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.

Fair Scunnered Ken?

I have been fair scunnered quiet a lot in recent days. Over eighteen months on the dole, having nothing to offer and few jobs available often leaves me this way. All I need is a Daily Mail reader to cry, 'Get these people to work and out of the pubs where they spend their days drinking my money,' and I can appreciate the motivation of the local axe murderer, (and there is a few of those around here I can tell you!). However after sending out letters and CV's, talking to anyone who might have an opening, e-mailing a wide variety of uninterested employers, and applying for totally unsuitable work just because it's available can be depressing. It is all the more depressing when you really believe you have a good chance of work and then get a letter, that is if you get a letter, turning you down.

“Dear Sir,

We regret to inform you that someone younger/fitter/more female/who

can actually do the job/and get on with us lot, has been given the work.

Please accept our regrets, we are doing OK, so sod off and die!

Thank you.

The failure becomes more noticeable when watching other folks make a right hash of their work while knowing you could do it yourself better than they. 'They' however have the face that fits, the right age, know the boss or wear tighter jeans than your £3 offering from Tesco! But it was ever thus! Life is not fair, and I have a bucket full of torn Lotto tickets to prove it! Just why do inane folk who will greedily consume (and waste) several million pounds on themselves and their chav progeny win the Lottery? Why does it not go to those who will use the cash for the benefit of mankind? Well, for some of them anyway.... But in truth this is how it has always been. Life is not fair, and you just have to get on with it!

(Short break while I burst into tears – again)

Now I should not be in this position. I know God loves me, and recently reminded me it was he was went looking for me, not me for him. I didn't care a whit about him but he came looking for me! Fantastic! But while this is good it does not mean life is smooth! After all, if Jesus went for a job and another, more needy, also applied, would he not step aside and let them have the work? For him the other would be more important than himself, and God would supply his needs anyway – even if they did not meet his wants! Our wants and desires do not fit in with our ability to obtain them or his to provide! When unemployed and in a state of poverty it is really amazing what we can live without. Now I am not starving, the days of the 'soup kitchen' are thankfully gone in the UK, but in many parts of the world there are riots caused by food shortages. Should I complain? Travel is limited, I have not been in Edinburgh since February last year, and will not be there soon unless someone falls ill. I know what you are saying, 'They have not missed you!' And you would be right! But it means I cannot buy for others what I wish to buy, and this is a blow at times.

Something will turn up. I suppose I must look for, and accept, anything that is offered, even if I do not like it. I am not unwilling to take the lowest place, in fact that may be a step upwards! And of course I am actually looking and not finding much available. So, with a clear conscience I look for work and enjoy the free time, and continue to lose weight slowly. I can enjoy the blogs, read my books, (Livy's 'History of Rome' at the moment) and exercise as I have just endured this morning. Those dumbbells are difficult to lift eh? The schedule says they must be increased to a full kilo altogether tomorrow and I am not looking forward to that! Phew!

Now, is it time for a coffee break yet......?

The Giant Axe Head

According to the BBC this Giant Axe Head "...a 1.5 tonne sculpture which overlooks Loch Dee - is one of seven stone sculptures installed near cycling and walking paths in the south of Scotland to encourage forest visitors."

What is it about 'artists' that they think that spoiling the fabulous view with examples of their 'art' benefits anybody? Who, in their right mind, would be encouraged to cycle or walk along these paths just because some self absorbed eedjit plants one of their misshapen heads there?

How often do we see the wonders of nature around us spoiled but such misjudgements? There is a great view here, not the best in Scotland, but well worth the trip, and dumped by some well paid 'fly tipper' is this lump or stone that would have looked far better back home in its hillside. I'm sorry, but too often we see a variety of contorted materials blemishing the world in the name of 'art.' Who benefits? The artist gets a name, and far too much cash. The council or authority folk involved can keep in with the 'chattering classes' but rarely, if ever, consider the public's opinion on 'public art.' Not long ago Radio 4 had a short programme debating 'Public Art' and it was clear councils and other responsible took no notice or concern for the public's opinion. They may well pay the money, and how much money is wasted this way, but their opinion is ignored by the 'experts.' Edinburgh Council once placed a 'Kinetic Sculpture' at the top of Leith Walk. This comprised about thirty feet of scaffolding with coloured tubular lighting attached. The lights switched on and off in an irregular pattern. Around 1972 this cost £12,000! Who benefited apart from the con artist who got the money? Art can be a fantastic benefit to any area, urban or not. 'Art,' has however, to be 'art,' and not just an opportunity for a few to burden the rest of us with their 'taste!'