The Story of the Blues

"...well that's my story and I'm sticking to that. So let's have another drink and let's talk about the blues.

Blues is about dignity, it's about self-respect, and no matter what they take away from you - that's yours for keeps.

I remember how it was, how every medium - T.V. and papers and radio and all those people were saying: 'you're on the scrap-heap, you're useless', and I remember how easy it was to start believing that. I remember how you'd hear people take it for granted that it was true - just 'cause someone with an ounce of power said so.

And that's a problem now, too many oddballs, too many pocketbook psychologists and would-be philosophers with an axe to grind. But there's a solution, it's not easy, but it's a matter of coming to terms in your heart with situation you're in, a matter of choosing how things go for you and not having things forced upon you.

There are plenty of forces against you, forcing you against your will, your ideals - you've got to hope for the best, and that's the best you can hope for - you've got to hope against hope...

I remember something Sal Paradise said, he said: 'the city intellectuals of the world are debauched from the full body blood-of-the-land and are just rootless fools'.

So listen, when the smile, the condescending pat-on-the-back comes and says: 'we're sorry, but you're nothing, you've got nothing for us and we've got nothing for you', you say: 'No', and say it loud: "NO!", and remember, people who talk about revolution and a class-struggle without referring explicitly to everyday life, without understanding what is subversive about love, and what is positive in the refusal and constraint......"

One of the best songs ever written. The sublime Pete Wylie.

Countdown to....

It seemed a tad ironical that I had trouble sleeping last night. Having been affected by Man Flu, I have been struggling for much of this week to keep my eyes open. Not that I expect sympathy, mind. Although I'm grateful for the hundreds of comments from people on this blog who have been wishing me well....

But last night I just couldn't get to sleep. Perhaps it had something to do with the fits of hysterics that afflicted me as Edinburgh's Talk 107 radio station gave regular updates of Hibernian's attempts to provide some sort of opposition to Barcelona at Murrayfield. Congratulations to the wee team who managed to keep the score down to 6-0.

So, at 1.30am I headed downstairs and switched on the telly. BBC2 was trying manfully to fill the gap that resulted from a recount from the Glasgow East Parliamentary by-election. A superb win for the Scottish National Party - I've never felt independence so close for my country as I do now. But flicking through the plethora of brainless television channels provided courtesy of Freeview, I was gobsmacked to discover what was happening on QVC - The Shopping Channel. The early hours of 25th July it may have been but QVC were a full five months ahead - it was Countdown to Christmas.

I kid you not, dear reader, QVC's studio was decorated with Christmas trees, tinsel, holly, the lot. I thought they were bad last year when I caught glimpse of a similar show in August. But with temperatures yesterday in Edinburgh in the seventies and scarcely a breath of air to be had in the stifling heat of the night, QVC were digging out the Santa Claus outfits.

Many of us are already convinced Christmas is increasingly a commercial festival instead of a religious one. But there's a time. And July just isn't it.

Someone, please, stop the world. I want to get off....

Not a Well Man

Now, I'm not one to complain. But despite my youngest daughter Michaela's assertion that I have a 'bit of a sniffle', I'm more inclined to think I've succumbed once again to Man flu. So as I'm not a well man, I thought rather than waste important energy on another rant, I would offer this story...

This fella, having split from his latest girlfriend, decided to take a holiday. He booked himself on a cruise and proceeded to have the time of his life, that is, until the ship sank.He found himself on an island with no other people, no supplies,nothing, only bananas and coconuts.

After about four months, he is lying on the beach one day when the most gorgeous woman he has ever seen rows up to the shore. In disbelief, he asks, 'Where did you come from? How did you get here?'

She replies, 'I rowed from the other side of the island. I landed here when my cruise ship sank.''

'Amazing,' he notes. 'You were really lucky to have a row boat wash up with you.'

'Oh, this thing?' explains the woman. 'I made the boat out of raw material I found on the island. The oars were whittled from gum tree branches. I wove the bottom from palm branches, and the sides and stern came from a Eucalyptus tree.

'But, where did you get the tools?'

'Oh, that was no problem,' replied the woman. 'On the south side of the island, a very unusual stratum of alluvial rock is exposed. I found if I fired it to a certain temperature in my kiln, it melted into ductile iron. I used that for tools and used the tools to make the hardware.'

The guy is stunned.

'Let's row over to my place,' she says. After a few minutes of rowing, she docks the boat at a small wharf. As the man looks to shore, he nearly falls off the boat. Before him is stone walk leading to an exquisite bungalow painted in blue and white.While the woman ties up the rowboat with an expertly woven hemp rope,the man can only stare ahead, dumb struck.

As they walk into the house, she says casually, 'It's not much but I call it home. Sit down, please. Would you like a drink?''

'No! No thank you,' he blurts out, still dazed.'I can't take another drop of coconut juice.'

'It's not coconut juice,' winks the woman. 'I have a still. How would you like a Pina Colada?'

Trying to hide his continued amazement, the man accepts, and they sit down on her couch to talk. After they have exchanged their stories, the woman announces, 'I'm going to slip into something more comfortable. Would you like to take a shower and shave? There is a razor upstairs in the bathroom cabinet.'

No longer questioning anything, the man goes into the bathroom. There, in the cabinet, a razor made from a piece of tortoise bone. Two shells honed to a hollow ground edge are fastened on to its end inside a swivel mechanism.

'This woman is amazing,' he muses. 'What next?'When he returns, she greets him wearing nothing but vines, strategically positioned, and smelling faintly of gardenias. She beckons for him to sit down next to her.

'Tell me,' she begins suggestively, slithering closer to him, 'You've been out here for many months. You've been lonely. There's something I'm sure you really feel like doing right now, something you've been longing for?' She stares into his eyes .

He swallows excitedly and tears start to form in his eyes.....





'Bloody hell, don't tell me you've got Sky Sports?'

Roll Up, Roll Up...

A True Champion

I spent an enjoyable afternoon today watching the final round of the Open Golf Championship, this year being held at Royal Birkdale. Well, I tried to watch as grandchildren Jack and Hannah came over and they demanded Papa's attention...

Padraig Harrington, the defending champion, played some outstanding golf to retain his title. His second shot at the 17th was quite phenomenal. But what particularly impressed me was the quite superb sportsmanship from everyone concerned. In his winner's speech, Harrington thanked just about everyone in the Emerald Isle but his tribute to the runner up Ian Poulter, the amateur champion Chris Wood and the legendary Greg Norman - who came close to an astonishing and historic triumph - showed that modern day sportsmen - and women - can behave with dignity and courtesy.

Footballers are probably the worst example of poor behaviour with constant winding up of the opposition and the shameful trait of cheating to gain an advantage a feature of almost every game these days. I know it's too much to expect the Corinthian spirit in sport these days but golf is as close to retaining that as any. Although disappointment was etched across his face at the end, Greg Norman still took time to pay tribute to the champion, saying it was a very impressive victory by the Irishman.

The BBC coverage was excellent - unlike SKY, ITV et al there was no cutting for advertisements at crucial points in the day's play, thus losing the 'moment' - although the comment as the engraver was marking out the name of the winner on the claret jug - perhaps he's trying to find out how to spell Harrington - was a bit crass as the Dubliner's name was on the trophy from last year.

If I had a small gripe it was the constant bellowing of 'in the hole' from some of the crowd as soon as a shot was played - even the tee shots. That got a bit tiring at times.

But, overall, watching the Open was hugely enjoyable. And with his compassionate speech, Padraig Harrington proved it's not only on the golf course that he's a true champion.

The Language Of...???

As a fortysomething who sometimes feels his best years are setting like the sun on the horizon with the darkness of old age about to take their place, I occasionally feel my grandad status more acutely.

A younger colleague of mine in the office was chatting excitedly yesterday about going on holiday with her young family. 'So,' I casually remarked, 'You'll be feeling demob happy?' She looked at me with vacant eyes. 'What's that then?' she asked with an expression which suggested the old man's off on one again.

I tried to explain the term demob harks back to the second world war and the decade immediately after when young men and women served their country during conflict and in the post-war years did their national service in the armed forces. Having done their duty, they were demobbed back into 'civvy street', hence were demob happy.

Of course even I am too young to have been subjected to this - my fellow blogger and Jambo Adullamite will probably be able to tell you more, having served his country in both world wars - but the term was still widely used when I first began working thirty years ago. Many of my colleagues 'on the buses' in the late 1970s - pre First Bus when the company actually ran services to published timetables - were approaching retirement age and had served their time in the army. They often referred to going on holiday as being demob happy.

I really ought to make more of an effort to modernise my use of language but I find it increasingly difficult in this age of internet and mobile phone technology and the cursed 'text' speak. Daughter Michaela sent me a text message the other night saying she would give me a lift home - 'Al be over in fifteen minutes'. Quite who Al is I'm not sure but I can confirm my younger daughter has not acquired the services of chauffeur and indeed turned up on her Jack Jones (sorry, younger readers - on her own)

A minor source of irritation in a life I find increasingly irritating is the use of 'lol' not only in text speak but on internet messageboards. I know it stands for 'laugh out loud' but I always liken it to a stand up comic who is about as funny as a trip to the dentist and laughs at his own gags. I struggle with the whole concept. Another fellow Jambo sent me a text recently which seemed to allude to the fact he would see me on the motorway between Edinburgh and Glasgow. But what he actually meant by 'c u ltr M8' was that he would renew his acquaintance with me at a future date.

My elder daughter, the shy and retiring Laura, communicates with her father not so much by phone but through the pages of 'Bebo', the social - or you might say anti-social web site. She occasionally 'sends the love' although this is spelt 'luv' presumably because the energy she saves by typing three letters instead of four can be put to much better use...

I manfully try and accept all this on the premise of if you can't beat them, join them - lol. So until the next incoherent rant, I'll say TTFN.

Big Brother?

A central database holding details of everyone's phone calls and emails could be a "step too far for the British way of life", ministers have been warned.

Plans for such a database are rumoured to be in the Communications Data Bill.
But Information Commissioner Richard Thomas said "lines must be drawn" to defend "fundamental liberties".

The government says the growth of the internet means changes must be made to the way communications are intercepted in order to combat terrorism and crime.

In his annual report, Mr Thomas addressed speculation about plans for a government-run database holding details of telephone and internet communications of the entire British population.

From the BBC News website, 15 July 2008

This story worries me. I don't particularly have a problem with my telephone calls and internet usage being logged - this happens by the telephone companies and internet service providers anyway - but my concern is this 'central database' which the government will freely be able to get its hands on. Or not.

There's been a spate of stories recently about personal data going missing. Health records, tax records, bank details records - all have 'gone astray' from private companies such as courier firms or in some cases the government itself. Of course, when the Whitehall suits cock things up, Gordon Brown and his cronies rush out hastily prepared statements saying there's no risk and measures have been put in place to maintain confidentiality. They daren't say anything else - a statement urging everyone to check their bank accounts, credit card statements etc. would cause widespread panic. And this government is incompetent enough without having to deal with mass hysteria.

What would the government do with details of every phone call made in this country? Or with details of every website visited? Blogs such as these would immediately be targeted. If I were to post that Osama Bin Laden was residing in my shed in the garden would armed police be camped outside my door?

As Richard Thomas says in the above report lines must be drawn to defend fundamental liberties. A communications database with details of every phone call and website visited? What next? CCTV cameras on the front door of every house in the UK linked up to millions of tv screens in London?

Perhaps George Orwell's prose wasn't so far-fetched...