Asides

The Jocks
The Jocks are weird almost by definition. Remember this is a people who invented golf, whisky and the lament and saw the whole thing as a logical progression. They came up with shortbread too - a perfectly decent wee biscuit mind - and they looked at it and thought "Noo...whit this needs is half-an-inch of caramel and a guid thick layer o' chocolate. And then it will be jist right! Aye...aye..."


It's them...it's no' me...it's them.
If you are ever unfortunate enough to be unemployed in this green and pleasant land of theirs, you will be provided with a Post Office Account. A sort of Bank Account for people who, by definition, have very little money. You will also be entitled to this service if you are receiving a State Pension, or any other State Benefit. You will be given a little bit of plastic and you can pretend that you are just like everyone else. You also get a PIN which is great. Except if you happen to be a bit on the dim side, or a bit old, or not too good at remembering things like PINs. This seems to be the case with a lot of people who receive State Benefits. It's logical if you think about it, but the people who come up with these 'great ideas' tend not to be the type of people who think too much about anything, least of all the welfare of their fellow citizens.


Anyhoo..., it transpired that when these accounts were first inflicted on the huddled masses there was an initial period of disruption to the normally smooth flow of business in some Post Offices. You can imagine. But imagine if you will, confusion on an East Anglian Scale. Not just village idiots, but elderly, non-lucid, intractable East Anglian village idiots. Happily 'we the people' have had centuries of experience dealing with the insanity of our masters and so it is that in spite of all the warnings to the contrary, those in charge of Post Offices in the land of undulations (seriously, it's not flat - it's undulating!) keep a list of all the important local PINs behind the counter and in so doing add a little bit of humanity to an inhumane system.


But in the end they have the power and we must eventually bend the knee. For example, if you change your address you must, of course, inform Her Majesty that you have done this - lest she and Camilla are out shopping in Bracknell and stop by for a cup of tea and a quick chat only to find you have gorn. If you phone the Post Office banking system they will, with reasonable efficiency, take the details and confirm them verbally to you. They may even record the conversation for posterity and training purposes. Then they will write to you to confirm the confirmation of that which you already know. That you used to live somewhere, but now you live somewhere else. And they will write to you twice. Once at your old address, where you will recall you no longer live, and once at your new address, in case it slipped your mind that you had moved.


"Oh brave new world..."

Weird Person Magnetic Force Field - e.g. 3

Needs must when the Devil tazers your arse. And so it was that Our Hero entered the tortured world of Personal Mobility Consultancy. Airports and weddings a specialty. In Bracknell, sunny fuckin’ Berkshire. Our Hero chose call-sign “Zulu”. Well, we warlike, oppressed minorities have to stick together you know.

It was an education. In the sense that swimming through shite is an education in organic chemistry. The difference between surviving, and life with occasional alcohol transfusions, was ‘long runs’. Long runs could be “Take this collection of apparently sane, normal individuals to London during the Festive Season and see what you end up bringing back.” Or it could just be carting some souls from Heathrow to Bracknell or vice versa” and easy on the versa. So when the radio crackled one fine November morning, Zulu snapped to attention.

Zulu.


“Zulu you’re next for a long run”


Woo-hoo! Fresh spam and rioja tonight boyo.


“Zulu, go to Kroopps Data Management Inc** and pick up Herr Schmidt.”


Herr Schmidt?


“Ja Zulu, Herr Schmidt. Oh and Zulu…”


Zulu.


“Take Herr Schmidt to zee Heathrow airport, but do not mention zee var!”


Bastards. Bastardin’ fuckin’ bastards.

35 minutes in a cab with Herr Gruppenfurher Schmidt and somehow we have to avoid the last few outbreaks of unpleasantness between our two great nations. Zis vill be no strudel-valk, nein.

Herr Schmidt was ready and waiting. Well he would be. Bags in the boot, Herr Schmidt in the back seat, Zulu at the controls. Confirm airport Terminal, start engine, about to taxi off when it started.

“Vee are taking zee autobahn yezz?”

Eh no actually Mien Herr, zee autobahn is kaputen. Well the sun had been shining on the M4 tarmac during the summer months, and before you could say “Emergency repairs” it was contra-flow from arsehole to breakfast. Zoh no autobahn.

“Nein, nein. Allvays mit zee small roads, I am vanting vee go autobahn!”

Our Hero explained the situation to Herr Schmidt in a calm and reasoned manner. One taxi-cab, one licensed taxi-driver and one passenger – guess who decides on the route, pal? On that ‘agreed’ basis Our Hero set sail in icy silence for Vindsor Great Park and zee small roads, mumbling as he did so ‘Dear God, I have not been a loyal subject it is true. But if yi git me through this wan, I will never sin again. I promise.’

And it worked. No tractors. No speed traps. No collection of hats en route to a wedding in a Fiat Panda. Not even a law abiding citizen in mortal fear of violating the Road Traffic Act. Before you could say “Donner und blitzen” Our Hero was swooshing down the slip road to a deserted stretch of M4 only 6 miles from Heathrow. And not a mention of zee var.

To give Herr Schmidt his due, he conceded gracefully.


“Ah zoh, ja, eez gute. You are choosing gute, ja...ja.”


Maybe it was guilt, maybe Herr Schmidt had just been having a bad day. Whatever the reason, he opened up a bit.

“Zee veather*** is very fine ja? I am coming into Heathrow yesterday and zee aeroplane is coming over London, you can zee all of zee city. Eez most pleezing.”

And not a single bomb dropped? Well done! Careful now Zulu, we’re nearly there, we can do this. We were approaching the Heathrow exit – we were that close – when it happened.

“I am notizing zee red flowers, many of zee people are vearing zee red flowers on yackets. On zee coats. Vat izz meaning zee red flowers?”

Red flowers? What the fuck is he on about now? What red flowers? Oh shit. The poppies*. The Lord giveth with one hand and the Lord smacketh in the mouth with the other.

Well Our Hero tried. He pointed out that 'zee red flowers' were in memory of all those who had died in all of the wars. Not just the wars with… But it was no use. There are some things you just have to accept and sadly, history is one of them.

*On the 11th of November (Remembrance Day) each year most of the people of Britain choose to honour those who have given their lives in the many conflicts which this wee country has been involved in. On the day there is a two minute silence and, in the run-up to the day itself, people donate money for those who survived the conflicts but still find themselves in need. Those who donate can, if they wish, avail themselves of a decorative red poppy which can be fastened to the lapel, and worn with pride. The poppy was chosen because, during World War One in Flanders, scene of some of the greatest carnage, the only plant which survived the bombardments was the poppy.

**No such company exists in Bracknell, or anywhere else.

***Apologies to the individual in Riga who Googled "veather" and "London" and got this page.

Weird Person Magnetic Force Field - e.g. 2

Even the mundane provides the insane. Our Hero, sad to relate, was once dependant on Public Transport. Can such poverty exist? In Berkshire? In Berkshire they don’t 'do poor' so they have a cunning plan. They make everything connected with poverty even more unpleasant than it already is. Hard to believe, but true.

In order to turn up at work some three miles from the Batch-Pad, Our Hero has to get two buses. With (on a good day) a twenty minute wait between the first and the second. Oh joy! The only 'blessing' is that there is a caff* available between charabancs. It is a classic British Caff - Hell with Grease. Rain on the outside of the window and condensation trapped on the inner surface by generations of trans-fatty acids. The sausages are deep-fried in bulk on Monday morning and re-fried each dawn to preserve the 'flavour'. Tomatoes come out of a steel vat and deliquesce on the plate in front of disbelieving eyes. The kindest thing to say about the eggs is that, mercifully, they never incubated. So Our Hero orders khaki mud and grilled cotton wool. The menu says 'tea and toast'. But then the menu says 'coffee' and that's a fucking lie as well.

Incredibly this place is never empty. On this particular morn there are four others at an adjacent table. Two chavs** and their chavettes. The chavs are facing the wrong way with respect to their baseball caps and all are smoking super-cheap-super-king-size cigarettes. One of the chavettes has her cigarette in her right hand. Her right elbow is sitting in the palm of her left hand which is resting in an oil-water mix on the table surface. The right hand is cocked back 'elegantly' so that the ever-extending ash is safe to drop onto the floor. Our Hero is hypnotised by this gravitational experiment. In his younger days he might have managed to leap forward with an ashtray and catch the ash in mid-air, but he is not as agile as he used to be. Flexible yes, agile? No.

And they speak. One says 'speak'... The subject du jour appears to be a present given by one chav-colleague to another chav-colleague.

Chavette 1: "Eee deed-uhnnt!"


Chavette 2: "Eee fuh-kehnne deed!"


Chavette 1: "Eee deed-uhnnt!"


Chavette 2: "Eee fuh-kehnne deed!"


(Chavette 1 appears to be having some difficulty with this concept, but as far as Our Hero can ascertain she probably has difficulty with many concepts.)


Chavette 1: "Eee deed-uhnnt!"


Chavette 2: "Ahh-tell-yuhh - eee fuh-kehnne deed!"


Chavette 1: "Eee gaive huhh 'at cee-deeeeh? Naaahhhhhhhh! Eee deed-uhnnt!"


Chavette 2: "Ahh-tell-yuhh - eee fuh-kehnne deed!"

Chavette 1: "Owe Naaahhhhhhhh - Ahh fink 'at moozik is sahh-ow PAZZ-ZONT! Eeet izz, eeet izz sahh-ow PAZZ-ZONT - azz-whaht-eeet-izz, PAZZ-ZONT!" Much Chav-laughter and Chav-hilarity.

Our Hero muses. What, he ponders, comes after "Thy Kingdom come"?

*Caff = Cafe, diner. These can vary from the sublime to the positively lethal. This particular caff came from the biochemical end of the caff spectrum, but sadly for the people of this green and pleasant land, it is by no means the worst.

**wikipedia.org states that: "Chav is a derogatory slang term in popular usage throughout the UK. It refers to a subculture stereotype of a person who is uneducated, uncultured and prone to antisocial or immoral behaviour. The label is typically, though not exclusively, applied to teenagers and young adults of white working-class or lower-middle class origin. Chav is used for both sexes, where a male chav is sometimes referred to as a chavster and a female as a chavette." And that seems very fair to Our Hero. In the US they would probably be referred to as "White Trash" and that too seems very fair.

Weird Person Magnetic Force Field - e.g. 1

It was post-exam delirium, university style. Which is one of the best. Even in North Wales it feels good. Think of losing your virginity as you would wish to, passing your driving test and landing your first win Yankee* all in the same day. Everyone should feel that good at least once in their life. I don’t care how they achieve it, but it should happen. Rob a bank, smack a library sniffler in the face with a copy of Plant Physiology by Salisbury and Ross (3rd. ed.) do whatever it takes. Goals achieved, sentence over, and of course you are friends for life with everyone. Our Hero had planned a celebratory soiree with Lou (who had graduated in her beloved Plant Science) and she asked if her brother, a fellow Mature Student studying elsewhere in Wales, could come along. “But of course, come one, come all.”


Lou and the Hero are in the Fat Cat in Bangor High Street just sitting there beaming inwardly, glowing outwardly, supping contentedly when Brother arrives. Our Hero was ill prepared. Our Hero has seen most of it. He has been there and back and has tee-shirts to prove it. But he wasn’t ready for this. Let us start at floor level. The boots – Cuban heeled, decorative metal toe cappings and wee chain thingys at the back of the heels. O.K. Fine. Jeans – Levis of course. Not just faded and strategically distressed, nooooo. Think very fine grade sandpaper. Think wet and dry. And a few weekends wasted. Well, it’s a personal choice. Leather belt in the Pony Club category (width-wise) with a buckle that you wouldn’t want to drop anywhere near sporting metatarsals. And, because the belt wasn’t a bold enough statement - a fuckin’ bandolier. Our Hero kids you not. A bandolier. Worn casually on the hip. Well…as casually as a bandolier can be worn in Bangor, North Wales. Nae cartridges or bullets mind. Nothing ostentatious. I’m-a-lumberjack-red-tartan shirt. But of course. And the perfectly crinkled black leather jacket. Well why not? And what does a chap finish that ensemble off with? Why a red bandana round the neck silly.


Time for a stiff drink and a corner table thinks Our Hero. This will need some further explanation. Lou (who doesn’t bat an eyelid mind) does the intros, starts the small talk and then nudges off to shake the lettuce**. Opportune moment Our Hero surmises. “Eh if you don’t mind me saying old bean…I mean I’m not criticising you understand…it’s just that the…eh…the...eh…” Vertical sweep of hand, open-mouthed incredulity. “Oh you mean the gear?” He says. Yeah the gear pal, the fuckin’ gear. He looks over both shoulders to make sure no-one will hear then leans across for a furtive whisper. “Look, I know it’s bullshit. You know it’s bullshit. Lou knows it’s bullshit. But in Aberystwyth they think I’m Ernest fucking Hemmingway!


*A Yankee is a multiple bet involving four selections (horses, greyhounds, reality TV events etc.) combined in doubles, trebles and an accumulator. In US betting terms a ‘parlay’. Invented by gamblers who thought that one winner wasn’t enough and endorsed by bookmakers who thought that one loser wasn’t enough. Typically the Scots considered it far too simplistic and modified it into something called a Dundee Shuffle where all four selections have to win twice before you can break even.


** Shake the lettuce (euphemism) = visit the Ladies toilet. Use your imagination.

Inaugural Posting

OK, I admit it; I am not the 'Only Angel in Hell'. It just feels that way and I thought it was about time the rest of you knew about this. Drop in when you feel like it and share in any agony or ecstasy we might stumble upon. The inspiration for this blog was "My Neighbours are Hoors", a delightful piece of Scottish insanity all the way from Aberdeen. It's free and worth every penny. These are important factors in Aberdeen*.


Check it out http://myneighboursarehoors.blogspot.com/


If you're interested in Angels and/or Hell then you're in for a severe disappointment on this site. Move on; go placidly to somewhere else with my blessing.


The blog title refers to my default condition which is usually:
(a) Is it me...?
(b) Do these rules apply to everyone else?
(c) Aw wait a fuckin' minute pal...
(d) Any combination of the above.


You see, like all other carbon-based life forms, I signed up at birth for the 'slings and arrows of outrageous fortune'. My own fault really, it was in the 'Terms and Conditions' but who reads those? The problem now is that I am starting to find out how outrageous 'outrageous fortune' can actually be.

The central theme of this blog then is the stuff of life from this particular Scot's perspective. The 'Scottish' bit is significant because you can take the Jock out of Scotland but you can't take the free thinker out of any of them. It's funny how you never come across any silent Scottish free thinkers though. But a word of warning, it's the "plooks** 'n' all" Scotland, not just a romanticised "Trainspotting" version.

Incidently, postings and links will NOT include pornography because I have found from experience that you can never find a duck-billed platypus when you need one. What? Aye right, like you've never...


* Readers outside the UK should note that in Scotland, the good people of Aberdeen have the same (totally unjustified) reputation that Scots have in the rest of the world. They are considered to be enthusiastically frugal.

**Scot. vernacular. plook = a spot, blackhead, pimple, wart etc. Normally a facial disfigurement. In polite Scottish society (and we are famed the world over for it) one would never discuss plooks in/on other parts of the anatomy.