Life in these British Isles

My points of reference: 1. Rosewood

2011-09-02T08:37:00.005+01:00

I anticipate this entry to be the first of a thread that I'm calling "My points of reference". It was inspired by largely by my father. When I was a kid my father, bless his soul (makes him sound like he's passed, but no: bless his soul is cos he's crazy), would make reference to some character called Hess. He'd say things to me and siblings like, "You Hess's child!" and cackle with glee at his witticism. We had absolutely no fucking idea was he was on about, though we gathered it was not a rather good thing to be related to this Hess chap. Finally I asked my amah (cos you can get no coherent chat from me da - fact) who Hess was. "Oh," my mother said, with an indifference off-handedness that can only be obtained by being married to the same nutjob for an extended amount of time, "Just some guy he went to high school with."

This "My points of reference" thread has also been inspired by what happened today, and it serves as the basis for my first point of reference, of which I shall explain to you now. So I was happily tweeting my dear high school BF ATW when we happened upon talking about music. I explained that I was trying to take in more rap and expressed my love for the new Bad Meets Evil album (can I just put out there how much I love Eminem right now? Like he gets me going big time. Which is weird cos I never thought he was attractive before. Anyway, let me get back to the point, cos I'm getting hot to trot). ATW returned that she didn't like the "overuse of the n-word". In response, I called her cliched.

Now, let me back up just one minute here and give even more background. For some reason, I have been on the Guardian website recently, making comments on stories about rap and hip-hop music. I am by no means an expert or full-on connoisseur (yet), but, as was the case from lots of other comment-makers, I can't stand when people slag off rap so vehemently (glorifies criminality and sexism) and I feel I have to defend it. OK, you don't get rap - fine. So don't listen to it, simple as. I don't listen to country much for exactly the same reason. It's violent and denigrates women, but it gets a lot more cultural respect from people. Why? Well, I'll let you figure that out on your own, my little lambs.

Anyway, when I get round people having a go at hip-hop and rap, I just kinda lose it a bit, which I was reminded of when tweeting ATW. I always refer to me losing it when it comes to thinking about race issues as having a "Rosewood moment". Rosewood is the name of a John Singleton-directed film starring Ving Rhames, described in IMDb as a "dramatization of a 1923 horrific racist lynch mob attack on an African American community". Essentially, this white community goes all klan on a black community.

When my mother went to see this film, she said she left the cinema so angry that she just wanted to bust on any white person she encountered. Which is hilarious. Don't get me wrong: violence is not funny. But my ma contemplating violence is. This is a women who would never whack me or my siblings with her hands, because "hands are for loving". Which made for interesting times when my mother did want to pop us one, for she would rush off looking for something to do it with. Her hands loved us, but that spatula certainly didn't! Still can't look a most kitchen utensils without hysteria rising within me.

So basically when I talk about having a Rosewood moment, I'm referring to my amah's very funny response. It's my way of not letting it get to me, I guess. The citing of a "Rosewood moment" labels the issue for what it is, but it also helps to de-escalate and diffuse things by reminding me of how absurd a really angry response, which I am prone to have, would be.

Maybe I should actually get round to seeing this film that serves as such a significant point of reference.

My beef with FB friends

2011-08-30T21:22:00.006+01:00

Tonight, as I was leaving volleyball training, I pass a guy who I'm friends with on the FB.

"Hello," says he.

"Hi," reply I, walking passed him.

"Oh, did you buy those shoes?" inquires him, nonchalantly.

I stop in my tracks to consider the meaning of this. Then I remember my message I'd put on the Book of Faces: Left work intending to stop at Russell & Bromley to buy that pair of brown loafers I had been coveting before going to volleyball training. But I definitely need another day to mentally prepare myself to pay THAT much for some shoes.

This is not the first time this has happened to me, people commenting to me in person about something I've written on the Facebook but not leaving a comment to the post. I recently spoke to someone who claimed to love reading my "crazy posts" but was a person least likely to write a comment back. And I find this utterly bizarre. It's like some odd voyeuristic behaviour that, if occurring outside social media, would have people arrested. It makes me feel that instead of bringing people together, the FB and other social media allows us to creepily peep on each other.

Actually, I'm being unduly harsh cos that peeping Tom behaviour doesn't really bother me so much. I will freely admit to taking in the events of other people's lives and not always giving feedback. But mostly I do. Especially if you're interesting. If you're interesting, I will defo comment. I've got a pal, DK, who talks crazy shit on the FB most of the time and he kills me and everyone he knows. He regularly has a double-digit number of comments to his postings (though, that being said, around half are his replies to what people say to him).

Though I believe in feeding back, it's sometimes clear that my two cents have absolutely no value. I'm thinking of one friend in particular, who posted a question asking who his friends believed to be the greatest DJ. I answered with a question back that he never bothered to answer. Bad form.

And that's my real beef: people not using the information that others share to really (i.e., instantaneously) engage with each other. I see this information sharing — my information sharing in my FB posts and on this darling little blog — as a service. And your feedback is currency, wages for my work. And as I see it, some of you are seriously short changing me. Y'all better pay me my money!

My dream, or People know I am a shit person

2011-08-07T12:53:00.008+01:00

So last night I had a dream, which I will tell you about! Boy says there's nothing less interesting than hearing other people retell their dreams. I think wots less interesting than that is new parents talking about how amazing their babies are. I mean, THEY ARE BABIES! They do fuck all.

I recognise that's just me.

Actually, that's a good segue into the dream: I was caring for the baby of a couple with which I am acquainted. In real life, I'm pretty sure this couple hates me. Well, for one, the dude defriended me on the FB some time ago. And I was only FB friends with him. I'm really not that gutted (actually, never ever was gutted) about it cos he was kinda boring. I mean, he never changed his profile pic, one of a person doing a pretty nice sporting action, which was clearly not him. That makes him dead suspect to me. And she got on my tits!

Anyway, throughout the entire weekend I cared for the baby, I called the kid "Killian" though that is not his name - it's nowhere near his real-life given name even. To be fair, Killian is a much cooler name than the kid's real name, though. I reckon the kid is four months old, but I fed him a diet exclusively of salty peanut butter crackers. You know, the ones that come in packs of six that you get out of American vending machines. I'm also pretty sure I left him alone several times, once for an pretty extended amount of time where he conked his head. I never changed his nappy. Yep, I was a pretty shit person.

Could this be why this couple hates me? Could they somehow (don't ask me how: I only come up with the theories, not explain them) look past the dreamscape and look directly into my soul and tell that I'm such a shit person that I would harm their little Killian (he will always be Killian to me now) and give him jailbound-worthy care for a weekend? Is this why I was defriended?

But at the same time, if they knew I was such a shit person, why did they let me care for the baby? Clearly, these people are bad parents.

My current dilemma, maaaan

2011-08-02T18:03:00.009+01:00

Basically, every North American I encounter these days makes me wonder: "Do you play softball?" (I am apparently not the only one like this). Yeh, yeh: you think I'm racist cos I assume that all NAers are good at ball. Yeh, so wot? Sue me. In my experience, I have found the greater the propensity for naturally lacing the word "man" in conversation (as in "No way maaaaan, that was soooo out."), the higher the likelihood that the person is shit-hot at softball. So the USer that I met at the Scottish Book Trust, only likely to say "maaaan" in an ironic way: an OK and improving baller.

Now the new kid I recruited - Mr Maaaan, mayor of Maaaaaan Town: confidently balling. All his convo is about balling: batting, fielding, baseball ("Maaaan, the Pirates fucking suck maaan."). So how exactly did I meet Mr Maaaan? Well, there's the dilemma.

Basically, I met Mr Maaaan when he and his child came to visit our school in the spring. After spending some time waffling about whether or not I should ask him to play our little reindeer game, I approached him and he happily agreed to take part. This is really the first time I've allowed someone who is not another teacher to see me in not Ms Teacher mode. Basically, Mr Maaaan has seen me exclusively in my rude, profane, bolshy Me mode, not the lovely Ms Teacher side I like to cultivate to parents.

But now he's asked me to be a friend on the FB. And I'm waffling over this friendship request like no other, as some of you yahoos can attest to. (I've got issues!) I don't wanna out and out ignore him, cos like I said he's an a'ight guy. But it's about the boundaries, innit, and the inappropriate crossing thereof. Isn't it just inappropriate for a parent of one of my kids to want to be my friend on the FB?

On the other hand, this isn't really his fault. In fact, this whole thing could have been prevented if I had thought a little bit more about my actions. I mean, what the fuck did I think was going to happen when I asked him to play softball on my team? That we would somehow stay in these little bubbles where I would always be Ms Teacher and he would always be Mr Maaaan and our real adult personalities of Me and Maaaan would never emerge? I asked him to engage in a social context with me and now I'm freaking out that he actually wants to do it. I'm thinking hard and getting wrinkles cos I think he's crossed a line, but in reality, wasn't it me the one who did?

Actually, I don't think I really have a problem being his friend. This little rant has been about trust and wondering if I can I trust Mr Maaaan with all my personal shit on the FB? Yeh, I've already given him a precursor to my FB self when we play, with all my cursing and inappropriate stories - so wots the difference? The difference is all that stuff I've verbally shared on the field is temporal, having only a fleeting life in one's memory.

Ok, think about it like this: when he goes home to Mrs Maaaan and she asks if anything good happened, he might say, "Ah maaaan, Ms Teacher was telling me this hilarious story about these people shagging loudly on her holiday in France!" And she would say, "What happened maaaan?" And he would reply, "Yeh maaaan, I can't really remember it all." Cos that's what face-to-face interactions are like: filled mainly with silly, inconsequential moments that somehow establish a feeling of friendliness amongst people. But pictures of my drunky bear antics on the FB, however, are permanent. And can be reviewed on the regular. With snorts and chortles.

And can I trust Mr Maaaan, or even Mrs Maaaan, not to share my shit with other parents and other folks? And what if he shows it to his kid? "Hey Lil Maaaan, look at Ms Teacher getting fucked up in this pic! Maaan, that's awesome!" Cos ultimately, even when parents are friendly to you and share a laugh with you, they are still your quasi-employers. Their bottom line is to protect their little one. Our friendship, as fun as it could be, could be thrown out the water if Mr and Mrs Maaaan are totally different when they are in Mr Dad Maaaan and Mrs Mum Maaaan mode.

Of course, I'm the one who's letting this play on my mind, on and on. Mr Maaaan thought all of two seconds about this, only thinking about how to find the 'Request friend' button on the FB . How do I know? Cos he's a man and so you know there was no girly dilemma chat in his head with his actions. I so need to maaaan up.

My singing

2011-06-07T15:41:00.003+01:00

I am, despite wot anyone says to the contrary, a fairly shit singer. I blame myself entirely. When I was a child I, apparently, had a nice singing voice. There was nothing I liked better than singing with my wee tidda. I was by no means the star of the church choir and never sang lead, but I contributed enough.

My paternal grandmother loved to hear us sing. Actually, I think she just loved to show off. She would take me and Tidda around like we were the star attraction in a carnie freak show.

"Ooooo!"

"Look at how long their hair is!"

"Ain't they just so pretty!"

Grandma: "They can sang too."

"Aw, g'on babies. Sang!"

As much as I adored my grandma, I hated singing for all those people. But it wasn't like you could beg off, or politely decline. Because this was Miss Bea, and you did what you were told with a smile. So I rebelled in a most passive-aggressive way possible: singing off-key. And I did it so much and for so long that I couldn't figure out how to get back on.

And I still have no idea how to sing on key or in tune. This is why I karaoke repertoire consists of nearly exclusively of rap songs. Specialities: Ice ice baby and Rob Base and DJ EZ Rock's It takes two. I have also been successful with Here comes the hotstepper and I wanna sex you up. Exceptions to the rule: Losing my religion and Wonderwall, particularly played by another person on guitar.

Despite my singing shititude, there is one audience that I will un-self-consciously sing for: my pupils. When I had a classroom in the States, I remember the first song I sang in front of my kids was Lift every voice and sing. Whatta song. And whatta bad song for a clueness numptie like me to sing - the lowest of low notes, quickly followed by soaring high notes. Normally, I wouldn't have done it, but I had my reasons: it was Black History Month (Lift every voice and sing is informally known as the Negro national anthem); the kids were to sing it at a whole school assembly and needed to learn the words. But mainly, I did it cos the song meant (and still means) a lot to me. I rather pathetically always bust into tears when I hear or sing it, blubbering kinda like my pal Macca does when anything Scottish happens anywhere, ever. (So, yes, when I listened to the YouTube link of Lift every voice and sing, I did start to greet.) Yet after I finished, the kids whispered eversoreverently, "You're the best singer ever." The best moment of my life. Ever. And I haven't stopped singing to and with my kids yet.

Yet my little bubble was burst yesterday when I invited another teacher in for our daily P1 singalong. She actually winced when I began to sing. "Why don't you join in with the singing?" I said to her, wearing the kinda smile on you have when you're around children and you really don't feel like smiling. "I would... if I could just figure out the tune," she replied with equal faux joviality.

My last uni day

2011-06-04T13:15:00.000+01:00

Well, that's it: my final teaching day at Stirling is over and I'm chugging my way back to the EDN. I'm gonna miss the injection of energy seeing my tutor gave me. I have a mad girl crush on my tutor, who incidentally looks like Jane Fonda in the film Monster-in-law. Nothing like the character, obvs.

I will miss the lovely Pathfoot Building, built into the side of a hill and with enough stairs to keep lawyers for people with disabilities employed for decades. So utterly 1960s. I remember going into on of my tutor's offices and seeing two Harry Bertoia diamond chairs in the corners, clearly unloved and unappreciated. I wanted to liberate the chair.

I will miss the canteen where we had our coffee breaks most days, with its double aspect of Wallace monument and Stirling Castle. The. Best. View. Ever. I had plenty of time to take it in as I spent a goodly amount of time estranged from my peers in my cohort. Of course you know my oddities and, because you're reading, you love them. Tolerate them? Hate them with a seething and silent resentment? Yeh, well at least you're subtle. In every way, their judgemental snobbishness, lack of tolerance, and silly ability not to be able to think at all critically and un-robotically brought out my differences even more. Meow! Yes, I won't miss that lot.

Anyway, see ya Stirling. Thanks for everything. Next I see you, all being well, it will November and I'll be wearing my Docs. Think I'll go for the heeled ones this time!

Desert Island Discs: the decision

2011-06-03T15:34:00.003+01:00

Voting closed suckers, but amazingly I got mine in on Wednesday. Here's what I finally choose:

Nightswimming by REM
Smells like teen spirit by Nirvana
SpottiOttiDopalicious by OutKast
Don't look back in anger by Oasis
How do you want it? by 2Pac
Set adrift on memory bliss by PM Dawn
Shadowboxer by Fiona Apple
Tramp by Otis Redding and Carla Thomas

The last one came from no where, huh? I didn't have it on my shortlist, but it's always been a favourite of mine. Just realised that three of these acts are from Georgia (REM, Otis Redding, and OutKast). Hmmmm...

Shit, now that I think about it, I really wish I included 10000 Maniacs' These are the days!

Och, well.

Sports Day... Field Day... Sporting Field Day

2011-06-02T08:25:00.005+01:00

It's Sports Day at my little school so we have an afternoon free of education. Trust me, the teachers are crowing about it just as much as the pupils. I've been teaching in Scottish schools for nearly six and a half years and I can still mistakenly refer to Sports Day by the name I called it in the US: Field Day. Sometimes, I get so muddled, I can't remember which is the right one to say.

Today I am in charge of the Egg and spoon race for the P4 and P5 pupils (third and fourth graders), and I have been for the past four years. We get the same game every year because the DHT (depute head teacher; the vice/assistant principal, USers) says some people like the routine of the same game every year. No - total lies. It's for ease of his life. Every year when Sports Day nears, he goes to his computer, clicks open the Sports Day Word document he created when time began, changes the date at the top, then sends it out to teachers - voila! Then he goes back to strumming his guitar... or woteva people do when they are months from retirement.

All these years of being in charge of the ol' E & S does have an advantage. I have my explanation of the dos and don'ts of game down to a efficient art, somehow being able to express myself thoroughly, succinctly, and amusingly. V unlike my real life. Shit, it only took me four years to figure it how to do this, so I guess there's hope for me in real life. But if only I can have the same convo for the next four years. But hey - that's what marriage is about innit? Oooo, SNAP!

Anyway, the disadvantage of years with the E & S is that I have clearly thought waaaaaay too much about it. Don't know if you know this about me, but gather round for a secret about lil ol' me. Ready?

*I have a overpowering need for justice*
Phew - it's out. I know you're wondering: how exactly does that relate to the E & S? Well, every year, the DHT puts out the equipment for us for each game, so when I reach my location, spoons from the staffroom and golf balls are already there for me. Grand. However, and here is the shocking bit: the spoons are not uniform! So some of them are better at cradling the egg than others. The clever cookies know to run to the spoons, peruse them quickly and grab the best one, thereby gaining the advantage. The not-so-bright bulbs (i.e., nearly every kid I work with in the school) gets the shitty spoons and lose.

Well not this year my friend! Ho no! For I have brought my own spoons from home. Seven spoons, exactly the same so no one has an advantage. I can't guarantee my little numpties will win now, but at least my little move has made an even playing field... day.

Weekend at Perth: Sunday's tweets explained

2011-05-31T10:39:00.006+01:00

@[autumn] Ladies, there's a lotta quality on the Dundee team. And in case you don't know wot I mean - #phwoar #sovt2011

Yeh, well that one pretty much says wot it does on the tin, innit? And they were dead yummy some of those dudes.

@[autumn] Polonia Jets 5th place match - noisy affair & fun. Now in the library for the women's final. Shhh, mustn't make noise or enjoy it. #sovt2011

I always find the crowd's response to volleyball very disheartening. Volleyball's such an exciting game, so constant with action and tension, and how people cannot be swept up in the drama of it is beyond me. The crowds here are pants: unresponsive and disinterested. And dead quiet, thus explaining my library jibe (no, they were not actually in the library playing). On the other hand, before watching this silent women's final, I was watching Polonia Jets play a German team. Now I am biased as they are a part of my club, but Polonia are really great to watch. They cheer themselves on a lot and seem like they thrive on the noise. They are probably considered pretty obnoxious for their clapping and noisemaking and I won't dismiss their obnoxiousness, but not for that reason.

@[autumn] But I obvs don't follow rules well. So I'll be the one shouting out the #shitchat #sovt2011

In the past, I have been an announcer at volleyball matches; once, I announced all day during the finals of the Scottish Cup. It's probably better to refer to me as a colour commentator, cos I actually don't do any proper announcing very well. Me as an announcer calling players on to the court is usually the auditory equivalent to the video game Pong: all over the place. But to be honest, that's my style: chaotic, full of the shit chat and exuberantly reacting to a play - basically, how I am in real life. Anyway, I was not announcing at this game, but I was using my odd announcing phrases to cheer on teams. Generally, Oh, SNAP! works in any situation, as well as a cry of Yahtzee! A great hit could also be greeted with BOOM!: simple, yet effective. For a block: Someone built a wall at the net! Slightly odd, but funny to me is As my Daddy down in Georgia way would say, "Lord have mercy!" My all-time favourite interjection is also inspired by a one-liner by my father: "He got beat like he owes somebody some money." So after a really great play, I will shout out, Just pay him back his MONEY!! Yes, I did chuckle as I typed in my own shit chat.

The worse thing is that most of the places I have "announced" in have horribly shitty sound systems. So all anyone ever hears and sees is some odd woman with frizzy hair and a mic, jumping up and down, making word-like noises, like Juhh uh-uh uh uhs JUUUHHHH!! I think I kinda need to give up the shouting and announcing, particularly in the spirit-free environs I tend to do it in. It just feels kinda like a minstrel show or something, as if I'm Sambo hyucking it up for the indifferent Man.

Hmm... leave it to me to turn a little nothing into a whole big something about race.

@[autumn] C'mon - consider moving the men's final match up a bit? FBS 1545?? You're joking! #sovt2011

There was an hour between the women's final and men's final and I found that personally ridiculous. FBS = First ball served, as in that's when the game begins.

@[autumn] I even offered Xxxxx Xxxxx a Tunnocks caramel wafer to move the men's final even 15 mins earlier. No go. #sovt2011

So I decided to take matters into my own hands regarding the game's start time. I approached a game official with the offer of every British granny's favourite biscuit. Cos no person under the age of 75 ever buys Tunnocks caramel wafers and no person under the age of 60 can resist one. And if you are under that age and in possesion of one, then you were obviously gifted one by your granny or great-auntie. Obviously, the referee was very ethical and declined my offer. Later, Tunnocks retweeted my comment on the Twitter.

@[autumn] Doing my all to fill #sovt2011 Twitter feed to the brim with inane #shitchat. How'm I doing?

Pretty successful, I'd say.

@[autumn] But Should I feel bad I'm at Perth and didn't play any volleyball? I mean, nobody is expected to go to Glasto and sing all the songs! #sovt2011

Maybe SOVT officials should rebrand the tournament as a festival like Glastonbury? I think it would bring in more people outside the insular, incestuous community that is Scottish volleyball, whether it be spectators or players. And then I'd obviously not feel bad for schlubbing around and not doing any physical activity on a weekend dedicated to it.

@[autumn] Glasgow Mets no 11 looks less like US 400m Jeremy Warrander now with longer hair but still qualifies as #doppelgängeralert #sovt2011

One of my more obscure alerts, to be sure. I'm sad about that cos if you actually knew who I was on about, you all would be going Dang, she's right! He do be looking like that boy! With the poor grammar and everything.

@[autumn] Glasgow I'm determined to leave here with no voice. It's on. #sovt2011nensindoorfinals

Last year, I completely lost my voice and could not even go into work on the Monday. I actually started to lose my voice on the Friday, the first day of the weekend, in the car on the way up to Perth. This year, sadly, only a gruff tickle was to be had.

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 1. Slow quicks can, amazingly win points. #sovt2011

Ooo, this is kinda hard to explain without some visual representation, so thank god for YouTube. It can be a pretty spectacular play, seeing the hitter throw the opposition's defense off-guard by the setter setting the ball quickly behind herself and the hitter switching her position to hit. But only if completed quickly and sharply. Which is not what I saw. And yet, the slow manoeuver variation won points and that's me learned.

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 2. A person will kiss their own biceps with enough shouting of "Kiss the guns!" #sovt2011

During Friday's drunken stupor, I bet Dyvie's boyfriend a tenner that he would not, after hitting a ball, kiss both of his arms in a kissing of the guns motion. I underestimated the lure of a few bob, for he did it. Repeatedly and without receiving any more money, only from me loudly insisting on him doing it. I also underestimated Dyvie's man's threshhold of embarrassment (level: low).

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 3. One can be completely exhausted after a weekend of *not* playing volleyball and doing bugger all. #sovt2011

Friday night broke me and I barely drank on Saturday night.

@[autumn] Things I learned at Perth, 4. The cool box won't cool without ice in it. #sovt2011

Actually, that's something some of my compatriots learned. But the uncool box made a lovely seat for someone's bum around the BBQ.

@[autumn] I want some syrup with that pancake! Awesome pick-up, Mike Penny. #sovt2011mensindoorfinals

For you non-volleyballers, a pancake is a last resort defensive move players use. It takes pretty good timing and skill; lots of people will attempt it, but few will do it well. And the crowd was privvy to an exceptional one at the men's final in Perth. Now yeh, I said that don't do Christian names on the blog, but I made an exception with this one for a couple of reasons. One, I don't know this guy, so it's unlikely that he or anyone he knows will know that I'm be talking about him and thereby his anonymity should remain that. Two, if I managed to retrieve a ball with a pancake like this boy did and my team win a point from it like his team did, I would want my full name, social security number/National Insurance number, date of birth and parents' names published beside that achievement it so everyone could clearly identify me! Basically, the man deserves his propers - it was totally badass.

@[autumn] to @[pal-macca] You know what I'm missing here at #sovt2011? The smooth stylings of one Xxxxx X'Xxxxx. Guess his MI5 work has take him away.

The guy to which I refer is Macca's friend Bezu, probably the coolest cat in the world. He just lanks around the place, oozing coolness and genuine niceness. Then he gets on the court and goes crazy. But he travels quite a lot for work and never really talks about it, so I imagine him to be a spy. I totally can see it too cos he's so motherfucking cool! Anyway, he's another reason why I have such a girl crush on Macca: only cool people can be pals with cool kids.

@[autumn] Kisses and hugs exchanged to mark the end of #sovt2011. Two fingers pointing to the right, to the right means see you next year. So ->->

As I was going, I could see this kid I first met last year, waving at me through the window. This kid introduced by a mutual acquaintance who described the kid as a "little bit dyslexic". Our mutual friend took it back when he realised how un-PC that was for a teacher like him to say. Anyway, the kid and I met up again this year cos I brought him back his camp chair that I saved from the skip at the last minute - I kept that bloody chair for a whole year.

So the kid was waving at me through the window and I was to him, both of us not really understanding what the other person was meaning. Finally, we came to the door. "What?" I said. "See ya next year," he smiled. "Oh, so that's what all that means? Two fingers pointing to the right means see you next year?" The kid shrugged: "I guess so." I guess so indeed.

Weekend in Perth: Saturday's tweets explained

2011-05-30T22:30:00.004+01:00

@[autumn] Doors at the disco close at 2300 to accommodate football watchers, and open til 0100. So buy your bloody tickets already! #sovt2011

Each year on the Saturday night, there's a disco in the gym. Champions League final was scheduled at the same time and that (along with Grumpy Bear and his wife's absence - those two are big proponents of the disco and usually encourage people along) was keeping the people I know from going to the dance. I was hoping to push people in, but didnae work really. I also switched to the #sovt2011 hashtag when I realised that they were on the Twitter and encouraging the use of that one over #sovt.

@[autumn] Been quiet on Twitter front cos I've been trying to do more useful things, like walking upright and opening eyes to see. #sovt2011

I was told my last tweet on Friday night/Saturday morning was round 0500 and I was roused at 0930 by all the activity round my tent. Yeh, I wasn't so much as hung over when I staggered out of the tent as still drunk. I didn't graduate to hung over until at least 1400. I was so steaming, I didn't even get meself a egg and bacon roll for my breakfast from the burger van that gets parked outside the gym during the whole of the tournament. And I never not eat.

@[autumn] Too much dithering over where to watch the footie - driving me crazy. Probs cos I'm starving!

We were all a bit exhausted by the time diner rolled around and enjoying hearing each other's shit chat a bit too much that we didn't leave the campsite until after 1800 for dinner at a pub and some after-meal football watching. Wot a bunch of morons! At that time of day, we would be lucky to have room to stand in the toilets and watch the match, hip to hip with some stranger. I mean, this is the Champions League Final - biggest football event in the world! As I mentioned in End of season do, someone needed to be decisive about things. Man, did I miss Turtle and Grumps - but don't tell them I said that.

@[autumn] Patrice Evra with his facial hair: channeling Wesley Snipes #doppelgängeralert #championsleaguefinal

Sometimes I look at someone and it just hits me: that dude looks like someone else. And I can't shake it and I have to tell someone. But most of the time, my references are too obscure, odd, far-fetched, or just plain shite to be appreciated by others. So I kinda invented the hashtag #doppelgängeralert to help deal with these moments in my life. And during the game, the Manchester United defender Patrice Evra did look like action star Wesley Snipes. Which is kinda not a compliment.

@[autumn] Pep Guardiola is a bit of all right, innit? Looking particularly fine in that suit. #championsleaguefinal

Wot can I say? I heart men in a nicely cut suit. So sue me. I forgot to attach the hashtag #phwoar - another one that I use a lot on the Twitter. I just love that word. It's ridiculousness rather suits my silly behaviour and comments over these objects of my affection.

@[autumn] I'm alone at the disco. Poor me. This is when I miss Xxxxxx Xxxxxxxxx's manic dancing. #sovt2011

That blacked out name is the Grumpy Bear. When he gets shit faced, he becomes a violent dancer. That was how bad that disco was - I was wishing for Grump's thrashing manoeuvres to make the shite music bearable.

@[autumn] Yes, as I've just explained to an astonished person, I'm *not* playing at all AND I'm in a 3-man tent on my own. Indulgent! #sovt2011

For reasons I have explained previously, I don't like playing volleyball at Perth. Maybe one year I'll get a sash or a button explaining my philosophy: I'm here for the booze and the banter. That answer usually gets a response of Fair dos from any right minded Scot.

@[autumn] No longer alone at disco - the lovely Xxx saw me sitting on me own and took me into her fold. Too bad the music's still rubbish! #sovt2011

This lovely girl came up to me when she saw me sitting on my own and insisted I sit with her and her friends. She practically pulled the chair out from under me and dragged me to her table. A really lovely thing to do. So clearly, she wasnae Scottish or English. My dear, dear Scots, please don't think I'm slagging you off completely. If a Scottish person saw me sitting there, they would have probably come up to me and had a few funny words with me - definitely. But then they would have pissed off and left me there on me own. Cos asking some stranger to join your group, which would undoubtedly only be comprised of people one would know from infancy, is just a bit... forward, innit? Like that lone person's vulnerability and slight desperation might rub off and infect you. Or worse, you might actually have to have a real conversation. Cos, as much as I love Scottish banter, a real convo is pretty damn hard to come by.

@[autumn] Xxxxxxx: "I'm showing some restraint tonight. I'm going to stop drinking at 0300 or 0200." #shitchat #sovt2011

This was said by the Faroshian, who is from the Faroe Islands. Actually, people from there are called Faroese. But because I'm a dick, I obnoxiously call him Faroshian and luckily for me, he has a good sense of humour about it. There used to be a guy in the club from Monaco and I used to call him Monockan cos I'm an arse. I still don't know wot to call them though. I was right to label this shit chat cos this kid was still awake when I went to bed at 0330.

@[autumn] 'Boom shake the room' has played. Thus, the #sovt2011 disco has finally fulfilled its destiny. Every. Fucking. Year.

Yes, every year that I've been there (and even prior to that, according to Grumpy), this song is played. It's not like it's even the best song in the DJ Jazzy Jeff and the Fresh Prince canon - that, of course, is Summertime. Other songs that must be played: Don't stop me now by Queen; the Grease megamix; The Proclaimers' I'm gonna be (500 miles). I'm fairly use the the shitty music people prefer here, but I somehow cannot comprehend the inclusion - nay, the insistence - of Boom shake the room. Macca, who has been to her fair share of Perth discos and knew the score, retweeted this comment.

@[autumn] 'Footloose' brings out the worse in people. #sovt2011 .

Yeh, I forgot to mention this little ditty. When this song comes on, it's like a siren to all previously in-control people to lose their fucking minds. And everyone's in perfect unison, as if choreographer showed everyone all these elaborate group dance moves, with kick dancing, the doing of the Carlton, shuffling and the chicken leg dance. All of which, when put together, looks absolutely nothing like this video. There is also always a lot of people who somehow decide to do an imaginary jump rope. Wot did I miss? Was this in the film or something?!

Weekend in Perth: Friday's tweets explained

2011-05-30T15:21:00.008+01:00

Last weekend in May for many (in the UK and US) is a bank holiday: in the US, it's Memorial Day weekend. For UKers, I have no clue. I, strangely, don't get the Monday off - I get the Monday of the previously weekend off. Why? Cos Edinburgh's a bloody awkward place. But last weekend in May is always special cos that's when I'm off to the Scottish Open Volleyball Tournament (SOVT), AKA Perth. Now I have written a few times about it on the blog (here, here, and here) so I will leave it to you to read up on it.

This year, SOVT officials got their shit together and they were on the FB and Twitter (@sovt2011; trying to trend with #sovt or #sovt2011). I used the latter extensively, much to the chagrin of the people around me. "Again with the Twitter?!" was their shout. Shit, I was only on medium usage! Anyway, here's me, from Friday. (NB: real Twitter names were not used and this is indicated with square brackets)

@[autumn] Xxxxxxx, AKA Klaus is wearing leather trousers. #shitchat #sovt

#shitchat is a hashtag I'm championing, cos sometimes when you see or hear something so insane and crazy, you have to call it how you see it. (The black out is because I never write people's Christian names on the blog.)

@[autumn] Here in Perth. Tent up. Made run to the shops and burger on the grill. Have already heard some #shitchat so wknd starting about right. #sovt

And to be honest, most of the shit chat was coming from the kid wearing the leather trousers. Several times, I had to make the shhhh motion to him, like I would a child at school.

@[pal-macca] Looking forward to hearing some of the #sovt #shitchat courtesy of @[autumn]

That's my friend Macca who is now in New Zealand and we used to play volleyball together. Last year she managed, via Twitter, to introduce one of her friends to me at the Saturday night disco. Pretty awesome. She is really the inspiration of the #shitchat hashtag - she's the kinda person that would point at someone and laughingly announce that. I really miss that kid.

@[autumn] Doing the Friday night tradition: BBQ, engaging in #shitchat round the barbie and freezing our arses off. #sovt

I don't know why we just do go to the pub or summat. We just sit around in a circle, around a dying BBQ, shooting the breeze. Every year.

@[autumn] I've a quality box of red on the go. #sovt

Boy and I went camping the first weekend in May with some pals and I bought a box of wine that I barely put a dent in so I decided to bring it along. As for quality... a tangent is needed.

Some Spanish friends were the ones who first pointed out that English speakers (chiefly Americans and British) have a unique ability to make words that are strictly considered nouns into verbs. As in, you want to check a fact online, you Google it. Well, I think (and I could be wrong cos I haven't been in the US for a while and this could be something on the go) that the British are unique cos they can make words that should strictly be nouns into adjectives. Like the word quality. Ergo, my oddly phrased tweet. Later on, we'll see how my bad tweet phrasing gets me in a world of trouble, but for now, onward with the tweets...

@[autumn] Finished the bottle of tequila amongst the group in less than 10 mins. All about the drink, drink, give. Now on the quality box of wine. #sovt

In the last few years, my team has taken to selling shots of tequila round the campsite for charity. We provide salt and and lemon and often take to joining the drinkers. We even some of the bars to that song 'Tequila'. So I purchased a half litre bottle for that purpose. Why I decided to pull it out for us to drink instead, I cannae recall. Maybe it was the quality box of red...

And while on that subject, I want to defend my little box of wine. Everyone was taking the piss out of it - another reason I referred to my wine baby as 'quality'. It was rather tasty despite its humble (read: down market) packaging. And don't you know it was empty Saturday morning! I bet they were sniffing and licking their anti-bacterial wipes as they slagged off my wine. Alcoholics!

@[autumn] Xxxxxx tells a story about a lecturer who says "cunt" instead of "current". #goodchat

My tweets usually hit my FB wall and I reckon I was defriended after this comment came up.

@[autumn] Dyvie's boyfriend thinks the lyrics to Trousersnake's Sexyback is "I've got a sexy back" and apparently he has got a sexy back?!?! #goodchat?

Yeh, I think the drink was kicking in cos this comment isn't really anything, is it? Dyvie's boyfriend is German so he kinda has funny ideas about what people say in English - well, his misunderstandings tickle me. Any of my tweets and FB postings also have to be translated to them. But hell, my comments have to translated to most people, German or not.

@[autumn] I've jumped on people and tackled folks. I'm a drunky bear. #sovt

For my birthday, Boy bought me an adorable jumper with a bear hoodie on it. Most of the time when I wear it, I bounce around shrieking, "I'm a crazy bear!" No lie. I wore it to work once and shrieked that at my rather bemused boss. And yes, I was wearing this jumper on Friday night. While wearing the jumper, I tackled Dyvie and wrestled her to the ground cos she spilled my tin cup of wine (which was later kicked into the gents' loo by her boyfriend - och, the state of that poor cup on Saturday morning was pure shocking). Also while jumper-clad, I ran and jumped on this fellow I know, like I was doing the vault at a women's gymnastics competition. It was most embarrassing cos while I know the guy (he's the boyfriend of a girl I kinda know from the club and he played with the club years ago), I don't really know him like that. In fact, I don't think I really know anyone like that, save my own Boy. So that was dead mortifying and yes, the bear was drunk.

@[autumn] Xxxx: "I normally ken!" SHE'S Italian! #goodchat

Ken (see the British-to-American dictionary on the side for a definition) is properly Scottish word and I love that my Italian friend uses it. In actually, she usually doesn't ken - but don't tell her that.

@[pal-atw] so long as you're accusing them of being racist as you do so in reply to @[autumn] I've jumped on people and tackled folks. I'm a drunky bear. #sovt

I love that my high school bestest ATW was getting in on the act and knows my inane chat.

@[autumn] I can see the moon, as well as the sun coming up

At this time of year, it isn't until well after 2300 and getting on til midnight that the sun fully sets, with the sun rising around about 0300. It's always a lovely sight, even when pished.

Desert island discs

2011-05-24T07:22:00.003+01:00

Well, Desert Island Discs has finally become properly interactive for the regular man: a site has been set up that allows us public to list the eight tracks we were take with us to a desert island. This has had me thinking all night, to the determent of anything else I was meant to do.

I am still a bit fuzzy with the show, but I wonder: is this a forced exile or self-imposed? Because if it is the former, as in I was shipwrecked there, then I would want much more upbeat songs. Am I alone or with another person, cos this affects my choices too. I kinda assumed I would be by myself. The thing is, I don't like thinking about this very much. Holaminit - I'm off on an island, all by myself, possibly shipwrecked? What will I eat? How will I protect myself? Where will I sleep? Is there clean water? This whole endeavour is fraught with peril and the songs are kinda on the back burner. What will I eat?!

Anyway, I started off with a long list and that's been drawn down cos it contained songs by the same artist or the same genre or theme. The long list included three REM songs, which lost Losing my religion (for many years, my fave REM song and my go-to karaoke song) and Shiny happy people in the short list. There were three hip-hop love songs, with Killing me softly by the Fugees getting dropped. And two songs that heavily feature samples, but the one that got the ax was My 1st song by DJ Dangermouse (it's a mash-up of a song of the same name by Jay-Z and music by the Beatles - it's from the Dangermouse's Grey Album and my new fave cheer me up song). My two No Doubt choices (Don't speak and Spiderwebs) both didn't make it. Obviously I had to choose between my favoured artists: Otis, Ella, Aretha and Smokey (none made it from either one of them- sorry huns!), Jimi, the aforementioned REM, Nirvana.

I kinda made my criteria to be songs that I don't pressed fast forward when the come on the MP3 player. Here's the short list that I'm still whittling down (I've mentioned some of these songs in a previous post of this nature):

How do you want it? - 2Pac (a wretched, wretched song with absolutely zero value and I would have been better off choosing I ain't mad at cha, but there's something about it that always makes me feel better when I hear it - wrong but true)
SpottiOttiDopalicious - OutKast (it's just real: real OutKast, real Georgia, real life)
Some thing's gotta give - Ella Fitzgerald
Don't you forget about me - Simple Minds
Don't look back in anger - Oasis (I like Wonderwall to sing, but there's something about the lyrics 'Stand up beside the fireplace/take that look from off your face' and the machinations that Noel undertook just to wrench the singing of the song from Liam reminds me of every interaction with my family when I was a kid)
Can you see me - Jimi Hendrix
Nightswimming - REM
Smells like teen spirit - Nirvana (iconic and multitudinous)
Cigarettes and coffee - Otis Redding
Shadowboxer - Fiona Apple
~~I'll be there for you/You're all that I need~~ ~~- Method Man and Mary J Blige~~
~~You got me~~ ~~- The Roots and Erykah Badu~~
Set adrift on memory bliss - PM Dawn (I just love the sampling of Spandau Ballet's True - a song I already like anyway)

This is when I'll really need your help so it will be the least likely time I'll hear from anyone!

Ugh. I've had a good look back at all the songs and they are all pants. Rubbish, rubbish pants. During the night, I decided to cut out two from the short list as well. Oooo, I hate shit like this, so rather good I've not been banished to a desert island then.

What my heart wants

2011-05-23T12:32:00.003+01:00

So it's my pal's Dyvie's birthday on Wednesday and she's invited us round for a potluck dinner. I was at a loss about what to bring. I haven't been cooking that much lately, save Saturday night when some pals came round for a supper party. I say supper party as opposed to dinner party cos I can't cook dinner. Dinner is formal and shit, with warmed plates and no spills on the dishes. Supper is some stuff ya slap together that is tasty as hell and filling. So it was the latter. My stomach was in pain for several hours after dinner for all the food I ate. Boy suggested the party play a board game. "Nah!" I finally yelled, after his third try, "Man, we don't wanna move!"

I was keen on a seasonal dish for Dyvie's potluck, as I was the theme for Saturday's cooking. No heavy foods, like cassaroles or heavy meat, just spring time and light. So we had some asparagus and tomatoes in the fritatta; some spring onions and baby new potatoes in a nice light potato salad. So I settled on the potato salad for Dyvie's do, which received lovely compliments at supper (in fact, Boy and I fought over the leftovers). But I wanted to bring something else with the potato salad. I was watching a feature on Food Network's Unwrapped about Hungry Man frozen dinners and their most popular dish, chicken and mashed potatoes. It was then I realised that I wanted some fried chicken with the potato salad.

How very... urban, innit. Nevertheless, I FB'd Dyvie to tell her that I was bring fried chicken and potato salad. I don't know if she really believes me: it is rather... ehem... cliched. But the heart wants wot the heart wants. But my heart didn't remember how fucking hard it is to cook fried chicken! I've cooked it about three times in my life (once at Thanksgiving instead of a turkey - v odd, I realise) and it's a total pain. Wot do you do with the leftover oil? Is it cooked through? I'll have to cook it Tuesday night for Wednesday - will the skin stay crispy that long? ARGH - my stupid, stupid dumb heart and wot it wants.

Touch your own mug, and other muddled thoughts on race

2011-05-17T15:33:00.010+01:00

Maybe I'm saying something, but most likely it isn't anything. Proceed.

So my awesomely rad sister some years ago bought me a sloganed mug that has been a fave of mine ever since. It is now missing and I have decided to accept that it is now gone. RIP mug - you were loved and will be missed. And the slogan on the mug?

Touch your own hair.

I giggle just thinking about it, but it hasn't really been that well received. At one place I worked, a woman indignantly hissed, "What does that mean?" With that one question, it is clear that I was working in the UK when this question was asked, as I cannot imagine any American not understanding the meaning. The context is completely lost here.

Erm, how *do* I explain the often uneasy relationship in the US between Blacks and the predominant culture (i.e., white folks) that this mug satarises so succiently? Is it possible for me to express the audacity, radicalness, and sheer uppity-ness of the message? It's not that I'm unwilling or unable. I have no problem with making full use of audacity and I take particular advantage of my unique multi-cultural, multi-national personal make-up within this largely homogeneous society in which I currently live. And Scotland is a rare homogeneous society, cos there are large swathes of people here who actually like when others are a bit unusual and even provocative. In fact, it is to be expected of you. Maybe I'm exaggerating, but there is no worse insult than for someone to have bad craic. So yes, I have randomly and ironically accused people of being racist for doing unracist things.* So going back to the mug (and perhaps my weird craic), the problem is that context cannot be effectively established without a 9-hour PowerPoint presentation with diagrams and flow charts. Like Al Gore in An Inconvenient Truth, only going on about race.

So back to skewed context. It was 0330 on Sunday morning and I was in a pie shop in west end Edinburgh. To give you even more context, I was coming from a night out and was wearing a pair of red hotpants (over a pair of tights/stockings - get real thinking my thighs would have it any orher way). Not to be too up my own self, but my bodacious bum was on fine show. I have an ass that makes it clear to most Black people in America, even with my odd colouring, that I am in fact one of them.

One of the guys I knew and was with at the shop was winding up two random girls. "They're racist! They're saying you have a big black bum! Did you hear them?" The girls were dead offended and wanted to batter my pal for my sake, not realising I knew the dickhead.

Finally, I spoke. "Stop talking about my bum," I said. "I know you're all obsessed with my bum cos it's amazing. You all wanna get with it. You wanna get with it, then go back to your white women after having your black girl with a big bum!"

Some of the people in the pie shop looked back at me, dumbfounded. Most were too drunk to take notice of my tirade. I guess dropping a little bit of radical (and womanist) Alice Walker philosophy at half past three on a Sunday morning in Edinburgh, Scotland is a bit much.

* Well, I should clarify: it's ironic to me. It is probably distressing and not at all ironic to have some brown girl to go up to you and shout, "Racist!" when you're queuing in a Poundland.

Candyland

2011-05-16T15:28:00.003+01:00

Candyland, UKers, is children's game and one of the first board games that children in the US will learn to play. How to play: pick a card that features a colour and move your pawn to that colour. Yes, that is all. Yes, the game is that slack, but rightly so: the only nuance 2- to 4-year-olds can really appreciate is colour differentiation. For some overplayed parents, the mere shriek of the word 'Candyland' strikes terror in hearts for the game's soul-deadening dullness. Candyland does not have the same stranglehold on British toddlers as it does their American counterparts, so I was pretty surprised to have been able to buy one at a car boot sale here.

While I mock Candyland's completely transparent simplicity, it's a rather good game for a teacher like me to have. I work with struggling learners across the school. Struggling Primary 1 (P1; kindergarten in the US) pupils often lack skills of self-regulation. This is, in essence, a good memory, the ability to pay attention and the ability to control inhibitions. Simple board games, with their insistence on turn taking, strengthen these weak skills.

That being said, my Candyland game is currently being monopolised by a P6 child (a fifth grader). He borrows it and takes it to play with his best pal in class, every day. My Learning Assistant (LA) and I have to structure his lessons around the game: every time he gets an answer right, he gets to pick a card. After about her 800th game, my LA pulled me close to her side today.

"See if we don't play Candyland," she muttered murderously in my ear, "That's it: the day's a right-off." She glared at me and I'm awfully sure she made a throat slashing motion at me. Well, she did point right at me after she did it, just in case I wasn't sure.

Don't I know it how right she is! Perhaps this is foolishness though, but I'd rather paralyse a few million brain cells then deal with a non-Candyland lesson with his kid. I'm pretty sure I'll have to send the game up to high school with him, so I only have one more year of having to play this game. But for now, my LA said it right: we're being held hostage by *fucking* Candyland.

End of season do

2011-05-15T13:11:00.007+01:00

Last night was the end of season celebration for my volleyball club, Jets. This will be henceforth referred to as the "end of season do", do being the word that Scottish people use to refer to events of a celebratory (and of course, drunken) nature that do not occur regularly. So, what would be called a bachelor party in the US is here called a stag do. Someone at work moving? A leaving do. You get the picture. Now attempting to write the pluralisation of do is, for me, the trickiest bit. Dos? Do's? As much as I hate to see a superfluous apostrophe, I am inclined to write do's, as most Scottish are. Please don't judge me too harshly. When in Rome...

The club rented out the venue space at the Scottish Book Trust (hey, free publicity! I really should get a kick back), which we have done for the past two do's (Casino Night and Race Night). It's actually a lovely space, wasted on pissy dickheads like us. We never use the amazing mezzanine/balcony level and I have ceased trying to get people up there. You would think with the amount of fornicating/hooking up going on in the club (that will have to be another entry, my lovelies), someone would be up there, snogging.

I'm not sure who decided this - cos as I mentioned before, we are just a group of immature and drunken nobs - but we had a catered, sit down meal. It was nice enough, for a meal that had probably been cooked at 0430 and sitting in warmers all day: just only a touch dry. Prizes were given out. I didn't get one, so we will swiftly move on to what really matters: the dancing.

I decided rather early on that we would be dancing after dinner and I figured I would collate a playlist. This is not an easy job for your dear blogger. I have rather peculiar taste for the EDN, i.e., I need to hear bass in the music to dance. This eliminates all of my favourite DMX jams that I'd probably dance to. This meant also that I was moaned at about not have The Birdie Song. To be fair, I thought he was being ironic when it was suggested. Unfortunately, it was procured on someone else's MP3 player and when played, all was right in the Jets world. What can be said that I'm more reassured about a dancing situation that includes the misogynistic and homophobic 'Where da hood at?' over the flipping Birdie Song? We'll need years on that therapy bench for that.

After numerous shouts of "One more song!", we managed to get the wastoids oot the door of the SBT and on to our next destination. Now this always throws us for a loop. While we are united in our utter devotion to volleyball, we have disparate tastes, ranging to people who have to the Birdie Song on their fucking iPod to metalheads. Nothing satisfies the lot. In the past, we've gone to shitty places like Stereo where they only serve vaguely alcoholic Kool-Aid (those are alcopops to you UKers) to the masses of 12-year-olds they admit and shitty aeroplane hangars/tin cans/dead traps. Yes, I refer to the hell hole Drop Kick Murphys, where as God as my witness I will never step foot in again. Even if I could cure cancer, world poverty and get rid of my ham hock arms with one foot in the door of the place, I'd never go there. Slimming of the thighs would have to be thrown in on that deal, but God's not down, saying I'm being too greedy and all bets are off.

I've learned that if one person says "Let's go to ___!" the loudest and most fervently and walks quickly in that direction, the drunken herd follows. I know if confidently insisted on going to the bus station, a dozen Jets would herd over there, with me as their shepherd, looking for a Diet Coke and vodka and a place to sit and take their shoes off. Luckily for them, I led their sorry, gazeboed asses to Espionage.

Now the 'Naj is kinda like a date with a nice, but nerdy geography teacher your mother set you up with: it makes you wonder, "Is this the best I could do on a Saturday night?" But you're in, stuck, and there's nothing you can do and nowhere to go. When you're in the Tardis-y like maze of the 'Naj, all space and time cease to exist. We could have been there 10 minutes or 11 hours, I could not tell. There could be 4 floors or a million. It is our Matrix. Evil lurks in every corner to try to prevent us from our ultimate goal - getting out in one piece: harpy drunk girls; hen do's wanting loads of attention (yes, yes bitch - you're getting married. Get over yourself); dudes who can't dance, trying to lure your beautiful compatriots away.

May I digress from the Matrix analogy for one moment to address this very sad phenomenon of the boy that cannot dance? It is endemic here. I am not even going to entertain any arguments that it's cos I'm in Scotland, the whitest place in the world. And I'll tell you for why: 1) Some white boys can dance (I met a few in my time in NC, but only a few!) and 2) Even the brothers and other brown folks here cannot dance. Not even a shuffle. They do not even have the ability to look cool, let alone sexy, while they stand by the wall, instead just looking weirdly creepy and strung out.

I've lost some steam and there's plenty to read here. I'll get back to you about other stuff later.

The car boot sale

2011-05-15T11:22:00.000+01:00

Here's a draft that I began nearly two years ago in June 2009. Yeh, it ain't finished, but til you pay for this shit, this is what you get. Anyway, just gives you a flavour of life here, innit. It's kinda an appropriate post cos it's Sunday and the car boot sales are on in the Omni Centre on Sundays...

I miss US yard sales. There's something about it that reminds me of a Wild West shootout: you approach your opposition - you must show no fear. Who will flinch first? Who will win? Oh, I do miss it.

They don't do yard sales over here really. In Edinburgh, there are more flats and such, so ability to throw your crap on your front lawn for the whole world to see and pick over isn't a possibility. But what we do have are car boot sales and jumble sales. Car boot sales are essentially what Americans would call a flea market. You assemble in a car park (parking lot) and sell your stuff from your car's boot (car's trunk). A jumble sale is similar, sans the car, so perhaps held in a school hall or something like that.

I really liked yard sales in the US for children's books. I would have to say the majority of the books I have in my room available for my pupils to read were bought in yard sales. However, the quality of the books here are not the same. I've spent many a year trying to work out why. I used to reckon it's cos the majority of the British populace are actually illiterate thickos. This theory is still alive (just looking for more conclusive evidence), but I don't think that is the real reason. What I have found that there's a certain section of the population

Like the Terminator...

2011-05-14T08:11:00.002+01:00

I'm back. Like a Phoenix, I rise from the ashes of my own shittitude. Actually, when it comes to this damn blog, I think I'm a bit like wot Janet described in That's the way love goes: a moth to a flame. Och, well, I'm here now so let's not delve too deeply into my inconsistent writing record.

Today's my penultimate day at uni. Yup, it's my second-to-last day of classes. My second-to-last day of dragging my sleepy as through to Stirling on the train at a time even God thinks is ridiculously early. The second-to-last day that I will show up to the good old Pathfoot Building (actually, an architectural marvel, IMHO) without my suggested assignment. Don't worry, I probably won't change that for the last day — if it ain't broke...

And yet I dream of something more. The whole journey I have been alternating between tweeting my dearest ATW (topic: her awesomeness, natch) and thinking about wot's next for lil ol' me. Happily, I can report that I have that I possess some things that my father would label pipedreams, if he used such a word. And no, I will not be sharing them at this time. But wot I can promise is that I will do this a little bit more.

Now, if you detect any spelling errors, my apologies. I am usually very fastidious about that, but I'm writing on the iPhone. Fastidious is the word I'm thinking of innit? Basically, I'm saying I get fucked off when I see an error. But with the iPhone's damned predictive speller, it can't be helped.

I just re-read this entry: man, it's shit! I'm like Simon Cowell on this thing. I have a very special announcement: I will be making a special announcement shortly. V tedious. Especially when you know the announcement is that bloody Cheryl Cole is going to be judge on X Factor (Americans, all together now: Whoooooo??? Shit. I hope me coming back on the blog and ready to take my next, heretofore unannounced, step in life isn't the equivalent to the dud revealing of the former Mrs Cole. Yeh, no boos please?

Saturday night telly, AKA Jonathan Ross is losing the plot

2010-06-05T22:44:00.004+01:00

I am currently watching a TV show called "I'm in a rock n' roll band! Live" so bizarre that it makes me question über-host Jonathan Ross's sanity to take on such a dog. The whole thing seems like some thrown together by someone only remembered on Thursday afternoon they were producing a Saturday night TV show.

"Quick - an audience!"

Having none available, it seems the producers used some good ol' British ingenuity and wheeled in an entire ICU floor of a hospital - that is how unresponsive and comatose the audience is. They were even incapable of bringing forth a good "Whoo". And I heard that those are well catching on in terms of popularity.

"Content!"

The point of the show appears to be to decide THE BEST EVER rock and roll band, as well as THE BEST EVER guitarist, drummer, etc. This could be an interesting topic in a conversation, but for a 2-hour show, this is a thin premise at best. Some might even substitute the word 'thin' with 'shit'. 15 minutes, at the most! They have padded out the show by asking "celebrities" to argue in favour of a particular band or person as THE BEST EVER!

First, to really honour this endeavour, please get A-list celebs or true music talking heads. Not just someone who kept raising their hand in the back, whining, "Pick me! Pick me! Pick me to talk!" In particular, I am speaking of Loyd Grossman arguing for Keith Moon as THE BEST DRUMMER EVER. Yes, the man who makes the shite sauces sold in Tesco. Sheesh. Also, a word about Miquita Oliver: there is no way in hell you knew anything about Nirvana in their heyday! God, I cannot believe I just used the words 'heyday' and 'Nirvana' in the same sentence like some OBG. I remember seeing the 'Smells like teen spirit' when it first came out in '91 and thinking, "Music will never be the same again." I was there - and here's this broad looking at Nirvana with these nostalgic specs like people of my generation might have looked at the Stones or sumink. What. The. Fuck?!

Actually, that rant was just me trying coming to terms with my own growing old, innit?

Anyway, back to the show. The second point: these debating people should always be comedians, as hearing someone stand in front of you, earnestly fighting for a cause is too much like listening to a dull vicar of a small church. Thanks anyway Edith Bowman, but we need a professional to make us laugh to get through this without falling asleep! But also, don't just get any old nob - you need a GOOD comedian. Vic Reeves couldn't have taken on a primary school child in a debate with that amateurish, completely unfunny argument in favour of Jimi Hendrix. Rufus Hound arguing for Slash as THE BEST GUITARIST EVER had me at hello - and I love Hendrix.

"Music!"

Ah, the tribute bands. It is a bit like taking candy from a baby to dog on the bands, but me like candy! The Beatles tribute act was probably the best because they decided to take the simplest approach and sing in Liverpudlian. I know I'm making the accent sound like a language, but it is pretty much the case - have you ever spoken to a person from Liverpool? The Led Zep band was OK, but the biggest problem was the lead singer exuded exactly one ounce of the charisma and sexual energy of Zepplin's lead singer. This faux Robert Plant would have been better stationed at the front desk of the library, telling people to quiet down, then blushing. I loved the Queen tribute most of all, just for the lead singer's complete dedication to the Freddie Mercury moustache without looking one bit like him. Just imagine him dropping his dry cleaning up or doing the school run, sporting that Freddie/Tom Selleck 'tashe! Pure dead brilliant!

The British breakfast

2010-05-22T09:06:00.004+01:00

There is one thing I lament about life here - the one thing I miss truly and deeply: the breakfast eatery. God, was I spoilt in Durham with great places such as Elmo's, George's Garage (RIP, my love), and Foster's Market. But the all-day breakfast joints like IHOP and Denny's are what most Americans are used to. And there are certain nuances to all American life that have brought about the popularity of the breakfast joint to points across the good ol' U-S of A.

One of these nuances that you might not realise is that breakfast joints need to be open at all hours to cater to the States' more heterogenous population - plus, fat people demand to be fed at all hours. These breakfast places are there in the early afternoon to serve friendless gamers and smackheads. They are there in the wee hours of the morning to serve the party people leaving the clubs and pubs. They are there early in the morning to serve the families and people who were not out there on the pull the night before.

You see my European friends, in comparison, there are really only one type of people in these here British Isles: steamies on the pull. No matter what their relationship status, the people of Britain can be boiled to a classification of wastoids trying to score on Friday-Sunday nights between the hours of 2200-0400. They think if they change their FB status to 'It's complicated! :)' right before heading out for the night that will prevent their husband/wife/partner/bird/bloke from going mental when they come home with chlamydia. Actually, what's going to save them is that said husband/wife/partner/bird/bloke were out doing the exact same thing.

Anyway, what was I saying about breakfast? Despite the inferiority of the meal, the British are devoted to their idea of breakfast. In a strange mirroring of its homogenous race, the breakfast is a pretty standard affair across the country. It must be greasy. It always has a ridiculously high meat-to-egg ration: bacon and sausage and, depending on where you're from, black pudding or haggis, with only one egg? People, please! A half a tomato, grilled, is a given. You will probably get mushrooms (yick) and definitely baked beans - yes, you heard correctly. The British ascribe mystical powers to this meal: it has the power to cure a hangover and it is healthy for you.

Here's a guessing game

2010-01-25T20:12:00.002+00:00

For some reason, I always find M watching "Mr and Mrs" when I come in and he's been all alone (Americans: "Mr and Mrs" is like the British version of the "Newlywed Game"). I guess there's worse things he could be watching. I guess there's worse things he could be doing too.

So we decided to ask some of the questions to each other. M's now trying to guess my favourite restaurant. He's actually said quite a few ones I did like: The Kitchin; Diner 7; No 1 Sushi Bar; The Mosque diner; Cosmic Cantina/Torrero's; Blue Nile; any place I've ever had dim sum.

Now, I'd like it to be known that 1) I had to come up with my choice of favourite restaurant fairly quickly; 2) I thought about my favourite place to eat, rather than my favourite restaurant. Bottom line: my choice is pretty shite and when he heard it (cos he was never going to guess it), he was really disappointed. He could even be considering divorce.

Because we wanted to know

2010-01-21T23:40:00.002+00:00

I don't read books. For pleasure that is, I don't read books. The last book I read was over the Christmas holidays, Brooklyn. I was completely absorbed. I took it in the car to read, even though I get carsick when I do that. I wanted to shut out everyone and everything. I wanted to consume it and it to consume me. Instead of my feast, I had to make do with hors d'oeurves.

I don't write; I don't write for pleasure. And of all, I find writing most pleasurable. I like being able to edit my thoughts, right then and there, no one ever knowing the stupid thing I said the first time (and stupid comments are what they are most likely to receive when they speak to me). I like trying - no, testing different words. I like to weigh their impact. And when I write, all I want to think about are words and sentences and cadence and metaphors and allusions (or is it illusions - you see, I'm still learning). I want to fall into my thoughts, as if the words and letters are like leaves from a fallen tree. And I've raked them up in a big pile. I'll fall backwards into them, like they do in TV movies. And throw them in the air. But the thought-leaves and the word-leaves keep falling from my mind-tree. And I have to rake them up again. This is what I want to do with my words.

I watch TV. Reality shite like Relocation, Relocation. I'm not giving away the ending if I tell you they get the house, right? You can put all the obstacles you like, edit how you wish, but in the end, you know how it is. It's the same for the games that fill my time. Someone will win, someone will lose - maybe even me. It will end. Maybe in an hour, like a TV show, maybe in a couple of hours. And even if I get emotional about those things, soon enough, I won't remember those people, that house, that silly match. I won't become absorbed by it; it will not become absorbed in me.

Basically, I fill my time with crap, rather than the things that matter to me. Because reading and writing (learning and growing and changing and gaining and evolving and knowing) matter, I want them to know they matter, that they are real. And I can't. Because my real life won't let me make them real. Because my real life and my real job makes what really matters to me just a fantasy. I feel like if I try to let what I find to be real in to stand next to my real life, a Harry Hill style fight breaks out. I have consistently been (whether good or bad, that is to be debated another time) an all-or-nothing kind of person. My real life gets it all, what I find real gets nothing.

And I write this not only because you wanted to know. I write this because I wondered why myself.

2010: Moving on?

2010-01-01T17:38:00.003+00:00

Happy New Year and all, y'all. Hope it's been a good one for you. Since we've past into a new year, I thought I'd talk about a topic we'll be hearing about for a next couple of weeks: resolutions.

I have always felt sad for people who did not view making a New Year's resolution as a positive thing, or mocked those who did it. I'd like to think of myself of as a defender of the resolution and an observer of the tradition. My most successful resolution was the year that I said I wouldn't eat any red meat. And I did that very thing for nearly three years. The only exception having bacon; I couldn't turn my back on bacon. Still can't. Which probably explains my very large back. Anywho, I think my point is that making a resolution isn't always an exercise in futility.

The only time I find resolutions irritating is when it comes to the gym. In my experience, from now until the end of the month, the gym will be filled with fatties sweating it out, clogging up machines. It will peter out in the following months until British Summer Time (daylight savings time) comes, and then people get a clue and quit. It's actually led me to go for a run outsinde today. Heaven help me until the spring.

Despite my appreciation of the resolution, I had not made one this year. Why? I don't even really know. I have this feeling of contentment, I reckon. I definitely believe its never too late to change. And I would say that's a very American belief. When challenged, British people - children not excluded - give a shrug and say, "I've always been that way." And despite their attempt at matter-of-factness, really, they say these words with pride. I find it terribly irksome.

Forgive my aside, I shall get back to my point: I think I have no resolution because I don't see the need to change anything. I'm not perfect, mind. I could be much tidier: I still have wrapping paper from Christmas on the bedroom floor. I could be healthier: I will probably have a Papa John's pizza for dinner. I could be better with my work: there's lot of planning to be done. But I guess I'm learning to accept myself - I'm learning that there's a time to change things and a time to just accept who you are. The Eagles, via Ecclesiastes, said such a thing, no?

Or, maybe I'm just a lazy git who hasn't bothered with a resolution.

Sick people's chat

2009-11-26T14:51:00.004+00:00

I've been home sick for the past two and a half days. Being sick always makes me feel bad for myself, but on top of it, Thanksgiving might be compromised by this sickness spell. I'm working to be at 100% by Monday for work and to be at least 85% for Thanksgiving.

Anyway, as I lay miserably on the sofa, what should I spy with my little eye? Only my favourite guilty pleasure film, The Thomas Crown Affair! I can't explain why I love this film so much, but every time it's on, I must watch it. What a perfect treat for a sickie like me.

But what is on is the original TCA from the 1970s starring Steve McQueen and Faye Dunaway. This is disappointing as my favourite is the remake featuring Pierce Brosnan and Rene Russo. I've never really given original a chance as I totally am down with the hunkiness exhibited by PBrosnan in the film and he is the only Thomas Crown to me. However, as I am ill, I will give the McQueen/Dunaway version a go.

And actually, it's not half bad, though I am only watching half of it as I'm flipping between it and the tennis. Steve McQueen is a total hottie and Faye Dunaway is my new favourite bad ass girl (only after Katharine Hepburn in the African Queen). And when we get to the scene where she succumbs to his charms and he gets in her pants, I'm totally with it. SMcQ is so hot in his aloofness in this film I can't reckon why she didn't give in earlier - I would! That's it: there's a new Thomas Crown in town.

But - oh no, what is this? Can my eyes be deceiving me? Is my new hottie, Steve McQueen, a... bad kisser?? He looks like he is gnawing Faye's face off! He's doing as a FB friend says, "Onm nom nom." Is that how people got down in the 70s? I'm so sad and shocked at Stevie's snogging technique that I feel that it is only right to rescind my prior enthusiasm and go back to feeling ill.

All-new Featured Word!

2009-11-09T23:32:00.005+00:00

The very last Featured Word I had included in the blog was burl. No-one managed to tell me that it meant to spin around or to go round in circles, like My heid's been burlin' with all the choices." It can also be said as burlie, as in "Ok, it's a dead-end here, so just do a burlie and then we can drive out of here." Again, might I mention the slackness of you (all five of you) all for not working it out.

Anyway, I heard the new Featured Word just this aweekend: piece. Now Americans, and depending on which subculture of the US you come from, we have a couple of different denotations for this word piece apart from the standard one (a little bit). For example, I would say, (yes, it's a hint)

"When things kick off, some fool will definitely pull out his piece."
(definition no. 1)

OR

"He was all up in the piece." (definition no. 2).

None of these American example can be applied to the British usage of piece, as in "He made himself a piece." Another hint!

So this Featured Word is wholly interactive. Americans, can you figure out the British definition of piece, while can you work out one of the US meaning, my Scottish, English, Irish and Welshees?