I’ve not felt inspired to post this year. I’d love to get all deep and say that the prospect of 2009 and the credit crunch became too much for me and I couldn’t bring myself to put my head above the parapet. The sad truth however is that I just couldn’t be arsed. That and doing a bit too much relaxing.

New year was really relaxing. We did nothing. That may sound shit to everyone else but for me it was great. Having a 15 month old means you are up early and by extension usually struggling to stay awake at the end of the night. Hogmanay is no exception. Besides, anyone who has lived in Edinburgh for any length of time will be acutely aware of how fucking annoying the city can become at New Year when the pissed hordes from all over the world descend on the place.

The run up to new year was nice and relaxed. All very calm. The only incident of any worth to report was “the security van robbery that wasn’t”.

Venturing out of the flat between Christmas and New Year, I heard a strange siren and a repeated automated message saying “Help, help, this security van is under attack. Please call the police”. Standing outside (the now defunct) Woolworths was a security van with all doors open and no-one in sight.

Polis were duly phoned.

Cue a screeching of tyres, blues and twos and a lot of running and shouting as 3 squad cars came flying in from all directions, much to the bemusement of a slightly embarrassed looking security guard (who had now appeared on the scene) who spent the next ten minutes getting the “waggy finger” from the polis about turning his alarm off the next time he accidentally triggers it.

Other than that it’s been quiet. Back to work yesterday.

One observation I’ve made since walking to work in the last couple of days is the huge number of shitey wee dogs which seem to suddenly have appeared post-Christmas. All either wearing stupid wee coats or being carried in peoples arms as they go about their journey to work.

This is Edinburgh. Not Hollywood. Gonnae no dae that. You look like a complete fool.

Talking of complete fools, anyone seen Coolio on celebrity big brother? I’m embarrassed for the lad. It’s still entertaining though. In my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined a house populated by LaToya Jackson, Coolio, Ulrika Jonsson and Tommy Sheridan.

Who do you think Tommy will proposition for sex first? My money’s definitely not on Coolio.

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- Doctor, my head is itching like mad.
- I suspect you’ve got Hairmyres son. These tablets should clear it up.
- What if they don’t?
- Well we’ll fumigate the little buggers. That should sort it once and for all.

I was on the bus at 6.30am and was stunned when half way up Leith Walk a punk got on. Now, you don’t see punks very often these days. I mean real punks. Safety pins and that. Mohawk haircuts and tartan troosers. Even more unusual though was that this punk was pushing 50 and was marginally overweight. An unusual but slightly amusing start to the day. Bet he has a “Punk’s not dead” tattoo on him somewhere.

After that it was the 7am train to Glasgow. That’s the bleary eye express if I ever saw it. Everyone looking at their feet rather than running the risk of someone striking up an early morning conversation. When I arrived in Glasgow I had to make my way to Central Station.

Just round the corner from Central Station is a Greggs the Bakers and I decided I fancied a couple of bran scones for the train. I entered and in standard Scottish patois (half a dozen double negatives and a question instead of a request) said to the girl behind the counter “You couldnae butter me a couple of bran scones no?”

“Whit?” came the reply and by the look on her face I’d swear I had just asked her to butcher me a goat.

“We only dae fruit or plain”

So it seems that the salt and sauce/salt and vinegar issue isn’t the only culinary difference between the East and West of my native land. It seems that Bran Scones are exclusively an East coast gig as well. Oh well, healthier eaters through here obviously.

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What I don’t like is when two fat businessmen sit on the other side of the table and decide to treat your personal space as an extension of their office, making and receiving very loud phone calls (including conference calls), spreading project plans out all over the table and basically acting like the comfort and privacy of all those around them don’t matter as long as they can conduct their business.

I’ve worked on trains, laptop out and bashing away on the keys, but that’s a hell of a difference from what these guys were doing. Funnily enough, although I shared a train with them for about three hours, I couldn’t ascertain what they did or who they worked for. They spoke entirely in abbreviations, jargon and (most beloved of the modern business world) cryptic department names such as ‘Global Service Management’ or ‘Infrastructure Rationalisation Services’.

What a lot of bollocks. Cheers guys. I had been looking forward to reading my book all the way home but in the end I found your chat about ‘Dave’ freeing up resources much more captivating than E.P.F. Lynch’s World War One diary from the trenches.

Speaking of muppets, I see that Karen Matthews and Michael Donovan have been convicted of imprisoning Shannon Matthews, Karen’s daughter, in an attempt to ‘do a Madeleine McCann’ and earn a £50,000 reward.

I say, throw away the key on the mother, but the lad Donovan is quite clearly dolly dimple. I read a quote from his previous employer today in the paper. Basically, he sent him out to fill the van with £20 worth of petrol but half an hour later found Donovan driving the van around the car park repeatedly.

When asked what he was doing, Donovan informed his boss that the van only required £18.48 worth of petrol. Basically, he was driving around until he could free up another £1.52 worth of petrol space at which point he would go and top it up.

It’s school he needs sending to, not jail.

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I can’t believe how many cars I’ve seen this morning with snow on the roof, even though there’s no snow to be seen in Edinburgh itself. Some of the outlying areas (presumably to the south of the city) must be like Lapland though. The real Lapland that is. Not that pishy funpark in the New Forest which has been blighted by controversy. Apparently even the Elves went on strike there after an impromptu ‘square go’ between two of their number. Elves fighting. I’d pay to see that.

It’s the sleeper train tonight. I can guarantee it’s going to be one cold, shoogly night. The only thing which consoles me is the thought of a warming cup of tea and breakfast somewhere near Euston in the morning before I head off and deliver my course.

Christ, I’ve been in business too long. I actually typed the word ‘deliver’ there without even thinking. Time for a ten year sabbatical? I wish. July next year will mark the completion of 20 years continuous employment for me. I don’t feel old enough to have been working that long.

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• being ‘Born to Rock’
• anything involving ‘The Dangerzone’ (whatever that is).
• being unable to ‘stop the fire burning out of control’.
• crazy nights.
• the midnight hour.

In other news, I’m working from home today and tomorrow. I have a massive report to write and find it easier to concentrate at home. Somehow I manage to get about 3 times the amount of work done. It’s great.

This post and my last one have been a bit short and ‘listy’. I’m feeling slightly uninspired this week.

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After an hour and a half stuck cramped up on a train – as is always the case, the guy opposite me seemed to be as tall as an NBA basketball player, leaving me no leg room – I emerged onto the taxi rank at Queen Street station to a taxi driver who didn’t have a frigging clue as to the location of the street I was aiming to get to and I had to prompt him with the names of some of the surrounding streets, hastily recalled from last nights quick glance at Google Maps.

As I was visiting a radio station run by the RNIB, this was a case of the blind leading the blind to a blind radio station. Not often that happens I’m sure.

As is usually the case with Glasgow taxi drivers, I got his life story for the 15 minute journey, including details of his recent stroke and the barrage of tests required to identify that this was what had happened to him. I’d summarise, but his own words are better:-

“They pit this big muckle tube doon yer throat. It’s as wide as yer finger. The wifie who was in afore me, her guts couldnae haundle it. Boom. Shite everywhere man.”

So eloquent. That story alone was worth the £8 fare.

Obviously we had bonded. Upon leaving the taxi, he got out and opened the door for me and gave me this wee awkward man hug/hand on the belly/pat on the back combination which left me feeling slightly uncomfortable.

I opted against a taxi on the way back and settled for a journey on the Glasgow Underground. Widely known as the “Clockwork Orange” largely due to the orange colour of the trains and the circular route of the underground itself, I couldn’t believe it when the train turned up and it was cream in colour. What? Whit? Eh?

That’s council’s for you. Wee rebrand here, tram network there. No class or common sense.

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I’m off to York tomorrow to speak at a conference. I’m more than slightly gutted that the venue is outside of the actual city. Due to train times, conference length and other such inconveniences, I am unlikely to have time to explore the beautiful city centre. York is one of my favourite cities in the world. Forget New York, the old one is a hundred times better. Whilst working out my routes to the venue, I had the opportunity to explore the city using Windows Live ‘birds eye’ view. As close as I’m going to get to seeing the tourist sights for the immediate future.

I may manage to convince the taxi driver to go via Micklegate Bar (thats a medieval gate, not a pub) though. Which would be nice.

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Smart work wear adds a series of complications to my working day. Crush avoidance for one. Travelling for 5 minutes on a 22 bus can easily negate an entire evenings careful ironing. My current addiction to beans on toast at lunchtime is another hazard. I can safely predict that I’ll be sitting at my desk at lunch with a napkin tucked into the collar of my shirt like Del Boy or some demented uncle at a wedding.

Perhaps the biggest issue I encountered this morning though was ‘pocket unfamiliarity’. Which pocket do I put my iPod in? Never mind the credit crunch, issues like that can make or break a man’s day.

Incidentally, that’s not me in the photo. I’m more clean shaven and as mentioned before, my suit is more crushed. It’s purely for the benefit of one particular reader who has an irrational phobia of chimps in human clothing…….

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It’s a power trip for these guys. This power trip is summed up by Lothian Buses latest ruling of forcing mothers to fold up buggies before getting on the bus, even though there is a space available on the bus specifically for the purpose of storing buggies and wheelchairs. Luckily I’ve never travelled with my son on my own on a bus unless he has been in a baby sling but from experience of folding up a buggy, this is not something which would be easy to do one handed with an 11 month old in the other arm.

Anyway, I digress. I got the number 22 bus to work today. As usual, the drivers see the need to pack the bus like sardines and you end up with some sweaty lads arse jammed against your face for the 1.5 mile journey. Not nice. Now, I can almost accept the need to fill the bus so full. I’ll take one for the team if it means that as many people as possible can get to work on time.

What I won’t accept however, is fighting my way to the front of the bus as my stop approaches only to be told by the driver, in irate fashion, to move back a bit as I am blocking his view.

Excuse me mate, where do you expect me to go? Less than one pace behind me is a seething mass of humanity which resembles a cross between M&S office wear section and the black hole of Calcutta.

Next week I’m walking to work.

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