Podgy, Roker/ (The) Podgy Roker/ 'Podgy' (from) Roker/ (Mr.) Podgy Roker esq/ (I live in) Podgy, Roker

On the way to Leuchars I lost another Mackaye beanie. I must have lost hundreds o' them ower the years. Somehow it appears to be the only piece of identity fun my preventative valve will permit. Deek denied that he used to wear a patterned skullcap affair in the late 80's. I tell everybody I'm going to get a tattoo. It'll say "I am the crease in the shirt this world wears". It's great to be an everyman. Not for me thae dark glesses or patterned wellies which you a' love. T-shirts that say "I like sex". 'Crappy' £50 bags wi' Gola on them. How nicely the strap fits diagonally ower yer lithe shodders. Newsprint hoodies. Think aboot it. These things are what get you on in life. Pushing the misfit to the edge of the dancefloor. Snogging in his face. Early '92. Escaping mother to go and see Belly. Dressed in a dockyard jacket. The world carries on. Undergrads. They all eat rice and pulses then go to 'pull' in the Beer Bar. It's just like Jackie O's but with facillities and fringes. Sleep on Kai's floor. Really. The longer I live the more I just ken it to be true eg see that Michael Branagh? I really loved his Motorhead tee. In a bedsit somewhere there is a large man. He wrestles with the fact that he 'just cannot find a way into life'. He gives you abstract missives which aren't choked through choice. He can't settle on it. What is the point? Where is the context for a 'lonely' person? Even worse, one who has the look of a beast? who is 'heavy'? who is good in short doses? who writes manipulative pieces on the interweb to draw in sympathetic replies? who has Barry Bulsara status? The options have been exhausted. 1988. Wander around the bus station in a cowboy hat and a long coat which didn't even come from Ultarian. You see, they can buy an identity and change it if it doesn't work. I can't afford that. No contribution. No aroma of Gena Rowlands. Am searching for the means to an end. The fucking liberty taking. My one consolation is found in empty melodrama. Contribution. Obsessed with dogma. 30 stone partially sighted procedural fanatic in Karaoke based DSSS scrounging fest. The legendary Meek is now dead. He 'did' many windows 'on the side'. His accomplice looks after lushes with one leg now. He's on a back to work programme. Booze and fags. Trifectas. Lists are easy. Beaucoups of blues. I attended the inaugural Festival of Drifting. It's still going. The sound of impossibility is the sound of you playing wi yersel, trying to make the noises so it feels like an intimate experience. I am lost and I want it that way. It must be my choice. Asserting one's rights. 'They' all assert their perogatives to be 'shaggers'. I've got knackered furniture items . That's all I need. I'm in T-Hall ya bass. T-Hall tokers are finding the way and staking a claim on life. They have lasted the test of time. They are way more legitimate. Enter The Dragon- The Directors Cut. The proto barmy army shouted "Devon's back". I winced in the saggy old. I never 'shot my muck' until I was 24. The sex Olympics went on nearby. I didn't think it worked. Pages 12 and 13. The sex Olympics around you. "Put it in yer mooth Denise/ "Show us Yer Blert". Leave it to chance that the Kathy Burke family at 134 cannae see me in action. Going at it from a certain angle. There is a type of interaction that you all know how to do. It's instinctive in you. It is the currency of life. That's what you need to meet thae rules of attraction. Can you find a way into the vernacular? Either a "oh yes, the Bwillo?" or a "I'll goose ye, ya cunt". The type you need to get on. When there is nobody and you try to write about it, to 'let it out' of your heid and your hand, turn into popular song so it makes sense to 'you, the living'. How can it ever compare? What interest is a person's despair and 'genuinely crippling' loneliness to another? It can only come across as 2nd hand peeing unless you take a stand . It can never look good. Don't have it. Unhappiness is uncontrollable. Hyperbole in the words. Gives you away. Shows off nothing but limitation. You are not Bradshaw. You gave Need New Body at least 10 minutes to weave their spell. You didn't instinctively realise they had no credentials and ditch them for what they surely were. 'You' all sussed it out. To a man you look like Jeremy Sisto. Where am I? The free 10 minutes are up.

He Loved This Place- GiesThe Xmas Club Money You Tanger

Tragic Mulatto were a bunch of hardcore stalwarts. Last night I pissed in a sink for the first time since the days o' Panthers. The scene. Where you meet people. Where you go through rites o' passage. Fancy dress night. Where I was introduced to certain patterns. Where it first dawned on me the course o' life. Aye. Letchworth. Lissome shopgirls wearin' tight feted underwear outline. Grubby. Strainin' withoot ever trying. I am too far down the line . For a person to write they must have a feeling that they deserve to be listened to. The fat man does not possess that sense o' value. The hefty ones have nothing to declare them free of comedic roles. How can they be members of the race? "The only way I do it is meet somebody in a pub and then shag them". I will just hang around and lurk and aggrevate and piss on their many flowery parades wi'a' the DJ culture that goes wi' them while they invade ma space at the edge o' Fife dance flairs. Rocking and rolling. I was in a screamo band. The care sector. Stuff's no worth editing. The conversational that marks ye as mediocre. I am the new Phillip 'Phil' Differ. Soon the Record will disown another former hero. Wee Burnie is now a dead beast. He was once the wee mite who made ye glad to get 'poleaxed' on our Bucky and claim a free pie. I cannae express desire. I'm not legitimate. CC Bill $14.95 for 30 days. Unexpurgated access to all the guilt and mental illness you will ever need. "Our Boobies are all yours". Not the sole cause. Ended up on a night oot wi' masel indoors. Ma ain factors. Where is the love? Where is acceptance of soundtracks and ballads? Why can I not do a degree? Simply because I was not raised to do so. Apologies to all the advice. How are you going to afford that? He's daein' that. We're paying for him. I like looking at gappers. Boozy Best is deid. I cannae extract the poison frae the 'Tour de Poitrine' I wore on the first day in 1983. Looking back on yer life. The moment it ended. You really did have nothing of interest. That is not glib. A collection of statements to let you in on exactly the way he felt at 11.37 PM. In this place- one room and a place to sit which doubles as a bed when I get too worn out by having inspiration check oot. I may have to resort to the conversational to get the point across. Spent the day without any retrieval frae hours of trying to out think yous. I haven't any credentials. Music is all competition. How aware are ye of thae 'Nuggets' collections? I prefer Orbital. Lighting thae fires in the mid 90's. Get some vibes on. Get the martial arts on the go. 'Bottom' comedy still blows yer mind. Even ganja obsessives can be patter merchants. Drifting through life wi' awbody loving ye. Married in country hooses near Balingry. I'm no wearing any keks. She loves the fact I wear a tee wi' Superman on it. Fellowships. People around ye. I tell ye that I need that but I also can't stand the reality of being present within it. A' day. 10 slices. Millbona Gouda. A slice every 5 minutes passes yer day. Mother says "we a' need a bit o' comfort". Playing away frae hame. A mother o' 5. Yer brother has a bigger willy than you. "I've met people with your condition who enjoy a perfectly normal life". Congenial person. Give us a few pounds pal. That's a' I am. There was a time. Late December. Like in that song that naebody kens and I can get away wi' mentioning. Watery sunshine ower the hair. It was like nothing I'd seen and nothing I could ever have. I lent ye money so you'd talk for while. I want into the ways of it. You all know it. Here's a vacant one-defined by haein' nae cash or nae attraction. I go and visit graves these days. They make me feel like I should be crying. No because of who they are, mair because I cannae act in the manner of the class who measure the quality o' yer stane. The only reason I still am is 'cause o' how stupid I am. It's a' doon to how I cannae grasp thae plungin' extremeties o' the real direness due to my lack. I should add a given that I only speak this way cause I once read skaggy books. I only think this way cause I once shat on a Xmas step. Others have to teach me and show me the path. I have a bearing which needs to be educated. I can only ever operate in the 'confessional' genre. Others have to say it for me. I mean I ken it's no Fitz O' Depression. It's mair like Neil Hamburger. See? "I don't believe in the power of love. I don't believe in the wisdom of stone. I don't believe in a god or the mind" But I am alone.

I've Been Everywhere

On the day I heard 'Pig Champion' was deid, I wondered what it would be like to be 'of normal body'. Acceptable. The Fuckeridge is now open. Sunday nights. We're not working tomorrow- we're in The Beer Bar. Truly inevitable. None of your "hen, I currently weigh 17 stone, my penis is minute, thick as a brick, is that it?, I am unlikely to ever be truly honest with you, I really am no fun, dinnae expect any La Senza, ken?". The 'piggay bastards' are called. A man with alopecia and Blue Murder albums once cornered me outside Romano's Fish and Chicken Bar with his tales of Bounty Bars in the 80's. Another one asked me if I would like to read his 'Caravan and Trailer Monthly' and couldnae believe he had so many biscuits in his pockets. Spinal fusion. "He was 'simple', ken? No the full shiling, well, maybe 5p". At the same time, I was at 'the Porte'. A fucked blue metal shelter. "Will you get fixed with me?" There is no consolation in being the real deal when you're talking about 'status grading' amongst social misfits. England's Talisman and his heartbreaking tribute to awbody's heroes...I almost got a bit ornery/on the day David Bairstow died/ on the day 'old' Mick Shanley pished himsel in the Auld Hoose for the 47th time/on the day Robert 'Bob' Heggarty 'Haggerty' drank himsel to death...while running a charity race in drag. It's more than enough 'Kenny', you're wrong. Stop writing shite wi' 'Jonny'. He's nowt but a 'gapper'. Trying to escape, scarin' masel walking past 'Hey Kitty' and then witnessing thae lives wi' their 'ease of movement'. Choking sensations. Secure units. Survival kit. I don't know it. Bulging gut. This shape. She told me a story of how they would wake up mornings and crack open the grogs. Her wi' the Autumn colours, the orange jersey and the Ali MacGraw thing wi' the purple cords, she lost 'that' hat while pissed at the do. "You got any idea where it went?". Aye, it got dropped and kicked away by one o the Jackies and Shonas in the trooser suits and the Slosh. 'She' went hame wi' 'him'. I walked to the Dersim Kebab. I want to register myself as a man. I'm part of the human race. You really will accept me now. Can I marry you? That's not a reference to comedy. Skint and aflame but only wi' wasted ire. 5 miles. She phoned later. I was standing next to a car which was booming out Jaco Pastorius. I'm now aiming for Lemn Sissay. "Are you ok?" "No". "Aye, I'm fine. I'm ok wi' it. Everything's grand." What is the point of a low key death? On yer ain. Melodrama. Taking the power back. Throw a dog aff the bridge. I hate the way folk frae the weege say hawf. It truly is the most contrived thing I've ever heard. This is ma epitaph. He couldnae get wi' it. Where is the consolation? It's nowhere. TV and all there is for ye-Aqua Peem Charlie Hungerford. Cult followings age me years at a time. Posters of Meatwad. However many layers you have to break through. The Howling Castle (I mean come on, for fuck's sake) is as overrated as the Mogger bastards. The new 'Sport Billy'. You have to go with it tho'. The Cheeks and Cool Keiths of the world say it. They're making history. They now soundtrack tributes to Clive Lloyd. I cannae handle it. Where is she now? Scuffed. Incomplete. Control control control. Material from the epoch. A free gonk. Peter York. Peter Tork. Resort to material like 'Tork's cheesy organ dominates throughout'. Large man with pint in hand drooling over fanciables. Retreats to his Uriah Heap. I was carding it 'til I went bankrupt. We're worried about your debt. You've impounded my cooking materials, my Wisdens, comestibles. Sold everything else to Cash Converters. Needed to buy 6 pack of Frusli's. I'm the one who's guilty. On the Day I heard 'Pig Champion' was deid, I sold them 'Naked' on DVD for 50p, I ate 2 lunches, I heard 'she' wanted to see me, my claes dinnae fit, I have to quote this in full- "I could eat a chocolate bar and that would be all right/ but then my waist band would get too tight". My life is over.

Peem's Deid?

"Aye, one night I caught that fuckin' Peem along the brig wi' a load-y thae bricks, ken thae moneyblock things?", so qouth ma faither. Excerpts frae ma ain 'a voyage roond ma faither' withoot the cameos by a' thae Marcel Ber-lain-a likes. How do you pronounce that? ie the nimm o' the hoary old 'it's a saucy life 'at the bar' guy frae the Guard-jinn? Is it a positively Rabelasian Gallic affair or just another Bernie Tawp-inn glaring disappointment? This is ma search for a life revolving round hundreds of screenings per year of 'Rififi' and maybe the odd one or 2 of 'Zazou Pitts DANS LA METRO' or whatever it's called. A re-evaluation of 'Beaucoups of Blues' has set the tone to it all. I love it. Failures. Have a wank. No card facilities. Big boob hotline. It's behaviour I get away with cause I'm part of the underclass. It's a club of one. There are nae bass playing Jeremy's here. What can I cling to? Noodles and beans. Jaffa Cakes for 75p. References to topics which are way way way beyond rubbed into the ground yet I treat them like I think I'm giving you the low down only from this room with the sounds of the new Black Lace playing loud and clear withoot a stereo. This is one o' his PEETREE DISH EXPEARIMINTS which garnered a' that acclaim. Gerry Hastie had one o' their stickers on his. No it wasnae them at all. I'm supposed to revel in my ordinariness and my inability to forge. I'm dying to use the phrase "And what about the time they called me Mackie?" Adulthood in Ravelston Dykes. Where is it gone and when did Dyke have his teeth done? Affected by the last acts of christian charity. This is my style. What else can there be when you're right here at one wi' yersel? The end of my life. A time for reflection. Picasso's nephew adds grandeur to it. I never liked William Gaunt. Not with a penis like mine. I've been on ma ain. Wearing a spunky housecoat. Fresh new sluts. 4 bowls of muesli. Put on 2 stone. I'm now writing like The Pictish Trail. They would still have hated him at The Ollerton. 'The Cas' is no more. Another thing I want to drop in is that ' I want those in the know to know that I've felt pain in little stabs across the years' even if it's sullied by recourse to a band. A mainstream piece of Jupitus. It seems like there's no meaning to it at all. 'A bad person' not worthy of reassessment. You do move on stage you know? You're a good dancer. Overseas disappearance. No chance. Focus. Absolute. Here's the end. Ginger girl, she called herself 'a boozer' one night, I was only 21 stone at the time. She took me back to her abode and attempted to cook student food while almost completely inebriate. This is the truth- her flatmate worked in construction. "It's not something to which I am suited. To what do you think you are suited? Getting out of here" I did get out of there, down the stairs of the stone built, past awbody's bikes. I went hame. I didn't want to be there. I wanted to be back in the land of 'mess-up and get away with it'. More and more booze. I drank 2 bottles of wine and thought about how others can get away with pretending to be 21 and I couldnae. She was a boozer.

....shadows of the afternoon...or..radgie/gadgie...

kedgeree...mother made that for us once, well she called it kedgeree. Don't think it was fishy in the bona fide (and Klepto) sense. She only liked 'that yellow fish' anyway. It was more of a rice and ooze mass like what 'one' might hear discussed in an 'authentic Scots tongue' version o' Abigail's Party, complete wi' the shitest available gimmick ie that o' having Beverly played by a man, and no ordinary man either, probably one from the highly employable stable o' Naked Video extras and acquaintances o' that funny wee gray haired bank manager guy frae the theatre company who make all thae stories 'for the people' complete with SINGING and much obsequious behaviour in the direction of Dorothy Paul. I 'didnae like it'. I told her so. She told me that I 'couldnae pick and choose'. My mother being my mother, this meant that I clearly had displayed ideas and behaviour way above my station. Next I would be saying 'aye' and 'ken' to people from the church or to my brother's wine-obsessed in-laws. We were 'po' Fife folk' and we had to behave like it godamnmit...anyway, that's what appears to be on ma mind RIGHT NOW (???) maybe,maybe. A' the pretension that flows through ma heid. I have to communicate with ye. I have to give ye the essense of ma soul. I have to confess ma innermost to you. I want you to flock to ma side, to ma aid, to turn me around. At the same time, I can hear some of you lying back with your other halfs and yer 'nice bottles of wine' and goin' Aye, it's no quite The Double Leopards or David Foster Wallace or those little bastards The Moggers or The Rebel live at The Scottish Hobo Society or another night at 'Fast' or another night o' fuckin' wi' Alice or a trip to Hanging Rock (THE ACTUAL LOCATION) or even a life in Bearsden...well I'm no claimin' that it ever could be but something inside me feels bereft cause I'm no the equivalent o' a' thae experiences for yous all..look I'll make it more palatable...my name is Hamish...I am 19...I am a glaciology student...I have a big cock...I like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and The Kooks...I read anything that 'Amy' leaves in the bathroom of our lovenest...I'm in the middle of a gapper in Burundi...I'm struggling to make the time to get back for the family Xmas in Cirencester...I am a debenture holder with 'Howies'...I had sex with a girlfriend of one of the Guillemots but I will never tell anyone about it...I intend to live a little but within the bonds of an ethical model..... sorry I feel exasperated. I'm postin' this because I want to go back to tellin ye aboot masel. I've tried 'writing stuff' since the last time I bothered ye but I've struggled to find the correct level of organisation within ma heid to do that. I'm trying to make this a wee preamble to encourage masel to do it again. I think all of ye's ken aboot the old blog. I'll be honest wi ye and say that it died because I decided not to talk about 'her' (no explanation as yet). Man, I have to talk about 'her'. I want to find a way to do it in a meaningful and non crappy way. I'll be lookin to do that if I feel like it wioot being an erse. I got freaked by some praise of ma posts too. Beautiful as it was to hear that, I just could not believe somebody could appreciate stuff I wrote. Not sure I can now...and that's not frae the pov of me being a COMPLEX DIFFICULT WONDERFUL FLAWED HUMAN BEING DRIPPING WI UNDERSTANDING AND INSIGHT..it's just that I cannae balance what I see when I look in the mirror or react to the way I believe I'm perceived and match that wi' a person who is worthy o' summat....I'm afraid that's the truth o' what goes on in ma heid...I struggled to react to criticism of stuff I wrote too..it surprised me that I reacted in that way, it really did. I think folk thought I was mean and anti-social and hated a' people..well part of that might be true...when I write I try to catch what's goin on in ma heid and while I hopefully take responsibility for things I say, primarily I'm turnin the spotlight on masel and trying to catch some o' the inner crap I feel (BOGUS..sorry for pre-emptin'...) as it happens...I don't think I hate people...I know that on a day to day basis I build up a sense that the worlds of youth, fashion,virillity, love and meaning are out to get me and that I will never become a member of their clubs or that those members will never accept me as capable of understanding how they go about their 'thing'...as for couples...well I am intimidated by being around pairs o' folk who appear to have 'arrived' or who can give off the illusion of being content, at one etc...I've never felt that way (mair BOGUS) and I dislike having advancement and 'normal life' staring me in the face. I'm sorry Jim but for the most part I don't feel like I've joined the human race and seeing an integral part of the way 'Modern life' operates is difficult for me (pfffffttt.. 'I was only 22/it was very hard for me....'). Seeing the shack jobs of Gorgie/Dalry in front o' the Riesling at the local Somerfield is an oddly withering experience...a' thae confidences and togetherness and SHARED EXPERIENCE...they sense someone who doesn't share their ways, they fear that they too could be a singleton wi' a permanant pizza box to hand...man, this society values the couple...if yer fanciable, you've arrived...if yer no, then you're most likely a 'beast' or even worse 'a lonely man' or 'a sad man'...I obviously am a 'lonely man' and that's hard, as loneliness is THE WORST (I'm not at all self conscious re saying that) but I wish I didnae have internal insanity goin on which makes me think that sexually active members of the bourgeoisie are 'after me' because I sit in front o' them at the pictures or I just cannae 'understand'...so something makes me feel that I need to 'sing the troubled beast' again...I don't 'understand', I don't know if you do either...I might have a tenuous grip....I might be a 'bammer'...I might " 'pu' ma pud cause it is so good'" just like Doc Cox...I might interrupt yer appreciation o' 'Gorky's' but hey...you know...I'll unload 'it' somewhere into/unto the ether and it'll maybe help for 5 mins...thanks for coming...ha ha... look just had a change o' heart. Was going to make this permission only on a new blog but I cannae be botherered messin aboot wi' email addresses the now so it's going back on the old blog for now!. I'll rectify this soon and edit accordingly..oops...

This is the story of your life..play Captain Fantastic at least for tonght

Saturday...So aye, you know man I felt quite buzzy after posting for the first time in 'about 10 year'. I finished it off in the s/h and then went straight to catch the train through to Fife for faither's bash. Well kinda straight away...after having some kinda unpleasant shit re what claes to wear and a' that....Jeez, on reading it back the sheer pissy normality of that statement has just sickened me. How could I write that??? I mean it's a true account o' what went down at that time but I feel instead like I just expressed a similar thought to what somebody 'dippit' in the media like Edith Bowman pour example might have done from time to time. The fact I got her nimm in there has given me immense pleasure. Seriously tho' I just can't hide the type o' person I am. I'm nae great thinker (!) and that is made all too clear when I let masel go and just 'write'. Domestic stuff or 'little concerns' are what flow if anything does. Nane o' that knowledge available only to Julian Barnes is evident. To be honest I would rather have some of the knowledge known only to 'Tam' Barnes, a famous small town bigot and piss heed from back hame (the guy's nimm always confused me. I think it may have actually been 'Barn' or 'Barron' but the Fife vernacular did it nae favours and the local normalisation method with odd sounding names not a mile removed from popular ones came into effect eg Andrew Matthew became Andy 'Matthews' or 'the coalman') Ma best memory of Tam was being 'stuck' on a late night bus coming back frae Edin one night. The concept of the night bus is still revolutionary in these areas of such full-scale 'slackness in the blackness'. It was plodding through Burntisland aka 'drug/ganja island', the nearest toon tae Kinghorn where ma folks and Tam stay. I saw him oot the windae. He was absolutely blootered and kinda clumping sideways along the High Street. He saw ma bus going past, simply couldnae believe it and swooned round in the most laboured and debilitated way I've ever seen while at the same time producing quite a spectacular swift and sudden sensation of a huge mass lurching and turning tide. It spoke of disbelief, indignation, bewilderment, dismay that public transport could run though HERE at such an hour of inebriation and he had missed it...shit...it was one of the purest pieces of expression I've ever seen...beautiful in it's way... but anyway, there are times I reckonI will only feel personally complete and accepted if I can write ANYTHING that is worthy of a bogus piece of Peregrine 'Peri' Worsthorne or Beatrix/Beatrice/Beatitude Campbell (is that her nimm??..short haired, northern, farcically intellectual academic...) critical analysis. The fact that I simply cannae do that leads to some great frustration...no really... I have to accept I can only function on a certain level. I just wish I could stop wanting to be 'serious' and to 'really show you' and then getting annoyed when the way I talk and think in reality sneaks in. I thought for a long time yesterday re the malaise of levity which gets in there. What I want is nothing more than to give you many tales from the inner recesses (!!!!!) and yet next before I know it it'll be aw jaunty catch phrases and T In The Park reviews mixed wi' pages and pages of me arranging to meet ma wide network of like minded friends for legendary events and evenings of barmy activity. I struggle wi' this pish man. Ma head does not stop telling me I'm a bullshit artist. I have to 'deal'. Look folks, this is a serious request. How does 'one' come to terms wi' thersel? How do you find a way of doing? A way to get by? For the most part, thae stark warnings o' a Peter Bradshaw world pervade ma thoughts and I just don't have a clue. Answers on a postcard...well...comment would be pretty guid...maybe I could start the catchphrases and say I would 'love you long time' (AAAARGH) if you gave me a comment...catch my drift?...student bands who are sufficiently guileless/stupid/pretty enough to call themselves 'Charlie Don't Surf' and get away with it...schemie DJ's who bill themselves as 'Lazarou'...pissed badger-haired fanny's strutting/wobbling round Fountainbridge in white shirts wi' 'Bickle' on the back...anyone who dishes out ganja related humour of any kind...so many folk love a' this shit...in fact 'the opposite sex' (the most sweeping generalisation in the world comes to you with a healthy dose o' casual misogyny) seem to be particularly fond of it (!!!!!)...the thought o' this makes me ill...I know if I gave in and did something crap and obvious and shite then at least one chapter of both the Le Tigre fancy dress society and the Bonnie Greer life code olympians would kill me for a lack of flair and of course UNDERSTANDING...help...I endeavoured to put this madness to one side for as long as I could. I focussed on the other part o' ma heid. It was zoned into the simply wondrous and pure melody that is 'Major Cities' by The Headphones. There were times when I wish I was David Bazan. That is not the type o' 'ting I will say about folk but...'all empires eventually expire and when they finally do it's never pretty, so just sit back and wait for the attacks, especially in the major cities. Please hold my hand, sweetheart. Daddy's got you. Mama's out in the car and she packed your favourite blue shoes. Here they come, exploding like the sun, ringing in my ears like independence. I agree this doesn't favour me, still, bullies are to get what's coming' This did provide a bit o' succour. One thing came to mind tho' while I was walking. I saw the quirky Scottish character actor of stage and screen 'Molly' Innes yesterday. I can safely use (almost) real nimms here cause she's a celebrity. We were at school the gither. I had my version of a huge crush on her. She was bright, feisty, quirky in the bestest way ie she had her ain ways o' daein' things and had the intelligence and the 'way about her' to do them just like that. She looked 'unconventional'. I've always loved that big time. I once heard her described as having a look akin to having been run over by a truck. I'm afraid if you asked me to enter the world of Russell Brand and Jeremy Kyle and probed me on what 'I liked' then 'M'I kinda started things off...see earlier posts re my worries over 'sexism'...I love reddy browny gingery hair, I love petite but not skinny idiosyncratic girls who look as if they might just have 'lived' and who have loads to say re unimportant, 'weird' things, who are imperfect, who do not get excited by Peter Andre etc...to make masel feel mair precarious I'll tell you aboot the thrill I got from seeing Aussie comic Sarah Kendall last week. Her act sounded like it was written by the team behind 'My Family' but man she had lovely voluminous lustrous gingery hair. It was quite something. ..moving back to 'M'I before the police come to the s/h...she also seemed so distinct frae her 'neebors' ...this heightened my liking for her indubitably. Her pals were the most fearsome group of girls I'd ever come across..please bear in mind I was 12-17 at the time...To an individual they were haughty, aloof, venemous when approached with anything, angrily self contained, sneery, in the 2nd year pupil vernacular of the time they thought they were 'hot shit' and basically set the bench mark for a 'type' (I'm sorry) of behaviour I dinnae like...they were GLACIAL. To make it mair basic you felt like they were taking the piss out of you amongst themselves at ALL TIMES. I'd never seen a group of boys or girls display anything like this kind of containment and power up to that date. They didn't give a fuck for talking to mere mortals. They were in control and would have none of it. They were great at sniggering and smirking. As a silly inward youth (and probably as an even more stupid 35 year old wi' a' ma ideas shaped indelibly in thae horrible teen days) they scared the shit out of me. It went on for some time. One of ma pals once asked one o' 'them' out. She said she was washing her hair! As an overweight blubbery/blubby boy with no set image or standing I was on the chopping block. I can mind a shitload o' sarcasm. None of which made me feel any guid. Tho' I can remember being even more of an asshole than I am now. I responded in funny shouty/sulky ways to situ's like this. That just made them laugh louder and in a more arch manner. What freaked me out was that these folk weren't aggressive, daft, popular people at all, they were slightly on the fringes, a bit 'alternative', bright , clever. I hated the jock types and I felt I should be on the same side as 'M'I's group. They had other ideas. I know the thought police are gathering re the grouping together of females under the same description. Well I do that deliberately cause that's just what it seemed like at the time..and..cause I don't know where this is going! They were always together. Aye they all had individual traits but you didn't see them on their own often enough to differentiate! At the time I thought I was being grown up in my thoughts about them and I felt seeing what I thought was 'power' and 'strength' gave me an insight into what I reckoned 'female behaviour' was all about!! Of course now I know that arseholes are arseholes regardless of gender. I'd better tell you that I've edited this bit so much for stuff that might be considered 'sexist' that it probably doesn't make it any sense. Look I've ever read any Michel Houellebecq tomes if that eases things a bit. Why am I going on about this? I'm no sure. They were the first folk I thought of when I saw her. I found that disappointing. I wanted to show you where the 'persona' started I suppose. One of the first times I couldnae deal wi' things I didnae dig. Please refer to the previous post. In thae days I was intimidated by the idea of (as a former client of mine used to call my female colleagues) 'a female woman' and what that might be. I only saw mysteries I thought I could never fathom. I didnnae like feeling that way. I didn't know what to make of my thoughts in this area then and I still don't. I'll let you read into it if you can be Will-Geered. I bet you her pals would still be sneering at me if they met me. A wee while ago I did see that one of them was working in a cheese shop. That was some strange consolation, I guess...look..anyway...seeing 'Molly' was weird. I tried to get the glacial ones oot ma mind. I thought about just her. It didnae work entirely. I knew that she was brighter than 'them' and that she tended no to need to display it. I loved that. I thought she was approachable back then away frae 'them' and I knew that I'd never made a real effort to approach her. I never told her at all what I felt about her. That still felt incomplete yet par for the course. She probably knew...maybe. Maybe I didnae know who she was at all?? Me being me, the fact she was wi' her man when I saw her made me dwell on ma inner recesses for a wee while in a kneejerk motion. On this occasion, I soon got over it. Most folk would have thunk o' what might have been at this point but I kent masel better than that...aye the confidence o' geeks...another glorious contradiction. I saw this guy on the train ower to Fife. He was a real Toby Radloff but hide hissel under a bushel and a Gregory Peck?...heaven forfend...a very lost American family sat next to him. He was into top gear right away...he sensed they needed knowledge of the local public transportation system. He was the right guy. He pounced. He had the bearing and demeanour of a reptilian speeshiss from Pluto but he kent many things that might be handy in the event of a breakdown on the M74 e near Flitwick (I love the way that it appears to be pronounced Flit-ick and not Flit-wick...see also the time I heard a platform announcement at Brighton station requesting staff attend to a spillage (pronounced in the French style- spill-ajjjhhh- soft and langourous unlike the rough and ready spulliddgge o' ma Fife ken) on platform 7) and he reeled in the years in the verbal style learnt from his winning upbringing at Fettes in the days before he realised he was mair Housego than 'horny horny horny'. This boy was no wallflower. Aye admittedly he had nae social awareness. He was supplying the advice and you'd better listen...but he had balls 'bigger than Hamley's' and ground on and on. The family looked uneasy. Maybe where they came from social misfits were painfully awkward and shy. Surely they weren't supposed to seem like they had just brought down Barings Bank. I sat there thinking about how I would love to have this guys lack of self awareness. He did not thnk of how he came across. He answered the 'movement in his brain' and it sent him out onto the train with his factfinders and copy of the latest newsletter from Alumni relations. He could bore whole families into submission and never know it. I wanted to be him! Maybe...like most things (!!)...it's a class vibe...working class geeks are downtrodden, there is no doubt about it...when you look 'nordie' and have nae cash then you have to use the same corner shops and breathe the same air as thuggery itself. If you live in T-Hall and look like that guy frae Citizen Smith who always played characters called Ken then you're no going to get very far before you get a 'doin' if you don't keep your head down and deny the fact you know all about scale models of The Prawn Marie Rose...but if you're armed wi' a' that Youth Jazz Orchestra bolstering, live in Boglily Road (THE affluent street in Kirkcaldy) and are well acquainted with what a 'Notary' is then you have the spirit to grow and flourish. Who cares if you talk to human beings the same way you would talk to a llama as long as you have free reign to venture forth on yer knowledge o' types of church organs. The fact you attended 'Millfield' ensures you will always live in parts of the world where you'll meet like minded scallywags. You're fine, you lifeboat-obsessed David Starkey sound-alike you. It's even easy for geeks....UNDER CERTAIN CIRCUMSTANCES...background= blissful unawareness...discuss...I digress..back to Sat...I ended up in Kdy and met KB + missus. It was great to catch up. Not spoken to KB for a while. I had missed him as ever. Conversation was great. The old town wasnae looking quite so rosy. It dawned on me that most things had shut down since I left. Even the bus station rebuilding has stalled through 'financial difficulties'. If the town was ever properly alive it's a bit on the moribund side right now. The characters going about in the High Street didn't lift the vibe. I got a sense they didn't care about things closing. Maybe if the disco-tech shut down that would be cause for protest but not much else would rouse them frae the routine o' a bridie at Greggs followed by a shout at thae 'Gourangas'. I couldn't switch off frae ma mothers description o' some inhabitants of Fife as being 'basic folk'. Man, this is a proley town. You only need to be in Kdy for 1 min to know you ain't in Edin. Over here 'the festival' means the Bevvy Park Beer Festival, A special event which attracted Jakeys and metallic drongoids with full body tattoos alike. What else CAN you do here except grog?? Doing it in a novelty stylee in a big tent is a truly memorable experience. Where's the Whittards and the Wholefood palaces? Well, we've got Relzo's pet stores and TanFastic. It's even less sophisticated than G/D which is the Lumphinnans of MidLothian. The populace are happy wi' what they have, not in an ecstatic spontaneous way. They just don't know anything else to compare it to. A bit o' lustre and some vibrancy simply couldn't be found on Saturday. Awbody trudged round and round counting the times you made it past the building site which was the old Littlewoods and will soon be the new 'Denims' (I think he means Debenhams) as ma faither called it. To point oot the inevitability of the experience I did genuinely see Bottle John...maybe I should tell you who he is...or not...ok, he's a guy with a learning disability who used to live in the same street as me in the T-Hall part of town. Kdy is not a liberated pliss and he's treated in quite an offhand way by the locals who have probably seen him every day of their lives for years and years. He's not a young man now but folk still scowl and cower away frae him. He was once described to me as 'simple'. He's very high profile in T-Hall. I used to see him a lot when I lived there and I picked up a few of his wee stock phrases. When I worked wi' folk wi' learning disabilities I picked up that most clients tend to have strange non sequiturs that they repeat over and over. BJ always used to look at me and say "I ken that boy. He's ma brother". Another one was "I'm coming to your door tonight". He tended to say these things to most folk tho'. Not awbody knew how to take him. He is obsessed with buses and you often see him going back and forward down to the High Street on the buzz bus things. He has a few odd 'ways' about him. You often hear him before you see him. He has a totally manic laugh that can just erupt out of nowhere and echo round an empty bus. As the moniker suggests he has a thing for collecting those 10 p deposit glass bottles and handing them into chippys. He's almost part of the furniture in that part of the town. Seeng him made me a little tiny bit nostalgic but then the fact I knew I would see him and other faces made me think I would never really escape. It'll never change. I'll come back again. He'll be wandering around the bus station. Bill Gimmix's gut will be bulging through his Harley Davidson cut off outside the Indoor Market. The 'sweary man' will be screaming 'THEY'RE ALL FUCKING YANKEE BAMS' at a group o' petulant Rockport schemies outside Royals. Mr. High Energy and brother will have opened and closed another shit record shop. 'Big Kenny, the 'morbidly obese' serial cider drinker frae Betty's' will have gone into singleton despair and used his 33 RPM voice to kill everyone in his path. (I can see it now. Here's the next in an ongoing series of guides to local uber-legends) Will there be any escape? I have a fear of ending up here SOMEHOW. A lot of folk choose to do it. Please please please don't let it happen. Never let it happen. I dinnae want to die in the land of the Tasty Tuck...as day turned to night in the kingdom, I went to ma faither's 70th bash. I just dinnae have much to report that you couldn't deduce frae yer knowledge of me already. I didn't feel at home. Some of mother's anxieties vexed me bent. I felt as if I hadn't evolved 'correctly'. I wasn't drinking. That felt wrong. I ate fattening food. I was truly wracked with guilt afterwards. I am struggling wi the diet at the moment. Had a few bad days. Am having the worst food pangs I've ever had. I think that contributed to ma mood yesterday. I was fucking ravenous. I just couldn't eat enough food. I didn't have much that was really bad but generally ate too much. Today's been the same. I did have one bad thing. I'm struggling. I doubt if I'll lose much mair at this rate. I'm looking for signs I'm putting weight on. I think I am. From experience I know I do put on weight very quickly. I seriously have to watch. I'll settle for staying round about 15 stone if I can. Fuck. I know I want to and I know how to do it but I'm starting to think it won't be as easy as all that. No sure there's ower much left to say. Sorry for the disjointed nature o' the last twa things. No sure what I wanted to say but I knew I wanted to say them. Am feeling a little odd today. Work was shite. I don't want to be there. Putting the effort in for nae cash is galling! I really feel like taking some time off and recharging tho' I know it'll most likely end up being a negative factor for me what wi' too much time on ma hands and a' that. I'm very tired tonight. No sure I'll sleep tho'. One of those...

Long ago it must be, I have a photograph, preserve your memories, they're all that's left you.

Aye well I told you I was going to gie ye some detritus. Sadly this is to tide me over 'til I can get a proper affair going on. I've been treading water on something new today. Got bogged down talking about 'berds'!! I was dying to tell you about a memory frae school days. I'm trying to word it so you don't think I'm the next Chubby Brown fanatic or at least, a 'man' who has developed his opinions of said folk from an 'On The Buses' revival or more pertinently, from the shop floor of Kirkcaldy Royal Mail delivery office. Ever since I became aware o' ma feelings re who I was attracted to I've had a slightly skewiff idea of ...ha...the rules of attraction!...you might just have noticed already...I know this has been caused primarily by a feeling o' terminal and hopeless unattractiveness and sexlessness (???) on ma part. The prevailing wind in the backwater I came from didn't help. Ma male peers in the 80's were hell bent on CONQUEST in whatever manner possible. Boorish behaviour appeared to be the only option open to 'one'. It took me a long long time to develop a personal sense of there being a stance I could take and a way which I could go to get away from attitudes which were intrinsically wrong to me. I suppose what I'm trying to say is that because I felt so crap aboot masel I was unable to think about approaching 'romance'/sex/ liking somebody in a respectful and mutually enjoyable way. I knew I liked girls. Unfortunately I also KNEW that they wouldn't like me. I was fat, I was horrid, I couldn't even be a bastard like most of 'them' seemed to like (sorry..but I'm trying to do a Mr. Chips/Roy Walker here) . As ma thoughts developed I knew that while I was still horrid I had a bit o' decency and I hoped that folk knew I tried to get along wi' them despite certain crappy teeny sulks, outbursts, detours etc. As ma sense o' self got stronger I started going mair skewiff. An idea o' something developed along the line of...I see all these girls I like going out with arseholes. I'm not an arsehole. Why not me?? This kinda grew and grew. It outlived logic, maturity, sense. From time to time I've brought my sense of 'injustice' up to a big big scale. I know that nobody will 'like' me and I get oddly annoyed internally at some abstract concept of 'womanhood'...there man I've said it in a relatively straightforward way...this still exists. It draws on my inability to get over teenage shit and 'move on', I guess. It's still there. At bad times I get sweeping and fatalistic and think that I don't understand 'womenkind'! . I'm not sure I've understood individual women, I can say that with certainty. I couldn't really tell you what woman or man-kind meant to me. The bad bit comes when I tend to look at behaviour I've seen from some women and apply this to a 'type of behaviour'...man I know I do it frequently ...and continue to do so. I'm not proud of it. It's a kind o' shit that goes on in ma head based on memories o' crap I've seen that I've allowed to grow into unacceptable areas of thought. Examples of this have been ma dislike o' the glacial thing I've maybe mentioned. On the other post I've been going on about a group of lasses I knew at school. Man, the individuals in the group weren't nice folk at the time...imo... no more no less...I tended to see them as a single entity. I hate aloofness. It's just a horrid thing to project. Being on the other end of it has the ability to fuck with your head as you know dispensing alofness involves a fair bit o' contrivance and intent. Members o' the group o' folk I mentioned seemed to go oot their way to gie you sarcasm and snootyness at most times. Again the internal crap came in. I saw a' this exterior stuff as being a type of behaviour. In ma heid this soon became an aspect of 'FEMALE BEHAVIOUR'. Of course the harder I looked the more I saw women being sullen and blank to me before being open and warm wi' the hipper specimens that came their way. I even made a name for women who were well dressed, cool, said the right things at all times, talked down to you because they could...OR SEEMED TO IMO...these folk were GLACIAL. As ma madness went on I found more and more examples of glaciality (??), predominantly in the indie fraternity. Somehow the hipness value of my Cud 7-inches were no quite on a par wi' that o' the flick fringed young buck wi' the Felt badge frae Southerton Gardens (very posh estate near the school I went to). I couldn't get this insanity oot ma heid. I started to believe it as fact. Women hate me. I don't know what they want. They are ALL this or that. I never felt confident around a woman. I had a' this crap going on. It was unbearable if I knew I 'liked' the lass in question. I just gave in and didnae bother to talk. I never really had any proper female friends 'til TLK. I still feel a lot o' this crap. I lapse into it frae time to time.. well often...it's no pleasant...that's the Mcluckie lowdown on 'my life as a sexist bastard'...good lord...I continue to have this thing re being 'honest' at all times. The other day I heard Reginald D. Hunter say, in context, that he didn't 'trust women'. I thought that took a great deal o' courage. He would probably face a fair bit o' 'flak' for that. I think he was probably expressing similar stuff to me tho' coming from another angle. His show was partly an exploration of his feelings of a need to be honest and the practicalities of 'true' honesty. I loved it. It got me trying to delve into ma ain feelings and fears and failure in getting on wi' you all. One thing I was thinking about and I have thought about for some time. Do any non-males read ma nonsense?? Let me know, one reason being so I can recognise you when you get pissed off at me if we should meet. I am also obsessed with not being seen to be sexist. Shit man. Are we talking about nowt but obfuscation and denial??..Aargh..maybe...god I'm trying to come to terms wi' masel. I think I've got to the letter D. There's a long way to go. Many areas for me to lose you in have yet to be explored...eek...enough of this...I need to change tack...I felt as if that was written in a 'stiff' and 'edited' manner cause I was trying to be so careful what I said. I'll try to get looser in future!! Right here are some unused bits and pieces from a while back. Here's mair stuff re ma feelings on SVQ. I wrote this in July. It was hot and I was a bit lost...ha...Well, it's the Monday vibes. The temp and general Brian Close-ness here in G/D has gone to ma brew and has made me think that my real name is in fact 'Liebling' and that I'm on a mission from the average shagging geezer's favourite actor/ 'the Bugsy Malone' guy tae chuck some chunky old geezer into a vat of gumbo before boffing Mrs. Lenny Kravitz in soft focus, 'culling' a few rooster, and heading off into thae circles of hell somewhere outside Cowdengelly and washing it all down with the stunning album from the frankly intolerable Dr. John which is of course called, 'Down On the Bayou....Again' . If that's not a long winded pishy metaffer then I don't ken what is. I do set the benchmark in something. When did I speak to yous last? Friday? Aye. Back to work on Sat. Nae...SPARROW...but plenty o' strife all related to SVQ. I tried and tried and nearly threw the works PC and masel oot the windae but managed to come up with a 'draft' of a reflective account. The big vibe with SVQ seems to be 'total negation of self'. Any individual thought is wholly unwelcome and unhelpful. All 'they' want is an endless flow of John Houseman with total adherence to the bible of 'covering your back' that is the 'Social Services Code Of Practice' and the broon shirts who police it ie The Care Commission. The care sector runs on a culture of fear, man, a psychosis built on the sense that you are being evaluated for little tiny scraps of 'bad practice' which, somewhere down the line might just turn out to be seen as you lapsing on your 'duty' of care. This is officially the most nebulous phrase in all the land. It usually acts as a device for care industry wonks to have a 'bob each way' ie they can promote all the independence and self-expression they like in their fancy pamphlets and media briefings while at the same time they're bludgeoning staff at the coal face to promote 'independence', they are secretly trying to forget that independence can be downright messy ie it might not produce results (clients winning awards or finding employment or 'behaving themselves' or not acting like 'clients') and clients might also go astray from the Rantzen-esque life path they want them to follow. Now that's where the commish 'hove into view'. It's time to make the aforementioned staff shit themselves. 'YOU NEGLECTED CLIENT X. You reply with something like 'No I didn't, I followed your guidelines and suggestions'. They hit you with the killer. They are indeed hammer hurler, hammer hurlers. " YES BUT. AT THE END OF THE DAY (bland language is a' the rage...I am a cheeky cheeky man after all. I'll be 'bearing ma buttocks' to passersby outside Night Magic before too long) YOU HAVE A 'DUTY OF CARE' WITH CLIENT X'. Well aye I mean, I do. I have a personal moral code and a fully integrated sense o' what is fair-ha ha (as well as a hatred o' fitba' and it's cliche's) but I also prioritise giving the client the space to move at his own pace, to breathe, to interact with the world outside serviceland, to be a human being. For christ sake. What I feel is that the reams and reams of, dare one say it, new laboury, paperwork that fill this sector tend to give off mixed signals re the actual day to day realities of working with PEOPLE. SVQ is a celebration of all this how to 'cover your back'/ 'protect yourself'/shit yersel culture..so there... compilation blogging?? It'll never catch on. I somehow doubt if a 'fork handles' gem will turn up in here either. Mair later, if you're still there. Aye Sunday was mair than a bit shite. All day I felt as if I wanted to tell you 'things' so badly. I could not get the words out in a state that satisfied me. I think that's the explanation for the compilation tape. I wanted to, had to, tell you something, even if it was old and shitty. I knew I was going to have a downer somehow..VACUITY. I kipped at the parents the night before after an inevitable miss the last bus disaster. Spent half an hour waiting at the version of the gates of hell that is the area immediately surrounding disco-tech land Kirkcaldy style for the night bus thing back to Edin. It didnae stop where it should have and I ended up going back to 'the old house'. I suppose it was predictable but the scene in nightclub world wasnae pretty. Something is wrong with us all man if this is what we choose to do on a Fri or Sat night...immolation by grog...the new dawn that is comedy wearing of kilts wi' nae scants underneath...rancid burger vans...DJ Alan Key (geddit???)...hopelessness real hopelessness...there were nae fisticuffs but I've seen so much of this in both Fife and Fountainbridge that tho' I still cannae really believe each new development I see, I'm starting to find wall to wall vomiting and casual brutality commonplace. Jeez man, you know I'm just another of these well adjusted guys who base their moral code and outlook on Marty DiBergi movies. These folk (Mean Streets fanatics and small town binge drinkers alike) have 'either no sense of wonder or no sense of scale'. Sometimes in that toon I know naebody is thinking a metre beyond the 'thank you for visiting the kingdom of Fife. We hope you enjoyed your stay' sign. Aye they can do what they like etc etc etc but surely this pliss-both county and club- can't be the centre of anyone's universe...I know it is tho', there's the muthafuckin' plain clear as day rub...this is how you meet yer other half in Fife, this is how yer desirability is measured, how yer normalcy count is taken. This is what happens no more no less. Underneath a' ma layers o' crap I want to get involved in life. I want to join the human race. I even want to 'just fit in'. But I can't go along with or feel comfortable with or sated by certain mores namely the route of Methy obliteration leading to shagging/fighting and other warriors of Ghengis Khan. Cue Werner...'I don't want any more of this moody brooding"...I don't want anymore of it for masel either but I'd rather sit on the sidelines and quietly scoff than 'let masel go' and be a part of a schemie version o' an early instalment in La Grande Bouffe...Anyway, I'll maybe go into mair detail on ma visit to the parentals elsewhere but I think there was something in the combo of late night madness and going back to the sights and sounds o' ma youth that led me astray...those pigeons cooing all night in the trees out the back. I'm sure you'll find the black lodge in those trees. Maybe I could find my own Annie Blackburn in Fife after all??..jeez.. there's ma tagline for geekydating.com. Anyone want to start a business??...gulls too. My folks live near the sea and the bastards circle all night. They get into your sleep. They remind you of the total multi faceted emptyness of it all man...nobody around, thae papers blowing around outside the Good News, the creaking o' the blue bus shelter which had 'Nae B'land papes frae K'horn' sprayed on it in 1983 ... add that to hearing mother freaking out in the night and getting up to check the water boiler...why does she do that?...every night I would hear her going into the cupboard to 'check' it last thing before bed...fire? heat? cold?...I recalled her obsession with pulling out all the plugs in the rooms too...TV first, pause for uncertainty and to think if it's worth it, then she pulls out the video too. The same routine. I lay on the setee. I knew mother would have the kettle left wi' virtually nothing in it so it boiled quicker in the morning. I knew that father would take 25-30 minutes over his AM ablutions. I knew I would hear mother shouting in her sleep. She did. I knew the cistern would start gurgling interminably before long. In other households the plumber would have been called but I guess ma parents enjoy sleeping with an 8-hour long Merzbow compilation within earshot. I got up and left as quick and as early as I could. I just felt wrong all day.Thae thoughts of Fife started it. You fucks. My own non-writerly brand of writer's block added to it. I began to feel somewhat 'weird'...I felt undervalued godamnit...I felt manic angry, cheated...I wasn't strong on perspective...it was all wrong...I'm skint, I'm unshaggable, I'm not exciting, I'm not worth it, I'm no to be listened to, no to be trusted, I can't even write down how I feel. It was seriously welling up. I've been done out of a life by this mind and these hands and body and face and habits and 'ways'. It wasn't like 'episodes' I've had before. It was more wholly internal. More intensely niggly than all out. I am nothing. You're all something. You all have something. What do I have? An empty page. What can I do? Who can I be? Where's my motivation? My ideas? What am I? I had to be on ma ain even tho' that never does me any good. I wanted to sleep. Instead I ate and then I forced masel to sleep before I ate any more. I knew I would wake up knackered and bloated. I did. Ma mood had bottomed out in the 'mornin'. I thought of how Jim Laker would say that word. The sound would positively lilt wi' a sense o' his beloved blue remembered hills. I guess I felt different/better/n/a...no much to report today...I'll gie you some mair back pages then I'll head..It's a Man's Life in G/D #2134...Oddly enough I am currently sitting next to a man who is looking at mucky pics on the Interweb... in a caff- it's true. You see, G/D has it's own wee microcosmos. It's 'everything goes' in the land of the fading brewery smell. I remember that scent...it was truly intoxicating-ha...when I stayed in the Fife blackness, 'that' smell was Edinburgh to me. It was so unique to the pliss...or so I thought...it seemed that one whiff was enough to get me thinking of 'strolling down the highway' of Morningside having snogged Tamsin for several hours in the Gairdens, all the time keeping my funky backpack stuck tae my shodders and with my shaggy wiggy hair tousled just right. I think I've talked aboot this before but I still recall the sense of a hidden world oot there that I got from sic a rich scent. Well, I'm no trying to make this another metaffer but well...the smell has gone!!...no, I mean it. It has. It's not there anymore. This is indeed the story of ma life, Richard...fuckeridge... the breweries have closed and I've discovered that I am officially 'Undesirable of Edinburgh' and that I have the same foibles and a' that through here tae....ok Gibberd, I know millions of you will ken this line too but..tak it away...'I think that it's brainless to assume that making changes to your window's view will give a new perspective'...aye...Would I ever go back to Fife tho'?...don't be fuckin' stupid...I mean it man... (2) One of the nippiest sounds around is the sound of the keys on a computer keyboard being tapped excessively fast. I always appear to sit near someone who can type at a million words per min. It's an eerie sound. It sounds like a sample from a Man 2 Man Meets Man Parrish record. ...Sun night saw a form of summer in the big city. It was real muggy stuff. I went doon to the semi (?) legendary Henry's Cellar Bar. KB was playing wi' The Certain Death vaudeville show. I'm never sure whether I can say that I 'like' this band or no' but they do indeed make me laugh. They're a bunch o' spunky virill pseudo-chavs frae the 'Cultural Chernobyl' that is Kirkcaldy (I use that phrase AGAIN because it's important in this context. Godamnit). They produce a rappy heavy punker good time rock sleaze assault thing. They are unreconstructed to the nth degree...or are they?? They are silly, silly, silly. Puerile (you don't know the half of it! I've no talked song titles yet). They are ultimately the ultimate good time band. Filter all this through a knowing sense of the way Fife is, an understanding of the (maybe this is me paraphrasing) absurdity of the very idea of choosing to live in Fife and knowledge of the fact that you have to get on with things and fuckin' live dude! This implies they are jest mongers. Well they arnae The Swans, I'll gie you that, but somehow thae have a bona fide affair going down whereby they do irony without the heavily prevelant 'I can jape aboot cause I'm loaded' schtick that has ruined the art of pastiche...for me... Maybe it all feels phat fresh and funky as it's no ma normal scene. I dinnae ken. Acht, I should know by now that if you dinnae intellectualise, particularly when you cannae then you get loads more oot o' life/awhong...so there...I'm dying to get to the titles...I'll talk Fife again. Their personalities are intoxicatingly Fife (has that phrase ever been used before...anywhere??) . These guys really are 'cartoony as fuck' and they love it. They come from a land where 'berds' still have 'some pair of lungs'. They appear to be able to talk re unmentionables and the aforementioned 'berds' love it. Ponder the 'politics' of that if you will. They have titles such as 'Baw Deep', 'Put A Cock In It' (that is the best title ever...there are no possible competitors...) and, allegedly, 'Cum Coming Oot Ma Cock'. They take a pride in talking aboot 'tits and ass'. They do it so naturally! They're no' really The Bloodhound Gang tho' they might like to be. Ya dig?! What I really make of this aside from a feeling of mass bewilderment and a sense that I have insufficient courage to challenge ma ain thinking, I just don't know. KB occasionally stands in on drums for them. His drumming abilities are substantial and he gies them a backbone that they just don't have frae the usual guy who's pretty chunka chunka. Along with the ever-present crunchy riffage and shouty/rappy twin-vocal assualt, they make for a big-up live act. HCB's is no really their vibe tho'. I couldnae stop thinking o' the fact that this used to be a funky jazz pliss, home to Kulu's Jazz Joint or Point or whatever it was called. As far as I know this was an ultra hip funky Mo Waxy ganja friendly club night thing that went on at HCB's a few years back. I mind reading about it in the List when I was officially known as 'insane of Kdy'. Kulu himself seemed to have local hero status. I've always hated local heroes. How dare you have access to 'privilege' cause of the circumstance of funk you fuck. In his pic, he looked like a git- voguey mock- bewilderment and sculpted facial hair. Down wi' the club scene, the classic cuts, the dopest beats. It was exhausting...to me. I mentioned him on a track 'my' band recorded. It was another attempt by me to show you how clever I am. I must stop trying to do that...anyway...so the ghosts of hipness past were abroad. They were dispelled somewhat by the guy who came on first. He was a wee blonde cherub. As they would say in cricketing circles re Jamie Dalrymple/Matthew 'Jazzy B' Fleming et al, he had 'no great natural talent' and proceeded to attempt to cover hitherto nice songs by Springsteen, Bragg et al by turning them all into the same song. He could only play in one chunky rhythm and at one tempo. He club footed his way through 2 guitars. He was an amiable guy. I think tho' that he should be dissuaded from attempting 'Growing Up' and 'A New England' in public ever again. Sorry...He was replaced by some rubbish from the big city, wi' a contrived name who probably have a lot of records by Four Non Blondes or whatever that shrieking Linda Perry band were called, . They had access to slick equipment and could 'play'. The singer chose to force her voice into contortions straight outta the world of Doro Pesch and the horror that brings. They retained something of the Sunday Afternoon jam session at The Three Ways. If you come from Kdy you will know that they had an aroma of the Rich/Rick Campbell about them. I won't explain but in a nutshell they are dull rich kids who produce mainstream music which is dressed up as 'heavy rock' and who think they are 'rad' as a result. ...that's mair than enough o' that. Watch out ET...ADMIT IT- YOU WILL NEVER EVER READ ULYSSES. I saw this wee slice of a kind o' hammy Poly student 'bon mots' on a sandwich board ootside a plush hostelry in Leith where me and the ..SPARROW...used to gan a' the time. It's a pricey place but nice and solid all the same. The board sits ootside the front door day to day and is updated regularly with wee 'funnies' and epithets' .Now, normally you would think that this is the work of some 'ents soc' version of Cyril Fletcher and or a wacky wackster who signs his slogans as 'Buster Gonads'/ 'Guy De Beers'/ 'MC Cunty Baws'/ 'Papa Lazarou' etc etc but some of the wee 'tings are rather nice and oddly poignant in a blunt (Anthony rather than 'cunt' way) yet unassuming stylee. Wish I could remember mair o' them. This one is worth minding...I think. 3 or 4 or whatever number it is- too many is yer answer .I'm in a cheap and fleabaggy Interweb outlet in G/D. It is populated exclusively by folk of Eastern European origin. A lass is sitting next to me now. From time to time , 2 dudes come and sit either side of her. One of them is extremely close to me. They talk loudly and stridently in their ain tongue. It's very offputting. It seems a pretty free deal. They can talk as freely as they like about folk and you wi' yer narrow outlook will never have a scooby what they're saying. Their 'full-on' tone makes me fear the worst. I think they're scrutinising this post. Maybe they know TLK. They'll get her on the blower, develop the finest Richard Wattis-like RP and tell her a few things she'll never forget. Maybe they're talking about how scummy G/D appears to be, maybe they're tuned into what I'm thinking?...namely...that the sound of Ian Brown singing "free from the filth and the SCOOOOOOM" is more than enough to take the wind oot o' the sails o' yer life. Maybe they're talking about the fat baldy guy next to them, maybe they're talking aboot Giles Radice MP. Whatever it is, I wish they wouldnae sit quite as close....modern life is rubbish and Double seat, double seat etc etc etc...you see I've been thinking of many things. I've been goin through a 'lean period'...what's up with ma mood? How do I measure it? Why am I so bland?????!!!! There seems to be a level of sorts that I can grind out and then that's it. It's a niggle. Sorry for the copy and paste. I'll no do it again. Hopefully I'll have some proper stuff soon. Christ, I'm 'starving'. The inevitable psychological difficulties in carrying on wi' the diet after I've reached a 'target' have struck. Please folks go oot and hae something real juicy. It'll mak me feel nourished...sorry...sorry...sorry..