Brad C Nesbitt...

Introduction (mainly for my overseas readership).

Rab C Nesbitt is the name of a Scottish sitcom based in Govan, Glasgow. The Rab of the title is an unemployed alcoholic delinquent, married to the long suffering 'Mary-doll', and father to two sons, Burnie (deceased) and Gash. It's a comic look at the Glaswegian underclass, and is one of the most popular shows ever produced by BBC Scotland.

When I was out with my friend Mark the other night, I happened to mention that I'd been in Glasgow during the filming of Brad Pitt's movie, and mentioned my confusion as to how it was more economically viable to turn Glasgow into a reproduction of Philadelphia. We came to the conclusion that Glasgow was picked so Angelina could go shopping for a Weegie (vaguely derogatory term for Glaswegian) orphan. That took root in my warped little mind – Brangelina adopt what they are told is an unwanted Weegie baby, only for a 20-something year old ned (Non Educated Delinquent) to turn up, Angelina not having read the adoption pack properly, because it was written in broad Scots, and she couldn't understand it.

Hilarity ensues.

Then, whilst waiting for Mark to return from the bar, the idea struck me that it could be a funny sitcom or comic strip. So, me being me, I had a quick bash at something... I'm not sure the best way to do it properly, part of me thinks a comic strip is the way to go, maybe once I've fleshed out the idea I will...

In the meantime... read on...

Prelude

Brad and Angelina are recumbent in their luxurious Beverly Hills mansion, but somewhat bored. Brad is reading through a check list, when Angelina asks “what are you doing?”

Brad looks up and says “Oh, I'm just doing an inventory and also thinking about what I'm going to do next, I have some scripts to read through, there's one I like, it's a zombie thing, but it's set in Philadelphia, and we can't get a permit, and we can't go back to Vancouver, you know, after you tired to adopt what you thought was an inuit kid, turned out to be the mayor's mistresses daughter or whatever.” Angelina looks coldly at him “it was an easy mistake to make! Anyway, what are you inventorying?”. Brad goes back to his list “I'm just ticking off the kids – we have a black one, a couple of Asian ones, and a bunch of white ones, I think we have a decent selection. A latino one would be nice, but we can't go back to Mexico because of the time you....” Angelina jumped in, getting angry, “That could have happened to anyone!! How the hell was I supposed to know that midget wresting was all the rage there!” She looked over at the pictures of the kids. “All our white kids are a bit bland... They are all blonde, we need something else, something to match the drapes. Ooooooooh, I know, I watched The Simpsons the other night, they have a Scotch guy on their, Groundskeeper Cocky I think his name was, he had red hair, the drapes are maroon, we need a Scotch kid! They must all be red haired. I know all about Scotchland, they have wild haggises, and all the guys wear skirt things, you know, like you tried once, but somehow they still look like guys, and they fry everything, even their pepsi, I heard that. There's a place called Edinburg, which I think is like Pittsburgh, so it stands to reason that if that's like Pitts, then the other city... ummm... I think it's called Glass Cow, something like that anyway, that's gotta be like Philly. Call your agent”.

Brad looked up, ready to challenge her, before recognising the look in her eyes. There was no point. If he wanted sex again this side of the rapture (which, he thought at times like these, couldn't come quick enough) then he had no choice. “Ok” he sighed, “Get number 4 to get me the phone”. “Brad! They have names you know!!”. Brad looked over. “Ok, tell me the name of kid number 4?”. Angelina thought for a second. “Ok, you win this time! FOUR!!!! GET DADDY THE PHONE, we're going to Scotchland!”

Several Months Later

Glasgow is in turmoil. When the city council got a letter from a fancy Hollywood studio asking if they could essentially shut down the city centre of the biggest city in Scotland, the only question they asked was “how long fir, and how much are ye givin us, cash wise?”. Once that was sorted out, which was done in record time, it was all systems go.

With Brad safely ensconced in his trailer, Angelina went shopping. Her first, and as it would turn out, only stop was “Honest Jim's Emporium of Second Hand Children”, which was purported to be “the best place tae get yer new and used bairns”, if only by 'Honest' Jim himself. He couldn't believe his luck when Angelina Jolie turned up one day to ask for a look at the catalogue. This surprised Jim, mostly because he didn't have a catalogue, but, in the fashion of the Glaswegian wide-o that he was, he wasn't long in making up a tale to tell. “Ach, hen, I'd love tae gie you a swatch, sorry, a gander, sorry hen, ah dinnae get many Septics in here, eh, sorry, you'll no ken 'the patter', it's a bit like the pish they spout in London, the auld cockney slang and that, only oors is hunners better. So, a septic tank, is a yank, see”. Jolie was confused, but thought to herself, well, this guy is as Scotchish as I'm going to get, so I must be on to a winner” By this time, Jim's weasel mind had started to work overtime. “Aye, see what it wiz, have jist been able tae get that many bairns shifted, ye ken whit it's like, ye shift a bairn on tae some cun... erm.. couple, they are that made up, they tell their pals, so they want yin tae, then they tell aw their pals, before ye ken, yer firin' oot bairns left right and centre”. Angelina looked crestfallen. “Does that mean you don't have anything up for adoption just now? I've got my heart set on a poor Scotchish red haired orphan”. Jim scratched his chin. “Ah'll see whit ah can dae for ye. Come back here the morra and I'll sort ye somethin oot.”

The Next Day

Right on cue, Angelina wandered into Honest Jims. “Ah, Ms Jolie hen, it's your lucky day, Honest Jim has pulled oot aw the stops and ah've got ye a red haired orphan. It's a boy, he'll be ready by the end of the day, aw a need ye tae dae is hae a gander at the contract, sign yer name, hand over the dosh, and the lucky young fella is yours tae tak hame wi ye the night!”

Jolie's eyes lit up. “Can I have a look at him?”. Honest Jim looked her right in the eye and said “See, if it wiz up tae me hen, absolutely, but see, it's the Scottish parliament, they hiv this thing aboot discrimination, you might have seen something aboot it in the paper”. Angelina actually did, “Oh yeah, I read this morning that there's some kind of problem with the Rangers and the Celtics, although I thought one was a hockey team and the other a basketball team, so I don't know what that is all about”. “Aye hen, that's the hing, there's a lot of that going aboot, so the government, see, they are trying to make it hard on honest traders like my good self, I'd be all for letting you have a gander at the young fella, but then I'd be breaking the law see, at the same time they said we couldnae hae a fag in the boozer, all of a sudden we couldnae let guid folks like yersel see the bainr before hand, cause see, you might be a Rangers wumman, and the bairn might come fae a Celtic family, so then you'd be all “och, ahm no havin' a Celtic bairn”, and then cause I let you see it, then I'd get the jail for putting you in that tricky position, so ye see hen, it's aw doon tae the government”.

“Ok” said Angelina, “I kinda see where you are coming from, but hey, you advertise yourself as honest, and you are certainly Scotchish, so yeah, let me read the contract and if that's all good, I'll sign”.

Honest Jim smiled his best, gap-toothed smile. “Nae bother doll. Gie me two shakes of the old tallywhacker, I'll be right back...”

TO BE CONTINUED...

To sleep, perchance to dream...

 

Dreams are strange things. At least mine are. To call them abstract would be doing them a disservice. For the vast majority of the time I can't remember my dreams, I keep meaning to leave a notepad and pen at the side of my bed, but every now and again, I have a dream of such bizarre majesty that it remains imprinted upon my psyche long enough for me to remember at least the key points.

Take last night, for example. I had one of my more strange dreams. I don't remember many of the details, but unusually I do remember some. The summary would be thus:

I was in a band, and we were playing with Slayer. We had got to the end of the set, and we started playing Reign in Blood (I remember a set of stepladders being involved for some odd reason) and we were playing with such ferocity and intensity, that we essentially destroyed the planet. All was not lost, however, as we were given the chance to terraform the planet again. The next thing I remember was wandering around the planet (which was now the size of a large field), trying to find the incorporeal beings who were busy rebuilding the planet (at an enhanced pace). These beings were busy knocking together some pyramids, but were open to my ideas. Before I knew it, the planet was covered in grass and some trees were starting to sprout, and I was in negotiations with the planet next door, trying to get them to flood a field so I could use it to irrigate my planet. I don't remember much else, other than there was a giant toad which was evolving into something else, someone (I think it may have been Tom Araya from Slayer) tried to catch it, and it evolved in mid-hop, so all that was left in the other guy's hand was one giant toad leg.

I've had other strange dreams which I still remember fleeting glimpses of, such as the dream where I shaved a gorilla (a big gorilla at that!), the dream where I was elected Pope, despite telling everyone that I wasn't religious, let alone catholic, but they wouldn't listen, and then, as I was preparing for the Urbi et Orbi speech so favoured by new popes, the devil tried to break into my office at the Vatican, and I remember standing there with my papal staff, wearing the big hat and all the vestments, banging my staff on the floor as the devil tried to break the doors down, and giving it my best Gandalf-like “By the power vested in me, you shall not enter!”. I don't remember anything after that, but I'm going to assume that I defeated the devil and went on to become a great and respected pope. Can you imagine me as pope... It really doesn't bear thinking about.

The other dream I remember is probably the most interesting and thought provoking dream I can remember having. A few months ago, I woke up having had the most vivid dream I could ever recall, and the memory was in a level of detail I don't normally have. The dream started with my death, which in itself is not as unusual as people think, people often have dreams which involve the shedding of their mortal coil, psychologists and dreamologists (a word I would like to think I've just made up, but I'm sure there are people, somewhere, who refers to themselves as dreamologists) say that it refers to a desire for change, self discovery, some kind of transformation, and who knows, they may even be right. Anyway, I died, and then found myself, still recognisibly me, in a graveyard which was filled with glowing balls of light, which at first frightened me, and I tried to run away from them but was then given the knowledge (I know not how) that the lights weren't to be feared, but embraced, so I stopped running and turned around to start walking through the graveyard (which was the graveyard at Dunfermline Abbey). As I walked through, the lights moved away to let me pass, until I came to one particular light which didn't move, and I somehow knew that I was to walk into the light, which I duly did. I clearly remember the light enveloping me, and I then (in the dream) closed my eyes for what somehow felt like just a second, and an eternity at the same time. When I opened my eyes again I was in 'spirit' form and was looking at a 6 month old baby in a supermarket, the baby's dad was standing behind the pram, as it's mother was bagging groceries at the checkout. I then remember, with staggering clarity, instinctively knowing that my spirit or soul (call it what you will) was there to inhabit the body of the baby so that the circle of life could start again. I also knew instinctively that the reason I was about to merge with a 6 month old baby, was that it took 6 months after birth for the baby's neural pathways to mature to a point where they could handle having a soul. I clearly remember my incorporeal form dissolving and melting into the baby I was looking at. The baby closed it's eyes as I disappeared into it's head, and then when it opened them again, it was me looking through them, looking up at my new parents, knowing that I would never consciously remember my previous existence, but that somewhere, somehow, the me that is here at the moment, would always be there, along with all the souls which formed part of the current me.

I'm not, as I have already stated, religious, nor am I any kind of spiritual, but I remember waking up at the end of that dream with a sense of unusual calm and peace. It was the most bizarre sensation.

It certainly was different from dreams of gorilla shaving!

The Unwritten Rules

It is accepted that to live in an ordered and civilised society, we need rules and regulations, laws by which we live. After all, to quote the great mage Al Murray, where would we be if we lived somewhere with no laws? That's right, France.  Not all of these rules, however, are written down, some are passed through the generations by words and deeds, some are just inherent. I shall describe some for you now.

1. Thou Shalt Not Nail Thy Best Friend's Ex or Sister

This is one of the inherent ones. It's just a no-no.  There is one, and only one exception - you may, with clear conscience sleep with your best friend's sister, if you were already sleeping with her before you became best friends, in other words, if you were introduced to your best friend by his sister, whom you were already making the beast with two backs with, that's fine. In all other circumstances, absolutely not.  There is never any instance where it is permissible to bang your best friend's ex, regardless of how long ago they were together (please note, by 'ex' I mean someone he's gone out with for a period of time, if it's just a former FANTA (one of life's great acronyms, meaning 'F**k And Never Touch Again'), then still best avoided, but permissable.

2.   Thou Shalt Not Cry at Chick Flicks

For a start, I'm going to assume that you are watching a chick flick with your other half, and even then only on the understanding that there will be a suitable naughty reward at the end of it. Anyway, yeah, don't cry.  Don't get caught into the trap of thinking "it will show her how sensitive I am", your GF doesn't want that, for sensitivity she will have her female friends, or gay male friends, no, if you cry at a chick flick (yes, even Marley and Me, which I'm lead to believe was sad, not having seen it) then you are one step away from blubbing during Extreme Makeover: Home Edition, or News at Ten. No one wants a man who cries at random TV shows.

3.  Toilet Etiquette At Work

Few people realise just how complex toilet etiquette at work really is.  There are so many rules, guidelines, things you must do, things you must never do, it would probably take an entire blog on it's own to list them all, so I will stick with the main ones.

* Location, Location, Location

Where possible, you must always leave a cubicle between you, and any other occupant. Same for urinals. If you are first in, then you must take a cubicle/urinal at the end of the row, maximising the opportunities for gap-leaving should someone else come in, for example:

|-----|-----|-----|-----|-----|
|  X  |       |  Y  |       |  Z  |

If you are first in, you take position X.  If you are second in, you take position Z, and if you are 3rd, then the only permissible position left for you is Y.  Experienced toilet goes who come in to find positions X, Y and Z already filled are adept at finding ingenious ways of passing time until one of the positions becomes vacant, the true experts can make it look like the whole reason for their trip to the toilet was to check their tie was straight, pluck an imaginary stray hair from their nostrils, wash their hands, making it look like having a slash/dump, was a mere afterthought.  It is acknowledged that desperate times call for desperate measures, so, if the call of nature is more of a scream, then you may assume one of the normally prohibited positions.

* Consider Others

If you are making a sizeable deposit, or if it is a particularly vicious ring-stinger, then it is the custom to employ the technique known as a 'courtesy flush' after the first 10 minutes, thus ensuring that the noxious vapours don't disturb other patrons too much.

* No Small Talk

One of the biggest faux pas one can make in a communal lavatory is to try and engage in small talk. At no point is it acceptable to conduct a conversation within the confines of the lav.  If you are at the sink, washing your hands a cursory nod and monosyllabic grunt of acknowledgement will suffice.  It can't be stated enough that, unless it is for reason of dire emergency, invoking any kind of communication whilst in a cubicle or even worse, standing at the urinal, is one of the most cardinal of sins.

There are only 2 exceptions to this rule. If your trip to the cubicle has been particularly virulent, and you failed to undertake your pre-dump checks and are only noticing now that you are out of paper, then it is permissible to request some, however, this must be in the form of a general request, and not explicitly directed to the adjacent cubicle.  An example of what is permitted:

"Och, there's nae f**kin paper in here, someone fling me a roll ower the door, eh" (if the particular establishment you are visiting doesn't provide rolls, rather individual sheets, then you can say "... gawny goan shove some sheets under the door").

And, forbidden would be:

[knock on the cubicle wall] "Haw pal, you goat ony paper in there you can geez a shot of".

If the adjacent cubicle has an occupant (in line with the occupancy rules identified above) and he is addressed directly, if he is one who adheres to the laws of the loo, he will ignore your direct request.  However, any man who is in the bog and hears a general request for paper, is obliged to reply. After all, one day, it could be you.

* Eyes Front and Centre

If you are standing at a urinal and the one next to you happens to become occupied, then you must not make anything even vaguely like eye contact with the occupant - after all, he won't want to be right beside you any more than you want him to be where he is. Find a spot on the wall, at eye level and immediately in front of you and focus upon it with a stare of such intensity that there is a risk the tiles may fracture out of sheer awkwardness.

There is never, and will never be, any excuse for casting your eyes upon any part of the physiology of your unfortunate neighbour.  Even when you have finished that task in hand (so to speak!), you must shake and return the python to it's lair without casting as much as a glance anywhere other than the point on the wall which has been your focus of attention throughout. Then, when all is done, you may leave the locale of the urinal, you must turn away from your neighbour, and head straight for the sink, having picked one out and focussed upon it for the duration of the journey.

If you are stuck in the middle, and you finish first, then basically, you are screwed, it would serve you right for not adjusting the flow to do all in your power to ensure that one of your co-urinators finishes first.

* More Than 2 Shakes...

One must ensure that when shaking the old tallywhacker at the end of a shift, that one doesn't go overboard. Ideally, you want a maximum of amplitude, with a minimum of wavelength, in other words, short but vigorous! A couple of shakes should prove to be sufficient, you must be wary of being one of those who stands there for 30 seconds or more, furiously thrashing his member back and forth like he was trying to use it as a helicopter rotor.  The male rule of thumb is thus - Anything more than 2 shakes, is a w*nk!


There are rules a plenty still to come, so check back for the next instalment!

Move over Delia...

For dinner tonight, I had very nice scrambled eggs, with ham, mushroom, onion grated cheese, and spiced up a little with a healthy dose of turmeric, mixed herbs, the ubiquitous salt (sea salt, of course) and pepper, served with a salad.  Yeah, check me, healthy as shit huh!

It was very nice, although I have to be honest, and say that I was aiming for an omelette, it turned into scrambled eggs when it became clear that the whole omelettey idea wasn't quite panning out as I planned.  The last time I tried to make an omelette (as an aside, has that first 'e' always been there in omelette?? I could have sworn it was spelled omlette... maybe that's the American way (although I'm sure that's omlet - maybe I'm just getting senile)) it wound up being the consistency of something Jenson Button could have thrown on his car and driven round the track. Let's face it, the fat lad here, can't do omelettes.

I like to cook, occasionally, although as my eggy disasters demonstrate, I'm not what you'd call a culinary master. I like to blame the tiny tiny kitchen my flat has, but in reality, I'm just not a great cook, although part of me for some reason, and despite all evidence pointing to the contrary, thinks that I could be a decent cook.

I need to cook more - part of my being the size of a manatee is down to my living for years on pizza, curry, Chinese takeaways, chip shop food, basically everything that is bad for me, in portions which would have choked a horse. I have to admit, I'm finding it hard to get out of the mindset which says "ach, stuff it, I'm phoning the Spice of Life for a carry-oot", although I know it would be much better for me. Take tonight's repast - pretty healthy, ok, eggs are high in cholesterol, but there are worse things, cheese is high in fat, but I didn't have that much, the processed ham would have been better had it been something, well, something not processed, but other than that, fresh onion, fresh mushroom, cooked with a mere waft of extra virgin olive oil in the pan, and to top it all, a salad. Yeah, you read that right, salad. It may not have been what I was planning to make, but what eventually got served up was pretty tasty (if not pretty on the plate!) and I liked it.

I have a whole list of things I want to try cooking, high amongst them at the moment is Chicken Adobo, which is a Filipino dish, involving chicken, vinegar, garlic, bay leaf, soy sauce, a vague concoction of spices, served on rice.  It sounds interesting, and most importantly, fairly straightforward, which is essential with me!

I do a decent attempt at a chilli, when I put my mind to it, with my (not so) secret ingredient - a glass of bourbon thrown in as it's bubbling away. I picked that tip up from a chef in a Mexican restaurant in the US.  I don't like kidney beans (the legume of Beelzebub) so I use normal haricot beans in their stead, and throw in some mushrooms to bulk it out, and generally, it's pretty darn good, although I never seem to get portions right, so any time I wind up making chilli, it tends to be what I have for dinner every night.  For the next month.

I will cook more, I have decided.  I liked making my simple meal tonight, it's inspired me to try other stuff.

I'll keep you updated!

The Gift of Quality

I've been on something of a West Wing marathon tonight.  The only DVD box set I have is The West Wing, and every now and again I'll wind up picking a few episodes and watch them.  Every time I do, I'm struck by just how well written and acted everything is.  As far as I'm concerned, it's the zenith of TV drama.  It has characters you buy into, stories which engage you, dialogue which is just fantastic, and is far and away, my favourite TV show, pretty much ever.

Watching the West Wing also makes me feel a little bit down.  Why?  Because I know I'll never create anything of that quality in my life.  It's something of a recurring theme for me, my ambitions are sadly not matched by my ability.  As I've said before in a blog, I've always had a vague idea that I'd like to be a writer, sadly, my literary skills are, at best, poor, at worst, embarrassing. I don't have the imagination of a Pratchett or Gaiman, I don't have the knack of writing witty and engaging prose of a Bryson. Sucks to be me, huh!

I have ideas all the time, I could be driving along the road and snippets of dialogue will occur to me, I could be thinking about something, or someone, and I will have imaginary conversations in my head, but somehow, when I try to write these down and then spin them into something coherent, it just doesn't happen for me.

Something similar happens when I press the button on my camera. I have ideas for grand images in my head, but somehow, when I come to take the picture, I just can't make the jump.  The effect is that reviewing my pictures tends to be an exercise in constant disappointment.

I fear, I am doomed to live a live of mediocrity. I am able to string a few words together, every now and again I get something decent, but for the vast majority of the time, my writing is bland, and very, very average.  Same with photographs, every now and again I will come up with something good (as can be seen with the photoshoot I did a couple of weeks ago, I actually got a few good shots out of it, which is something of a first for me, although that was mostly down to the model rather than me), but it's mostly very much 'meh'.

I am very jealous of those who are touched by genius, those who are able to write well, take amazing photographs, write beautiful songs. I wish I was one of them.

Sadly, I am not.

Projects, projects everywhere, and Still my Mind did Shrink...

I've got it into my head, that I need another project, something else to do. Despite Operation Diet 2.0 being on the go, despite my practicing for The Portraits, despite my finally picking up my camera and firing it in anger for the first time in months, the compound manner of my mind is working to persuade me that I need to do something else.


For months (actually, probably years), I've had a notion of writing and filming a short movie. As it stands it would be a very short movie, lacking as it does script, actors, or indeed, camera upon which to film.  I don't have any firm ideas for a movie, no thoughts of a plot, settings, characters or anything else, other than the desire to do it. This desire has been joined of late to make some kind of 'webumentary' (which I'm sure has to be an actual word by now, if it isn't, you read it here first, folks!) series, although again, I'm not sure what about, although I did have a vague idea that doing a 'Rough Guide to Fife' might be fun.


The idea would be to drive around Fife, go to some of the little villages which never really get mentioned (and of course, those who do) and just do a 5-10 minute piece on some interesting, and hopefully funny, facts about the place.  This idea was inspired in no small part by Anstruther. Home of the famous chippy.  Not only is Anstruther (or Ainster, if you are a local) famous for the Anstruther Fish Bar (which has been visted by royalty, Hollywood superstars and, of course, me), but it was, in the 18th century, also the home of 'The Beggar's Benison', or to give it it's full name, The Most Ancient and Most Puissant Order of the Beggar's Benison and Merryland, Anstruther. It was a gentleman's club, devoted to 'the convivial celebration of male sexuality', so in other words, a good old shaggin' club!  It had the worthies of the locale as it's members, and would meet to dine, to drink and to swap bawdy tales, review the cub stock of pornography. Remember, these were the dark days before the Internet, before VCRs, before 8mm projectors, hell, before Daguerrotypes, even (as an aside, how long do you think it was after Louis Daguerre invented his photographic process before he was round at a local girl's going "awww, come one, it'll be artistic, honest, I won't show them to anyone else, you can keep your skirt on, just whip your top off...").  The club also had "Posture Girls" who were there for the members to look at. Anyone think that look was all they did? Nah, me neither.


One of the most bizarre rituals was the initiation of new members, which involved, I'm sure amongst much else, the new initiate to be 

"...prepared in a closet, by causing his penis to be propelled to full erection. When it was thus ready, he was escorted with with four puffs of the breath-horn before the brethren and Knighthood, and was ordered by the Sovereign to place his genitals upon the Testing Platter, which was covered by a folded white napkin. The members and Knights two and two came round in a state of erection, and touched the novice tip to tip..."

Needless to say, you don't get that carry on at the local golf club!  It's these stories and anecdotes which I think are worth telling. Little snippets of history, which show some of the characters of the time. Another example would be a little known nail-maker from Easy Wemyss, who, when his livelihood was ruined by the industrialisation of the nailmaking industry, upped his family and decanted them into one of the famous Wemyss Caves in the 18th century.

The more I think about it, the more I quite like the idea. It would give me the chance to do some research, find out some interesting but pointless trivia (something which I'm sure everyone who knows me will agree, I have some kind of innate capacity for pointless trivia!), and who knows, something vaguely entertaining may come out as a result.

Anyone fancy joining me on this little venture?

 

On this Day...

September 11, 2001, is a day which will resound through history, it is the 'day of infamy' of our generation.

No one will forget where they were when the attacks happened - I was in a meeting at work, which was eventually postponed so that we could go for security briefings (I worked for a defence manufacturing company at the time).  I remember watching the news on the big TV in the foyer in a stunned silence, unable, and perhaps unwilling, to believe what I was seeing.

It's no secret that I am a huge fan of the US. I love visiting the US, I had a long relationship with an American girl (who is also the only one of my exes I'm still on speaking terms with), if I though I could get a visa, I'd be on a plane tomorrow.  I remember watching the news feeling in turns sad, angry, disbelieving, incredulous, a whole tumult of emotions. I knew lots of Americans, both through work, and socially, and I knew that no matter what I felt, I wouldn't be feeling a fraction of what they were going through.

It doesn't seem like 10 years ago - I remember the feelings I had driving home, I remember thinking that the world had changed.

I'm not the worlds greatest poet, I'm not even average, I'm poor at best, but every now and again, I get the desire to write something.  I've created a little tribute to the victims of that terrible day.  I wish it were better, a better and more fitting tribute to them, but sadly, my meagre talents prevent it being so.  Nonetheless, I want to give it, regardless of it's poor standard, on this day, I feel it's important to show any tribute to them.

We turn our eyes unto the heavens 

Our thoughts out to the stars

We turn our memories to who were lost

Our anger at the scars

At 8:46, the world did change

The horror played out on TV 

But some how not yet real 

Our souls filled with the eerie sound 

Of silence after destruction's peal 

At 9.03, the world did change

Reality returns, we realise what's seen 

So we stood in awe, and we stood in fear 

We asked ourselves 'why'

Thinking of those that we hold dear 

At 9.37, the world did change

We will not forget them 

Though we may not know their names 

Honour the sacrifice of all those who 

Stood tall and railed against the flames 

At 9.59, the world did change

The darkness of the world unleashed 

The evil that men do 

But a nation great was so misjudged 

For pride and courage were born anew 

At 10.03, the world did change

2977 lives were lost 

2977 no longer see the morn' 

2977 stars new in the sky 

2977 angels born 

At 10.28, the world did change

10 years have passed, both quick and slow 

What was seen that day, never forgot 

The rending of our innocence 

We'd turn back time, but we cannot 

On 9/11, the world did change

 They won't be forgotten. My thoughts to them. My thoughts to the United States of America.