What started off as a pleasantly plonked drive home...

ended up as a surprisingly sober drive into the driveway, but not before I let out a little fart in abject fear. Let me elaborate...

Wednesday nights, as Werner - The King has told you, is Action Cricket night. I'd been asked to fill in for one of the guys in Werner's team who was off to Namibia for a few days and, needing a hangover, agreed to play.

We ended up being dropped by our opposition, who failed to pitch up, so we played a short game among ourselves for the fun of it. What the hell, we were there, so why not use the time constructively? Drinking without playing, it could be argued, is not "constructively".

So half an hour later, sweaty and thirsty, we made our way up the stairs to the pub area where Werner, Hilgaard and myself stuck it out longer than the other guys, who retired home early. The World Cup cricket match between SA and Australia was well on its way to being a resounding victory for the Aussies (by far the better side on the day) and there was not one drinker watching the massacre, so we laid into the Capn'n'Coke.

Much re-telling of old fishing, diving and hunting stories later (around 23h30 actually) we decided to call it a night. All off home in our cars, I had a pleasant drive home until, not 1km from the house, I round a corner and see a sea of blue lights in front of me, blocking the way. "Oh, fuck, I'm dead" were the first words in my head and the fart escaped my cringing rusty starfish.

I slowed down considerably, rehearsing how many drinks I was going to tell the cops I'd had that night, when I noticed that there were also a few red lights mixed in the blue sea. I carried on slowly through the four parked cars, slow enough to show that I was compus mentis, suddenly aware that there was not one police officer in sight.

It was then that I noticed the space blanket lying in the road under the bridge, just off the kerb, with motionless "Papvreter" feet sticking out from beneath. I drove by the scene, trying to figure out what might have happened. Lying under the bridge, I thought the now-deceased might have been walking on the highway above, got hit by a passing low-flying Mercedes and taken a swan-dive off the bridge thinking there to be a grass verge on the other side of the railing. Well, technically there was, but it was a ten or twelve metre drop to get to it. I also thought it might have been a successful suicide bid. Anyway, I felt sorry for the poor "Papvreter" for about a second and made my merry meandering way home.

This morning, on my way to work, I passed under the bridge again (it's the only way out of the neighbourhood) and noticed a pool of dried blood on the road where the hapless deceased had lain. I also noticed that the blood was not at the edge of the bridge where I thought it had been, but about 5m under it. Obviously it wasn't a swan-diver that had lain there a few hours earlier (not unless he actually had flown that short distance). In all probability it was either a late-night shooting (there are some shady goings-on in the 'hood lately) or some pissed pedestrian had wandered off the pavement on his way home and gotten whacked by a low-flying Mercedes. Anyway, you think the paramedics would have cleaned the blood off the road. After all, there was a stream not 50m away from the scene.

Not a way you would want to sober up, believe me...

Ye Ken Yer a True Scot if...

1. Ye can properly pronounce McConnochie, Ecclefechan, Milngavie, Sauchiehall St, St Enoch, Auchtermuchty and Aufurfuksake.
2. Ye actually like deep fried battered pizza fae the chippie.
3. Yer used tae four seasons in wan day.
4. Ye cannae pass a chip/kebab shop withoot sleverin when yer blootert.
5. Ye kin fall about pished withoot spilling yer drink.
6. Ye see people wearin shell suits with burberry accessories.
7. Ye measure distance in minutes.
8. Ye kin understaun Rab C Nesbitt and know characters just like him, in yer ain family.
9. Ye go tae Saltcoats cos ye think it is like gaun tae the ocean.
10. Ye kin make hael sentences jist wae sweer wurds.
11. Ye know whit haggis is made ae and stull like eating it.
12. Somedy ye know used a fitba schedule tae plan thur weddin day date.
13. You've been at a weddin and fitba scores are announced in the Church/Chapel.
14. Ye urny surprised tae find curries, pizzas, kebabs, fish n chips, irn-bru, fags and nappies all in the wan shop.
15. Yer holiday home at the seaside has Calor gas under it.
16. Ye know irn-bru is a hangover cure.
17. Ye learnt tae sweer afore ye learnt tae dae sums.
18. Ye actually understand this and yurr gonnae tell it tae yer pals.
19. Finally, yer 100% Scot if ye huv ever said/heerd these wurds:

- how's it hingin
- clatty
- boggin
- cludgie
- pished
- get it reet up ye
- wee beasties
- erse bandit
- amurny
- awa an bile yer heid
- peely-wally
- humphey backit
- ba'-heid
- baw bag
- dubble nugget
- getifuyabassa
- awa tae fuck ya wee scunner

And finally, a joke......

A wee Glesgae wumman goes intae a butchershop, where the butcher has just came oot the freezer, and is standing haunds ahint his back, with his erse aimed at an electric fire. The wee wumman checks oot the display case then asks, "Is that yer Ayrshire bacon?" "Naw," replies the butcher. "It's jist ma haun's ah'm heatin'

Let Your Mind Wander a Bit...

A BBC reporter covering a story in a Muslim-diminated country is kidnapped by Muslim extremists. He is held for what turns out to be a number of months, reports of his death surface, the western world is up in arms (pardon the ironic pun). The reporter is photographed by his captors showing him losing weight under duress, pictures are sent around the world to the various sensationalist media houses to further their cause. The details are sketchy, but sufficient to keep diplomatic channels open, family members questioning their government involvement and demanding the release of their father/brother/countryman, and the media wires burning with the story. A number of months later, the reporter, as a result of diplomatic negotiations and prisoner exchange, is released back to the country of his origin.

But maybe...

A BBC reporter, due to be sent on assignment to a Muslim-dominated country and sympathetic to "the cause", makes contact with some local extremist sources to determine how he can become part of the movement. Once he gets on his assignment, the extremists arrange his "disappearance" (transport at the BBC's expense) and, while the media is hype-ing the story and inadvertently furthering the "cause", the journalist begins his training in subversion techniques, bomb manufacturing, weapons, methods of contacting and enlisting other sympathisers, as well as other techniques in civil terrorism. He is losing weight, not due to duress, but due to the strict diet his new religion forces him to adopt and his body naturally sheds excess "infidel" fat. He is photographed partly to show his progress to commanders but also to send to the western press to hype the story and gain sympathy for the "captive". Diplomatic efforts are delayed, promises broken by both sides, sketchy details sent to the press gaining more sympathy for the "captive" and eventual agreement is reached to exchange extremist prisoners for the "captive". The exchange takes place and the gaunt, brave, reporter is revealed to the world, unknowing of his new capacity. The world breathes a sigh of relief as another hero is returned safely to his countryfolk and family. The reporter, after selling his story to the same media he supposedly works for, passes on the proceeds to his new masters, disappears from public view supposedly into stress-related retirement. All the while, he arranges infiltration, plans destruction, mayhem, murder and suicide. But, because of the tortuous time he went through, he is squeaky clean so he is not suspected...

How feasible is that.....?

As you can see...

by the last posting, and this one, I'm on the office network today in our new facility. Eee, boi gum, 'tis good to be connected again, oi tell ya...

Nac Mac Feegle's of the World, unite, ya scunners...

When I grow up, I want to be something like one of these guys, attitude by the ton, take no shit from anyone especially not witches (of which there are a few where I work). Steal sheep for a living (steal anything, in fact), "pit the heid in 'abody" that gies them crap, true to their Kelda to the death (or birth as they think of it).

Thanks to Cuzzin Ross, who left the book here 3yrs ago when he was here on holiday (that long ago already), I just finished reading Terry Pratchett's "The Wee Free Men" having found it in the bottom of a cupboard I was looking for something totally different in. Not having something to read at the time, I thought "What the fuck, why not?".

So, without giving Max another book report, aside from realistically being a teenager's book and a great light read, it's about a little girl who has witching powers but isn't sure how to use them, tries to find a witches school, ends up going into a Dreamworld to rescue her little brother from the bad Quin (Queen), fights off dromes (dream monsters) and Jenny Green-eyes, a river-dwelling monster, with a frying pan (used steel instead of wood, as she would have gotten eaten herself if she'd used a stick) and, generally, ends up saving The Chalk (part of the world where she lives) from the Quin.

All along the way, she's helped by a band of Pictsies (no, not Pixies, they're little bastards) called the Nac Mac Feegls, a small band of Scots-speaking thieves and brigands (but nice people, as all Sctots are actually). The Scots pronunciation is written quite brilliantly ("Make my caviar deep-fried, will ye?", "Ye wee scunner", "They can tak' oor lives, but they cannae tak' oor troosers", or "Ach, stick it up yer trakkans"...ok, enough of the Scottish quotes).

Read it and see what I mean, like...

I'm not ignoring you all...

I'm having posting anything while connected through this fuckin' crap 3G card, so please bare with me... Promise I'll get something posted as soon as I can...

Say no more...

Ok, so on Sunday evening I'm about ready to sit down and watch The Da Vinci Code DVD...

when Steph suddenly exclaims "Fuckin' hell, the house across the road is on fire!!". I think to myself "Bollox...can't be" but go to the kitchen window that looks out on the road in front of the house. True enough, not the corner house, but the one behind it has flames shooting from behind it, at least twice the height of the house, and lots of them. Straight away, I get onto the phone and dial the emergency services number 082 911 (managed by Vodacom) and report the incident. The daft cow on the Call Centre asks me what the street number is of the house in question, and I say to her "How the fuck do I know? I don't live there! Get a fire engine here, quick!" So I give her the rest of the directions to the house and grab my keys to go out and see if there's anything I can do. Steph gets on the phone and asks Brian from next door to come out and help too...good idea. Brian and I head across the road, and find the owner (an Indian fella) starting to reverse cars down the driveway, away from the flames...another good idea, get all flammable (and explosive) objects away, asap. I ask the fellas wife, who's busy walking down the driveway with the housemaid, if there's anyone else in the house, to which she replies no, if the power is still on to the house, to which she replies no, and tell them to stand at the entrance to the driveway as far away from the flames as possible. I tell them that we have called the fire brigade to reassure them that something is happening. I had some brief fire training a few years ago, and that was all I could really remember to ask and say at the time...middle age memory loss is a fuckin' horrible thing, I tell ya. So I go walking round to the back of the house to find the whole backyard illuminated by the flames, which are coming from the roofing joining the main house to an outside room (looks like it was a garage converted to a living quarters) and what, already, is left of a wooden wendy house and various home appliances and other bits and pieces. The wendy house is about 3 feet away from the outside room and the heat is causing the paint to peel from the walls as well as the rafters to spontaneously combust, flames are still shooting high into the air and I ask the fella if there's a hosepipe or something we could use while the fire brigade gets here, to which he shows me a hose that has water flowing from it, but which is running all over the garden instead of the flames. I move to pick up the hose, about 10m away, only to find that the garden isn't grassed, but instead is covered in thorns. In my haste to get over the road, I hadn't put shoes on and now ended up paying dearly for it. Brian was also barefoot and I shouted to him to stay out of the area. My feet are covered in hundreds of v-shaped thorns, not big, but painful enough to cause discomfort and I scrape my feet along a sandy patch to try and get rid of them. Most of the thorns I get out, but some are in quite deep and I have to re-focus on the hose and the fire. After about 10mins, I manage to get it more or less under control and can hear the fire engine off in the distance. It turns out they took a wrong turn and, instead of peeling off left at the circle to our area, they went straight and came to a cul-de-sac. Try turning a 12m long fire engine around in a narrow street in a hurry...doesn't work, and added a few minutes onto their arrival time. Anyway, the firemen eventually get there, I tell them that they need to check the outside room roof as it is still smouldering and now and then reignites due to the heat, and make my way down to the driveway to try and get rid of the rest of the thorns. The fella introduces himself and shakes my hand, thanking me for the help. "What help?", I asked myself. He'd fucked off and wasn't to be found to tell me more about the roof or what was in the wendy house at the time it went "poof". It was probably an appliance, like an iron or something, that had fallen over and burned some or other combustible material, but that was up to the firemen to investigate. The fella starts coughing and the paramedics (it's standard here that paramedics follow a fire engine to a scene) ask if anyone's hurt. I tell them the fella must have a bad smokers cough as he was, at no time that I could remember, close enough to the fire to have inhaled smoke from it. She smiles and heads off to feed him some oxygen. Damn, I should have had some myself...gives you a great high, does pure oxygen. I walked back to the house, stopping now and then to pull another thorn from my feet, said goodnight to Brian and went in for a shower to get washed of the soot that had covered me from top to toe. By then, all that was left to do was have a little scotch, as it was 22h30 and no time left to watch the Da Vinci Code...ah well, it'll keep for another night when there's fuckall on the telly...