I hope you will forgive this one. I know it’s pure maudlin self indulgence but it’s written in honour of the day that’s in it.
My Dad was the youngest of eight children and the son of a baker. Born in a tenement flat in Leith, home of the accursed Hibees. Luckily, the family moved back to Easter Ross and Grandad’s home town of Invergordon before there was any chance of infection.
I have a book which my Auntie Jean gave to my Mum for her birthday. There has to be a good chance that it was her 17th as the book was first published in February 1930 and was in its 4th impression by April of the same year. Mum was born in June 1913.
The book was written by WG Hartog, MA (London), Docteur de l’Université de Paris, Officier d’Académie and Senior French Master of St Paul’s School. His little masterpiece’ Brush Up Your French’ is a compilation of the 75 conversations which he wrote for the ‘Daily Mail’ together with invaluable ‘hints and vocabularies’ which he added so that’those who go to France will seldom be at a loss for a word or phrase’. Read more…
A respectful offering for JW’s epic.
And then did bold Magellan cry,
‘Marvin let’s straitways Westward hie.
The sinking sun we’ll there espy,
With sights to sadden any eye. Read more…
‘Just finished watching the BBC coverage of the Edinburgh Tattoo. It was as entertaining as it was when Mrs FEEG and I were there in person 10 years ago. Absolutely stunning.
There is still one question that arises from it, though. When you are in Auld Reekie, the atmosphere around Festival time is great except for all the “bagpipe buskers”. So, my question for Mr Mackie is, “Why is it that bagpipe solos sound like a particularly sadistic version of cat strangulation, whereas a massed pipe and drum band is one of the greatest sounds on Earth?” ‘
There is still one question that arises from it, though. When you are in Auld Reekie, the atmosphere around Festival time is great except for all the “bagpipe buskers”.
So, my question for Mr Mackie is, “Why is it that bagpipe solos sound like a particularly sadistic version of cat strangulation, whereas a massed pipe and drum band is one of the greatest sounds on Earth?” ‘
A very fair question, FEEG and one which I have often pondered of a summer evening as my homeward bus sits at the junction of Waverley Bridge and Princes Street snarled up in the interminable Embran pre-tram delays. That spot is one of the mercifully very few where licensed bagpipe playing by a succession of inept pipers clothed in many and varied versions of what they fondly believe to be ‘The Garb of Old Gaul’ as in the regimental march of Her Majesty’s Scots Guards is allowed. Read more…
Just because there were only three entries, that does not make it very much easier and I have done a deal of swithering and a little googling before settling on a winner. Read more…
‘Memorial’, be it physical or not. A statue, a place, a person, a time, an event. Whatever. Just capture it in a picture and explain it or not as you so wish.
Closing at midnight (British Time) on 3rd March 2013.
Please bear with me on this one or feel free to skip it and cut straight to the chase as you so wish. Tonight, I’m feeling just a tad backward-facing, as in the sinister profile of Janus. It does seem only yesterday when I was a student sitting in a caravan in deepest Colinton, straining every sinew to secure a Conservative win in the sincere certainty of thereby saving my country from the scourge of socialism. Read more…
Some claim there’s not much fun in being Presbyterian
With a love of despair as our chosen criterion.
That we try to enjoy but our heart’s just not in it.
So we look for the worst. The best? We’ll just bin it.
But, if you think we are humble, doom-ridden or ‘douce’,
You’d be missing the mark and extremely obtuse.
For we hold it as fact that when God took a shot
at creating perfection, he fashioned the Scot.
We display to you all our practised pretence,
And try not to blame you for not having the sense
to be born a true Jock with all that’s implied.
We’re just very lucky – you can’t call it pride.
Sorry, Pseu and hands up by me for my total failure to lend any sort of hand of support to your competitions until tonight. As the hands of the clock move inexorably towards midnight, I genuinely feel all thumbs about not knuckling down and pulling my finger out to make a fist at some sort of entry.
The truth is that I have been far too limp-wristed in my charioteering this month, although I could hold out the excuse that I have had my hands full at work as our IT is handed over to a new ham-fisted and cack-handed bunch of incompetents who could not find their own back passages even if they used both hands. Sorry if I’m being a bit off hand about them but the digital age can be a right pain sometimes. In my hands on experience. Read more…
It’s that time of the season when I get this absolutely certain feeling that Scotland are going to do well in the Six Nations. Said feeling has come really late this time. It usually starts on New Year’s Day about 2 am after I’ve had a fair sufficiency.
This year it suddenly kicked in about five minutes ago and it probably won’t last much longer than 4.05 pm this afternoon as events unfold at Twickers.
Whatever. It’s a fine feeling while it’s there. And, when it goes pear-shaped, I can always blame Salmond. I’ll bet the sleekit little scunner will be sitting there in a freebie seat praying for an English win by at least 100 points so that he can cast it up as yet another act of oppression by the Auld Enemy.