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.
I have never been an incandescent sort of person. In truth, you would probably have to dowse me with 100% proof spirit and toss a lighted match in my direction to inflame me about anything. I just have this congenital belief that the other chap may not be talking total rubbish and that I should, in fairness, listen to him even if what he is saying sounds like utter piffle. Read more…
Could I just start by wishing all my fellow Charioteers a Good New Year? For the avoidance of doubt, this universal greeting does not constitute a discharge of my obligation to wish each and every one of you, as individuals, a GNY, as and when I first address you personally. I’ve already done a few and I know who you are if I haven’t yet.
Said obligation will persist well into the aforesaid New Year. I realise that JW alleges that there is a cut off after 7 days but he is, of course, talking total keech. Read more…
I planned to go to bed last night in good time to prepare for the joys of the big match between India and ‘us’ from 4am onwards. Before turning in, I decided that I would take a quick look at one of the minor cricket Tests which are being played just now.
As we steadfastly march behind our Dear Leader towards the glorious dawn of Scottish Independence, fanned by the zephyr-like breath of the tens of millions of wind turbines crowding across every available inch of our mountains and glens and far too sober thanks to the extortionate amount of alcohol duty levied by the Health Fascists of the Scottish Parliament, it is time to reflect on one of the few good things which will come out of that Independence.