Kids with guns

impossible songs

impossible songs

Call of the mild.

Getting too cold for my liking, we now are experiencing the two duvet and one cat nights, how long will this go on for? Experts seem to think that a prolonged cold spell (known as winter in some parts of the world) is about to break forth on us. It appears that as the Gulf Stream decays out in the North Atlantic we are no longer protected from the icy, deep water currents that prevail, or come from the North Polo (or Pole as National Geographic might put it). These big black deepwater beasts are going to cause our heating costs to soar and give us a few miserable weeks leading up to the early days of 2007. Already a white icy substance has been forming on my car windscreen every morning. No matter what I try or how often I run and rev the engine it’s back the next morning. To make matters worse I’ve just heard that all fish will die when I am 102. This means I can’t even look forward to a decent fish supper high tea for my birthday treat. The only good news seems to be that if you eat and drink like a Frenchman (or woman) your overall health will improve or at least stabilise. Hopefully it won’t go as far as having to learn the language properly. God bless the Auld Alliance I say and pass me another bottle of Tesco’s finest red plonk.

Privacy.

Some people want privacy and peace and enjoy building big walls around themselves, while others spend hours on the web, writing books, filming films or just blethering about everything they’ve said, done, eaten or thought about. Now the curse of the common touch of progress has blown into that utterly pointless, tacky dwelling somewhere in Edinburgh known as Bute House, as if any of us cared.


We are all bankrupt.

Well at least we had some fun spending it, though we’ve no idea what we spent it on. Perhaps a few nice lunches, some shoes that didn’t quite fit, a crap CD or DVD, a new exhaust from Kwik-fit, some golf lessons or a weekend in Paris. Money just goes, money doesn’t talk, it swears and now more Scots than ever are broke and probably staring into wardrobes full of shirts or dresses they don’t really like the look of. At least the Clydesdale Bank, HBOS and RBS are doing alright as are the acres of shopping big sheds and malls that munch on the carcasses of once vibrant towns. Whatever the plight of the chattering classes, financial bankruptcy isn’t the worst kind of debt to be in. It’s when you lose your soul you’ve got the real problems and there is no helpline in the Indian sub-continent or a bureau or a website that can get that back for you – it’s other people you have to look to then.

Cocaine.

The drug of choice for the rich and famous that has left a bloody and despairing legacy in Columbia. Every year the FARC Marxists guerrilla group earns about £2 billion from the trade while snooty white kids snort it through £20 notes in the hope that they’ll get high and get feted and glamorised like Kate Moss or some other pretty air-head. I’d imagine that these good people make sure they drink fair trade coffee, eat dolphin free tuna, use eco friendly detergents and want to “make poverty history”. It’s a shame they don’t get the connection between their cocaine and the misery meted out to the peasants of South America who survive by growing the stuff while looking down the barrel of an AK47.