Actually, they're not people. They're not even human, but mere diseases posing as humanoid organisms.

Instead, how about happy two-thousand and eleven?
Happiness for a whole year - that can't be bad. Can it?
I'll not give it any more thought, in case I jinx it. Just take the happiness and be, er, happy.

I don't actually have anything to say just now. Well, except some moans and groans about motorists, but I could write a daily blog about those bastards but clearly haven't, which means that these moanings and groanings can't be all that interesting - even to me.

Jeez, I'm boring myself now. I'm off to catch some early sleeps. I may be more interesting... one day.

I had a few hours to kill today (still do, but now in relative safety of my favourite coffee shop, Biblocafe), so I went for a walk around the centre of Glasgow.

Big mistake.

It's Saturday. Two weeks before Christmas. And I was in Glasgow's main shopping area.

In case I haven't made this clear previously - and I'm too lazy to check back to see if I have or not - I don't like:
a) shopping
b) large crowds
c) large crowds that are shopping
d) screamy children
e) the commercialisation of Christmas, or at least the associated pressure of it all

Yes, I know 'screamy' isn't a word. I don't care.

Anyhoo, walking along Sauchiehall Street, I decided to phone my mum for a long overdue chat. It was at this point that the irritation started. In almost no time at all, a young busker breathed life into his bagpipes, simultaneously torturing the life out of my ears. The conversation with my mum was interrupted until I was safely past that noise but was quickly stifled again by the Sally Army band playing on the next corner. Fifty yards further down, a charity thing outside the Buchanan Galleries involving a big red bus and loud music. I ducked inside the shopping centre to continue the conversation in relative peace.

The main concourse doesn't go on forever, so I eventually emerged at the other end - straight into the first of two lots of 'Native or Latin American' panpipes busker groups. *sigh*

A little further down the road, a Hank Marvin wannabe was busy wrenching the life out of a popular guitar classic. Gently, though somewhat off-key, the second set of panpipes melodies drifted over. They were joined shortly after by another Sally Army band.

Oh, and I'd better not leave out the 'three wise men' playing Christmas songs on various brass instruments.  They'd clearly made an effort with their costumes, although the tea-towels on their heads made the whole thing just a little bit offensive. Marks docked there, I'm afraid.

All in all, a cacophony of hellish noise that made hearing my mum quite difficult. And it's bad enough calling her on the iPhone, what with it having a shite earpiece anyway.
I observed as I walked that very few people were paying these musical types any real attention. From this I conclude that either they were all too preoccupied with the business of spending money they don't have on Christmas presents that may or may not make the recipients happy or, more likely, the aforementioned musical types were there to upset the few of us who are sensitive to off-key melodies (regardless of whether we were trying to speak to our respective mothers or not).

I eventually made it down to St Enoch and bought some fried potatoes from a stand at the German market. Having filled up on coffee at Biblocafe before setting off this morning, I found myself in need of a pee. Once I'd had my fill of potatoes, I headed into the St Enoch centre to avail myself of their restroom facilities.

Whilst waiting patiently for a cubicle to become free (I hate using urinals - don't know why, I just do), two obnoxious gadgies* barged loudly past and started checking to see if there were any free cubicles - naturally oblivious to a small queue already patiently waiting for one to become free. Two doors unlocked at the same time and the morons pushed their way into each, barely allowing the previous occupants time to leave first.

It wasn't long before I had a cubicle too. As I let out a little sigh of relief (you do that too, right?) I could hear the morons shouting at each other, unable to hear what the other was saying but still trying to continue a conversation. As I finished up, I could hear one of them, at the far end, constantly calling out to a 'big man' or 'fella'. Bragging much?

Well, no.

As I exited my cubicle, I walked past his - the door ajar, his head poking round. He was pleading for toilet roll. It seems no one was willing to help. I didn't stop to help either. Some call it karma, others call it just desserts for being an annoying twat and pushing past a queue of people waiting to use the toilet. I didn't feel bad for not helping, nor did I feel good over his suffering. I was more indifferent to the plight of the moron as I was to the moron himself although a small smile did creep across my face as I washed my hands.

* Gadgie: a word meaning man, lad or chap used in much of Eastern and Northern Scotland. The word comes from Romany. Many people I know find the term offensive - far more so than the seemingly friendly Scots use of the word 'cunt' - hence my use of it here.

Back outside, I did a little Christmas browsing (still haven't decided what to buy the few special people in my life yet) before fleeing back to Biblocafe to write this and drink tea. And to get away from city centre madness.
On the way back though, I did pass a lad in McDonald's uniform, handing out flyers - outside Pizza Hut. Brilliant, although I wouldn't have thought McD's need to advertise this way (unrelated - I am reminded of this Newsbiscuit article, for some reason).

A little further on, I could hear passages from the Bible being shouted over the hubbub of the chattering masses. One of those random religious folk with far too much time on their hands was trying to persuade us all of the error of our ways. Or perhaps that we've forgotten the true meaning of Christmas (to quash once traditional Yule festivities celebrating the rebirth of the sun and the coming of a, hopefully, good spring, thereby forcing Christian beliefs onto a supposedly heathen populace. I think.). Either way, the chap provided amusement for a nearby group of idle yoofs, happy to interject with choruses of 'praise the lord!' or 'hallelujah!'

This elicited the occasional smile from other passers-by which, in turn, made me smile.

In conclusion, we're all going to Hell.

A few weekends ago, I spent some time wandering the streets of Glasgow, stopping occasionally to take some photos.
Here are some of those photos. Some more will follow soon.

Daydreams are akin to night dreams, only I suppose we're more conscious of them as we create the story. Night dreams are our unconscious mind doing its own thing while the rest of our body recovers from a tiring day.

Sometimes, a night dream can be a bit horrible, possibly frighteningly real. You could be trapped in a burning house or watching a beloved pet disappear under the large front wheel of a steamroller (both from my childhood). You might wake suddenly and it always takes a moment for you to come to your senses and realise that it was just a bad dream - or a nightmare.

This evening, I had a daymare. I was idly wandering around my local supermarket, a pleasant daydream playing out in my head. In my reverie, I must have walked up and down the same aisles a few times, not stopping once to pick anything up.

I don't really know what happened next. Perhaps my brain was trying to tell me to hurry up and get the shopping done, or maybe it just wanted to play a cruel trick on me. Either way, it took my happy thoughts and mangled them horribly. Really horribly. So much so that I literally awoke with a start in the crisps aisle. I felt shaken. And suddenly not as hungry as I was before.

I've never had a daymare before.

Like nightmares, I hope never to have one again.

Especially whilst wandering around Asda.

My journey to work usually involves about ninety minutes sat behind the wheel of a small van. Much of the driving is done on the depressingly depressing (a measure of how bad it is) M8 between Edinburgh and Glasgow. The whole journey is filled with the usual mix of average motorists and total fuckwits, as I'm sure anyone who drives will already know.

This morning, I hadn't gone very far before I came across the most bizarre behaviour. Heading along the Western Approach Road in Edinburgh, I was the front car in two lanes of traffic. The lanes ahead of me were clear (the result of meticulous town planning and traffic light timings).  The opposite side had a single lane of traffice (quite full) that broke into two lanes by the traffic lights. One of these lanes was almost empty, it being a less used route.

A white van man had clearly seen this space from his viewpoint quite a few cars back in the queue. Summoning every last ounce of his common sense, he pulled into my lane and drove straight toward me in order to plonk himself into the gap.

As I approached him, I gestured as if to say 'what the fuck are you doing?' It wasn't a rude gesture. It may not have even conveyed my message accurately. Even so, the white van man had seen my reaction to his driving toward me at speed and proceeded to lean out of his window, shouting and gesturing wildly - like I was the one in the wrong.

What amazed me wasn't his behaviour - he was a white van driver after all. It was the speed and vigour of his response. Lightning fast and full of venom. Such pent up aggression.

A discussion at work reached the conclusion that it has been a while since he last had some good sex. Or at least a decent wank.

Or perhaps that he is just a bad driving, utter cunt.

Weezer - Pork & Beans

My unofficial personal anthem. Much jiggly leg to this one. Only one other person will understand that. (Oh, and I've found out the other leg-based reference to the evening too.)

Storm Large - 8 Miles Wide

I defy anyone not to sing along to this one. You truly have no soul if you utter no word of it.

Freestylers - Cracks feat. Belle Humble (Flux Pavilion remix) [shite non-video though]

It's an earworm of the highest order. Well, it is for me.

Antiproduct - Bunjee Jumping People Die [shoddy video, but it's stuck in my head so it's here]

Never seen this video before. Er...

John Lee Hooker - Boom Boom

To round things off, a legend of legends.

Goodnight.

At some point, my thoughts turned to age. Specifically, my age. And also what I am like now compared to five or ten years ago.

At the ripe old age of thirty-three, I have officially been an adult for fifteen years. I say officially because some may argue whether I've grown up at all whilst others think me an old man already. Ten to fifteen years ago, I had long hair, dyed black and was rake thin. I was part goth, part grown-up. The goth part of me liked to wear the traditional uniform of black stuff while the grown-up section preferred other colours. It was actually that simple. My inner goth never really made much effort.

At some point, my inner adult won. I still like the goth music style (not emo, goth) but my hair is short and greying and I'm no longer rake thin and pale of complexion.

Have I turned into my middle-aged self already? Or is there a vestige of my youth lingering, preventing a total grown-up takeover?

I look at some of the folk passing by, at how they are dressed, what their hair is like and how (for the men) they keep their facial hair. The suits are probably a necessity of their job. But one chap walked past with a vaguely rockabilly style to him. Bit of a quiff, suitably trimmed sideburns and turn-ups on his jeans. I'm guessing he is older than me and I wonder if this is who he has always been.

As I look ahead, I see middle-age not so much looming on the horizon, but charging full speed toward me. I am aware that time seems to pass ever faster by me. I look back and the years stretch themselves out, relaxing, safe in the knowledge that their job is done.

I still remember who I was back then, but would that person recognise me now? And have I settled into the older me or will I change further still? I mean, I'm really comfortable with my jeans/t-shirt/unshaven-but-not-beardy self. I even enjoy spotting new grey hairs on my head and plucking the occasional rogue eyebrow hair from half an inch above where it should be.

Forgive me. I'm in a reflective mood today. Tomorrow I will probably return to being daft as a brush with go faster stripes on it.

Until then, I shall try not to grow too much older.

I'm not really. That's bollocks. Anyone who knows me knows I'm not a tiger. Anyone with even a modicum of common sense can see that I'm not a tiger. I'm not stripey for a start. A lack of fake tan also means that I'm not orange (something of a rarity these days).

I am a bit furry though.  I should shave more but I really can't be bothered.  I like being beardy. Not full beardy - part beardy. And not part beardy in a cunningly trimmed goatee and sideburns combination way either.

I'm rambling. Forgive me. It has been a long week and my mind is broken. I'm not even typing this. Who are you again?

Where was I?  Oh yeah, I'm not a tiger.

And now for something really offensive:
The Catholic church appears to condone kiddie fiddling whilst simultaneously banning birth control. This is no coincidence. A friend suggests it is a measure of how much they understand supply and demand.  If only there was more demand for a greater acceptance of homosexuality (outside of the perverted priesthood) and women priests.

And so, after eighteen hours of continuous awakedness, I hereby retire to my bed to dream of things that will not be remembered in the morning.

Goodnight.

PS: If you're offended by any of the issues raised in tonight's mindless ramblings, take a good look at yourself.