Three Minute Boy

Again, Twitter has inhibited my desire to write more frequently and freely on this blog. A lot of the more spontaneous situations I encounter tend to end up on there now instead of being stored up in my head and regurgitated on here later in the week.

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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I totally made this post title up in an effort to see what bizarre keyword searches I get on the back of it. In the last month, the most common search term for finding my site is “Bumfluff Moustache”, with “Be alert, Britain needs lerts” a close second. I have a particular fondness for the latter, having chuckled about it since I saw it carved into a desk in “Dempy” Dempsters maths class in second year at high school.

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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Me Audioboo-ing about the ‘boadies’. Do I sound like Taggart?

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For a long time now, I’ve occassionally noticed an old man sitting at the bus stop in the mornings. Quite clearly beyond retirement age, he assumes his position in the bus shelter and watches the world go by.

Over the last few weeks, it’s started to dawn on me that he isn’t actually heading anywhere. He’s not checking the bus times or looking at his watch. In the course of the last few weeks, I’ve also realised that at some point or other, every bus service which stops at this bus stop has passed him by without him making a move to get on the bus.

I suspect he is going nowhere. Just killing time in the bus shelter watching the world go by. Perhaps he wants to stay a part of the working world for a little longer. I don’t know whether to admire him or feel sorry for him.

In other news, it appears that archeologists have recovered 18 medieval bodies from the big holeright outside our front door. I knew they had been busy but 18 bodies? Our street is giving up it’s dead like Dennis Nilsen’s drains. The photo in this post was taken by my wife and shows a skull and some bones which made an appearance about two weeks ago.

Read the full story courtesy of the BBC here.

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I spend a lot of time on this blog railing against one perceived grievance or another. Most of it is purely for comedic value. Whilst I often claim to be ‘shaking with rage’, I very rarely am. Until last night that is.

Living where we do, we have experienced major disruption at the hands of the new Tram Network. Not being able to park your car in your street may sound trivial. Build that up over a period of 9 months though. Then add the fact that the having the car outside the house is critical for us with a small child and add the further fact that the guys undertaking the work for the trams arrive on site at 6am every morning and have a shouted conversation the length of the street then you can probably see how the annoyance builds up.

Imagine my rage then when I stumbled round the corner from Lidl last night to see a fully constructed, replica tram at the top of my street full of ‘dignitaries’ quaffing champagne and patting themselves on the back for a sterling job well done. That’s champagne. Not tram pain. Tram pain is for those of us who have to live with the consequences of their decisions.

- Cheers lads. Mine’s a pint of Best.
- Oh, sorry Mr Palmer. I’m afraid you are not invited. Your name’s not down so you’re not getting in.

I’m starting to feel this is becoming the tram blog so I’ll hastily change the subject.

Chimpanzees on Segways.

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I’ve been a bit slack in updating this blog lately. My increasing use of twitter (http:/twitter.com/caledoniaman) has meant that a lot of the half daft rants I come out with tend to end up on there these days.

Every so often though, something comes along which makes my blood boil so much that I feel compelled to post. Today I noticed that despite cancelling my Vodafone account and moving to O2 at the start of March, Vodafone are still taking money from my account. The minute I realised this I was hit with the immediate dread at the prospect of trying to claw the money back.

You see, they don’t make it easy for you do they.

“Oh yes Mr Palmer, have a phone, take it away today. Brilliant. Just sign here and that’s you.”

Aye. All well and good until they cock something up and you end up having to answer about 40 multiple choice questions armed only with your telephone keypad and ever dwindling patience. Eventually, if you are lucky (usually after being on hold for about an hour), you’ll get through to some disinterested dickhead who even if he actually understands what your issue is and how to resolve it will no doubt be lacking the necessary authority to do so. He’ll then put you through to another department, again with a 30 minute wait. Once through to that department you will again no doubt have to furnish them with your account details and tell them the whole story again.

In order to avoid this, I decided to pop into the Vodafone shop at lunchtime. You know what happened? The bloke behind the counter phoned the same number I would have and sat in the same queue. Meanwhile, I’m left looking at him like a total turnip.

Needless to say, after 25 minutes of him waiting (unanswered) on the phone, I had to get back to work. His tip to me – “Here’s the number. Give them a phone”. Brilliant pal.

Remember the days when you could just phone a company and someone would answer?

To top it all, I bought a Lothian Buses bus pass on my way back from the Vodafone shop. They stung me £45 for something which they only charged me £37 a few months back.

Thieves and Vagabonds everywhere.

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It’s been a while since I updated. I’ve not been inspired to write. Also, a lot of the stupid little comedy observations I make on a daily basis have been consigned to my twitter updates instead. Please feel free to follow me at @caledoniaman – (http://twitter.com/caledoniaman)

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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I’ve done some tough gigs in my time. Speaking in front of a crowd is never easy.

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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I attract bizarre situations. Always have done.

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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I can’t speak. My knee is agony and I’m absolutely knackered. Must have been Marillion Weekend then……

I’ve been back from The Netherlands for a couple of days now and I’m slowly recovering. After arriving at Port Zelande on Friday, it was straight on the ‘wreck the hoose juice’ as is always the norm for day one of Marillion Weekend. A stunning gig, where the “Seasons End” album was played in it’s entirety along with a few tasty encores from that era.

On to the post gig “Rock Disco” where I proceeded to win the air guitar competition and a pass to Saturday mornings soundcheck with the band. The victory came at a cost though as half way through my Steve Harris routine on Run To The Hills, I knackered the ligaments on my left knee. This is an old injury which flares up on occassion.

A few more beers were had and on to the Norwegian party. By this stage though, the old peg was starting to hurt badly and I nipped off home to bed. When I woke on Saturday morning, I thought I’d broken my leg. Jesus. The pain was astonishing. I spent about an hour walking off the pain before I could even go near the soundcheck.

The soundcheck was an interesting and enlightening experience. I just presumed that they played full songs together out loud but it didn’t really work like that. It all seems to be done via in ear monitors. Interesting to watch though if not necessarily thrilling to hear. Just to see the band in their normal working environment without fans and to hear the interaction between them was interesting. As usual, Steve Hogarth was the star of the show. He’d perform in an empty room.

Saturday night was “20 years of Hogarth”, with a song played from each year of the singers tenure with the band. All excellent stuff, thoroughly enjoyed. An early night was called for as a result of standing for 3 hours on the gammy knee. Nice and fresh Sunday morning though.

If Saturday is always a dip for me in the Marillion Weekend then Sunday is where I come into my own. Another cracking setlist – “Epics night” – with a suitably buckled Mr Hogarth almost being ruled “unfit to perform” before pulling it out of the bag at the last minute. A few beers later and it was time to collapse in bed, ready for the morning’s return to Schipol and onwards to Edinburgh.

Highlight of the weekend? That’s easy, the heartstring jerking rendition of “Out of This World” complete with the accompanying movie montage above.

I’ll be back with you when I feel better.

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