BBC Breakfast TV

Maybe it's just me, but I have this daft notion that BBC Breakfast TV in the morning should be bringing us 'news!' I am happy when the ITV breakfast programme shoves tales of rape and hospital blunders, soap opera stars failed marriages and mediocre celebs lifestyles down our throat as I expect this from them and don't tune in. However I expect the best journalists in the world to be trailing the news that is happening world wide, not bringing us tales of rape, and hospitals, celebs and other puerile garbage! Yet it seems this is all we are capable of watching in the morning, or is it just that the 'public service broadcaster,' paid for by my licence fee, is concerned only with ratings and not 'news!'

For a long time now I have listened to the BBC World Service, not officially available in the UK, for proper news. Here we can be informed, properly, about what is going on in the world. I accept that even here they have dumbed down with far too many 'light' stories and the blight of the BBC, 'trailers!' However at least we can understand the world and have some clear idea of what is happening out there. Today the BBC business man is pretending he is an Air Traffic Controller, which is interesting in itself but has little to do with the business news. A wee girl, again, complaining about 'road rage,' and yet more stories about someones health problems! I'm sorry, I realise these are important at one level but I DON'T WANT TO KNOW! Sure they have a place, but the main news must be Iran and Israel playing at sabre rattling. I would have thought that the possibility of Israel attacking Iran slightly more important on the world stage than a lass being shouted at by a 'white van driver?' There is the possibility that one day Sian Williams (who I am happy to have do my ironing for me if she wishes) will announce a hold up in some maternity ward, a film star abusing staff at an airport, and a one line note on World War Three beginning, and unthinkingly add " and now the weather....."

I realise that the majority of the nation want dumb stuff, that is what ITV and Sky are for, but some of us want a bit more, as long as the like of Sian are on show anyway. Even there most women watching are just complaining (out of jealousy) about her outfit, not what she is saying.

Hooray! VCR Works!

My technical ability has come to the fore once more. Yes indeed, these paws which can break any device known to man has for once got a technical object into working order.
This is indeed an event! It has taken so long to get this thing working again, just, that folks no longer know what it is! Kids think video belongs in the Victorian age and only folk born before colour television remember what a VCR is.

However tonight I got out an old video of Hearts v Rangers (bad referee, bad pitch and jammy goal) which followed this up with a couple of old Open University programmes and a documentary on the real 'Dambusters.' How delightful and very relaxing to watch programmes with some interest instead of the constant diet of 'pap' which fills the screen these days. If this old boy keeps going (the VCR not me) then I will be able to fill up the time with some of the programmes from the past that lie there staring me in the face. (I really should move them) Mostly old football videos Scotsport and Sportscene (or Rangers and Celtic as they are better named) from the eighties and nineties. Lots of documentaries on interesting things like war and history. You now there is nothing more relaxing while stuffing your dinner down your throat than to watch a few thousand daft lugs blown each other apart in the cause of peace. Great viewing. The alternative is to watch some soap opera in which one woman is dumped by nasty man, another uses someones husband, the bad boy steals from the hero, and several other slag one another off for no good reason!
And they wonder why the nations youth behave as they do?

Anyway, tomorrow I look at the other broken things, the washing machine, the...hold on, lets not be daft. I think I will hold where I am at the moment and let the rest wait until I am ready. The vision of gallons of soapy water soaking through the floorboards is not one I wish to endure.

Tennis!

Quite what folks get out of watching tennis for hour after hour I do not really know. The sight of two big black Yankee women slugging it out yesterday was so irksome to me I went looking for a woman who wanted to talk about her baby! What a waste of grass tennis is.

Today I actually found myself watching the Men's Final. The last time I did this I think Rod Laver won and that was before I was born! However, in between writing begging letters today, and in between the stoppages for rain, I actually got hooked for a while on these two 'stars' of the game.

The women in the crowd, and this is a women's game, not that they play it well but they certainly like watching the men play it well, the women were getting very excited and taking sides as their man first looked a dead cert winner, then found himself on the ropes. Some of them have not been that excited since their man bought that new car - which they have commandeered! It was actually a very good match. It had folks on the edge of their seats, unsure who would win to the very last ball - if that makes sense - and for many the best game they will ever see. I actually enjoyed what I saw of it, and felt the best man lost. Not that he was the better player, just that the Spaniard looked a right miserable git, and I hate folk like that.........

The Nights are Drawing in!

I just realised that it got quite dark in here last night. I thought this was because of the cloud cover but tonight the sky is clear and it has become dim indeed indoors. There is no doubt about it, the nights are drawing in already!

June the 21st is in my book the best day of the year as the light lasts longer than at any other time. However it also means that from then on the daylight lasts that little bit less, and tonight I see a murkiness that will gradually deepen until late December.

How depressing this is.

Two nights ago the sun shone through the trees brighter than the street lamp and it's awful orange glow. Tonight the sun has gone and the light stands alone, apart from the beasties that flutter around all night. The sky itself remains a deep blue but indoors a gloom covers everything, and no, I don't mean me. A light needs to be switched on, this costs money, the atmosphere changes, sometimes for the better, and it's harder to see the keyboard in the dark! Never mind, I suppose it will soon be Spring again!

Fifty Seven Today

Despair, despondency, gloom, melancholy, hopelessness, dejection. All these burden me this morning. I awake to skies covered in gray clouds, a slow dismal rain edging down painfully from above. A listlessness that once I thought fit only for Grandpa Broon in the Sunday Post grips me. Sluggishly I wander through from the west wing and ponder the day ahead.

Today I will note how not only are the policemen younger than they once were, so are grandmothers, although round here that may not mean too much of course. The traffic will be faster than yesterday, the pop music will be totally unintelligible and the stuff the kids talk about will be less so. However, once again that may not mean too much. Rude cards may arrive later, you know, the ones with a picture of a hill covered in little animals and the question, 'Which one are you?' on the front. Inside it reads, 'Your the one that's over the hill!' As she pushes the cards through the letterbox I will hear the postgirl muttering, 'Next time its one from the queen!' Although of course she has never liked me since she rejected my advances and I remarked 'Well your mother liked it!' Had there been a cake I suspect someone would organise the local firemen to turn out 'just in case.' And they are much younger than me also!

I look at the list of things to do, job hunt, exercise, lumbago ointment, and begin to despair again. I would say, 'I am not old, just mature.' But far too many folk have disagreed with me too often on that point to bother trying it. So I will sit here and wonder where all those years have gone. When was 1978 and that good thing happened? The things I wanted to do, the places to visit, the hope. The energy I had in my thirties, he future I planned, where did it all go and how did I end up here in the back of beyond......?

Who said 'Rejoice in all situations, I say again, rejoice?' Well you can get stuffed! If you want me I will be howling at the moon.

1st July 1916

On the first day of July at seven thirty precisely thousands of British soldiers got up out of their trenches to begin the 'big push' that they hoped would soon end the war. Nine out of ten of these battalions were 'Kitchener's New Army' battalions. There were fears they would not be good enough for the 'Territorials' so Kitchener had to call them the 'New Army.' Most had volunteered in the heady emotional days of 1914 desperate not to miss the excitement of a short European war. By now they realised just how 'real' war differed from the imaginary.

For over a week the guns had been shelling the enemy trenches. More than a million and a half shells had headed towards the Germans and hopes among many were high, success in some minds appeared inevitable. The long blister educing marches, the combat training, learning how to dig trenches, understanding the army and its many peculiar ways, and most of all quickly understanding that the British soldier is better than any other at moaning about his lot, yet just gets on and does it well! All this had been suffered over the past year or so, and now it was going to be put into practice. Few had any experience of trench life let alone war. Most were enthusiastic about the adventure but apprehensive about how they would behave in action. All feared the bullet with 'their name on it.'

As the shelling stopped they stood in the trenches crowded together as they had been all night, many sleeping standing up. With the taste of strong army rum in their mouths, expect for the chap lying on the ground being kicked by the Sergeant Major for drinking too much and having passed out, the watched the sun rise in the blue sky and listened for the sudden silence. At seven twenty eight the mines dug under the German front line exploded. There was a sudden trembling under the feet, the earth began to shake quite violently in some places and then, erupting like a volcano and spewing earth, and sometimes men, hundreds of feet into the air the result of sixty thousand pounds of amonal explosive appeared. The noise was deafening and high above spotter aircraft were thrown about as the air swept past them. Two minutes later the men attacked.

Now a great deal of planning had gone into this operation. The French being 'bled dry' by Von Falkheneins army at Verdun were desperate for a united Anglo-French attack to relieve pressure on them. Haig had insisted on attacking at Ypres over well known ground, but Joffre the French commander wanted an attack in the Somme region. Haig had no choice but to agree, reluctantly, to attack over what he saw as difficult ground. The plans were laid and much effort was put into training the men involved. They listened eagerly as this was the reason for their enrolment and they were not intending to fail. Morale was high.

In 1914 many had derided the 'sportsmen' of the land for not rushing to the colours when war was declared. Many wrote indignant letters to the press demanding 'sport' should be stopped and all players enlisted. Women, with no idea about war other than a romantic one, gave out white feathers in the street in an attempt to embarrass men into enlisting. Football players in particular were subjected to abuse with many demanding the League was stopped until wars end. In November 1914 the Heart of Midlothian first team squad enlisted. This brought to an end the debate about football and sport in general being played during the war. The announcement of their joining the colours brought others from Raith Rovers, Falkirk and Hibernian to join them, along with over a thousand other citizens. The Mossend 'Cowpunchers' as Mosend Burnvale F.C. were known enlisted en masse. Many of them destined never to return. They took their place with the rest on this fateful day.

The problem, as any general will tell you, with plans is a simple one, they always fall apart the minute the battle begins. The end of the shelling followed by the mines erupting indicated to the surviving Germans, hidden deep underground in well constructed shelters, that the attack was on. The two minutes between the mines going off was sufficient for them to place the machine guns at the ready and prepare for defence. As the men clambered out of their trenches and made their way through their own wire the defenders sent up coloured rockets asking for artillery aid. The attackers then found themselves subject to intense machine gun, rifle and artillery barrage. From all sides the seemingly destroyed enemy were firing at them. Those that made it to the enemy wire found that most of it had remained intact, the shells that had fallen were either dud or incapable of cutting wire. The tac-tac of machine guns, the crack of falling shells mixed with the screams of the wounded and shouting men. Confusion reigned everywhere.

In the southern attack some distance was achieved and enemy trenches captured and held, however further north little advance was made. The footballers of George McCrae's battalion,* the 16th Royal Scots, did manage to find a place in the enemy line they held on to. This small group comprising the four regiments in the brigade and stragglers from elsewhere, fought a lonely hard battle yet managed to keep the ground taken. Others continued the advance and reached the target of Contalmaison only to be taken prisoner. One of the few successful advance in that part of the line. Possibly the furthest advance of any brigade that day. Their division, the 34th, suffered over eighty percent casualties on the first of July. The Tyneside Irish being wiped out! Making the footballers effort all the more remarkable.

Just under sixty thousand casualties fell that day, almost twenty thousand dead. Three Hearts players died, and several were severely injured. The nation suffered it greatest ever defeat at that time. The Heart of Midlothian never recovered from the effects of the war on their playing staff and the potential Championship side were regarded by the whole of Scotland as winners in a differing sense after the war. Those who demanded others 'go,' rarely went themselves, few made much effort to aid the returning wounded, and some would say in that respect life for those who served has not changed all that much, has it?



Jack Alexander's excellent book 'McCrae's Battalion' tells the story of these men. It covers the Edinburgh story leading up to and through the war, and what happens to the survivors. For those interested in the Great War, Edinburgh or the Heart of Midlothian this book is a 'must read!'

The N.H.S. is 60 Years Old Today

Celebrate! The National Health Service is sixty years old today. The much maligned service, without which thousands among us would be either crippled or dead, was the greatest innovation of the Labour government of 1945. Opposed by those who could afford to pay and coasting much more at the time than expected, surely this fantastic service has been the greatest boon to the nation since the war?

Over the years we have come to take it for granted. We expect to be healed, no matter what is wrong with us. We cannot understand when the NHS fails. We have come to expect too much and we carelessly abuse it too often. However, the health of the nation changed after the war. Free powdered milk for mothers, free prescriptions and the ability of many to obtain glasses and dentists that once were beyond them is a joy we cannot now relate to. However it was not unknown in the twenties and thirties for newly weds to be given a gift, of a trip to the dentist to have all their teeth out and false ones fitted. This was so they could avoid painful and expensive dentist trips in the future! Unthinkable today - even allowing for the lack of NHS dentists in some places. While prescription costs have risen, and attitudes change overall the free inoculations for kids and inexpensive ones for adults, have kept us healthy, apart of course from our disgustingly bad eating, smoking and drinking habits. Drug abuse comes under another category - stupidity!

In spite of the rising costs, in spite of what the Tory press call the 'Postcode Lottery,' in spite of Thatchers disgusting attempt to introduce an American style system that only the lower middle class could support, and in spite of many failures the National Health Service remains the envy of the world. Only the greed of the insurance companies and the medical world stop it being introduced into the USA, and in the early fifties there was an attempt to do just that. Somehow it could not progress although I cannot remember the president who attempted this. We should spend less time complaining about the NHS and more time being grateful to live at a time that such medical care is available for us today!

Sunshine

Today, after I had spent a while on what is laughably called my 'Get Fit' routine, I wandered across to the public gardens to sit in the sunshine and read my book. Some selfish, thoughtless pair of individuals had taken my usual bench, as if it was there for anybody to use, and were wasting their time instead of doing something useful for society. I do not understand how some folks get away with it, I really don't!

Anyway as I was lounging here in the sun I decided to sneak a pic of a wonderful scene. Behind me in the bright green conifer some small bird was chirping, and little ants were meandering across the bench, and me, searching for fodder. For once the squirrels kept their distance and only a pair of blackbirds came near. The benches to my right each contained one person intent on pretending no-one else lived in this overcrowded world. Indeed each and every person you meet in the gardens works on the basis that greeting a passerby , especially a male, could lead to leprosy or the plague being passed on.naturally with such nervous folks around I always say 'hello,' and leer kindly.

The quietness of the great green slab in front was broken only by the two distant dim (well they appear to be students) figures soaking up the sun and recovering from a needless hangover. And quiet it was today. usually there are a crowd of neds lying around noisily, and even the kiddies were further away in the shade of the trees behind the empty tennis courts. Only the occasional few minutes girning was heard when the brats ran off in my direction and whined when brought back by the brutal mother in charge. The rest of the place stayed quiet.

In the far distance, not visible in the picture stands the war memorial. Thirty or so feet high it contains the names of over two hundred souls lost in the great war and those who died in the second. In such situation as today's I often compare the tall structure and it's imposing silence with the sights and sounds that greeted those who's lives are commemorated there. Clerks and shopkeepers, factory hands, skilled and unskilled, volunteers and conscripted, how they would have liked to be sitting here in the gardens instead of lying under some strange foreign soil. Most with little real idea of where they actually were when they met their end! The sun drenched grass with the distant sound of a child's laughter contrasts with the muddy brown shell holes of Picardy. In summer they too would have been bothered by bees and other beasties crawling all over them as they stood on sentry duty and stared into a bleak empty nothingness. Rats of course would have bothered them less than the lice that never seemed to leave them and which took up so much of their free time burning off with cigarettes and pipes. Their lives, ended by loud callous shell fire or rattling machine gun, amid noise and confusion is forgotten by most who sit there in the sun.

Of course, whatever the rights and wrongs of the wars and how they came about, without those men we could not sit here in the silence. Political mistakes and selfish ambition, Empire building and jealousy of another's possession, madness and folly all combined over the years to leave us with a twentieth century of pain and woe. Was it all necessary? No. Could it have been avoided? Yes. But if so another war would have taken its place. Human nature is like that. The men looking down from those great slabs full of names can be happy that this gardens pleasure is one folk can enjoy because of their sacrifice. Had they not fallen the jackboot would sooner or later remove such pleasures from most of us. They did not die in vain.

Euro 2008

Well it's nearly over! Soon I will be able to get to my bed without worrying about extra time and penalty kicks keeping me awake. Last night Spain reached the final of this tournament by beating the Russians by three goals to nil, and well deserved it in the end. Hopefully the somewhat boring, but effective, Germans will be trounced by the fast moving Spanish. Most folks appear to agree that Spain produces the best league in the world, the best players in the world and the best failures in the world! For far too long this country has failed to succeed in such tournaments, at times making Scotland's achievement look great! Now however they have an excellent opportunity to bring home a trophy that such a footballing nation deserves. Few will begrudge them their success.

Euro 2008 has so far been a rousing success. The attitudes have on the whole been very good. Most sides have attempted to play football and not just win at all costs. The refs have been far better than in previous tournaments, and there has been some exciting and dramatic results. Turkey winning by three goals to two after being two down must be one of those! Altogether there can be few complaints about the tournament as a whole.

It is a shame that the same cannot be said for the commentary inflicted on the UK populace. In any contest between ITV and BBC it is inevitable that the Beeb will come out on top. So much so that this Sunday ITV have decided not to show the game live! An admission that the vast majority of football fans will be watching BBC. The question here is will ITV therefore improve their football offerings? I doubt it. The same bland muppets in the studio, the same advert dominated coverage, the same appalling Clive Tyldesley. It would not take much to improve this but they seem happy with tabloid coverage and small audience following. After the last World Cup it was clear they were well behind the BBC and Tyldesley was one of the major reasons for this. He is still here, are they mad or on a suicide mission? Only John Diamond and David Pleat showed any understanding of either the game being watched or the folks tuning in. Well done to them.

The BBC are indeed much more professional. Fair to say they do not have the constant breaks for bad adverts, but they have now inserted trailers for their own 'upcoming' coverage of sporting events which are just as irritating and needless. However the stuffed dummies in the studio are far better than those provided, at great expense, by ITV. Hansen, in spite of being a 'Tomb Tabard' has covered the games reasonably well. Even Alan Shearer, a man with all the personality drained out of him, has almost made a joke on occasion, and the much derided Linekar has never seemed to fail in my eyes. 'The boy done good' as they say.

However there is one real cause for complaint throughout the tournament. England! From the first John Motson has attempted to bring 'England' into everything. The Turkish winger, brought u in Leytonstone, was mentioned so often because he had an English connection. Any excuse, the club an individual played for, any link to a Premiership club in the tabloids, the place he bought his shirts, anything was used constantly to bring England into the tournament the failed dismally to reach. The fact that Russia and Croatia had made it through to the next round showed that 'England had lost to quality sides.' No England were crap and got stuffed by quality sides John! And as for Clive and his hero worship of Ronaldo, well how many times were Man U mentioned during Portugal's games? More than Portugal were I imagine. Tyldseley only knows two sides, Man U and Engerland, no-one else counts. Now had this been broadcast in England it could be ignored, however this stuff was sent throughout the United Kingdom, so Scots, Welsh and Northern Irish were forced to suffer the insufferable English self praise.

I suppose I could write to the self obsessed 'Equalities' minister Harriet Harman and demand action and ask that in future Scotland, Wales, and Northern Irish connections should be shoved down folks throats also but she will probably be doing her hair or counting the number of women in her department. I wonder, if she finds there are more women than men, more whites than blacks or browns, will she replace them with men, black or otherwise? I suspect not.

AAAAAAAAAaaaaaaaaaaarrrrrrggghhhh!

There is NO football on the telly tonight! Because the majority of Euro 2008 has taken place and we await the last three games there will be nothing to watch now. I expect to be seeing spiders crawling up the wall by 8:30 tonight.

Even worse! Not only is there no football and the TV companies are returning to their usual diet of mindless drivel and unspeakable 'pap' but the BBC have now added Wimbledon to the list! Tennis! Yes Tennis! That middle class lawn game that was surely only invented to make Basketball look interesting? It failed there also didn't it! Why oh why with all the resources available to them do the BBC let the football go to ITV and Sky yet insist on spending our money on two weeks of monotony?

I'll tell you why, women! In spite of the feminist lies that fill the world today the fact is women are not naturally team motivated. While men will join with folk known and unknown and support a football or other team through thick and thin (mostly thin down Gorgie way) women tend to go for the one to one option. This is why activities (I cannot call this 'sport') is such a big draw for the girls. Of course they are lusting uncontrollably after some swarthy, tanned, French, Romanian, Australian or Yank nancy boy as they rush about the court swearing at the umpire and acting like the spoilt brats they are, but they are attracted by the single opponent idea. This is also why so many women spoil acres of really good country by insisting on playing Golf there. Would they be so happy to just walk around the woods like men do, and I have noticed some funny men walking around the woods in my time I can tell you, or do they really have the need to hit a wee ball into a far of hole?

You see it is true that while men gather at a football match, a proper sport, they together support 'our' team. Women at football, rugby or whatever, if not there just to pick up a man as most of the young ones are, support 'their baby.' A far more insular thing. They do have a liking for cricket because while this game is a 'team' game it is in reality just between two men. The bowler, the one who throws the ball, and the batsman, the one who tries to hit it with a big stick. So while eleven run about the pitch most in fact do nothing whatsoever. This makes it a great pastime for those who wish to keep themselves in a state of fitness well into their fifties and beyond.

Of course as Tennis is so female dominated, the women play less games than the men and yet get paid the same amount of cash. How sexist is this? As they play less games they can also add to this the doubles and mixed doubles which men at the top cannot find time or energy for. The top lassies therefore take far more money for far less effort from the tournament than the best men can possibly do. Blatant sexism but for crying out loud do not point out facts to these whining self seeking bitches, in this fascist world facts are not wanted, just 'chip on the shoulder' emotion. Being female dominated also means that the Beeb must hold onto it or the women who run the Corporation will stamp their foot and go blue in their faces. They will also talk for hours about such crime, and who would want to endure that? Not those who should no better at the multi national (yet will not give Scotland it's due respect) BBC.

Two whole weeks of this. Grunting and sweating and middle class anxiety over who will win, and why has Britain (meaning England) not produced a winner since Fred Perry the shirt maker? Who cares really? Roll on the football season.

Churchill by Roy Jenkins

I've just finished 912 pages of Churchill and what a good read it was! Too often this man is regarded as 'The Greatest Briton,' and in some respects this is correct. For quite clearly without his pugnacious attitude in 1940 the world would be a very different place.

Churchill never failed to live up to his aristocratic background. A descendant of another of the UK's victorious generals he was born into the high life at Blenheim Palace in 1874, when he arrived as his mother visited the relatives there. Educated at Harrow, a place he visited annually in later years, he soon set off on an adventurous life.

From India to South Africa he acted as a man in a hurry for fame, which his escape from Boers imprisonment brought him and soon worked himself into a political career. His party was the Liberals, something folk tend to forget these days as his later fame came with the Conservative party. Churchill was of course more interested in the use of power rather than the clinging to party dogma. When elevated to office he , along wit Lloyd George, introduced pensions, Labour exchanges and several welfare supports that we now take for granted. Churchill may have been a 'Toff' but he was not one to enjoy the poorer sections suffering and always wished to improve their lot. If only he had been around when Thatcher reigned, her hard heart would not have been allowed to destroy so many jobs without replacing them!

In spite of his mistaken Dardanelles policy during the Great War, a policy he never thought a mistake, and after his short time in the front line trenches with the Royal Scots Fusiliers, he was once again brought back into front line government. By the early thirties he entered his 'wilderness years,' caused mostly by his opposition to India leaving the Empire. Churchill was a man steeped in history and, rather like Thatcher, he had his own, somewhat romantic, view of that. His opposition during the India debate meant he was without power and much support for several years. How this must have hurt. His books, dictated to a secretary who had to endure late hours and often difficult circumstances, did bring in money to keep him in the style he demanded however.

When war erupted in 1939 it was no surprise Chamberlain brought him back into the cabinet. Once again he returned to the Admiralty and his great, and often absurd, opinions stimulated the Navy. By 1940 he became a some what unwanted Prime Minister. He was a maverick, he had the Dardanelles campaign behind him and many feared he could lead us into disaster. However those who lived through those days testify to the power of his broadcast speeches which nerved the nation against Hitlers expected invasion. His 'Fight them on the beaches,' speech will always be regarded as one of the most powerful in UK history. His love of words, and ability in speech making came to the fore throughout the war, even though many did not realise that an actor often stepped in to read his words on the BBC.

By 1945 he had realised the world was a different place and the growth of the superpowers and the danger of atomic war began to frighten him. One of his main motives in holding onto power during the 50's was the danger of a 'Third World War.' Thankfully this never arrived, in spite, in his view, of Eisenhower's lack of 'imagination' concerning the possible dangers. The remaining years of Churchill's life read like a sad story. Without power and his sick body ageing rapidly he travelled from one place to another enjoying what was on offer and desperately missing the one thing he needed. The desire to be at the centre of the action is one shared by all top politicians and without that power they have nothing in their lives. Power is indeed a drug!

There can be however no doubt that he was the greatest Prime Minister of the 20th century, none came up to his level. No other PM saved his nation, and indeed Europe, some would say the world, during their time. No single man has affected so many people with his fighting spirit and rhetorical flourish. For a man with no religious belief, a vague notion of a supreme power was all he appeared to possess, he did have care for his fellow man, and did seek to alleviate the lot of the poorest around him, as long as he kept his special place at the top!

Greatest Briton? Who can say. However Alanbrooke, war time Chief of the Imperial General Staff, summed him up after musing on the inconsiderate treatment Winston constantly handed out to those around him. Alanbrooke was aware of his faults but said we could not have won without him and he was a 'Great Man!' This excellent book, spoiled only by Jenkins needless use of foreign phrases and 'big words' which he includes from snobbishness and nothing else, reveals him as such, and with all his faults that remains true.

Flanders Stew

Now I am not one to complain, as you know, but one thing that is somewhat irritating about television is the preponderance of 'cooking' programmes. Every channel has someone showing you 'New ways with fish,' or yet another fantastic recipe made from a turnip, a bag of crisps and two tomatoes. Apparently famous cooks travel the world to show how folks in exotic places dine, sometimes showing the locals how to cook their own dinners! Some even go to the extent of gathering a crowd of middle class 'ne'er do wells' who will have one show off cook amongst them make their dinner so they can criticise the chef while they stuff their fat faces. Just how disgusting is that? The sight of these cretins waxing lyrical about their free offerings while in thirty seven countries there were food riots among those who could no longer afford rice or flour turns my stomach more than a Jeremy Kyle offering .

However I have to sit back and consider my fifteen and a half stone of wobbly fat,(overweight the doctor calls it, not obese), and wonder how I can complain about others while clearly taking more than my fair share at the same time. Hypocrite!

This brings me round to 'Flanders Stew.' This is a recipe I made myself, at least no-one has yet sued me for plagiarism. It came from the desire to eat something each day while not spending either time or money on the object. So I came up with this, which if enough ingredients are entered into the pot can suffice for four, five or even six days, or at least until the ambulance arrives and drops you off at the E-Coli hospital.

The ingredients vary. This is because they depend on whatever is within reach. So if the fridge, cupboard, and pocket is empty then there is little to put in. However if there has been a good day at the market and plenty of fruit and veg has fallen off the stands and rolled into the gutter then you can expect a bumper pot of 'Flanders Stew.' That is if you get there before that greedy fat woman with the brolly. Bitch!

First off chop an onion or two and start burning them in the pot. Then get your hands on mince! Preferably lamb mince as it is cheaper in Sainsburys when you go in at seven in the morning and they want rid of last nights left overs. Add this to those browning things that were once onions. Together this will turn into a brownish sludge, this is fine and you are heading in the right direction. Depending on whether you have forgotten to lower the heat it may also smell like a burnt out stolen Ford Escort. At this point add (at least half if not ALL of) a jar of 'Pataks Madras Curry Paste.' This is wonderful for taking away the taste and later when doing the washing up it also clears the drains very well. Ah curry, the United Kingdoms favourite traditional foodstuff. It's what makes Britain great!

Add to this basic substance, and 'basic' is the word, all sorts of things. Mushrooms take up a lot of space so are good, Barlotti beans also, as do Red Kidney beans, I have been known to throw in those strange blackened objects, long and short ones, found at the back of the fridge, some with mushrooms growing on them and chuck them in. It's best not to wonder what they may have been I find. Aduki beans are OK but a bit small as are lentils but remember to take all these things out of the tins first and not to misinterpret the 'Stand in boiling water' instructions sometimes found on the sides of them. I also dump a lot of frozen mixed veg just to give it that something nothing else can give. I can tell you nothing else does!

This usually fills the pot which then gets stirred, the heat set appropriately and I light the blue touch paper and retire to a safe distance. After a while it begins to burn through the pan and the strange rubberish odour that comes from the cooker tells you that it is ready. This is eaten, yes e-a-t-e-n, alongside chips, potatoes, pasta, bread, nan, oatmeal biscuits or whatever comes to hand. But be careful to look where your hand is before you start to eat I suggest. I also suggest using good quality plates for this as those plastic ones or cheap Chinese types tend to melt rather easily.

The name 'Flanders Stew' by the way comes from 'Flanders' and 'Stew.' 'Flanders' is that part of Belgium where the British Army spent most of the Great War holding back the German hordes. As the word 'Flanders' is derived from 'Flooded Country' it was no surprise that when great rainstorms arrived at the 1917 battle (known as Paschendalle) to find the land flooded. The huge barrage of artillery shells broke up what land was not already broken. What streams and irrigation channels remained dissolved into a muddy morass and two armies fought over this mess until the British had pushed the enemy far enough back to believe some sort of victory had been achieved. This was not an encounter anyone involved would ever forget!

The word 'Stew' comes from 'Stew' a method of cooking meat.

I found that cooking my stew left me with a substance that would have been readily recognised by those men who fought in Flanders. The flavour of my stew is similar to the flavour of the mud in which they ate their luncheon. Hence 'Flanders Stew.'

Tomorrow I will tell you, if you really wish to know, how I make potato soup!

Glass of Water

A small boy is sent to bed by his father.

Five minutes later.....'Da-ad....'

'What?'

'I'm thirsty. Can you bring a drink of water?'

'No, You had your chance. Lights out.'

Five minutes later: 'Da-aaaad.....'

'WHAT?'

'I'm THIRSTY. Can I have a drink of water??'

' I told you NO! If you ask again, I'll have to smack you!!'

Five minutes later......'Daaaa-aaaad.....'

'WHAT!'

'When you come in to smack me, can you bring a drink of water?'

I've got nothing to say.

Now the nasty folk among you will probably be muttering praises at this moment in time, and one or two will be feeling a slight shock at this news. But I have indeed nothing to say.

I have looked at the world around me, considered the weather, the news, the furniture, the records and all things that ought to be bursting into my mind, and I have found nothing worth posting. I could once again mention my aching knees, caused by the long walk to the far away Tesco's. Quite how I imagine this will aid my fitness regime when I come back aching, worn out and end up with stiff knees for days, I do not know but there it is. The walk in the sun, with the passing clouds lowering the temperature needlessly, was indeed enjoyable. The pathway past the old oak trees especially jolly when the birds are gathered in the branches singing away. I stood and attempted to find one such which had a particularly lovely song today, but when I stood still he shut up, and once I moved on he began again, spoilsport. The bird at the checkout didn't give the impression she ever sang sweetly that's for sure.

However you don't want to know about my knees and would rather read something of importance, something interesting, and something humorous. Looks therefore like you are dwelling in a world of fantasy folks. I suppose I could discuss my habit of taping radio programmes and playing them back to myself when I attempt to enter slumberland. This is a habit I started many years ago and remains with me today. So many radio progs are broadcast at the wrong time. The idea, especially on Radio 4, appears to be that folk can stop work whenever they wish and listen in. This is not so! It may be for the middle aged, middle class females who have never worked in their lives, yet spend all day on the radio telling us about their hardship (and earning vast sums of cash while doing so) but it is not like that for normal folk, like me! Anyway, I am going through a few that have been used but I have not heard, usually because I fell asleep and missed the lot! I am amazed at some of the subjects covered by the radio. Politics, Army spies in the days of the Cold War, humour made out of quotes, humour from silly games, the Black Death alone gave me five fifteen minute programmes that was very enjoyable, although I would not like to pass it on as it were. I have a few still to listen too but who knows what I have taped there, especially as my memory is so bad I forget what I have just written sometimes,especially as my memory is so bad I forget what I have just written sometimes.

So having nothing to say I will wander off and consider cleaning that cupboard under the sink. I usually make a point of cleaning this every five or six years and judging by the pong that time may soon be up. This will help my knees readjust, the smell to ease, the neighbours to stop complaining, and will stop me looking up jobs on the web as I will not have time before I eat some foul tasting evening meal. I cannot guarantee this will be foul tasting but going on previous experience I think it's a sure bet.

I remember now that I was going to comment on my time in 'The Goblet.' You see I had this dream I was back there, sitting in my usual seat opposite the bar, with Gordon Brown and his mates in the seat immediately to the left of the door. Naturally we did not realise that Gordon Brown was Gordon Brown in those days, when there he was just one of 'those student types.' However there he certainly attended and when the pubs closed at ten, as they did then, he would wander back to his shared flat at type away till all hours working himself into a future. His mates just worked themselves onto the floor. At the appropriate time I will drop him a note and let him know I still have the photographs. If that is not worth a lifetimes tax refund I don't know what is! Drop me a line Gordon pal. However I will not mention this as the dream started well and appeared to be going fabulously especially when Lady Muck and her daughter wandered in. There immediately was a lightening of the atmosphere, a brightening in every ones eye and a lifting all round of spirits, although that was quite common in that place, being a pub and all. Just then a fat ageing bloke wandered in also, he looked the type we need in such places as he wore a stained Heart of Midlothian polo shirt, a Hearts scarf round his neck, and carried a bundle of books which he offered for sale at an 'advantageous price,' or so he said. Looking at the bright young things he cried 'Drinks all round' and the two molls immediately rushed to his side, along with all the contents of the hostelry. Pints were pulled, whiskies were poured and the glamour girls beamed happily. 'That will be £478 please,' muttered the barmaid, 'Who's paying?' 'Adullamite is,' muttered Mike from the middle of a pint glass.
I then woke up in a very cold sweat.

Therefore I am not going to mention this dream as it has made me weak at my aching knees........

Chris & Jim's

The other day I had my hair cut. I think it's important you know this, just so you do not think that I sit here like some unemployed scruffy ageing hippy! Indeed I am so concerned to send the right signals to those about me that I have doubled my bath time. Yes indeed, I bathe on Tuesday as well as Sunday now. Indeed, if luck is with me the man next door might throw out one of his old disposable razors and I can have myself a shave also. It's good to care for ones appearance I say!

Chris and Jim are to lads who have opened this shop and developed the place into the towns premier barbers, sorry, hairdressers. Their approach to their customers, their attitude, humour and far from exorbitant pricing has brought them a good solid customer base. So much so they have now one or two others helping out at times. However the barmaid like blond working the day I went in was not allowed to run her fingers through my tresses for reasons that were not made clear. Maybe it was the way I suggested this idea.......

One thing is for sure, while these two may be excellent hairdressers they would never make a success among the trendies, there is no fear of these two running their fingers through your golden locks. A wrong word about their teams latest defeat might mean an accidental slicing of one off your ears mind!

Their sides, Spurs and Liverpool, mean that they are not in a position to laugh at the Heart of Midlothian. This is an advantage as some among us would confirm. Nothing worse than listening to someone who has a side that is top of their division, heading for glory, cash rich, and, in my view, heading for a fall...hopefully! With the cranky directors and lack of success enjoyed by their clubs they are not in a position to laugh at Vlad, after all, they could be next!

I am amazed at how many barbers/ hairdressers there are in this town. There are only around thirty five thousand souls dwelling here, and there seems to be an ever increasing number of such 'salons' to cope with them. We have six barbers alone in the town centre, and five at least for the lassies. This does not take account of those who freelance from friend to friend for half the price and twice the gossip. Nor the shops I have not noticed as keeping note of the females dens around here is something I tend not to do. Having said that I am tempted to stand at the window sometimes and look in. When I visit Chris & Jim's I sit there until called, have a sheet to catch the hair (where does that gray come from?), and then allow my swollen head to swing from side to side as they hack their way through the foliage. Females I note, tend to sit their with their heads covered in bits of paper. From the perspective of the passerby it looks as if they are a Christmas tree covered in kids requests for free stuff or maybe a horse dressed up for the local gymkhana. A cynic who knows the lass involved may feel obliged, when the ordeal is over, to point out that, allowing for the sixty, seventy, or even a hundred pounds that have changed hands, there is little change to be seen. A wise cynic of course keeps his trap shut.

But what are they doing in there? How long does it take to have your hair done? Considering the neurotic nature of women, and their absurd fascination with things that do not matter, the horror if one hair is out of place must make such employment fit only for those who have great patience, or are just fusspots! I just say to the lads, 'Chop it off,' and they do. It looks OK, and no-one laughs, at least not like the time my friend Christine cut my hair for me. It was going well until I sat down and she placed on my knee a book called, 'Hairdressing at home.' Somehow I felt this may not go well. However, from the front it looked OK to me, although I am not a 'fusspot' about such things. It was when I went to my then regular barber, George the Greek, I realised that things were not what they ought to be. He leaned over and asked, 'I didn't cut this, last time did I?' The look of relief on his face when I said .'No,' made me realise just how bad things had been.

She didn't get the chance to do it again, no matter how she pleaded.

All Ireland Final

A man had great tickets for the All Ireland final. As he sits down, another man comes over and asks if anyone is sitting in the seat next to him. 'No,' he says. 'The seat is empty.'

'This is incredible!' said the man. 'Who in their right mind would have a seat like this for the All Ireland Final, the biggest sporting event in the world and not use it?'
He says, 'Well, actually, the seat belongs to me. My wife was supposed to come with me, but she passed away. This is the first All Ireland Final we haven't been to together since we got married.'

'Oh ... I'm sorry to hear that. That's terrible. But couldn't you find someone else - a friend or relative, or even a neighbour to take the seat?

The man shakes his head.......... 'No they're all at the funeral.

Hospital Life

When I first started work on the trauma ward at the Infirmary I quickly got used to the many varieties of the human species. The doddery old pensioner who had long since lost what had once been a brain, the drunk who saw the door in the ceiling being opened, and the fellow who cried out 'Fire' at two in the morning, much to the disgust of those hanging from various 'scaffolding' which was holding their broken bones in place.

Being in hospital allows those secrets we keep to ourselves to escape. We are away from family and friends and the usual run of things and this disruption can be confusing as well as annoying. Under the influence of drugs our minds can wander and we may find ourselves walking through the streets in our pyjamas or informing the doctor not to stand there because he may' harm the white rabbit.' You may be interested to know that this comment enables a patient to be transferred to the Royal Edinburgh within half an hour, a time frame other transfers could not then achieve.

The sight of patients going home is indeed a comforting one for hospital staff, especially if they are bonkers or violent. One we had was certainly a bit lacking in understanding. He was what today we refer to as 'Chav's' but then, in a more practical age, was referred to as a 'nutter.' Playing happily with a woman he found her husband coming through the door. Naturally he did what we all would do and jumped out of the window. I like to think I would have contemplated the three floors he fell down first before jumping myself but we never know do we? Anyway he landed in such a fashion as to break his leg and the husband involved endeavoured to give first aid in bets Musselburgh fashion - by kicking his head in! I am left wondering what sort of lass she was if she was involved with idiot 'a' and what was her actual,man like if involved with her, idiot 'b?' Anyway Idiot 'a' had his leg encased in plaster and eleven (11) times took it off himself because 'It itched.' I recall the registrar, as firm but fair man, informing him that he was now blacklisted and if the plaster was removed again that was his tough luck. He did not return, possibly because the senior registrar has loomed over him when in the bed a day or so before questioning his thermometer reading. 'Usually,' he said in a voice tinged with satire and threat,'people with a temperature of '108' are dead. Why aren't you?' The ward population, sitting in stony silence eager for the reply did their best to stifle the giggling.

This ward population were not the silent type, this was Edinburgh after all. They were most keen to speak when they considered it needful and one of our noble consultants constantly played into their hands by his actions. Each day a consultant would come and inspect his patients, and this one (called Mr Little?) in the usual way brought a few students and a nurse and wandered to his people. He then proceeded to ignore them! His bedside manner was to totally ignore the patient and concentrate on the X-Rays displayed on the light trolley that one of the students was given charge off. Our man would then indicate the wound, the action taken and the result to be expected. However the patient, naturally anxious and rightfully expecting a word of solace from the great man would be ignored. Edinburgh folk are at heart shy, retiring, kind folks, but not keen on being treated as second class or unimportant. "Hey pal, try telling me, it's ma leg ken?" was a not uncommon utterance from one of the few patients in the ward. Cynics would indicate their presence, "Ahm just here, behind ye doctor. If ye turn roond ye will find me, know what ah mean?" It made no difference. Years of arrogant self importance, a habit with many doctors, had led our hero to be oblivious to such cries. He ignored the pleading voice and moved on. Whether he actually spoke to a patient when unconscious on the theatre table I do not know, but he must have preferred them that way.

All this came to mind when cogitating this list I came across the other day. I am not sure how accurate it may be, but I know this sort of thing does happen, but quite where to get up to date figures I have yet to discover.

3 Scots die each year testing if a 9v battery works on their tongue.

142 Scots were injured in 1999 by not removing all pins from new shirts.

58 Scots are injured each year by using sharp knives instead of screwdrivers.

31 Scots have died since 1996 by watering their Christmas tree while the fairy lights were plugged in.

19 Scots have died in the last 3 years believing that Christmas decorations were chocolate.

Scottish Hospitals reported 4 broken arms last year after Xmas cracker-pulling accidents.

18 Scots had serious burns in 2000 trying on a new jumper with a lit cigarette in their mouth.

A massive 543 Scots were admitted to A&E in the last two years after trying to open bottles of beer with their teeth.

5 Scots were injured last year in accidents involving out-of-control Scalextric cars.

In 2000 eight Scots were admitted to hospital with fractured skulls incurred whilst throwing up into the toilet.

The list forgets to add the dozen or so who are hospitalised each year because they burn themselves while ironing clothes they are wearing!

Take care out there!

The Need to Exercise

The trouble with sitting around being idle is that you get fat and unfit. I have attempted to keep on the move but constant bugs and general sloth has hindered this. The weather, which is never great, has not helped. However I have once again got the fifteen and a half lump of blubber on the bike and begun the long walk routine. The fact that the bike seat is creaking and the tyres, fully blown up, begin to flatten out when I start off is not encouraging. I did take the camera and attempted to capture the sight of the lovely green fields that surround this town. Not the most successful but gives an idea of the land around us, green with barley and Brussels sprouts, wheat and strange looking stuff. No doubt there will be masses of yellow fields of rapeseed soon to brighten the place. I cycled up to and around the little village and back through the old railway line. Nice trip as you hear the birdies singing, feel the sun on your back and have to avoid the occasional white van driver rushing to get his day over with. (not on the old railway line however.)

Yesterday, in a fit off madness, I decided to walk there! The sun was shining and the sky was blue so I thought it a good idea. Nutter! By the end of my two hour dawdle I had enjoyed the sun, the birds, a few passing dogs and one dirty big wasp like creature, and conversed with one or two yokels before I realised I was knackered! It is not so far on the bike! Still I enjoyed the freedom to wander along with few folks around. Spoiled only as I made my way back in time for the schools coming out. The little dears from the secondary schools rush past on their bikes and then I ran into the wee brats from the primary. Each and every one complaining about something, each shouting loud, and on top of that few of the mothers were worth ogling as I passed! Tsk! What is it about kids that they are always greeting eh? 'I want, I want.' Tsk! The sound just like adults sometimes. Maybe it is because the little spoilt terrors are more honest with their feelings than adults who hide their spoiled nature behind a false politeness and devious words?

I found myself watching these brats and beginning to brood. Why? Then I realised that my ten year old great niece up there has been given a 'Bebo' account. It seems all the kids have them even though you are supposed to be thirteen at least. This means here mother has one to check on who she is dealing with and I was forced to have a 'Bebo' also. I was forced into a Facebook' account in similar fashion, and I thought the twenty/thirty something 'Facebook' a bit childish until I met 'Bebo!' Dearie me! However by keeping in touch with the loud, vacuous, grasping family I find I want them around. I now have this desire to get up to Edinburgh, endure a few days with my mother and meet the kids - just to be kicked around for a couple of hours.

The sun remains shining, I must off and walk in spite of my aches, my pains and my thin soled shoes. But don't worry about me, don't fret ion my account. I would hate you all to be concerned in any way while I endure such hardship........

For All the Real Men & Women Out There

Stiff upper lipped Britons (real and pseudo) need not receive!

Hello Again!

I am sorry to announce leave of absence must come to a close and I henceforth return to this blog. Naturally you will all now despair at having to look in once more on my psychotic ramblings, and naturally I feel sympathy for you - well I don't actually, so there!

The spiritual problem has eased and indeed may have been other than what I thought. However it was not very nice and I really do not wish to undergo the loss of everything life has again! Dear me no!

I am grateful for the kind words posted here. Some folks either missed me or needed me to exist just to be an example of what can happen if things go wrong! I believe many schools refer to me when warning kids what will happen if.....! However I missed you also! You do not realise how nice it is to find a blog full of wisdom, humour, or just life, every time I look at those on my neighbourhood. A wide range of human life, and I must say a wide range of differing yet very lovely people.

I am grateful for the comments, and glad I know you - even from afar.

Excuse me while I burst into tears like a 'Bafta' winner.
Thanks

Thanks Again

Thanks again for prayer.
I had reached a 'crisis' point and I am afraid I 'muffed it' badly!
Thanks for your prayers and thoughts but I may not be on for a while.

Thanks again

Thanks

Thank you for praying.
I am seeing some benefit!
And I am grateful as I can see Jesus responding.
However I do not see me responding as I ought......
This is hard.

Thanks

Prayer

Jesus and I need to sort out 'a little local difficulty.'
A problem that has troubled me for some years.
Can I ask those who know how, to waste some of their valuable time by asking the Lord for me?
Selfish I know, but I would be grateful.
Thanks

St Georges Day

Today is St Georges Day.


I don't care!
Do you?

Childhood Games

Someone reminiscing about their childhood made me ask what did we do as kids. Until the age of ten or eleven when total football took over we had the usual variety of kids games. 'Hide and seek,' sometimes in large groups and involving hiding in many strange places, the coal box at the back was good, brings back a good feeling, 'Peevers' (hopscotch to the ignorant) was really a girlie game which we sometimes joined in using an old polish tin to push along the ground. Girls bounced a ball against the wall in a variety of different games and played with skipping ropes. Boys naturally avoided such games and those who dared to participate were clearly big Jessies. Thankfully common sense prevailed and playgrounds were separated in those days so the kids could grow up naturally and not hounded by middle class women with chips on their inadequate shoulders. 'Japs and Commando's' and a British version of beating the Germans (name forgotten) was common with the occasional Cowboy and Indian stuff. Funnily enough I started school in 1956 (oh joy) and we spent several years running around the playground singing 'We won the war in 1944!' I suppose that died out before the PC teachers intervened. 'Matchbox,' 'Dinky' and 'Corgi' cars were often bought,1/6d for the big ones and 9d for the 'Matchbox' series. Some very good vehicles there which disappeared with the passing of time, although they had changed greatly in appearance, especially when tins of 'Humbrol' paint were discovered! Marbles were often the cause of fights. A game of 'Bulls' could be as gentle as playing with 'Lego,' one of the best toys invented I say, yet the kid upstairs just did not like being bettered and a squabble would ensue. It was never me cause I was nice, but usually we got on all right.

Because there were two roads at the front we often played in the wee road in perfect safety. While the main road had heavy traffic occasionally passing by it was for the most part comparatively quiet, unlike today. I remember the fish lorry heading for Newhaven passing by. As it approached we could see it stacked high with fish boxes and waited while the lorry passed. As the vehicle rumbled on it's way the smell would follow behind like a wake behind a ship spreading to the side as she passed. Lovely, well no actually! The traffic on the wee road was minimal. Next door there was the 'Highland Queen' lorry from the man on the top flat and Dode's bakers van. That is while it was the bakers van. His habit of drinking too much meant it often changed names on the side! A small Austin 7 belonged to the man upstairs, who we hardly ever saw, and far up the road another vehicle would be parked here and there. The field opposite, soon turned into a school field, meant there was plenty of light and no-one opposite. A great place to grow up! That road also saw 'Kick the can' being played as well as the occasional failed attempts to become 'Zorro!' The small verge between the roads could be used for some games but mostly it was a kind of border rarely crossed.

In the backgreen we would use the washing poles to play 'Long banging.' A simple device to enhance the goalkeepers ability even though this centre forwards talent failed miserably here. Only later did I realise this was why I was such a good goalie - oh yes I was! - as the practice here helped. One day we went round to play with the big boys and I was forced into goal. I was wonderful! From then on until about fifteen years of age it was football every night!
We played in the field opposite for a time, then decamped to the large roundabout round the corner where we used half to play and occasionally the whole circle was used for big games and 'take ons' against lads from just outside our area. Rarely did fights intervene and 21's the winner was the norm. It became my habit, wherever we played, to come in at night at place my sodden muddy jeans in the old cola cellar. Next night I would break of the hardened mud, replace the jeans over my skinny legs and go off to perform heroics once again! If it wasn't for my eyesight and no scout ever calling on me I could have been somebody you know! We also played a football version of a 'Squash' like game by banging a ball against a certain area of wall and the next in line had to get the ball from wherever it ended up and return it to the same spot. I forget what we called it but this was good, when you won.

There came a time when this all changed. The wee road became too dangerous as wealth crept in and folks parked their cars there. Ford Anglia's and 'Z' cars appearing in the late 60's reflecting the economic growth in society, even where we lived. Football seemed to die away in the late seventies or early eighties. On the roundabout someone planted four trees, they are still there today! We had come across a 'No Football' sign there at one point and some of the boys chucked it over a fence! Not today's men. No-one plays football any more unless they go 'training' with their team. The type of football that gave us Alan Gilzean, Bobby Walker, Denis Law, Willie Hamilton and Jim Baxter has been obliterated and is occasionally seen only in school playgrounds. Now kids are coached from an early age,tenderly cared for in seven a sides, and not allowed to play to many games in case 'it has long term damage!' What rubbish! There is a story that Dave MacKay signed for the Heart of Midlothian while running from one game to another while a schoolboy. If not true it sounds it! To much care for the little darlings does not do them good.

Do they play games now? In our family the kids have far too many toys. Especially as they only have one kid each and it gets spoiled, although no more than I was to be fair. Being girls for the most part I cannot say whether their games are better than before, as they still play with dolls, as normal girls do, fight and play sweet when they want something. Boys get the guns and cars, although much more space orientated than before, more 'Star Wars' than the World War Two stuff we were surrounded by. (While the war was long over by the time I arrived, an 'accident' my mother used to say, it was still deeply imprinted on everyone's mind.) Boys remain noisy, loud, obnoxious brats as all boys have always been - myself excepted naturally, and remain the same at heart in spite of the daft attitudes so often seen today.

The good times in the past were all in our heads. We heard of 'wars and rumours of wars,' but these were forgotten when the Ice cream man's bell was heard. George had several years service round our way and saw many of us grow up. But he did not have the 'Mr Whippy' type van and looking back he must have struggled to keep himself going. In those days often the men would get out and fight it out for the round, an idea stopped when Edinburgh Corporation licensed them, George however could always rely on our support. Nobody was assaulted by dirty old men, although our folks warned us about them, mothers were far from neurotic but did keep a watch on us, and life was better. Child abuse happened but was not splashed over the papers, and if our dads found someone doing it they had the means to bring it to an end, quietly and quickly! But in spite of the overprotected habit of today, the fear engendered by the press and the PC brigade who care for themselves through their nonsense, is life more dangerous for kids than before? I don't think so, and the brats grow up just the same. If they are allowed to do so by their elders. If they go wrong it is their elders fault, yours and mine, there is no one else to blame.

It's Driving me to Drink!

Every time I switch a radio or TV on I find adverts!
Now I have turned the thing on for the football and they go off for 'a break.' ITV spend more time on 'Breaks' than they do football. In the few minutes the programme has run nothing sensible has been said, and what was was uttered at pace because a 'break' was coming up!

I put 'Talksport' on this morning, a Rupert Murdoch station which gives us all the intellect a fan of Jeremy Kyle requires, and was confronted by adverts. Adverts which assume you are male, white, drink too much, waste money on the horses and are a 'white van driver!' I tuned into the World Service of the BBC because it gives good news coverage, and it was some boring science talk. I returned to 'Talksport' and it was still adverts, so I went to Radio 5. Here they were, once again, droning on about the house price situation. Off to Radio 4 - House prices, on to Radio 3 and it was opera! I went back to 'Talksport' and found they had another break!

Liverpool and Chelsea have just walked out onto the pitch. ITV have gone off for adverts! I think I need 'textspeak' for what I want to say now.......

And I don't have a bottle of 'Black Bottle.' Just Tesco's 17p fizzy water.
Rejoice rejoice.....

Text Speech

I was confused today. Now some might think this is not unusual, after all I do switch off the heating and then switch it on two minutes later thinking I am switching it off don't I? However this was real confusion! I received a message and could not understand it. I looked at it wondering if a drunk had found a keyboard, or if it was some sort of secret code that had come from the Russian Embassy by mistake. I unravelled the mystery by the simple technique of looking at the senders name, why had numpty not thought of that before you ask, well because, just because! When I noticed the name it all fell into place. She has to talk in text speak because of her kids or they don't understand her! This habit is continued when talking to normal folk rather than teens.

Text speak! What a great invention. Now it is possible to speed up the communication between kids sitting five feet apart as they communicate with one another – while talking to the person they are texting at the same time! Being young they are able to swear at the teacher while under English instruction and still text correctly afterwards. This capability reduces as time passes, I find, as does the ability to understand just what on earth someone offering 'l8r' means. ('Later' it seems!) Knowledge of the 'text' language can speed up sending messages by text, and there is many times 'texting' can be useful – if you have a friend to text of course – but it can surely be dangerous! Where does it stop? For instance I heard it said that had the apostle Paul used text we would never had obtained much of a new testament. Instead of two long letters to the Corinthians it would be a short ' plz luv al ttyl.' 'Please love one another, talk to you later.' I hesitate to suggest that this would not be as effective as writing in Greek has been.

But where will it lead? Shall we return to hieroglyphics? Instead of poetry and prose will we just have line drawings of birds and a big fish with a sun above? A few squiggly lines and a jar next to a fox maybe? What would this do to bloggers? I am aware that on message boards some young brats appear now and again and insist on using such 'talk.' The gentlemen there are swift to inform them, without the need for text speak, as to what exactly they can do with this terminology. Such suggestions are not possible to put into text speak surely?

For those with a desire to disturb their mentality I suggest a site or two where you can learn this gobbledygook for yourself.

Wikipedia

Tiscali

Good luck!

R.I.P Heart of Midlothian F.C.

So, from a brief report of the Heart of Midlothian AGM I read in the News I see the end is nigh!
One important point is the clear implication that Stephen Frail will be the full time manager from next season. The suggestion that an experienced 'British' man would be found is pushed aside with comments regarding "The reality is that to find a manager is very difficult, most managers are already out of work or ready to jump from the clubs they are working with and seeking profit."
"If you find me a manager who won't do that then fine but give a chance to our guy Stephen Frail who is already at the club." In other words there is no new man, the cheap option prevails. Now Frail is a good guy but not a man capable of running this club, or indeed any club at this level. He remains there simply because he lets Vlad pick the team. A proper manager would not!

The needless tirade against the Scottish League is just a poor attempt to divert attention from Vlads failings. Sure the OF dominate and heavily influence things but that would not stop a properly funded team taking the title. We are all well aware of the referees who lean towards the bigot brothers, but that would not stop any side, properly financed and managed, winning the league. Burley could have done it, Vlad ruined it! Vlad junior should stop reading other peoples scripts and write his own speeches, preferably his resignation!

Absurd is the word for his reaction to the debt. "Romanov continually brushed off questions and asked how he planned to wipe out the club's increasing debt the clearly frustrated chairman retorted: "by selling players for £9 million." Who is the next I ask? Neilson? Maybe Nade will run to leave for a big fee, if he actually can 'run?' They either have no answer to the debt or do not care. Maybe it is time the Scottish Premier League or the Scottish Football Association moved in?

We have it clearly before us. Vlad either has no idea what to do or has not concern. Sure without him the club would have come close to extinction, sure we had a great start under Burley, but what is much more sure is the fact that we have absolutely no idea what will happen now.

I despair now. I am sorry to say this but the end is nigh.

Flowers at Scene of Tragedy

The other day a couple decided to argue while standing on the edge of a railway platform. Now to me a couple arguing in public is bad enough but to do so while standing at the edge of a station platform is plain daft! This stupidity became a tragedy as an express passed through the station at eighty miles an hour while they continued with their disagreement. It appears he attempted to pull her back from the edge but the both were drawn under the passing train and killed instantly. What they were arguing about is not yet known and may of course never be known. What is known is that they are very dead and a train driver, and possibly one or two passengers, are now in shock.

So the station is closed for a day while the police go through the routine of checking the situation, questioning witnesses and informing relatives of their loss. The press gather around harassing the police, asking dumb questions of people, often far from the scene and photographing the dead (from a distance thoughtfully!). A flurry of excitement arises once again (this is not the first dead at a railway around here) and soon it is all forgotten and life goes on.

But why I ask, do people feel the need to leave flowers at the scene? I always viewed this as one of those Anglican/Catholic happenings that suited the English mentality and until recently this never happened in Scotland. I does however appear to have begun occurring their now. It is of course understandable to me if the victims are known to folk. There are flowers left once a year just around the corner from me to commemorate a daughter killed in a high speed accident while fleeing the police some years ago. I knew the mother, she mourns greatly for her daughter even ten years on, but why leave flowers or trinkets to mourn someone you never knew, and possibly often ignored in daily life when alive? I find this very creepy and wonder what it says about us? We all feel touched, usually, by a tragedy, but why this response? A quick look at any busy street show us how people are very willing to avoid others, and any railway station early in the morning is full of commuters more than happy to ignore all and sundry. Why then the rush to the florists for those we do not know. There is nothing we can do except give suitable space to the relatives and the proper authorities. If we ignore them while alive it is a bit disturbing that we are concerned when they are dead!

The need to leave something reached its height when Diana died and the absurd pile of rotting flowers at the gates of Kensington Palace revealed the emptiness at the heart of the Godless nation, sheep without a shepherd. Reflecting on a nations misuse of a woman almost as much as the press misused her and she them! This cannot be said when those unknown to us die horribly. Could it be just human sympathy and concern for others leaking out when reality breaks into our little world? Whatever, for those not personally touched by misfortune to be involved, or wishing to be seen to be involved, appears very creepy to me.