Aye or Naw

Right, here we go.  After months of debate, debate bordering on ill-tempered bickering and countless hours of political pundits banging on endlessly with ill-informed speculation and scare-mongering, the Scots are voting on independence.  Every single Jock seems to have registered to vote and is off to the polls.  A high turnout is expected and of course 16 year olds have the vote, which is either inspiring or terrifying depending on which sort of 16 year olds you know.

So, obviously, I’ll be staying up all night.

This requires a strategy.  The last time I stayed up all night I was in my teens and was at a party and there were girls and everything.  Actually, that’s not quite true, the last time was probably travelling, on an aeroplane where free booze brought to your seat and free movies made sleeping something of a waste of time.

This time it’ll be something of a long haul.  The results are going to take even longer than bloody Eurovision.  And coverage starts at half ten, meaning the BBC coverage (always the best pundits and coolest graphics, and the presenters always get a little crazed around mid-morning) is going to consist of at least a few hours of speculation, recapping and desperately filling.

First up, a quick trip to Waitrose.  Obviously what’s required are snacks that will slowly and evenly release sugar throughout the night.  But sod that, nobody’s interested in virtuous flavours at the turning of the tide, so it’s crisps, and, oh my God I can’t believe it, a Ginsters pasty – the perfect three-in-the-morning hot snack, as when microwaved to perfection (nuked to buggery) it transforms into something akin to a phenomenon studied by vulcanologists and would certainly wake you up if you ate it before letting it cool.  Which takes a while.  It’s the only snack with a half life.

But mostly, let’s celebrate the fact that for the first time in a decade I’m able to have a cup of tea after six o’clock without worrying that it’s going to keep me up all night.

Crisps.  Chocolate.  A mango.  Put mango back.  Sorted.

22:30  Telly on.

22:32  Kettle on.

22:45  First chance to see how the BBC graphics boffins have risen to the challenge and it appears they have gone somewhat bonkers, with a huge graphic of a nuclear submarine seemingly navigating the depths of the news room.

22:48  A whistle-stop tour of the counting centres.  Scotland appears to be very well provisioned with sports halls.  Ironic given the health of the nation.

22:56  Oh Christ, looks like Jeremy Vine’s strategy has been to drink a shed load of pro-plus laced coffee.  Cool graphics though, got a whole 3D thing going on.  Looking forward to exhausted graphic technicians going doolally with exhaustion later on and really getting creative – ‘Let’s take a look at the results so far with the result represented as a caber being tossed’.

23:01  An expert has just announced that ‘More votes will take longer to count’.  Genius.

23:04  Montage!  Proof that even a Primal Scream soundtrack can’t make politicians look cool.

23:14  Oh shit, it’s a people’s panel made up of folk who didn’t get an invite to a referendum party.

23:30  Quick break for news headlines.  All presenters rush to the loo at the same time for a wee and a wee line.

22:35  Over to Westminster.  Andrew Neil co-presenting with a truly appalling hairpiece, no wonder this bloke only goes on after the watershed.  Luckily John Redwood is also on the programme and so Neill appears normal by comparison.

23:41  Huw Edwards is reminding us that Scotland is a ‘rural’ country and there are ‘logistical challenges’ to transporting a box to a sports hall.  Luckily, it would appear that the Scots have access to vans.

23:44  Leader of Scottish Conservatives looks quite a lot like ‘Scots funnywoman’ Susan Calman.  Suspect they have the same tailor.

23:45  BBC ticker declaring that Queen is following the vote closely.  I bet she’s having a party.  Wonder if she is serving Ginsters?

23:46  Apparently Glasgow normally has a low turnout, but having a say in the future of your nation, and putting polling stations in branches of Greggs, appears to have greatly increased turnout.

22:55  Cool graphic of a helicopter, representing Scottish Army.  Given state of defence cuts, presume this helicopter will be shared with England, with Wales getting it at alternate weekends.  Rotors spinning and everything.  Look forward to the helicopter strafing the newsroom later.

00:10  Now well past time would normally be in bed.  Usually midnight means New Year’s Eve, and ten past midnight means finishing the last of the fizz, saying ‘fireworks were good, Hootananny was shit…again’ and going to bed.

00:13  Ooh, have discovered ‘Trendsmap’ on the interweb.  Essentially this works out who is tweeting what where and puts it on a map.  It’s fascinating.  In Scotland you have a lot of #Yes and in the West of England, you have a lot of #Thunder and #Lightening.  Thank God for the English’s preoccupation with discussing the weather, it means you can track bands of thunderstorms in real time.  Also worth watching just to see if suddenly loads of hashtags along the lines of ‘Aliens’ or ‘Invasion’ pop up.

00:21  First interview of the night with bolshie Welsh person, who also wants more power.  Yea, right.  Like that’s going to happen.

00:45  Andrew Neil up again.  Of course, his normal programme is on so late it’s almost early, so he’s used to napping through the afternoon and appearing chirpy well after ‘Newsnight’ has finished.  He has a boffin on who is saying that there will be huge changes no matter what the result, and that there will need to be a lot of work done on the constitution.  Oh, he’s a constitutional expert.

00:53  Jeremy Vine is standing in front of a graphic titled ‘Battleground’.  You can just tell that everyone involved is already gearing up for the 2015 election.  Speculation starting to resemble desperation.  Fill.  Waffle.  And shout ‘Count faster you bastards’.

00:57  Edinburgh count appears to be taking place in an aircraft hanger.

00:59  Which of the workers in the high-viz vests in the background at the count is going to do something amusing and become a social media star?  My guess is the girl doing the dance moves.

01:00  BBC have apparently dispatched all of their reporters around Scotland.  The chap in Orkney is, judging by the fleece he’s wearing, is BBC Scotland’s rugby correspondent.  On radio.

01:05  Reporter in Midlothian is talking about ‘social factors’, classing people as posh if ABC, moving steadily into working class with D and E.  Something tells me that Glasgow doesn’t bother much with the first bit of the alphabet.  Reporter doing a really good job and seems very posh, obviously pitching for her seat on the BBC news copter back to London if there’s a ‘Yes’ vote and Scotland’s national broadcaster goes from being the BBC to being a bloke with a bell and a loud voice.

01:20  Huw releases the panel, who were all actually insightful, measured and charming.  Huw has promised them ‘something a little stronger than herbal tea’.  Boozing on the License Fee.  Excellent!  Must be massive temptation to try and drink the value of your Fee and pocket any BBC pens you can get your hands on.

01:27  Clackmannanshire result is in.  And it’s a No!  More importantly, how cool is the name ‘Clackmannanshire’?

01:28  Footage of celebrations at ‘Yes’ HQ show quite a few bottles already open, and LOADS more lined up ready.  Pace yourself chaps.  Luckily, the Scots are famously abstemious.

01:39  Jeremy Vine has a bloody huge map of Scotland that is apparently filling the newsroom.  It’s on a scale of the sort of map that a Bond villain would use to plot the destruction of the nation’s haggis industry.  Clackmannanshire is flashing red.  Jeremy then goes on to explain that the area is populated by members of the ‘DE’ social class.  Possibly this means that they have heard that if you vote ‘No’, Westminster will give you all sorts of goodies and are holding out for a Greggs gift card for every man, woman and child.  Areas populated by As and Bs will expect to get a Waitrose.

01:50  Oooooh, flash of lightening and roll of thunder.  Drama in the skies as well as on the telly.

02:01  Orkney declares.  It’s a HUGE NO!  Loving the bit where they read out the different categories of why certain ballots can’t be counted.  BBC always cut away from speaker before he gets to category of ‘crudely drawn cock’ on ballot.  Shot of No! HQ celebrating result.  Everyone looks marginally more refreshed than they did the last time.  I don’t need fancy graphics to illustrate a continuing trend of young people, excitement and alcohol meaning the only sort of political party that is agreeable.

02:07  Guests on BBC all look remarkably kempt.  Think the same people are doing a circuit of teevee shows.  Suspect those doing radio shows might be a little more casual.  But would love to see a guest turn up in PJs and dressing gown, possibly clutching a favourite soft toy.

02:21  After two o’clock, things are starting to get a little bit more relaxed.  First OB from a ‘Yes’ party, where the BBC journo is sporting a party shirt and begins by explaining that there has been stand-up and poetry!  Very nice too.  I hope the producer says that they’ll be going back to him at 6:00, so he can’t start in on the Babycham yet.

02:25  Jeremy Vine is explaining that people from lower social classes are more likely to vote for independence.  Presume this means UKIP will be courting the chav vote.

02:42  Andrew Neil appears to have a twelve year old as a guest.  Who appears to have modelled himself on Nick Robinson.  Thunder and lightening over Houses of Parliament in the background looks spectacular in HD, whereas Mr Neil most certainly does not.  Nothing wrong with wearing make-up on telly, but when it looks like it needs not so much touching up as reapplication with a trenching tool, maybe a rethink is needed.

03:43 Shetland says No!  Ponies love the union.

02:49 Huw is a bit bloody familiar with using first names, if you ask me.  Calling Michael Gove ‘Michael’ is just, well, unnatural.  This is the BBC, he should be addressed as ‘Mr Gove’ or ‘Twatty’.

03:00 Eilean Siar votes…who bloody knows, they’re speaking Gaelic.  Oh, English now.  And it’s…NO!  Something of a surprise.  Could No! pull off a clean sweep.  Let’s see those figures expressed as a wicker man.  Eilean Siar sounds like a folk singer whose music is used in a John Lewis Christmas ad.

03:14  Good to see that UKIP remain true to form, the bloke from UKIP speaking to Huw is a total bloody foaming-at-the-mouth nutter and, bonus, rude too.

03:33 Inverclyde declares.  And it’s…No.  Just.

03:35  Half three and the snacking is going well.  Ginsters is still in the fridge rather than the microwave.  But have discovered a cup a soup at the back of the cupboard.  Past the three o’clock hump, closer to dawn than dusk last night.  Tension draining out of coverage though and people are trying to move the story on already to what comes next, as that involves England.

03:51  Renfrewshire says…No!  79 rejected ballots, reasons muted again but ‘used to wipe arse’ has to have happened at least once.

03:53  Dundee bloke reading out spoiled ballots first.  Builds tension.  Dundee vote for independence.  If necessary, one gets the feeling Dundee will go it alone!

04:06  West Dumbartonshire says fucking AYE!  Pundits now back pedalling.  Lots of talking about working together as ‘Team Scotland’.  No footage of SNP headquarters.

04:09  Midlothian says No, no independence please.  No! party really looks like it’s hotting up.  Cheering, drinking, embraces.  It’s swung No, experts reckon we can all pack up and go home.  Cup-a-soup tasty, but with that oddly gritty texture you get from packet soups.

04:14  East Lothian says Naw!  Big win for the no campaign.  Also lady reading out the results very well turned out for past four o’clock in the morning, possibly rightly thinking this is her big chance auditioning for job involving standing up and talking on telly, weathergirl, lottery ball girl or something to do with Countdown, or at least a regional quiz show.

04:16  Stirling says NO!  Stirling also has least imaginative backdrop.

04:29  Falkirk says No!  Lady reading results is a stranger to hairspray.  Meanwhile back in the studio the politicians are having a bit of a bicker.  Past four o’clock, it’s an effort to stay civilised.

04:25  Jeremy Vine finally has some stats to render in graphic form.  Lots of coloured boxes.  Possibly after the vote this could be used in the gameshow the lady earlier was auditioning for.

04:28  Angus says No!

04:29  Dumfries is a ‘hefty’ no.  So, that’s a NO then.

04:32  East Renfrewshire have a backdrop with windfarms on it.  And they say no.

04:33  East Dumbartonshire go no.  Aberdeen go no too.  Huw keeps speaking to pundits, then cutting them off as the picture jumps to another sports hall with, if we’re lucky, a coloured backdrop.

04:46  North Lanarkshire go yes!  Creeping sensation that the yes campaign are now playing for pride.

04:47 Perth and Kinross lady go no!

04:52  Glasgow!  Here we go!  Glasgow go yes!  Glasgow wants to be independent from the UK.  Scottish Borders go no though.  West Lothian vote no.

05:01  North Ayrshire goes no.  Feeling very close to Huw and the team at the BBC.  We’ve sat up through the still watches of the night without any sustaining booze.  Well, Huw may have been sneaking a dram or two, but it’s been tea and cup-a-soup here.

05:05  South Ayrshire are a no.  Woman reading out the numbers does not like cheering.

05:09  East Ayrshire.  No.  Apparently this is a surprise to the pundits.  The pundits keep banging on about communities with high levels of depravation equalling voting for independence.  No formal link between desire for independence and aversion to vegetables made yet.

06:33  It’s getting light outside.  It’s all over, and it’s a No from the Scottish public.  The newscaster doing the short news bulletins throughout the night on BBC News 24 must have thought it was her lucky day, instead of having to read out the same bit of rolling news every half hour for half and hour and then start all over again, she basically did the headlines and then, presumably, had a nap for 25 minutes while Huw did his thing.  Some grainy still pictures of Alex Salmon being whisked away somewhere in a car and private jet, he actually looks like a foiled Bond villain.

6:38  Time for bed.  Question is, should I have a cheeky beer first?

Tartangeddeon

Salmond and Sturgeon may read like a wet fish order placed by an illiterate, or sound like a music hall turn, but they are, if the English ruling classes are to be believed, the most terrifying double act to come out of Scotland since ‘The Krankies’.  Together, they lead the sinister sounding ‘SNP’, an organisation dedicated to rolling back the carpet of history and making Scotland independent once again.

Anyone who has visited Scotland will be wondering what all the fuss is about.  This is a county with its own currency (ever tried to pay for something in a shop in the Cotswolds with a Scottish tenner?), its own cuisine (extensively documented elsewhere on this blog) and its own language.

But they want more.

So.

Jings!  As they say north of the border, a place that if the rumours are to be believed, you will soon need a passport, as well as the usual inoculations against scurvy and a bucket of midge-repellent, to visit.  The Scots, it would appear, are revolting.

In England (because at the moment Wales and Northern Ireland are about as noticed as Kevin in the opening reels of ‘Home Alone’) there is anger, resentment, and quite a lot of anxiety.

Anger and resentment that the Scots want to leave the Union.  Don’t these haggis chewing bastards know about all the great things that England has done for them?  For a start, we take all that filthy oil they have lying around under the North Sea and store it safely in our cars, ensuring it won’t annoy gulls.  The English also create jobs in Scotland, as I am reliably informed that the chap who mans the siren that will sound if ever there’s a problem at the nuclear weapons storage facility at the submarine base up there, is Scottish.

The anger, however, is nothing compared to the anxiety which, since I started this post, has been upgraded to fear.  There seems to be a real concern that if Scotland vote to leave the Union, this will have cataclysmic effects.  And it will.  For Scotland.  And also for a certain type of Englishman.

Scotland first.  This is a country that has an economy based, if I have grasped this correctly, on shortbread, an intoxicating spirit, and wee creepy looking dolls of girls in kilts that you purchase in plastic tubes.  Unless the Scots are sitting on a mountain of natural resources that would make the dwarves in LOTR envious, and that mountain of uranium at the submarine base doesn’t count, then surely they are better as part of a greater economic unit, that is to say, Britain.  Oil?  My understanding is that the stuff is to be found in the North Sea, rather than Scotland.

Scotland’s greatest export has always been the Scots.  Inventors, engineers and talented stand up comedians, the Scots have spread their talent round the globe, all driven by the same impulse, to travel somewhere where it’s not raining.

The English are, frankly, shitting themselves.  If you own a vast estate in Scotland the last thing you need is some ghastly native declaring independence.  Look what happened in Rhodesia.  The English gentry bloody love Scotland.  The people are lovely, the scenery is glorious and, best of all, mobile ‘phone reception is atrocious.  Once you have made your pile and bought an estate, it’s best to spend most of your time up there, standing in a river not catching fish, or roaming in the gloaming wondering where the bloody hell all the game has got to, happy in the knowledge that if you hear a bird call, it’s likely to be something you can shoot and not a txt alert.

G&P wears its Scottish heritage proudly.  Fond of haggis, overfond of the water of life and tremendously suited to a kilt.  Scotland has never fallen short of ambition.  If Scotland gains independence it will, I am sure, make a success of it and G&P will make the most of it, by getting a tartan stamp on a passport page at the very least when attending the Edinburgh Festival.

But I hope that the Scots vote to stay.  I’d hate to pay import duty on Irn Bru.

Iain Banks - ‘Troubled teens, turbulent atheists and really, really big guns’

It's been a year since Ian Banks passed.

Did he not get the memo?  His job was to turn out two books a year, one science fiction, the other of a genre of his choosing, until further notice.  Unfortunately it would appear that the universe had other ideas.

I bloody loved his books.  How does one judge what one’s favourite book is?  How about the number of times tou have re-read it?  Or how much you identify with it?  Or maybe you just happened to read it at a special or important moment in your life?  Or maybe reading the book was the special or important moment in your life.  Certainly, my copy of ‘Espedair Street’ looks well loved, as does my copy of ‘The Crow Road’.  Knowing that there are not going to be any new novels published, I’m going to have to slow down on the re-reading.

And god how I loved the sci-fi stuff.  Science fiction as it should be, with spaceships the size of, well, huge space ships, sardonic robots with loads of ordinance packed away in them, and proper aliens, and cool weapons and robots too.  There was probably some stuff in there about using the art form to examine the human condition but fuck that, I’ll save the introspection for the re-read.

I even loved ‘Raw Spirit’, where Banks essentially drives around distilleries, takes the tour, loads up his boot with scotch and, as far as I can work out, bills the lot to his publisher and writes it off against tax as ‘research’.  Cheers!  There’s probably more to it than that  but I’ll save it for the re-read.

I’ll miss Iain Banks.  I met him a couple of times at book signings and, despite the fact he was hugely popular and had probably been signing books for sweating fanboys like myself for days if not weeks, he had great charm and always seemed flattered that somebody was interested in his writing, and wanted a book signed.  And a hardback at that!

Balls!

'Fast ball!  Fast ball!  Fast ball!'

Ah, the Six Nations.  Good because it’s rugby, good because it’s a major tournament, great because it’s one of the rare sporting events that is broadcast on the BBC.  If Sky and ESPN continue their domination of sports broadcasting, the only sporting choice left to those too tight to pay to watch their team perform disappointingly is going to be Little League and fights in pub car parks.

The thing about the Six Nations is that one starts the tournament with such high expectations and, because it is stretched out over a number of weeks, it takes a while for those hopes to be crushed.

'One can’t help but feel that cricket might be improved if the batsman occasionally 

chased the bowler around the pitch with his bat in response to irresponsible bowling'

There is also spectacle.  At Murrayfield they have a piper and a field gun, presumably to keep order if Scotland actually score a try.  There are the anthems, everybody singing, everybody crying.  There’s also the ever present threat of a bit of off-the-ball action, which is what a punch-up between players is referred to as.  This is not the sort of behaviour one would expect to see from professional sportsmen, although one can’t help but feel that cricket might be improved if the batsman occasionally chased the bowler around the pitch with his bat in response to irresponsible bowling.

The downside to watching the Six Nations is the commentary.  For some strange reason, the BBC’s rugby commentary team seem to be afflicted with a disproportionate number of old women.  Not that I have anything against old women, old women are lovely, it’s just that when an ex-rugby player is being unswervingly negative about a team who, whatever their performance, are sweating and bleeding and steaming in the driving rain in order to win the game, it does rather detract from one’s enjoyment.

This is the year though, when I add social media to the mix.  Have you ever watched a sporting event whilst following it simultaneously on Twitter?  It’s fantastic.  It’s like going to the cinema, watching a film and having everyone talking at once, sharing their ill-informed opinions and giving advice to the characters, all in neat little soundbites, but in real time and with the added bonus that there is plenty of ‘off-the-ball’ action between Twitterers (Twonkers?  Twypers?) who do not share the same opinion.

Following Twitter and watching telly has been something of a short-term craze for me this past week.  Once you get into it, it’s hard to stop until you have a breakthrough moment that you’ve seen it all before and, actually, it’s not adding to your enjoyment of ‘Bargain Hunt’ as much as you thought it might.

It is a great idea, real time updates on social media from people who are having the same experience that you are.  Like with so many great tech ideas though, it’s the execution that lets it down.  That and the users.

Because what you are really looking for is somebody to make amusingly cruel comments that add another layer of enjoyment to whatever you are watching.  There’s even an app that allows you to filter social media comments about live television and, in the short term, it is gigglesome but in the long term depressing that so many people are at home at five thirty on a Saturday night watching ‘Jurassic Park’ in their pyjamas.  That’s my thing, that’s not your thing, alright?

I’ve been in a stadium watching a rugby match as part of a social network known as a ‘crowd’ and the comments are, generally, kept to a minimum of ‘ooooh’, ‘ahhhh’ and ‘fast ball!’, which seems to get shouted an awful lot, along with hints and tips and advice for the players and the ref.  These do not, generally, make for good tweets.  Mind you, neither do the things actually being tweeted.

So I’m just going to assume that a live sporting occasion is a shared experience without relying on any actual evidence, and I am going to go on believing that the sort of people who tweet really do have better things to do on a Saturday night than watch ‘Jurassic Park'

in their pyjamas.

They are wrong, of course, there is no better way to spend your Saturday night.

Cultural vandalism

Scottish food is not just a load of stodge in a polystyrene container.

Scottish cuisine has, shall we say, something of a reputation for not being the healthiest in the world.  Maybe, but if you've spent the day staggering in a blizzard through the gloaming looking for a stranded coo or bewildered hiker, a dinner rich in radish is not going to cut it.  Ideally, you want something rich in fat, grease and wobbly bits that go crunchy when fried.  Even if you work in an office and live in Glasgow.

But is it as bad as all that?  

The Canadians think it's worse.  It's reported that they have outlawed a wide variety of British foods, such as marmite, but also the fabulous Scottish beverage Irn Bru, which is either a fizzy, tasty and refreshing drink, or a vile cocktail of artificial colours and flavourings just not found in nature, or food shops in North America, apparently - but are found in chemical weapon factories in angry countries, and Scottish corner shops.

It's not like Scotland can hit back in some sort of tit-for-tat trade war.  Canada bans Irn Bru and so Scotland bans, er...well, I'm sure there's a Canadian export that could be targeted.  Obviously not any kind of alcoholic produce.  Moose? Do they export moose?

As far as I can determine Canada's chief exports seem to be belligerent people with French accents and comedians who pretend they are American so that they can get a career in Hollywood.  So that appears to be it, if they ban our Irn Bru, we introduce strict prohibitions on Rick Moranis.

It's also served on fine china.

You'll have had your tea

Myths persist for three reasons.

Firstly, repetition.  Repeat something often enough and it will gain, if not credibility, then at least popularity or even notoriety.  The great thing about the repetition of a myth is that it can be done by people who have not even heard the original source material, but wish to confirm something in a manner that indicates they are privy to information others are not.  For instance 'I hear the Pope has six toes on each foot'.  'Ooooh, yes, I heard that too.' and so on.

Secondly, the myth is something we want to believe.  Alien life visiting our planet and fumbling with yokels' trouser parts is a far more interesting belief to hold than, say, we are alone in the universe and even if alien life did visit, it wouldn't try to touch us up because we are such a repellant species.

Thirdly, it's credible.  There could be an undiscovered creature living in the Himalayas.  There could be a dinosaur swimming in Loch Ness.  Haggis is a Highland creature.

The fabled 'Pyramid of haggis'.  

If there's a better way to display tinned haggis, it's yet to be invented.

Let's be quite clear, haggis is not an animal found in the Highlands of Scotland, it's a mixture of offal and meat, like a big spicy sausage.  If the haggis were an animal, I would imagine that it would not come in a vegetarian option.  I may not be a qualified vet, but I'm not aware of any animals that are actually vegetables.

Haggis does however, taste exactly like the meat of an animal that lives a very rough life in the Highlands of Scotland, subsisting on a diet of heather, rain, granite and the occasional lost hiker.  If Haggis were an animal, then hunting season would be early January (of course they're hunted in the wild, whoever heard of intensive haggis farming?), to adorn the plates of diners on Burns Night.

Robert Burns's verse on the side of the Scotish Parliament building.  

If you're verse adorns the side of a Parliament building, you are a national treasure...

or possibly a little sod with a spray can who styles himself a 'graffiti artist'.

Today is the anniversary of the birth of Robert Burns, arguably Scotland's greatest poet.  Arguably the United Kingdom's greatest poet if you consider having the poet's verses reproduced on tea towels as a measure of fame.  Without doubt the worlds greatest poet if you measure fame by having a dinner named after you - take that Shakespeare, Thomas and Yeats.

It's Burns Night tonight.  All over the country people will be dusting off their best tartan biscuit tin, downloading a verse or two from the Internet, calling potatoes 'tatties' and using the celebration of the birth of a gret poet to drink a lot of scotch.

There is, apparently, a right way to partake of a Burns supper.  This involves, depending on your means, a piper, or some recorded pipe music (bag, not pan).  It also involves many, many toasts and an address to the haggis which is, apparently, the great chieftain of the pudding race (coming as a surprise to all those who thought that was rolly polly and custard).

This example of Scottish cuisine can be enjoyed any night of the year.

The problem is when you enjoy it every night of the year.

It's also the one day a year when Scottish cuisine is enjoyed.  The rest of the year Scottish cuisine is merely feared and respected in equal measure.  The world over, people eat traditional Scottish fare, neeps, tatties and of course haggis.  Well, let's be honest, people eat what they think is traditional Scottish fare.  If people were tucking into traditional Scottish fare then, in my experience, dinner tables would largely feature a double portion of chips liberally soaked with saltandsauce, washed down with Irn Brew.

It's easy to knock Scottish cooking.  And it's fun too.
And unfair.  I bloody love Scottish cooking and I think it's wrong that it gets ridiculed.  True, Scottish people do like hearty food, leaning towards the meaty, and well cooked.  Stews, mince and flat sausage all pander to the 'if it's brown, wolf it down' sensibilities of the Scottish palate but it's unfair to knock exotic items like the deep fried mars bar - if Heston had come up with that, it would be hailed as a work of genius and possibly even 'witty'.
Certainly, I'll be tucking into my haggis and probably partaking of a dram or two.  Cliche?  Possibly, but also an opportunity to toast the great man who wrote 'my love is like a red red rose' and 'Tam O'Shanter', poetry which, like Scottish cuisine, deserves celebration.

Postcard from Edinburgh - Haggis and baggage

There's something about the last day of a holiday that makes one want to cram in the maximum level of enjoyment, especially if it relates to things that you can't get at home. That's why I fought and only narrowly won my battle with common decency at breakfast and did not return from the buffet with a plate simply piled high only with haggis.


And again, with the weight limit in mind, I didn't panic buy several tins of the stuff from the shop on the royal mile. I imagine that tourists from all over the world do and can just imagine what it must be like when some bloke from Tokyo serves that up as a treat for some honoured guests.

Back to the Pleasance, to see Sandi Toksvig. Ironically, we see the large Tim Vine in a tiny venue and the diminutive Sandi in a large venue. Sandi is, I think, on her way to becoming something of a Peter Ustanov, in that she has an admirable style as a raconteur, a dry wit, a surname that scores highly in Scrabble and judging by her waistline a fondness for biscuits. Dipped in lard.

Edinburgh fashion tip - ladies, if you are old enough to remember 'The Dukes of Hazzard' tee vee series, you are too old to wear Daisy Dukes.

Whatever the shortcomings of its venues, the Plesance Courtyard is an excellent place to spend some time. My advice would be to go to the courtyard but avoid the venues. The courtyard is the place to go to meet with friends, grab a drink, have a seat and become the proud owner of around 12,000 flyers. You are handed a flyer every 30 seconds. Like animal training, you must employ a firm 'no' and harden yourself to seeing hope die in the eyes of a young performer.

Next year am going to have my own flyers printed up and only take one of theirs if they take one of mine. Mine will be for a theatre piece where a psychotic nutter is driven insane by the constant badgering of those wishing to give him flyers and so goes to their shows, then tracks them down hand beats them to death with a bag heavy with accumulated flyers, or squeak toys, I haven't quite worked that out yet.

Alternatively, fuck it, one year I am going to allow myself enough time to engage in conversation and go to one show every day after auditioning the various flyerers and picking what looks like the best show, or the most attractive cast.

Of course the luxury project would be to only attend shows discovered by way of flyer, and the project to turn into a blog, to turn into a book, to turn into a show next year would be the flyer chain, where you go to a show via a flyer on the Royal Mile and every show you go to thereafter has to be as a result of a flyer you get at the venue of the previous show.


Given the sheer number of shows, they can't all be great, no matter how many stars the artist biros onto their poster, so 'Flying Fuck-that-was-bad' is the working title.

Review - Alzheimer's the musical

Walked out of this one. Absolute shite.

Not sure what we expected but with a name like that we were prepared to be offended. The fringe has never been a bastion of political correct comedy or sensitivity, which is probably why I enjoy it so much, so we were quite ready to be shocked.

The reviews were good and the long queue, in the rain, boded well. We holed up under a bar table with a big brolly and tagged on to the end of the queue when it started moving.

This meant we were in the overspill area for the audience, a balcony with no seats but, what the hell, it's the last show of the fringe and we're are rock and roll enough to handle this.

Show was three Australian comedians doing comic songs about old age, dressed as grannies. I know of course that Australia is a cultural as well as an actual desert, but if your big opening number involved finding a rhyme of 'Viagra' and using your simmer frame as a dancing partner, you are fucked. We gave them half of the second sketch to redeem themselves but when it became clear that the biggest laugh was based around a lady who played bowls getting sponsorship from manufacturers of geriatric related products, we headed for the exit, quite pleased that we had not got a seat and hence did not need to make an exit that anyone would notice. We slipped out from the back and let the door close gently behind us...or it would have done if the springy arm thing that makes the door close with a gentle sigh had not been knackered, meaning a heavy fire door slam shut with the sort of bang normally associated with seismic activity.

After a brief debate about demanding our money back, we decided that a far better use of our now free evening was to make reservations for dinner at Magnum. Walking out was the right decision is just so many ways.

Review - David O'Doherty presents: Rory Sheridan's Tales of The Antartic

I know somebody who is related to an Antarctic explorer, her Irish ancestor was on Shackleton's expedition, the one that ended with the epic open-boat journey. And I've been to Ireland and seen a house with a plaque stating that a polar explorer lived there so I asked her, what is it about the Irish that compels their men to seek out the desolate waste? She replied that it's because it's the last place on earth that they are likely to have their mammies telling them what to do.

The explorer in this show went to the Antarctic for love, and love is probably the only thing in the world that is more likely to lead a chap into doomed folly than Antarctic exploration. So the combination of the two was going to be a winner.

The show was good. The venue was a sub-sub-sub basement of some council building, think underground car park with no lights and water running down the walls and you get the idea, I half expected to come across some lost cavers, or morlocks, as I took my seat.

A monologue of love, adventure, madness and the invention of the pub quiz, the writing and delivery was clever and funny, making some mileage from using modern references in the context of early twentieth century polar exploration, with plenty of straightforwardly funny stuff ('penguins, let me tell you, are stupid. They are more stupid than an bottle filled with meat') as well as a poignant conclusion.

In terms of performance, invention, charm, storytelling and laugh-out-loud funny moments, this show was the high water mark of this years fringe, just the sort of thing one hopes to see, deliciously different, wonderfully executed and will change your view of penguins forever.

Review - Tearoom

A show that starts at mid-day? What were we thinking? Surviving the Fringe means that late nights (or rather early mornings) need to be balanced out with late rises or stimulants by the fistful. The Fringe should not involve setting your alarm clock. And yet we rose at an (in)decent hour, took on the usual six to eight thousand calorie breakfast that is so necessary when your day is going to involve charging from venue to venue, drinking heavily, and wandered through a deserted city to our lunchtime play.

That's right, Edinburgh was more or less deserted at half eleven, one got the feeling that the last revellers had only gone to bed a couple of hours before. The city smells suspiciously of bleach at that hour of the morning and one would do well not to step any any area that smells more than averagely pine fresh.

Tearoom was an attempt at site-specific theatre. A couple of years ago, a theatre group had had great success in setting a play by Bukowski in a bar. Could this lot emulate that success in a tea total environment? Quite a challenge.

The play takes place in a large room, dressed to look like a tea room. The audience sit at tables around the edge and drink tea and eat cake while the actors sit at tables in the middle and drink tea and eat cake and act.

And act well. This was an excellent idea executed with all the elegance of a fine bone china teacup, occasionally as dark as black coffee, occasionally as light as a muffin. The triumph was that the premise of the play, that one was eavesdropping on a private conversation in a public place, worked and worked because one wanted to listen rather that pursue the natural urge in such situations - which is to plug in an iPod and raise the sonic screen.

The play played to a full house, and as we left there was a lady at the door of the venue asking about tickets for the next performance. A popular production and, with the price of afternoon tea included in the admission price, the perfect combination of culture and cake!

Full disclosure - I know one of the actors. He was excellent. I managed to suppress the urge to wave when he appeared. I also know that when he handed out the flyers for the show, he told prospective audience members that it was in the 'pubic triangle', that is, the area of Edinburgh that has three stripper pubs in it. In truth, it's just off the pubic triangle.

Postcard from Edinburgh - Magnum bar

What with the breakfasts and the hog roasts and the drinking, fitting in a decent dinner was a challenge. This is probably one of the reasons we ate at The Magnum bar for two nights running. There is a school of thought that when one is in a city in the grip of a cultural festival, one should try and enjoy as diverse a range of activities as possible, for instance you can go to a different stripper pub every night for three nights running. However, there is another school of thought which is the one that I subscribe to, that the Magnum is an excellent place to eat and that going anywhere else is too big a risk. Nothing can put a crimp in your festival quite like substandard batter around your fish. Or biting into batter expecting cod and discovering a mars bar instead.

Review - The Queen Art and Image

Next year is the Queen's golden jubilee and one of the ways it is being marked is an exhibition of paintings and photographs of the Queen called 'The Queen Art and Image'. Before it travels to London, the exhibition was showing in Edinburgh. It is fantastic. As an icon or image, the profile and portrait of the Queen is ubiquitous. Her profile adorns stamps and her face is on bank notes and well as newspapers.

It was fascinating to see how she had changed as a person over the decades, from a glamorous deb in the1950s to a mother and a head of state. One really got the impression that she was a constant in a changing world and that even in times of peace and prosperity there is still strife and suffering.

As an icon, her image was, if anything, even more remarkable. They had Warholes, which were good, the Francis Bacon portrait, which was stunning, and the 'god save the Queen' Sex Pistols artwork, which mashes up the image of the Queen and the Union Flag. Disrespectful at the time it may have been, but it seemed perfectly in place here among the images of veneration.

Review - Al Murray The Pub landlord's Compete for the meat

Flogging the format...to death.

Al Murray has, for years, being doing exactly what it says on the tin, with the added recent development that the shows are now filmed, meaning he can turn a live show into a handy pitch to Channel Five executives, saving valuable time for coke and hookers or wherever else it is that television executives do when not listening to pitches from comedians.

This was essentially the Christmas version of 'Compete for the meat'. If you are actually competing, as we were last year, then there is the fun of a quiz and the edgy titillation of possibly being humiliated by Al. If you are an audience member, the show is not so immediate, you are essentially just watching a live version of a tee vee quiz show based on a pub quiz.

But they do work hard to make it fun. Al has raised his game from victimising individuals to victimising whole tables at once, and there are sing-alongside for the whole audience. If you go along to this with a sort of ironic detachment, you'll be miserable. If you grab hold of a 'thick and slow' foam finger and join in the abuse, rendering the whole experience not unlike some beery version of 'Lord of the flies' then you'll enjoy it.

Was it fresh? No. Was it slick? Very. Was it funny? Yes. Al did enough, in particular with his attempted wooing of one young helpless woman, to make an established format one has seen before seem fresh. What one was watching was essentially a comedians greatest hits, and, as anyone who has ever been to a gig and observed the audience reaction when a band announces that they are now going to play some of their new material will tell you, that's no bad thing.

Review - Andy Parsons: Gruntled

The Assembly Rooms was packed, this, remember, is a comedian who has been on television and expectations were high. There's always that extra bit of excitement when a television comedian 'fucks' for the first time on stage and that was certainly the case here, particularly in the seat near me where a dad had brought his son, who looked about nine, along to the show. I have no doubt that a nine year old probably knows just about all the profanities he'll need in the playground, but what he will have taken away from this show is how to use them professionally and for effect.

The material was good topical stuff, as anyone who has seen Mock The Week or, before that, listened to 'Parsons and Naylor's pull-out-section' on Radio 2. There was plenty of banker bashing, some slick interaction with the audience and an effective rant about the economy ('I've heard the accusation that some people have too much money and thought it stupid, then realised that, if you are one of the thousands of people who bought the autobiography of Alexander Meerkat, you have too much money').

Are established comedians a good ticket at the Fringe? Well, you have what you hope is a safe pair of hands and you can expect a reasonable return. Although the ticket price is normally at the higher end it's still cheaper than going to see the tour that inevitably follows. It's fun to see a comedian working up some new material and always enjoyable to see a panel show comedian doing their day job.

Good, yes, but probably because of the warmth that Parsons brings to the performance, providing a good counterpoint to his cynicism and anger meaning you leave entertained rather than thinking that you have just listened to a middle aged bloke moaning for an hour.

Review - Stewart Lee - Flickwerk 2011. Work in progress

Oooooooohhhhhhh, edgy. Stewart Lee has, in defiance of his status as a mainstream comedian who has been a continued television presence for a couple of years now, continued to play the Stand comedy club during his Edinburgh stints. So the audience that turn up are probably a mixture of people who like Lee enough to tolerate this frankly appalling venue year after year, and those who have seen the telly show and hope they will catch the live version, that is; as funny as the telly show but with more swearing.

It's not as funny as the telly show, but there is more swearing. It's funny, it's just not as funny as you'd expect. Then again, nobody could be that funny for an hour without distilling down hours of material and drafting in Armando to deconstruct the programme between sets.

There's warning signs a few minutes in when Lee explains that as a parent he never goes out and so has nothing to base new material on except Children's television. He does, however, really pull it out of the bag with a spectacular piece about his hate mail bag, and he had the best gag about the riots.

And, what was that...how could such social upheaval, with Greggs on fire, be so overlooked here, it was almost as if none of the comedians cold be bothered to build this into their sets because they had got the timing right and the construction just so and bunging in fifteen minutes of topical humour about chavs going on the rampage would upset the delicate balance of all those knob gags. Maybe it was that, just as the social unrest was apparently coordinated by social networking rather than the traditional method of scallys just telling asking other that they had just looted J.D. Sports but that, being innumerate, they had neglected to loot any trainers in their size and did they want a pair? The jokes were also posted instantly on twitter too and so the social media savvy Fringe goer would probably have read any punch line in the form of a tweet months ago.

The Stand is my least favourite venue by far. Small and pokey and painted black its the sort of place you wake up in after being abducted and know that everything is very much not going to be alright. And with self-important signs telling you to switch off your mobile phone and not to talk during performances. This was the sort of place that Hitler could have made an address from if the bierkeller had been busy.

There was, during Lee's act, the odd reference to Richard Herring, which was appreciated by the audience (you can't fit a crowd into the Stand, so...gathering? Group? Audience will have to do...fans! That's it, appreciated by the fans), but a bit odd, I bet the Beatles didn't name check each other after they broke up.

It was a good show to see so that you didn't wonder if you missed something special. If you missed it, you didn't miss anything special, apart from the hate mail thing - honest to god, I laughed so hard my colon almost came up my nose.

Review - Secret Window, Secret Garden

It was all very fringe. The venue was up three flights of stairs in an building best described as of the Chauchescu era Romanian brutalist school, dimly lit, grimy, probably started falling apart before the paint was dry and that was thirty years ago. By the time I had hauled my somewhat fringe-fried body to the top of the stairs, I was sweating at the irony that attending a festival that involves so much rushing from venue to venue also involves chips and beer as the power diet of choice.

We took our seats and waited for curtain up. More accurately, We took our seats and waited for the play to begin. Rows of seats surrounded the stage on three sides and two of the actions were already in position. We were joined by three other audience members. I looked at my watch and was wondering if there was going to be a late rush when the play started.

Six cast members. Five audience members, it was all very fringe.

The play was actually very good. I had read and enjoyed the Stephen King story it's based on a few ears ago, and I knew there was a film adaptation so knew it must lend itself to dramatic adaption.

The stage adaption was good. I'm not sure whether the theatre company had done it themselves but condensed to an hour, it had plenty of mystery, thrills and a few twists.

Having read the short story I had that unspooling in my head at the same time as the play unfolded in front of me, and it was fun to play 'spot the difference' between print and drama. The only thing that disappointed me was that the adaption did not go far enough, the accents were British but the names were still as American as perfect teeth and illegal wars. It would have been good to see an attempt to Anglicise it a little, with the writer's cabin in the woods turned into a caravan maybe?

The cast were young and enthusiastic, they were a little inexperienced maybe but hey, they were playing to five people so well done for not just saying 'fuck with it' and going to the pub.

The one thing we agreed on when we left, after congratulating the cast, was that we couldn't understand why there weren't more people in the audience. Must be the climb up those stairs.

Postcard from Edinburgh - trams

One thing missing from Edinburgh this year was roadworks in the city centre. The tram lines are down, awaiting the trams. The tram is a source of considerable consternation among locals but, having ridden trams elsewhere, you know that they are going to love them when they eventually arrive. And you just know that on the media coverage of the first day's operation, they'll have some pensioner who rode the last tram to run and considers the new trams quieter, but not as good because you can't smoke on them.

Postcard from Edinburgh - geography

The morning after the night before sees the streets gleaming, not so much with dew but more a weak solution of bleach that most shopkeepers and bar owners use to clean their doorways and shopfronts of misplaced pizza. As we wandered down the Grassmarket to a shockingly early noon start for the play 'Tearoom', Edinburgh was just about getting ready for another festival day. Of particular infest was a group of Japanese tourists who were conforming to stereotype by crowding round a shop window madly photographingsomething. It turned out to be a hog roast shop and the object of their attention was the full pig, roasted and lying invitingly in the window of the bap shop. Obviously, such generous displays of meat are rarely seen in the far East, where the preference is for delicate sushi arranged like a lotus flower, rather than an entire porker between two slices of white bread.


I was able to walk past because I had loaded up at breakfast. A large breakfast is an essential element of the Fringe experience. Once you're out in the city you don't know when your next meal might be, but it's a better than even chance that it will be after you have had your next alcoholic drink and so breakfast is not just a chance to prepare for the day but also to line the stomach.


Staying at a hotel with a buffet breakfast, the choice was good. One could have juice or cereal, one could even go continental, with cheeses and slices of ham, such as foreigners eat. I however went for the 'five meat breakfast': bacon, square sausage, black pudding, haggis and more bacon, with all that fat and grease offset with a tomato (fried), potato scone, scrambled eggs and mushrooms. I figured that as I was exceeding the recommended number of alcohol units every day, I had better also exceed the recommended calorific intake, for a giant.

Once again, every few yards there was somebody trying to give you a flyer informing you about their show, seeking your attention and trying to convey that your being in their audience would make their day, your festival and everyone happy. I know somebody who is performing at the Fringe this year and he was telling me about the challenges of leafleting. Apparently it is well known among performers that the public don't want any more leaflets, and so leafleting is something of a thankless task normally assigned to those who fluff their lines in rehearsal. Moreover, if somebody does show an interest you then have to try and explain where the venue is. With venues in obscure locations like the sports lockers of private schools and so on, this can sometimes be a challenge. My acquaintance explained that he had identified a quick and easy way of conveying the location, which was just that little bit outside the very centre of the city, by explaining that it was in the 'pubic triangle'. Everybody knows where this is. Even I knew where it was without his having to explain it. There are a trio of pubs in the city, set at corners of a road that splits off in a Y shape, and the pubs all have strippers.

Review - BBC Comedy Presents - Early and late

Usually the best ticket in in the Fringe and this year was no exception. The late night comedy from the BBC is always a good show, often a great show. It starts late enough for the audience to be sufficiently 'relaxed' and, because most of the comedians have come here after their shows have finished and the venue is a large one, they are a combination of relaxed and terrified, pleased to be playing before an full venue that's probably far larger than the tiny empty place that they have just come from and possibly regretting that drink or line they took to settle their nerves. But that's okay because the audience have been drinking too.

Certainly the show I saw contained two comics who had taken a drink, one obviously, one not so much but both still very funny as they reeled out the highlight ten minutes from their set. The compare was sober, he has to be as he interacts with the audience and that can get interesting at this time of night.

Most of all though, it was tremendous fun, the compare was great, the acts were good and the star turn, Nina Conti, was outstanding; make no mistake, ventriloquist dummies are creepy, Nina embraced that, turned the creepy into funny, the funny into spooky, the spooky back into funnier and the funnier into disquiet bordering on dread. I haven't been that scared and amused at the same time since I was tickled at gunpoint.

This showcase tends to provide the acts that you tell your friends about when you get back from the Fringe and they ask you who you saw, because as cool as it is to tell them about the comedians they know from panel and stand up shows, it's cooler still to tell them about the comedians they'll be seeing in a few months time on panel and stand up shows.

This is still the best ticket in town.

Review - Ed Reardon: A writer's burden

A half hour radio show stretched out into an hour-long play. Twice the fun or the same among of fun stretched out over twice the time?

Probably somewhere in between, forty five minutes of fun stretched out over an hour.

It was excellent to see Ed in the flesh. More thrilling somehow to see a radio character doing a live show than seeing a television character appearing on the stage. The reality did not disappoint, Ed was everything one imagined, although the shorts were possibly a surprise.

The audience filled about a third of the large theatre, and was very radio four, lots of beards and sensible anoraks. It might have been better to go for a more intimate venue, as the show usually plays either in a room with a radio in it or a head with headphones in it. The show also suffered a little from recycling material from last year's fringe one-off, the success of which led to a longer run this time round.

But it was, ultimately, very satisfying, like a live action version of a spin off book from a radio or telly series that reveals hitherto unknown aspects of the character. There was also a truly outstanding line about Berkhamstead's transport links with London.

I have a great fondness for Ed Reardon on the radio, and like any fan get a little prickly when anyone takes liberties with the character, even if that character is the character himself. The show served up more of the same Ed and, if it felt a bit over-long that's probably because I expect the show to be half an hour followed by the news and then Front Row.