3,000 died on the eleventh of September, Bali and Madrid cost 200 lives each, and Palestinian attacks on Israel have killed about 400. Let's say a total of 4,000. In addition American casualties in Iraq are about 600, with about 100 allies killed, and in Afghanistan roughly 100 soldiers have been killed. We'll round it off to another thousand. That's about 5,000 victims.
   The Arab population worldwide is about 200 million, but I'll add another 100 million to cover all those people who aren't actually Arab, but get treated as such anyway. Over the same period, in the Afghan war about 3,000 civilians died, in Iraq the estimates vary, but we'll go with the unlikely lowest of 5,000. I can't seem to find any information on military casualties, as they are not counted, so I'll aim low and estimate twice the number of civilian fatalities. Unlikely again, but I don't want to be accused of being unreasonable. That's a total of 9,000 in Afghanistan, and 15,000 in Iraq. In addition roughly 3,000 Palestinians have been killed by Israelis. Which brings the total up to 27,000.
   In comparison then, 'they' have a population less than half of ours, and their casualties are more than five times as high. As an Arab then, you are more than eleven times more likely to be killed by a Westerner than we are to be killed by an Arab. Comforting to know, isn't it? If all of us are walking around on anti-depressants and Valium, absolutely petrified the person next to us on the bus has explosives in his backpack because he has a beard, imagine how they must be feeling.

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My administration is not chaotic. It is not a mess, a shambles or unorganised. In fact, I take great pride in having a great number of foolproof systems to maintain all of my affairs. Unfortunately I sometimes get confused which one I am using this week, and as a result occasionally a tiny bit of a backlog does develop.
   Like registering to vote for example. The Electoral Commission has a great way of doing this. They tell you who you are and where you live, and then you check whether you actually are and do. An interesting activity any day of the week, and most definitely if you receive it only a few weeks after an election. Presumably the fact I turned up for that would have been a fair indication I am both alive and currently residing at the address. But some paper mills need more propelling than others.
   On the grand scale of things trying to figure out whether I am in fact myself does not rate very high at all. So when I received the fairly idiot-proof document demanding verification of my existence I piled it on top of the speaker to my right, where I leave all paperwork needing attention, but is simply too ridiculous to deal with on a short term basis. So when I recently found it amongst get-well cards on the opposite end of the room I concluded that although both my old and new system are very clever indeed, clearly they are not very compatible. Nobody's perfect.

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I am beginning to see the advantage of having a beard. Of course there was never any doubt the lack of shaving in my life would be a most welcome alteration in my daily routine, but it turns out there is so much more fun to be had with all this hair on your face. Not that it is remotely like a full bushy beard yet, but I have enough to stroke.
   Stroking your beard is not only extremely manly, but also very soothing and pleasant. I recently acquired a smoking chair from the mid seventies, which I have placed in the corner of my study, next to the bookcase, and have assigned my 'contemplation chair'. Originally the idea was to sit in it while I was listening to CD's I have to review, or mull over my new column. But it has become my new throne, in which all-important decisions are made.
   If you are unlucky enough to pass my house on a random early afternoon, you may find me sitting in my contemplation chair, wearing nothing but a pair of very hip underpants, stroking my beard and staring at my enormous Dark Side of the Moon poster, obviously in deep thought. Eventually you will see me raise a finger to indicate to whichever inanimate object may be paying attention I have reached a conclusion, and in all probability I shall have decided I will not be hoovering that day.
   Perhaps I should get a pipe as well. That would certainly complete my ideal image of tranquillity. A nice quiet record playing in the background, sitting in my comfy chair, sipping whisky, smoking a pipe and stroking my beard. Okay, it may be testimony to just how sad my life has really become, but then very few people have any doubts regarding that subject anyway.

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I get easily confused in the morning, and reading the BBC news website really doesn't help in the slightest. Though at least it doesn't take a genius to work out that perhaps the majority of people may have been correct in assuming the BBC is more trustworthy than the government. Headline news on a random day: US soldiers blown up, British soldiers set on fire, Afghan minister murdered, militants in battle with Pakistani army, Israelis murder Palestinian children, Palestinians murder Israeli children, Britain not ready for terrorist attack, victims of the last attack buried, Baghdad hit by mortar fire, torture claims by prisoners, Blair says everything is dandy.
   I was more than a little stupefied when Straw, Blair and Buff-Hoon were confidently proclaiming the world is far better off now than it was last March. What newspapers are they reading? The Alistair Campbell daily? All the news, none of the uncomfortable facts; plenty of pictures of dead people pulled from rubble. Or maybe they are simply looking at a different planet. Europa does seem rather tranquil this year.
   It seems they are now switching to the surreal offensive. In a desperate attempt to copy Rene form 'Allo 'Allo the whole Labour party is quickly switching to deny all and back it up by stunning feats of logic only the most mentally incapacitated of supporters (their wives) would buy into. Those are not explosions, they are merely eruptions of joyous celebration.
   They must really think we spend our entire lives picking interesting figurines out of our noses, as it would seem they do in the cabinet office. Now they are even pretending to be upset over the killing of a wheelchair-bound Arab Muslim and the people standing around him when a missile blasted them to bits. Only half a dozen this time, which is considerably more effective than the last attempt, when a one-tonne bomb dropped on the most densely populated part of the world completely unexpectedly killed twice that many people. Nice try, Jack. But it is perfectly plain you were dancing round your living room when you heard about it, grabbing hold of Tony to spin him around in celebration.
   This is a man who refuses to recognise Palestine full stop. You may have noticed he talks of Israel's right to exist, but the need for a viable Palestinian state. In the meanwhile as far as Jack and Tony are concerned, Palestine does not exist. And as they also feel Israel has the right to exile its own citizens there are currently nine million people stateless in the eyes of our government. That's the combined population of Ireland and Scotland having to prove they can be good little Arabs before they have any right to live. Which is why they give the Palestinian Authority equipment to root out militants, but shut down organisations providing the population with food and medication.
   And let's not forget that the people who fired these bombs and killed those twenty people are free to apply for jobs in Britain, or to come and join our universities, and can not be refused on the ground they are responsible for death and destruction! As long as Labour keeps denying they have any right to exist in the first place, killing them can hardly be considered a crime now, can it? In other words, Jack Straw will welcome the perpetrators of this assassination with open arms. Because it makes the world a safer place.

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I am in so much shit. No sooner had I stopped having dreams about my girlfriend's best friend performing all sorts of sexual acts upon me in the shower, my editor starts discussing her behind quite publicly, and my fantasies are immediately drawn to the idea of my editor in a whole range of highly erotic positions. Which is not only highly inappropriate in a business relationship, but also very difficult to explain to my better half. Dearest, today I had another mental image of my boss showing me her butt.
   You see, if men show off their assets, or start debating them in public, they are perverts. When women do the same thing they are models, feminists or objects of desire. And somehow people still think that it is men who have it easy in today's society. In the meanwhile if my boss mentions shagging to me it is considered innocent banter, and if I do I am done for sexual harassment. It's a good thing it is a trans-continental working relationship.
   And another thing; it is hardly fair women in my life can point out how pretty other women in my life are, but I get a kick in the lower half of the shinbone whenever I point out the cleavage on a lassie I have never met looks awfully enticing and inviting. Let's face it; some women walk around wanting to be noticed. It's only rude not to acknowledge the effort they have made.

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This year's Six Nations is getting very painful indeed. We are facing France today, on home soil. And as Culloden shows dramatically, being slaughtered on home ground is far more painful than any kind of defeat by a foe on their own turf. Still, it would be nice if we could just emerge from the five matches winning at least one. Which seems more and more unlikely.
   However, our misery does not end there. Short of a Scottish victory, or rather, as Scotland stands no chance in Hell, usually the people of Scotland tend to side with the Irish. Partially because they are fellow Celts, partially because they also speak Gaelic, partially because they are good lads, and most of all because they are not English. Some might say this is childish, but if it is a common dislike of England that brings Protestant Scotland and Catholic Ireland together, then fuck the English. We'll start finding similarities once they stop singing a national anthem that calls for us to be crushed and the British Broadcasting Cooperation stops referring to England as 'us' and Scotland as 'them' during the Commonwealth games.
   The problem with supporting Ireland is that next week they are playing Scotland. Now Scotland are going to end last regardless of what happens, but if Ireland beat us they might still win the championship. In other words, if we win, we lose, and if we lose, we might win. This is a typical Scottish situation to be in. No matter what we do, we're fucked somehow. And the English are partially to blame for this, but they will have to share the blame with the French.
   In other words, we are all yearning for that good old First World War, when sides made sense and we actually stood a chance of winning. This whole sporting debacle is simply depressing.

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The other day I read an article about people who feel abandoned by their partners because they spend all their time e-mailing and texting other people of the opposite sex, or chatting to them on the internet. 'Virtual infidelity' somebody called it. Fragile ego's all over the developed world were being shattered while electronic love-lives were sizzling through phone lines.
   It got me thinking. How far does this infidelity things stretch? I think we all agree shagging someone else in the disabled toilets while your girlfriend is getting you both a drink at the bar is definitely cheating, but whereas I was still not sure whether snogging someone as a drunken dare counts, here are people condemning blokes sitting behind the computer urging girls in Thailand to take off their bras, without having any independent means of verifying their conversational partner is indeed Thai, or a girl. Or old enough to wear a bra. Let alone all of them.
   I mean, if that is being unfaithful, can I watch porn? Or fantasise about that brunette on the bus to work? And most importantly, how much trouble will I be in when I start having dreams about my girlfriend's best friend?
   It was all innocent enough. Okay, we were both naked, in the shower and very friendly indeed, but how high does it rate on the evil cheating bastard chart? If it was cheating at all. After all, my girlfriend was there as well. Doing all sorts of things to her friend and myself, while we all splashed about in the water, rubbing hands down, up and over, Anyhow. I'm digressing.
   Point is that all this puritanical nonsense about infidelity through radio waves and telephone lines leaves me awfully confused as to whether I can wake up and inform my girlfriend of such nocturnal adventures in the land of Nod without being battered within an inch of my life. Someone explain this to me!

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I sometimes wonder whether we have taken this whole freedom of choice thing six steps too far. Quality has gone right out the window with it. In the food industry they have introduced measures to to stop you buying bananas lacking a curve, yet in the music industry Will Young is in mass production. That can't be right. Oddly shaped fruit never did any damage to my growing up; if anything, it added some comical relief. Without Guns n Roses and The Who I would have jumped off a balcony long before I had reached the age of consent.
   We need quality control on these CD's, and corporal punishment for those stepping out of line. Take Busted for example. Clearly an illegitimate love-child of a bad Green Day tribute band and Gerri Haliwell. They're trying to gain some street-cred by turning their amps up to eleven and chucking toasters out of hotel room.
   Toasters! What a bunch of spoilt little arsewipes these kids are. Will they only eat bread toasted in an oven? And who throws a kitchen appliance out of a window? A dishwashing machine would impress me, certainly, but if a toaster lands next to me I'd simply look up and point out they dropped something.
   Let's face it; if your press agent needs to inform the media you are misbehaving, clearly you are not trying very hard. If he spends half his life denying reports you have passed out during kinky sex sessions involving drink, drugs and transsexual prostitutes on the motorway, then you are a punk.

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You can't deny the courage of a man who announces beer will become more expensive on St Patrick's Day. I'm sure there are rules against such a thing somewhere, and perhaps it is about time we dig up these books of old and smack the Chancellor on the head with it repeatedly until he passes out and lies silently in a puddle of his own slobber for a few hours.
   On and on the man babbled, conjuring figures out of the sky and writing them down onto a piece of paper before spewing them out over his overpaid colleagues and an unsuspecting audience not quite able to celebrate their being Irish for the day yet. All around people were dozing off, falling off their chairs and praying to all deities they could think of to strike Gordon dead upon the spot.
   I'd like to know how many people got what he actually said. All I managed to pick up was that beer was getting more expensive, as was wine, but cider wasn't, I would not have to pay more income tax or national insurance, but had to make up for it with my council tax and no nurses or doctors, and we will have a few billion for our 'responsibilities in Iraq and Afghanistan', which is Labour-speak for dropping cluster bombs on Arab children.
   You have to worry when Thatcher's bat-boy, Michael Howard, starts making sense in comparison. Of course he reminds everyone of a Welsh creature of the night, looking to suck as all dry, and he is beginning to sound awfully worried Gordon Brown will have drained us long before he can set his fangs into us. That pint of green beer and Irish lassies with shamrocks painted on their cheeks were tempting before, but after all of this it sounds like my only chance of survival.

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It's rather a shame Billy Connolly is such a brilliant man, and his wife writes such a dreadful biography about him. She almost makes his life seem uninteresting, simply because you spend so much time being annoyed by her constant psychoanalysing, name-dropping, using American words to describe a Scottish man and generally forgetting the book is not about her.
   My work has on occasion been compared to that of the Glaswegian great. I have no idea why. I doubt anybody has ever cried with laughter listening to my stuff. Not to mention he is a comedian and I am a writer. In fact, the only two things we do seem to have in common are our incredible weights at birth and that people in the street often address us as 'big yin'. Short of that we have very few similarities. That's why he lives in several enormous houses and I share a kitchen with four others.
   Somewhere in the book Pamela Stephenson refers to the Alcoholics Anonymous Big Book, which she claims is 'the alcoholics' bible'. That sounds awfully ridiculous to me. The vast majority of the hardcore alcies wouldn't come within a nautical mile of that book. It's for sober people; ex-alcoholics and their clean-nosed sponsors. Proper alcoholics read the Big Book of Scottish Distilleries, or Mike Jackson's guide to all the beers on Earth.
   What possible use is a book on sobriety if you are a drunk? It's a bit like bringing a bundle of Satanic verses into church. Each to their own.

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I'm growing a beard. Or rather, I have been informed I am growing a beard. Personally I thought I just hadn't shaved in three weeks. The two I realise are often connected, but in my case the fact I can't stand shaving has very little to do with an affection for a bushy face.
   Beards in my mind have always been associated with Vikings, clerics in big silly hats and other religious extremists, or other nutcases. Or perhaps bear hunters living in a dark and heavily wooded area where it snows a lot, who still fight the animals with their bare hands and sleep in a hedge, where camouflage is of the essence.
   I live in the New Town of Edinburgh, where beards are merely an awfully tricky facial feature to avoid when enjoying a double frapuccino latté at Starbucks without making a complete arse out of yourself. It does snow occasionally, but as we have a few thousand cars ploughing around twenty-four hours a day it is not really too much of a challenge to tackle. And hedges I only ever see on the telly.
   Nonetheless I am growing all this hair on my chin. By order of my significant other. I imagine I shall be fed up with it the first time crumbs get stuck in it, but then my terminal fear of razors may very well prevent me from cutting it off. What a dilemma.

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As records go, being the third longest serving pope is pretty damn impressive. Pre-dating most modern monarchies and ranking pretty high up on the list of potential targets for nutcases, terrorists and attention seekers, the papal post is certainly not one to be ignored. And as one of the two longer-serving pontiffs used to hang out with Jesus himself, obviously John Paul finds himself in good company.
   You may have noticed that over the last quarter of a century the pope, who really should have demanded they also add the names George and Ringo to his name had he wanted to acquire a couple of million followers overnight, is getting a wee bit less agile than he was before. I haven't seen the man walk for years to start with. And I realise my Latin is a bit rusty, but when he speaks I can't make out a word of what he is saying.
   Always at hand to inform us of the most blatantly obvious is the BBC religious affairs correspondent, who reminds us that people are getting worried about the good man. And not just about the fact he is ancient and suffering from Parkinson's, but about the side effects of his medication as well. Apparently people in his state are prone to hallucinations, and this worries fellow Catholics.
   This is a man whose entire purpose in life is to talk to an invisible creature in the sky and declare holy anyone who may have been involved in things that are seemingly not physically possible, while at the same time investigating bleeding and crying stone statues. How much more does this man need to fucking hallucinate for people to get worried? Is a pink elephant playing cricket in the sky more worrying than a winged angel with a harp? Seems pretty much at par if you ask me. In fact, I know a lot more people that claim to have seen flying elephants than I do people who claim to have heard the voice of God. So who do worry about here?

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Ladies and gentleman, this is your flight attendant speaking. We are now approaching Madrid airport. Please remain seated until we have come to a complete stop. We hope you enjoyed our flight from New York and our quick stops in Tel Aviv and Istanbul. Please remember we are the only airline on this route that does not also stop in Haiti, Liberia, Palestine, Afghanistan, Uganda and Iraq. When we have arrived a bandwagon will be waiting for you to jump onto. Thank you for flying Hypocrisy Airlines.
   At first I thought it was just the fact I had a fever. Millions of people demonstrating against mindless and indiscriminate killings? That's hardly our style, is it? It would seem the global collective of terrorists has decided to show us they can strike anywhere and anytime with devastating consequences. When we did that it was called Operation Shock and Awe. When they do it, it's an atrocity. Don't get them mixed up. At least it was good to see people like Aznar, Bush and Blair condemning setting off bombs in crowded places. They certainly have changed their mind since this time last year.
   You may remember this. Last year the Spanish backed our little adventure in the desert. Recently our own government has decided to give all its troops and the reporters who accompanied them a medal. According to this thing the war lasted from March 19th until April 28th. In which time we managed to kill 10,000 civilians. The reason we always talk about the number of civilians killed is because we don't know how many soldiers died. Largely due to the fact we don't care, but also because our weaponry is now so advanced and accurate we literally decimate people entirely, cut them into such little pieces it is hard to tell which bit belongs to who, and last but not least, we have bombs that bury people alive! And we're not going to dig up any dead Arabs are we? Unless they were buried alive by Saddam of course. That would be a war crime.
   So, civilians. Grab a calculator and find out with Spanish backing we spent six weeks killing 250 people every day. All in the name of civilisation, democracy and goodwill of course, but nonetheless that is a lot of water sellers, gardeners, laundry ladies and kids playing around to be massacring per diem. If I combine my address book, e-mail list, random bits of paper and make a list of all the people whose name I can remember I wouldn't get to 250. And even that would take me a lot longer than a day. By then I'd need 500. But we killed them. Didn't see any wreaths, didn't hear anybody say we all stood by the people of Iraq and certainly didn't see several million people and a dozen foreign leaders marching down the road.
   I'm sure the relatives of the 200 Madrid attack victims will take great comfort knowing their relatives were worth our grief. These were Europeans after all. White people. And Christian. Let's face it, in a country that only recently started debating the future of bull fighting, you can't seriously expect people to care about Arabs, can you? One animal at a time please. It's fantastic to think the amount of tragedy linked with your death is determined the moment you are born.

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Airports and airlines must have the most bizarre and meaningless vocabulary in the English-speaking world. It's damn near a different language. None of it relating in any way to the common way of communicating most of us are familiar with.
   I don't mind flying at all. It's extremely rare I ever encounter on-flight staff that are unpleasant and cannot be ignored, and most of them certainly seem to be doing their best to make you feel comfortable while strapped into a confined space at eight miles for twelve hours. Even if they do insist on informing you beforehand of all the disastrous eventualities involved with aviation.
   But when I get confused is when a stewardess tells me to keep my seatbelt fastened until the aircraft has reached a complete stop. By definition a stop is always complete. Partially stopping is a bit like digging half a hole; utterly impossible.
   But my favourite example of flying bollocks has to be the airport monitors claiming a plane is 'on approach'. Except for the rather unfortunate division of airports into sections they insist on calling 'terminals', these places can be quite comfortable and equipped with all the latest fancy shops and gadgets. In the case of Birmingham its airport is the only part of the city I like.
   Yet these announcements planes are approaching just irritate me. It doesn't mean anything. A flight to Edinburgh can be either over the Borders or the south of France and heading towards us. In both instances it's on approach, yet the actual times of arrival would be very likely to vary considerably. Perhaps we should introduce mandatory English classes for all airline personnel?

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After spitting some phlegm through my doctor's office upon command, he thought perhaps I should drop by the hospital to have an X-ray taken of my chest. I agreed. Of course by the time I got to that part of the city I had completely forgotten which hospital I was supposed to be visiting, and two of them had been located conveniently next door to each other. So that was a challenge.
   Naturally I picked the wrong one, was re-directed and foolishly followed signs ostensibly leading to places called 'entrance' and 'main building', which led me to the completely wrong side of the building, where I grabbed hold of the nearest nurse I could find and begged to be told where to go. Kindly I was shown in the right direction, which involved going through the doors, down a corridor, turn left, through the door, up the stairs, through another set of doors and ask at the reception, which was not staffed for the occasion.
   From there is was a doddle. Through another set of doors, up the stairs again, turn right, pass the unmanned reception, ask again, straight ahead down the corridor, turn right, up the hall and there I find a sign stating you are now entering a no-smoking area. What do they mean, I am now entering a no-smoking area? I just passed a cancer ward! Not to mention departments I had never heard of and even with six years of biology, Greek and Latin couldn't work out what went on in there. Are they suggesting that I have been dragging my poor damaged and highly frail lungs through seventeen miles of hospital corridor where it is perfectly okay to light up? What kind of operation are these people running here?
   Things soon started to look very rosy though. A female medical professional with extraordinarily good looks politely called me over and took me into a dark room with a bed, and told me to take my clothes off. Very lovely indeed. Once I was positioned properly she tenderly put her hands on my shoulders, told me to relax, and ran her soft fingers down my arms. Oh, and then she nearly pushed my recently damaged shoulder out of the socket. But we were doing fine until then.
   Flirting was out of course. Besides the fact I had a fever, running nose, was coughing like a Zambian smoker and looked like shit otherwise, after the yelp I unwittingly released when she pushed my arm forward trying to appear cool and hard was well out of the question. Ah well, at least she has my address and my picture. She might drop by…

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I sometimes make myself laugh. Which is a great form of entertainment when you have no friends, but if you receive more than one telephone call a week really it is something you should try and avoid. Normal people make other people laugh, after which those people will make you laugh, provided of course they are not laughing at you.
   As one of my New Year's resolutions included saving up money for a trip to Israel I have decided that March is an excellent time to start actually doing something about it. Normally I collect money in the bank, take it out and buy beer. Which is a great way of spending a Friday night, but makes finding Israel on a map slightly more complicated, and getting there even more so.
   Therefore I have decided to get me a piggy bank. A proper one. Not with one of those rubber holes in the bottom, or in the shape of a kilted Highlander bending over, but a reddish in the pink area earthenware pig with a slot in its back. And the only way to retrieve the accumulated money is by taking the traditional hammer, and smashing it to bits. Short of a hammer one could always drop it on the floor or throw it up against the wall, but the hammer approach does seem slightly more customary.
   It wasn't really until afterwards that I realised I was collect