Oh hello!

I'm now three weeks into my American adventure and, as expected, it still doesn't feel like I live here, and working from home is weird.

I think both are connected in weirdness, because I reckon that as soon as I get a job here I'll actually feel like I'm in a different place. See, I'm living in a house with the same family I was living in a house with for the previous seven years (minus the one year that I was on my own) and without the ability to drive around, I'm pretty much in the house all day, every day. Then in the mornings I take the short walk (across the hallway) to work, and speak to the same people I've been speaking to for the last year, and in some cases deal with the same shit. Dealing with shit is easier when your thousands of miles away, but I'm still too much of a wuss to deliver a transatlantic "fuck you".

The driving is coming along nicely, I've had a few lessons, and driving an automatic is like driving a dodgem car, especially driving in Tipton County, it really is like driving at the fairground. I've taken to driving on the wrong (right) side of the road, with only one blemish so far, when I defaulted to the left coming out of the Dollar General car park, but that was early on in my journey and since then I've done pretty well, scaring the shit our of my wife aside. It doesn't build confidence when your driving instructor ducks when you're passing another vehicle, but we're getting there. I plan to try and get a test in before xmas, and I'll just keep bloody taking them until I pass.

I also got 100% on my driving knowledge test. I like getting good marks in tests, I am excellent at (written) tests and always have been, but that is due to me memorising stuff for a day and forgetting it forever. Anyway,  is was kind of humiliating when the driving department lady raved about my marks and how clever I am...for passing a test at 31 that most people take when they're 16. So I have my learners permit, which is also OK for ID, so I can buy beer now, if someone can drive me to the beer shop.

This place is a shady place though with the usual small town politics. Some person who got done for stealing public money gets a job managing public money, old folk get jobs because they know other old folk, someone needs to teach me the special handshake :-)  People also say "I want you to" rather than "can you" which isn't shady, but I don't like it, it's impolite. There is an underlying cuntiness about some folk that I have yet to get used to. It's probably unfair to call people I don't know cunts, especially when they don't understand that this can be an endearing term in my home country, because they can't help it.

There has been a tinge of music based homesickness, as I've been listening to Teenage Fanclub and the Delgados a lot recently. Two bands that I've always appreciated, but barely listened to before about two weeks ago. You'd love them too. I also listened to the Scottish music CD my colleagues gave me as a leaving present. Scottish people only listen to this music when they are away from home. The only people who listen to this in Scotland are tourists and people who are attending weddings. Here's some for you to enjoy:

Busy doing nothing - 8 Days

And now I am getting to that moment where it seems like I have absolutely bloody no time to do anything I need to do. Which in fact is nothing, but I know that there must be stuff for me to do because you don’t just sit around for a week before moving to another country.

I did re-pack at the weekend, and now I have got a potential four suitcases down to two, plus a carry-on. I’ll pack/throw out all but one set of work clothes tomorrow night, along with about half of the remaining clothes.

I’m pulling together some handover stuff for work, where I finish this Wednesday, but I’m only taking a week and a half’s holiday, because I’ll be back doing the same job soon enough, just in my home office. It’s nice that I can say I’ll sort that out when I’m back, but it’s also shit that I can’t say “fuck it” someone else will do it, like a long line of my predecessors have.

I’ve cleared out my desk, and have completed one of the bids I had to do before going, and should send out another tomorrow. Then I have to make sure everything is where it should be and that anything that should be with anyone else finds its way to them. I also have to factor in saying goodbye to everyone, eating cakes, and paying my last four or five visits to our very own Costa Coffee, where either Mary can serve me cappuccino flavoured lava, or Helen can somehow work her magic to make milk colder using steam.

From Wednesday onwards it will be the final run of goodbyes and see you laters, with my farewell to Fir Park, both my Grandad’s, all of my Motherwell family, my best mate, and Onesti’s chip shop to take place on Wednesday/Thursday. Friday has been left open for whatever, then on Saturday it’s the last football game and day/night out with my brother, and on Sunday its dinner with the family. Oh, and the pub quiz where we will exact our revenge on the milk drinking wankers that won last night.

Monday will be relatively quiet with some last minute preparations, including checking in online at 6am, and then it will be the dreaded goodbyes to Mum, Lauren, Stuart and Sheona. Onto Tuesday morning where Dad will drop me off at Edinburgh International Airport, we’ll do our manly goodbyes. Then it’s check-in, bathroom,  two mushroom and swiss cheese muffins, bathroom, security, shoes off, laptop out, shoes on, laptop in, bathroom, bottle of water, bathroom, board one and a bit hour flight to Amsterdam, pretzels, coffee, land, check into, Yotel, nap, security, shoes off, laptop out, bag searched, tetris bag back together, shoes on, laptop in, board nine hour flight to Memphis, no nap, shite food that I secretly like, beat someone at bejewelled, drink some free beer, land, customs-greencard-easy, pick up baggage, security, drop baggage again, smell BBQ, make my way to baggage reclaim, walk past Cassie and Davie, they find me, we all hug, get my bags, get in the car and forget that we even spent the last year mainly apart.

So I haven’t left myself too much time to fit in anything that I’ve missed, including the dentist, buying some gifts for my lovely colleagues, visiting my old neighbour, saying goodbye to my guitar, buying some new British clothes, and stockpiling marmite and chocolate.

Sometimes there isn't much to say - 12 Days

One thing that may hinder my getting on with the Americans is my relative quietness compared to them. OK Americans are stereotypically loud anyway, and us Brits are known for being a wee bit more reserved, but I'm generally on the quiet side even for a Scotsman.  I'm not shy or nervous, and don't have a lack of things to say. I have a shitload of opinions about everything. I'm just really not that fussed about talking a lot of the time. Quiet is nice. I also like thinking a lot, just not clever type thinking, I usually just do that when I get paid for it. 

I really am only writing about this subject because I have fuck all to blog about today. As with this here blog, when I do talk it tends to be bollocks, and a lot of it.  I got my birthday out of the way with no issues, and the day after is nearly done, so that only leaves 12 days of potential screw up. 

A plane nearly crashed in Singapore today, and someone asked me if that worried me, totally distracting me from trying to figure out if I'd seen the girl from Black Sheep somewhere before(the killer sheep movie, not the Spade/Farley one), imdb didn't throw anything up, so I guess she just looks like someone, which means there's no chance of figuring it out since I'm not really good with faces, I worry that I'll walk past people I know in the street because I forgot what they look like. I'd find them if I was looking for them though. 

Sorry Kevin

I'm so much worse with names, I used to speak to a colleague every day about stuff, and the fact he used to play cricket for my team back in the day. It took me about four years to figure out his name. It was kind of embarrassing asking another colleague who he was, when most of the time they saw the guy he was talking to me. I did try going through the cricket club archives to no avail. His name was Kevin, fuck knows what he looks like. That reminds me of someone who constantly called me John, despite being one of few Colin's in the organisation, and definitely the only one in the office. I even had people shout across the office at me when she was there, hoping it would click. The kind of thing Kevin should really have done for me really. Didn't work though.

She reminded me of the dizzy mum in Shaun of the Dead, a great movie, but I wish less people would like it. I was there from Big Train and Spaced and the one where he did a magazine and the guy Serafinowicz was a baddie in it. I figure it may be better to like popular shit after it's popular, and maybe everyone will piss off. 

I have to say, the Bee Gees song that came on was cheese perfection, for whom the bell tolls, if the first guitar refrain doesn't make you smile then you have no soul, not soul as in Aretha Franklin, an actual soul, you are just a shell of a Bee Gee hating nothing. Cheesy music has it's place, and it's mainly on my mp3 player. Many a morning I'd fill my two mile walk to work with 'bat out of hell', 'party hard', 'dead or alive', and 'you win again', sometimes even wondering how I would arrange the track if I was playing it live as a tribute to the artist who died just that day, which is nearly as good as picking out a random suit on the train and imaging them fronting the video for whatever song comes on next. 'Closer' always gets a good reaction. Another good thing is looking out the bus/train/car window, and imagining the next song is the first song in a movie, fading in from the opening credits, then cast everyone you see in the movie,  and then when you stop imagine how shit everything is compared to the movie plot you just dreamt up. I've never gotten round to dancing or singing with my headphones on though, anytime I see someone do that I think they must be really happy, but most probably just mental.

Not having a guitar for a while after I move is going to be a bitch. I'm not even that good at playing it, but if I close my eyes I can imagine that someone else is playing that shit and I don't feel so bad.

It's my last Friday of work tomorrow, and in four days I can say I'm moving next week.

November Pain - See what I did there? 13 days.

It's Drago's Birthday too.

The fact that I turned 31 today and 30 this time last year has pretty much passed me by. I really did catch myself a few times last month totally forgetting my birthday was approaching. I got a note from my mum a few weeks back asking if I was coming to hers for dinner on the third, and my first thought was why? As with most adults, the emphasis on your own birthday tends to fade when you have kids, but the events of the last year have compounded this for me.

I can’t quite remember why we decided that my birthday was the best day for Cassie and Davie to leave last year, I’m sure it was to do with a combination of flight availability and cost, and the ins and outs of shipping the dogs back to the USA. Oh, it was because the house sale was to go though on the 5^th, and we needed to get the house cleared.  There wasn’t really anywhere for three of us and two dogs to stay so it was best they all went ahead of me, with me following once I got my green card. At the time I obviously didn’t expect to be here for a whole year, but even the thought of being apart for the planned three months was a pretty big deal. The green card was a formality though, so we weren’t too worried.

That all changed of course once the house sale fell through. Even though we were given assurances that the buyer already had a mortgage in place prior to us accepting the offer, they didn’t, and couldn’t. My solicitors dragged the process on so long that we had already made all of the moving arrangements before we found out, about two weeks before they were set to fly out.

and Adam Ant's

Despite this we decided to go ahead with everything, partly due to the majority of the costs being non-refundable and the amount of work that had gone into making the arrangements, and also in the hope that there would be the same level of interest in the house as there was prior to accepting the offer.  I also figured that there was no point in all of us facing the uncertainty, when Cassie and Davie could go and get settled ahead of me. I think this was a case of me being far too rational, and not nearly as selfish as I should be sometimes.  

So we forged ahead and kept to our plans and tried not to let the situation get on top of us. It had been a hard few months, but we still had some of the left over optimism from prior to me getting paid off, and it at least felt like the move was finally happening. At the time there was a good chance that this wouldn’t affect our timeline, as I still had some work to do with the visa, but it did have financial implications as I now had a mortgage and bills to pay whilst living on my own, seriously reducing my ability to save for the move, and with my redundancy pay now running out and no house sale proceeds on the horizon there was a lot of uncertainty and worry.

He's cool

On top of all that, the day before Cassie and Davie left could hardly have gone any worse, as at the last minute the costs to transport the dogs almost doubled due to a monumental fuck up by the shipping company. Finding this out ten minutes before they were due to be picked up, and being left with no alternative but to stump up the cash was absolutely sickening and was the shit flavoured icing on the cake of an incredibly shitty three months.

By then it would have easy just to think that everyone was just out to fuck us over. Everything about the move had been pretty well planned, but it seemed that it all just went to shit as soon as we pulled the trigger and decided to go for it. Therefore I think we did pretty well to keep doing what we had to do, making sure that we were at least doing everything in our power to make things work.

and the inventor of these

Now it’s another weird birthday, but for different reasons. I’m two weeks from finally getting the move I’ve both been longing for and dreading, for the same reasons any sane and normal person would. I’ve been two weeks away before though. Recently every phone call, letter, and e-mail has been received with a great deal of dread, as I just can’t accept that this is all going to happen without a problem. Every minute between now and 6pm (CST) on November 16^th will be filled with the same dread.  I am once again in a position where everything is organised and there is nothing else left to do which is under my control. 

I got an e-mail from my estate agent about two hours ago and just seeing the “from” address was sickening, as I was half expecting news of a major issue with the house or the tenant. It was just my rent statement. 

Finally getting this move sorted doesn’t mean our life is going to be plain sailing and worry free, but it will be great to get back to dealing with normal issues, together.

This takes away slightly from what today should be, and that’s my last birthday here with my family. For now at least. It’s not like we’re doing anything big, but we never make a production of birthdays, and a quiet one would be nice. So if anything’s going to go tits up, can it wait until Thursday please?

Everyone should move here instead - 14 days

You're welcome

If it's not immediately apparent to you all why I am going to miss this great country of mine, why the fuck not? (I'm blogging in Scottish today, so you'll just have to put up with the swearing).  So I guess I should just give you a wee reminder of why Scotland is so fucking great.

Not only do we have a country of infinite beauty, with all the hills and lochs you can shake a stick at, we're a clever lot and invented a lot of shit.  Like the television, telephone, penicillin, raincoat, red hair, and a shit load of other things.  We've given the world the multi-million dollar industry that is golf. Scotland got Tiger Woods laid, and one day he will thank us for that.



Scottis

We invented the US Navy, and further Wikipedia research shows that we also invented fucking time. Time! The light bulb means fuck all if there's no time. There wouldn't be much point in having a wheel (which we didn't invent, but we did invent tyres) before time was invented, oh and the standard for all of the best inventions ever invented would be rendered completely useless without good old Scottish time: "would you like some sliced bread with your dinner?", "yes please, when's dinner?", "I don't know, we don't have time yet. Sorry".

So we kind of invented everything. For those who don't believe me, we invented hypnotism.

Some great people like, Adam Smith, Andrew Carnegie, Robert Burns, Sir Walter Scott, David Hume, James Watt, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, J.M. Barrie, and Sean Connery, are all Scottish. Jeez, we even gave the USA a president which kind of pisses me off since they changed the rules since then and I cant go for it.

stand still laddie!

Due to our greatness it's rather unsurprising that there are more Scottish-Americans than actual Scottish-Scottish people, although this is mainly down to bullshit claims. Johnny Cash and his wife, Reese Witherspoon, claim to have Scottish heritage, along with Buzz Aldrin, Neil Armstrong and Bill Gates. Oh, and it makes a lot of sense that Jack Daniel, the inventor of the whiskey, is of Scottish descent. But nothing beats this, UNCLE SAM IS FUCKING SCOTTISH!

It may be worth noting that many things which are stereotypically Scottish aren't, such as Haggis (French), Bagpipes (Roman), Kilt (Scandinavian), and Tartan (Chinese).

Then there's music. Not the folk music or the bagpipe music, but frickin great music. We have given the world some pretty decent bands and musicians such as: Simple Minds, Jesus and Mary Chain, Primal Scream, Belle & Sebastian, The Beta Band, Biffy Clyro, Big Country, Idlewild, Travis, Deacon Blue, The Delgados, Teenage Fanclub, Franz Ferdinand, Glasvegas, Mogwai, Paulo Nutini, The Proclaimers, and AC/DC. Contrary to popular belief, Susan Boyle is not Scottish, she is an impostor. If you want to be educated just click on the links for some of my favourite songs by said artists.

Not Scottish

This is merely a sample of our greatness. So, it kind of gets on my tits when people don't even know where we fucking are! Or what language we speak. Seriously, I've been complimented on my English on more than one occasion, and also asked what my first language was. I've been asked if we had tomatoes or potatoes in Scotland, and also if we had bicycles, which we invented of course.

Surreal - 16 Days

It's the weirdest feeling at the moment, as even though by the time I've posted this I can say I'm leaving "the week after next" it doesn't feel like I'm going anywhere. Part of it is because I've been "leaving" since January last year, when I first submitted my visa application, and the other part is that since I found a tenant for the house there has been nothing to do but wait until the 16th. I've bought my plane tickets,  packed most of my stuff, renewed my passport,  filled out just about every form that could be filled, and contacted everyone that needs to be contacted. I've even picked my seats on the plane. Now it really is just a case of waiting, but it isn't as easy as that.

Had everything gone exactly to plan I would have arrived in the USA to settle in February, when my visa was finally approved. But once February had arrived I'd taken care of everything that was under my control, but still had no idea when I was going to get to move, as I still had a house to get rid of. For the best part of a year I'd dropped the price, changed agents, redecorated, self-marketed, and I'd even considered abandoning the house. Every single day was taken up with thinking of what I could do to get things moving.

Every time I got a phone call from the estate agents regarding a viewing, I could start thinking up a possible leaving timeline, and after each negative response it was back to that feeling that it was never going to happen. I'd heard stories of houses being up for sale for two to three years, and by the time the house had been on the market for a year this seemed like a real possibility.  Prospective house buyers tried every trick in the book to drive down my asking price, a price purely based on covering my costs. The estate agent also used my situation to try and persuade me to accept ridiculous offers. The worst thing I ever did was be honest with them, because every bloody viewer knew about my situation, leaving me with absolutely no leverage. Add this to my redundancy last year, and it's safe to say that my faith in mankind was dwindling. There's no worse feeling that when you realise you really are on your own.

If it wasn't for an out of the blue job offer I'd be in the same situation right now. Instead, I finally solved the house situation by renting it out, and now it's a 16 day countdown hoping that all of the fuck ups are out of the way, but I'm so used to spending my time worrying or plotting that these days just aren't going to feel right. I can't bring myself to just sit back and look forward to finally being with Cassie and Davie again, because we've been here before for some arsehole to ruin everything. Should any issues arise after I move they'll be a lot easier to deal with, because we can deal with them together, just like any other family.

I am about a week away from starting the goodbyes, and I think once these start the move will really feel like it's happening. I think the struggles of the last year have taken my mind off this part, which will be pretty bloody difficult. I don't know what it's going to feel like when I make my way to the security check at Edinburgh Airport, and I'm on my own again (for about 18 hours anyway), it will be a mixture of everything I'm sure.

Maybe time for a change

socialist

The great thing about moving to another country is that I can totally reinvent myself. Well, maybe not totally since the internet happened, but I don't need to be bogged down by the things people here know me for. Not that the internet bring sup much on me. Having a Scottish Socialist Party leader share my name kind of keeps me out of the news. I didn't realise how "social" socialists really were until the recent news that they were all shagging each other. Kind of fitting that a socialist would go to a swingers club though. Dedication.

That's one pretty sweet thing about having moved around so much,  I've had the benefit of multiple clean slates. I used to think that changing schools so much as a kid and then leaving my home town was a bad thing. However, when I found out that someone who used to be in my year at school is still widely known as the guy who shit himself in class, I figured it could be worse. It was great to go to a new school and sit back and watch some other swot get pestered for answers from the stupid fucks in the class. Having some pretty badass cousins and uncles kept me well protected in Motherwell, but once I moved I was on my own. So (in two completely unplanned incidents by the way) I immunified myself from bullying at two different schools by punching someone in the face in my first week or so there. I think that's a pretty good return on the only two punches I've ever thrown in my life. The third one is always ready though, so don't fucking start.

Back in 2002 I decided not to eat meat anymore, just before I started a new job. So over the years everyone there knew me as the vegetarian. Being veggie was my thing. That was the thing my boss could joke with me about to give the impression that she knew me.

filing cabinet

One thing that is guaranteed is that I'll be changing jobs, because this time it will be impossible for me to end up working with European funding again. I took that job for one month, and eight years and thousands of pages of bullshit later I might just get my wish and get away from it forever. I don't particularly like bid writing, but I have had enough of a knack for bullshitting to keep me in a job and pay for myself a few times over. It does become a tad soul destroying though when you successfully bullshit your way to a large sum of money for your employer, for them to turn down the cash and send you packing. When I was made redundant I legitimately felt relief that I was finally getting away from the boredom of the job I had fell into by default, and the weight of a thousand skeletons was lifted from my shoulders. My pride took a knock, particularly since it stole my thunder with the whole "I'm buggering off to another country and you're staying here in the rain" thing. I don't get much thunder, so this would be like cock blocking the star wars kid.

But really, I was relatively chipper about the whole deal. Unfortunately since very few people are stupid enough to do my job, I barely had time to put down my pen of mis-truth and exaggeration before I was snapped up to do my Winston Wolf for someone else. The Costa Coffee's good though.  OK, once I leave here I'll still be working for my current employer, but once that's done it's done. All over. So as far as new occupations go I can choose anything really. My visa states that the only thing I can't be is the President, but I think there are plenty of other options anyway. I could be the Walmart MC, welcoming everyone to my store, which seems such an important job because if no one welcomed me to a supermarket I'd just leave. I could sell stuff on TV like that dead guy used to. I could set up a chip shop and fry some fried shit. I could open up a pub, but I don't think Tipton County is ready for that.

Another great thing about moving around is that your friends stories become your stories, and now that I am moving a bit further afield I also have every British TV show ever made to draw from. I can tell people of my life living in a pink castle, my cousin who goes mental when he drinks Midouri, the time I caught a robber in London whilst wearing a Batman costume, the time I had a pretend gun fight with some neds outside a pub, and the time I sold someone a dead parrot.

I can also change my whole look. I've never had a mullet. I could get a slightly off the wall hat, and be known as "The guy who always wears that hat. What? Even in bed? Yes, so I've heard". I could get a leather jacket. But maybe I'll just grow a beard and get a tattoo.

It starts and ends here - 19 days.

Me, wearing a tin hat.

Ok, I think it is about time I got this one out of the way. My religious beliefs are my own. They always have been and always will be. This will probably be the biggest cultural difference for me to deal with.

As far as I’m concerned no set of religious beliefs is any more plausible than any other. My belief that whilst I am communicating to the entire world via a box on my desk the force of gravity holds me fast to a spherical planet which is millions of years old and turns on it’s own axis whilst circling a massive ball of fire suspended in an ever expanding infinity, all held together by the forces of physics; is to some just as ridiculous as the thought of some supernatural entity creating a civilisation who’s sole purpose seems to be to worship the entity who created it, is to others. Both are derived from the need for answers that as human beings we all have the desire to find, and neither will ever provide these, or will at least (rather conveniently) wait until I’m dead to let me know.

left handed?

It is mind blowing to think that my all so important existence is less significant than a piece of dust in the whole scheme of life, the universe, and everything; and that in a universe which is millions of millions of years old the human race is just a blink. The question of “what was here before the universe?” is just as brain-busting as “what was here before God?” or “am I even here at all?” and it is up to us all to make our own minds up, be comfortable in our own beliefs, and respect those of others.

I have absolutely no issue with what people believe in, when it is an issue of belief. Blatantly refusing to acknowledge facts, and opinions based purely on ignorance gets me going though. It astounds me that some people choose not to recognise that many aspects of various religious beliefs which were forged thousands of years ago are now redundant, and in many cases stem from poorly translated and bastardised versions of ancient texts. It saddens me that so much conflict stems from one set of people believing that their unsubstantiated beliefs are superior to those of others.

 Although there are many religious opinions which I don’t agree with, I don’t feel that it is my place to “educate” those who do not share my beliefs, or belittle those who’s ideas are apparently less complex than mine (or on the face of things rather fucking stupid) because the fact that we’re even here is proof that anything goes! I don’t need to make a person agree with me in order to validate my beliefs, that’s my business. I do reserve the right to lay the smack down on anyone who feels the need to force their opinions on me though. Just be happy that in your own mind you're right and don't you worry the teensiest bit about me. One day we’ll find out who’s right, and that’s when can start the told-you-so's.

Anyway, the whole point of this post is that although I am moving from one Christian country to another, I’ll be experiencing a significant cultural change. I am sure my beliefs will infuriate some folk, and may also cause some people to form an opinion on me based purely on this.

let's go ride a horse

At least one Christian already hates me, as I am supposedly living in a dark land which is overrun by homosexuals, because when a business deal doesn't go down the way you want it it's because everyone is gay. Bravo Mr Robertson, bra-fucking-vo. As we say in Scotland, may your next shite be a hedgehog.

So this is sure to throw some barriers in my way at some point, which is fine, I made my decision.

Getting some time back - 20 Days

I've just realised that the time zone difference between here and my new home will mean that I'll be able to watch The Ashes at a more sociable hour. If I had still been in the UK the matches would have started about 11pm, through to 6am. Now it will be 5pm to 12. That's totally watchable. Another advantage is that I no longer have to stay up until 4am to watch the wrestling PPVs (although they wont be free any more), and when the season comes around I can watch the baseball without trying to stay awake until 3am.

Just as important, I will suddenly be a further 6 hours younger than the people I'm younger than, and 6 hours less older than the people I'm currently older than, assuming they stay in the UK.

Now, this is pretty great. At first I was thinking of things I could do with those extra six hours, like try to beat my half-million score on bejewelled blitz, do a million keepy-uppies, or learn every Oasis song on guitar. But I then thought of something even better, I can just cancel out six hours of my life that I thought I'd never be able to get back.

Trivium (30mins) - These guys supported Iron Maiden at the SECC a couple of years back. We got in late and had already rather disappointingly missed Lauren Harris, so we weren't in a great mood, and the generic shit metal being churned out by these guys wasn't helping. But metal is metal, and both my brother and I do like a bit of metal. However, we'd grown out of the typical metal posturing by then and therefore were rather unimpressed by the lead singer's "I fucked your mother" jibe to someone near the front of the stage. The sound of silence and a thousand eyes rolling followed, and half the crowed retired to the bars and left Trivium to finish their set.  I don't mind a bit of the old trash talking, but I prefer it to be witty and usually not involving shagging peoples relatives. There's also nothing worse than turning up at a gig and finding the support is pish.......

Scatter (30mins) - These guys take the biscuit as the shittest group of musically minded people I've ever seen. I think the term "indefinite hiatus" means they're all toilet cleaners now. They supported Belle and Sebastian, and were utterly dreadful. They were a cross between Charlie MacKenzie from "So I married an Axe Murderer" and the shittest band playing the music you hate the most. The twat lead person wore a beret and read from his book of shit, and there was a sign on the stage that said "Abyss/business" and I wanted to kill him with it. Everything they did offended my everything. So I'm quite glad I'm getting that half hour back.

Kid A (50 mins)  - I loved OK computer. It is the perfectest album since Dark Side of the Moon. Kid A made me cry. I knew what I was in for, and that it was a departure, but I loved Radiohead and listened to it from start to finish hoping that the pretentiousness would seep into my mind and I'd love it, but I couldn't. I tried and I failed. I couldn't bring myself to listen to it again, it's like when they have to stop giving CPR in the movies, it was gone, and there was no bringing it back.

don't even look at me

Conspiracy Theory (40 mins) - I know the movie probably lasted more than 40 minutes, but I reckon that's about as long as I lasted. Who knows, it may have been a good movie, but it sure wasn't doing it for me. I was also drunk, and agreed to go to the movie with a nedette I worked with. I couldn't stand her, couldn't stand the movie, and the nachos were soggy. Part of the disappointment was in my 18 year old self, who thought he fancied said nedette, but experienced the clarity of reverse beer goggles, as the drunker I got the more I realised that she was an irritating hoor. I got up and left the movie and never saw here again, cos she got fired.

Telesales - (2 hours) - On two occasions I ventured into the world of telesales. First I tried to sell double glazing when I was about 19, as at the time I was a student and I figured that my soul was worth £5ph. I did a quick interview, and they really liked my phone voice and put me to work. However, the problem with me and sales is that I have a superpower, and that is ultra-empathy. From the very first call it felt like I was on the other end of the line, and I just wanted to tell myself to fuck off. I had one of those moments when the baddie realises what he's doing, looks at his hands, and then helps the good guys beat the bad guys, who were only just recently his friends. I just couldn't do it so I apologised and left.

I thought that 3 years later it would have been easier, especially since this was for a charity, but I couldn't say "Roy Castle Cancer Fund" without thinking I was collecting money to give Roy Castle cancer, which was kind of a dickish thing to do since he was already dead and no longer playing trumpets. I once again walked out mid-shift, and requested that my one hour's pay be donated to charity.

Property Unlimited (20mins) - If I listed all of my dealings with estate agents here, I'd probably have to fly round the sun to get my time back, so I'll just pick the worst of them all. Despite me telling said agent that I had researched the market, and the rental process, she proceeded to spout utter bullshit to me. It seemed that all those safety regulations I had heard about didn't matter, and that she could get me £350 per month for the house. Of course she could, because selling things for a lot cheaper than they are is a great sales technique if you want to make fuck all money. Oh, but their fee was higher than everyone else's too. So I had been taken for a mug by the poisoned dwarf of an agent, who also claimed that their company was the biggest in the area and that she was fucking great. The time she spent in my kitchen talking to me devalued my house, and had any other agent knocked on my door that night I would have signed them up just on how shite she was. I ended up renting the place out for £500.

Once by James Herbert (more than whatever I needed to get to to make 6 hours) - OK, I've overshot here, so I may have to take a one way trip to Alaska at some point.

I read this whole book. All of it. Every single word, all the way to the end, and god knows why. It was bollocks from start to finish. Reading about men shagging fairies isn't really my thing. There is nothing sexy about the word "mound" when used to describe a lady's (or in this case, paedophil-ey young fairie's) parts which must not be named. I'm sure the protagonist shagged some other beings in the book, mostly in bad language, and yet I still read on, and the ending was rubbish, I think a house fell down or something.

So, if emigrating means I can forgive myself for being the kind of guy who can persevere through over 500 pages of badly written fantasy porn, but can't last an hour working for charity, so be it.

Sorry Roy.

Oh Motherwell is Wonderful... 21 Days

I figured that since I'm debating on whether to go through to the football tonight, that this would make a good blog post. Not the debating part, but the football itself.

I might as well get this out of the way first for the non-UK readers, Football is a game played predominantly with the foot, and involves much kicking of the ball. In fact, not kicking the ball is generally frowned upon, and you're in the shit if you touch it with your hand. Not to be confused with American Football, which seems to only involve the use of the foot when all other avenues have been exhausted and some loser has to come in and kick the ball away. I never have, and never will, call football "soccer".

Football is no doubt the national sport in the UK. Although Rugby, Cricket, and Golf are widely participated in and enjoy a reasonable level of coverage, football is miles ahead. I think the reason for this is the sheer simplicity of the game, all you need is a ball. You don't need sticks, clubs, bats, or pads, and you don't even need friends because you can practice on your own, which makes sense since most football players are dicks. As with most sports, despite inventing the game we've ended up pretty shit at it.



yum

Anyway, before the days of the big-money TV deals all games were on Saturdays at 3pm, and attending a football match was a rite of passage for boys. Most stadia didn't have seating, so kids tended to be let in for free, usually via being lifted over the turnstyles by an adult. You could then walk around the stadium to find a standing spot with a good view, and ideally somewhere were you could avoid people pissing on you.  

Inside the ground was the only place you could indulge in the consumption of pie (that would be a mutton pie, which usually had it's own little reservoir of grease which had to be removed via biting some of the pastry off and pouring the grease away, leaving hundreds of grease puddles on the terraces), and Bovril - a meat based drink. Because eating meat wasn't enough, we had to wash it down with meat as well.

Back in the day there was very little live football on TV, other than international games and cup-finals, and the only league football you were exposed to was Match of the Day and Sportscene, with the latter being the Scottish version of the former really. Without the option to view the Manchester United's, Barcelona's and Real Madrid's of the world, the pinnacle of football excellence was your local team, and in my case Mecca was Fir Park, home of Motherwell FC. OK, I did start out life as a Rangers supporter, but I think even racehorses are allowed one false start before they get shot.

My first ever game was as a Rangers fan, in about 1989. It was at Fir Park though, and I'm sure Motherwell won 2-1. So although I was technically on the losing side, my first Motherwell game was a win against the mighty Rangers. My brother, who was about 6 years old at the time, also experienced his first game, although he enjoyed it a tad more since he really is a lifelong Motherwell fan.

I can remember absolutely nothing about the game other than it was really busy, someone hit the post with a header, and Stuart was decked from top to bottom in claret and amber, standing in the away supporters section. I would love to say I caught the bug there and then. But I didn't, mainly because it wasn't affordable for us at the time, and there was also a lack of someone to take us to games.



Legend, and left footed. Coincidence?

 It must have been pretty soon after this that I switched my allegiances to Motherwell, which may have been down to the recruitment of my hero, Davie Cooper. Another left-footed genius. I also remember a big kickup about Rangers signing a Catholic, Mo Johnston (now a manager in MLS), which kind of soured me on the whole Rangers thing since I was trying to distance myself from the sectarian side of things.

So, without actually going to games at this stage, "being" a Motherwell supported consisted of wearing their colours, telling everyone else their team was shite, and "going" a Motherwell player when playing world-cuppy. This was a game which took place with one set of goals (two jumpers), one goalkeeper, and an infinite amount of outfield players. It was every man for themselves, and the object was to score a goal to get into the next round with the amount of goals required increasing each round. Games of 20 rounds weren't uncommon.

See that red stuff, it hurts like fuck.

Whilst on the subject of playing, I have always believed that playing any sport is a more valuable use of my time than watching, and I totally believe that kids should be encouraged to play as much sport as possible. Back in the day when I were a lad, we'd fit a game of football into any spare minute we could find, and sometimes we didn't even have a ball. In fact, some of my most glorious performances were with a burst tennis ball. We were also encouraged to play for our school teams, where I played left back. My only memories of school football (other than being shite at it) were regular scorelines of 16-0, running around in the pissing freezing cold rain with my boot laces slapping against my legs, getting smacked in the legs repeatedly with the unforgiving mouldmaster (a bit like a basket ball, but with sandpaper on it), and getting to take a penalty kick into Davie Cooper, who was wearing slippers.

Anyway, even losing half of the skin off my arse from a mouldy, or spending hours picking bits of blaes out of my elbows was infinitely better than watching TV or playing video games. Of course, we didn't have video games and only 4 channels of TV, so when Nintendo and cable arrived priorities changed.

It wasn't until the early 1991 that I started going to games again, and it was a 4-2 win over Falkirk in the Scottish cup that got things going. I remember Stevie Kirk scoring about ten goals (one really), and Davie Cooper toying with the Falkirk players with his skill. The next round of the cup was at home to Morton, but this didn't really live up to the standards set in the previous round, but we got through in the replay. We then headed to the national stadium, Hampden, to take on the other half of the evil twins, Celtic. My dad decided at the last minute to take me and Stuart to the game, and I couldn't believe I was going to see Hampden. However, the match was another 0-0 and I was starting to feel like I'd been conned a few weeks earlier.

This match went to a replay, and this time I had to settle with watching the game live on Sky Sports, a rather new phenomenon at the time. I watched this at my cousin's house (in exchange for stickers of course) and it was absolutelyfuckingamazing, we beat Celtic 4-2 with Psycho O'Neil scoring a screamer. Wins against Celtic don't come easy. It's not so much David v Goliath, as a one-armed David vs Goliath with armour and guns. This was also the first time I'd ever saw the Simpsons (an ad for the episode with Ringo Starr). Oh, that was the semi-final, so we were heading for the cup final. My cousin and I spent the next few months singing Motherwell songs (mainly the ones with swearing) wherever we went.

A fine selection of these songs can be found here. My favourite has to be:

"Well I've been a muff diver for many a year,

I've spent all my money on muff divin' gear,
From goggles to flippers and oxygen tank,
If I can't have a muff dive I'll just have a w*nk,
And it's Motherwell, Motherwell F.C.,
Is by far the greatest team the World has ever seen..."

May couldn't come quickly enough, and when it did the atmosphere around the town was amazing. The town has a population of 30,000 and the attendance at the actual match was 57,000, so it's fair to say that most of the town was buzzing. I was slightly disappointed that I had to go to the match with my gran, not that I didn't like her or anything, I loved her to bits, but there were certain aspects of going to the game that I wouldn't be able to partake in with my gran next to me (mainly shouting abuse at the opposition fans and players and the referee, using words which had only recently became known to me). However, getting my face painted and listening to some drunk adults sing the aforementioned songs on the bus made up for it.

Our cup, that is.

The game itself was a blur. We won 4-3 after being forced to play extra time. I have of course watched it a bazillion times since then, but I cant remember many moments from actually being there, other than the celebrations and seeing some opposition fans cry. The win was such a big deal in the town that most pubs reduced their prices to 1952 prices (the last time we won the cup), and there was an open topped bus parade the next day.

Anyway, it's not common for a non old-firm fan to experience a cup-win as their initiation into the world of football, so I count myself pretty lucky for that, and 20 years of relative shitness since helps me appreciate it.

Unfortunately I was no sooner bitten by the football bug that I was whisked off to Blackpool on the first of many relocations. So the best I could do to keep up with the game was to read the scores in Shoot magazine. It wasn't until my return to Scotland in 1995 that the habit well and truly formed, and I became a season ticket holder. For the best part of the next ten years I rarely missed a game, and if I did it felt like someone had ripped my soul out and borrowed it for the day.

Then there was the away games. Most of these I can’t remember, mainly due to the interventions of the East of Scotland Motherwell Supporters Club, or my drinking teachers for short. I used to tag along on the away days when I was 17/18 and I’d try my best to keep up with the drinking, and failed miserably. We’d get the train or a mini bus to games, and have a carry out on the way up. We’d usually get to the “away” pub by 11:30/12:00 and get through a few pints. Normally we’d start talking about football, then the grown ups would talk about more grown-up things.

As 2:30pm approached we’d get in one last pint (usually about the 4^th/5^th) before getting a quick half (whisky) in to see us to the ground. If we timed it right we’d get in just before kickoff. Sometimes if a pub was close enough we could get a pint in at half time, but this was rare, and then after the match it was straight to the pub for another couple before heading to the off-licence to get the carry-out for the train.

The train drink was usually the last straw for me, and my last away game with the East guys was a visit to Dundee which ended in my drinking Buckfast on the train, and redistributing said Buckfast, on the train. Since then I have always started about 1pm just to keep me right.

Over the space of those years I'd witnessed the highs of us finishing 2nd and 3rd in the league (as good as it gets with Rangers and Celtic there), ruining a Rangers title party by winning 2-0 at Ibrox, and then watching Mitchel Van Der Gaag save us from relegation the following week with a thunderous free kick, and the lows of the club almost going out of business in 2002 and countless losses against apparent minnows in cup competitions. I'd happily travel up to Aberdeen to watch a 0-0 in the freezing cold, or make my way to the shiteholes of Ibrox and Parkhead for a likely thrashing against the big two.

But then priorities change and there's just not enough time and money to dedicate to the game, and the biggest moment of my grown up Motherwell supporting life came just one week after the biggest moment of my life so far, the birth of my son. It was the CIS cup semi-final, and after we toasted the new arrival with some tequilla, my brother and I witnessed the most exciting and nerve wracking game of football ever. We were 2-0 up thanks to Craigan and Foran, but the Hearts wankers managed to pull it back level late in the game, forcing extra time. We were all deflated after throwing away a lead, and after 20odd minutes of extra time penalty kicks seemed inevitable. Then Marc Fitzpatrick happened, lashing a low shot into the net to win the game at the last minute. I don't think my voice has ever fully recovered from 2005. We lost in the final to the blue scum, but it was a fun day any way. I had seriously considered taking a 6-week old Davie to the final, as I figured he may never get to see us in a final otherwise. I saw sense and he was spared the humiliating.


Legend....and left footed..hmmm

The ultimate low came in 2007 when the entire game was put into perspective when club hero (and 1991 cup final player) Phil O'Donnell died on the pitch during a match against Dundee Utd. The silence around the stadium the moment he collapsed was haunting and that feeling with stay with me for the rest of my life, as will the moment my mum called me to say that he'd died in hospital 30 minutes later. It's easy to look back on Phil with rose tinted glasses, but in this last match the enduring image most Motherwell fans have of Phil was the visible pride he had in the way his team played that day, particularly his nephew, David Clarkson. 

Since then I've only managed a handful of games each year, although we get four or five televised games a year as well. the price of tickets has now got to the stage where very few people can attend regularly, and the game seems to have abandoned its working class roots. I did manage to take Davie to his first couple of games before he moved, a 3-0 win against Gretna and an 8-1 European win against Flamurtari. Not a bad record for the wee guy!

Once I move I will still be able to view live games or watch highlights, but even though I've not been a regular of late, at least I've had the option of the last minute decision to make my way through to Fir Park. Watching on TV just isn't the same. The smell of bovril and pie grease will be missed (even though I've been vegetarian for over 8 years), along with inquests on the train home as to why we were so shite, the celebratory pint of Budwieser in the Jack Daniels Bar, hugging Stuart and any stranger in the vicinity when we score, staring at the floor when the opposition scores, reminding the referee he's a fucking cheating cunt, reminding the opposition players that they're junkies/gypsies/poofs/fannies/paedophiles/wankers/, not bearing to look when we're taking a penalty, waving cheerio to the opposition fans when their team's getting humped, throwing my scarf away after an embarrassing defeat, retrieving said scarf, and putting down my lava-esque coffee in anticipation of a goal to no avail. Recreating these at home would probably result in me being taken away by the white coat folk, especially if I started pissing behind the sofa.

I guess it's off to the MFC v Dundee Utd game tonight!

So in typical soppy football fan fashion, although I'll be moving away, part of me will always be here

boo hoo :-)

Mostly unnecessary - 22 days

I spent a fair bit of today packing stuff, and was pretty shocked at how much shite I'd already packed. I ended up throwing out about a suitcase worth of stuff, mainly from the suitcase I pre-packed about a month ago, thinking "that's one bag sorted, I'll do the rest as I go", but which turned out to be just junk. So I decided to go through all of my stuff, which mainly consists of the small amount of clothes I actually wear, and reassess what I actually need. Which is a grown up and organised thing to do.



This doesn't seem like such a big deal, but it kind of got me, since over the last two years we've thrown out so much shit it's unbelievable, and it's not as if we were tripping over stuff trying to make our way around the house, the place always seemed pretty empty, but I still managed to fill a truck and three skips full of shite to throw in a relatively short space of time.

Substitute concrete for shitty carpet

To be fair the first time I hired a skip to get rid of stuff was after one of the dogs had some stomach issues, on the carpet. I didn't really want to clean this, so I decided the best action to take was to remove the living room carpet, and every other piece of carpet from the house. I think I had the house carpet-free within about 30 minutes from the shit hitting the floor. The carpets were awful though, they were probably the only floor covering the house had seen since it was built in '75, so Molly probably did us a favour.

I'm in there somewhere, next to some socks.

Aye, so since Cassie and Davie left last year (taking a fair few suitcases and a couple of dogs), I've visited twice, leaving about 4 suitcases full of stuff in the process. So I really should have been left with the bare essentials, and for the best part of a year it has felt like I had fuck all. But after packing two suitcases I still have a room full of shite. I swear I'm living inside Mary Poppins' carpet bag.



I didn't think I was a hoarder, and I have a tendency to de-clutter and tidy-up a lot, so I'm pretty disappointed in myself that I managed to accumulate so much rubbish, and I now face the prospect of getting to my new home and throwing out half of the stuff I have there in an attempt to keep on top of the clutter, which includes about ten suitcases we'll never need again, as there's no doubt that the items I thought would come in handy a year ago will turn out to be useless rubbish, or clothes that don't fit.



Anyway, I'm packed, and I just have my day to day stuff to pack and then I'm good to go. So I reckon I don't need to do anything move-related until the night of the 15^th, leaving me 21 days of doing bugger all, which really does make the time drag in. The first 51 weeks of being away from my family were relatively easier to negotiate, as I always had stuff to do/things to organise/worry about, and I never had an idea of when I'd actually get to make the move. However, the final three weeks are going to be difficult especially when the nerves start to set in, and it feels like they're on the way!

Open Auditions

It's fair to say that there are a lot of people in my life that I'm going to miss when I move away, and despite the technological advances in recent years such as Skype and social networking, there are still going to be big empty people sized holes everywhere I turn.

I've worked hard over the last few weeks, and I've managed to retain the services of all of my family and most of my friends, all before the November free agency filing period. There are some, mainly friends of friends, who haven't yet committed to maintaining a long-distance partnership, but with the Rule 5 draft not until December, I can test the waters for a while before making my final decisions. I also must be wary of those who had a contract year this year, and may slump with the security of a guaranteed contract.

The roster's pretty much set, there's a consistent looking line-up there, and I think the rotation will be dependable throughout the year, possibly with someone stepping up to be the ace of the staff. However, the mark of a good GM is to scour the market to piece together a good bullpen, bench, and have some hidden gems waiting in the minors. It doesn't make financial sense to retain the current incumbents, so I think recruiting replacements in the USA is the best way forward.

I therefore declare this an open audition for new talent. I shall list the areas of need below.

Girl who plays music on her phone on the bus. Now, no one person has nailed down this role as of yet, and some occasions call for more than one person with this skill set, but it's hard to imagine sitting through an entire bus journey without knowing what song the kids of today are listening to. I feel privileged to be included in the soundtrack of their lives, which tends to be "Rockstar" by Nickelback. This service helps me keep in tune with today's youth, giving me prior warning when kids start to like songs I like, allowing me the time to delete the fuck out of them from my mp3 player.

I feel sorry for her predecessor "obese man who played the Pet Shop Boys on a ghetto blaster outside ASDA whilst drinking milk",  I think he had a genuine love for his music, and lard, and if he's dead I really hope they played "West End Girls" at his funeral, it's how he would have wanted it.

Guy who pukes on the last train. A stalwart of the 23:30 train from Glasgow or Edinburgh, he can be relied upon to produce the goods on a regular basis, and has great positional sense, i.e. between me and the door. He goes about his work quietly and efficiently (usually whilst asleep), just allowing the vomit to leave his mouth in a steady stream, with none of the usual retching or false alarms. the smell of puke is a quite handy reminder that your stop is next, whether you live there or not, ensuring that you yourself don't fall asleep on the train.

People who have conversations on stairways. Sometimes I walk up or down the stairs too fast, or in a straight line, which can generate complacency. Sometimes I need a reminder that I don't need to be where I'm going as quickly as i think I do, and I admit that sometimes I get halfway up a set of stairs and feel like I need a rest, but would be too embarrassed to just stop there. Therefore it can come as a relief when the person in front of me just stops and talks to a friend who's going the other way. I then have the options of slowing down, changing my course, or listening to whatever shite they're talking about. Options I didn't have, or wouldn't have thought about previously, and as such expanding my mind just a little.

Person who waits until they are on the bus before looking for their change. You know what, I'm not replacing this person, they are a fucking arsehole. They've been standing at the bus stop for the last fifteen minutes, and they bloody well make sure that they are at the front of the line when the bus arrives, but it doesn't seem to occur to them that they might have to pay, with money, until they are face to face with the driver. They also don't seem to care much for money, because it's not anywhere near as important than any of the other shit that's in their handbag. Shit that they have to rummage through while the rest of us are waiting, in the rain.

Grumpiest Motherwell Fan Ever. OK, I may need to accept that the new post holder may not be a Motherwell supporter, but they must have an undying love for their team, only equalled by their undying hatred. For their team. I need this person to sit two rows in front of me at any sporting event of my choosing and berate all players and the manager for whatever they see fit. I need them to regularly request that a player be removed from the field, because he's shite. I need them to proclaim that a pass is "fucking rubbish" while the ball is in mid-air, on its inch perfect way to the forward's foot.  I need them to spend a good proportion of the match hurling dogs abuse at a player who isn't even in the squad.

Hitleresque Council Worker - Being an absolute maverick, free spirit kind of guy I sometimes need kept in line. Especially when it comes to things like paying council taxes. Despite never having missed any payments for anything ever, I feel that a DEMAND one month in advance of the due date for my council tax keeps me on my toes and makes sure that I don't suddenly forget to pay something I've been paying for years.  I also feel that I don't make the most of the privilege of owning a telephone, therefore I would welcome the opportunity to be frequently referred to other departments, and put on hold as much as possible. I love interacting with self-important little twats who go to great lengths to let me know that what I am asking of them isn't their job.

Door to door shit salesman - Barely a day goes by without me forgetting that my entire house needs double glazed, or that I need a new conservatory. I need people to remind me of this, because otherwise it just wouldn't get done. In a world without door to door salesmen how would we all manage? We'd never buy anything.  To think that I went without food and heat for over a year, waiting for the kitchen and central heating salesmen to come round. It's an inefficient system we have, and you would think that by now we'd have some sort of arrangement where people can browse available goods and services and purchase at their leisure, saving these poor salesmen from having to check on everyone constantly.

Chinese pub DVD salesman - I've always felt that buying DVDs is a complicated process, especially when I'm in the pub, and therefore I was relieved when some clever Chinese entrepreneurs spotted a gap in the market. Now I can purchase from a wide range of available titles from the comfort of my bar stool, by perusing a selection of cardboard cut outs, paying my money, and hoping the guy doesn't get lost again on his way back from the car with the actual DVDs. It is sometimes difficult to get parked in Falkirk sometimes, so I sympathise. For this service I'll happily sacrifice quality. I believe that the "special" selection is popular amongst the male demographic, but I've never really been into director's cuts and audio commentaries.

The Sceptic - This is probably the most important piece, and will probably require a dip into the free agent pool. some of the 25 man roster have fulfilled the duties of this post on occasion, but they don't seem to be able to maintain the consistent level of scepticism this position requires. I understand that the last 8 years of my life have been rather unorthodox, and that I have embarked on a few campaigns which may be described as ambitious. Acquiring a wife from a foreign market was a relatively new concept in 2002, and as such a few people wondered, out loud, whether it would actually work. Moving the whole franchise to a new location is equally daunting, if not more so.

Sometimes I get so caught up the the situation that I need someone to help keep my feet on the ground, by calling bullshit. I appreciate those who saw right through me and called me out on the fact that I was never trying to sell my house because, if I had been, it would have been sold by now. I also appreciate that these people knew that the entire immigrant visa process was just an elaborate ruse on my part because, as you know, the USA's motto is "the more the merrier." Fair play to the folks who are enlightened enough to understand that paying off debt is an optional activity only undertaken by people who are desperately trying to avoid being with their families. Without these sceptics I would have been living the high life, in a spare room in my dad's house, for the whole of eternity and avoiding those husband and father duties like the plague.
If I can get these positions filled, I feel that I can make a pretty smooth transition to a new country. Never underestimate the power of hate.

Broom broom - 26 Days

I know absolutely nothing about cars. I know what one is, but I honestly couldn't tell you what kind it is or anything. Since I failed my last driving test in 1999 I haven't needed to drive, so I didn't bother getting my licence. Pubic transport is relatively good, with three of Scotland's cities a 20 minute train ride from my house, and a bus service which is OK if you don't mind the junkies, smell of old people's piss, and the sound of teenage mums screaming at babies. There's also greater scope to walk to work or the shops in most UK towns/cities. Most people here drive though, just not me.

Learning to drive is a wee bit more difficult here, with more expensive tests and more strict examination procedures. But I'd still consider driving in general to be easy, I'm just not very good at driving tests.  I'm excellent at the theory though, when it comes to written exams I'm the master. I got 90% on a biology exam once, on my first ever day in a biology class. I also got 27% in History that year, but really, I couldn't give a toss who invented the seed drill (Jethro Tull, before moving on to flute-based prog rock) or crop rotation. What the fuck has that got to do with history?

Anyway I just this minute took these mock theory tests and scored 12, 13, 13, and 12. Is that good? I don't know. Maybe if I read the study guide I'll get higher.  If I get a really good result on the theory can I be spared the practical test? I'm not a bad driver, I'm just not good with people telling me what to do, part of me wants to fail, because if I pass then the man wins, meaning I was their bitch for 30 minutes. Can I pass my test in an ironic way? I'm thinking Police Academy here. Is Hightower dead?



wtf?

My Achilles heel is roundabouts, and hill starts. I've failed tests because of both of these, and one where I had to perform a hill start on a roundabout. Now, with most cars in the USA being automatics, and therefore no clutch, and since roundabouts don't exist in Tennessee, I may stand a better chance.  From research, I believe the US practical test just involves negotiating a drive through and racing a cop, so I at least know what's expected of me.  I will have to adjust to driving on the wrong side of the road, but I was probably doing that anyway, and I'm at least used to sitting on the left.

I actually had a wee bit of driving practice when I was there in June. My first reaction was to step on thin air with my left foot and grab the window winder handle thing. I was kind of surprised that even though I hadn't attempted to drive in 12 years I still instinctively went for the clutch and the gear stick. However, I'm surprised that there doesn't seem to be such a thing as a driving instructor where I'm going. Is this because you can't buy cardigans there? Driving instruction seems to be in the form of schools, for kids. Where do adults learn to drive? Am I going to be the only one?

Getting the licence is only one small issue to be resolved. I'm more worried about what kind of car I should get when the time comes. American cars are bigger, and pretty ugly in general. I prefer the wee cars, the kind that the boy racers all drive, just not with the shit all over it, but people would just drive over me in their big assed trucks. I like the big black car Jack Bauer has in 24 (the one with the machine guns in the boot), and that seems to be good at both running from the law and catching terrorists, so I reckon this has the versatility I need.
I also worry about losing my car in car parks. I don't know how drivers remember where they've put their cars, just remembering that I have one will be a challenge. Is this why we are legally obliged to install bumper stickers?

It will be weird when I can drive. Not driving is my thing. I'll be a new person.

I'm a wrestling dork and I'm proud - 27 days

It's real

It was funny to see the "Chairman of the Board" Vince McMahon launch an appeal for all wrestling  sports entertainment fans to "Stand up for WWE" the other day. It's been unfashionable to like pro wresting since the dawn of time, and there are always going to be accusations flying around when so many wrestlers are dying young, suspended for taking drugs, and shagging each other.  Us grown-up wrestling fans have been standing up for WWE since we were kids, back when we thought it was real.

I reckon there is some relevance to the current theme of my blog here, as other than the A-Team, the wrestling was the first real example of Americana that I really bought into, before my wife.

I've been a big wrestling "mark" (the first and last stupid insider term I'll use in this post) since I was about 11 years old. We did get the wrestling on the TV in the UK back in the day, but it was the British stuff (see below), and it was dreadful, but when I caught my first WWE pay per view (Summerslam '88) I was hooked.

You're not going to see any northern lights suplexes here. Trivia - Big Daddy killed a guy with a big splash once. True.

It was actually 1991 when we watched the Silvervision VHS that my uncle had borrowed, and I must have watched it about fifty times, all three hours of it. I could probably recount the entire show, starting with the time limit draw between the Bulldogs and the Rougeaus, and Miss Elizabeth getting down to her undies to distract the Mega Bucks for the Mega Powers to win, and everything in between; like Rick Rude revealing a picture of Jake the Snake's wife on his tights, Demolition screwing the Hart's out of the tag titles after attacking Bret with a megaphone,  and the Ultimate Warrior twatting the Honky Tonk Man in 30 seconds.

The latter was what got me hooked. See, the thing about the Ultimate Warrior was that he took the idea of "cartoon wrestling" and exaggerated the fuck out of it. He was mental and superhuman, and had kickass face paint, which to an 11 year old is just awesome. Within an hour of watching the PPV I had the face paint on already (green and yellow).

So I was hooked, but didn't have cable, so the next few months consisted of me getting folk to record the shows for me, and Dad then got in on the act and started to buy a shitlload of videos (we still have them, and I'll be putting as many as possible on DVD!) and I was really swatting up on my Wrestling history, although there was no internet back in the day. Then I caught the ad for Summerslam '91 and I spent the best part of a month begging my cousin to let me watch the PPV live at his house (in hindsight I should have just asked my auntie, she wouldn't have asked for all my sticker collection).

Shock you to death.

It's the lead up to this PPV that reminds me of how I may have took the "suspension of disbelief" a bit too far. I knew that the wrestlers were characters, i.e. the Undertaker wasn't dead and the Big Bossman wasn't a police officer, but I believed the moves and the story lines were real. I therefore believed that the Mountie really did shock people with his cattle prod, and I also believed courtesy of a friend, that he'd killed someone with it. So leading up to the PPV I could only worry that the Big Bossman was going to die. I really did have at least one sleepless night about this.

Summerslam '91 was everything I expected it to be, with the Legion of Doom leathering the Nasty Boyz to win the titles, with the coolest move I had ever seen, and Bret Hart winning his first singles title, the intercontinental title from Mr Perfect. Sid Justice also power-bombed someone, and this was the first time I'd seen a power-bomb, and my fist thought was to check if the guy was still moving. However, most importantly, the Bossman nailed the Bossman slam and sent the Mountie to jail.



 The "do you want to see my finger" line is priceless.

Eventually my whole family caught the bug, and for the best part of a year Dad would produce a couple more WWF videos each week, until there was nothing in the shops that I didn't already have. Until we finally got cable, our only means of watching the PPV's (which were free in the UK) was to ask someone to record them. So most PPV nights would consist of me waiting until the scheduled end of the show, then running round to someones house to get the recording to watch immediately. If for some reason I couldn't watch the show that night, school the next day became really difficult, because I totally hate spoilers. I assault people who spoil.

I collected all of the original Hasbro action figures, and made my own set of championships, which I defended successfully on many occasions. I also played to the storyline aspect of the sport by "dropping" my title to someone on occasion, usually in the swing park, only to reclaim via the medium of rematch. My finishing moves were the perfect plex or the sharpshooter depending on whether I was a baddie or a goodie at the time.

Michaels) but the likes of the Rock and Mick Foley won me over again. But I have always considered myself a wrestling fan and I'm not, or never have been, embarrassed to say so.

he's behind you

Yes, the matches are choreographed. Yes, the men are wearing tights. Yes, the storylines are pretty camp and ridiculous. But that is what's good about it. It's ridiculous. It's part sport, part cartoon, part pantomime, and slightly more over the top than the sum of it's parts. It's good vs evil, David vs Goliath, USA v the World, and man vs dignity. I've gone from cheering on the good guys, to cheering on the bad guys, laughing at how stupid it all is, and now appreciating the work that goes on in and around the ring.

The production that goes into a two-hour live show is unbelievable, and the fact that these guys can pull off the moves they do, without killing themselves, constantly innovating new ways to pretend beat someone up, shows great intestinal fortitude. The politics and gossip from behind the scenes is also great, finding out who really are the divas . It's celeb gossip for guys.

Another great thing about wrestling is that I can watch it with my son, and relive the whole experience all over again, and he can even play with my collection of action figures, as long as he's careful.

So I couldn't give a flying fuck about Linda McMahon's senate bid, but I'll stand up for wrestling, and if you're not happy with that, I've got a couple of textbook suplexes, a double axe handle, and a face bite of fear for you.

So thank you WWE for....

making me laugh..........




making me cry.....

Macho King Randy Savage v. Ultimate Warrior at WrestleMania VII
- Watch more Videos at Vodpod.

making me puke....

and totally making me "mark" out........




And of course, starting a tradition of me fancying American women, ending with the perfection that is my wife. She'd totally distract the referee for me.