Temperatures are so low that our central heating is overwhelmed and just can’t take the edge off the cold. Our central heating is no slouch either. Cast iron, school style radiators which pump out a ridiculous amount of heat and retain it for a considerable amount of time as well. As the first person up and into the shower every day, I am treated to the full blast of the barely heated air.

Add to that the fact that the TV and internet news channels are completely overflowing with footage of stranded planes and people kipping in their cars, interspersed with the odd snowman or Robin Redbreast for ‘light relief’. We get the point. It’s getting boring. You can’t go anywhere without slipping and sliding and nearly falling on your arse. As well as that, the bottom of my jeans are almost permanently sodden with icy water, so you can see how the whole thing starts to become old very quickly.

We’re not a snowy country. We’re a grey and miserable country. Let’s get back to the status quo.

By the way, mention Francis Rossi and you are dead. He’s even more tedious than three weeks of snow.

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I’m finding that Twitter is stealing most of my good material from the blog these days. Whereas before I’d store up all the foolery which I saw around me then blurt it out in one fell swoop, the combination of an iPhone and Twitter allows me to post about it that very second. Like I did when I somewhat disturbingly walked through an old gentleman’s fart cloud in Grays of George Street this afternoon. It’s closing down you know. Grays that it. Where will old men buy dimmer switches and have a sly fart then?

We are off on holiday next week. Our first real extended break as a family of four. Bloody hell. Seems odd to say that really. Four. Two times more than the two we started as. We are off first of all to stay in a ‘yurt’ (a Mongolian style tent) just outside York for four nights then on to the Lake District for a week. We’ve rented a cottage there. It has no washing machine. This lack of Hotpoint may not prove to be one of our better decisions but we’ll see how it goes.

We’ve got the first flat on the market (not the one we live in) and our flat is currently getting the finishing touches applied to it. Hopefully we can get them both sold quickly and purchase somewhere with a garden and not up three flights of stairs. Don’t get me wrong, I love living in town but it’s getting to the point where the nippers need a garden and a small slabbed yard isn’t cutting it.

Back to the blog and it’s not only Twitter which has resulted in me being a bit short on observations lately. I just don’t seem to meet the loonies I used to on my walk to work in the morning. Except one that is. The guy, who looks a bit like Charles I who walks to the top of Broughton Street every morning, looks around the corner and then turns on his heel, bolting back up Queen Street. I’d love to know his story.

I’ll endeavour to find out shall I?

Until later. Peace etc etc

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Anyway, lets get this post back on track. Many longer term observers of this blog will have noticed it change over the years from personal life stuff to observational humour, sometimes for the better, sometimes for worse. My Twitter account is pretty much in a similar vein. The beauty of Twitter and the iPhone of course is the ability to document crazy shit (and Leith is full of it) on the spot. Believe me, you’ll see things in the span of one walk along Junction Street that you wouldn’t see if you wandered the world like Grasshopper for a century or more. Most of what you see will leave you feeling morally and socially superior, and rightly so.

Every so often you strike comedy gold. A month or two back I was traversing said Junction Street when I found myself standing behind a lady in a mobility scooter at the crossing. She was larger than life and fully ‘accessorised’ with sovvy rings, Gypsy Rose Lee ear-rings and obligatory John Player kingsize.

I nearly laughed out loud when I saw a sticker on the back of her scooter reading ‘Classy Bitch’. Sheer brilliance. I would have snapped a photo with the phone but for the fact I was terrified of the consequences of being caught. With a beep of the green man and the high pitched whine of a battery operated engine this vision was gone from my life forever.

Or so I thought.

I always believed that comedy lightning never strikes twice. How wrong I was. Walking down Leith Walk this evening I spotted a mobility scooter parked outside one of the better known drinking establishments. On the front was a large plaque reading ‘Elvis Presley – The King of Rock and Roll’ complete with photo of Elvis in his full glory.

Brilliant I though. I’ll snap this one. “Too good to miss” I thought and said so to one of the guys standing at the pub door smoking.

“You hink that’s funny pal. Wait till ye see the back.” he said.

Round I walked. There it was. That same ‘Classy Bitch’ sticker. The holy grail of Leith mobility scooter related comedy. Comedy lightning had struck twice and I chuckled all the way home.

I may go to church on Sunday and thank God. I really am that happy.

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Arriving prior to the 6 o’clock opening time, we decided to kill some time in the kids playground on the links only to find it full of more tracksuits than JJB sports – all sporting a Regal King Size, hooped ear-rings, the obligatory scruffy bairn and a collection of ‘sovvy’ rings. Perhaps the most shocking aspect was that about 80% of them would legally qualify for a ‘half’ on the bus.

Throw in a liberal sprinkling of pit bulls and you’re half way to picturing the scene.

The fairground evokes strong memories for me. The ‘shows’ in Port Seton were next to the outdoor swimming pool and you’d regularly trot over in nothing but your swimming trunks and a towel to the amusement arcade to play ‘Scramble’ or beg someone for their ‘last man’ on ‘Moon Cresta’. The arcades were great to be around in the early 80′s as video gaming took it’s first tentative steps from baby to toddler.

There was also the lure of the more expensive rides such as the ‘Waltzers’ and the terrifying looking ‘Dive Bomber’ where the metal bar holding you into your seat as you spun upside down at a terrifying rate would be unlikely to pass any kind of safety standard nowadays. All this with a backdrop of chip vans, candy floss and toffee apples.

I don’t seem to remember any neds either, although there must have been the equivalent. Maybe my memory has airbrushed out the unsavoury elements to leave me with a rose tinted view of the past. They say that happens as you get older.

No need for airbrushing to get rid of todays neds though. Just a big fucking humungomegaton bomb would sort it.

As long as it only wiped out the neds and left the ‘Gonks’ untouched. I always loved to try and win a ‘Gonk’.

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Hopefully, I’ll still manage to find the odd wee gem to comment about on here. In fact, I need to look no further than this morning. I was passing the Central Bar at the foot of Leith Walk when some wild eyed denizen of the all night bars approached me tapping his wrist (presumably where a watch would be if he hadn’t pawned it for Buckfast).

“What’s the time pal?”

“Ten to eight”, I replied.

<pregnant pause>

“In the morning”, I kindly elaborate.

The new baby is fast approaching. Launch is imminent. With only about 5 weeks to go, things are starting to fall into place. The one thing which ultimately needs to fall into place though is selling the house and buying somewhere more suitable for two kids. A third floor tenement flat is not the place to be living. The house is big enough, but it’s too many steps up from the ground.

Unfortunately, the market is poor and the house still needs some final work before it can go on the market. Hopefully we’ll get it on somewhere around August time.

In some ways, I’ll be loathe to leave Leith and all it’s little quirks. I like it’s ability to bring all levels of society together on one flat playing field. You can eat in a Michelin star restaurant but you may have to step over a junkie to get in the door.

Other aspects I won’t miss though. Particularly the cretins who think it’s funny to kick the wing mirror off your car as they return from the pub on a Saturday night or run a key down the side of your car.

This past weekend was spent doing some really nice stuff. On Saturday, my wife stayed at home sorting through and tidying stuff in the house whilst I took Sam to the beach at Portobello. Good fun building sandcastles although what is it with kids and their magnetic attraction to water. I couldn’t take my eyes off him for two seconds without him making his happy little way down to a ‘stream’ of water running into the sea. For anyone born in Scotland in the 1970′s, it’s difficult not to associate such streams with effluent, particularly as Scottish beaches of that era regularly had sewerage streams into the sea or sewerage pipes which spilled out their contents half way down the beach.

Portobello beach was rocking though. On a walk along the promenade it was possible to see Mr Whippy ice-creams and jaded amusement arcades – symbols of Scottish beach resorts past – alongside more modern seaside pursuits such as beach volleyball and even some dude lifting weights.

On Sunday, we all went to East Links Children’s Park which was magic fun. Sam’s expression as the miniature train pulled away with a ‘choo choo’ was priceless. Sheer excitement. It was blisteringly hot though. We’ve all come home with more than a hint of colour about us. The heat eminating from my body last night was unbelievable.

Nothing else to report really, although I have developed an unhealthy fascination with North Korea lately and have just had a book about life there delivered from Amazon. I’m eternally fascinated with the idea of the last truly Communist state on the planet, where everyone has food and accommodation supplied by the state, people disappear overnight (rounded up by secret police) and the entire city of Pyongyang is woken up every morning at 7am by patriotic songs blaring out through loudspeakers.

Same thing happens in Leith, only it’s the drilling that wakes you at 7am.

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There’s a man who deserved a medal. That poor bastard got mentally and physically battered by the pupils every day of his working life. He must have woken up in the morning and let out a silent scream to himself before regaining his composure, slapping down his comb-over with brylcream and heading into the abuse filled halls of Preston Lodge High School.

It’s 20 years this month since I left school. 20 years. That’s a long time. Such a landmark has got me reminiscing about that golden 6 years from 1983-1989. Predictably enough, I remember the “culture” more than the education.

Kids are probably all banging drugs down their necks like it’s going out of fashion. In our day though, glue sniffing was the big thing, along with “buzzing” Soft and Gentle deodorant from KP crisp bags. Not that I did either. I was too busy getting a kicking from the selection of village idiots who often made up your classmates in first and second year at high school.

It’s funny, looking back now, I can see that many of the more troubled kids at our school weren’t just nasty by nature. Many of them obviously came from fairly poverty stricken backgrounds. I remember one guy in particular who stank of piss and shit all of the time. Even first thing in the morning when you’d have imagined he’d be at his cleanest. I feel sorry for him now really. Poor sod never stood a chance. Not a bar of soap in the house. You’d think he’d have nicked some, but he eventually got locked up for stealing chicken wire, not soap.

Of course, the younger, less idealistic me just thought he was a smelly prick.

School was a good time overall though. No real concerns other than what you’d get up to after school and what Spectrum games you could copy off your mates using the somewhat primitive method of connecting two tape recorders together with whatever cabling you could find. It was all about getting the volume right if I remember correctly. Spectrum games were so tempramental that I swear I had games that would only work on a Wednesday.

As you get older of course, life throws bigger challenges your way such as paying the mortgage and feeding your kids. I’ve also noticed grey is creeping into my stubble. I’m a couple of days growth away from looking like Roy Keane. Except less mental. You don’t think about having a beard, let alone one with grey creeping into it when you are 17.

20 years. I remember walking out of school on my last day like it was yesterday. I don’t feel any different now from how I did then. Of course, if I take 30 seconds to think about it, I’m really a million miles removed from that rubber-heid who left school at the end of may 1989.

I sat down the other day and read the Sunday Times Magazine 20th anniversary coverage of 1989 as one of the most important years of the 20th Century. Loads happened then. With the exception of the Berlin Wall coming down and Tianamen Square, most of it passed right over my head. I was too busy out spending my £340 monthly salary from the Royal Bank in those days. What did strike me was how bloody old fashioned all the clothes and people looked in the photos. Did we really dress like that then?

You all did. I’m pretty sure I didn’t.

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I’ve been busy painting and decorating this week. Lesson learned? Well, that painting a ceiling isn’t a particularly easy task. Bloody arduous if you ask me. There are still two yellow water stains showing through which refuse to be covered up, despite laying on a coat of paint of epic proportions. Bastards.

This week, I am mostly failing to get the Easter vibe. I’m only off on Monday so that doesn’t help build the holiday spirit. What’s more, I can see Sunday being spent in Ikea, the shop I’d most like to consign to Room 101. Except the meatballs and the Daim cake that is. How good is the Daim cake? Off the scale. That’s how good. I think Ikea lay on meatballs, Daim cake and Copparberg cider just to lure reluctant blokes such as myself in.

I think Easter would work better if I actually believed in it all. Or if indeed I believed in anything. That’s the problem with athiesm. No religious festivals of note. I’m the cuckoo in the nest at Christmas and Easter. Not really belonging there but willing to eat the turkey and the Easter eggs.

Long may it stay that way. Believing in things only brings disappointment. I recall believing that Scotland would win the 1978 World Cup. Ally McLeod told us so. “Nae bother lads”. Andy Cameron just hammered home that belief with his daft song. Look what happened there.

Not believing is the way forward.

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Spare a though then for the husband of home secretary Jacqui Smith, who had to face the nation’s press at the weekend and apologise for purchasing “jazz” movies on his wifes expense account, presumably for the purpose of “having a game of solitaire” whilst watching them.

Richard Timney’s cringeworthy apology is one of the news highlights of the week and I felt the need to blog about it. Poor sod. Having to stand in front of the press corp and admit you’ve been having one off the wrist.

Mortifying.

(Full video of Mr Timney’s humiliation here – warning, difficult to watch…..)

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Last night, after the Metallica gig, I couldn’t find the guys I was there with so started walking back from the SECC, through the Anderston area of Glasgow to get to Queen Street train station. About 10 minutes into my walk, I spot a marginally inebriated guy contemplating taking a piss against the concierge station of a block of high rise flats.

Now, I don’t want to see the guy get lifted so I proceed to warn him that his makeshift urinal is in fact full of security guards and that he would be better employed having a tinkle in the bus shelter further down the road.

Him: “Cheers pal”

Me: “Nae Bother”

So far so good.

Next thing, he’s right in my face, reciting a passage from Trainspotting. The novel, from what I can gather, rather than the film. Leaning right into me and keeping pace with my walking speed.

“Picture the scene. Wednesday morning in the Volley. Me and Tommy are playing pool. No problems, and I’m playing like Paul —-ing Newman by the way. I’m giving the boy the tanning of a lifetime. So anyway, it comes to the final ball, the deciding shot of the tournament: I’m on the black and he’s sitting in the corner, looking all biscuit-arsed. Then this hard —- comes in. Obviously fancied himself. Starts looking at me. Right —-ing at me. Trying to put off, like, just for kicks. Looking at me as if to say, “Come ahead, square go.” Well, you know me, I’m no looking for trouble but at the end of the day I’m the —- with the pool cue and I’m game for a swedge. So I squared up, casual like. So what does the hard —- do, or so-called hard —-? —–s it. Puts down his drink, turns around, and gets the —- out of there. And after that, the game was mine.”

At this point I’m thinking that it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that he’s going to hit me as soon as he reaches the end of the quote. In Scotland, you can receive abuse from wee neds hundreds of times and be fairly sure that it’s never going to amount to more than handbags at ten paces. The guy who will stick a knife in your ribs is the one who comes at you quoting Chaucer or Shakespeare. That’s the true bampot.

Anyway, I decide to front him out. He’s got about ten pints on me to start with. His co-ordination isn’t the best. Besides, he may still be harmless, just doing the trainspotting bit because I am from Edinburgh. But I’m braced.

But it all ends as bizarrely as it begun, with him wandering out into the middle of traffic on the Clydeside Expressway and two cars blaring their horns whilst I crossed the road to the other side of the street.

Regardless of his intentions, it was a fair feat of memory. I’ll give him that.

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The cast list

Assistant 1: Middle aged lady, serving the customers.

Assistant 2: Another member of staff, standing on the shop floor, having a cup of tea and clearly contemplating a fag break.

Customer: An elderly lady with a walking stick purchasing cigarettes.

The conversation

Assistant 1: What can ah get ye?

Customer: 20 of my fags.

Assistant 1: What do you smoke

Assistant 2: It’s 20 Rothmans. Christ, dinnae ask here what she smokes, she cannae mind her name half the time.

Assistant 2 (to customer): Here Betty, could you no find a brush this morning?

Customer: Aye. Enough o your cheek.

Assistant 2: Whit part o’ yer heid did ye yase it on? Yer teeth?

Customer: Ah’ll gie ye teeth.

Assistant 2: The day might be the day you meet the man o’ yer dreams. Wi hair like that, you’ll terrorise him.

Customer: I wouldnae swap my cat for yin o’ thae fuckers.

Assistant 1 (to me): Just the pint of milk son?

All true but all names changed to protect the innocent.

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