Another boyhood hero...



BTW - who the fuck is Nacho Novo? - exactly...

I can't bear to watch the news anymore...



Years of oppression, hopelessness, poverty, cruelty & intervention from
the West has focused their resolve & given them something to die for...

Why can't we give them something to live for?

when there's no future
how can there be sin?
were the flowers in the dustbin
were the poison in the human machine
were the future, your future...

Always read the lyric sheet while listening...



Take for example *ETBTG's Little Hitler. A song I may have listened to 100+ times.
I was listening to the **BTSSB CD while reading the lyric sheet and - While most of
the songs were as I remembered them - I had no idea what Little Hitler was about.
Tracey Thorn has such ability that she can make a couple of words sound like a
sentence and vice versa. What annoys me is I cannot remember what I thought the
song was about before I read the lyrics.

I can relate to the person portrayed in the song as I have met many Little Hitlers
and also see aspects of myself in there which is unfortunate. I don't know why we
find it so hard to shake certain things from a background we were lucky enough to
have escaped from. The violence and evil that made us get out in the first place
is perpetuated in stories, related to people in pubs or at parties or as a justification
of how well we have done considering we came from such a background. Thieves,
murderers, junkies, thugs, bullies, rapists and abusers are given cult status in these stories.

Stories of murder and mayhem. It's a pity nobody tell's the story of the men and women
who live in this environment all their lives and bring up families who in turn bring up families in similar circumstances, without ever resorting to violence, drugs or crime. The people who just keep trying no matter how many times someone shits in their stair, breaks a window, steals the video or tv, spray paints obcenities on their wall, etc. People who will never attain cult status, whose stories will never fuel the 'ooh's' and 'aaah's' of the Glitterati. Heroes. No matter how abhorrent your background, use
it for titillation or justification and your still there.

* Everything but the Girl
** Baby the stars shine bright

Little Hitler, don't come round here again
with your renegade politics, redder-than-thou-distain
thought we were on the same side
but with a fistfull of nails and your knives from the Clyde

you're a little Hitler now
and you'll grow up heaven knows how
Little Hitlers, little Hitlers
grow up into big Hitlers
and look what they do

Behind every big man there's a small boy
drink to Stalin and Hitler and Jimmy Boyle
hard men get all the catches
every woman loves a fascist
come the big day, you'll be OK

You try to scare me with stories of knives
backstreets and razors and alley-cat's cries
and if your heartless and hard
well this has made you what you are.

There endeth the lesson...

Laugh? I nearly bought a round...



I don't really have a problem with the England team, I mean, I enjoy
watching the players week in - week out in the EPL. But the arrogant,
narrow-minded, violent fuckwits that seem to be becoming the rule rather
than the exception in their support and the jingoistic handling of the
whole affair by the press - gutter & otherwise - leaves me cold.

So to the players - hard luck. To the Tornado bait & assorted trailer trash - ha ha ha...

They're going home, they're going home - Englands going home...
I can never resist a good tune

I was thinking about a girl I went to school earlier and couldn't remember her name...



well it's just come to me - Felicity Bisset. She was a bit like I was at 14 - dyed hair, slightly oddball. I remember she wanted to take me to the Lou Reed concert at The Odeon in 74? but I didn't go. She was very pretty in a gothic way - a look I like now and have done since the punk days; must have left me indifferent when I was 14. Black hair and a very pale complexion, delicate features and big dark eyes. She would only have stood 5' or so and her overall appearance was ethereal and refined.

She wore black and her clothes were always way ahead of the fashions of the day with a little touch of Victorian op shop elegance thrown in - before it was trendy. She had these 'Maitresse' style lace up shoes with huge heels (remembering this is a couple of years before punk & stiletto's became de rigueur) which were so unusual they looked like they had been specially made for her, as if to correct a limp - save for the high heels. I remember she would cop a lot of flack for the way she looked but it never seemed to bother her. I used to enjoy talking with her about music and I still don't understand why I never went to that Lou Reed gig.

I left school and immersed myself in the punk scene. Although I never thought it at the time, It would have made perfect sense to meet Felicity again as it was a scene that I know she would have embraced. In retrospect, I guess she would have headed to London as soon as she finished school, or Paris, maybe New York. Come to think of it she was always so far ahead of the scene that she was probably finished with punk as I was beginning. I never did see her again after I left school, I never really kept in touch with anybody from school - I just walked out one day and never went back... they were as glad to see the back of me as I was them.

I used to think I was a real individual when I was a teenager, but nothing like Felicity. I ran with a crowd, I stood out but still had the company of the pack, where as she was a one of, she created & others imitated - but not right away; they would laugh for a few months until they had seen a pale imitation in a pop mag and then couldn't rush down to Princes St quick enough to empty the racks of prole garb. Teenagers have the fashion memory span of goldfish - just as well...

I remember her voice had a child-like softness when she spoke. It sounds contrived but I can't explain how well it suited her. I used to smoke 'Gitanes' French cigarettes (Pretentious? Moi?) simply because Bowie used to smoke them and I wouldn't give any away - too bloody dear & hard to find - except to her. I wasn't till years later I found out Felicity means joyful. How the french teacher must have laughed when Felicity walked into the classroom...

Writing this 30 years later makes me smile...

Ziggy played for time...



When I woke up today I had the frustrating feeling that I had dreamt all night but
couldn't recall any of the details - Don't you hate that? I did have Lady Stardust by Bowie in my head, so my first task of the day was to locate the CD and listen to it. Superb - better than I remembered. I continued on with the rest of the CD and re-visited an old favourite Ziggy Stardust. If you haven't listened to Ziggy Stardust in a while, do yourself a favour & stick on the CD, tape or record and - as it requests on the back of the album cover - play it at maximum volume. What an eternal sound.

I first heard ZS as a b-side to The Jean Genie. I remember sitting in the kitchen
of our house at Burdiehouse with my Sister's portable record player, listening to both sides over and over again. Sitting there trying to work out the chords to the songs on my Brother's old 30/- guitar. He had given me the guitar when I told him I wanted to learn. First thing I did with it was to spray-paint it green and paint silver stars on it - fuck technique, style was the important thing. So even though it never got to sound like a rock star's guitar, it looked the part. A few years earlier my Brother had tried to make an electric guitar out of one of the solid wooden shelves in the alcove. He got as far as marking the shape on the bottom of the shelf but my Ma caught him before the sawing began. That was the difference between my Brother & I, he would see sense or be rescued before things got out of hand. If I had been making the guitar, Ma would have caught me when I was painting the already cut out guitar shape & I'll bet there would have been paint on the carpet to boot!

It's funny how our perspective changes as we get older; I have had many beautiful &
expensive guitars in the last 20 years, but what I wouldn't give to see my old green painted guitar - which probably went in the bin around 1976. I guess there are things that we leave behind as the years pass. Thankfully, Ziggy Stardust wasn't one of them.

Jiving us that we were Voodoo...

Leave it tae the wee man...



Actual Commentary on BBC coverage of England v Croatia Euro 2004:

Gary Lineker - So Gordon, if you were English, what formation would you play?

Gordon Strachan - If I was English I'd top myself!

No sitting on the fence for Mr Strachan...

Found a great audio interview archive on the BBC4 website...



BBC 4 Audio Interviews

Although some of the audio bites are not very long, they include a cast from the pages
of British & World history in the 20th century. Bob Marley, Dylan Thomas, Walter de la Mare, Gandhi, Marcus Garvey, Noel Coward, Dennis Potter, Andy Warhol, Francis Bacon, Lucien Freud, Alfred Hitchcock, Ken Russell, Philip Glass, Mies van der Rohe, Kenneth Williams and many more icons & shapers of the 20th Century, all captured in interview.

My personal favourite is the Joe Orton Interview where he knocks Shakespeare.

I always thought he had a Leicester twang - Orton, that is...

And faring out for regions unexplored...



When I am dead and sister to the dust;
When no more avidly I drink the wine
Of human love; when the pale Proserpine
Has covered me with poppies, and cold rust
Has cut my lyre-strings, and the sun has thrust
Me underground to nourish the world-vine,
Men shall discover these old songs of mine,
And say: This woman lived -- as poets must!

This woman lived and wore life as a sword
To conquer wisdom; this dead woman read
In the sealed Book of Love and underscored
The meanings. Then the sails of faith she spread,
And faring out for regions unexplored,
Went singing down the River of the Dead.

American author Elsa Barker was born in 1869, in Leicest, Vermont, to Albert G.
and Louise Marie Barker. Her first jobs were as a shorthand reporter, a teacher,
and a newspaper writer. In 1901, she was the associate editor of the
Consolidated Encyclopedia Library. From 1904-1905, she worked as a lecturer
for the New York Board of Education, and from 1909-1910, she served on the
editorial staff of Hamptons magazine.

Throughout her life, Barker contributed poems, short stories, and articles to
various magazines. Her twenty-year career as a novelist began in 1909 with
The Son of Mary Bethel. Her first volume of poetry, The Frozen Grail and Other
Poems (1910), followed soon after. In 1942, Barker won the Lola Ridge Award
for her poem "The Iron Age." She also achieved success with three books of
"automatic" writing: Letters from a Living Dead Man (1914), War Letters from
the Living Dead Man (1915), and Last Letters From the Living Dead Man (1919).
In this trilogy, Barker claimed to channel the words of a Los Angeles lawyer
named David P. Hutch, who died in 1912. Other publications include a one-act
labor play, The Scab, which was produced in New York and Boston in 1904-06,
and Stories from the New Testament for Children (1911).

Barker lived most of her adult life in New York City. From 1910 to 1914, she
lived in Paris and London; at some point during her residence, she apparently
studied under Carl Jung. She also lived on the French Riviera from 1928-1930.
When she died on August 31, 1954, she was one of the last surviving charter
members of the Poetry Society of America.

went singing down the River of the Dead...

As the shadows grow long on the ground...



I've always liked the night; fascinated and wary. I was Scared of the dark
when I was young and still occasionally prefer to sleep with the light on rather
than off. I love the all enveloping darkness that winter brings; collars up
against the cold, lights trailing in the darkness reflecting dream-like off the
wet pavements, making the eventual release from it's grip all the more
welcome. I like looking into darkness from the sanctuary of my warm room.
Staring into the swirling winter; skeletal trees bending to the will of the wind
as it howls across the park, unleashing showers of leaves as it goes. The rain
beating a tattoo against the window, more pleasant than any music, once again
re-inforces the comfort of the warmth. Safe inside my room.

Summer darkness is different; it fights so hard to overcome the light and
has such a short reign it hardly seems like darkness at all. Until the stillness
of the dark unsettles. Nothing; no wind, no sound. Perfect silence as the
darkness envelopes you in it's cloak like the warm waters of some exotic
river, coaxing you to succumb to the black depths. An intense darkness that
contrasts the light with it's density. The heady perfumed air of summer
nights seducing like a dark femme fatale who's beauty - though
unattainable - is no less craved. What seemed to take forever to arrive is
gone in the blink of an eye, but the sense of the summer night lingers. The
childhood memories of summer nights stay with us a lifetime - strange
considering we spent so little time in her embrace.

In the night we are born & in the night we find ourselves at one with the
primal part of our nature. Trolling the streets; nocturnal hunters on the
prowl; all our inhibitions are put aside in the darkness, to be scooped up
again only when the morning breaks and we assume the mantle of light.
The henious deeds executed under the cover of night, so shocking in the
light of day, seem part of night culture; a by-product of the darkness. The
need not to be seen - to hide from the world - lives within us all and at
sometime or another we will embrace the dark world of night as a friend.

let us hide from the light...

I often wonder...



Henry Fuseli (1741-1825)

Whether the painting gave meaning to the phrase or vice versa...

No doubt about his ability as a player - but what an arsehole...



just a couple of reasons for disliking Italian show pony Francesco Titti Totti

Italians blame rough socks

Totti charged over spat

Totti quoted other reasons for Italy's lack lustre display including 'The grass was too green', 'The ball was too round' and my personal favourite 'I had my socks on the wrong feet.' If he had concentrated more on the game and less at aiming big groggers at Christian Poulsen, they may have got the result they were after.

I blame his mother myself...

The Bigot's top ten...

Orange backlash warning as order reins in its own parades
and they feel 'Demonised'?

Detainees held in 'filthy' conditions
Surely not - in the UK?

The Daily Record
pick any article at random...

Family evening out ends in gang attack
It doesn't ONLY happen down south...

England fans held after street rioting
Didn't take long - did it?

I DEFINITELY DON'T BELONG TO EFFING GLASGOW
Acerbic diatribe from an alleged football fan...

Phillips warns on ID cards
And then the Jocks...

All mouth, no trousers
This journalist's office must be too high up for the NF bricks to reach...

Woman's bid to beat bigotry
Hope springs eternal...

Young thinkers step into the world
on a lighter note...

sad really...

Ah wis tryin no tae comment on Euro 2004, but...



I just can't help it. For one - I cannae even watch it as it's on foxtel (cable) & ah'm no connected & it's receiving little coverage on the news - until the english fans start their nonsense - inevitable. I even resigned ma'sel tae supporting the england team against France after the arrogant comments by Robert Pires. And then what do I read? The poms chanting from the terraces 'Are you Scotland in disguise' at the french - of course they where 1-0 to the better at that stage. Cheeky bastards. No matter how you try, it's hard to get past the arrogance - usually unfounded - of yer average english ned on the terraces. Ah mean, how sick are we hearing about 1966? A bit of a turn-around this time - more like 1066...

in the words of Jack & Victor - get it right up ye...

I really don't like Patricia Cornwell...


Walter Sickert

She seems ruthless & self-assured but philisophically inept; bloody minded as my Mother would put it. Her personal crusade to prove Walter Sickert was in fact Jack the Ripper has seen her publish the book Portrait of a Killer, which in my opinion & if you have read it I'm sure you'll have to agree, is inconclusive to say the least. She has also destroyed one of his artworks so forensic tests could be carried out - inconclusive. The most frightening thing of all is she has managed to purchase a great deal of Sickert's artwork & other historical documents relating to the artist. What is she planning to destroy next in her obtuse campaign to become the most lauded of all sleuths?

Cornwell stated in a 2001 US TV interview: "I do believe 100% that Walter Richard Sickert committed those serial crimes, that he is the Whitechapel murderer." Unfortunately she does not supply anything more than conjecture to back up these claims. Another quote reads: "I began to wonder about Sickert when I was flipping through a book of his art. The first plate I landed on was an 1887 painting of the well known Victorian performer Ada Lundberg... She is supposed to be singing but looks as if she is screaming as the leering menacing men look on. I am sure there are artistic explanations for all of Sickert's works. But what I see when I look at them is morbidity, violence and a hatred of women." When Ms Cornwell writes her crime fiction does anyone accuse her of committing the crimes she portrays? No, of course not - that would be silly...

Keep your eyes peeled for forthcoming revelations from Ms Cornwell were she proves without doubt that Adolf Hitler was actually Max Beckmann, Margaret Tarrant killed Cock Robin & that the worlds most notorious serial killer is in fact a US President.

Actually, the last one sounds about right...

I just bought some original 50's episodes of The Twilight Zone...



There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition and it lies between the pit of mans fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call The Twilight Zone.

Some of my favourite parts of TZ are Rod Serling's narrative intro's & outro's. Standing in his sharkskin suit, smoking unfiltered cigarettes & dishing out his prophetic insights from between clenched teeth & pursed lips with a voice as smokey as the Lucky Strike between his fingers. I remember watching TZ on channel 4 & although they were 20+ years old at the time, they still held me in suspense. I guess the stories are based more on the mental themes of Science Fiction rather than the visual monsters, robots & spaceships stylings of The Outer Limits & other more typically SF projects. Unusual subject matter, often allegorical but always fluid & entertaining, using the everyday and the ordinary to give the supenatural elements an even sharper edge. Serling himself wrote 92 of the 156 episodes that were produced between 1959 - 1964 along with other writers such as Charles Beaumont, Richard Matheson & Ray Bradbury. Serling died in 1975 from complications arising from a bypass operation - he was only 51 years old.

You see kids - it may look cool posing with a cigarette in your hand, but...

It ain't rocket science but the moneys good...



I must admit to following the transfer news - and rumours - that surround the prospective signings coming to Paradise next season with the dedication of a stalker. As soon as names like Rivaldo's were thrown into the mix, my curiosity peaked. Alas - or perhaps fortunately - the big R won't be pulling on the hoops next season, but who will be? The latest player to be linked with Celtic is Jimmy Floyd Hasselbaink - particular attention should be paid to the first two syllables of his surname - who has a year left on his Chelsea contract. I read somewhere that he earns 80k a week at Chelsea so one can only hope any move to Glasgow's East end would be a loan deal with Chelsea paying the lions share of his wages. Now - step back for a minute - 80,000.00 pounds a week! What's that about?

Surely 80k could be better invested. Ah mean, it's almost enough to buy a Zeigler Carpet which would give a better return than JFH when sold in a years time. Until last month it would have bought a Jack Vettriano painting, which could now cost 10 times that amount. What about a Flat in Leith or Gorgie, guaranteed 10% per annum increase for your investment. Perhaps a Porsche 911 Carrera 4 Coupe S would be more to your taste, certainly better looking than JFH. Bearing in mind that JFH could buy any of the above items for around a weeks wages - reality check please. Although, if inclined to do so, even Jimmy would have to save up to buy John Lennon's Guitar.

News just in: Celtic have been linked to Wee Davie Robertson, who has been released from his club - The Backgreen windae Brekkers - after turning up pished for training. Positives for Wee Davie are he will play all week for a few pints & a Ruby Murray every Friday night. One of the snags in the signing could be the fact that he's Shite - although it wouldn't be the first time - would it.

Ok. Repeat after me P-E-R-S-P-E-C-T-I-V-E...

Just when it looks like no-one wants to come tae paradise...



Check out these Fantasy Celts

someone's even put Rivaldo in the gallery - as if...

Viddied a horrorshow Film last night my droogies...



A Clockwork Orange was on TV a few days ago, so I taped it & watched it
last night. Still very enjoyable, I was too young to see it when it was released
but caught it at an arthouse cinema in the 80's, the sets are tres hip -
Actually they remind me of the old Bratisanni's chip shop interior that
used to be in South Clerk Street in the 70's. I read the book about 10 times
when I was at school. It ws a good read but a pain in the arse having to
constantly turn to the back & refer to the NADSAT glossary.

It's funny though when you think this movie was banned in the UK for years & now
there are more subversive commercials on the TV. I also remember the gangs from
Leith that used to dress up with the bowler hats & the eyelash & all. Bright Orange
one was called & another was Clockwork Leith, prowling the night looking for a bit
of ultraviolence & maybe a bit of in-out, in-out - ready to crast a bit of cutter
from some unsuspecting malchick or devotchka. It's all coming back to me.

Watch out for the millicents...

My local Newspaper...



The West Australian

Hey, Cmaawn - it's all we've got...

In peace sons bury fathers, but war violates the order of nature...



Scots veterans remember bravery of dead comrades

and fathers bury sons. -Heroditus, greek historian c. 484-425 B.C.

Breakin' rocks in the hot sun...



Lyrics Clash with Special Branch

I fought the law & the law won...

I'm just a vision on your TV screen...



I was a huge fan of Siouxsie & the Banshees when I was in my teens.
I found the image above on the net. It's the front page of a gig
programme for a 1979 concert at the Rainbow in London. I was at
that concert. It was a special charity gig for kids with down syndrome.
Although a great concert & a financial success, it was ruined by a few
NF skinheads who tried to wreck the place. If I remember correctly the
Banshees had to pay for the damage & the poor kids got a lot less than
they should have. The Fascist element that ran through the Punk/Post Punk
movement ruined many gigs & concert venues. Mindless Bastards. Anyway, it
was a real bit of nostalgia when I found a pic of the programme after all
these years. I do, in fact, have most of the Banshees albums on CD & I still
believe that The Scream was one of the most important records of the Punk era
& helped shape the direction of post Punk music. I still listen to it regularly.

Just something conjured from a dream...

As self proclaimed Emperors go...



Napoleon Bonaparte

I rather like Napoleon...

Anja Garbarek - Smiling & Waving...



I just bought this CD on eBay - another one of my bargain buys at
99p. I have only had time to give it a quick listen to, but it sounds
good; very much like Stina Nordenstam. I had never heard of her before
so it was a bit of mystery buy. I found her Virgin records website here.

back to eBay for another bargain...

Written by robert Frost in 1913...



My November Guest

My Sorrow, when she's here with me,
Thinks these dark days of autumn rain
Are beautiful as days can be;
She loves the bare, the withered tree;
She walks the sodden pasture lane.
Her pleasure will not let me stay.
She talks and I am fain to list:
She's glad the birds are gone away,
She's glad her simple worsted grey
Is silver now with clinging mist.

The desolate, deserted trees,
The faded earth, the heavy sky,
The beauties she so truly sees,
She thinks I have no eye for these,
And vexes me for reason why.

Not yesterday I learned to know
The love of bare November days
Before the coming of the snow,
But it were vain to tell her so,
And they are better for her praise.

it helps make the winter bearable...