The week that was...

The UK National Obsession is The Weather and now that we are receiving such extreme conditions over such an extended period of time, we are receiving commentary of orgiastic proportions. Inches of snow...degrees centigrade...amount of grit...composition of said grit...amount of salt...how long said salt is going to last...streets where cars have slid into a wall...councils are reducing the amount of grit/ salt they are spreading...how much warmer we are than the South Pole...numbers of schools closed...swans trapped...gas use hits a record high...passengers stuck in airports throughout the country...numbers of homes without heat...hospitals asking for zimmer frames because they’re running out...young men car snowboarding (in case you need to ask stupid, this involves sticking a snowboard on the roof of a car and driving through the snow) ....

...and I find the whole feckin’ thing absolutely fascinating. I could watch and read about it for hours. Paint me white, stick a carrot in my gob and call me Saddo.

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When he said, “and now, we’re going to get your heart rate up above 90% of its maximum.’ ...THAT'S when I should have fled the building. Well, I would have if I wasn’t leaning against the full-length mirror
(I knew it had a purpose) and wheezing like a geriatric asthmatic. For those of you of a smutty mindset, I should explain I was being given a new series of workout routines at the gym. And OHMYGOD I am gubbed.

My gym instructor plays rugby at a very high level and I was tempted to say, “I’m 47, gimme a fucking break.” But it would have just come out like a breathless whine.

This routine involves a “circuit”. Five minutes on a bike raising my heart rate to 70-something percent of its maximum. Five minutes on a stepper raising my heart rate to 90-something percent of its maxmimum. Five minutes on a bike “allowing” my heart rate to settle at 60-something percent of its maximum. And then you do it all again. Twice.

Forty five minutes of torture. And not in a good way.

The bastard.

He was more specific than the 70-something example that I am giving you, it’s just that I was so freakin’ knackered I couldn’t concentrate on anything other than getting through that particular 5 minutes without puking. I swear I saw stars at one point in my peripheral vision.

I know I’ve lost some fitness over the last few months with the whole ankle thing, but really. I think I’ve been kidding myself on for years.

Today was a good wake-up call. There is a six-pack here somewhere, if I keep this up I might just find it.


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“Two teams of celebrities”...the man said and my jaw tightened...”in a highly competitive bird-watching competition”...and it was all I could do not to spear my TV with the Christmas tree. (I know, I know, I’ll put it away in the morning.) Who is the knob-end that is coming up with these ideas? This is me on my knees, people...can we please stop watching this shit?

Here in the UK we’re having a Celebrity TV fest at the moment. We’re not long finished with getting the dumb feckers out of the jungle and ballroom dancing, and now we’ve got them on Mastermind, Dancing on Ice, in Big Brother and feckin’ bird-watching.

If you cannae beat them...

...how’s this for a pitch for a new TV programme? We join our celebrity obsession with our fetish for the weather and dump a load of the feckers on Altnaharra (the coldest place in Britain right now only a couple of degrees warmer than the South Pole) wearing mankinis, sipping from toilet bowls and counting the grains of salt in a grit bin.

Colour me white, stick a carrot in my gob and call me a programming genius.

Rambling On Random

It’s another Friday night and the only thing warming my lap is a computer. Never mind. Or should that read, Never Forget, Back for Good, Patience, Rule the World. Dinnae worry, “Babe” I hope you had “The Greatest Day”. You can “Relight My Fire” another time.

I love hearing about the daft names that people saddle their children with. I heard today about a brother and sister called Catriona and Douglas. The names were of course shortened to Cat and Doug. I should explain to those with the misfortune of not being born Scottish that “Dug” is Scots for Dog.

Enough with the celebrity TV. PLEASE. I guess that’s one of the blessings I’ve received since I’ve taken up blogging – watching less telly. When I did turn it on tonight, what was the first thing to hit me? Celebrity Masterchef. With a groan that was surely audible for miles around I switched over to MTV thinking some RnB would be a better bet – only to find a trailer for Kerry Katona’s “reality” show. WTF, MTV? She might be a nice lassie – and she has the plastic surgery scars to prove it, but really, who cares?
Actually, who can blame these so-called celebrities for clinging on to another five minutes in the spotlight? I might be tempted if I used to be famous and I didn’t have enough cash left to fill the Chelsea Tractor with diesel or pay for my Orange, Mango and Cinnamon tea down at the Deli.
I’m going to run a campaign. It will be called “Turn Off Celebrity TV”. It will be hugely successful. People in their droves will switch channels as soon as a celeb’s haunted and desperate face appears on their box. Then the programmers will get The Message and make interesting television featuring people who actually have talent. And Elvis really is working in that cafe. He fries the eggs and burgers that Marilyn serves up to the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus.

From the sports pages it’s looking increasingly likely that Shunsuke Nakamura will no longer be gracing the pitch at Celtic Park. It appears that the Japanese footballing genius is about to sign a 2 year contract with Espanol. Sayanora, Naka. You were an absolute pleasure to watch. (By the way, if you have a spare couple of minutes go to YouTube and search “Japanese Binocular Football”. Swear to god, you will laugh yourself silly)

The most recent download on my ipod? George Benson’s version of Unchained Melody must be the best version of that song, bar none. We love you George, but we loved you more when you looked normal. WTF George? Did you see Barry Manilow’s frozen expression of surprise and think, that’s for me?

I had another one of “those conversations” with the wee fella the other day. In the car after school he was quiet as usual then he asked me about the boy in the local academy who stabbed a fellow pupil and was given a custodial jail sentence.
- The boy who was stabbed must have been a real bully.
- Still doesn’t give the other boy an excuse, son.
- But I’m just saying maybe the boy with the knife was being really bullied, Dad.
- We don’t know what happened, buddy, but you should never, NEVER turn to knives. If somebody bullies you come to me, your mum and your teachers.
- But what if he doesn’t stop?
- Then you kick him in the nuts and run away.
- Daaaad.
- Seriously though. Being bullied is nasty. He might have felt he had nowhere to turn, but think of the situation now. The boy he stabbed nearly died and he’s in jail. He won’t see his mum and dad for years and his Play Station and ALL his games will have to be given away to some charity. (I’m thinking the threat of the latter would have more power)
- How do you think that boy would have felt if the bully had died, Dad?
- I think he would have felt really, really, REALLY shitty.
- Did you say...?
- Yes. Sorry.
- Whoa, Dad, he says and swivels in his seat to face me – you’re making me want to say the freaking F word.

Rubbernecking

You’ve been there. The traffic is deaaaaad slow. Your car has barely moved for an hour. Then as you budge forward you see the blue flashing lights. When you eventually get to the scene of the accident it has actually been cleared off the road and there is no real reason for the traffic to be moving quite so slowly. Except we all need to see what is going on. Look at the state of that car! Jeez, I hope nobody died...and as your car passes by you slow down even further to take it all in. You know it is horrible, but some sick fascination takes over and you can’t help yourself.

Never has a popular metaphor been more apt than when the above scenario was applied to the guff that is on our TV screens night after night. Car crash TV indeed.
The thing is we deserve it. We get the TV programming (and news media for that matter) that we are worthy of. These things are all decided on by figures. The more people tune in; the more people who buy the newspaper...the more we’ll get served up with the brain-death nonsense that passes for entertainment and news in this country.
Let me give you an example. Yesterday, the leading article in the Scottish news and front page on our most popular tabloids was the news that Kirk Broadfoot, an average footballer who plays for Rangers, had cooked an egg in a microwave. It exploded in his face. He was rushed to hospital. Now I know it can’t have been pleasant, but surely to fuck there are more pressing issues in this country than some football player quite literally getting egg on his face.

As for TV, I’m a flicker. There are few programmes I’ll watch right through, instead I sit with remote in hand and flick through the channels. It’s a time thing. If I find a programme I really enjoy then I’ll have to commit time to watching on a regular basis. That particular time slot will demand my attention for the next thirteen weeks or so...and I’m uncomfortable with that, so I flick.

Last week I flicked on to a programme on channel 4 called Extreme Male Beauty presented by some scruffy guy with a penchant for getting his genitals out on national telly while calling it his “winkle”. Come on, man, you’re a grown up. Is the word penis so bad? According to Scruffy Guy all of us males are becoming image conscious demanding firmer pecs and abs and bigger “winkles” and we’re going to get it the easy/ lazy way by surgery. Yeah right, whatever. Have a walk down any high street in the country and test that one out. You’ll find a nation with the motto, Amorphous Blobs R Us.

Then there’s that programme fronted by John Barrowman. This is so bad my only response to the BEEB is –what the fuck were you thinking? I also flicked on to a programme where some punter off the street is tested against a celebrity. Question. Why? Oh right...you ran out of money and if a programme features a c’leb, people are bound to watch it

And then there’s the phenomena that is Katie and Peter. Let’s imagine you are trying to explain this to a visitor to our shores, say from Ulan Bator. She’s a stick insect who became famous for getting her breasts surgically enhanced and then putting them on display at every given opportunity. He thinks he’s Australia’s answer to Michael Jackson (check the falsetto and the dance moves and tell me I’m wrong) who had a couple of pop hits in the nineties. And don’t give me the blah about Katie being a successful business woman and author. That’s an attempt at respectability by the spin-doctor to the stars, Max Clifford. C’mon people there must be a better role model for our daughters than someone who gets her tits out. She satisfies our lowest instincts and the books are ghost-written. She’s admitted that the only books she has ever read are her own.
Sorry, dear visitor from Ulan Bator I got sidetracked...Katie and Peter’s story continued when they met on a TV programme where people who are famous for being famous (yeah, that one is lost on me too) are put through trials where they get to eat kangaroo testicles and crocodile penis. Yeah, I know, yum. Anyhow, these two fell in love and cos it happened on telly we, the great British public feel they belong to us and we are hungry for every issue in their life. So guess what, the TV companies oblige and we get to follow their every move. Ad nauseum. A teaser for the programme was shown last night where inter alia the big-boobed one lifted her leg and farted.
Now they’re splitting up and this is where it gets interesting...do we continue rubbernecking or do we give them the space and time to go through what is one of the most stressful times of someone’s life? Will Katie and Peter allow public access to their grief, and at the same time earn a few more bucks? Will they face a loss more worrying than the loss of their marriage – that of eventual public indifference? Guess what? I for one don’t give a flying foxglove. Jeez, I only meant to mention K n’ P for a few seconds and I go into one.

One programme caught my attention when I was rubbernecking last night. BBC Scotland has commissioned a series of programmes where in each episode two people in different areas of the arts are brought together for the day to, basically have a blether. Last night it was the turn of novelist, Denise Mina and comedy actress, Karen Dunbar. I know, how amazing is that? Two people were on a reality TV type programme and wonder of wonders they actually have a talent for something other than attention-grabbing. If you haven’t read her work I would argue that Denise Mina is on a par with, if not better than Ian Rankin. And Karen Dunbar is the wummin from Ayr with the rubber face and a strong sense of comic timing. There was one clip from her series that was shown last night where she was playing a rude old lady. Said rude old lady was sitting on a seat in a shopping mall. Beside her was a man of generous girth. Rude old lady (Karen in a gray wig) shouted at him, ‘Huv ye never seen a pie ye didnae like?’ Cruel but funny.
The two women wandered about Glasgow shopping and drinking coffee while talking about their work. It was hardly earth-shattering stuff but both women are one hundred times more plausible as role models for the nation’s young girls. They also displayed a warmth and wit that grabbed my attention and made them worthy of this jaded TV viewer’s attention.

So what are we to do? Do we go on giving the providers of meaningless, worthless “entertainment” our money and time or do we actually give our old brain cells a shunt and turn our attention to work that is worthy of the name? Sadly, I suspect I know the answer to that one.

If you cannae beat them join them. Wonder who did Katie’s boob job? Can you see me as the page seven fella with the extra long schlong? From there I could be photographed falling out of nightclubs half-pissed and full-cocked. Then I’d have a turn on I’m A Celebrity, Give Me All Your Money, where I’d meet a fading pop-star famous for her unfeasibly large nipples and a series of love rats. The media would be delighted she’d eventually met a good guy – me, and the nation would fall in love with us. We’d get married and sell the photographic rights to “Howzitgaun” and “Warmer” for ten million pounds and a lifetime supply of Gingko Biloba – my penis would be so long I would need to find some way to compensate for the blood loss to my brain. An after affect that would have the tabloids in endless debate, with headlines like – Malone Faints On the Job and Celeb Burns His Todger in the “Microwave” While Stirring Her Eggs.

Bet the publishers would be falling over themselves to give me a book deal then. And they wouldn’t even need a ghost-writer.