What's the Story in Balamory?

It appears that the Highland Council, or as they are better known in Scotchland, "thon bunch of numpties", have decided in their infinite wisdom, without bothering to ask the people who live there, to rename the Isle of Skye as Eilean a'Cheo (bless you).

This isn't even its proper Gaelic name, but it was felt that an t-Eilean Sgiathanach sounded too much like a sheep having a bronchial attack.

"Tourists making calls about travelling or staying on Skye will encounter officials instructed to use only the new Gaelic version," according to a report in The Scotchman. Oh, yes, that'll go down like a lead balloon.

"Hello, I'd like to book a trip to Skye."

"You want to go up in the sky?"

"No, I want to go to Skye."

"And once you've been up in the sky, where do you want to land?"

"I want to travel to Skye. S.K.Y.E."

"Hang on, I just check...computer says no."

"What do you mean?"

"There's no such place."

"Excuse me?"

"We've got Brunei, Mumbai, Shanghai and Dubai but no sign of Skye."

"But what about that popular song: 'Ah've jist cam doon frae the Isle of - '"

"Oh, you mean Eilean a'Cheo."

"Bless you."

"Thank you. Well, we could book you a trip, but you'd never get in."

"So why can't I visit Skye?"

"The bridge is closed."

"Closed how?"

"By the sign."

Cannae have all them tourists coming over, capturing the scenery with their cameras, learning aboot oor language and culture, spending their hard currency, tracing their ancestors and that, ye ken.

Neighbourgate (or Neighborgate if you're Merkan)

So. Upstairs neighbours went on holiday and left the keys with us to house-sit. You know, feed the goldfish, clear the daily mountain of junk mail from behind the front door, take the kids to school, that sort of thing.

Imagine my surprise when on one such visit, I stumbled across a copy of Whitehouse periodical magazine. I say stumbled, but that might be stretching the definition of the word "stumble" a tad. In actuality, it was under a pile of VAT receipts. On the top shelf of a wardrobe. In the spare room. In the loft conversion.

Never having heard of this publication before (*ahem*), I opened it expecting to read about US fiscal policy, the history of the greatest democracy in the world, Dubya's latest foot-in-mouth episode and the race for the 2008 presidency.

Gentle reader, I can only say that surprise turned to amazement as my eyes beheld...young ladies in various states of undress, in ones, twos and sometimes threes, inserting lubricated, battery-operated devices into places where the sun most assuredly does not shine^*!

Who would have thought that sweet Mrs Thingy upstairs was a closet lezzer all this time? I was so shocked at this revelation that my trousers and pants dropped around my ankles completely of their own accord. Well, that's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I just hope poor Mr Thingy never finds out about his wife's fetish, he might have a stroke. So to speak.

^*Has anyone seen that film Sunshine yet? I read a review in New Scientist which said it was crap, but then it would, wouldn't it? Just because the film's premise demands a suspension of disbelief that would make the Flying Spaghetti Monster look completely at home in the Vatican. Some people are so picky. Astrophysicists, cosmologists, stellar dynamicists, quantum theorists...

Venn Diagrams That Illustrate Song Lyrics

I note with regret that Salvadore Vincent has stopped posting those wonderful brain-teasers, "Song titles in the form of Venn diagrams (or other information graphics)". Still, how hard can it be?

Erm...

Um...

Quite hard.

Ok, let's try "Song Lyrics ya de ya de yah".

Doddle.

Update: If you like this sort of thing, then this may be the sort of thing you like.

I Will Survive

While commenting on Mr Angry's blog today, I managed to confuse Richard Herring with Stewart Lee. It's an easy mistake to make, especially since they used to have their own TV show, Herring and Lee or something like that.

It appears that I am not alone; many people complain that they still can't tell Ant from Dec (Ant's the one on the left), Dick from Dom (pass) or Sonny from Cher (eek!).


I've done a lot worse. There's a work-related one that I can't tell you about, but let's say the bloke didn't take too kindly to being referred to as Judith Chalmers. In fairness, at that time we'd never met face-to-face.

Then there was the time I catalogued a workmate's record collection on the pooter for him and in thanks he taped a few selected albums for me. I thought, "I like that fit bird off Fleetwood Mac. Now is she Lindsey Buckingham or Stevie Nicks?" They'd both joined the band at about the same time and without a copy of Melody Maker to hand, I honestly didn't know which one was which.

Let's see. Lindsay Wagner is definitely a bird
and Stevie Wonder is a bloke.
But he's blind, so he might just think he's a bloke and really be a bird. Hmmm. Well, you can probably guess what happened next, but in order to pad this out a bit, I'll tell you anyway. I asked him to tape that Lindsey Buckingham, who I really fancy. So at a stroke I labelled myself as a rampant homosexualist¹ and wasted several minutes of my life listening to a really crap album.

Changing the subject only slightly, I do know a bloke who is even less conversant with the modern music scene, man, than what I am. He likes Baroque and Vivaldi and crap like that. Just mention crumhorn or lute within his hearing and he goes all wobbly-kneed. Chaucer's Bitch would probably like him. But he claims to know knothing about popular beat combos, so I asked him if he was conversant with the work of:

• Slow Patrol? Nope.
• The Artex Monkeys? Doesn't ring a bell.
• Acorn? Who?
• The Kaiser Chefs? Uh...no.
• Sierra? Sorry.
• Take That? Take What?
• Fergie? Ah, Prince Andrew's ex?

Finally, in desperation, I said, "Surely you've heard of Simon and Garfunkel?"

"Oh, yes, I've heard of him."

Sigh.

¹Maybe I am a gay? After all, I quite like the Hot Lesbian Action in this Janeway/Seven of Nine clip. Yeah, baby, yeah!

Merkan-English Dictionary #3

Time now for another thrilling installment of the excitingly-titled Merkan-English Dictionary, where I explain to our cousins across the Pond what words really mean - and sometimes how they ought to be spelt and pronounced. Like "al-um-IN-ium".

I'm afraid that if you've come here looking for a cute underage chick with a hairy pussy, you'll be sadly disappointed. Unless you're heavily into animals.

Because, as previously explained, a pussy is in fact a Cat.

Never mind, maybe you'll have better luck with an ass in the air?

Sorry, but in Englandland - and Scotchland for that matter - an ass is a four-legged beast of burden. As against the Merkan ass, which is a different kettle of fish altogether.

Here in the UK, we call this an arse.

No, wait. That's an arse-licker. Sorry.

And if a British gentleman declares that he wishes to take his ladyfriend up the arsenal, well I'm afraid that he may well be referring to The Beautiful Game.

And not anal sex after all.

Hope that's cleared up a few misconceptions.

Hell's Grannies

I see that now Britain's pensioners are to be tagged.

Quite right too. Can't have the old farts wandering about unattended, they might start ranting on about "Eeee, when I were young this were all fields!" Or blowing all their pension money on trips to the bingo. Or stopping dead in the middle of a busy shopping centre to congregate and rabbit on about their terrible lumbago and the good old days when it were only tuppence for a half-loaf of bread.

Hmmm.

Now if the tags were on collars fitted with explosive devices, and computer chips programmed to detect the fucktards taking too long to get on a bus, whinging about the prices nowadays (at the fecking checkout whilst rummaging for change) or generally making a damn nuisance of themselves, that might put a spring in their step.

Just a thought.

You Know You Might Be A Racist If...

1. You laugh at the Belgians for being Belgian.
2. You slag off the Merkans for refusing to ratify the Kyoto Protocol.
3. You sneer at the Canadians for Celine Dion.
4. You berate the French for sinking the Rainbow Warrior and murdering a member of Greenpeace.
5. At any international football match, you support whoever's playing against England.
6. You deplore Saudi Arabia for beheading criminals.
7. You accuse the Welsh of shagging sheep.
8. You marry a Kenyan woman, pay for her visa fees and air fare to bring her four-year-old daughter (born out of wedlock) to the UK, then call your step-daughter a "little black bastard".
9. Then brag about it.
10. You leave your husband¹ after two weeks and divorce him on the grounds that he's "white trash".

¹If my sister-in-law can divorce him, why can't I?

Heard On The Radio

Apparently there's this thing called an "Allowed List". Nothing to do with email filters or that, but a list of five members of the opposite sex who, if you should be so lucky as to have an affair with one of them, your other half would have no comeback. No opportunity to say, ten years from now, "What about that affair you had with x?"

Mrs Farty: Who ever heard of anything so -
Me: Lorraine Kelly, Cat Deeley, Emily Symons, Fern Britton, Beth Ditto.
Mrs Farty: - ridiculous?

Perfect Day

The early morning sun quickly burned off the fog, leaving wall-to-wall blue sky over Embra. We were up at the crack of 9:00, which for a Saturday is almost unheard-of, and put on the radio while we had breakfast, opened the 50^th birthday cards and that. I heard Mrs Farty talking on the phone in the bedroom and wondered what that was all about, until the music ended and the DJ replayed this exchange:
Mrs F (for it was she): Can you play a record for my husband Farty's 50^th birthday?
DJ: I'm sorry, we don't do birthday requests on this show.
Mrs F: Well, can you wish him a happy 50^th birthday?
DJ: What's his name?
Mrs F: Mr Farty.
DJ: And how old is he?
Mrs F: 50.
DJ: So it's Mr Farty's 50^th birthday today?
Mrs F: Yes.
DJ: Nope, sorry, we don't do birthdays on this show.
Mrs F: Oh, please!
DJ: Well, there is one exception...
Mrs F: Yes?
DJ: You'll have to sing Happy Birthday yourself. I'll count you in: 1,2,3 -
Mrs F: Happy birthday to you -
DJ: Farty!
Mrs F: Happy birthday to you -
DJ: Farty!
Mrs F: Happy birthday dear Farty, happy birthday to you!

Off for the weekend shop. Bumped into some old friends at the Gyle, then LMF called to wish me a happy 50^th birthday. Later, she came over from the Magic Kingdom to give me a hug and a 50^th birthday card. And a webcam. Oh, goody!

Then into town to catch a bit of the Embra Science Festival: Pixar are doing an exhibition at the National Museum of Scotchland; everything there is to know about computer animation, with examples from Luxor Jr. through Toy Story to Ratatouille. They even had a real 3D animation, viewable from any angle, which knocked my socks off. Even when I saw how it was done.

Stopped off at Forbidden Planet to pick up a Sonic Screwdriver, then home for a spot of gardening before Eldest Daughter, Son-in-Law and Youngest Grandson called from South Africa to wish me happy 50^th birthday. Nothing like rubbing it in. We discussed getting a webcam in SA so we could do face-to-face chats without the 12,000 mile round trip, carbon emissions, global warming etc., but the set-up costs out there are prohibitive and the running expenses are treble those in the UK. Which leaves...



Settled down to watch Dr Who, followed by Graham Norton and Any Dream Will ...Dr Who?



There was John "Captain Jack" Barrowman, shooting his weapon...



Denise van Outen taking on an alien cucumber...

And Andrew Lloyd Webber (above) as The Face of Boe (right).

Then a bit of blogging before bed. Perfick!

Doctor Who - Jeff Buckley

This is amazing.



That is all.

My Membership Application Is Rejected

I'll be fifty on Saturday - aaaaarrrggghhhh!!! It looks so bleak written down. Fifty. 50. The Big Five-Oh. Think I'll stick with thirty-something.

Any road up. With Old Age impending, I thought I should apply for membership of the Society Of Dirty Old Men, or SODOM. But somehow this tale had already reached their big, hairy ears.

For our twentieth wedding anniversary, five years ago, I took Mrs Farty out to South Africa to visit her Eldest Daughter and our son-in-law, Fat Bastard. We did the Grand Tour, ya-de-ya, if you're very good I might tell you about it someday. But not this day.

We ended up, the four of us, spending a long weekend in the Court House, a bungalow owned by, and overlooking, Morgan Bay Hotel. But perched on a hilltop, with even better views.

Mrs Farty was down in the hotel with FB, when she remembered she'd left her camera by her bedside. So Muggins was sent to fetch it. Up the steps in the sweltering heat, into the Court House, kick off trainers, pad across the cool floor to the large bedroom, pick up camera, turn, head for main door, something catches my eye.

Door to second bedroom is standing wide open. Sprawled face down across the double bed, wearing only skimpy summer clothes, is Eldest Daughter. Fast asleep.

What was I thinking? I'll tell you.

"Oh, the poor thing looks exhausted. Better be careful not to wake her. Will she be safe here on her own? Yes."

*tip-toes out, picking up trainers on the way. closes the front door behind him really quietly*

I know she's my step-daughter and therefore technically family, but as a dirty perv, surely it was my duty to take some photos? Or to think about it? Or at least to think, Phwoarrr!

But no. Nada. Nothing. Zilch.

I'll never get that membership now.

Is It A Monster?

Son-In-Law takes his sport seriously. I'm not talking about that crap on telly, I mean the Real Thing: Participation; Life Or Death; Them Or Me. [That's Enough Capitalisation. Ed.]

He has it all planned out like a full-scale military operation. Firstly he'll check out the tide tables, to find the most suitable time to ship out; then the weather forecasts, to see if his quarry will likely be easy or hard to spot. He'll even make sure every member of the party has an up-to-date hunting licence. On the night before the big event, he'll pack up the essentials into the 4x4 ready for an early start.

Come the big day, he'll be up before dawn, getting the rest of the family prepared, for this is more than a one-man operation. They all pile aboard and hurtle off along the long, dusty highway, passing jacaranda trees bursting with purple [Get on with it. Ed].

He grabs a string bag in one hand, a trusty screwdriver in the other and stomps off down the beach, arriving at the rocky outcrop just as the tide reaches its lowest ebb. Or is it flow? [No. Ebb.]

This far out, the critters have had time to mature and grow into monsters three, sometimes four inches across. Expertly, he reaches far down to the underside of a rock, feels around until his fingers find his prey, then he ducks under the water with the screwdriver, struggles valiantly with one of these leviathans for two, three, maybe five seconds and finally surfaces with, well, what looks like a bit of rock, defiantly thrust aloft. Into the bag it goes and he's off looking for the next one already.
He'll only stop when either the rising tide makes it too hard to stay upright, or he's reached his quota. Well, I say his quota, but that's where the rest of the family come in. 24 oysters per person per day. They just have to physically present, with licences. Sometimes we get to join in. Sometimes we just buy the licences and watch.

Then it's off with the day's catch a l'hotel, where chef washes and opens the oysters and serves them up with lemons and piri-piri sauce. Anything to disguise the taste of snot, really.
So there we are, eating the little fuckers with various shades of enthusiasm, when Mrs Farty exclaims, "This one's not been cleaned properly, there's a bit of grit or something in it!"
But lo and behold! On closer inspection, the "or something" turns out to be a real, honest-to-goodness pearl. Ain't it a beauty?

Er, you might want to click to enlarge. Several times.

The Moons of Uranus

I love to lick the moisture off a juicy, succulent, stoned plum, then bite it in half before I gobble it down. Mrs Farty moans that the juice drips on the rug and makes it wet. There's no need no come to blows over such a fruity delight, so I run my tongue over it while I have a quick nibble. Sometimes I think she is so nasty and quite hard on me, but she says if I'm not careful, it drips, penetrates the carpet and turns to slime. Perhaps I should buy her a pearl necklace to make up for the foul mess. Or perhaps I'll just tease her about it till she decides to snatch it off me.

If you found this article offensive, your porn filter needs a damn good seeing to.

Now nip over to Hot Coffee Girl for more rude words. Be sure to give her a plug.

p.s. Can anyone explain why "I Hat Bill"?

Silly Love Songs

The following words and phrases have appeared in Love Songs that made the UK Top Ten. Using only wetware as your search engine, see how many you can name while I think of a proper post.

1. Electricity
2. Facsimile
3. Refrigerator
4. Heart Attack
5. Combine Harvester
6. Nasty Stain
7. Mountains

My answers in the comments box.

Political Correctness Gone Out The Window

Sometimes I struggle for ages trying to think of something deep, meaningful and profound to write about. Then I give up and do some blogging instead.

But sometimes a subject presents itself, as it were, on a plate. With spaghetti and meatballs. And pasta sauce. Aaaaahhhh! Or even, Aaaaarrrrggghhh!

No, it's not that Russell Brand has threatened to pull out of Big Brother's Big Mouth - Eeeuw! - although that would mean that the dandy fop is available for other work; say, a figurehead for some new-fangled religion.

No, far better than that, schoolboy Bryan Killian has been suspended from the yardarm school for, woodja believe it, turning up for class dressed in Full Pirate Regalia. He claims that his Constitutional rights to freedom of religion are being violated, while the school claims he's an arsehole. His mummy says, “I think Bryan should be able to voice his opinion, but he kind of got carried away.”

Me? I think the more pirates there are, the better prepared we are to combat Global Warming and that. Or perhaps it's just the thought of all those Pirate Wenches. Aaarrr!

Sunny Day In Embra

Ok, this was taken last month. It was sunny today too but I only had the phone and it wouldn't do justice to this scene.


Update for Short-Sighted Goths. Definitely Swans.