The Tory Party and the Labour Party are having leadership contests. That should be interesting. The Tories have started off in style. In the blue corner it is Mr Murdo Fraser who has one thing on his mind. No not that, it’s actually, change. Yes change! As you will already know, once Murdo has won the leadership contest he will then disband the Tory MSP Party and start again with something more modern, more dynamic and more thrusting. That just sounds like the Tory Party does it not? I mean just look at “Call me Dave, but forget I suggested we should all hug a hoodie”. He is very, very, very something. Just not sure what that something actually is? Maybe he’s Mirror Man? He reflects back what you expect to see although it’s a pretty tinted view.

I think a new type of Scottish Tory Party is a great idea. I’m not sure it will make a lot of difference but it may attract a few more votes to add to the few more votes they already get. The Tories in Scotland have been pretty near dead for a number of years, although if you want to consider what a dead political party looks like, give the LibDems a look. Whoa! Messy or what?

I was wondering what the name of the new party would be. I’d imagine if the North East party members had a say they would want the name to be The Tollie Party but that’s a crap name (The South African take on it might not be too helpful either). They might want to go for a longer more sophisticated name like the Scottish Tory & Unionist Party Incredibly Dynamic. Sounds good. It could catch on. Not too sure many people would vote for STUPID or vote STUPID even. But there will be some who will. There’s always The Conservatory Party? Just get someone who sells conservatories to sponsor the party. So, for example, how about the Everest Conservatory Party. Makes it’s easier to remember and the Tories (Tolllies) make money at the same time. Done deal really.

Once that part is sorted out, and they win complete power, they might then turn their attentions to the BBC which has been critical of the Tories/Tollies/STUPID/Everest Conservatories in no small way after all and what comes around goes around, right? They could change the name from the British Broadcasting Corporation to the Blue Boy Channel. Much more dynamic although slightly camp maybe? Pink vote winner? This could be interesting.

Murdo for King for sure.

It just needs a huge amount of change for it to happen. And, let’s be honest here, the Tory Party is not exactly renowned for adopting significant change. They might yet surprise us. You never know.

I’m working on a lyric based on the idea of Guilty Pleasures and I thought it might be interesting to find out other people guilty pleasures and include the best examples within the lyric.

We all have guilty pleasures which are things we like to do but shouldn’t for any number of reasons – not being good for us, being embarrassing, being horrible but addictive etc.

So send me your examples and I’ll publish the completed lyric here and alert you  by tweet when it’s done. I’ll also provide a list of all the guilty pleasures people provide,  with or without the names of those who provided them so tell me if you don’t want your name shown.

Peoples guilty pleasures can be anything and I might produce more than one version of the lyric to cover interesting pleasures, funny pleasures and OMG pleasures and anything else for that matter.

Add a comment here or tweet… Go on you know you want to!!!!!!

IH

Oor Wullie, apparently he’s abodies Wullie anaw noo, his been gittin intae boather. Crashed his cartie inti Hens Broons motar. Hen wisnae pleased a kin tell yi. It’s a BMW he jist goat an noo it’s goat a big scratch doon the side o it. Wullies faithers hivin to piy to get it soarted. Thon Soapy Souter been a pest an aw this year.  He’s bin jumpin oaff an oan busses without peying as if his faither owns thim. Come tae think o it, his faither dis own thim noo a think aboot it. That’s yin less ti wury aboot thin.

The Broons have been fairly quiet. Thon distant cousin Gordon fae Fife, turnt oot tae be a bit o an embarrassment.  There’s him spending oor money buyin banks in sich like as if he cud print money if he ran shoart. Hiv yi iver heard the like? He’s retired noo an thon “Call me Dave” boays tain ower.

Av bin haein ti explain ti ma inspector aboot ma faimily? He’s bin really keen to ken whit thur up tae. Great Uncle Roburt went tae Australia years an years ago efter a wee stooshie involvin sheep. Let’s say nae mair on that tho! The faimlies din aw richt oot there richt enough. Once they geid up the sheep they started a paper out there and before we knew it they had papers all ower the world, even here in the UK. This latest wee bit oh trouble though aboot thon hacking cairy oan hisnae been kind tae me. I telt him Rupert wiz a very distant reli and I’d certainly no been tellin him tales aboot famous folk in Achinshoogle.  I dinnae think thir is any famous folk here at aw apart fae that Jakey Rowlinginit wae wiz supposed tae hiv written some i thone Harry Potter books it a café here!  She mist really hae liked coffee geen the number i cafes she wrote in or maybe it wiz jist to save on heating an electric?

A’ve also hud tae explain to ma Inspector aboot ma involvement wi the local Dundee papers and comics. No easy. I telt him it wiz a bit i PR, soart i like a fly oan the wall documentary but being drawn insteed i filmed, bit he wisnae happy.

Jist when I thought things wur calmin doon they looters started misbehavin and stuff. I wiz jist gled it was doon sooth so it wis nane i ma concern. Then ma Inspector gits me in and tells me A’m being sent doon ti London ti help. Help oot with whit I thoucht? I hid ti get mizured fir riot gear. Me. Gid grief whit nixt. I didnie hae long to wait tho. Nixt it wis Tazer training and street tactics. Whit happened to a wee clip oan the ear? It works jist fine in Achinshoogle?

I goat tae London on Tuesday moarnin and it wiz jist awful. Shops hid been looted, building set oan fire and cars and all sorts smashed up and left in the streets. I felt soarry fur the shoapekeepers. Mind you hearing about some of the prices thae shoaps hud been charging fur stuff I did wonder tae masel who wiz theivin fae who.

When it started to git dark things goat very busy. I was in a polis van wi nine other boabbies fae Scotland. We were telt ti go an stand in a line at a crossroads and look as if we meant business. Then when a crowd o’ hoodies started throwing stuff at us we were told to charge. I mean com oan. I’m no far fae retirement (it feels like ave been aboot to retire for years and years) and some London polis wants me ti start running aroond the streets. I ask yi.

A soartie made an effort and then this hoodie started tae run at mi.  Quick as a fairly slow flash I goat ma taser oot and managed ti shoot masell in the leg wi it. Kini tricky to let go i the trigger mind. I thoat I wiz goanie expire in London where the streets definily urny paved wi gold. One o the ither boabies fi Aberdeen kicked it oot ma hand thankfully. Quick thinkin fae him. He plays fitba fur the Polis team in Grampian, wicked left fit!

I’m back in Achinshoogle noo. The London polis thought it wid be safer for awboady concerned if a wis held in reserve raither thin ending up in court feelin the full might i Camerons revenge efter me probably injuring ither polis.

The hoodie whae wis goannie attack me? Three or fowr ither polis subdued him oan ma behalf. He wiz fine when he wiz taken away but mysteriously and tragically he fell doon the stairs in the polis station they took him ti and ended up wi various bruises an a limp.

It’s an ill wind and aw that richt enough.

Time to pit the kettle oan.

Cheerio.

That’s a kind of a strange title for a post. You know what they are called. They are Mr and Mrs Smith or Jones or any other of millions of diverse and far-flung names. Maybe you’re on first name terms even?

I have a sneaking suspicion that we all have made up names for our neighbours based on that tried and tested scientific process which involves asking friends and family what they call their neighbours. The evidence suggest that if we don’t know neighbours too well we may refer to them by a name we make up which matches our perception of them.

That being the case I thought it might be fun to share some of those names whilst, of course, maintaining anonymity for everyone. I’ll begin shall I since it was my idea to do this?

I’ll start off with s chap who used to lived opposite me. I wasn’t entirely sure of his name but one Saturday morning it became obvious what it really was. I looked out of the windows and saw him opening the curtains in his bedroom and he was quite bald, the a few minutes later I saw him open the downstairs lounge curtains with a full head of hair. You know what his nickname became don’t you? Wiggy. It couldn’t really be anything else.

Next door to him was Mr Angry. I’ve no idea if he was permanently angry but his red face certainly suggested he might be. The next house featured Mrs Efficient who was always organised, worked in a local shop and was very quick at serving people. The Captain’s Wife lived at the other side, so called because her husband was in the merchant navy.

There was also Dirty Stop Out Girl so called as she was regularly brought home mid-afternoon at weekends still wearing the night before glam outfit. Ugly boy and Knob, self-explanatory really, and similarly but requiring a slight hint The Screamer, who seemed to enjoy frolicking with her boyfriend somewhat in a vocally descriptive manner. She could be more annoying at times as the screaming sometimes took place during Question Time. Perhaps political debate was boring for her or perhaps even a lot more interesting than most viewers found it? Torn Faced Shite was a grumpy woman who must have suffered with continual grumping syndrome, it’s the only explanation I can think of.  No Ma Pal was so called due to her being confused with her sister who was friendlier than she was.

None of these were created with malice and they were never repeated to people outside of immediate family.

So what names do you have for your neighbours?

Please leave a comment and/or Tweet, email or text the location of this article to people you think would also enjoy it.

Hibees (Lyrics set to Lola by The Kinks).

A met hur at a gem doon it Easter Road

It’s thi best place ti watch Hibernian,

C’mon H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

Shi sat nixt tae me an wi started ti chat

Wi watched the gem it wis guid ti see

The H-H-Hibees, c’mon H-H-Hibees

We’ll A’m no the worlds maist modurn man

Bit A smiled it hir altho she wis too shy,

Tae shout fur Hibees, H-H-Hibees

Well A’m quite smart bit A couldnae understand

Why she wis oan her ain at a fitba’ gem

Watching Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees

It half time I bought hur a pie

An a Bovril annaw ti wash it doon

Shi looked it me stared me in the eyes

An says “This pie’s no as guid as it ither grounds

Well A’m no the worlds greatest expert in pies

Bit A know a guid pie and the pies are guid At

Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees Hibees,

H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees

Then the Hibees scored, A leapt tae ma feet

A jumped up and doon, but she stiyed oan hur seat

Then A looked it her an she it me

That’s no the wiy I wanted hur ti be

I wanted hur to cheer fur the Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

A luv ma team bit shi wisnae as keen

A wis confused, who did she cheer fur If no fur

Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

When A left hame ti gon ti the gem

A nivver thought A’d meet a wummin like hur

Noo she smiled it me and tain mi by the han

An says “Hey Pal A prefer maroon to green”.

Well A’m no the worlds maist intelligent guy,

Bit A knew that she wisnnae a Hibernian fan

Shi wis a Jambo, aw naw naw shi wis a Jambo

Bit A love the Hibees, H-H-Hibees,

Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

Hibees, H-H-Hibees, H-H-Hibees.

If you enjoyed this blog article please link to me on Twitter account “@Idiot_Husband”. I will then tweet you as more articles in the same light-hearted vein are published.

Please leave a comment and/or Tweet, email or text the location of this article to people you think would also enjoy it.

At this time of the year in Edinburgh we get them by the cart, bus, train, plane, taxi and bike load. Johnnies can somewhat impede ones progress when trying to circumnavigate to ones desired location. I stress not however, as the Johnnies come here and spend lots of money. On one occasion, one of the locals become somewhat tired and emotional and shouted up to the Jonny passengers in one of those open topped tour buses. “Why don’t you just stay ay home!” and then added, “Just send us your money anyway tho”. Seemed reasonable as a suggestion although I fear that the Johnnies may well have taken a dim view of said advice.

Not to worry. I find progress can be maintained reasonably if one doesn’t stop when Johnnies are taking photographs. They tend to take a lot. They tend to have large cameras. You know what they say about male Johnnies with huge camera lenses? That’s right, they have very sore shoulders lugging them about all day. Ha ha ha.

From time to time Johnnies stop onee and ask for directions. No problem really. Well I say no problem but that depends on the Johhny. One asked me for directions to a cinema recently. I asked which one. Anyone she said. I kid you not. I gave her two options and she walked off delighted.

Lots of famous Johhnies pitch up in Edinburgh for the Festival. Apparently John Malkovich was up the High Street handing out flyers. He could have popped down and given me a hand with the back garden but no. Him and his fliers eh?

I saw Rich Hall a couple of years ago. He was hung over but very funny. He looks more and more like Mo from the Simpsons everyday.

So if you’re in Edinburgh take care. Watch out for random Johnnies.

For thos of you who are not familiar with Edinburgh let me explain slightly explain the parody. There are two footbal/soccer clubs in Edinburgh – Heart of Midlothian FC know as Hearts or Jam Tarts who play at a stadium called Tynecastle (it is nowhere near the River Tyne and looks nothing like a Castle. The other team is Hibernian FC know as Hibs or the Hibees who play at a stadium called Easter Road and to be fair it’s at least East depending on where you are of course.

Hearts fans are known as Jambos and Hibs fans are Hibees bit of which can be expanded to include the degree of profanity the situation requires.

Lastly people from the north side of Edinburgh are called Leithers as they live in Leith. There is no such airline as Leither Air although I may write a short blog on how it would operate if it in fact did exist.

Jambonian Rhapsody

Wish a wiz dreamin’ am a completely sane?

Stuck in this nightmare, A’m working fur Leither Air

Up in the sky stuck in a humungus plane

Am jist a Steward, a dinnae really care

Cos I jist muck aboot in the plane, have a laugh, have some fun

Laughin wi the punters enjoyin ma wee life yi see.

Now a want ti follow Hearts, it’s a stupit thing tae dae

What will ma Faither say.

Ma Da is a real Hibee

But now A’ve seen the error of his wiys

Ma Da, ah naw. Wull completely lose the place

When A teer up ma Hibees season ticket

He’ll go oan, He’ll go oan as if it really matturs

Meantime back oan this plane

A’ve goat ti sell some gear, ti the punters drinkin beer.

Cum oan every boady gees yur cash

So a can get a rest, get aff ma feet

Gid grief, ah naw, a bairn his jist been sick

I’ll need ti clean it up wi a paper towel

A see a chance of hivin a bit of fun

Whit a blinder, whit a blinder. I’ll say it’s Norovirus.

That’ll keep them quiet very very frightened yi see.

(Feelin sickly.) Feelin sickly. (Feelin sickly.) Feelin sickly. Feeling sickly but no me

Aw naw no me

I’m just a Jambo who used to be a Hibee

Noo he’s a Jambo but his Da’s a Hibee

Gee him a brek fae Hibs monotony

Lit ‘im be a Jambo, wi’ the ither Jambos

Tynecastle! He’ll no be allowed tae go. (Lit mi go)!

Tynecastle! He’ll no be allowed tae go. (Lit mi go)!

Tynecastle! He’ll no be allowed tae go. (Lt mi go)!

No allowed ti go. (Lit mi go)!

No allowed ti go. (Lit me go)!

Aw

Naw, naw, naw, naw, naw, naw, naw

Oh Faither dearest, Faither dearest, Faither dearest, lit me go

Sergio has a season ticket put aside fur me, fur me, fur me

Dae yi think you can stoap me bein’ a big Jambo?

Dae yi think Easter Roads is the place a shud go?

Oh nae chance, yi cannae make mi go back there

Jist no gonnie go, jist no gonnie go ever again.

Jambos really matter, they’re whits dear ti me

Jambos really matter

Jambos really matter tae me

Awae, awae the Jambos

If you enjoy this blog article please link to me on Twitter account “@Idiot_Husband”. I will then tweet you as more articles in the same light-hearted vein are published.

Please leave a comment and/or Tweet, email or text the location of this article to people you think would also enjoy it.

 
]]> http://petem13.wordpress.com/2011/07/31/jambonian-rhapsody/feed/ 0 petem13 http://petem13.wordpress.com/2011/07/22/scottish-grannies-the-sequel/ http://petem13.wordpress.com/2011/07/22/scottish-grannies-the-sequel/#comments Fri, 22 Jul 2011 16:55:42 +0000 Idiot Husband http://petem13.wordpress.com/?p=206 ]]> If you enjoy this blog article please link to me on Twitter account “@Idiot_Husband”. I will then tweet you as more articles in the same light-hearted vein are published.

There has always a significant link between Scottish Grannies and food. On the one hand we had “clean your plate or you’ll no get your pudding” or on the other they were always making your favourite stuff, in big quantities. Small Gran always made ham bone lentil soup, which was magnificent and had a certain finesse. Big Gran also made soup, which was usually Kale, slightly less finesse due to it being pretty chunky with many vegetables. Its arrival on the table was always accompanied by Big Gran recommending heartily “it’s good for you, it’ll stick to your ribs”. I don’t remember it sticking to my ribs although when I was smaller I did have a minds eye picture of the vegetables stuck straight to my rib bones.

Wee Gran played a blinder one day. She had council workmen in fixing something that had gone wrong in her house. They finished just before lunchtime and one of the workmen commented on the wonderful smell coming from the soup pan on the cooker.  Wee Gran never batted an eyelid as she asked them if they’d like some second day soup. Oh yes they said, well come back tomorrow Wee Gran said. Their faces were a picture. You’ll probably be aware that home made soup tastes better the day after it’s made. Must be something to do with maturing. Maybe. Possibly.

Staying in the kitchen for a wee while longer let’s consider the nectar of the gods that both grans used to make. Tablet. It was just wonderful, sweet and full of flavour as they say. It wasn’t made a that often but when it was, it was just amazing.  Factory made tablet just doesn’t cut it and isn’t as good as the Scottish Grannies version.

I stayed with Wee Gran a lot because she was on her own and occasionally I stayed at Big Grans, usually if my parents were off on a trip.

Staying at Wee Grans wasn’t as much of an adventure as staying at Big Grans. Wee Gran made toast with a long fork thrust close to the open coal fire and served it spread with Blueband Margarine and a bit of strongly coloured orange cheese. That was good as long as the margarine was soft enough to use because if it wasn’t the toast totally wrecked. What was not so good was that Izal Toilet Tissues were the only choice in the toilet and the cistern was high up on the wall with a chain pull. It made the most horrific noise which scared me to death and meant I had to run at full pelt downstairs again. Wee Gran always asked what was wrong with me making such a noise crashing down the stairs. I didn’t let on, oh the shame of it if I had. Wee Grans spare double bed in the “front room” had a “bolster” pillow”. It seemed pretty opulent at the time. No duvets back then, just stiff white sheets and lots of heavy and jaggy blankets. Making the bed was a major undertaking to say the least.

A slight digression for a moment if I may. The advent of nylon fitted sheets caused quite a stir. My Mum and Dad  had them on their bed and unbelievably my dad had a pair of red nylon pyjamas.  To this day I wonder why he never caught fire as he slid into bed the static between the sheets and the PJs, along with the friction caused by the two nylon surfaces surely must have been a major fire hazard. It probably wouldn’t be allowed nowadays. Mores the pity really. Dangerous? Maybe only in the sartorial stakes.

Staying at Big Grans brought alternative forms of entertainment. Big Gran controlled my Granddad. She knew what was best for him and he knew she did even when she was well wide of the mark. He was a really canny and quiet man, not least because getting a word in edgeways smoked a pipe, which seemed to take up an enormous amount of his time, requiring cleaning and filling and tightening and banging on the fire and on and on. However, Big Gran categorised his most aggravating smoking a pipe trick spitting in the open coal fire in the highest misdemeanour category. Most times he was pretty accurate although, given that he was only about three feet away or so you would expect he would be. If he was less accurate then invariably he would hit the fire grate and sizzling would commence. Big Gran would get pretty cross and Granddad would have to make sure he cleaned the grate really thoroughly the next morning when he set the fire. I thought it was pretty cool actually but I was young and immature in the ways of women back then. So little has changed over the years.

When I last stayed at Big Grans they’d both been retired for years. They would wake me up before seven o’clock as they set the fire and made their porridge. Now bearing in mind they had no work to go to or many social functions in their calendar you would expect that they would have relaxed a bit and allowed themselves to get up a bit later. Not a starter, they’d done it all their lives and they continued to do so even when they were not quite fit enough

One morning well before seven I was wakened as usual. I got up and looked out the window as I heard voices, which I’d not noticed before.  Now, me actually getting up was remarkable in itself, not so much because I didn’t mind an odd lie in, but more because Big Gran tucked me in once I was in bed. She did it with such fervour and accuracy with the sheets and blankets that on a number of occasions further movement was just not possible. It gave new meaning to sleeping so well I hadn’t moved all night.

Anyway back to the voices outside before seven o’clock on a freezing Scottish winter morning. I’d heard the voices because the window was open to let fresh air in, obviously it also let in the cold, but when I was staying at Big Grans I was made of sterner stuff and could withstand sub zero temperatures although I did have a copious number of blankets and a hot water bottle which did help. A bit. Ish.

So the voices. They weren’t just in my head, they were the voices of Big Gran and various other lady neighbours all of a similar age. They stood on the pavement with coats on over their dressing gowns and night ware with varying arrangements of curlers, Kirby grips and hairnets on their heads. I was puzzled by this communal standing about but only until the local co-operative milk van drove into the street. The ladies formed an orderly queue and received their milk along with whatever rolls, bran scones or sodas they had pre-ordered.

To finish then I’ll just add one further memory of Big Grans cooking powers and Granddads less then accurate spitting. Big Gran made the best Clootie Dumpling in the world. It was made, most specifically, for New Years Day when the whole family would go for dinner. That would be seven adults and six children of varying ages in what was a pretty small room. The living room got very hot very quickly, helped in no small part, by the roaring open coal fire, which had been tended all day as “the family are coming”.

The final part of the preparation of the clootie dumpling was for it to sit on hearth to breath whilst we ate our soup (Kale, what else?) and then our steak pie. The cloot (cloth) covering of the dumpling would be rolled back a bit to expose the dumpling and we all looked forward to enjoying it. There was a danger that someone might swallow a six pence or a thrupenny bit but we were at our Grannies so we’d be fine. (Scottish Grannies have been healing the walking wounded for generations and have an extensive medical box filled with lotions and potions Mary Poppins would die for – more of in the next instalment of Scottish Grannies).

Back to the Clootie dumpling. You know what’s coming next.

Following the finishing of the steak pie the table was cleared and Granddad sat down at the fire for a puff of his pipe. No one complained as at least two other adults were smoking as well.  Granddad was enjoying his pipe and no one was really paying much attention to him. Then he took aim and spat. His aim was good but not good enough. Some of it definitely landed on the dumpling. Luckily Big Gran didn’t see and no one said a word about it. However, Big Gran did comment about people not being as keen on the dumpling as they usually were but everyone assured her it was because they had had too much Steak pie. Granddad was demonstrably relieved, he even helped wash up the dishes which must have been a bit of a giveaway that something definitely wasn’t right.

More to come soon.

If you enjoyed this blog article please link to me on Twitter account “@Idiot_Husband”. I will then tweet you as more articles in the same light-hearted vein are published.

Please leave a comment and/or Tweet, email or text the location of this article to people you think would also enjoy it.

The three Ps Police, Politicians and the Press are in serious trouble (See Subrosa). Lots and lots of avoidance, swerving and plain running away has and will continue to take place.

With this in mind the organisers of the London Olympics 2012 have revised the sporting events planned. Squirming may be included along with Hacking, Resigning and that old favorite Custard Pie Throwing. These events disappointingly, may not attract Gold medals to the winners although Golden Handshakes may well be offered instead.

It’s been known for years that the Murdochs infiltrated the polis. One of their family has been a Boabbie in Auchinshoogle for a very long time. To be fair he’s been better at policing up there than the MET have been down in London. Amazingly, by all accounts, he’s a dab hand at kettling!

Unfortunately he also has very strong ties with a Dundee based newspaper however, which might prejudice his valiant efforts. He was also spotted recently whilst playing football in the streets with some local youths. Apparently he is extremely good at hacking but it doesn’t go down too well with the other players.

Wasn’t it very useful for us all that good old Gordie Broon stood up last week in the Houses of Parliament and provided further unsavoury testimony on the doings of the despicable Mr Murdoch. Mr Murdoch is apparently a very bad man indeed although Gordie seems to have been big mates with him and some of his staff, they even shared the odd sandwich and shandy. Ohhhhhhh… Gordie didn’t mention that. It probably just slipped his mind. He’s a busy man after all.

Surprisingly and shockingly, Gordie Broon also has ties with the same Dundee based newspaper as PC Murdoch. Whilst he was living at a previous address in Glebe Street, Dundee and also from a weekend cottage up North, Broon provided a weekly article and in fact still does this to this day. He certainly needs the money given the number of bairns he’s got between Dundee and North Queensferry. Who’d a thunk it.

Methinks there’s more to this press crisis than first meets the eye. It’s a tangled web indeed.

I for one will not take the slightest bit of pleasure whilst watching the increasingly desperate manoeuvrings as more newspapers, journalists and broadcasters are caught up in the “crisis”.

There seems to be some other sort of crisis taking place with Greece, Italy and maybe even Spain. It’s small in comparison to our press crisis though. Thanks goodness for that. We know our priorities in this country. Oh yes we do.

If you enjoyed this blog article please link to me on Twitter account “@Idiot_Husband”. I will then tweet you as more articles in the same light-hearted vein are published.

Please leave a comment and/or Tweet, email or text the location of this article to people you think would also enjoy it.

The USA is a cool place and Los Angeles probably the coolest. The Eagles wrote “Hotel California” which reflects their culture and there’s been a debate about the lyrics ever since. Scotland is cool and we Scots are cooler still but we’re also canny. So, I’ve re-written the lyrics from a Scottish perspective. You may have experienced something similar  one of those night?. (Sorry couldn’t resist). I’m still the new kid in town (it goes on) at this bloggin lark.

Seriously for a moment. I aim to blog a Scottish based bit of fun once a week. If you want to know when I publish these then please follow @Idiot_husband.

So here follows Scottish lyrics which fit Hotel California by The Eagles

Hotel Caledonia

A cold January evenin’, cauld sleet comin doon,

Time I went for a quick yin, in this grim little toon.

Doon the road in the distance there’s a bright neon light.

A red T beckonin’ in the dark an’ sleet,

My hostelry fur the night.

A burd stood in the entrance,

She’d bin there a while.

She looked cauld and her hair wiz wet,

She gawped it me an’ geed me a smile.

Then she took oot her ciggies and gave yin ti me.

Her voice wiz smooth and ur accent strange,

As she said tae me…

This pubs called the Hotel Caledonia.

It’s my favourite bar,

I dinnae bring my car.

The booze is cheap in the Hotel Caledonia,

I’ve seen yi here, drinkin, strong mans beer.

I wiz totally gob smacked, why wiz she speakin ti me?

She wiz very attractive woman an’ no’ married yi see.

Of course I didnae tell hur, as we went inside,

Sat doon in a corner, thurs nae place to hide.

At the bar, stood the land lord,

So I ordered up two beers.

He said “That’s nae problem buddy you’ve no spent this much in years”.

A voice was shoutin’ and screamin’ inside my heid,

“get a grip ya loonie, yu’ll git caught oot,

The wife’ll `make yi deed”.

This pubs called the Hotel Caledonia.

I’m sitting here,

Wi’ a nice cauld beer,

I’m really enjoyin’ the Hotel Caledonia

Wae a luvly gurl, ma heids in a twurl.

Shi leans in towards me,

Puts hir hand oan ma knee.

And shi saz “yur a man thit’s speshul, that much a kin see.

A need ti ask yi a favour,

Yin yull dae a hope.

Yi can gee me a discount

Aff somethin in yur shoap”

I had a sinkin feelin

Like a wiz fallin’ ti the flair

I thoaght shi’d really fancied me

Bit shi didnae really care

“Sorry doll get raffled.

The discount ‘s mine only to receive

At the checkout it’s full price fur you

Noo why doan’t you jist leave?”

If you enjoyed this blog article please link to me on Twitter account “@Idiot_Husband”. I will then tweet you as more articles in the same light-hearted vein are published.

Please leave a comment and/or Tweet, email or text the location of this article to people you think would also enjoy it.