The World's More Full of Weeping

Where is Madeleine McCann?

Like everyone else I’ve been switching the news on every morning hoping to God that this four year old girl has been found. Madeleine is the same age as my daughter. Is there anything that strikes at the heart of society like the story of a missing child?

One of my favourite poems is “The Stolen Child” by WB Yeats. It centres on a sentimental notion that a missing child has been stolen by the Faeries. But underneath the lyrical, mythical images, I think the poet knows that the child has been kidnapped and that her fate is anything but a fairytale because the world's more full of weeping than you can understand. At least that's what I get out of it. My English tutor at Uni never did much rate me.

Here's the first verse:

The Stolen Child

Where dips the rocky highland

Of Sleuth Wood in the lake,

There lies a leafy island

Where flapping herons wake

The drowsy water rats;

There we've hid our faery vats,

Full of berrys

And of reddest stolen cherries.

Come away, O human child!

To the waters and the wild

With a faery, hand in hand,

For the world's more full of weeping than you can understand.

Read the full poem here:

The Stolen Child: WB Yeats

The loss of a child pierces right through us all. I wonder what happening in early 20th Century Ireland prompted Yeats to write that poem. I think it's a lot more than Irish mythology, personally.

In today’s society we are still holding onto dreams and hopes that Madeleine has been taken by a person desperate to have a child but who is essentially looking after her. Maybe a mother who has lost their own child has taken Madeleine out of deranged grief. Maybe she has been taken by someone who has sold Madeleine to a childless couple. We hope that although stolen she is being cared for at the very least.

Out of those hopes we pray that the person who has taken her might come to their senses and leave her somewhere to be found by the police and be returned to her parents. But of course underneath we all fear the worst, but we don’t even want to say the P or the M words, as if it’s tempting fate. We just can’t go there yet.


The McCanns' attempts to keep the Madeleine “story” on the front page is all they can do to have some measure of control over the situation. The more they do to get the cameras clicking, the more column inches will be devoted to their daughter and the more her image will stay in the public eye. They have been orchestrating press conferences, daily photo opportunities masquerading as walks along the beach and to church.

Yesterday they generated even more press by visiting the Pope. Visiting the Pope, of course won’t directly help find Madeleine ,but it will guarantee that the McCanns stay on the front pages for another day at least.

It is a brave step they are taking in conducting this massive media campaign. Keeping it together whilst watched by the media must be incredibly difficult. Having to face the undoubted questions about their actions on the night Madeleine was taken must be even worse. We have all asked ourselves the question, “Would I have left my three children alone in an apartment?” Some people have been less than kind in their responses.

If the person who has stolen Madeleine ever thought about giving themselves up, the intense media coverage may just be the reason they have decided not to come forward so far. What if this person realises they have made a mistake? What if they are ill and mentally unstable anyway?

As soon as the person is caught, whatever their initial motives behind snatching Madeleine from her bed, they can be certain that they will be public enemy number one. An indication of this is the treatment meted out to local resident,Robert Murat, who was the initial suspect, and has since been released without charge.

What if Madeleine is with a person who has taken Madeleine out of grief, post natal depression, or mental instability?

Or am I still simply desperately hanging onto the myth the faeries took her when in fact the truth is so much more horrible?

See the Madeleine McCann site here:

Find Madeleine McCann

The Wolf and the Eagle

I watch with interest to the current news story of that bloke Wolfowitz who has resigned from the World Bank. I like it when bad bosses get found out and paraded in front of us for public humiliation. If you haven’t been following it then click on the linky:

Paul Wolfowitz

It appears that aside from his indiscretionary dealings in getting his girlfriend a promotion and pay-rise, the reason for his actual downfall was that no-one he worked with liked him very much, so were unprepared to stand by him when the shit hit the fan. In fact he was a terrible, overbearing and arrogant boss. And we’re not just talking a lot of whinging minions under his employ idly bitching by the watercooler for sport, we’re talking, top of their field intellectuals who have chosen to use their financial skills to help manage third world debt and poverty. Clever types that know numbers and stuff; that sort.

Wolfowitz was on Radio 4’s Today programme yesterday as well as one of the former management team who has left the World Bank whilst he was in tenure there. Just ten minutes worth of interviews with both and it was easy to see why Wolfowitz was hated. He came across as arrogant, unapologetic and disdainful of his colleagues. The other guy was restrained in his description of Wolfowitz but clearly delighted at his downfall.

We’ve all worked with that type haven’t we? The Wolfowitz story reminded me of a couple of gits I have worked with and in particular I dwelled on one particular git who was hoisted back into my conscious mind a few months ago. I keep in touch with a few people I used to work with in a company I have now left for over 6 years. We were a nice bunch, we got on well, did a few good projects, we worked hard and all but one of us has now moved on to better things. Including the main reason we all left; the manager of our department. We’ll call him “The Bald Eagle”, for that was his name and it seems he has left too. Here he is:

As far as I could tell from the gossip, one of the Bald Eagle’s lousy business decisions had finally made so much of a financial mess that he was unable to hide it and his own inadequacies from the MD (oh, he’s another blog all together…just wait for that one!). He was sacked!

Hooray”, I shouted. “They’ve finally found him out!”

Might they perhaps start calling round all the decent people who got sick of this bloke and decided to leave because of him, and apologise to them? Perhaps even offer some kind of compensation for messing up their careers momentarily? No, of course not- life isn’t like that. They’ll just employ another git like him and the process will begin all over again.

Time after time, we’d be forced into working on one of the Bald Eagle’s hairbrained, ill- thought-through schemes that would eventually lose the company money. Except by the time it lost the company money the hairbrained, ill- thought-through project would be our fault. If any of his schemes worked, I have it on good authority that profits would be skimmed off into Bald Eagle’s personal pocket.

But I reckon many of you can recognise the type; the buck-passer, the type of guy who would receive emails asking them to do stuff and they will instinctively reach for the “FORWARD” button on their email and send it onto someone else with no attached email either asking for help, or acknowledging that this was anything to do with them in the first place. The shit ducker, the management butt kisser and the tyrant who couldn't handle the responsibility when anything went wrong and blamed those in his department.

He was also one of those “let’s get our ducks in a line” Jargon Wankers. We used to play “Jargon Bingo*” at any of the meetings he held. See below for rules.

So a couple of weeks ago someone I used to work with emails me a link. His email is entitled “Bald Eagle Rises from Ashes” and there he is; the flipping Bald Eagle in the paper getting some press (always with his picture in! Vain git- though god knows why…) about the new company that someone’s employed him to trash. Plus ça change!

Thing is the Eagle looks the part, he can talk enough bollocks to convince people he knows what he’s talking about. It takes time to realise that underneath he is woefully incompent, thick, crap at his job and a complete coward. Word is that when he got sacked, rather than the MD phoning ex-employees up and apologising to them as I have suggested, the Eagle was calling ex-employees up and asking them if they knew of any job opportunities for him. Why didn’t he call me? Why? I’d have LOVED that! Denied!!!!

So if the Bald Eagle can rise again you can be damn sure that Wolfowitz will spring up in some highly paid job, able to abuse his power all over again.

I’ve a feeling that this is first in a series of “people that have pissed me off”…..

* Jargon Bingo

Got a boss/workmate who uses phrases like "Blue Skies", "Herding Cats", "Ducks in a Line", "Let's Action That!"? Then suffer his dullness no more and liven up your meetings with Jargon Bingo!

Simply ask your fellow sufferers to choose two or three of their favourite pieces of jargon. One you have all chosen you are ready to play "Jargon Bingo"! Once the meeting begins, the fun starts. As each piece of jargon spews forth from the mouth of the Jargon Using Arsehole then cross it off your list! The first to cross all jargon phrases off their list wins! Shouting "Bingo!" is optional.

Disclaimer: The orginators of "Jargon Bingo" take no responsibility for loss of jobs resulting from playing "Jargon Bingo".

PC World

My gran, Jessie left me some stuff.

1. A mahogany carved wooden African tribal lady head. This ornament is known affectionately as Misssy’s “wee girl”. The reason being, I used to wrap the 15 cm wooden bust in a shawl and put it in my doll’s pram and take her for a walk and call her my “wee girl” whenever I was at my grandparents’ house. Don’t ask me to explain why. Clearly I was an odd child. Can I also point out that I did not do this past the age of 7 or 8?

2. My gran’s pearls. Which I will get re-strung as they have been sat unworn in a drawer for decades. I’ll be doing that “twin-set and pearls” look before the month is out.

3. One of “Raging Bowl’s” (my Papa’s) monogrammed bowls. The set was split up amongst the grandkids. Mine is holding my kitchen door open.

4. A beautiful rose gold ring. Very “now” actually, I’d say.


5. Two fabuloso beaded tops that Jessie bought when she lived in Hong Kong.

Throughout my University years I would borrow these for various occasions. They became “lucky” tops (if-ya-know-worr-Imean…. *insert Sid James laugh here*) The black sequinned sleeveless one I wore to the Film and TV department Christmas Party - result.

The ivory pearl beaded one I wore to the European BAFTAs when I worked as chaperone to the Swiss Documentary guys. Best job ever. Best Uni weekend ever. Take 10 impoverished students, feed them fine wines and food, let them go to the Baftas, let them dress up. Aaaaahh! A short lived taste of the high life. Lucky Ivory Top ended in result! (Swedish actor up for Best Actor- a whole other blog.).

Anyway, enough of my lascivious past. I love those beaded tops but Gran always wanted them back. “You can have them when I go” she would say as she shoved them back in the spare bedroom wardrobe.

There she was in her late seventies, acting like she was going to wear them again. Each time I borrowed them, I would take them back hoping that she’d just say, “Oh go on...just keep them” But she never did. Maybe they were lucky for her too. Who knows?


And here’s the other trickier stuff she left me. This must happen all the time, I reckon. You get left things by a relative and how ever lovely they are you can’t use them because they are no longer politically correct. Don’t worry, I’m not talking Ku Klux Klan hoods or anything. Just these:


1. Two mink coats
2. A carved ivory necklace.

My sister is taking one of the coats, but she doesn’t really want to. I can see her point. You just can’t wear fur. Well not in public anyway. So here’s what I’m going to do. I am going to live out my ABBA “Knowing Me Knowing You” video fantasies each time it snows wearing my fur coat in the back garden where no-one can throw paint over me or spit on me, or mount a protest against me.

(The coat is absolutely wonderful, by the way. I reckon that the wee guys who gave their lives over 50 years ago won’t mind if I occasionally luxuriate in their skins for a few years more….)

The Abba Video in question

Still the furs and ivory are not that bad when you consider this story. My mate M who on helping to clear his German Grandmother’s house was given a box of books. When he opened the box at home he found a Hitler Youth Hymn book in amongst them. I mean there’s politically incorrect, and there’s POLITICALLY INCORRECT.

I Think I'm Alone Now

Living in the House of the Flying Martinis I rarely get any peace. (Apparently the same goes for those living next to the HOTFMs, but that's another post).

In the days before MeesterMartin and all the fringe benefits our liaison brought, I was quite proficient at being alone with me, myself and I. It’s not like I was Norma No-mates but I would actively choose to do certain things alone because I liked to. Nothing has changed in this other that the choice element; I still like to do a lot of things alone, it’s just that I don’t get to anymore.

This weekend I am on my own as the Flying Martinis are off to Glasgow to leave me to get on with my freelance job. I am quietly excited. But it is a bittersweet situation. Sweet because I get to have 48 hours to myself. No offence to my beautiful family. But bitter because I have to work for at least 25 hours of it.

Here's a Things-I-Like-To-Do-Alone list, for the record:

1. Go to cinema in the afternoons. Aaahh bliss! Especially when there's hardly one else even in the audience. I look forward to my retirement so that I can do this again. Aberdeen’s local independent cinema does “Silver Screen “ special offers every afternoon. I am sadly 22 years off their target list but eager to join. I can't wait!
.
2. Go to the art gallery. Oh! For an hour wandering round without having to go, “Don’t touch that!!”, “Don’t run”, “Yes fine we’ll go. Just give me five more minutes!”

When I was down seeing my Gran, Jessie, for the last time, I went with my parents, brother and husband to the recently re-opened Kelvin Art Gallery in Glasgow in between visiting hours. It was fantastic. Me and Dad wandered round chatting about art and stuff for two hours. I don’t think we’d done that since he’d taken me there as a kid. It was great. I challenge the “Culture Show” to commission us to do it again as a weekly slot. Let’s call it “Will and Gill Bluff for Scotland”.*

3. Sleep in a double bed alone. Sorry Meeester, you’re ace and all that, but nothing beats lying star shaped in a bed with no snurfely noises. I’m going to change the bed clothes on Saturday morning so that the whole experience is flawless. I may even use linen water, like a real girly. Not because I want to drown out Meeester's scent or anything. Ooops talk about digging a hole for yourself....

4. Watching telly on my own. Because I am in control of the remote, and I can hear everything without interruption, and I don’t miss the start of CSI (see last post).

5. Eating like pig. I can comfortably empty a whole carton of M and S sour cream and chive dip and large pack of crisps without sharing any. OK, I might feel a little weird after and have to have a lie down, but it’s great when I’m in there. Ditto, chocolate eclairs. Ditto, Haagen Dasz Pralines and Cream. Ditto, Queen Green Olives.

6. Shopping. I hate shopping with anyone else. I am frankly not interested in what you want to buy. It’s hard enough finding what I want to buy. And shopping with kids. Well, just avoid that at all costs, frankly.

7. Having a bath. I never get to have a bath without Junior Misssy sussing it out. That girl can smell steam. She doesn’t even ask to come in. She simply strips off and comes in, like the bath was run for her in the first place and I just happened to want to join in.

8. Work. I need silence. Especially when I’m up against it like I am this week. I can’t even have the radio on. In my real day job I often take my laptop and find a hiding place so that I can get peace (my boss likes to chat- sweet, but often obtrusive). I often have to change hiding places as boss finds me after about 4 weeks of looking. I am not going to divulge the new one to anyone.

9. Reading. Aaargggh if only there was time to read anything other than a GPS manual this weekend.

10. Painting. I can only dream of this. Am enrolling me and my mum in a class so that I get allocated painting time. It's the only way.

So this weekend, I wonder how many of these alone things I’ll get to do. Definitely 3 and 8 but the rest hang in the balance.

* I know this example isn't of aloneness as such but if you've met my Dad you'd understand why it still kinda counts...

The Dawning of a New Order

We’ve reached a watershed moment in the house of the Flying Martinis. We’ve realised that we maybe don’t have enough discipline with the kids and here’s a list of what Indy and Junior MisssyM do that have made us come to that conclusion. Once you’ve read the lists you’ll agree it’s time for Misssy and Meeester M to get tough.

Let’s take Indy first.

Indy

1. Indy is a soap dodger; he hates washing. He lies about washing. Says he has washed but turns tap for sound effect only.

2. He also lies about brushing his teeth. Says he’s brushed but turns on tap and electric toothbrush for sound effects only.

3. Just about the only chore Indy has is to clear dinner table, but has to be asked at least five times and threatened with stuff every night before he actually does it. Last night I threatened to move in with him when I was an old lady.

4. Indy lies about having homework. Will rustle paper in manner of one who is doing homework. Is hoping parents will forget to check homework and he will get away with it.

5.Is asked to tidy room and will kick mess under his bed or stuff in laundry basket and then play Nintendo for half an hour. Fifteen year old cat Harleyboy built a nest under Indy's bed recently. He may even have hatched some chicks.

6. Will drop coat, bag, shoes in piles outside front door. If we are lucky he will drop them inside, meaning that they won’t get rained/snowed on. But only if we're very lucky. We came back from Glasgow on Sunday to find his jacket lying on the driveway. It had been there since Friday.

7. Indy has been caught putting jammies on over school shirt so that he doesn’t have to get dressed in the morning (apparently Meesestermartin and twin sister did this once too when they were Indy’s age. I knew it! Proof positive the Martin gene is responsible)


Jnr Misssy

1. Has screaming fit every night when the words “Bed time” are mentioned.

2. Wants mum to sit on her bed with her and hold her hand before she falls asleep every night. Never falls asleep until the first ten minutes of CSI are over, rendering the rest of the episode useless to Horatio/Grissom loving Mum when she eventually makes it back downstairs.

3. Will wake up and shriek if Mum leaves room before that ten minute period is over.

4. Won’t let Mum brush her teeth for her without big fight. “I’ll do it myself” she'll wail.

In fact, take this phrase and apply it to anything Mum does for her, particularly involving pouring large heavy bottles of milk into small cereal bowls, brushing hair, or zipping anything up.

In short, anything that she can’t really do yet and will make a mess of until mum helps her is fair game for this kind of nonsense.

5. Sneaks into parents’ bed every night. Sometimes to pee on them.

6. Will not go to toilet on her own. The scenario is the same every time:

JNR Miss: “Mummy I need the toilet. Will you help myself?”
MisssyM: “C’mon, you’re a big girl. Go yourself.”
Jnr: “But will you help myself?”
MM: But you go on your own at nursery and C’s *”
Jnr “But will you help myself?”
MM: “Jnr Misssy, get up those stairs and go yourself! I'm in the middle of something**”
Jnr “But I neeeeeeed you!”
Misssy grabs Jnr's hand and hauls her up the stairs grumbling under breath.

The pair go into toilet and Jnr Misssy shouts as Mum starts to “help herself” , “I can do it myself!!”

Small aneurism forms in MisssyM's brain.

7. Screams “Arghhh Tuggy! Tuggy!” hysterically as soon as MisssyM even takes the hairbrush out of her handbag. You don't even want to know what goes on as the brush actually touches her head.

8.Waits til Misssym sits down with anything to eat and either asks for “A snack” or eats half of what MisssyM is eating. No wonder I'm thin.

9. Waits til Misssym sits down with anything to drink and either asks for “A drink” or drinks half of what MisssyM is drinking. No wonder I'm dehydrated.

10. Will run from anywhere in house or garden if anyone switches "Nick Junior" to a different TV channel bawling, “But I was watching tha-a-a-a-a-a-a-a-at! Sob!”


So before we have to get that SuperNanny woman in we’re going all draconian on their asses. Rest assured, I’ll let you know how that goes. Meanwhile any advice or any lion taming gear much appreciated.

* C is jnr Misssy's childminder. Poor cow.
** Writing blogs, eating crisps, putting on nail varnish.

P45! The lot of them!

I like telly. I like it a lot.

At the moment I’m too busy for much telly and to be honest nothing is really banging my gong. Except the Apprentice. Love that.

I look forward to 9pm on Wednesday every week with such excitement that I can barely contain myself. I shout at the telly every week, and I refuse to learn the names of the contenders as I don’t need names, I just need swear words and insults.

Who do I think will win? I don’t care; they are all arses. I just want to see them be arses every week. You couldn’t honestly couldn’t write this stuff. Favourite thing? The way they all call Alan Sugar “SRRALAN”.

Here's a run down of ones I can be bothered remembering:

Army Arse

Kicked out by SRRALAN after trying to flog the raw material for Cheesestrings at a French gourmet food market. Possibly the best episode yet. Would not admit fault even when he had to throw all the unsold Cheesestring in the bin and get the hell out of France quicker than the Scarlett Pimpernel. Also was getting it on (ewww) with the horsey sloaney one with the bad eyeshadow. I cannot put into words how much of an arse this one is. He is so posh that you can’t understand what he says. Is there a word for prejudice against the upper classes? If there is then I’m it….and he’s made me it.

The Evil Jafar

I’m nicking this name from my mate Cammy, as it’s spot on. I believe he’s called Trey but in our house he is called “The Evil Jafar” as he looks like the Evil Jafar from Disney’s Aladdin. Look below if you don't believe me.

If Evil Jafar wins it’ll be so funny. In fact if he wins I want to see a show dedicated to his first year working for SRRALAN. He’s is as politically incorrect as they come, and everythng he touches turns to poo, but as TV shelf life goes, Evil Jafar is this year’s Badger.

Sloaney Smacked Arse Horseface.

She is needing a good kicking. I want to see this woman helicoptered into the Possil Estate in Eastend Glasgow and made to work in a chip shop for the rest of her life. Has been getting it on with Army Arse and disgusting as that is, they deserve each other. The image of them at it makes me want to dash out my eyes with a spike. She has a face I would never tire of slapping and has upset the whole of the North of England with her snooty remarks about Northerners (mainly Acned Car Salesman). She'd be best advised to stay firmly in the South East for her own protection. About as welcome in Bolton as Jimmy Hill is in Glasgow.

Irish Beeaaatcch.

Quite like her, but wouldn’t want to work with her as she’s naaaasty. She may seriously win. She’s brutal but usually right about everyone she’s brutal about. Grassed on Army Twat and Horseface getting it on to SRRALAN. Wonderfully evil.

The Blonde Sleeper

She may win as she’s a bit like SRRALAN’S type who won last year (Michelle, I think) except she’s not getting it on with any of the other contestants yet (like Michelle), so unlike last year’s winner won’t get up the duff, five days into the Apprenticeship and have to hand in her notice. There’s nothing of note to say about her other than that though.

Vanilla Ice

DID you see this utter twat last week? The Fresh-Prince-of-Maudlin-College-Oxford. Boooyaaaa! Him breakdancing for the trainers ad last week had me simultaneously peeing my pants and hiding behind my hands. Still, you caught my attention, I’ll give you that. Was like watching Prince Edward having to blend in to downtown Compton in order to make it out alive and unnoticed. (Now there’s a film idea for ya.)

Token gay Asian bloke.

He is the only one I would have in my house. Noticeable for genuinely not being a twat. I'd like him to win, but he won’t. He just won’t make an impact in amongst all the big characters.

Glaswegian Gazal.

Sadly kicked out last week because she was utter shit, frankly. I liked her kinda because she was Scottish, high pitched and only my cats could hear her once she got into a tizz. I’m a bit like that. Unlike her though, I can walk and chew gum at the same time. Absolutely beautiful til she opened her gob and let out banshee wail. I’ll miss her.

Clueless Acned Car Saleman.

You know I quite liked him, but I think he might have taken a wrong turning on his way to the X Factor auditions.... He was rubbish and SRRALAN was right to get rid but he seemed an okay guy. Everybody else hated him though. I can’t imagine him selling any cars, and frankly that’s not a good thing. On the show after the Apprentice his mum was in the audience. She was so sunbed tanned that she looked like the animated Pepperami from the ad, but with a bobbed dark wig on.

Lady Macbeth

This one wants it too bad. She will kill. She will maim. If SRRALAN fires her, he better watch his back, that’s all I can say. Come to think of it, if he hires her he'd better be careful too.

Can't remember any of the others that have gone...they've melted into nothingness like so many of the Castaways, Housemates and Pop Idols of yesteryear.

I am worried about what I’ll do when it’s all over . What can possibly give me that regular injection of voyeuristic schadenfreude?

Shhhhhh! Big Brother starts in three weeks…….sorry. I know…….I could pretend that I won’t watch it this year, but who am I kidding?

What Have I, What Have I, What Have I Done to Deserve This?

I feel like just writing a blog which goes Aaaaaarrrrghghghghhgh for about a page or so.

The problem is that although I have set my sights on that Mini Cooper, I have to do that freelance work first in order to earn the cash. I’ve done two E-Learning scripts and a Content Draft for a further script. They’ve been fine. I nearly enjoyed myself. I like writing and I like teaching so it’s been okay.

However, I’m now working on a Global Satellite Positioning module for the marine and offshore sector. No, I don‘t know what that means either and I won’t blame any of you if you stop reading now. All I can say is it makes me feel like crying. It’s too hard and whenever I go and see the client to get things explained, it makes me want to cry even more. I can’t converse in abbreviations. I don’t do numbers. I don’t do science bits. My brain switches off if a person starts acronyming me. I want to speak in English! My project manager came with me to the initial meeting and said this when we left,

“I don’t envy you”.

Bastardo.

I went for my training on the GPS on Thursday so that I can then go and write a training course, and a nice, shy, youngish bloke called R took me through the system from connecting all the spaghetti to running the damn thing. He is clearly unused to females and blushes all the way through, bless. He is also incapable of explaining things to people who live in the real world. I am quite up front.

“I know nothing of GPS, which is a good thing because I have to learn it and then explain it to other people who don’t know anything.”

But apparently R still thinks that I will understand a lot of binary and shit. He talks in Klingon or something for a good while. I screen “Some Like it Hot” in my head, to pass the time.

Every 30 seconds I use the phrase,

“So let me get this right, if I were to explain that in plain English I would say ……????”

It makes no difference.

At the moment I have a GPS system capable of connecting to a satellite and keeping a large vessel on course, in the boot of my car. R gave me it to go away with to help me. It’s probably worth thousands of pounds. I’m thinking of mounting it on the caravan. And then never coming back.

I know that in the end I will be able to write the script, but in between then and now lies a lot of swearing, possibly some tears and a lot of shouting at MeeesterMartin. I’m worried I might take a hissy fit and attack the expensive equipment with a claw hammer. The phrase “bitten off more than I can chew” and the song "What have I done to deserve this" by the Pet Shop Boys and Dusty Springfield is running on a loop through my mind.

And this is the first of two GPS scripts. The next one is to be “more indepth”.
**much sobbing**

Raging Bowl and Other Stories...

So now that Jessie has gone, our family has lost its last remaining blood tie to Clydebank, where we originally came from.

If you Google Clydebank, it’ll probably come up with “the Clydebank blitz” as it’s most famous for the worst Nazi bombing raids outside of Eastend London. Except they rebuilt Eastend London, they left Clydebank as it lay, or so it seems. The place had its heart ripped out and no real attempt has been made to give it a transplant. Clydebank was heavily targeted as the town made ships for the navy and had munitions factories during the war. Both sets of my grandparents met one another working in those factories.

The John Brown shipyards in Clydebank made the QE2. They also gave Billy Connolly years worth of comedy material. Our family left Clydebank to move to Aberdeen, leaving the dying shipyard industry for the new oil industry. Transferable skills you see. Even today the rigs in the North Sea are populated with Glaswegians who did the same thing.

To us, though, Clydebank meant the grandparents. And now that Jessie is gone, we realised that yesterday could easily be the last time we ever have reason to set foot in Clydebank. We ended our possible last visit at one of the places that me and the other two siblings have the most memories of; my Gran and Papa’s bowling green.

In the seventies my brother, sister and I spent a lot of time there, as my whole family were champion bowlers…and the bowling green bar was the cooling off station after games. So we had to entertain ourselves quite a bit as we kids were not allowed anywhere near the bar.

Each of us said yesterday, independently of one another, that we distinctly uneasy about being in the club bar, expecting at any moment my Papa would catch sight of us and chase us out. The nearest we got was standing at the door, waving frantically to catch the eye of my Dad or Papa, with one of two pieces of info:

1. We’d run out of crisps and coke

2. Our little sister had done something that warranted a telling off. That’s called “cliping” in Scots. I believe it’s similar to the phrase “to grass on someone”.

When our parents and grandparents were in “the club” as it was called, there were a few recreational activities on offer to the three of us. They fall neatly into two sections; Fairweather and Rainy

Fairweather
1. If weather was good we could play outside. We might even watch Jessie absolutely gub some other lady at bowling. She was that good. Papa was also a great bowler, and we nicknamed him “Raging Bowl” after watching him take someone up on some rules transgression or lost point. I think we were teenagers at this point. The name stuck. Not that we ever called him it to his face.

2. We could look for tennis balls in the abandoned tennis court next door.

3. We could try and move the massive ton weight roller for the green, dicing with death by crushing. If only our parents knew…

4. We could slide down the silver painted railings at the steps. Or do gymnastics round them. Until someone shouted at us. Or a head got cracked.

5. We could put chuckies (little stones used for paths) down stanks (drains) for hours at a time. Magic fun, for some reason. We may be responsible for recurrent drainage problems in the Clydebank area.

6. We could fight with each other.

Rainy
1. If the weather was bad (and we’re talking the West of Scotland here, folks) we had to sit in the “TV Room” in the basement of "the club". A stale-smoke-smelling window-less dungeon with a wooden TV up on the wall.

I don’t know if any of you remember television in the 70s. There were 3 channels. Crappy programmes interspersed with periods of time called “Close Down” where nothing was broadcast and this little girl appeared.



You may have seen her recently on the excellent “Life on Mars”. There isn’t one seventies kid that doesn’t know her intimately.

I remember that if a cartoon came on, it was like flipping Christmas! Five minutes of “Bugs Bunny” or “Tom and Jerry” before endless hours of flaming Grandstand on a Saturday afternoon. A double bill if you were lucky and Grandstand was running late. (Producers frantically searching the vice clubs for Frank Bough could be a reason for a late start. We didn’t know then, but we sure know now! Cups of black coffee poured down his throat, a bit of slapping about, a production assistant trying to get the lemon Pringle jumper on over the nipple clamps…am I taking this too far?)

"Uncle" Frank Bough
Pre- vice scandal expose ....

2. The “TV room” was also a locker room. So when there was only horse-racing on (i.e all the bloody time) we would entertain ourselves by rifling through people’s lockers. We never nicked anything, but we did tamper with stuff. We would run around with other folks glasses on, or their club blazer, that kind of thing.

I remember my brother putting a lady’s tan pop sock or stocking over his head and me and my sister peeing ourselves laughing.

3. We would play with the bowls. In an ideal world we would all have grown up to be champion bowlers and I would be reminiscing about my early days in the TV Room with Hazel Irvine on BBC 2 after winning some big game. But since we were more into shot-putting them, or throwing them at one another, our bowling skills were never discovered.

4. We would eat snooker chalk.

5. We would dare each other to run into the loos of the opposite sex.

6. We would sniff the pineapple ring shaped toilet cubes in said loos. We were kids, give us a break!

7. We would draw on each other’s faces with snooker chalk.

8. We would perform acts of wanton vandalism.

9. We would fight with each other.

Yesterday in “the club”, a million little old dears that I didn’t know or recognise came up to me to tell me how much I looked like my mum, or how they recognised me straight away, or talk about Jessie. They were all called Bella, Ella, Isa, Minnie and Jeannie and wore their bowling blazers festooned with badges.

If they only knew about the pop socks…..

Quote of the Week ...Kinda: Dysfunctional? Us?

It’s been a shit week in the House of the Flying Martinis. I didn’t realise how much losing Jessie would devastate me. I'll spare you the details, I'm not too good at confessional stuff. I was fine on the day it happened but come Tuesday I fell to pieces quite spectacularly. Writing that blog about Jessie on Tuesday morning pretty much started it all off. I needed a bit of release and punting my feelings into cyberspace seemed to do it for me.

Anyway out of all the crap came forth a bit of sweetness in the form of my brother who is providing this week’s “Quote of the Week... Kinda”.

On Tuesday night I was in a state, to put it mildly. I tried to phone my sister- engaged. I tried to phone my brother- no answer. I tried to phone my Dad, left a message for him demanding that he get a phone put in his shed. Around the same time, my mum who has been trying to get hold of dad all day, phones from Glasgow to leave an umpteenth irate message about him phoning her back. She also retrieves all messages from her house phone and hears my message to Dad.

She clearly thinks, “If MisssyM is phoning Dad for consolation, things must be bad”

She phones me immediately and I am hysterical about Jessie. It all just came out. Mum gets full force. Now I realise this is all a bit depressing but hang on, this is where the funny bit starts. I wail at my Mum before she hangs up, “I looovvvve you Muuuuum!”. My family doesn’t really do “I love you”. But it doesn't mean we don't.

Within ten minutes my dad is at the door. He may as well have arrived on a white horse, dressed in armour, with a big curly black moustache and a sword. He has a glass of wine, stays for about an hour and we talk about politics. Like we do.

The next day my brother phones me. This is what he said,

“Mum is really worried about you. She told me that you said you loved her. Isn’t it funny that someone saying that you love them in our family sets off a red alert. That’s so us. Right, here’s what I want you to do. Pick up the phone, phone Mum and tell her you don’t love her. That it was all a mistake”

That made me laugh.

I was a teenage Pornmonger (wait til the Googlers see THAT one!)

In 1989 I lived in Cologne in Germany for a year. I was 18/19, and worked as an English Language teaching Assistant in a grammar school in the outskirts of the city. I had, when all is said and done, a pretty good year. I met lots of great people, did lots of great things and generally had a bit of a laugh at the expense of the, as it was then, West German government.

The fact that I had to show up for five and a half days and work at a grammar school, was only a minor inconvenience. The fact that most of my students were the same age as me caused a couple of problems. I may tell you about the more obvious one some other time…..

However, today I am reminded of one particular problem as I read a news item today on IMDB about a teacher who showed the film “Brokeback Mountain” to her high school students. The female teacher is being sued by the grandparents of some of the teenage kids, as the film contains scenes of homosexual lurve action. Here’s the link, if you’re interested in the details. it's four or five stories down the page:

http://www.imdb.com/news/wenn/2007-05-14/#3


Well, been there, done that! I showed “My Beautiful Launderette” to my Year 8 class (18 year olds). Here’s a quick summary for those of you who don’t remember or maybe haven’t seen “My Beautiful Launderette”.

The film stars Daniel Day Lewis and Saeed Jaffrey and is set in Thatcher’s Britain. It concerns the dealings of an Indian ex-pat entrepreneur (Jaffrey) and his nephew (Gordon Warnecke) whom he places in charge of his latest business acquisition; the launderette. Behind the scenes Uncle is trying to marry off Nephew to other Cousin, unaware that Nephew is getting it on in the back room of the launderette with local skinhead sexy-pants, Daniel Day Lewis.

My reason for showing the film? Well it was, your Honour, entirely innocent. I had, in consultation with the head of English, decided to deliver a project on British culture in the political climate of the eighties. Up until that point we had looked at music, specifically the more intelligent lyrical efforts of “The The”, “The Waterboys” and “The Smiths”. We had watched some excellent TV programmes, like “Boys from the Blackstuff”, “Edge of Darkness” and before-it-got-shit Brookside (it used to be great, honest!). Basically it was a thinly veiled ruse to play music and watch telly and chat about them afterwards.

I decided to show Hanif Kureishi and Stephen Frears “Launderette” because it was about multicultural eighties Britain. Oh… and it was cracking, to boot.

The students loved it….until the English Head walked into the class just before the gay sex scene came on, cueing the longest five minutes of my life. After the scene got going he switched off the TV.

MisssyT, as I was then, was summoned to the Headmaster’s office the next day. Early. He was the only person that called me Fraulein T. Everyone else used my first name.

I was to have all video privileges suspended indefinitely. I would consult my Mentor (teacher in charge of me) on everything I gave out to the students. I was made to feel like a porn peddler. I tried to put it in context. He wasn’t interested.

The next week the students asked to see the end of the film. I told them that we couldn’t and I wasn’t allowed to show any more films. They were a bit fed up about it, but not enough to ask their headmaster for an explanation, or fight my corner. It was only school after all, and watching a video was better than doing real work. But if real work had to be done, they would get on with it.

I saw the film a few years ago on telly and was surprised at how tame that scene was. Perhaps I should be glad that it was 1989 and not 15 years later when I would’ve had “Queer as Folk”, “The L Word” or “Sex and the City” to choose from!.

Apparently the year I left, the headmaster had opted not to take on an English Assistant for the foreseeable future.

I must have hit a nerve…..

Aberdeen Beeeeaaatch

Seen in the window of the twee Scottish tourist shop in my town today. A t-shirt on a female dummy. It is white and has a has blue slogan that reads:

“I was born a bitch, what’s your excuse?”

"Aberdeen, Scotland"

It has little Scottish St Andrew’s flag embroidered below .

What the blazes? I am absolutely at a loss. Is “I was born a bitch, what’s your excuse?” Aberdeen's Slogan? Was there a vote on this? Did I miss a meeting?



1. What has being a bitch got to do with being in Aberdeen, Scotland?

2. Is this a traditional well known quote from the works of Rabbie Burns or Sir Walter Scott that I have missed? It surely must have some cultural significance…why else would it be there above our national flag?

Maybe it’s an Irvine Welsh quote. But surely that would be more,

“I was born a doss c**t, what’s your excuse”

3. Maybe it’s an attempt to capture the modern Scots way of talking. A bit ghetto, you know. Like those t-shirts that circulated back in the late eighties that said “Pure Dead Brilliant” on them. So then why does it sound like something that would come out of the mouth of a trailer trash Jerry Springer guest?

4. Who are going to buy these? Bitches, presumably.

5. If this is what’s in the window, what the hell else is inside? I may go in the shop tomorrow to find out. Maybe there’s such delights as t-shirts with:

“See Glasgow and
get to f**k”

“Edinburgh....
City of Bastards”

“Get tae Fochabers”

“ I Dundee.
Whit the F**K are ye gonna dae about it, pal”

6. The phrase in itself doesn’t make sense. It suggests that being born a bitch is OK.
Claiming that you were born a with a disposition towards extreme violence may just get one off in court after committing the most heinous of crimes? I can just see Eichmann trying that one out in Nuremberg,

“I was born a fascist genocidal evil monster, what’s your excuse?”
“You’ve got us there, Adolf!”

7. So imagine you’re an American tourist, and you go in and buy this for someone back home as a souvenir. “Here you go, Mom. I saw this and thought of you.”

8. How many babies do you know that are bitches? You can’t be born a bitch! That’s ludicrous. I bet even Margaret Thatcher was cute once.

9. Scottish tourist board marketing meeting on a range of "ironic" t-shirts.

"It doesn't say shortbread, tartan and haggis. It says 'Come to Scotland, we may threaten you, but we'll do with with our famous sense of humour.'"

Eurocentrix

Internet has been out of action this weekend, which is a good thing. For one, when I am writing this blog I can take my time spell-checking it on Word and making sure I haven’t put apostrophes in the wrong place etc since I have no connection at time of writing.

As soon as I am finished writing I always have this irrational surge of urgency within me to post it up immediately, as if I am working to a deadline. I think it’s the fact that I am always rushing to meet deadlines, as a lecturer, as a freelancer that in my head my blog is the same. However, you could also argue that in those other jobs I would make absolutely sure that all my eyes are crossed and my teas are dotted. Why not the blog?

Any way since I broke the internet connection (yes, John, thanks for not blaming me, but I think we both know that I did it) I can take my time over it and not post it a gazillion times as I re-edit it online, over the space of a five minute period after it has gone up.

Another reason it’s been good that the Internet has been down, is that it would only have stolen time away from actual money paying deadlines I had this weekend..... and my Eurovision soiree.

We usually watch Eurovision with friends but this is the first year we have dressed up for the event. I can’t believe that we haven’t thought of it before. Normally we have only done a £1 sweeper and had a special award for the most politically incorrect statement or comment of the night; “The Order of the Golly”TM.

I have a 32-year-old Gollywog that my Great Aunt Peggy gave me when that sort of thing was still “OK”. There’s no way I am ever going to throw it out. I want my descendants to see it in the future and marvel that such a thing existed. Anyway, whoever wins the "Order of the Golly" TM gets presented with the little fella at the end of the night. 9 years ago, a week after Indy was born, we had to watch Eurovision on our own as we were too frightened to go out the house. So we sent the Golly over to my sister’s flat in a taxi. By himself. He’s a generous tipper, apparently.

Back to the dressing up though. What a great idea! It was hilarious and I reckon that me and my brother in law could have actually gone on stage as our Belarussian alter egos, “Vagine and Fallico”, performed our song, “Running with the Wolves” and convinced everyone of our authenticity. We might have even won! Here we are in all our Eastern European Spandex and silver lame glory.

There were no rules to the night. It was simply; dress up as a Eurovision entrant, select your country and only use clothes you already own. Yes, I own those clothes, but can I just point out that I have NEVER worn them altogether ‘til now. I also own those shoes but they were for a Halloween costume, honest. The hair on both of us, is also real. Sadly.

Here’s John and Indy as the Greek entry.


And here’s John later when he decided to double his chances and represent Austria as a techno act.


I won’t put anyone else up as they were brave enough to drive to my house in the costumes, but never agreed to the WWW seeing them.

Further excellence ensued as I won the sweeper having picked the Ukraine out of the hat! No-one had chosen this year’s token Sapphic entry, Serbia, so I won by default. If you didn’t see them, I know you’re thinking Tatu. Think again, my friend. Here she is...

Serbia Wins!
(More Borscht, vodka and pig trotters for Wogan again next year..)

I could blog all night about Eurovision (and I believe some people have) but I’m just going to distil my other highlights into a wee list, as I’m babysitting in half an hour for baby Spongebob, and she’s mobile these days.

1. UK entry Skooch were bloody awful. That dark haired one was on the verge of tears every time he was on camera. Was he Nervous? Embarrassed? Constipated? Ecstatic? Humiliated? Will we ever hear from them again? Not unless you are going to be frequenting any downmarket gay clubs in the near future, you won’t.

2. I love the way your taste resets when you are watching Eurovision. Every song is utter shit, that’s a given. But you start to say things like “That was good…” “I enjoyed that…” and “Finland’s entry was amazzinggg” Wine may have something to do with that.

3. Can I have Terry Wogan to live with me?

4. It took 3 goes with oily “Eye makeup remover” to get that blue eyeliner and eyeshadow off my face.

5. My champions, Ukraine had Sue Pollard as their lead “singer”. I wondered what she was up to these days.

Sue Pollard, Living the Ukrainian Dream since 1991

6. Worst of the night was Ireland. Remember that fantastic episode of Father ted, where they let Dougal and Ted win "Song for Ireland" with "My lovely Horse" because it was so bad that they were guaranteed not to win, thus saving Ireland a fortune in hosting the event. Well, this was worse. Brought tears to the eyes of anyone with ears.

7. Wasn’t that Lordi video at the start AMMMAAAZZZINNNGGG? It made me pine for the fjords.

Quote of the Week...kinda

I would love to be party to so much witty banter that I had enough material to warrant a regular "Quote of the Week" slot on the Misssives. But it not being the 19th Century where people entertained themselves by telling stories of amusing japes a la Oscar Wilde, I fear I could struggle. And anyway it would only make my students compete to get quoted as the ice cream and dog conversation boys already seem to have gone up a gear since reading the blog devoted to their banter.

So I will try to do a quote of the week, but it might not be weekly. So don't try and sue me if it ends up being a bit irregular. Also a further disclaimer; they might not be quotes, or witty one liners but overheard conversations etc.

So actually the Phrase "Quote of the Week" might end up being a bit of a misnomer. But the title of "Stuff What I Have Heard" seems a little weak.
Ok, so have I destroyed your enthusiasm enough? Ladies and Gentlemen, I give you....

QUOTE OF THE WEEK
This week I am spoilt for choice as two gentlemen had cause to make me laugh. One intentionally, one not. First the intentional:

Intentional Quote of the Week
In the Swimming pool B is extolling the virtues of Dundee's swimming park.
"The flumes are ace. There's this really steep one, where the exit is halfway up a wall. It's ace; it's like being shat out!"

That made me laugh. Especially since for years I denied the existence of the past tense of "shit"(v.). It just seems too silly a word. I had to be shown it in a dictionary before I would relent.


Quote of the Week's Unintentional Quote.
I am in the car with a work colleague and we're talking about the elections and politics and stuff like we know what we're talking about and he says,
"Ahhhh, what's the name of that guy?"
Me: "What guy?"
Him: "That politician, you know...why can't I remember his name? The...the orange one"
Me: "Oh, Ian Paisley"
Him: "No! no! Ha! Ha! Sheridan. Tommy Sheridan! HA!"

More quote(s) or the week next week, or month or whenever I remember....

Ode to Swifty

There’s nothing sexy about caravanning, I’ll give you that. And I am going to make no attempt to challenge the common view of caravanning and those who caravan (verb: to caravan) as I know I’m fighting a losing battle.

Caravans are the subject of my blog today because I love them (Am I the only one who cries out “Nooooooo!” when they blow them up on “Braniac”?) But also because we have taken delivery of the successor to Swifty (RIP) who sadly died last year.

Here’s Swifty on her last outing with all our chums at The Tartan Heart Festival.

"Wanna buy some pegs?"

I’m not going to go on about Swifty’s replacement. It wouldn’t be right. I am going to use this blog as a eulogy to Swifty and at the end I want a moment’s silence for Swifty who was sold for parts just a couple of months ago.

Like Wilfred Owen’s* poem, there will always be a piece of Swifty in all those caravan that her parts go on to heal. And for me Swifty will live on, in our memories, in our photos of the kids growing up, in the washing machine box that my friend turned into a toy caravan for her little girl and called “Swifty 2”.

We first got Swifty when John suddenly remembered that his mate D had bought a caravan to use when surfing. Ha! I mean not to surf with, that would be ludicrous (but “narly, dude”!). No D and his brother bought a caravan so that they could use it to change in/sleep in when they went surfing. Once D had kids he didn’t have time for surfing, so stashed Swifty at a mate’s farm.

Swifty rotted forgotten for 3 years until suddenly the Flying Martinis were in possession of Glastonbury tickets (the last time I was ever successful on the phone lines, bah!) and were looking for a more comfortable way to enjoy the festival now that we had a bairn in tow. And it came to pass that D gave us Swifty to keep forever and ever, since he had forgotten about her anyway and wanted rid.

Now, I won’t go into the Glastonbury story as it’s too long and painful to tell here (and it doesn’t show Swifty in a good light since her bottom fell off before we even left for Glasto). But once Swifty was serviced and fixed up, we went all over the place with her. We went (at low speeds) to more festivals, to St Andrews where we had a fight with the bastard caravan manager – boycott his place!!! We went to Mull but had to leave early as we had hit full on midge season, which was like something out of the Bible. We went to Crieff for the hottest summer Scotland has ever known and we went to the Lake District which we discovered is almost exclusively a pensioner holiday destination. We had a great time wherever Swifty took us.

Swifty’s last outing was to the Belladrum Tartan Heart Festival where John and the boys were playing the fringe (they play the actual festival this year…come see them!). So whilst the rest of the tent dwellers suffered drunken teenagers falling/puking into their tents, getting their stuff nicked out of the their tents or like our pals, had their tent temporarily used as Police HQ whilst an inquiry was made into a stabbing (!), we slept warm, safe and sound in Swifty along side our Volkswagen van and trailer tent dwelling compatriots.

It was on cleaning Swifty after Belladrum that we noticed that her troublesome bottom had let her down once again and the rot had set in. We took her to the caravan doctor , but the prognosis was grim, and there was no sure fire chance of complete recovery. So we decided to commit caravan euthanasia, but only once all vital caravan organs were donated to others with a real chance of survival. She did not die in vain (and we got £120 for her bits).

So caravanning; not sexy, but once you’ve tasted the delights of going to a festival with a caravan, you’ll never go back.

I’ll introduce our new lady when we’ve tried her out proper (bet you can't wait!). Mean time, if you are stuck behind a caravan in your car, don’t hate us. We’re GOOD PEOPLE.



*Or was it the other one, Sassoon? I dunno, was off that day.

Misssives celebrates 1000th Visitor!

Welcome all Finns!

Yesterday was a special day in the life of the Misssives as we were delighted to welcome our 1,000th visitor to our humble home here on blogspot.

Now we bought our blogspot as a second pad, if you will. The Misssives original home is on Myspace and I have had over 5,000 “actual reads” of the Misssives there since I started last July. It’s nice as you know you are being read, and people seem to look forward to reading the crap I come up with. But I felt I was too cosseted by the touchy feely safeness of the Myspace community and decided to subject the Misssives to the vast open tundra that is the Tinternet. it's all about customer choice here at the Misssives, you can read them on blogspot or myspace; it's up to you.

Now the phrase “actual reads” is important. On Myspace people log in to specifically read your blog, out here in the tinternet you get all sorts of people dropping by for all sorts of reasons. People who just happen upon you randomly.

So it’s with no further ado that I welcome visitor 1000!

Reader 1000 is from Finland (a country very dear to my heart after spending a great deal of time over there in the last few years…and then there’s the whole Lordi Eurovision thing …genius) who just dropped by to link to a photo of Jude Law I had on the post:“When we were young, we shone Like the Sun”

http://misssymartin.blogspot.com/2007/03/remember-when-we-were-young-we-shone.html

back in March. You didn’t stay long, which is a shame, but I welcome you all the same.

In fact I can actually welcome you in Finnish:

Hei! Tervetuloa! Minen nimeni on Misssymartin!*

See, you get a lot more here than just pics of balding sex addict pretty boy overrated filmstars. You get noticed and then welcomed IN YOUR OWN LANGUAGE to the wonderful world of the Misssives.

So thank you to you, fleeting Finnish friend, and to all those who have come by to The Misssives on Blogspot over the last three months, whether it’s to read my stuff and chuck in the odd welcome comment, or to copy that Victoria Beckham photo I posted a while back, or simply to find out why your google search for “petting” threw up someone ranting about swimming pools.

Here’s to the next 1000!

* Hello! Welcome! My name is Misssymartin!

In Praise of the Doctor

Let’s start with a cliché.

What goes around comes around. There you go.

However I’m not talking about karma, I’m talking about trends. I am absolutely delighted at the return of leggings for example. I spent my teenage years (and a good deal of my twenties ) in the things. For the last two years I have been desperately trying to find a cream pair to go under my favourite green dress so that I can wear it in winter too. I couldn’t find any until now. I’m now spoilt for choice. I have a good old fallback black pair and a black and silver sparkely pair which are ace.

But I’m not going to spend this whole blog talking about clothes like gurl. Today it occurred to me that I’m seriously going to be having a wee eighties moment at the end of the week. You see my husband’s band, the Lorelei are playing with grebo guru Miles Hunt of the Wonderstuff (above) at the weekend* And not only should I wear the leggings for it, but I should (at least at home when no-one’s looking) try and find my Doctor Marten boots. My darling DMs that were given to me by my mate’s brother when I was 14, and lasted me about 10 years, during which time I must have worn them nearly every day. I went to Uni in them, I went to East and West Germany in them, I went to New Orleans in them, I slept in airports and stations in New York, Belgium and Berlin in them.

I danced to new wave, punk, madchester, hip hop, acid house, rave, grunge and disco in them. Christ, I saw Nirvana and The Smiths in them (twice, both). I spilt beer, vodka, wine, punch, paint, vomit and cider on them. If I reach old age and have great feet and insteps then I owe it to them.

I met my husband in them (he wasn’t in them, I was). I used said wonder footwear to climb a human pyramid at a gig and once reaching the top spotted long haired lovely lead singer looking at me. Reader, I married him. (not in the DMs- Mum would’ve killed me). Now I couldn't have feasibly climbed that pyramid in a pair of silly stilettoes, could I? Think of the ramifications of him never seeing me on the pyramid. We might never have met! There might not be any Flying Martinis to speak of! Aaaargh! It's like that Ray Bradbury short story where the guy goes back in time and crushes a butterfly in the stoneage and then when he comes back to the present his entire world is changed!

Do you see how important these boots are?

So leggings might be back but DMs aren’t. I have to find them, I couldn’t have thrown them out. I can’t imagine ever doing that, so they must be in the house somewhere; all neglected like an old favourite dolly languishing under a bed, like in Toy Story.

Now I probably am not going to wear DMs on Sunday as I’m not that sad, but take this as a rallying call: Let’s bring Doctor Martens back!

*************************************************************************************

*See the Lorelei and Miles Hunt of the Wonderstuff at carriages in Insch on Sunday 13 May at 7.30. Tickets: £10 Advance, £12 on the door

Available from: Hardstone Music
01467 681644
enquiries@hardstonemusic.com

http://www.thelorelei.co.uk/

Sixteen Year Old Misssymartin, Doris Day and Me

When I was just a little girl I asked my mother, “What will I be?
Will I be a top journalist, covering breaking news all round the world?
Will I be a defence lawyer going to the wire for my client in every case?
Will I be a writer of non-fiction travelogues that would make people long to follow in my footsteps?
Will I be the first female Director General of the BBC?
Will I be the first Prime Minister of Scotland?
Will I win the Eurovision Song Contest?

“No, you’ll be writing offshore training modules”

Que sera sera…etc.. Thanks Doris.

(Check out how I make no attempt to make that rhyme or fit in with the tune of "Que Sera Sera". I’m tired and should be in bed. )

Started the freelance job today. Worked til my brain exploded and then scraped it all back into my skull and drove home checking out new Minis on the way to keep me going. Still grimacing wildly at the drivers, by the way.

Funny how life turns out. I wonder what the sixteen year old MisssyM would have to say about all this. I think about that sometimes. I think I would be astonished that someone agreed to marry me for one. I was never very confident on that front. On the career front I think sixteen year old Misssy would be a little confused. She may even be disappointed. In fact I know she would.

Last week some BBC ladies came to speak to my students and very nice they were too. When I was about 20 I would’ve been peeing my pants in excitement at the prospect of getting a foot in the door at the Beeb. Certainly, the general feeling that I got from the women was that people should be peeing their pants in excitement to get in at the Beeb. (Personally, I think anyone wanting to work in telly is better off scoping out the indies, as they make all the programmes these days).

However, I felt completely numb to it. Instead I was excited for my students…and even a little worried for them. What was really on offer here? Unpaid work, digitising and logging tapes for hours on end? The occasional running job, getting coffee for Sally Magnussen? Answering the phones on “Children in Need”? If you’re lucky in five years you might get a researcher’s job on some farming programme that is broadcast on a Sunday afternoon?

Even to get in to do these poorly paid, bottom rung of the ladder running jobs you’d have to jump through a million hoops, “Apprentice” style, to even get shortlisted. Fighting for floor space in a group exercise with some over-confident, over-bearing wannabes that would stifle your every attempt at being heard above them *Shudder*

It’s fine for those who want in…and maybe that was me fifteen years ago, but thank God it’s all over! Something has made me stay in Scotland and take a different path into teaching and writing/producing commercial and technical stuff and it doesn’t bother me anymore that what I said I’d do on leaving school hasn’t happened. Because other things have.

So for now, it’s procedural training, offshore safety and risk assessments for me. Last year it was programmes for schools. You can’t say my life isn’t varied, I s’pose. And I’ve only had to sell a bit of my soul to Satan…..

By the way, you've not heard the last of Sixteen year Old MisssyM. She and I have more conversations to have.

It's a thistle at the final whistle

Sorry about the title. Crap isn't it? I was going to go with "What a load of Ballots" but that was even worse. Suggestions for anything better most welcome.

Anyway, I just can’t let Thursday go past without a wee commemorative blogette about the Scottish Elections. I’m a Nationalist so let’s just get that out of the way first. Yes, yes, I know lots of people hate us, but hey ho, we’ve won (kinda) so let’s try and be friends. If you want to comment on my politics then that's your prerogative but you won't change me, so bear that in mind.

So, colours nailed to the mast I can go on. Fourteen memories of the day:

1. That wonderful moment that Tommy Sheridan lost his seat and his poor wife grinned her arse off in the same Tammy Wynette way she’s been doing over the last eighteen months. Guess now he’ll have to ask for a job at that tanning salon he’s been using, and go the other side of the counter.
2. Jack McConnell not appearing til late at night after he’d had a good greet. He’s a former maths teacher, you know. Maybe he’ll come back to education one day and then try and do his job whilst filling out the paperwork his party have foisted on us in the name of “Education, Education, Education”.
3. Lib Dems coquettishly leading the two leading parties on, but trying to play hard to get. Chase me! Chase me! What a shower. Their UK Parliamentary leader does have the coolest name, I’ll give him that. Ming- that’s just genius.
4. Alec being all presidential. How many times has he woken up from that dream? I nearly wept. Yes, yes, I know he’s a smug git but he’s our smug git.
5. My mum phoning me about 6.30pm and squealing high pitched, “We’ve won! We’ve won!”
6. Surfing the various Scots blogs and laughing at the way everyone celebrated. My personal favourite was “Get it up ye, Jack McConnell”
7. The way Scotland was the first headline in the UK national news all day for a good reason.
8. The way both John and I made the kids watch the telly at 6.45 telling them they were “Watching History”. They are 9 and 4, what do we really think they got out of that?
9. My mother in law telling me she voted for the Christian Alliance Nutjob Party. I told her Jesus might be upset with her. No, of course I didn't. But it would have been funny, I think.
10. Watching the seats go up all day. Then that final wee flurry at the end.
11. Those bloody ballot papers. But then again…they weren’t that hard to figure out. Maybe an inability to fill out a ballot paper properly should disqualify one from voting anyway. A kind of election natural selection.
12. An unionist (probably Scottish) getting a bit angry with me when I posted on the Guardian forum inviting all English who wanted to emigrate to a peace loving Scotland that had no interests in sending their boys to get killed in Iraq. I figured it was only polite and I meant it most sincerely but he called me lots of big words I didn’t understand and got awful hot under the collar.
13. Phoning my brother who was coming up from his home in London to tell him that he would only be allowed back in if he could prove he is Scottish. We offered him a surefire test involving a football. If he failed the football skills challenge, he was allowed back in.
14. Brother’s Essex girlfriend was sorted as she does one of the best Proclaimers impersonations I have ever seen. Honorary status awarded, goes without saying.

So there are my election day memories. But what happens next though, eh?