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Years ago people put their hopes, fears and aspirations down on paper in a secret little book called a diary. It was a way of recording events, emotions and perhaps an effort to better understand oneself. And whilst the padlock on the diary was cheap, the author’s desire for privacy was not.

Nowadays things are different. Who wants to write in a book when you can type onto a pc? So naturally diaries migrated to hard drives and padlocks exchanged for passwords. Then came the internet and all the millions of arseholes who surf it. Diaries became blogs, blowhards got broadband and the world became a worse place.

People who never kept a diary suddenly took up blogging. Reason being that these people have no intention of keeping their marvellous intellect to themselves, they must share their gift. What’s the point on having private musings on North Korea, abortion and how shit the coffee at work is? 

And therein lies the real problem, just as serious people with serious issues are free to blog, so is the office dickhead, the zany student and those women who think babies+chocolate+useless partner = humour. Most blogs are unbelievably trite. Who gives a fuck about your sandwich from prêt a manger? Or how much of a bastard your boss is? (He’s only being a prick because you spend all day typing shite into your blog) How much of a big head do you need to be to entertain the idea of your life being entertaining? Interesting things, really interesting things, happen to very few people, and certainly not to keyboard jockeys in an office. Even in the Merchant City, Rufus. As a study of mental flakiness blogs are unequalled, but entertaining? Never.

Unfortunately this horrible pastime has been given credence and some bloggers have been propelled into the national media. A yah calling herself La petite anglaise (ho ho, tres humour) got herself sacked for a blog which mentioned work. (That’s sacked by the way, not ‘dooced’ you arseholes) Bloggers were up in arms, and messages of sympathy flooded in from around the globe. A pity no one told her the blog was pish boring and if she’s going to get fired at least let it be for stealing. Hopefully getting the tin tack will lead to a more entertaining blog, with La petite having to juggle a measly giro with increasing alcoholism. Now that’s something I’d read.

Another ex employee due to a blog is the trolley dolly ‘Queen of the Sky’. She was fired for posting salacious pics of herself in uniform, onboard an aircraft. (Salacious in the same way Carol Vorderman is when she wears a tight top.) Well, that’s what the airline claims they fired her for. Chances are she was just shite at her job, but labour laws being what they are they needed something better than that and the blog came in handy. At least someone found it useful then, even if they did underestimate the feeble mindedness of the blogging community. Man, were they ever outraged about this dismissal. Not outrage in the sense of petrol bombs and overturned cars, outrage in the sense of blog comments and emails. A gentle outrage. And did she get her job back? Did she fuck. Still, don’t despair because The Queen is far from economically disadvantaged, as there is a film being made about her. That’s right, a fucking film. I’d like to nominate the woman from Grace under Fire as the lead.

I suppose it’s the blogging culture which really rankles. On The Queen’s site there is a wee graphic, done in the style of a WW2 poster. It says ‘Liberty waits on your fingers’. These arseholes actually believe they are the new Heroes of Telemark, and that WE NEED THEM. Aye, like a hole in the head. Believe it or not, we don’t all take truth for granted when reading the news and are able to form our own opinions without taking on your agenda. And we certainly don’t need to know about your CRAZEE weekend. No, blogs are for their creator and their creator alone but I suppose if they stop just one office worker coming in armed to the teeth and hell bent on revenge then they fulfil some role. Hopefully it’s a passing fad like skateboards, space dust and saying ‘thank you’ to bus drivers. And webzines.

No, wait…

 

Off I head for another day at the office. The journey from my flat in Clapham to my city centre office doesn’t take me long on my moped. I stop off at the juice bar on the way for an energy boost and soon arrive at Cuthbert Underwood Norton Travers Ad Agency shortly after 10am.

 

“Where’s Nikki today?”

 

“She’s taking her duvet day today, Johnny.”

 

“Wicked.”

 

After a couple of frames of pool with our creative director Miles, I set down to work. If I had to describe my working style in 3 words it would be uber-laid-back, creative and sporadic (Miles knows what I mean!) Sometimes I find creative inspiration just walking in the park. You can be inspired by anything – a tree, a landscape, a bar, a two-and-a-half hour lunch break. You really never know when the next stroke of inspiration is going to arrive. For me, it’s often on a Friday afternoon with a big deadline looming. Some people shirk pressure, but I actually thrive on it. I guess that’s a good skill to have.

 

There’s no dress code here at Cuthbert Underwood Norton Travers which I think actively fosters a culture of freedom and self-expression – essential ingredients for those working in the advertising space. We have a huge reception area in our open-plan office which allows guests, but mainly us, to chill on the large sofas. You’ll often find me down there late morning, searching for inspiration by flicking through the pages of Zoo or having a blast on the X-box. I’m well known in the office as the undisputed champion of FIFA (you still owe me that pint of Erdinger, Miles!); honing my skills for (literally) hours in between brainstorming the latest campaign.

 

A really funny thing happened last week actually. We took a client out to a new Vietnamese restaurant in Soho and ended up just a tad embarrassed. A new guy who has just started working for us asked for an ‘Expresso’ instead of an ‘Espresso’ at the end of the meal. I mean, can you imagine?! It’s just hilarious. I don’t think the waiter even noticed, but Annabella and I were nearly under the table. We’re often out for some nosh in town – there are some great noodle bars – and I must say that we’re partial to some of the pubs along the Thames during the Summer. Last year, after the annual company barbecue, we did a three-legged pub crawl. To say we were all w*nkered is an understatement. My partner was one of the graphic designers, Boris, but I must have tripped somewhere along the way, because when I finally regained consciousness, I was lying on the ground covered in blood outside a bar with a bouncer next to me. The force of the fall must have burst our leg-tie as Boris was nowhere to be seen. Our post-barbecue drinking sessions are just legendary!

 

Anyway, back to my day, and it looks like I’m doing the lunch-run. Annabella is a vegan, Sophie is lactose and wheat-intolerant and Ashley is on the bulimia diet, so this is probably going to take a good hour and a half. First stop is the sushi bar – the raw tuna with seaweed salad looks a treat – not to mention fantastic value at just £11.95. Holland and Barrett is just round the corner, and then it’s off to Prêt for a Mocha and organic bagel for yours truly.

 

Back to the office and it’s time for a meeting. We’re currently working on an advertising project for The Red Cross. There’s a heavyweight team on this one, including myself, Austin and Lileth, and we kick things off with a brainstorming session. Five flipcharts later, we’re getting perilously close to 4pm, but fortunately we have made significant progress. After throwing a hell of a lot of ideas around, we have decided that it is ‘the cross’ that quintessentially defines the organisation, and that the core characteristic of the cross, and thus the essence of its identity, is that it is ‘red’. We have therefore decided to move forward with the creative concept of ‘The Red Cross’. I was further thrilled to learn that Austin had accepted by proposition to name the project ‘Project Red Cross’.

 

Ten past four and I’m late for Anders, who I am meeting at Belgo’s round the corner. I won’t bore him with the stress of my working day so we settle down to a couple of Coronas and some kettle chips. Might have a few tonight as perfect preparation for our paint-balling Away Day tomorrow. Ching Ching!

 

Lambert Butler

Our crime specialist, Reg Mckay-thesamepish, delves deep into Glasgow's underbelly as we jump on the bandwagon of violence glorification.

Beanie McKay was nervous. It was 6 o’clock and her man, Jaimba, wasn’t home yet. That usually meant he would stoat in around 10, blind drunk, and slap her for not having the tea ready. She knew it, and accepted it. What else could she do? She lived in the infamous Garngad where a woman’s life consisted of beatings, pregnancy and the odd bingo game. Only 27, she looked 40, and felt 50. Constant fretting over her 4 kids and Jaimba had taken its toll. You see in the Garngad you were either a player or a fanny. And Jaimba was one of the biggest players around. He’d rip you from arsehole to ear for spilling his pint and was well known to break INTO the infamous Bar L just to get a decent fight. Beanie knew this when she took up with him; tell the truth that was the attraction. Being with a player made Beanie feel good, and it wasn’t long before she was knocked up. They moved into a stinking midden in the teeming east end where the neighbours were junkies, hookers and social workers. Beanie made the place as homely as she could, scraping the blood from the walls and shite off the floor then decorating with money taken from Jaimba’s wallet as he slept off another heavy session. She was fiercely proud of her kids and of this minging hovel in an area known as Hell’s Kitchen. If only she had a decent man.
Beanies fear became palpable when Jaimba’s key rattled in the lock. As he lumbered through the lobby sweat dripped down her back like condensation running down the windows in this damp ridden shack. Her body stiffened as Jaimba, the player’s player, strode into the scullery.
“Hiya love, sorry I’m late. I had to work on to finish this quarters results, the Swede’s are coming over in a few days. Hopefully with the work I’ve put in I should get a promotion, get some more money for us.”
“Oh great” said beanie, timidly. More money for Jaimba to blow on drink and the gee gee’s no doubt.
“ Aye, maybe you could go back to college if I get the job? Isn’t very fair you putting your career on hold”
All the promises in the world meant nothing to Beanie McKay. She was downtrodden and ashamed to look at her own reflection. She thought she should get the doing over and done with, that way the bruises would heal for morning when she was at the DSS.
“Jaimba… your tea isn’t ready” The scullery fell as silent as a morgue during the great strike of 26. Jaimba eyed his common law wife and staggered over to her.
“Oh don’t worry about that. Here, give me the apron and you sit down. I’ll see to tea, you look shattered.” Nice move Jaimba, lull her into a false sense of security. The calm before the storm was about to be broken as Jaimba eyed what Beanie had wasted the housekeeping money on.
“Did you actually buy the Daily Record?”
“No, they were giving it away outside Ikea. I think it boosts their circulation, for advertising figures? Why, are you angry with me? I didn’t mean to upset you Jaimba!”
Big Jaimba leafed through the self styled Scotland’s champion and began shaking with rage. “More disappointed than angry. What a rag, who wants to read about Bob Shields getting blitzed in Spain? They should send him to Iraq, entertain the insurgents. They’ve even given that Reg McKay a crime special! This guy makes a living from consorting with gangsters and exploiting the misery they spread. Crime fiction’s one thing, but imagine making money from real peoples suffering? And he’s always so melodramatic!”
“Och he’s no that bad” said frail waif like Beanie, bravely defending Scotland’s top crime author against the scurrilous accusation of melodrama. But like Caesar at the Rubicon, Jaimba cast the die. “We shouldn’t have this in the house. What if the kids read this garbage?” And with those words Beanie’s only hope died. No more would she be able to fill her empty worthless life with lurid tales of old firm players, crap fashion tips and warnings about gambling one day and a pull out internet poker promo the next. The sun sank over the stinking seedy slum, and so did Beanie’s heart. Not content with this crushing blow, Jaimba had to compound it. He always did.
“And call me Jim like everyone else does. Jaimba makes me sound like a ned”

That’s Not My Downmarket Tabloid!

Following on from our EXCLUSIVE about a footballer’s messy flat, we can EXCLUSIVELY reveal that the Daily Record pictured next to a pair of sunny side up pants does NOT belong to his girlfriend. 25 year old particle physicist Mello Tan told us ‘No way is that mine, and I know Diddy wouldn’t read that shite either. Someone must’ve put it there.’ Mello has a medical condition which prevents her reading tabloid garbage. Taking her top off she said “It’s been a pure nightmare lately, man. Reading all those pages about the smoking ban gave me a banger of a sore head. Just looking at Bob Shields’ big daft fizzer brought me out in hives. And I nearly lost my balance when I seen how far up Vladimir Romanov’s arse they went. Made it look like HE ended the cold war, so it did. I’ve been too scared to look at Tam Cowan’s page in case one of his rehashed ‘I used to be fat’ jokes gives me a pure anaphylactic shock, man”
As Mello reclined naked on a bean bag we put it to her that Diddy perhaps read the Daily Record behind her back.  “Naw. No way man. He’s a devout Seventh Day Adventist, they take a vow to not read pish. He’s with me 24 hours a day, except when we go back to the flat for him to service the boiler. I sit in the car, he’s only gone for 15 minutes…………oh shite. Ah’ll kill that prick”
 Mello pulled on a tight white T shirt, poured cider down the front then hunted for a sawn off golf club. We made our excuses and left.

 

Location location location with Kristy Ballsop and Dull Fencer

Kristy We’re in Glasgow this week to help out 2 thirty something entrepreneurs. Jamie and Sasha McQorcorcorcodale have been married for 2 years. Jamie is a facilitator who spends most of his time cycling about the west end on a chopper that cost him £350 on Ebay. He likes jazz, stripy jumpers and big stupid scarves. Sasha describes herself as driven, confident and sexually unfulfilled. She is beginning to think her mother WAS right about Jamie, and in an effort to paper over the cracks, is starting her own candle business.

Dull Their remit is simple. A stunning apartment near an overpriced deli, with good access to coffee shops that charge at least £3 for a tea. Jamie, ever the ‘lad’, insists on a handy pub with a big screen! He likes rugby this week. Budget is circa 350K
And in the spirit of Robert Owen Sasha wants to help out the Polish workers who will actually make her laughably scented candles. She’s cashed in some stock options and raised 12K to house the ten of them

First Viewing
Kristy Now I know it doesn’t tick all the boxes, but give it a chance.
Dull It’s a little out of budget, but we are in an exciting area of Glasgow. And I personally think you’ll fall in love with it.
Kristy It has loads of original features plus many modern enhancements. And it has that ‘ traditional’ feel. It only has one bedroom though, is that a problem?
Sasha Not at all. Nine of them can sleep in the living room and kitchen no bother. How much?
Dull A flat like this, in the Media Quarter, will set you back thirteen and a half
Sasha Media Quarter? Isn’t this Govan? Well, put in an offer. The Poles can pay an extra £1500 in rent. Or We’ll sell the boiler and copper pipe.
Kristy Jamie? Stop juggling for just a mo and give us your input. Are you getting a good vibe?
Jamie Waaassssuuup!!!!
Kristy Hmm…
Sasha What did I tell you Kristy? He’s hopeless! (Sobbing)

Dull Amazing! We struck gold very first time. Sasha was relieved to find accommodation for her workers. Her workshop insurance didn’t cover habitation by employees. And Jamie now has a DIY project to give him a direction for the first time in his gormless life. He has 2 weeks to build the bunk beds or Sasha leaves him!

Second Viewing
Dull As well as having amenities close by, you also had some strict criteria on space didn’t you Sasha?
Sasha I simply can’t function if I’m hemmed in. I need a space to create my candles. I just couldn’t live in a place like those Albanians will have to.
Dull Poles, you mean?
Sasha Whatever. Also, we need 2 bedrooms. I think you know why.
Kristy Ooohh! Are we planning a family?
Dull Jamie you sly dog!
Sasha No, no we’re not. (Sniff) We sleep in separate rooms.
Dull Oh fuck…. Well, this house is PERFECT! The lounge and dining room are huge, so you don’t have to sit close to each other. There is video entry, so you can see how drunk he is before you let him in. And best of all your bedroom has a really sturdy door; you can fit a heavy lock on it no bother. What do you think Sash? Did we do good? Do you need a hug?
Kristy Jamie? Come off the unicycle for a second. Does this tick all your boxes?
Jamie Yeah, it’s wicked. (Cheekily) I hope there’s a boozer near by!
Sasha OH FUCKS SAKE YOU MORON! YOU ONLY TALK LIKE A YOB TO SHOW OFF! YOU’RE FROM STRATHBLANE! FROM A WEALTHY FAMILY! THAT’S WHY I MARRIED YOU!
Jamie AND YOU’RE A MANKY SCRUBBER FROM MARYHILL! PISS OFF BACK THERE AND STICK YOUR CANDLES UP YOUR….
Dull I’ve had it Kristy. Lets get bevvied.
Kristy Jintys?
Dull Not fucking likely.

Shady Journos preying on Scottish public with so called ‘newspaper’
 The Daily Record touts itself as ‘The Voice of Scotland’ but we can reveal that it is just a money making scam, peddling garbage to terrified pensioners. And children.

We were contacted by a former employee who was sickened by the antics at Anderston Quay. ‘Alan’ (not his real name) told us ‘When I was studying I had a job on The Evening Times, so when I graduated I was delighted to get a job on a real newspaper. My family was so proud of me, as my dad has been a Rangers supporter since Souness was manager. But pretty soon things turned sour. I knew something was wrong when I ‘met’ some of the famous names. Joan Burnie isn’t real, she’s a computer that takes up a full floor of the office. When I read Shari Low I thought she was just another crap novelist desperate for cash, but she’s actually an old Atari games console. I felt sorry for her, she only had Pacman for company. But Bob Shields was the biggest shock. He’s no journalist, just a fat old man that writes about smoking, drinking and going on holiday. Every bloody week.'
Despite his shock Alan soldiered on, desperate to make a name for himself. However things came to a head one day.
'They told me to do 200 words about Neil Lennon drinking a half lager shandy 4 days before a game, but I could only come up with 50. The sub editor told me if I couldn’t write 200 words about an old firm player then I should be put up against a wall and f*c*i*g shot. I was so worried, but he shook my hand in a funny way, said ‘Yer da is a good man, so I’ll let you in on a secret’ and took me to The Vault.’
‘The Vault’ is the tabloids name for a shocking repository of non newsworthy items. Instead of disposing of old news, The Record holds onto them till after their sell by date. Among the sick sights Alan saw were:

A group of office workers doing a nude calendar.
A Rangers fan and a Celtic fan who are neighbours and play practical jokes on each other
A guy who covers his house in lots of Christmas decorations
A woman who refuses to have sex with her husband till he stops eating curries.
Lots of slightly overweight women awaiting a makeover.
Disgruntled holiday makers left stranded at the airport
Sharleen Spiteri, Suzie McGuire and Michelle Mone.

‘The Sub editor told me to pick whatever story I wanted, so I went for a pensioner who had been waiting for the council to fix her cupboard door. It was the cupboard she kept her bleach in, and if her grandson started walking he might end up drinking it. It was so easy, she even gave me a picture of herself head in hands looking worried. Or drunk. I bashed out 300 words no bother, and any other time I was stuck I went down and grabbed the nearest one. I did stuff on rude bus drivers, traffic jams, a guy who was too fat to work, and even stuff about hangover cures. Though with the hangover thing I just copied last years pre Xmas bit. Once I even met Shell Jubin from Big Brother. These days she goes between The Vault and Fred McAulays show. She asked if I could get her a fashion shoot, but I made my excuses and left.’

Even though Alan was raking in a cool 8K a year churning out seasonal nonsense, his conscience began to get the better of him. ‘One day I was undercover at the Barras, looking for fake DVD’s. Well, I knew where they were because I recognised the guy from the sports desk behind the stall, so I skived off for a while. It was then I seen him. A wee guy going into an off licence with a copy of The Record under his arm.
He couldn’t afford a can of Super Lager because he’d spent money on that paper. That man was unable to feed his alcohol addiction because he wanted to read my scare story about CD’s giving you cancer. I went and bought him a bottle of purple haze then marched straight down to the office. I was going to walk out but decided to do my 4 weeks and steal as much stationery as I could.’

Although Alan may find it difficult to work in journalism again, he is unrepentant. ‘The public is being conned, they’d be better off with teletext. Some people may find my story hard to believe but it’s true. I  seen a guy in there. In The Vault. He was wearing a party hat and his suit was crumpled. I think he was trying to exaggerate how drunk he was. Just wait and see, He’ll be the ‘Sleazy Boss’ when they bring out the bit about not making an arse of yourself at the office party. You’ll see’

We phoned The Record but they refused to answer our questions. Instead they asked for our opinion on the smoking ban. We are for it.
Alan was paid £7.35 and a discovery ticket for this article

Crooked Rain's own socialite parasite, Ali Son, gives us the 911 on her week. Don't worry; we've called the social.

Monday
This week started with a real ‘rammy’, as they say in the closes. Having sushi with Salman (Rushdie) and Kofi (Annan) when my brand new mobile/mp3 player lets rip with the crazy frog ringtone. It was my dear hubby in a real tizzy. Apparently instead of lunching with some weel kent faces I should have been taking our 9 year old to the dentist for an emergency extraction. Men, huh?! I tell the bitter half that if the fruit of his loins cant stand a bit of toothache then lord help him, and promptly open the 4th bottle of Shiraz. Salman laughs heartily when I observe he is much shorter in real life.

Tuesday
Take our screaming brat to the dentist. The nurse has the cheek to suggest the 11 extractions are MY fault. Obviously she doesn’t understand how difficult it is getting your child to eat anything but irn-bru chews. She would do well to read my book ‘Responsible Neglect’ which incidentally is faring rather well against Dan Brown.
Was going to drive through to Glasgow to meet pals, but decide instead to let the train take the strain. Pop into Haddows for a wee bouteille of Rolov and Tizer to mix. Upon falling off the train at Queen St my pal Dynamo, for it is she, quips merrily ‘For fucks sake Ali, it’s not even lunchtime and you’re steaming. You look like you’ve slept in those clothes, and you’ve pished yourself. I spoke to your parents and we’re really concerned about your drinking’ I lighten her up, over tempura, with the latest goss from the literary scene. With lashings of booze lunch soon evolved into dinner, and we moved to a trendy west end eatery recently opened by a good friend. Just as the most exquisite bottle of chardonnay is opened my phone goes. Huey's school is wondering when I am going to pick him up. I’m enraged with my useless betrothed, Steve. A terse call to him follows during which I tell him to stop looking for AA centres and addiction clinics and pick his son up. Dynamo leaves with a cheery ‘go home to your family, booze hound!’I toddle off for the train, just a little bit tipsy. Hic!

Wednesday
God I hate Wednesdays. Decide to stay in and pamper myself. Hopeless Steve disappears for some packing crates (what is he up to? Bracing myself for the surprise!) So I have to let Huey out the door myself. Just before he opens up his wee umbrella he comes away with a real classic line. ‘Please don’t drink today mum, it’s impacting on my life in a negative manner’. From the mouths of babes.
Find myself so engrossed in the latest craze, sudoku, that I hardly feel the effects of 4 cans of super and a bottle of purple haze. By 10.30 I'm feeling peckish and make a little snack. Marble rye, rocket, sun blush tomatoes and aldi beef burgers, heaven! But a near disaster strikes. Think I am dreaming when a hunky fireman wakes me up. But dream turns to nightmare as he yells ‘you were grilling 2 wagon wheels, ya daft jakey!’ Appears I fell asleep whilst preparing breakfast, oops! Steve will be furious. When I tell him to redecorate the entire kitchen. Properly this time!

Thursday
What better way to recover from yesterdays faux pas than shopping? Jenners is my favourite place, a girl really feels at home here. Stylish clothes, wonderful cosmetics and the best staff in the world. They could have made an awful scene about the bottle of sherry that had fallen into my pocket, but just asked me to leave quietly.

I can’t go through the centre of ‘Auld Reekie’ without visiting my favourite taverns on Rose Street. The poor landlord must’ve died of fright when he (finally) opened the door. Greggs pastie in hand I knocked the poor chap to ground in my rush to reach the bar. Dusting himself off, he wondered aloud how I manage to write columns, PR my best selling novels, raise a child, do all my charity work AND drink like a fish! I tell him women are blessed by being able to multi task, and demonstrate this credo by drinking a pint of cider, playing the puggy and picking a runner at Hamilton simultaneously.
Waking several hours later in the WC of the aforementioned establishment I realise I must dash home and get ‘faither’s tea on. Finding a pair of shoes I rush out and catch the bus. Stop off at the most wonderful deli for dinner’s ingredients. Smoked salmon, grey poupon, asparagus (fresh of course!) cous cous, 3 boxes of wine (chilled, oh how they know me!) full bottle of gin and my mixer du jour, dandelion and burdock. My efforts go unnoticed however, as the house is empty when I arrive. The boys have disappeared; to attend a school play no less. Men huh?!

Friday
‘TGIF! The weekend starts here!’ I declare as Huey tucks into his ready brek. Bless the boys; they let me sleep on this morning. Huey even vacuumed the kitchen floor round about me! He’s so well trained! I hardly do a thing around the house!
Steve is clearing out the attic and spare rooms today, so I clear off and head for Stirling. Central Scotland is super on a warm summer day. But today it is raining; so arrange to meet some old pals. I haven’t seen Bobby (Carlyle) and Madonna (Ciccone) since the last charity do we were all at. Bobby teases me by saying I’ve never looked worse and I really should cut out the booze whilst Madonna, looking every one of her years might I add, says if I want to lose everything through addiction to alcohol then that’s my business. Bobby should realise that like Madonna’s 90’s hit us girls just wanna have fun!
The day just flies in. Before I know it Bobby and co have bundled me into a taxi. Madonna, always the comic, quips to the cabby ‘ don’t let her buy anymore drink. Heres another 20 in case she pishes herself or spews’ It’s great to have friends one can count on!

Saturday
Oh my head! I should know by now that mixing port with bacardi, in a pint glass with Guinness, gives me a banger of a headache. Steve’s DIYing makes things worse. He’s removing all the fittings and fixtures, can’t wait for the makeover to be complete! Whilst he vamooses to arrange long term storage(!?) I decide to head to the nearest spa. I need to de-tox!
The jobsworths at the spa take a dim view of booze on the premises, so I craftily inject a few oranges with some stolly. Oh please! Like you haven’t done the same!
Bump into an old school chum. Glad to see she isn’t as good looking, successful and empowered as me. I don’t gloat, but do remind her in a friendly manner that nose jobs are really cheap these days. Good deed done, I head off to la centre Ville. Surely someone will want to be seen with me?

Huh! So much for friends, or indeed hangers’ on/socialites/c-list celebs. I spend the whole afternoon alone, nursing a brandy. And 3 vodkas, 2 breezers, 4 gins and one pint of snakebite. After vomiting outside Waverley station (a dodgy pain au chocolat me thinks) I get chatting to a remarkable character. ‘Rab the Crab’ as he introduced himself is ‘Embra’ personified. Effusive, outspoken, passionate and smelling of his own waste he regaled me with tales of the REAL capital. Apparently, Irvine Welsh is a close pal of his. Halfway through a story about greyhounds and race rigging I realise we’ve well and truly ‘tanned’ the bottle of 20/20 which was making his smell bearable. Making my excuses I dart for the train, and a few hours later wake up in Newcastle. Oops! How do I get in these scrapes!?!?!

Sunday
After a restless night in a Salvation Army hostel (Malmaison it certainly wasn’t) I decide to scoot back north of the border. Newcastle is a super city. Its raw industrial past is being shed as it challenges the new millennia. The people are it’s main asset, but why wont they speak in an accent we understand? One of life’s mysteries.
Off at Waverley and straight into a taxi bound for home. After a stop at Oddbins!
Imagine my surprise when I find chez Ali abandoned. I’m worried sick, as any mother and wife would be. But my mind is put at rest with a note from Steve. In his barely legible scrawl I am in formed the boys are staying with the in laws till I sort out my drink problem. Problem? Cheek! Never mind, I’ll settle down for the night with 8 tubes of Pringles, a box of wine and Corrie. Then realise Steve has taken the plasma screen. Oh well, chin chin!

What better to get yer motor runnin’ in the morning than a lively, topical radio show? Erudite presenters, sparkling music and traffic reports that aren’t hopelessly late and describe 4 miles of traffic on the M8 as ‘a five minute delay’. That’s what it’s like in heaven; here in Glasgow things are so much different. Benston Smithy suffered GBH of the ear hole compiling this report.


Radio1
The Radio 1 breakfast show is regarded as the zenith of a presenter’s career. Conversely it is the nadir of entertainment. Zoë Ball, and especially Sara Cox took this show to the gutter and Chris Moyles seems to be at home there.

Bad enough this buffoon is allowed to pollute the airwaves with his mediocre talent, but must we hear from his mirthless posse? Dave is as comedy as Jim Davidson’s ‘Chalky’ character and the rest of the mob irritate like a crying child. Whilst most presenters use their crew to hide behind, Moyles employs his to provide fodder for sneering at. Hilarity ensues when a female talks about football, or a place name is mispronounced. Moyles aims his patter squarely at the target audience; thirty something ‘lads’ who wear t shirts bearing crude sexual slogans and who cling to Moyles as though he were their fast disappearing youth. In the 21st century those guys are the lowest common denominator, so never expect Moyles to rise above shabby despair.

 The music is whatever has bribed its way onto the Radio1 playlist, and feels like a shortened version of the chart show.

Newsbeat is the dumbest news service permeating the ether. The tabloid dismalness of the stories is heightened by the NEED to ENUNCIATE every OTHER word. Why do they do that?

Even when Moyles gets the boot, and take heart because he will, his replacement will be just as bad. Either Edith Murray or (shudder) Scott ‘thieving bastard’ Mills, will be given this poisoned chalice. You might as well scratch 99.5 from the dial.

I’d rather: drink petrol


Clyde 1
George Bowie AKA ‘The Bowie Boy’ is the disputed king of Scottish breakfast radio. His show will almost certainly feature the following points.

1 Comments about Bowies large nose. Which isn’t that large
2 Ayrshire will be described as Deliverance country. To the strains of banjos.
3 His sidekick Doctor Proctor will have several mean or stingy insults levelled at her. She’s from Aberdeen you see.
4 After Hugh Keevins does the sport, Bowie will attempt to verbally joust with him. This produces as much laughter as a Gerard Kelly pantomime.
5 Bowies lynchpin, the Daily Donkey item, will be hilarious. A man whose wife thought the ninth digit of pi was 6 sent in today’s.

Bowie boy’s tunes are the usual chart garbage. With some old garbage. His jokes are stale (wife, kids etc) and the aggressive exaggerated shouts of “what’s that all about, eh?!” make the inside of the ears itch.
What really annoys is the rampant commercialism of Clyde. Not only the screeching adverts, but Bowies constant plugging. He’d sell his soul for laminate flooring. I remember when he went to Beat 106 and stuck the boot into Clyde, saying now he could play the tunes he wanted instead of being forced to play nonsense. And two weeks later went back to Clyde because Bonkers and Victorias wouldn’t book him as a DJ. Big up George, you dirty corporate whore.

But take heart readers. When tuning 102.5 you may hit 105.2 by mistake. It’s not Clyde 2, but it feels like it.

I’d Rather: be caught smuggling heroin in Thailand

Real
Robin Galloway and Catriona Harvey present one of the worst radio shows on air. FACT.

The music is an awful mix of modern songs you hate and old songs you hate even more. Galloway’s banter is the radio equivalent of a flesh eating bug. Harvey is as funny as the policeman on ‘Allo ‘Allo, and together they fit like a glove. An oven glove. Imagine Russ Abbot and Rhona Cameron doing a show and you’re half way there.
 
Like deadly rivals Clyde, the show is hotching with commercials AND on air sponsorship. If anything the ads are cheaper and more irksome than Clyde’s, which is no mean feat.

Galloway’s piece de resistance is the Real Wind Up. Today Robin phoned the Finnish organisers of the world air guitar championships. Posing as a lorry driver he insisted someone help him unload his air guitars, as they are heavy. (Is that tumbleweed going by?) To spice it up a bit he asked the girl if he should take his load “up the front, or up the back?” I wouldn’t say he wound her up, but he certainly confused someone for whom English is a second language. Like the time he put on a comedy Japanese accent and tried to buy ‘Henlik Waason’ for a J-league team. Even for English speakers, the Real Wind Up would bamboozle a Philadelphia lawyer. Listening to this feature made me squirm with embarrassment. Why should I be mortified because of Galloway’s half-baked clowning? Kick this into touch ASAP, please.

I’d Rather: stand on a plug, fall down the stairs and lie undiscovered for several weeks.

Conclusion

All these shows are essentially the same hackneyed garbage, peddled by narcissists. Moyles is definitely the most annoying but then I never did like fat arsed, self-obsessed and self-styled ‘lads’. I feel sorry for Galloway and Harvey, but especially Galloway. I think he was funny at one time, then came the nineties and Robin was left far behind. Thinking of Bowie I’m overcome by a wave of indifference. His show is so predictable you don’t need to listen to it.

Even though these breakfast shows are dire, all the stations have worse on offer. Radio 1 presents the dirge that is Jo Whiley’s show. Her interviews make Parkinson seem like Paxman, and her name-dropping should be rewarded with a kick square in the pie. Bowie is awful but he has a long way to go before he hits the depths of Suzie McGuire’s lunchtime cack fest. If anyone tells you the education system is working point he or she to this Ned at large. And Real flush entertainment down the pan with the Real Golden Hour, a study in torpid programming.

So what does the future hold? As stated, Moyles will go soon. Hopefully Galloway and Bowie will have another square go in the Corinthian and get sent to Bar-L. But the sad fact is another moron will quickly fill their shoes. Barring government intervention, breakfast radio is a lost cause.

Somewhere in Italy, Marconi is spinning in his grave.

My name is Farmfoods and I used to listen to heavy metal.
I am cleansing myself here and now.
Heavy metal 15 years ago was a different proposition from what it is now. Nowadays the likes of Linkin Park, the Darkness(!) and Chili Peppers attract a certain kudos. But I'm talking of a time when the Chili's actually were metal. And absolutely shite, too. At the beginning of the nineties metal was in trouble, trying to reconcile 'new' grunge with 'old' hair metal. I never fully embraced the Seattle scene (apart from a wee bit of Pearl Jam), and against my better judgement allowed myself to be swayed by the American Dream as portrayed by guys with long curly hair, shiny breeks and pretty boy looks.
I was into some truly abysmal sounds. Not just the well known ones, Extreme, Bon Jovi, Mr Big,  Europe... but I made a point of seeking out obscure, import only AOR melodic trash. I'd spend hours going through the import section at Tower Records and 23rd Precinct (before it became a ned shop) searching for a cd cover with a saucy bird on the cover. For a saucy bird almost guaranteed hot rockin' all USA bad boy action.
Check the cover  for Dirty Rhythm's opus dei, 'Hard as a Rock' The band name, album name and cover all suggest certain things to young Scottish teenagers. This band lead a far more interesting life than you ever will. Listening is the closest you'll get to driving a 67 chevy with a deuce and a quart engine. The closest you'll get to setting off a bra bomb in the gym hall. The closest you'll ever get to rubbing this bird's arse like a genie's lamp
How could I resist? I'm only human after all. I think I shelled out about fifteen notes for this steaming turd of a record. When I first listened to it I knew it was garbage, but I stuck it out for her. Her on the cover, who now looks as though 'she' may be a 'he'
I was so infatuated with melodic yank nonsense I even put up with a band (Airkraft) whose drummer called himself Gyro and insisted he was responsible for 'rythmathmatics'!
But how did I arrive at this situation? I think it was 2 videos. Warrant's 'Cherry Pie' and Slaughter's 'Up all night'.  They both employed outrageously good looking chicks. The kind of  babes  who I thought would dig me, seeing as I was listening to their kind of tunes. How wrong I was. Metal repelled females quicker than spiked hair, half a pint of Kouros and scuffed trainers ever could. At least the type of females one hoped to attract. If a girl was into metal she was odd's on to be a howler. In other words a female me. And that was no use, I wanted a sweet chick in the style of Lita Ford or Allannah Myles. Imagine walking into the chip shop with one of them? That'd turn heads.
And so I progressed throughout my teenage years. A cavalcade of bands including Roxy Blue, Love/Hate, Blue Tears, Lillian Axe, Damn Yankees, Firehouse, The Bang Gang and Tyketto came and went. When I was about 17 I overcame the metal inertia and broke free, dragged by Primal Scream and St Ettienne.
I shudder when I think of 'The Lost Years'. I thank God I never had the guts to wear stone wash denim or grow my hair, and give praise for breaking free. The internet allows me to listen to lo-fi clips of these bands, to remind me of what I was. You never stop being a metal fan, you're only one cd from falling off the wagon. I just take it a day at a time.
Directory of the damned  Cherry pie video