Another bonfire night

impossible songs (cbq bonfire photo)

impossible songs

Wednesday

Spent the evening in a Greek restaurant in London, Meke was on the menu, a series of small, eclectic dishes of all sorts served up to our party (of six). The meal was followed by a visit to a busy central London pub (the Plough) where punters were spilled out across the pavement on the thundery heat of a June evening. Of course the conversations became more fractured and convoluted as the evening burned down and the drinks kicked in. Then home (?) to a £150 hotel room reminiscent of a cabin on a Trident submarine sitting at station under the North Pole. Hot, sticky, ventilated by who knows what and not big enough to swing any kind of feline creature in. Very glad to get home on Thursday evening.

Friday

The “let’s celebrate the end of the Ferry Fringe Party” took place at our house. A host of local luminaries, comedians, musicians and artistic types turned out to eat, drink and party in the faltering June weather to mark the end of the festival weekend. I’d written off any prospect of a bbq earlier in the day but the dream of a bonfire prevailed and of course took place despite a persistent drizzle. We burned all the surplus festival paraphernalia, fired of a few sparklers and drank lots of beer. Indoors, once the drinks kicked in, a series of impromptu musical events began, these took the form of:

An improvised piano piece and the “Crocodile Song” from Cloudland Blue Quartet and young Finn, roots and blues of the highest calibre from Confushion, subversion and satire from Tommy Mackay, Ivor Cutlery/Norman Lamont sharing the same stage and (briefly) the same body, Impossible Songs fiddling across a fuzzy landscape and Fraser and Karen's Joe intervening from time to time with bursts of staccato and well fitted harmonica. Oh! How we danced and around two in the morning, fell asleep.

Daisy Duke eat you heart out!

impossible songs v some daisies and the green green grass of home.

impossible songs

Down amongst the daisies.

Thanks to CBQ for this shot (I’ve cropped it a little) but it really captures a moment when we were at the Two Bridges Hotel, all playing on Saturday afternoon as part of the Ferry Fringe. Outdoor gigs on sunny days are the best thing. Daisies don’t last for too much time and some of this particular carpet was hoovered up by my kids who, even before the music started took the opportunity to construct a daisy chain three metres long.

Cheap Sunglasses

impossible songs

impossible songs

Cheap Sunglasses

It never occurred to me before but I now realise that it is possible to grow into your sunglasses. About fifteen years ago I bought a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers in a Sunglass Hut outlet somewhere in Florida; I paid about $40 for them. They were an impulse buy and I liked them but when I wore them they fell off my face, they didn’t seem to fit. This was annoying and distracting when walking or driving or trying to look cool. They were consigned to a drawer or the glove box never to see the light of day again, until this year. So now they fit me! So the good old advice your mother/father/parents gave you about growing into that jumper/coat/anorak or trousers wasn’t wrong. Time (and getting a fat face) is a wonderful thing.

Ferrystock III

Some of the finest (aye! why not say that?) musicians you’ll ever meet gather under the Forth Bridge.

Norman rocks out some impossible songs and an afternoon photo collage follows on...

impossible songs

The arts festival, Ferry Fringe has bowed out and seems to have been a rather jolly and successful few days of arts festivaling. Tons of hard work went into putting the programme together and sustaining it with many vital participants, the main hero being Norman Lamont the hard working and forever harassed chairman who rocked out rather nicely on Saturday afternoon as we all played in what looked like a small field of daisies two feet deep outside the Two Bridges Hotel. Thanks to all who played on the afternoon: Tommy Mackay, Cloudland Blue Quartet (he did the photo montage), Sparrahawk, James Whyte, Lindsay Sugden and Karen Austin, Confushion (John and Fraser), Norman Lamont and Impossible Songs.

Sadly I missed the rather good sounding SQAF open mike event but I did manage a rare episode of Dr Who and a peek at Chronicles of Rock re-telling music history in a distinctly oblique and untrue way. The Sabbs invented heavy metal? I beg to differ, as I recall I was there at the birth at the Caird Hall, Dundee in 1971 when a violin bow struck an E chord on a sunburst Les Paul 1954 Original plugged into 1000 watts of WEM amplifiers. From that evening my life was never quite the same but then I’m not the one making TV programmes. History is of course written by the victors and those with the right amount of clout on BBC2.

A weekend of much carrot consumption, a sponsored walk (in the rain) on the Forth Bridge, a strange but pleasant soupy Sunday lunch with Tommy and Caroline, deciding that I’m on the verge of being mildly obsessive, strimming thistles and weeds, observing swifts nesting in the coal cellar, a protracted on line Tesco order, a brief dinosaur hunt with a grandson, a double sausage and brown sauce roll, a long daisy chain, one dead rabbit, no newspapers read at all, sorting out our PA and recording gear (at last), Greek yoghurt and honey and few noggins of lager shandy and red wine.

Dancing on the Forth Bridge

impossible songs

impossible songs

Friday.

Not your average Friday really, I spent the morning in the company of fellow Ferry Fringe committee members distributing art exhibits around the pubs and shops of the ‘Ferry. Being with two such committed comedians as Jo Jo Sutherland and Tommy Mackay made it all pretty good fun and a useful learning experience. The previous night we’d all put together a decent open festival show, the highlights of which were of course the aforementioned Mr Mackay, Ivor Cutlery (the first and only Ivor Cutler tribute band) and a Scott Renton ensemble. The spicy Moroccan food and cheap drink went down well and Ali and I were exhausted by the time we finally made it home. Anyway back to today and next on the agenda was a publicity session with the Ferry Cheerleaders, Ali, Gowan Calder and I shepherded these enthusiastic girls around a series of locations, the Boat Steps, the High Street, Scotmid and finally for an encore outside the great blue beast that is the local Tesco. A surreal end to the afternoon.

Traffic.

The next odd experience of the day was finding ourselves stuck in the middle of the Forth Bridge in stationary traffic for one and a half hours. In scenes reminiscent of 28 Days Later we wandered on the surface of the normally thumping bridge as a serious road accident was cleared from the Southern bound carriageway. The weather became suddenly brilliant and the views and atmosphere both unique and unworldly. To add to this people stepped out of their cars and actually talked to one another, Lotus owners spoke to Skoda drivers, truckers to bikers and car drivers conversed with bus passengers who had for the evening abandoned their buses and become pedestrians on the adjacent walkway. My own young passengers Joseph and Olivia marvelled in this weird atmosphere, it was a bit like suddenly finding yourself standing in the middle of a frozen lake and Joseph composed an SOS note (as above) just in case things got out of hand. As it happened we braved the worst that the traffic gods could throw at us and made it home in time to see the second half of the Simpsons and eat a pizza and ravioli tea.

Message in the Stains

impossible songs



impossible songs

Message in the Stains

Well blood stains that is, on the floor, on the cat flap, under the bed. More dead rabbit gifts ceremoniously presented to us by the cat, who little does he know it, is about to get a little cat sister to threaten this country side idyll he enjoys.

Nothing more has happened with actual stone moving message thing but we now have a squirrel living (occasionally) in the bird house, a toad living in the coal shed and great swathes of Japanese Rhubarb (Knotweed) marching like the brooms in the Sorcerer’s Apprentice across what could laughingly be described as a lawn.

The sweet music of the tumble dryer.

The Ferry Fringe Arts Festival is now looming close on the horizon. The rusty wreck that is “impossible songs” has enjoyed a few fractured practices. Slowly a set is coming together but as ever time is running out. Too many things to do in too little time with our focus... well, unfocused. Anyway I’m looking forward to a fun weekend which promises to be full of Festival activity, family stuff and a sponsored walk across that damn Forth Bridge on Sunday. The opening event is on Thursday at the Priory Arts Centre at 7.30pm. A full programme of music, comedy, static art exhibits, food and drink will be on offer, if you can make it through the traffic and down the big hill then do. You’d be mad to miss it.

Message in the Stones - 2

impossible songs



impossible songs

The message in the stones – a follow up.

We both looked at the stones for some time trying to puzzle out the meaning of the shape. We checked around the site for evidence of entry or anything that might give us a clue as to the source and nature of the disturbance. The search was fruitless as clearly the culprit(s) had left no trail or cleverly covered it. The only thing was a bird feeder about 6 metres away, cast to the ground from the green pole it had been fastened to, an incident reminiscent of last year’s crow wars at Parkhead. Back to square one then as there was no obvious connection between the two areas. The distinct U shape in the stones really tells us very little either, all very puzzling. The pattern has been formed by something digging down against the house wall and scattering the stones across an area of about 3 square metres. At its deepest the U shape is about 10cm and is 75cm across. All the stones are a grey type three, each about 10 -15 cm long, none weighs anymore that .25kg. They are all rough stones, not chips or pebbles, the kind you would use to edge a loose path or driveway.

Looking out from the spare room you can clearly see the disturbed area. Strangely and coincidently it was in this room in which that the cat became “upset” yesterday. The question is did something or someone spook him as he looked out the window? When we left the house late yesterday morning he was asleep in this very room.

Some around here saw that at dawn there is a strange glow on the Eastern horizon, a distant red ball of flame flickers and hovers, ascending through the trees and finally hovering, still and predatory like, glowing in the distance. At about this time kettles boil, pop tarts are unleashed and shower curtains are accidentally torn down. Nobody has reported other instances of the unexplained movement of stones in swirls, spirals or U shapes. It’s all a bit like crop circles without the crops and with stones instead and on a much smaller and more isolated scale. A mini phenomenon that is clearly from the vague zone of the vague unknown. What will we find there tomorrow after tonight’s activity?

When I looked out this morning (Monday) nothing had changed, hmmm....

Message in the Stones

impossible songs

impossible songs

The Forth Road Bridge is f**ked.

Yes it’s official, as sure as Gordon Brown is going to bowl right out of Fife and down the tubes at the next general election our marvellous main crossing point into and out of the fabled Kingdom is well and truly screwed. Engineers in the early 60’s made a 40 year pact with the Devil about the steel used on the bridge and in the wire supports, they cut the quality to meet the budget in exchange for some good jobs in the city, an honour or two and a lunch engagement with the Queen. Well now that 40 years are up, corrosion is the new king and you guys are not getting your souls back, no way. The rest of us of course are finding new ways to pay, like sitting in your car for an hour to experience the privilege of crossing the cloudy waters of the Forth in whatever direction and coughing up a quid for the pleasure. Nice to see that no “visionary” politician (either UK or Scottish) with anything approaching balls the size of tiny marbles foresaw any of this or bothered to speak up. What kind of people are these? A new bridge or tunnel or causeway should have been planned and been under construction years ago, any sane inhabitant of central Scotland would tell you that. Of course I’m making the feeble assumption that there is a body of sane individuals residing somewhere in the central belt of Scotland. Sorry must be my mistake.

Picnic table for the Three Bears.

Saturday afternoon was spent wrestling with the bolts and timbers of an enormous garden picnic table on the Freuchie patio (or slabbed area). It required over 40 bolts to hold the various giant sized chunks of redwood blocks together to form a piece of furniture that the Three Bears, Goldilocks and most of the cast of Shrek (whatever number of movie it currently is at) could comfortably sit at and dine around. Some of the sweat was returned thanks to downing a cool 7.6% bottle of Bud once assembly was over. Then it was path building on a grand scale (6 slabs laid) through vast swathes of jungle poppies, lupins and lavender. A bit like the cutting the Canadian Pacific line or the Trans-Siberia railway I suppose. I am still hurting 24 hours later, Ali remains unaffected apart from the sneezing fits and mild tremors. When the Tourist Board come to check us out I reckon the path alone will be enough to get us 5 stars and a Michelin gong.

Dead rabbit alfresco and indoors.

The two of us being away for a night displeases that cat it seems. I came home to find various used and abused rabbit components in the lobby and something unmentionable on the new rug in the spare room. Clear signs of his feline pussy boy disapproval for our normal adult human antics and for me the opportunity to clear up more neurotic cat generated mess. Don’t you just love them though?

The message in the stones.

Something has moved some fairly large stones around in the back garden adjacent to the kitchen window and formed them into a U shape. Some other stones have been scattered on the lawn nearby. It wasn’t like that on Saturday morning but it’s like that now on Sunday afternoon. I’m not sure I’m aware of any weather phenomenon that does this or any animal for that matter, so it remains a puzzle to me how it happened. Ali’s theories on possible sources are: Badgers, sheep, squirrels, frogs, hippies and aliens. Answers on a postcard please if you’re a secret stone mover and message sender or if you know of things/people that do this kind of thing.

A new idea.

The Travelling Wanabees held their first impromptu, informal group meeting tonight. Whatever next?

Oblique strategies

impossible songs



impossible songs

Thursday.

Spent the evening at OOTB, some decent performances and a few quite unique acts and approaches. How about 15minutes of open mike tabla drum playing (in the Hindu style) or a guitarist who also plays bells with his feet or a Canadian visitor who proudly told us what tuning he was using for every song and which string was which? Got home in a zombie state at about 00.30, drank a yogurt and promptly fell asleep, deeply. This was in itself quite fortunate as I missed the cat bringing at mouse into the room in the wee small hours, an unwelcome but well meant present for Ali once again.


Friday

The first day of June and rain and sun were the order of the day. As I was home all day I decided to mess around with guitars and the PA and worked a few things out and practised a set for the Ferry Fringe next weekend. The dining room is a complete mess as a result. One thing I’ve realised is that you can never have enough leads and you never ever have the correct combination of jacks and adaptors that you want (unless you are in Martin’s studio in Germany).

Below are a few odd thoughts recorded for whatever reason...

Writer's block material

Watching a garden full of rain and trying to connect, internally, conceptually with whatever is going on. Trying to force myself to make a plan for outcomes undecided. Carried on this ridiculous pillow of winds that finds me ever eager to move and not wallow and still hold on to a directionless compass. Spinning magnificent plates that care little for the efforts of their spinner as they overcome their own dizziness in an imaginary universe. I gawk at the broken pieces but don’t share anybody’s guilt. These plates were never mine and I did my best for then, for a short time. In my pocket is a tube of ceramic glue, guaranteed to fix broken china. I fumble with the eager tube, I hear that song from T’pau playing somewhere in the distance and I close my eyes. Some time elapses and I’m in back in my own skin, the broken plates are in the bin, carefully wrapped in newspaper and a chicken casserole is doing nicely in the oven, thank you.

The long drive home

I packed a mental suitcase with all the odds and ends and belongings that clearly don’t belong. Some are tired, some are folded and fresh, some dirty and mixed up; all retain a degree of strained usefulness however. I shall open it up and inspect and layout the contents carefully during the long drive home. Then I realise that if I’m driving I shall be unable to open the case, doing two separate things at one time is not my forte, I don’t do multi tasking. Only one answer, heave the mental suitcase out of the car window whilst doing 80 in the fast lane (I could do 80 in the slow lane). Only drivers on my wave length will notice the debris and what’s another lost suitcase. I can claim it on travel insurance.

Mindmap

I drew a map of my mind. A few oblique strategies entered into me and sat quietly in no particular order at the back. I wished a list of “isms” upon myself, all the isms in the world, all the black, white and shining bright isms cascading upon me. I drew a series of lines between each one to see the connections and reveal the patterns. “Fairytale Management”, somebody said. “Or something quite like it”. Of course I understood but grinning only slightly and thinly, (to hide my lost crown) I withdrew and allowed the lines to travel on by themselves. When I woke up they had all gone, but a fine layer of golden dust remained upon the table top.

Ferry Fringe

impossible songs

Poster by Tommy Mackay of course.


impossible songs

Ferry Fringe

Only a week or so away the Ferry Fringe is coming together. Norman Lamont will could doubt gain a lucrative book deal and possibly film rights if he ever chose to write about the many unplanned and unscripted events that surround running an arts festival in a small Scottish town. Anyway we are nearly there, the programme may have few holes in it but overall a great many worthwhile events are up and ready to run. The opening night is in the Priory Arts Centre on 7th June at 7.30 – you can get more info from the weblink on the right or from any shop, pub or bus stop in the area (and we hope a few of the weekend newspapers also).


Short Poem

Always pissing in the same sink.
Always drinking from the same bottle.
Always switching between the same TV channels.
Always waking up with the same headache.
Always scratching at the same spot.
Always repeating the same mistake.
Always running out of cash at the same time.
Always not quite in control and not sure who is.

Weekend

impossible songs

impossible songs

Saturday – Dunfermline’s date with destiny.

The final o’ the cup aka enduring a series of traffic jams eventually leading to a grim part of Glasgow where our (almost) beloved team met with an expected bitter end, but it was all fun and the banter was good - so my favourite things of this lost weekend were:

The kid’s trialling the PS2 bound for the holiday rental.
A chaotic breakfast followed by a brief return to Fife to pick up my No2 son.
Standing outside of Scotmid with a bag of soft drinks and a lottery ticket like Johnny no pals.
Watching those stretched Hummers heading along the M8 filled with partying Celtic fans.
Radio Scotland’s predicable but often funny pre-match coverage.
A brief but confused conversation with the Chinese fast food sellers at Hampden who seem to have no clue whatsoever as to what they were doing. Particularly when confronted by 17000 Fifers all wanting a Stephen’s bridie.
Everything about the game up until about 84 minutes.
Watching the distant pyrotechnics as Celtic lifted the trophy while we were heading away from the stadium.
Coming to the rescue of a bleeding Celtic fan whose van was bottled by some Rangers fans in Cathcart Road – welcome to the real world.
Reading the programme in another traffic jam while someone else drove.
A pint of 80/- in the Glen Tavern on the way home.
A marvellous platter of curry, rice, cold meats, salads, breads and rhubarb crumble prepared by Des and Ali for us all on out return to West Lothian.
The feeling that all of this is over, at least for a few years – surely.

Sunday.

More football, this time with the grandkids in tow and the 3 – 0 victory for Joe’s team.
Small children all over the place.
Getting rid of the fish tank, thanks to Erin, Guy and Tim for the heavy haulage.
A McDonald’s chicken wrap – oddly tasty and satisfying.
Watching Kiki’s Big Adventure with Olivia.
The cat returning and turning out to be in a more domesticated state of mind.
Hopetoun House horse events running along nicely in our backyard in between the showers.
More late night curry, wine, conversation and a deep and exhausted sleep.

Dancing

impossible songs and the dancing buildings of Prague

impossible songs

Dancing to the sweet music of chance.

Wednesday

The trials and tribulations of another day. After a particularly trying but exhilarating day at work I spent the evening in another world altogether. Perhaps I should have focused on the Champions League final but to be honest I couldn’t be bothered and the poor Scousers missed the boat anyway. So the music of chance was calling via a new 100w active monitor, a wah wah pedal and the digital delay circuit on our PA amp. I rigged the kit up in the dining room, a mess of cables and black speakers and blurred my way through a selection of our songs and the Beatles “I want to hold your hand”. Everything this time was at a slow speed, the delay and reverb kicking in and the wah adding an odd spectral quality, I even sat down while playing .When you’ve not played guitar in a while it all seemed like running a 10k in 40 minutes.

Ali came in fresh from a shopping spree and we settled down with a glass of wine to watch Alan Sugar stumble through his own grammatical mine-fields for an episode of that business-soap “the Apprentice”. You’re left wondering just how well you’d do under these circumstances, hawking bizarre items around London and hoping to make a fast buck by any means. There are no strategies or plans apparent, it’s a dash and a flash and for some poor soul a crash, but then it’s fifteen minutes of absurd fame before the credits roll.

Cup final fever hasn’t quite happened yet but on Saturday we’ll wend our way to the temple of Scottish football dreams that is Hampden Park. We’ll chant and sing and summon up enthusiasm for a team (Dunfermline Athletic) that on paper has little hope of winning and then, perhaps, when the hot dogs and pies are eaten, the coffee spilled under the plastic seats and the final whistle sounds we’ll dance again to the sweet music of chance.

Thursday

Where does the time go? I can’t recall what I’ve been doing (yes I can) and now a whole week has gone since my last IKEA hot dog and tepid cup of coffee

777

impossible songs - nice sofa

impossible songs

777 isn’t an album by Rush or Bush

Pray for the Lord’s return on 777!? (That’s 07 July 2007 to those of you living in a thicket). What complete and utter rubbish, as if Jesus or any other spirit being out there can be manipulated by the Bible belt’s frantic buckle flicking in some mad act of self gratification and flagellation.

Sofa so good

A brown sofa has come to live in our house. It trotted in the door and turned and parked itself in the spare room and has quite an odd but likeable attitude. You can sit on it, sleep on it and look at the garden from it. Its brownness is amplified by the bargain carpet upon which it artfully squats.

Songs of the week

These are “I want to hold your hand” by the Beatles (in G, or in C with a capo) and “Waterloo Sunset” by those strange Kinks brothers, Ray and David. We have been oohing and aahing along to them whilst admiring the tiny print upon our Cup Final tickets.

Hot dog tea but no rocket

Want Italian? Hungry for Chinese? Need and nice hot Indian meal? Pshaw! A hot dog c/w mustard does the trick every time particularly if bought from a vendor al fresco. Despite this example of an occasionally sampled high quality diet the craving for that legal drug, rocket (and spinach) never goes away – where did it spring from? I’ve added this green beast to the (growing) list of things you only begin to like once over fifty: Anchovies, olives, spinach, whisky, dark chocolate, soda bread, cress, cucumber, sweet potatoes, mackerel, roll-mop herring in brine, whole onions and rice-crispies. Mature taste buds and the inability to find things in the supermarket are the root cause of this I understand. There is no known cure.

Jumping Frogs

impossible songs

impossible songs

A frog in the toilet

It’s not everyday you come home to find a live frog your downstairs toilet. The little grey green chap was motionless and probably dazed and confused having survived some bizarre and unthinkable journey to get in there. He was found sitting under the toilet bowl, looking as innocent as any lost frog. It’s at times like these that having children around is very useful. My son, a natural frog handler picked up the frog and put him in a nearby pudding bowl. For some reason I added water and for a moment had odd thoughts about frog recipes, these passed and the frog was duly transferred outside to the rain gauge science machine aka the empty fish tank. We added a few leaves and pebbles and the frog, along with a collection of beetles and water skimmers now seems happy enough in this private universe, a lesson for all of us. Now all I need to do is tread carefully on entering the loo for the mean time.

Jump

There is a school of religious thought that says in your final few seconds on earth, before shuffling out from this mortal coil, the last thing you hear is the opening synth riff to Van Halen’s 1984 track “Jump”. Having never ventured too far into the afterlife myself I’m not sure to what extent it is true, I’m guessing it’s unlikely but the idea has a certain appeal. Some of you may of course be unhappy about this preferring perhaps the ambient strains of Brian Eno, Phillip Glass or the pomp of ELO or Yes. Of course this soundtrack to stepping over would only apply to those who, not fearing the reaper passed away post 1984. All the others (and there are a few according to history) must have had to settle for something a tad less dramatic. It’s possible that post 69 it was the climactic wah wah start to Voodoo Chile by Jimi Hendrix followed by that huge power chord, prior to that I’d guess it may have been “In the mood” by Glen Miller (from the1940s onwards). Before that it’s anyone’s guess, I suppose in the dark ages or during the various inquisitions, in times when music was banned you had to make do with a silent brave slump or stagger towards the white light. God gave rock and roll to you.

Benny

Benny the cat has returned after scaring his owners for the last few days and making us look under hedges and over walls. Curiously, despite Benny’s home being only about a mile away from here, up the country, we heard of his safe return thanks to an email from Sri Lanka. Bonkers or what?

Another soul adrift

impossible songs seek benny

impossible songs

Benny the lost cat.

He may be lost (as his owners suspect) or he may have of his own accord simply chosen to slip away and lead a new and completely different life. He may be living here, in what was his former home, with us, right under our noses in a constant state of feline hiding. Anyway Benny’s owners called the other day looking for him, he’s been AWOL for three days and naturally they are worried. Frankly in the two years and more we’ve lived in this area we’ve never seen a cat answering his description and because we have a cat we tend to notice other (rival) cats who may just be cuter or more clever than ours. Bennie has however slipped under our radar and not ever been seen and clearly that expert camouflage and concealment technique is one he is still using successfully today. Come out, come out wherever you are!

Young footballs of Europe

impossible songs

impossible songs

Young brain boxes of the future.

The cleverest kids in Fife are officially in my family. We triumphed at general knowledge and received two fine trophies in a school children’s quiz held in downtown Cupar, once capital and county town of the confused kingdom now only another traffic jam on the way to St Andrews. To make matters worse it was replaced and dwarfed by the urban design dung heap that is “new town” and Fife epicentre, Glenrothes. Anyway thanks to the organisers and the local schools who took part - it made my day.

The unkind real word of competitive football.

The doom of relegation has descended like a Biblical plague upon Dunfermline Athletic FC. After a series of Lazarus-like performances and various lucky league points collected, we settled for a mild cuffing yesterday at the hands of some northern team with a long and confusing name that should belong to a pint of dark beer. Groan! and I’ve just bought my cup-final tickets. Perhaps in the future there will be no defeats and no relegations, the morbid rules of political correctness will dominate and simply mean a heartfelt thanks are given to everybody for their participation in another meaningless team event and a certificate for all who played and attended. No more antagonism and joyful singing of that mesmerising refrain, “you’re shite and you’re goin’ down” either.

A snog for Europe.

The Eurovision Glam & Song contest is probably the best and worst TV night of the year. For one thing we all watched it sprawled on various couches (as I presume families did during the war and other major national events), we (the adults) drank pink Champagne, ate chocolate and curry, voted for some obscure, tuneless Eastern European song and like the last World Cup watched as not so Great Britain represented here by England's finest bombed out. At least we avoided the embarrassment of being last like the plain awful Irish entry, a major musical turnip clearly written by a committee of folk-club organisers and gala day planners, it was the worst effort I’ve heard in years. Laugh? I nearly did, and then the strong drink and the curry overcame me. I should be more careful at my delicate age.