Big Brother


I’ve tried not to watch this.  Really I have, and I’ve mostly succeeded, but tonight I watched in horror as the disarmly camp gay guy from Edinburgh was thrown out of the house for gobbing in the face of Mohammed.

Not nice.  No, not nice at all.

See ya.  Wouldnae wannae be ya.

Jonathon Ross faux pas.


JR thinks he is above everything. But you knew that.

But even he looked embarrassed last night when he interviewed Charlotte Church.

She told him that she had sung in numerous languages and then demonstrated by singing an extract from a song in Japanes.

Wossy asked her what it meant.

She didn’t know.

So JR opined that it might mean “I am a Welsh slapper.”

Nice.

Classy.

His face fell immediately of course and he offered an apology.

I hope Gavin Henson twats him right in the kisser next time he sees him. Cheeky sod.

Bad news


The BBC news tonight was full of nasty stuff.  But surely the worst was about the pub owners in Sheffield who starved their three year old daughter to death in the upstairs room of their pub.

She gets 12 years.  He gets 5.  (Can anybody explain why they didn’t each get the same sentence by the way?)

For torturing an infant to death you get 12 years, reduced to six presumably for good behaviour?

That’s not right is it?

As time goes by


The anniversary of my dad’s death looms large and as a mark of respect my mum and dad’s dear friend Sylvia Morrison cooked up a plan some time ago that came to fruition tonight.

She and her husband Gagy used to have the occassional snifter with my mum and dad in the Theatre Royal Bar of an afternoon. Next to the Edinburgh Playhouse Theatre, it features a host of Playhouse performers’ signed and framed photos.

Sylvia felt my dad, as a ‘Local Hero’, should take his place for immortality, among the greats. And so plans were set in place to gain him a berth on the walls.

My pal, Jim Downie, beautifully designed a tribute to him and whilst this photo can never do it credit it might give you a wee taster to have a look yourself.

On the night over 100 people showed for a fantastic get togetherof family, friends and FCT.

It was magic.

We toasted Pego with an oggy, oggy oggy.

Oy, oy oy.

Yah beauty

A nice plus was that his picture replaced Burt Bacharach’s so, by way of an apology to Burt I think we need to enjoy some of his wonderousness.

For me, his collaboration with Elvis Costello is peerless.

Here’s a wee bit…

On the way home we collectively had our first ever Deep Fried Mars Bar.  Ria loved it.  The rest of us were less dismissive than we should have been.

Not a typical day


OK, so I did do some work this morning. Hard work at that.

Then I met me old mucker David for lunch at 99 Hanover St. Quite good food but nothing to particularly write blogs about.

After that the adventure began.

We set out to ‘do’ the Edinburgh International Film Festival.

First up a series of shorts called Idle Hands.

Idle fucking film making more like. The guy who set it up virtually apologised about the fact that the screenings may, or may not, have a theme.

Anyway the depression started with an Israeli 26 minute film about an old guy who’d been fired from a print factory and couldn’t deal with it so kept going back to work. Well acted and totally fucking miserable. Shred of Hope it was called.

Aye, we had a shred of hope that things might get more interesting. (Being as they couldn’t get any more worthy.)

Next up.

Hero.

An Australian 18 minuter about the most depressing fucker you’ve ever come across in your life. Brilliantly acted but ended in deep confusion and, of course, depression.

Then the piece de resistance a Turkish ‘thing’. I mean you couldn’t call it entertainment; or art. It was just total pish, luckily only 14 minutes long, and called ‘the slope’. Aye the slippery fucking slope. It consisted of a chronically badly filmed travelogue of a Turkish guy walking slowly up a slope to his work as a hospital porter, working, then going back home down the bleeding slope.

And the worst of it was the guys who made it had come along and were sitting right behind us.

Well, the applause at the end of the screening was deaf. (Note the lack of the suffix -enning.)

The film grading, editing, cinematography, music, direction and script were utterly rank.

It was, however, saved by being only 14 minutes long.

Despite this I had to wake David up twice.

The final instalment of total and utter depression was a French farce about a guy working as a pizza delivery man but having delusions of sitting in boardrooms. Frankly, you don’t wanna know any more. We gave it till half time.

We walked.

After that it got worse. We switched from The Filmhouse to Cineworld to see a piece of boring shit from Sweden called “the King of Ping Pong.”. (Correction; pretentious, tedious, boring shit.)

It’s about being a kid, fat, hating yopur parents, confusion and stuff.

Take my advice,

Don’t.

Ping Pong?

Nah, Pish posh.