One Adventure Ends - Another Begins!

Hello blog, it's been a while! I've not been ignoring you, I've just been busy. First, there was Operation Decorate, which was hectic, but is getting there, then I had my own Royal Visit.

As readers of my FB will know, I've had friends from the USA staying with me for a few days, which has been immense. Having Ann-Marie and Susan here has been great, it's been a whole heap of fun.  They are two of the nicest, most fun people I've had the pleasure of meeting for a while.  Ladies, thank you for your company for the past few days, I've said this to you, but it bears repeating, any time you feel like coming back to Scotland, it would be my pleasure to be your host again!

Having the two ladies around has made me realise things, both about the country in which I live, and about myself.

Scotland is not without it's faults, meteorologically, socially, economically, politically, and there is a lot you could say about Scotland in a negative way, with much justification.  I was as guilty as anyone of being somewhat jaded about Scotland, and life here (and I still am), but having the girls around has made me realise that there is stuff to be positive about. It seemed like every time we crested a hill, or turned a corner, the girls would look out of the car window and be genuinely delighted with what they saw - be that from the top of the Camera Obscura in Edinburgh (which as an aside, is immense, if you get the chance, go!), as we were driving along the coast of Fife from St. Andrews, from Loch Lomond, to the convoluted journey (replete with speeding ticket, sadly!) to the Antonine Wall, they obviously loved what they were seeing, and it's impossible for that uninhibited enthusiasm not to rub off, and I started trying to look at Scotland through their eyes, which was easier in some places (such as Loch Lomond and the trail to the Antonine Wall, neither of where I'd been before) than it was in others, but it did make me think - for all it's numerous issues, Scotland does have some good points, it's got a history to rival any other, and when you look past the social issues, it actually has a culture which is the envy of countries the world over.  Look at the Fringe - people come from all over the world to perform, to watch, to just be there.  There are Scottish societies the world over, celebrating Scots history, Scots culture, the impact this tiny little country has had all over the known world.

That influence is much larger than many, including most Scots, give it credit for. Look at some of the things Scots either invented outright, or had a key hand in.  Everyone knows about Bell's telephone, Baird's TV, Watt's steam engine, even Carnegie Steel, but fewer know about Smith's 'Wealth of Nations' (outside of economic circles anyway), that Pittsburgh was founded by William Forbes, from Dunfermline, Dunlop's pneumatic tyre, the modern seismometer, the Banks of England and France, the US Navy, ultrasound and MRI scans, the RAF and many, many more.  When you dig into it, the influence of what should, in all reality be an insignificant little land, never numbering more than about 5,000,000 inhabitants at it's peak, is astounding.

Scotland does also have some amazing architecture, some gorgeous scenery, so you know what, it's not all bad.  So, thank you ladies, for opening my eyes a bit to my home and native land!

The second mini-revelation which came as a result of my guests, was the stark realisation of just how lonely I am. I'm used to living on my own, and I'm not going to lie, I was wondering how I'd react to having to share 'my' space with not one, but two others. Well, it was great. It was a huge reminder of how much more fun life is when you are sharing it with other people. When we were out and about, we had fun, lots of laughs, and it was surprising how quickly we got into a routine of getting home, getting dinner, and settling down to find a movie which we'd then have fun watching, usually taking the piss out of some cheesy dialogue, or plot hole, or whatever. My house, for the first time, literally, in years, felt alive. It felt like a home, rather than just a collection of walls and furniture. It was a bit of a surprise to me, just how quickly I got into having them around, and just how much I enjoyed it.

So, I've made some decisions. I don't want to spend life on my own any more, so I need to make changes to have any chance of my current situation changing. First and foremost, I need to change me. A little bit mentally, but mostly physically. I'm never going to be a particularly attractive man, I'm under no illusion about that, but, I need to stop making things worse by being fat.  Last year I did ok, I lost some weight, and seemed to be getting somewhere, this year has, so far, been a disaster.  I've certainly not lost any more weight, I've more likely put some back on.  This has to change. So, I am resolved to get myself back to the gym, get back into a routine of doing cardio (and Ian, I'm going to need your help here, big fella!  I'm going to need help making sure I stay on the straight and narrow with diet and exercise!).  I want to lose at least a stone (14 lbs) by Christmas, ideally more. By next summer, I want to have lost another 4 stone (56lbs).  That's my target.  If any one wants to help and be part of my support mechanism, please feel free to let me know!

Once Upon A Time....

Everyone knows the story. Mary had a little lamb. One day, she went up the same hill Jack and Jill were so fond of, and there was some kind of disagreement.  At the time, no one really knew what went on up there, other than three people went up that hill, but only two came back down again. 

This is the story of that fateful day, as told to Humpty Dumpty, Jack's best friend, who confided in the Grand Old Duke of York, chief of police (with a force of 10,000 officers)  just before he took his own life by jumping from a wall.

What started as a day like any other, ended with tragedy.  Jack, a loner from the wrong side of the tracks, had a long history of trouble, and a police file the length of Pinnochio's nose.  Jill was a young and impressionable grade A student who lived a quiet, unassuming life in the expensive Little Star area of town. 

Looking for some excitement into her life, Jill and her friends snuck out one night to head to the bright lights of the London Bridge area, the part of town where men are men and sheep are nervous. Along side the 'Pat-a-Cake' bakeries and the famous Miss Muffet's Curds & Whey restaurant, London Bridge had a seedier side, being split between two mafia legends, George "Georgie" Porgie, and "Simple" Simon Pieman.  Don't be fooled by the nickname, there was nothing simple about this crime overlord. 

Jack had been a low level associate of Georgie for some time, and made a decent living smuggling vinegar and brown paper.  whilst Mary occasionally worked for Simon, sometimes moving illicit wool, sometimes, when times were hard, Simon would pimp her out.  It wasn't a good life, but it was all Mary knew.

Mary and Jack had known each other since they were thrown together in the tumult which followed the brutal assassination of 'Cock' Robin, who ruled the London Bridge underworld with an iron claw. Everyone knew that the assassin was that shady figure known only as 'Sparrow', but no one knew anything about him.  Immediately after the assassination, GoD York announced a curfew and his men started kettleing the crowd into zones, for their own 'protection'.  It was in one of these zones that Jack first met Mary.  They had seen each other around but never spoke until that day.  the chemistry between them was instant, and they had so much in common, both came from broken homes, both had seen the seedy underbelly of London Bridge.

For the next few weeks, Jack and Mary were inseparable. living the life of grifters, making money any way they knew how. The good times ended though, with the rise of the new crime lords, all eager to get their hands on what was left of Robin's empire. Nature abhors a vacuum they say, crime certainly does. Before long the streets of London Bridge were awash with blood. Crime was rampant, GoD York's forces were stretched to, and then past, their limits, so when two factions started to grow as they either assimilated or annihilated the opposition, the police started to turn a blind eye. Sadly for Jack and Mary their families aligned themselves with the opposite factions. In a dramatic twist of irony, worthy of Shakespeare himself (who incidentally never signed his name Shakespeare, despite there being 6 copies of his signature, no two of which spelled his name the same) Jack was a Capulet whilst Mary was a Monatgue.  As their families got drawn deeper and deeper into the underworld, Jack and Mary's relationship, which by then had already started to unravel strained to breaking point.

It is said that the day of their parting was marked by ominous portents.  In the meadow, Bo Peep, a shepherdess found that her sheep had vanished, Ma Hubbard's body was found on that day, starved to death, whilst the police found themselves investigating an infanticide. Someone had placed an unnamed child in a cradle upon the bough of a tree. The weather that day, was stormy, causing the cradle to start to rock in the tree, and it was this motion, coupled with the razor sharp blade which had been put on the cradle's feet to secure it into the tree, combined to cause a structural failure of the bough. Gravity did the rest.

As time passed, the new crime lords more or less carved up the city between them.  Each wanted to get their paws on the other half, but after the savagery of the free for all following Robin's murder, both were content to replenish their forces. For now.

Jack was a born smuggler, and before long Georgie was in control of 80% of the vinegar which hit the streets, selling for up to a sixpence a time. Georgie was a cruel drug baron though, not content with charging a sixpence for the hit, he liked to humiliate the poor addled junkies, and made them sing for it.  Eventually, he worked out a way to refine the vinegar even more, and called the new poison 'rye'. Before long the underclass of London Bridge rang to the sound of junkies singing their song of sixpence, to leave with their pockets foll of rye.

Mary never really got over Jack, and grew more and more bitter. Eventually she formed a relationship of sorts with George "Goosey" Gander, which came an an abrupt end following Gander's brutal slaying of an old man who, the court heard, annoyed Gander by refusing to say his prayers. Mark found herself alone once again.

Jill had the misfortune to bump into Jack that night as she and her friends wandered around London Bridge, wide eyed and agog at a part of the world they didn't even know existed. Speaking later, Jill's best friend Mary Contrary remarked "It was like being in another country. There were people drinking, filth everywhere, people passed out in doorways, everywhere you looked there seemed to be some sort of fight, we just weren't prepared for this". Jill was a beautiful girl, and with her clean clothes and youthful glow, she stood out more than Jack Horner's plum encrusted thumb. Mary said that she, Jill and the rest of their group were the focus of a lot of attention.

Jack could be charming when he wanted to be, and soon set his charms in motion on Jill, who had been brought up in such a sterile environment, she was easy prey for Jack.  It wasn't too long before Jill started making more and more secret trips to London Bridge, spending more and more time with Jack. One day, Jill realised that she had missed her period.  All of a sudden, her regular bouts of sickness in the morning made sense. Jill was panicked and ran to Mary's house. The two best friends talked it over. Despite Mary trying to dissuade her, Jill went to London Bridge to tell Jack the news. Jack wasn't expecting to see Jill in the daytime, but agreed to go up Duke of York hill, where Jill gave him the news.  Jack didn't know what to think. In his confusion he didn't see a shadowy shape in the undergrowth.

Jill wasn't the first girl Jack had taken up the hill (in more ways than one), and following the incarceration of Goosey, Mary decided to go up there, to try and cast her mind back to happier times. When she got there, she saw Jack with Jill and flew into a murderous rage.  She bided her time, knowing full well that Jack was of the habit of getting himself a pail of water when he was near the natural spring which gurgled at the top of the hill. When his back was turned, Mary sprang out of her hiding place, and struck Jill a merciless blow across the head with the sawn-off shepherd's staff she carried for protection. Jack heard the sound and turned to see the woman he loved, who was going to be the mother of his child lying motionless. Demented with grief and rage, Jack sprung at Mary and the two fought like wild beasts. Jack said after that it was accidental, and that he wasn't sure who was holding it, but somehow the sawn-of staff went off, hitting Mary first in the throat. then over her head. As she fell, Jack ran back to his lover, unaware that he too had been hit by the staff.  As he picked up Jill and tried to carry her down the hill again, he lost his footing, having become more and more woozy.  Dropping Jill, he fell to his knees and rolled down the hill, with Jill tumbling soon after.

Some time later, the couple were found by William "Wee Willie" Winkie, and were rushed to hospital Against all odds, both lived, and to the utter amazement of the doctors, Jill kept the baby.  She had to tell her family now, after all, her and Jack's story was going to be all over the papers. To her immense surprise, her father accepted it, and with just a mild rebuke offered Jack a job with his construction company. Jack turned out to be a gifted architect, and designed and build some of the finest houses in the land, indeed, many people were proud to say that the lived in a house that Jack built.

GoD York's policemen were marched up to the top of the hill to recover Mary's body, but when they got there, it was nowhere to be seen, so they marched down again.  York insisted on a full search, so split his forces and concentrated on the ridge which was about half way up the hill. What happened to Mary? No one ever knew.  Years passed and the story of Mary went into folklore. Some said that there was an old woman who lived just outside the city limits in a house which was a very odd shape, children calling it "the shoe", and the same some further said that she had marks on her which looked like the kind of scars you'd get from being too close to a sawn-off staff.  Was it Mary? Well... that would be telling

Drive 55? Who, me? Pah, I mock your 55 Limits!

I have a dream. My dream may not be as noble or inspiring as Dr Luther-King's dream, but then I am not as noble or inspiring myself.   My dream is simple. I want to take 6 months of my life, and traverse the great heaving mass of contradiction and inspiration that is the USA.

I make no bones about it, I would move to the US tomorrow if I thought I could get a visa. Ever since I was a kid I've had a bizarre fascination with the US and A, to the point where I would find myself fervently twisting the dial (and for once, no, that's not a euphemism) to find the American Forces Network so that I could listen to them broadcasting a baseball game, or a football game (one of the first broadcasts I remember listening to was a Rosebowl game, I don't remember the combatants).  I don't remember when the idea to make a trans-continental road trip first occurred to me, probably during one of my trips to the US, but it was certainly reinforced by a couple of books I read - The Lost Continent by Bill Bryson, and America Unchained by Dave Gorman.  The former is a memoir (published in the mid 80s) of the Author re-creating some of the trips of his childhood having recently lost his father (my dad had died not long before I read it, which gave it a degree of poignancy with me), where he is trying to find the essence of America instilled in one town.  The latter is a journey of epic proportions where Gorman attempts to drive from coast to coast using only independent retailers, hotels, petrol (or gas) stations.  Both really reinforced how much I'd like to do that.

As I was talking to someone about it at work (again, AM - who is getting to be a bad influence on me, I mean I was all pure and innocent before she tried to corrupt me), I had a bit of spare time, so during lunch, I mapped out a theoretical map of the journey. You will see this map lovingly re-created to the left. I will be honest and say I am not sure if clicking it will give you the full size version, if not, then take my word for it, it is a thing of awe and wonder. I am aware that I've missed out a big chunk of the bible belt, as I have the two non-contiguous states, although I would like to go to Alaska at some point, and as I said to AM, I have to say that Hawaii doesn't really get me going, if I went there, it would be to see the USS Arizona memorial, otherwise I could see me getting bored.

Just in case you aren't able to see the full-size map, I start in Maine, work my way down the Eastern seaboard, a couple of days in DC (pretty much all of what I'd probably spend at the Udvar-Hazy centre (aerospace geek, remember - they have the Enola Gay, the Enterprise orbiter (which is due to be replaced by Discovery), a SR-71 Blackbird, a Hurricane, the only surviving Doenier Do335, a Concorde, a F4 Phantom (I grew up not that far from RAF Leuchars, which when I was a kid was a F4 base, so seeing (and hearing!) them zip about the sky wasn't uncommon, they still have a place in the geek part of my heart. Annoyingly, the last trip to the US I made saw me arrive at Dulles, but the one and only time I had a stopover of less than 4 hours, was the one time I wanted a massive stopover, so I had time to go to the Udvar-Hazy centre. I was so disappointed. Anyway...), then down, first major stop off would be a few days in Florida (including Kennedy Space Centre, of course), then back up inland to Nashville (actually, looking at it now, I have no idea why I decided to put a trip to Nashville in there. I hate country music), then zp back gown to Texas via New Orleans for some naked ladies (N.O.) and Tex-Mex food (TX), after a day or two in the Lone Star State, along to New Mexico, a few days in Las Cruces, then up to the Grand Canyon, a couple of days in Vegas (and of course, what happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas), then off to Cali, up the Western seaboard to Oregon and see if I can get some new trainers, then to one of the cities I've always had an urge to live in for some strange reason, Seattle. By then I would probably want a coffee, so I'm hoping that there would be some kind of coffee shop somewhere in Seattle. If I could get a coffee for a couple of bucks, that would be a star.

After this point, it starts to get a bit convoluted, I'd have to take the opportunity, seeing as I was so far West to pop up to Vancouver for a couple of days, before heading back, through Montana (again, no idea why... is there anything to see or do in Montana?), down to Utah (if I ever won the lottery, I'd create a hockey team in Utah, just so I could call them the Utah Saints and use "Something Good" by the band Utah Saints as their entry music. You are going to Grooveshark or Spotify to find that tune now, aren't you!), whilst in SLC I'll see if I can pick myself up a few wives, then head to Colorado and the Mile High City. After that, up to South Dakota for Mount Rushmore, then meander back east through Iowa stopping at Des Moines, if for no other reason than it's the birthplace of the aforementioned Bill Bryson, who was a major influence in the idea, then Chicago, Indianapolis, Detroit, Columbus, Philly (for a cheesesteak) and then on to NYC, which would be the conclusion of my little jaunt.

Now, all I need to do is either win the lottery, acquire myself a rich widow who has a heart condition, or con charm someone into paying for it all for me!

The Burden of Pain

A friend of mine (Hi A.M.!) emailed me today to advise me of a mishap involving her finger, a canine mouth, and the visceral introduction of doggy teeth to human digit. I don't think she was overly impressed at my somewhat ambiguous response to her malady, but as the ijury was described, it didn't meet the very exacting standards by which I, and indeed I believe, all men measure injury and pain.

I assumed her finger was ok, what with her saying her finger was, well, for the most part, ok. Anything that doesn't need stitches is classed as ok in my world. Actually, anything needing less than 20 stitches counts as ok. 20-40 stitches classes as vaguely interesting, as long as it's going to leave a cool scar (chicks dig scars, or so we are told), anything 40-80 stitches merits mild concern, anything 81 and over are classed as worthy of special mention. 

 

There are of course, exceptions, no matter how small the stitched area, were the need for the stitches was caused by blade or bullet, then that makes them noteworthy.  Similarly, if it's a guy talking about how he rescued a hot chick, then even if it's one stitch, it's of noteworthy magnitude, if the chick wasn't hot, then it has to be 25 stitches or more.  If she was downright hideous then the benchmark is 50 or more.  If the stitches were caused by saving a politician, then no amount are deemed acceptable, indeed, the mere act of saving a politician merits the affliction of additional wounds causing even more stitches.

 

If any of the stitches are within 14.728" of the scrotal area, then anything over 2 stitches makes you a god.  Anything actually on the immediate environs of the clackersack or skinflute, unless caused by some kind of STD, elevates you to Supergod status. Unless you were dumb enough to get that thing pierced voluntarily. What's the deal with that, never once have I had the urge to get 'Mr Party Time' out, slap it on the counter and say "drive a nail through that bad boy for me".  I did have a mate who had an ampalang piercing. It was grim.  If you don't know what an ampallang piercing looks like, I have simulated one using a picture I conveniently found of a sausage and two eggs. Never let it be said I have too much time on my hands.  Well, ok, let it be said, because it's true. Anyway... As an aside, the aforementioned friend once drunkenly told me that if he was 'relaxing in the gentleman's way' (i.e., twanging the one-string bass, bashing the bishop, tearing the head off it, saluting the general, etc etc), if he took the bar out, and put his finger over the normal aperture, when he got to the vinegar strokes, it would come shooting out of the sides.  But enough about that, back on to the whole pain thing. 

 

Additionally, men have the oft forgotten burden of having to conform to the 'Indiana Jones Corollary' which means we are prohibited from exhibiting any outward signs of pain, no matter how punishing the physical stress being experienced, however, should a girl subsequently tend our wounds, we are obliged to wince at the merest dab of ointment.  The magnitude of the wince is directly proportional to the hotness of the girl providing the treatment:

5.  Absolute Boiler: Permitted: low pitched grunt or growl. Recommended: Anything heavily laced with expletives, ideally "Jesus f**king Christ, what the f**k are you f**king doing to me you f**king sadist!" 

4.  Acceptable after 10 beers: Permitted: Yelping, or the aforementioned growl. Recommended: A lesser degree of expletives, not quite as directly phrased, such as "Holy f**k, that stings like a b*tch"

3.  Acceptable after 5 beers: Permitted: a breathy "aaaahhhhhhhh".  Recommended: Mild cursing, along the lines of "Sh*t, that b**tard stings... I'm going to suffer in the morning."

2. No beers required, Decent in all categories:  Permitted: A sharp intake of breath followed by a twitch of the afflicted area. Recommended: Giving her a steely stare as she tends you, so you can reinforce how tough and manly you are.

1. Absolute stunner: Permitted: A soft intake of breath, but no twitching. Recommended: Occasionally looking into her eyes, as long as you are sure she is looking into yours. Mandatory: using your undamaged (or least damaged) hand to hold her wrist as she dabs some TCP onto a wound, thus facilitating eye contact, then pulling her toward you. Always prohibited: Everything else mentioned for classifications 5-2 above. 

Of course, there is one other classification of injury which, when included to the mix, only serves muddy the waters further, I refer of course, to the specific kind of fingular (which I know isn't actually a word, so don't go all 'Daily Mail' on me!) mayhem caused by guitar strings. Any pain, discomfort or even mild annoyance caused in the creation of music (particularly that of a rocktacular variety. such as that unleashed by bands of almost mythical stature and legendary ability, not that I'd want to mention The Portraits by name, for we they are far too humble to fully agree with our their deification, although of course it would be rude of us them to disagree) requires a specific type of salvation.  In the interests of completeness, I will explain how, just in case you happen to be in the environs of a rock star (like, say, Bonio) or even, a rock Superstar (such as the bass player from The Portraits, who is not only handsome and intelligent, he helps old people change car tyres, is good to his mother, and has a libido which, if it could be tapped into the grid, would power several European countries.  I mean, just small ones, Belgium, Portugal, Britain, maybe Italy at a push. Unless the girl is mega hot, in which case France, Germany and Russia would also be included.  Now, where was I....)

Ah yes, if you are a lady lucky enough to be in the presence of a rock behemoth who needs some TLC, there is of course a strict protocol to be followed.  Firstly, you must quickly ascertain the source and severity of his malady.  Then, regardless of what the reason is, you must divest yourself of your upper garments, for such articles as shirts, blouses, t-shirts and of course, the villainous brasierre can cause a dangerous build up of static in the lady, and an even more deadly build up of frustration for your rock star.  Bear in mind, should the rock star experience a libido build up of to massive a proportion, bad things happen.  Everyone thinks it was the Chixulub meteor impact which wiped out the dinosaurs, but no, it was an unmonitored build-up of sexual frustration from a well known rock star, which became so massive that it gained sentience, invented a time machine, and travelled back in time to blow itself up, which ended the dinosaurs, which in turn, gave rise to the age of the mammal, and of course ultimately, mankind. Once you are safely topless, you can then undertake a thorough physical examination of your rock star, bearing in mind that this may involve some very detailed work, some of which will require further nudity on your part, and if the situation is critical (if you are wondering when it would be critical - the situation will always be critical) you may be called upon to undertake such actions as may be required to cause your rock star to increase his heart rate and core temperature, raising his level of cardiovascular activity and relieving him of stress. And other things. After you are sure the rock star has been taken care of, it may be an idea to cook him a nice meal, after all, he will have to keep his strength up!

This has been a public service announcement on behalf of The Portraits.  Thank you for reading.

Stuart 401 - The Wilderness Years

It's been a few days since I meandered down memory lane, so I think it's about time we went back to what was, upon reflection, one of the darker periods of my life. It's a period that I think a lot of people can relate to, though, I'm not the first guy to go through some bad spells, mostly caused by a woman, and I dare say I won't be the last!

So, where did I leave off.  I alluded, in my last memoir entry that meeting my ex-wife started off well, but then went downhill.  It started off positively, as all relationships do.  It was a bit of an odd one though, the night I met her, I wasn't where I was to actually meet her, if that makes sense! It probably doesn't, but I am going to explain, so settle back, get a coffee (or a beer, or glass of wine) and get ready for the story.

When I was younger, I was a fairly prolific pen-pal.  It started when I was at high school, when I signed up (via my German class) to a foundation called Youth International, and I was given a German pen pal (called Sandra Dollar, as I remember, although I can't remember where in Germany she lived - we wrote to each other sporadically for a few years, but, as is my wont, I tended to leave longer and longer gaps between my replies, before just stopping altogether) which prompted me to sign up for other pen pals.  One of the hard rock/heavy metal magazines of the time (the sadly missed Raw) had a section where you could sign up for pen-pals free.  Bear in mind, that this was before the explosion of the WWW, white mail was still the principle form of communication. Anyway, one of the pen pals I started writing too was called Wendy, and she lived in deepest, darkest Ayrshire.  After writing back and forth for a while, plans were made for a meeting, so with my best friend Ian in tow for support, we made the journey from Fife to Ayrshire in my trusty (who am I kidding, it was a wreck!) old Ford Escort.  We got there eventually, and I'm not going to lie, the night started badly. Firstly when Wendy answered the door, I didn't recognise her (the door opened, this sight loomed large, and I put on my most charming smile and politely enquired "Hi, is Wendy there?" only to be told "I am Wendy...". I rescued it though, "Cool, you are in then", followed by what I hoped was another winning smile!), then to add injury to insult, as I sat down to the repast which she had prepared (and was truly awful), the chair I picked promptly collapsed under me, and I wound up falling on the dog. That pretty much set the tone for the rest of the evening. We eventually wound up making our way into town, where Ian proceeded to get merrily rat arsed (leading to an encounter which has entered into our own particular folklore - Ian had disappeared, and I needed to have a slash, I walked into the gents in the pub to find Ian hunched over a sink. "I'm not being sick" he said, just as the guy who was standing at the urinal said "Aye, that's right pal, get it out, you'll feel better for it!"), and I proceeded to largely ignore Wendy all night (mostly because she was just an awful person, she had the charisma of a fart in an elevator) and concentrated on her cousin.  Had I known what the future was to hold, I'd have legged it there and then and walked back to Fife if I'd had to!

Shona and I started chatting, first on the phone, and then I agreed to make a return trip to Ayrshire, on my own this time, to spend the weekend down there, something which was to become a recurring feature for the next wee while.  Initially, it was all good - we only saw each other 2 days, so it was hard for it to be anything other than fun. I'm skipping over many of the unimportant details, but eventually I wound up buying a house, and we moved in together.  Almost immediately the slow, but terminal decline started. She didn't like my friends, so I hardly saw them. I had to spend time with her friends, but that deal didn't go both ways. To start with, she didn't work, but despite her doing pretty much nothing all day, I still made dinner when I got home from work (which actually worked out ok, sadly she had inherited her mother's cooking skills - that is to say, she had absolutely none), I did the housework whilst she, basically took up space.

Eventually, she wound up decreeing that we were getting married.  Why did she do that? Well, I bought myself a new PC. Her logic was that I got something I wanted, she decided she wanted a wedding, I wasn't really given much more than a fait accompli. It's probably telling that as I found myself standing at the top of the aisle (sorry, geek alert, but technically, the aisle isn't an aisle. If you look at the image to the right - the shaded areas are the aisles, the central walkway is.. well, the central walkway!  I'm here to educate as well as entertain!) I knew that it wouldn't work.  And so it came to pass.  By then, I had a reasonably senior job with British Aerospace (technically they were called BAE Systems, but they are better known as British Aerospace), which meant I was the senior buyer for a fairly large project which dealt with helicopter defensive systems.  One of the side effects of this was that I needed to work away from home.  A lot.  A typical week for me saw me in the Edinburgh office where I was based on the Monday, Tuesday to Thursday (inclusive) I'd be in the London office, Fridays I could be in either office.  On top of that I had to take regular trips elsewhere, including the US and Canada. Shona, my ex, used this time to conduct a series of illicit affairs.  By that time, the internet was in full swing, and my ex used it prodigiously to, it would appear, sleep with as many of the male members of the British population as she possibly could.

I found out about her infidelity by accident. I was able to conclude some meetings early, so I was able to switch my flights and get back a day earlier.  I got home, came in, and she was on the phone in the bedroom, talking to her sister about whatever guy she was banging at the time, totally oblivious to the fact that I'd entered. She seemed to be proud of the fact that I was unaware of her infidelity.  Needless to say she was somewhat perturbed to turn round and find me standing there.  Not long after, during my next trip out of the country on business, she departed.  That was the best part of 10 years ago now, and since that day, I have seen her once (she came back a few weeks later to pick up the last remaining things she wanted ). I have no desire to see her again, nor do I ever really think about her any more, beyond when I'm recounting my past for someone, or writing things like these.

Since then, my love life, and my work life, have seen ups and downs.  I wound up leaving BAE, which was a mistake, and taking a job with a company called Havelock, which was a bigger mistake.  I was employed to create a new sub-contract procurement department, but to say it didn't go well, is something of an understatement, so within 3 months I was handing back my company car and taking a job with a local ice hockey club, which was initially hugely enjoyable, but the good times there came to a shuddering halt when the league the team played in collapsed.  I stuck it out for another year, as the team went fully amateur, but I quickly discovered that no one wants to invest in an amateur team, so after a season which saw success on the ice matched by failure off the ice in the commercial department (which was me) the owners knew I wasn't the man for the job, I knew I wasn't the man for the job, so we parted company.

By then I was involved with an American girl, who was nothing like my ex, which was the attraction I think.  Sadly, however, when she got a student visa to come and live here, it was pretty clear that there were issues on both sides - she was way more controlling than I was used to (she would get stroppy if things weren't done her way, if I wasn't doing what she wanted, when she wanted it - she's since realised that herself, and is not anywhere near as bad now), whilst I just wasn't ready for another 'proper' relationship.  By this point, it was about 3 years or more since my ex wife and I split, and since then I'd gotten used to living on my own, so when Michelle came to live with me, I found myself being very... withdrawn, I think would be the most suitable term.  One of Michelle's constant accusations was that I was emotionally unavailable.  If I'm being honest, I probably was. The issues stored up in my head from the disintegration of my marriage rose from the murky depths, and ultimately, we split up.  Michelle moved back to the US, and we had at best sporadic contact for the next 18 months.  Slowly however, we sort of gravitated back into each other's lives, and more or less by default, got involved with each other again.  Then, Michelle, who was previously overweight, got gastriobaric surgery, lost a ton of weight, looked awesome, and then met someone else.  The distance between us (in terms of geography) became more and more of an issue, as she got more and more attention back home.

I think that makes a logical point to stop for the evening. So, I hope you have enjoyed this sojurn into the ups and downs of my recent history, at least as far as my love life goes!  Next time, we'll bring it up to date with what I've been up to over the past few short years.  It shouldn't take long.

We Interrupt This Programme...

If you are wondering what has happened to my life story, fear not, it will be back very very soon.  I was going to unleash the next section tonight, but a) I've not written it yet (I write these things on the fly, I don't have a pre-prepared article to post, it's all raw gold, people) and b) I need to rant.

I don't rant often (who am I kidding, I do it all the time), but when I do, there tends to be a fairly robust amount of swearing.  I can't help it, when I become indignant or enraged, I become a bubbling mass of profanity.

So, picture the scene.  I've been out in Dunfermline, making my weekly trip to take mother shopping.  As I was leaving, I drove out of the village, turned the corner and about 50 yards down the road, was a broken down car.  There was an elderly gentleman standing at the side of it, so I naturally stopped, asked if everything was ok - it was clear from 50 yards away that the old guy was in a bit of pain (unrelated to the current situation it turned out), and it transpired that his wife, also elderly, had been driving as the old guy had hurt his back and was under doctors orders not to drive.  Anyway, long story short, his wife had hit a curb in a fairly percussive fashion, and had blown the tyre out. I had a look, and right enough, there was a big gash in the type, and it was painfully obvious that the old guy was never going to get it changed.  So, again, not even thinking about it, I asked him if he had a spare, which he did,so I set about changing his tyre for him.  As I was busying away, we got to chatting, I'd assumed that he'd only just broken down.  But no, it turned out that he had been there for "oh, at least half an hour".

Now, this is not what could be called a quiet stretch of road. In the 10-15 minutes it took me to change the type, at least a dozen cars or more passed me, and I started to get more and more pissed off, not at the old guy, but at everyone else.  I'm not looking for anyone to tell me how good a person I am for helping the couple, I'm really not, I don't consider myself a good guy.  If I'm being honest, I'm probably a bit of a dick (I could list all the reasons why, but we'd be here a while), I didn't do it because I'm a good guy, I did it because it just would never cross my mind not to. In this kind of scenario, my thought process is:

1.  Does this guy need help?
2.  Can I help?
3.  Help the guy.

What pissed me off is that there must have been dozens of people who drove past in the 30 or so minutes that this poor old couple were stuck, surely the law of averages states that at least one of them would have the physical and mental ability to offer help.  Changing a tyre is not a tricky thing to do! I get why girls generally aren't keen/able to go it (although thinking about it, most of the girls I know who have cars probably would just roll their sleeves up and get on with it) - loosening the wheelnuts and jacking the car up does require a bit of grunt. But there is not one man I know who would not be able to change a tyre.

What kind of society are we breeding, where (lets be conservative) let's say 2 dozen people can drive past an elderly couple, clearly needing help, and have every single one of them choose (let's face it, it IS a choice) not to stop and at least check to see if there is something they need help with - even if they can't offer help, they could check that help's on it's way, they could offer to call someone for them.  But no, these guys were ignored for 30 minutes or so. on a day which had been punctuated by a number of thunderstorms.  Are we really now so craven a society where it doesn't even cross peoples mind that these old guys might need a hand?  Every single day, a little more of my faith in humanity is stripped away.  Today, I lost about a months worth.

At least some good came out of it, I got the chance to do a good deed, and yeah, know what, I felt pretty good about helping, the couple were more than grateful for the help, and my piece de resistance (spelled wrong, I know) came right at the end.  I got their wrecked tyre into the wheelwell of the car, got the jack back in, and the second I closed the boot, there came a loud peal of thunder.  Never before have I felt so manly. I pretty much had to stop myself turning and saying "The thunder god is pleased with this day, now bow before me, puny mortals!"

Seriously though, I fear there is going to be a day soon where I wake up, and find that I have no faith left in humanity.  I can see there being a news report on me not long after, which will end with the words "before turning the gun on himself".  If such a day comes, feel free to sell the story of how you knew me to the highest bidder.  Make stuff up!!

Anyway, normal service will soon be resumed.

Stuart 301 - The Wonder Years

Despite everything, I enjoyed my high school experience, certainly enough to sign on for the voluntary 6th year of high school.  To my eternal shame, I managed to fail Higher English the first time around, so I had to resit it (along with Chemistry, but I wasn't overly bothered about that, to be honest I re-sat it just to make up the minimum number of classes I had to take).  6th year was, if I'm being honest, pretty much irrelevant. I wasn't there 49% of the time.  Now, I know what you are thinking, you are tutting inside your head saying "what was the point of going back if you were going to play truant all the time".  Well, I have never once skipped school in my life. It turned out that when I took the classes I needed to either re-sit failed classes, or just take new ones for the heck of it, I filled 21 of the available 40 periods of class. Yes, I know that the 19 free periods I had is actually 47.5% of the time, not 49, but there will be no grading on this memoir. Thursdays, for example, were double Chemistry, single English and then... well, home. My classes for the day were done by first break.  I still don't know how I was able to get away with it.

But, like all good things, my reign of apathy at Queen Anne came to an end.  In time honoured fashion we congregated in the senior common room on our last day, having various pieces of furniture signed (bad luck to anyone who wanted to sit on a chair the day after we left school - I even think someone went home with the dart board), hanging out with our friends, promising each other that no matter what, when we left school we would absolutely stay in touch.  Then we left school and that was the last time any of us saw a fair proportion of each other! Take me, for example, probably an extreme example, but apart from my best friend (and fellow Portrait) Ian, I have not clapped eyes on any of my former classmates in 10 years or more. A couple of them are friends on FB (hi Bradders, Peggy, Weaver, Denise and Shaun!!), and there are tentative plans to meet up with Mark for a day's shooting at some point.  Who knows, maybe I'll wind up bumping into some more at some point!! I've not made a concerted effort to avoid anyone from school, it's just the path life has taken me.  I actually would quite like to meet up with some of the people from school I didn't hate (if you are on my FB page you can assume you are in that select group!).  Hopefully one day I will!  After I've lost more weight!!

So, glossing over a few bad decisions I made immediately after leaving school, it wasn't too long before I found myself thrust into the big bad world of employment.  My first stint was as a trainee HR administrator for Marconi Command and Control Systems (a company which, purely co-incidentally, no longer exists).  To say it was a bit of a culture shock, was something of an understatement.  Office politics was something I was at that point blissfully unaware of - that changed pretty damn quick!! I was the only guy (apart from the HR director, who had terrible halitosis and lived in his separate office) in an office full of women.  Sounds like fun? Yeah... not so much.  There were two clear factions - the HR Officer (although back in those times, HR was still called 'Personnel') and the training officer, versus the secretary, with the HR manager trying to keep out of it, mostly by shutting herself away in a meeting room.  Then of course, there was me. Stuck in the middle, sadly, not literally. Actually, there was one other male in the vague environs of the HR department.  There was an office which was more or less annexed into HR during a remodelling of the offices, which belonged to our legendary safety manager. Jim was indeed, a legend.  He came in one day saying "I'm sure I had something to do today..."  It turned out he was on holiday (and yes, I've done that too). He once dropped a car on his head, and fell down a hole holding something vaguely dangerous.  However, not long after I started (fresh of face, 17 years old, naive in the ways of the world, really) Jim, who was something of a letch had been caught looking at the secretary's admittedly ample bosom.  Just as I walked round the corner I was treated to the sight of once fairly animated secretary rip open her blouse to expose her breastal corsetry with an exclamation of "There you f**king go, have you had a good enough look now???".  I didn't know where to look (well, I did, but I didn't want to be obvious in case I was next in the firing line), Jim, I don't think ever moved as quickly before or since as he did that day when he bolted to his office.  The next day when I came in, the secretary had a bunch of flowers on her desk.  No prizes for guessing who sent those!

When my time as a trainee in HR ended, I was moved to QA, where I wound up doing a whole bunch of stuff, until my temporary contract came to an end and I found myself looking for a job.  Fortunately, I was lucky enough to have made a couple of contacts with agencies when I was in HR, and I wound up getting what turned out to be almost 5 years worth of continuous temporary work with an agency called Bordax (who, again purely co-incidentally don't exist any more).  It was during this time that I was able to accumulate a wealth of experience in a number of fairly diverse jobs.  Looking back, I am actually fairly glad that I had that period in my life, by the time I thought about settling down I'd managed to knock off most of my rougher edges and had started to develop into a much more rounded (although at that point, not round - that came later, sadly) and more driven person.  I'd acquired a lot of knowledge which had stood me in good stead in later years and in retrospect, wouldn't change this part of my life. I worked for defence companies (well, the Dockyard in Rosyth, where I think everyone in Fife has worked at some point or another), the oil industry (that opened my eyes!! That could be a whole chapter on it's own!), construction, each job gave me new skills and new ways of approaching obstacles in my path.

On the downside, it was during this phase in my life that I drifted away from many the friends I had from school, as I previously said, not intentional, just the way things happened.  I regret that part, although at the time, it didn't really cross my mind.  During the week I worked, at the weekend I went out usually with Ian and Shaun, we got drunk, tried to pull the ladies, mostly failed (some things never change, sadly!!), went to concerts, played squash, played pool, drank some more. The usual. Good times.

The good times of course, couldn't last forever, and before long, my life was about to change, initially for the better, or so I thought, but ultimately, for the much worse.  I was about to make the 3rd cardinal mistake of my life (and yes, I know I've not divulged what numbers 1 and 2 were, hey, I gotta keep some air of mystery about me).  I was about to meet the woman who was destined to become my ex wife.

If  crappy dramas in TV have taught me anything, it's that it is always best to leave your audience with a cliffhanger. So, with that in mind, tune in (probably) tomorrow for Stuart 401 - The Wilderness Years.