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.
Sunday, 31 October 2010
Saturday, 30 October 2010
Maybe time for a change
 |
| socialist |
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.
Thursday, 28 October 2010
It starts and ends here - 19 days.
 |
| Me, wearing a tin hat. |
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? |
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.
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 |
So this is sure to throw some barriers in my way at some point, which is fine, I made my decision.
Wednesday, 27 October 2010
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.
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.
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 |
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. |
Tuesday, 26 October 2010
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.
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.
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.
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.
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..."
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.
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.
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 :-)
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? |
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. |
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. |
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 4th/5th) 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
Monday, 25 October 2010
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.
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.
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 15th, 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!
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 |
 |
| I'm in there somewhere, next to some socks. |
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 15th, 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!
Friday, 22 October 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, 21 October 2010
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?
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.
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.
Wednesday, 20 October 2010
I'm a wrestling dork and I'm proud - 27 days
 |
| It's 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. |
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 |
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....
- 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.
Tuesday, 19 October 2010
Bye bye cricket, for now.
As mentioned in a previous post, one of the things I'll miss the most about here is playing cricket. It's been my "thing" for about 15 years now, and even though there are cricket clubs in Memphis, I'm not so sure it will be the same. As much as I've enjoyed the actual playing of the sport, it's the camaraderie, the friendships, and the fighting that have kept me dusting off the spikes every summer.
The honest reason I took up cricket in the first place is that I was shite at everything else. In conjunction with my PE teacher I realised that being left handed gave me an advantage in some sports, particularly ball-throwing ones, and with a little encouragement from the teacher and my mate who was also keen on cricket, I started to enjoy playing, and soon joined my local club, Boroughmuir.
We went to indoor training, and I started to really enjoy bowling. I fucking hated batting though, really fucking hated it. The ball is made of wood, I'm made of bits that hurt when hit with balls made of wood, and no level of padding equipment is going to make me less shit scared of cricket balls. I really started reading up on the game, and with both me and Ian going to every training session, I was desperate for the season to start. The week of the first game came, and I wasn't picked. What the fuck? There was barely ten guys at training, and I couldn't find a place in two teams of eleven. So that was the cricket career over. Until Ian phoned me and told me he wanted to go shopping instead of playing, so sent me along instead.
Sending your own replacement isn't the done thing, but the Boroughmuir 2nd XI made me welcome anyway, and my cricket career had been revived. We played against Holy Cross 3rd XI, and both teams were utterly shite. I was wearing Ian's white joggers and white t-shirt, which were about 2 sizes too big for me, and someones tatty cricket sweater which was even bigger. They had a guy that looked like Gandalf, who bowled underarm (poofy, and banned now). The only action I can remember from the game is me dropping a catch for the match winning wicket. We won anyway.
I kept plugging away, but it wasn't until a change in captaincy in my second season that I consistently got to bowl. I started to get wickets regularly and I managed to convince myself that it was nothing to do with everyone else being shite. I was also handed another responsibility that year - umpiring.
See, with amateur sports here we tend to umpire our own games. In cricket this means that a member of the batting team umpires when his team are batting. Sounds fucking stupid doesn't it? That's because it is. I don't know what's more absurd, cheating to benefit your own team when you're umpiring, or not taking the opportunity to control (and probably win) the game by cheating when umpiring.
But all good things come to an end, and after eight years, a couple of broken noses, being thrown out of a bar by a teammate (because if you're going to be cheeky, it's probably best not to pick on rugby players three times your size) , three league promotions, arguments with umpires, accusations of theft by umpires, a relegation or two, and plenty of Becks, it was time to move on.
 |
| Me getting out, which is symbolic for me leaving cricket. |
If you don't know what cricket is, it's baseball in white pyjamas, without gloves. Two batsmen play at the same time, and they are allowed to miss the ball as many times as they like (sometimes deliberately), and bowlers are totally allowed to hit the bastards.
Scottish cricket is a little different though, we play in the rain and swear more.
 |
| Boroughmuir 2001 I'm top left. I'd put on some weight by then. |
We went to indoor training, and I started to really enjoy bowling. I fucking hated batting though, really fucking hated it. The ball is made of wood, I'm made of bits that hurt when hit with balls made of wood, and no level of padding equipment is going to make me less shit scared of cricket balls. I really started reading up on the game, and with both me and Ian going to every training session, I was desperate for the season to start. The week of the first game came, and I wasn't picked. What the fuck? There was barely ten guys at training, and I couldn't find a place in two teams of eleven. So that was the cricket career over. Until Ian phoned me and told me he wanted to go shopping instead of playing, so sent me along instead.
 |
| howzat? |
I kept plugging away, but it wasn't until a change in captaincy in my second season that I consistently got to bowl. I started to get wickets regularly and I managed to convince myself that it was nothing to do with everyone else being shite. I was also handed another responsibility that year - umpiring.
See, with amateur sports here we tend to umpire our own games. In cricket this means that a member of the batting team umpires when his team are batting. Sounds fucking stupid doesn't it? That's because it is. I don't know what's more absurd, cheating to benefit your own team when you're umpiring, or not taking the opportunity to control (and probably win) the game by cheating when umpiring.
Cricket was fun for the first four years, but you're not playing real cricket until you're old enough to drink, and it was my club captain who took it upon himself to initiate me to the world of legal alcohol, by challenging me to a pint race. The pint consisted of cider, blackcurrant, Midouri, sake, vodka, schnapps, gin, and other stuff. I downed my pint in seconds, whilst my skipper just held his to his mouth and took a sip. I remember taking it in my stride, and ordering a beer, the resulting calls of "iceman", then waking up in bed at home the next morning.
 |
| Real cricket. |
With my club being rather successful at the time, there was a lot of drinking going on. We'd tend to go for a post-match drink with the opposition, usually to gloat, and then follow that up with drinking until closing time at the Nova Hotel, and on many occasions take things to the late-opening bars, or Will's house for darts. Then there were the league-winning occasions, which involved locked-doors at the Nova, hen-parties bringing us food, leprechauns with big foam cocks, and drinking as much silly shit as possible.
But all good things come to an end, and after eight years, a couple of broken noses, being thrown out of a bar by a teammate (because if you're going to be cheeky, it's probably best not to pick on rugby players three times your size) , three league promotions, arguments with umpires, accusations of theft by umpires, a relegation or two, and plenty of Becks, it was time to move on.
 |
| not a knife |
After my brother and I staged a mass walkout from Boroughmuir, my new cricketing home was Westquarter & Redding Cricket Club , a club with a bit of a reputation. Everyone seemed to have a story about these guys, and it tended to be about how they liked cheating, and a fight. They seemed like a nice bunch of guys to me, and Stuart and I seemed to fit in pretty well. If nothing else, they seemed like a rather easy going bunch. Then the actual games started.
It's not unusual for teammates to argue a little, but when they start punching (slapping) eachother it's not good. A captain standing up for his players is a good thing, but a captain threatening to stab a member of the opposition isn't good. Even if he qualifies this later by stating he meant to say he'd stab him with a stump, not a knife. Throttling an opponent isn't allowable by MCC rules either. Every umpire was a cheat, and every team seemed to hate us. So every game was eventful, but we were finding wins hard to come by, and narrowly avoided relegation once or twice.
 |
| Me and Shibby, I'm on the left. |
Then out of the blue we started winning games, which was absolutely nothing to do with the appearance of Hamad, Shoeb, Arzak, Sajid and Abdul, who were all good players and great guys, but were a bit to fancy for my liking. They had no appreciation for the drama of a close game, and more importantly weren't up for a fight. More importantly, we were running out of guys who could drink, and without drink it was getting a bit too much like sport. Two league promotions later and we're playing at a higher level than most of us are used to. We've managed to hang around in division 2 mainly through luck with the weather, and other teams fuck ups (ha ha), but it's been fun.
Because this is my blog, and barely anyone else is reading it, I'm going to list my top ten cricket moments, that I have been a part of, and therefore will not be on TV. Channel 4 may be picking up the countdown show though.
10 - My debut for Borougmuir 1st XI against Fauldhouse. Getting the call up to the first team was great, and I ended up getting a couple of wickets. The best part of the game though was a member of the opposition going mental for being given out, and driving his car on the pitch. I'm starting to question whether this happened or not (much like Dermot hitting a cow on the arse), but it's my favourite story anyway.
5 - Stuart captaining and bowling us to a win against Stenny. My brother was thrown into the deep end that season and asked to captain the side, and this was a pretty big match for us against our local rivals, who we hadn't beaten for a long time. So, for Stuart to get four wickets and also get us the elusive win was pretty sweet.
4 - Taking 7 wickets against Dalgety Bay. In the East of Scotland league 7-15 is hardly a record breaking haul of wickets, and plenty of shite bowlers have chalked up better figures. But for some reason or another these were my best. It's a shame that I took my best figures the day after nose surgery (#3) and still high on pain killers and suffering the after effects of anaesthesia, but couldn't replicate them when 100%.
3 - Breaking my nose against Edinburgh Uni Staff. Not just so that I could tell the story of how I re-broke it a year later, but since someone needed to replace me on the field when I went off to the hospital, and my wee brother (15 at the time) just happened to be on hand. He stepped in to play in the field, and took 2 catches on our way to winning the game. This led to him playing regularly, and
10 - My debut for Borougmuir 1st XI against Fauldhouse. Getting the call up to the first team was great, and I ended up getting a couple of wickets. The best part of the game though was a member of the opposition going mental for being given out, and driving his car on the pitch. I'm starting to question whether this happened or not (much like Dermot hitting a cow on the arse), but it's my favourite story anyway.
 |
| I could never get that aftershock out of my shirt, or the cricket ball stains out of my hands. |
9 - Winning promotion with Boroughmuir without playing a game. It was the last game of the season, and if we avoided defeat we were sure to be promoted. So, when the opposition called off due to bad weather we were suddenly all at the Murrayfield Hotel at 11am, with eight hours to spare, and the celebrations started immediately. It was the first time I'd won anything, and the drunkest I've ever been.
8 - Nigel Binne winning us a close match against Dunfermline Carnegie - Back in my Boroughmuir days we had a wee rivalry going with this team (which then somehow followed my to Westquarter). Both sides were riding high, and we were in serious trouble, losing our first 4 wickets for next to nothing. But the Binnie took it upon himself to spank the bowling all over the shop to keep us on course for promotion.
 |
| Brothers of destruction |
7 - Our debut for Westquarter. For most of our cricketing career my brother and I played in separate XI's, so it was pretty cool to debut for the club together, and also take 9 wickets between us. I also got my one and only hat trick that day. It's a shame I read the match report just there, we got humped that day.
6 - Sajid hitting 3 sixes to tie a game. Sajid is the nicest guy on the planet. He's my honorary grandad. But he could probably strangle an elephant to death. This was just a meaningless friendly, but the atmosphere on the sidelines was great when Saj started tee-ing off. I also enjoyed writing the slightly over exaggerated match report.
5 - Stuart captaining and bowling us to a win against Stenny. My brother was thrown into the deep end that season and asked to captain the side, and this was a pretty big match for us against our local rivals, who we hadn't beaten for a long time. So, for Stuart to get four wickets and also get us the elusive win was pretty sweet.
4 - Taking 7 wickets against Dalgety Bay. In the East of Scotland league 7-15 is hardly a record breaking haul of wickets, and plenty of shite bowlers have chalked up better figures. But for some reason or another these were my best. It's a shame that I took my best figures the day after nose surgery (#3) and still high on pain killers and suffering the after effects of anaesthesia, but couldn't replicate them when 100%.
3 - Breaking my nose against Edinburgh Uni Staff. Not just so that I could tell the story of how I re-broke it a year later, but since someone needed to replace me on the field when I went off to the hospital, and my wee brother (15 at the time) just happened to be on hand. He stepped in to play in the field, and took 2 catches on our way to winning the game. This led to him playing regularly, and
 |
| You can't have my axe. |
2 - Scoring 67 runs against my former club. As noted above, I can't bat. Before that game my highest score was 33, against a bunch of kids, and I had never hit a six in my life. So it's fair to say a few people were shocked when I hit six of them on my way to my highest ever score.
The absolute best part of it though was the fact that my former team mate and cricketing fairy godmother, Doc, was enjoying it and was visibly proud that I had finally done something with the bat. We did lose, so who know what he'd have been like if I'd actually won us the game. I followed this up with another 59 against Leith the following week, and then my bat was never seen again.
1 - Winning the Presidents Trophy 2010 - This was great for a variety of reasons. It was the first cricket trophy most of us had won, we defeated a team who we had trouble against earlier in the season (and they bloody cheated in the final too), and it was great to get something positive out of a relatively shite season. However the main reason I think this is the best moment in my cricket life is that the team is starting to break up, with new guys coming in and the oldies doing their own thing. So this was a great way for the group who came up the leagues together to have a defining moment.
 |
| championeees |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)