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Where were we ...

I had a quick trip home over the Easter weekend and now I'm back in sunny Dalmatia. The weather is distinctly summery and the riva never looked nicer than it did today. Last night there was a bit of a gathering in the Bar Libar just off the riva where the ex-pats of Split normally spend a drunken Friday night. Oddly enough (?) I was in the thick of it and when someone suggested we decamp to a night club I was up for that too. Big mistake, however when we arrived at the Tribu it was around two thirty in the morning and we were only there half an hour when they decided to close. Stephen then announced "No problem, I've got a bottle of Glenfiddich at home." I really should know better than to try and keep up with these youngsters but it's true what the say - There's no fool like an old fool.

The result of all that is that I have been feeling so crapulent all day. So I'm in no great mood to be creative. Anyway I just want you to know. Do you see that prominent peak in the picture, the pointy hill about a third of the way in from the right hand edge? I've climbed that. It's about the same height as Ben Nevis. I felt worse this morning than I felt the morning after I climbed that bugger. Now I'll have to get into some kind of shape for playing football tomorrow. It's a hard life trying to enjoy yourself sometimes.

George W. Pants Like A Dog

This guy is more toe-curlingly embarrasing than anything Ricky Gervais, of The Office, could ever make up.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yyAaAI1qG-A&eurl=

Resolution & A Cultural Revolution

Now referring back it seems I am falling by the wayside, sorry about that, I did also say I would avoid cliches like the plague and falling by the wayside is so-oo cliche. No, what I am failing on is my resolution to post an entry at least twice per week. Now that is a big ask, as some cliche addicted football commentator would say.
(Yes, beating United on their own turf Ron, it's a big ask of any team but Rovers covered every blade of grass tonight in their efforts, literally.)
In my own defence I will say that the work is getting in the way of my leisure pursuits but I do need to buckle down. I'm giving myself a push because I know I can do better, and it's not just on this blog. My last TMA to the OU, while utter crap (see below), was nevertheless an attempt at creativity and that is something that I need to be if I am to retain any real sense of purpose in life.

I look at other blogs, you can see from my links list the kind of stuff I like to read, and I envy these guys their staying power as well as their talent. I am just reminding myself here one of the main purposes of this blog was to track my progress in the OU course, An Introduction To The Humanities and, while I started off well in this, I have not really followed through. One reason for this was a message I received from a well-wisher advising me that, according to the rules of the OU, I was not allowed to post up my completed TMAs. Thank fuck for that I hear you chorus. Well maybe so but it did fill space.

Filling space is not my objective. Using space creatively, that's the point. The next part of the course is entitled; The Sixties - Mainstream Culture And Counter-culture. If there is a subject which should be close to my heart it's the Sixties. I was sixteen years old in 1965. I had already left school and started an apprenticeship in a heavy engineering factory on the Clyde. I still had hair and it was fashionably long in the style of Charlie Watts. I had a girlfriend after going through school feeling myself the object of ridicule of every group of girls who looked in my direction. There was a wonderful new invention on the horizon called lager. The outlook for my self-esteem was rosey.

So it should be a doddle. A few reminiscences on factory life, growing up on a tough housing scheme (Actually it was quite a respectable housing scheme with well tended gardens and the most trouble we got into was for banging on old people's doors and running away), youthful fondling in the park, a first holiday abroad in Majorca with Harold Wilson's maximum £50 spending money (unbelievably there was still some left over after a fortnight's excess).
Instead we get questions like this;
How useful is the term cultural revolution when applied to the Sixties? Support your answer with examples from each of these disciplines ; History, History of Science, Religion, Music and Art. Not more than 2000 words.
The easiest part of that is the 'not more than 2000 words'. That means anything from 200 to 2000, right? I should say not, the fuckers. There might have been a cultural revolution in San Francisco or Ibiza, but not in Greenock. We were too busy serving our time and looking forward to the seventies when we would be journeymen and out of there. The Sixties (with the capital S) only happened retrospectively as far as I was concerned.

Now I'll have to really trawl through the course material and try discover what it all meant. I've got until the 5th of May to get it done by. Wish me luck.

Carnaptious ..

.. is a fine word. It's an old Scottish expression that means grumpy, but something slightly different from just grumpy. There's a sharp edge to it, as if it's someone who's slightly high pitched, shrill. It would suit someone with a beaky nose and a pointed chin. Now I have been characterised as carnaptious once or twice and, I dare say, that was fair comment in whatever the circ's were at the time, although I don't have a beaky nose and pointed chin. We can't be sweetness and light all the time, especially if we are Scottish. It's inbred, this dourness (and if there is anyone out there who pronounces dour as "dower" I'm going to have to give you a slap. It rhymes with whore).

So why do you need to know this? Well, no reason really. I've just submitted my latest Tutor Marked Assignment and it was crap. Capital C, capital R, capital AP. I really did not have a lot of excuses. I did beg for a few days deferral as I was so busy travelling and such, and I got the few days grace. But I was ill prepared. So I'm pissed off, and if you meet up with me in the next few days you might find yourself asking - What's up with that carnaptious old git?
On the other hand you might see me sipping a pina colada on someone's balcony declaiming to all and sundry on the foolishness of people who worry too much. Why can't people be more relaxed, and so on. My guess is the latter.

Paul Story - A Farewell

Here I am back in my little bijoux flatette in the cultural heart of old Dalmatia. During my recent travels back from the Far East I met my body clock going the other way, so now re-united I with myself I can concentrate on the job in hand, viz; this wee blog and my OU TMA (see below).

Before I get started on other things I have to tell you about some changes now afoot in our small but perfectly formed ex-pat community here in Split. On Friday night we all foregathered in the Bar Libar just off the Riva, and adjacent to the church of St. Francis, to say farewell to The Writer. He's been here nearly two years now (I think) and he's now decided to take himself back to the UK on a publicity tour. It was a happy and, at the same time, a poignant occasion because in many ways Paul was the hub of the community, a fixture at his favoured table outside the Backpacker Cafe, either tapping away on his portable keyboard/PDA set-up or receiving visitations from his many friends, rather in the manner of the Oracle bestowing wisdom on the seekers of truth.

Luise and Kristijan had gone to some trouble to ensure that the walls of the caffe-bar were festooned with farewell banners and joshing messages and we were all there to give him a good send off. Brett made a fine speech and Paul responded with startling verbosity. Some tears were shed and much drink was taken. We'll miss him. So if you're wondering what Paul's writing is all about, visit his website. And if you see him in the UK buy him a drink, he's usually thirsty.

A Spring Morning - Omuta, Japan

Some of you may have wondered where I've been all this time. Most of you couldn't give a monkey's of course but then neither do I, give a monkey's that is about those who couldn't give a ... for fuck's sake, what am I raving about. Anyway, here I am in all my soft cuddly gorgeousness, back with a new blog to delight your eminences, if you would give me your attention for a few moments more.

I am going away. Now I don't want you all to gather round weeping and wailing. You'll just have to accept it and get on with your own lives. I'll be back eventually, perhaps in about two weeks but I'm not sure. I'm off to Korea in the morning, not for long, just a day or two there then I'm sailing (although not by wind power) to Japan. Another day or two there then it's back to Croatia in time for the good weather.

So! Interesting little trip. I should try and get some pictures of the strange and enigmatic orient to entertain you on my next post. Would you like that? I've been to Korea and Japan before, many times, and I do like it out there. It's so ... how can I put it? Different! That's the word. By jove sometimes I surprise myself with my perspicacity.

But you do see some "different" things out east. The people there have a different take on things. It is another world. I'll give you an example. I was walking along a downtown street in Omuta one quiet Sunday morning. It was a nice, sunny & mild spring morning and I came across an old man sitting on a small folding stool, his knees were up around his chin. He had an easel in front of him and he was painting a small watercolour scene of the street and the buildings, the level crossing and the sky, and he was so old and hunched over the easel, and he was trembling. He had Parkinson's disease or something and he trembled so much I wondered how he could possibly achieve anything. I couldn't help but stop and wonder at him and I wanted to get a better look at the painting. It was just a beautiful splash of colours and shapes, the blue of the sky, a red banner outside a store, white lines suggesting the level crossing gates. He had not captured the form but he had captured the feeling of that morning perfectly. The old man looked round as I looked over his shoulder, and he gave me the loveliest smile. I felt blessed.

Look after yourselves, and I'll see you when I get back.

The Good Fight

The following letter is from today's Sunday Herald (the Glasgow-based quality newspaper, sister publication of The Herald). I don't know the story referred to but I do admire the way Dr. McLachlan takes the paper to task for its sloppy use of language. More power to him.

Imprecise meaning
THE story by Aasmah Mir about her return from London to Glasgow is called: “Return of the prodigal daughter” (Seven Days, March 5). Why? “Prodigal” means “wasteful” but there is no suggestion in her article that she is or was wasteful. In the biblical story about the wasteful son, the wasteful son happened to return. Has this created the false impression that a prodigal person is one who returns? Not all prodigal sons or daughters return. Not all sons and daughter who return are prodigal. The prodigal son was so called because of his prodigality, not because he returned home.
It is obvious that words can change their meaning and that misuses of language can become, through their frequency, correct uses over time. However, to say that the rules of language can change is no reason for disregarding them or acting as if they had already changed.
Dr Hugh V McLachlan
School of Law and Social Sciences
Glasgow Caledonian University

Isn't that a treat?

Paradise

We played golf at Turnberry yesterday. The boys and I were celebrating the wee fella's fifteenth birthday. I could tell he was excited about it by the way he'd been planning for over a week what he was going to wear. He's not normally the voluble type, and you have to know how to read the signals to know how he feels, but it was a dead giveaway when he laid out his all black Tiger Woods outfit, including his newly shined black school shoes which he will never in a million years wear to school.

We've had a few great golfing days out, the boys and me, over the years. I suppose the first biggie was when I took the big fella to Troon in '97 for the Open which Justin Leonard won. We arrived at about seven thirty in the morning, in time to see Jack Nicklaus on the practice ground with Payne Stewart. How poignant that image is now. We walked the whole course that day, sometimes stopping to watch the players come through, sometimes following one of our favourites like Jesper Parnevik or Seve, or Barclay Howard, the leading amateur.It was the Saturday we went down so we could watch the final day on the Sunday in the comfort of our own front lounge. The big fella was just twelve then and he lapped it up. A golden day.

The next was the open at Royal Lytham in 2001. We went down on the Friday and stayed two nights in Blackpool. The big fella's mate, Seve (real name) came with us. The wee fella was ten years old and would not be left behind. I spent more time that day trying to keep tabs on him than watching the golf. The big fella and Seve had a ball chasing autographs, although there was a tense hour at the end of the day when they were late meeting up with us at the agreed time, and I was running between the mobile police unit and the rendezvous point. Sometimes you could just murder your kids and save the lurking paedophiles the bother. We spent the last day at the Blackpool amusements. The two bigger ones went on the big dipper and I had the dubious pleasure of nearly shitting myself on this infernal thing called the Coca Cola ride with the wee fella. Ironically it was the only ride we could go on together because the wee fella passed the height restriction. First of all you were flung forward and whipped round in a corkscrew motion till you thought your head was going to fly off, and then it mercifully stopped. Just as you were thinking - Thank fuck for that - and about to loosen the safety harness - the bastard took off again backwards ! And whipped you round again back to the starting position. I'll tell you something for nothing, I was crying tears of relief when I got off. And I never did find my 'Open 2001' cap which I'd forked out the better part of ten quid for the day before. You don't normally see chinstraps on baseball caps .. pity.

St. Andrews last year was special. The wee fella and I had two great days. A B&B right in the middle of the old town, a few steps away from the first tee on the Old Course. All that atmosphere and history. It's a wonderful place to visit. I love it that you can just walk right on to the famous turf. There is a public right of way across the eighteenth fairway. Try that at Augusta or Pebble Beach. St. Andrews is great. Then we had a game on the Duke's Course. I won. No, only kidding. I don't remember the score, just that we enjoyed the game.

There's something about golf that can bring people closer. I find it difficult to define. Maybe it's because you don't have to say too much. You can enjoy the game and each other's company and the pleasant surroundings. And when you're walking down the eighteenth fairway it's the best feeling when your boy puts his arm around your shoulders and says 'This was a great day, wasn't it, Dad'.

TMA 07 - Masculinity & Femininity

Just to keep you up to date with what I'm not working on, I have to do the following for submission by the 31st March:

In no more than 1500 words, with careful reference to two of the following works, show how attributes traditionally associated with masculinity and femininity are contrasted:
Pygmalion - A Play by George Bernard Shaw
Medea - A Tragedy by Euripides
Don Juan - A Symphonic Poem by Richard Strauss
Wide Sargasso Sea - A Novel by Jean Rhys

Now I know what you're thinking; the boy can do this, no bother. Your faith in me is touching but, faithful blog-readers, I'm going to have to cut myself some quality time if I'm to make any impression on this. We shall see but it's looking good so far. The dear wife has taught herself to do the ironing one-handed so I'm relieved of those duties and, as I've bought her a new ironing board, then surely a mere broken wrist won't hold her back from producing crisp white shirts for the wee fella to play football in, leaving me to concentrate on the pursuit of knowledge for its own sake.

The preceding paragraph illustrates attributes traditionally associated with masculinity and femininity. Discuss, not more than twenty words.

Are Specs Wearers Being Ripped Off?

I went looking for new glasses today. I've got this pair of vari-focals which I'm increasingly having to wear full time, and I need a pair of plain long vision goggles for when I'm on the golf course. So, having determined that my local branch of Vision Express could do the whole thing inside a working day, off I toddled.

The young man with a stiff neck and an odd sideways way of walking, who served me, allowed me to browse around the frame display on my own. Now I know that the UK is one of the most expensive places to buy spectacles in the world; I know this because I have bought them in various places like Dubai, Bahrain, the USA, etc. but the price tags were ... well, I just thought, ludicrous.

"How much are these?" I asked, indicating a frameless pair.
"One hundred and eighty pounds for the frame, plus your lenses".
That's what he actually said - "for the frames".
But there are no frames, it's just two legs and a bridge, there's fuck all to it! The material must only weigh about twenty grams, or less. When you add it all up it's nearly three hundred quid, call that four hundred and fifty dollars. Is it just me? I mean, why are we putting up with this shit?

When I expressed my views on this Great British Rip-Off to an inattentive audience at the family dinner table, I was reassured that I would be accompanied by the oldest boy to the spectacle emporium the next day to choose a frame, as a precaution against me running amok and breaking someone's head against a display stand. I can't fucking wait.

Blether

I get quite a lot of hits from people doing Google searches for keats - analysis - when - i - have - fears - that - i - may - cease - to -be and of course this links to my post some time ago on the John Keats poem. This was part of an answer to an OU TMA and I wonder if its popularity (maybe 'popularity' is too strong a term) is due to a number of new OU students looking for inspiration. Of course my comments in italics at the end of the "analysis" were meant to be an iconoclastic blast to balance the stuffiness that went before. It surprises me that, apart from the fragrant Lingo Slinger who shared in the joke, no-one has seen fit to take me to task for this little bout of ribaldry. I must try harder, it seems, if I want to elicit some response from my fellow students of poetry.

This post will be a lot about not much. I have been inspired in this by Lingo Slinger who does nothing so well, if you see what I mean. There have been a few things on my mind recently but such have been 'events' that I have had no time to string a credible sentence together, never mind a paragraph of the necessary polemic to satisfy your slavering maws.

I was reading, a few days ago, Stephen Fry's compendium of his various newspaper columns, Paperweight. A glorious read and one of his creations, Professor Trefusis, goes on about turning places of education into places of training. "Training is what you give to a dog", he says, if I can paraphrase somewhat and, although the context was the Thatcher era, the sentiment and thrust of what he (Fry) was expressing is still very relevant today. How I wish that education could be a means of liberating our childrens' minds and not, with the constant emphasis on "vocational training", a means of shackling them to the values of commerce.

All that may seem a tad precious from someone who earns his living in the world of commerce, whose profession is engineering and not art history or somesuch, and who worries that his sons will be able to survive in the real world after school and university. Maybe so, but whatever my sons study (one is doing Business Management at uni and the other is in High School and, now that professional golfer is looking somewhat elusive, tells us he wants to be a carpenter) whatever they study, I want them to have a real understanding and appreciation of the creative arts at an age when they can take it further if they are inclined. And not have to wait as long as I did before studying something I'm really interested in for itself, as opposed to its value to my so-called career.

Long Time No Blog

Sorry for being so out of touch. My dear wife broke her wrist last week and I had to hurriedly return home to take care of the ironing. Anyways here I am back in Bonny Scotland (How about that rugby result by the way!).

Apart from this dismal news (she's on the mend though), the real good news is that I achieved another unbelievable 80% for TMA 06 Religious Studies. I wonder what has got into my tutor, the delightful nonogenarian, Dr. Matilda Clench. Frankly, I think she's losing it. All that single malt can't possibly be good for a body.

As for the next TMA, well I don't have a scooby doo once more and the reason is that, in my hurry to depart sunny Split, I have left the timetable back in my apartment. So if there is anyone out there who knows the details of TMA 07, perhaps he/she can email it to me.

TMA 06 Religious Studies

You know that feeling you used to get when you were thirteen years old and just fresh out of the confessional on a Saturday morning. You proddies won't know what I mean but it was like you were walking on air. The weight of guilt had just been removed from your immature shoulders and you could start afresh. A new sin-free life was ahead, you were re-born. Actually what then transpired was that you could be a saint for thirty six hours while you got communion on Sunday morning, and then your hormones would get fed up creating ungodly boils on the back of your neck and reassert themselves in your genitals and you would have a good wank on Sunday night before your big brother got home from the pub and staggered into the bedroom and found you with his secret (he thought) collection of jazz mags. You remember that feeling? Well the feeling you get after submitting a Tutor Marked Assessment that you've laboured for two weeks on is nothing like that.

The Gordon Brown Mystery

What the fuck is Gordon Brown up to? He wants to establish cadet forces in schools across the UK. He wants to have a flag waving 'national day' so we can take the Union Jack back from the National Front. And he wants us to have, in addition to Remembrance Sunday, a Veterans' Day, as another way of enforcing our support of our troops, and to celebrate our "symbols of Britishness". I just don't get it. How is it that Gordon Brown is starting to look more like a Thatcherite Tory than a radical, modern, liberal Labour politician?

I have no argument with supporting our troops, either active or veterans, but do we really need another day especially for this? Or is it just another way for the government to persuade us how vulnerable we are in these increasingly nervous times, in order for them to secure their policy agenda while sidelining real debate on public security. Things must be bad, look at how many police/soldiers we need on the street - end of discussion.

Cadet forces in schools? Now I really don't get that at all. Is that what our schools are for? To raise the next generation of soldiers? I beg to differ. Schools are for the liberal education of our children. They should not be hijacked by any politician for any purpose. He's got a fucking nerve even suggesting such a thing. And that's the mystery. How did Gordon Brown, brought up in the Labour movement, a man who said recently, regarding fatherhood:

"It is incredible to watch a young child develop and change every day. It does make you think all the time what parents need - they feel under pressure because they want to do the right thing, and as a father I understand that."

how does he come to the conclusion that forcing our kids to become army cadets, and march across school playgrounds with wooden rifles at the slope, is doing the right thing?

The Accolades Just Keep Flooding In

I'd like to thank my agent - Morrie, you're the best; my scriptwriters who really put in some good work for very little recognition, good going guys - just don't ask for more money- har har! Only kidding. And all the other people behind the scenes without whom all this would have been possible. I love ya all. And finally I'd like to thank the nine people who voted for me over on A Mischief Of Magpies, well actually (blushing fiercely) the other eight, who made West Coast Ramblings their Blog Of The Week. Please support them and nominate your BOTW for this week's poll.

How To Be Good - by Nick Hornby

I've just finished reading this. A truly great book. I love Nick Hornby and just devoured Fever Pitch when I read that some long time ago now. This novel is written in the first person, the narrator being a woman doctor, Katie Carr. I was a wee bit disconcerted with this initially as I cannot help myself from, in a first person narrative, half identifying the narrator with the author. I know this is silly but I always feel that although the assumption may not always be true for my purposes as a reader it may as well be. In any event Nick Hornby's narrator soon assumes a life quite separate from the maleness of her creator. It is superbly written.

The story hinges around the marital crisis of Katie Carr and her husband David. They have two children, Tom at ten years od and Molly, eight. The ideal 'nuclear family' to all intents and purposes until Katie becomes less and less in love with David, and David becomes so self-absorbed that he fails to notice. Katie embarks on a brief and regretted affair which becomes a catalyst, rather than the cause, of the marital breakdown.

The voice of Katie is brilliantly presented. Her journey through frustration, anger, grief, rebellion, and resignation is told with humour, wit, and heart-rending honesty. There are piercing arrows of truth spoken throughout. I'd love to just cut and paste it on to here so that you can all enjoy it but instead I'll give you a snippet from towards the end. Katie has reverted into a world of her own. She has become a reader again after a long time away from reading for leisure. She has chosen a biography of Vanessa Bell, the artist sister of Virginia Woolf. According to the blurb on the cover Vanessa Bell has lead a 'rich and beautiful life'. Katie buys the book to see how this is done. Here is what Katie discovers about reading:

It is the act of reading itself that I miss, the opportunity to retreat further and further from the world until I have found some space, some air that isn't stale, that hasn't been breathed by my family a thousand times already. Janet's bedsit seemed enormous when I moved into it, enormous and quiet, but this book is so much bigger than that. And when I've finished it I'll start another one, and that might be even bigger, and then another, and I will be able to keep extending my house until it becomes a mansion full of rooms where they can't find me.

There is such a sadness in these lines but the book is leavened throughout with the humour that you would expect from Nick Hornby. That is what makes it so successful. The characters of Katie and her odd 'nuclear family' and their strange lodger who heals the sad people of Holloway by laying on his hands, these people come to life and pull you into their story until you cannot tear yourself away. You will love it too.

How To Not Study

The upcoming TMA (that's Tutor Marked Assessment to the uninitiated) poses the question:
How far do you think observing a religious activity, such as a festival, can help you to understand the part a religion plays in the life of an individual or a community?

To be honest I haven't a got a scooby-doo. I suppose that if you look at the Hadj for example then the sheer scale of that activity, with over 5 million people visiting Mecca annually, then you can draw some conclusions regarding the individuals who take part and, possibly, the communities from which they come. The event can therefore, for the sake of this excercise, be viewed from two perspectives; firstly as a major part of the Islamic religion and secondly as a component of the spiritual life of the individual pilgrim. As to what these conclusions will be ... well you'll have to wait and see. I'm going to try and get busy on this over the weekend but you know how it goes, temptations of the flesh and all that (I should be so lucky).

Talking about pilgrimages; everybody should make at least one visit in their lifetime to Croatia. I hate working here but it's a great place to visit. Last night, as happens every Thursday, there was live music in the caffe-bar below my apartment. On the basis that I won't get to sleep anyway with the noise coming up through my bedroom floor, I usually go down there and enjoy the music. It's a regular trio, one guy on acoustic guitar and vocals and two other guys providing counterpoint. The music is Croatian folk music with a heavy emphasis on sentimental Dalmatian songs about travellers far away from old Dalmatia dreaming about the olive groves, sunshine, and friends back home. The whole bar joins in and it seems to me that there is not a song in the trio's repertoire that everybody doesn't know off by heart. Still they never seem to tire of listening to them.

The trio (Trio Bura) finished up about midnight and were taking it easy at the table next to ours when unexpectedly they started forth singing unaccompanied in the classic folk style here called 'klapa'. One friend of theirs joined in and we now had the pleasure of a klapa quartet. It was so spontaneous and unexpected, and the quality of their voices was just superb. They sang, I think, four songs in this manner and I have to say it was an unalloyed joy to be there. Lovely people. You should come over here some time and see for yourselves. It's a pilgrimage you would really enjoy.

Shucks, you people.

I've been out of touch for a bit, and I've not been able to get internet access since last Saturday. Thanks to all the commenters to my last post (and to previous ones). Especially thanks to all those who voted for me on Blog of The Week at Mischief Of Magpies. It's nice to know that you care.

Hegemony

hegemony: n. Leadership, especially by one State of a confederacy. (The Concise Oxford Dictionary, 1977 ed.).

I used to wonder what that word meant. Admittedly my dictionary is an old edition but it has taken on a new meaning over the years since 1977. I think it's because the Chinese used to use it a lot to complain about Soviet expansionist policies in the dark days of the cold war, and they also used it when talking about American influence in other cultures. Too many Macdonald's hamburger joints around the world became the symbol of 'American hegemony". The symbol of too many shite hamburgers being sold also but I digress. Anyway, are we bothered?

I was reading this on Harpowoman's blog the other day and she made me think of how I feel about America. I seem to be drawn to the subject more these days and I think it needs some consideration. I lived in the US for a year from October 2002 to October 2003. The first six months our office was in New York on W.34th Street just opposite the Empire State Building. What a fantastic place to go to work. I lived in Hoboken, NJ, birthplace of Frank Sinatra which some call a mini Manhattan. Every morning when I got out of the PATH station and turned into w.34th I would remind myself to look up and enjoy the view of that beautiful building. You will not, I told myself, take this for granted. All around me were NYC's famous landmarks; Macy's, Broadway, the Flatiron Building, 5th Avenue, Greeley Square, Yellow Cabs, New York's Finest, Keen's Steak House, Irish Bars owned by real Irish. I used to imagine looking down at myself from a height as if I was watching the realtime movie of my life. How could you avoid that feeling in New York. You see the place so much in movies that to me it was like walking through a movie set. I loved it.

We moved after six months in New York to Houston, TX. What a fucking awful place. But wait, stop here! Pull over! It's an Irish pub. The Harp on Richmond provided a welcome as warm as the Playwright on W. 35th. The Guiness was fine and although you had to drive to get to the place my apartment was only ten minutes away. But that's not the best part. The Blues. Man they had some great blues bars down there. The Big Easy was great. They had blues almost every night of the week and occasionally they hosted the monthly jam of the Houston Blues Society. There were many others; Cosmo's, The Sherlock, The Cosmopolitan. There was never a night when I couldn't look up the listing in the local free paper and find somewhere to go and listen to the blues. I was in hog heaven, to coin a phrase.

One Sunday I happened to see that there was a gig on in Mr. Gino's down on the southside. From four PM it said. Now the south side of Houston, outside of the Loop is not my natural habitat. I'll be honest, you could get mugged down there and that's not because most the people around there are black. No, it's because some of them are bad. Anyway, going on the premise that God looks after naive Scots and dingbats (both categories into which I fit) I motored down there and parked nearby a scrappy looking building with a neon sign, doing no good in the bright sunlight, indicating Mr Gino's. Inside was dark and cool and a five dollar cover was extracted as I crossed the threshold. There was a four-piece ban playing on stage and on guitar was an old guy I later learned was Mr. I.J. Gosey. The band were great and the people dancing were a sight to see. You know that kind of get down dirty dancing that looks so cool to uptight wee Scottish guys like me.

I stood at the bar and enjoyed a few beers and the guy behind the bar, Mr. Gino (for it was he) was really friendly, and the beer was the cheapest I had enjoyed since arriving in the US. So after a while I loosened my grip on the bar and wandered over to where I could get a better view of the stage and the dance-floor. I think it's fair to say old I.J. Cosey (pictured) is ever so slightly elderly, but man he rocks. They played all that good old stuff, and tunes I'd never heard before and the joint was jumping. I was on my own and being the only white person around, except for the keyboard player who I'd seen playing before with another band, I guess I kind of stuck out. But nobody bothered me and I eventually I thawed out and just enjoyed the atmosphere. When I.J. and the band had wound up Mr. Gino introduced me to them which was really nice. I went back a couple of times after that but by then my time in Houston was winding up and my live blues life was coming to a close.

Fond memories which contrast with other aspects of the US which I hate. The bad does not in any way outweigh the good but boy I can get riled when I think about how some Americans view the rest of the world. And (don't get me started) when the call themselves the "finest nation on earth", or the "greatest country in the world" I could boak. And it's not just people with over-muscled necks who say this. Politicians, so-called fucking statesmen say it as well. What do they think they are? That kind of ignorance of the rest of the world just used to take my breath away. Now I'm used to it and almost come to expect it from a nation who could elect a President (Leader of the free world? Don't make me laugh) who once declared that the person he most admired in history was Nolan Ryan (he's a baseball player). The thing is a large number of Americans don't give a shit about the rest of the world because as far as a lot of them are concerned it hardly exists except as some kind of irritation that they need to just ignore and it will hopefully go away. It's not isolationism, it's ignorance. And all that indoctrination that goes on about honour to the flag. Oh say have you seen that star spangled flag wave ... There's so many stars and stripes around the place it's like the people are brainwashed into flying flags. It's not patriotism, it's zomby-ism. You know what they should do with flags. Burn every last one of them, Union Jacks and Stars and Stripes and fancy yellow fuckers with rum barrels and palm trees on them from wee far away places in the Pacific. People should be actively discouraged from standing behind flags. We should not be standing behind anything, we should be out there embracing each other.

Imagine there's no countries,
It isnt hard to do,
Nothing to kill or die for,
No religion too,
Imagine all the people
Living life in peace.
(c) John Lennon