Despite my republican pedigree, I love me some royals. Having met the back end of Prince Phillip’s head, I understand the hubbub that is littered about the English newspapers. They do provide a great service to the State. You can parade these anachronisms in front of people who give a shit and really produce some results. I watched people scurry and kowtow before the duke of Edinburgh as he reviewed the various displays set up for his benefit. It was almost like an important event was occurring and that someone almost important was involved. Not for one minute did anyone question why this exceedingly pruney and tiny old man was any different from the old nutter who wets himself at the bus station. They all were nervous to make a good impression to someone who probably spends more time considering his morning constitutional than anything they have to say. The only thing I regret is that more of the royals are not like our venerable duke. I’d trade him for a half dozen Prince Charleses any day. He’s how a royal should be. Completely separated from the realities of this century or the past two for that matter. The rest of the inbred lot are pathetically apologetic and mealy mouthed. They are always backtracking and covering up. I want to see a royal call it like it is. “Fuck you all. I’m the fucking king. Are your relatives cast in bronze all over the country? No? Well, go fuck yourself.” Obviously my expletives are limited to my coarse colonial vocabulary. A real royal would shroud these sentiments in much more eloquent phrases, but it would be a damn sight better than those constant press release apology cards.

Someone told me that a past king commandeered a whole train, strapped a freshly killed dear to the front and drove it to his castle in Scotland, which was in the completely opposite direction, without a question to whether it was allowed. That’s the fun of being king my friend. Not this boring and pathetic freak show they have now. What do people expect when they act up? Do you expect them to ask like normal people? Normal people have to put toothpaste on their own toothbrush. They don’t. Why would you think that they would consider it improper to dress like a Nazi to go to a “colonials and natives” party? So, they release an apology supposedly from the offending royal. Does anyone really think they give a shit? I would much prefer the true response. “Dear subject, we won the war. Fuck you. I’m wearing the swastika and the funny moustache. If you don’t like it, move the Australia with the Aboos. Your future king (ha ha ha)”

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Today I taught my spellchecker pruney, nutter, Aboos. For once my additions are not of a scatological nature. Wow!

If you are like me, when you read about an unusual animal you imagine that creature as a middle-aged bourgeois.

I am Carapidae. I live in the ass of a sea cucumber. I spend my days composing anti-triclavian poetry in iambic pentameter and writing letters of outrage to radio and television companies. My three sons are all named Joseph. The oldest has a successful business. He supplies the scaffolding that restoration companies must hire. He does very well for himself. He owns a leisure boat. We… I mean I. My wife died a few years back. I don’t hear much from the middle son these days. He’s got a Pakistani wife and lives in the midlands. We never really got on since the ‘incident’. Little Joseph is still in school. He’ll finish this year. After that, god only knows, personally I have my doubts. I think he’s a bit poofy. He’s always hanging around that Billy child, and you know what he’s like. All in all, I haven’t much to complain about. The Lord has been generous to such a humble creature as myself. It could always be worse. I could be the sea cucumber with a fish up my ass.

My focus wobbles like a drunk. It staggers from painful thoughts to daily worries to fettering reflections whose momentary attention draws me into hour long melancholy contemplations. It is a funk I am in. A case of the blahs. Something that must be suffered until it passes, like a flu. I caught this mood after a long phone call from home. The news received was inevitable but never the less made me sink to where I am. What was the news? It's not important. A loss is a loss is a loss. Whether we lose someone we love or someone we love loses something. It differs only in degree of mourning. It will pass, and until then one cannot help but lament and spit out dark words like these.

Bus Report

Three little girls are walking down the street. They are around five maybe younger. Two girls are very chubby and completely lost in the quickly melting ice creams they are consuming. The third girl is much smaller in height and circumference. She is skinny and does not have an ice cream. What she does have is an extremely exaggerated frown. She stamps her feet as she walks, her arms are crossed, and her brow is deeply furrowed.

“Woooooooo! Wooo! Yeah!” The lady who has just stepped out of the pub screams to no one in particular. I think to myself there must be some party going on in that pub. Its mid-afternoon and clearly there is something to ‘woo’ about. I can barely see into the pub as we pass it. The only occupants are two old drunks with the look of fear, as they drink, never taking an eye from the celebrant.

This is quite a regular occurrence and has happened to me at three different bus stops with the same man. There is an old man who is always trying to help me get on the bus. I don’t know why he’s taken a shine to me but mosquitoes and crazies find me irresistible. He will pass by and see that there are people in the queue getting on the bus before me. He dramatically turns to them, waves his arms manically and shouts for them to get out of my way. At least that’s what I think he’s shouting as many people have difficulty understanding the Scots accent and everyone, including the Scots, find the drunken Scots accent completely incomprehensible. Only the obscenities ring clear. I also can’t tell if his staggering is due to drink or infirmity. Probably a little of both. As we disembark he remains cursing the bus and occasionally slapping at the windows at the people inside.

The porters I described in an earlier entry apparently are qualified to do glazing. I find this doubtful when they began the project of replacing the window in our office, which had cracked from a harsh gust, and I was especially dubious after they competed the work.

My foreboding was confirmed almost immediately as the three stood before the huge window staring, pointing at, and discussing the crooked crack that divided off a third of the glass. Two were discussing some finer point of glazing while the third feigned an interest while pulling a hammer from his belt and letting it slip from his hand onto the foot of his co-worker. His yelps were completely drowned out by the howling laughter of the other two.
Our building has a large base. It holds a large concourse and two-story foyer. The tower rises from the centre. Our floor is the floor directly above the foyer. It’s a horrible view. If they replaced the window by bricking up would not have made much of a difference to my work life. Yet, they did indeed replace it with a window. The window is about two by three metres. It takes all two of them with some effort to haul it about. They hold it by huge suction cups. The third leans against my desk and helps by making jokes. I am trying to get work done but it is difficult when in my peripheral vision is a workman’s ass holding down the paperwork I need. I decide a coffee break is in order. When I return they are gone. The window is fixed and all is well. Except. Except I notice that one of the porters is sitting cross-legged looking sulkily into the office. The other two walk in waving and smiling at their sad compatriot.

“What happened?” I asked still looking at the man outside.

“He was on the other side when we set window in place. We were half way through sealing it when we realized it. Us two were pissing ourselves for five minutes solid before we went and got security. Poor bastard has been out there with that sad face since. They fire engine is on its way now. They’re going to get him down like a wee kitten from a tree.” Both chuckle and wave again after they finished their tale.

Yesterday I noticed the window leaks but I think its best to endure that rather than take my chances with the porters.

It was one of those rare perfect moments. I have seen a handful of them. Sometimes it’s easy. Standing before the Sagrada Familia at dusk, the cathedral dressed in long sharp shadows and the rich red stone of the sculpted façade humming in the low sunlight. How could one not recognize the flawlessness of that moment? Today was another one of those moments but it could have been easily missed had my mind distracted by the various concerns which everyday life gifts us. There was nothing obvious like an enormous modernist cathedral. It was just a perfect moment. I woke up early to return some library books. I dropped them off at a branch I had never been to. It was a gorgeous building. It had tall ceilings in which the sunlight shined. The morning air was fresh and full of the salt of the sea. Two tramps sat in front starting the day’s doing nothing with a can of MacEwan’s. They breathed smoke like two ancient and weary gods waiting to be forgotten. They spoke to each other in low grumbles with ever moving their lips. The city began to wake up. The traffic picked up. The bus stop queues lengthened. I recognize these things that happen every weekday but today was inexplicably different. I mused upon this as I walked when I saw before me a wedding party starting to gather in front of the Sikh temple. The men were dressed in sharp suits and fiery orange turbans. They sang and danced to a drum. The women filtered pass and entered the building. Each one in a solid coloured silk trimmed in brogue gold.

When I walk to the bus stop I move at a quick pace. My concentration is fully occupied with dodging dog shit, lurching drunks, and toddering old ladies. The other day as I made my jaunt. A chubby old man shriveled like a pale prune jumped into my path. He wore a child's cowboy costume complete with a tiny hat and plastic pistol. "Money for the whisky!" he yelled brandishing his weapon to which I replied with the squeal of a ten year old girl.

Since my bus journeys are rarely without entertainment I thought I would enter into this journal a report on the things I see on my commute.

The Bus Report

Someone has thrown old couch to the curb. A gaggle of tramps (I can't remember if tramps travel in gaggles or pods) are lounging comfortable upon the forgotten furniture watch the traffic like it was television.

You always see clothes strewned about this city. Personally, I would even go barefoot in this town lest I catch something nasty. So, the idea that people run around here bareassed is a complete suprise. An old man is carefully picking up each item of clothing and placing them upon the iron spikes of a fence. They look like impaled cotton blend turks.

School must be out. There is a rubbish bin on fire. The children dance around the blaze singing and abusing the fireman.

I have a problem. Every time I see people feeding squirrels in the park. I can't help hoping that they will ignore the peanuts and launch towards the person's face. The whole time I am in the park I stare with unrestrained expectation.

Some unseen soul painted "THIS IS HELL AND WE CANT GET OUT" on the wall of a derelict building which populate the neighborhood. Another person, maybe the same person with new found understanding, scratched out the 'T' of 'CANT'.

When I get old I will grow a pencil thin moustache. That's pretty much the sum total of my life plans. I would also like to be above the law, but that takes money and I have neither the talent for making money nor the interest. That's the beauty and the horror of living in the 'West' (Although I think this phrase should include the wealthy nations of the pacific too. So, when I write the 'West' read it as‘everybody but those poor bastards in the middle and the south). It is pretty unlikely any decision I make in my daily life hinges on my survival. I won't ever starve. My children will most likely be fat, stupid, and successful too. The beauty is that without really trying I can live a contented life. All my essential and a few fabricated needs will be satisfied by the minimum amount of effort on my part. Survival is no longer really an issue but whether I should get the premium or try to make do with the standard cable package is. This of course is also the horror. We are removed from true living. The living that millennia have fine-tuned our genes to contend with. Don't get me wrong as an individual I much prefer the life of a neutered house cat to that of the starving stray. There’is a reason that my ancestors worked their collective asses off. Only fools would be nostalgic for being hungry, but that seems exactly what we are. We miss the struggle. That's why we fabricate all manner of ills and troubles for ourselves, but with only a moment of reflection these things quickly become ridiculous. I would prefer if I never had those moments of reflection. Then I could quite happy try to meet those fictitious struggles like‘I must get the purple Ipod!’or‘I must make junior manager. I could then face those things with the same tenacity as my ancient forbearers met the challenge of not getting killed or eaten. It's those times of reflection that usually catch me half way through my asinine battles and I think about the purposelessness of it all. I then take a nap and forget the whole endeavour, or upon awaking I approach my task with a much more reasonable aloofness.

I took this test. It supposedly measures your unconscious biases. There are several tests; one tests your preference for white faces to black, another tests your opinion of woman in the sciences versus liberal arts, and a bunch of others.
I think myself a pretty unbiased guy in practice. I was raised around racism and quickly figured out that it was nonsense. As a young child I remember having a sleep over at a friend's house whose family was from Mississippi. A news report came on about the commemoration of Dr. King. His mother started going on a gentile tirade about that 'troublemaker'. Even then, at my young age, I already knew this was ridiculous and this grown woman had things the wrong way around.
I took the test and it said I had a strong unconscious preference for white faces. I definitely felt a hit to my liberal credentials and I have a dozen reasons why the test is inaccurate. The funny thing is I am consciously bigoted, but my bigotry against more typically Aryan features.
Firstly, children with blue eyes scare me. They look evil. I am sure they feed on the blood of their sleeping parents during the night. I certainly moved to the wrong country in this regard as every pram occupant is a blue-eyed spawn. I've see them sniff the air like wolves sensing fresh blood in the air. When the parents aren't looking I usually give them a quick pop with my rolled up newspaper just to let them know I know they're evil. Their crying doesn't fool me. Crocodile tears. Crocodile tears.
Secondly, thin-lipped people can't be trusted. When you can't see any red. When their mouth is nothing but a quick fold of skin beneath their nose. Those people. Those people are thieves and liars, the lot of them. I can't help it. I know its wrong, but I can't help it. They give me the heebie-jeebies.

Oh yeah. And the Swiss. To hell with the Swiss.

Did I mention they fry toast in this country? Damn straight. No breakfast is complete without a slice of fried bread on the side. You might scoff (I do), but it’s tasty. The full Scottish breakfast is competition for the big greasy southern breakfasts of my youth. I occasionally crave that sweet ill feeling of having the recommended daily dose of calories in one sitting. Yesterday was one of those days. By the local post office is a greasy spoon called ‘Up the Junction’¹. They serve a full Scottish breakfast plus tea for four pounds. It really is a good deal especially since I stopped converting to dollars long ago. For four quid, they slap a dish in front of you covered in two eggs, two sausages, two pieces of bacon, two black puddings, a potato scone, and that gorgeous slice of fried bread. All this is covered in baked beans and a side dish of a buttered roll to boot. I was a quarter through the dish when the sweats started. I took a breather and looked around the room. It was completely filled with people dedicated to living a life of ill health. The half dozen of old ladies chain-smoked and gossiped. In between serving customers the waitresses would sit at a table at the back and smoke as well. When they spotted a customer who needed something, they would take huge drags. The cherries would shoot down the cigarette so fast the cigarette itself would momentarily ignite. The inch long ash would hang on and then fall onto the table when they returned it to the ashtray. Everyone was smoking. The young moms with the prams at their sides. The old men bespeckled and toothless reading the tits and murder newspapers. All with cigarettes at which when finished another would be lit. Everyone knew each other. When a person arrived or left. A patter of banter and a chorus of smokers’ cackles inevitably occurred. The only exception was the one young man beside me. His hair hung in greasy clumps. His eyes were nestled into puffy darkened eyelids. The dark circles of which made the fierceness of his blue eyes that more striking. When he left he moved slow and wearily.

All this did not diminish my appetite. Oh no. I had a purpose. I was going to finish this meal. It was only after I left and my clothes and hair were firmly steeped in cigarette aromas that I decided this culinary experience would certainly not be too regular.

1) They’re slogan is “You can get it all . . . Up the Junction!” Not really. But I can dream.

The bus driver was a hard looking man. He had a tautness about him but not as severe as the drug-ravaged wraiths that haunt this part of town. a face that meant business. serious furrowed brow. short cropped hair. He was friendly and helpful when tourists asked for directions or fumbled for correct change. It’s when he drove that his body radiated weariness. He didn’t hold the big round steering wheel as much as he was being supported by it. He mechanically dealt with the traffic, the lights, and the pedestrians. He made no reaction to the foolish manoeuvres of drivers that usually elicit oaths and curses from other bus drivers. I watched his eyes in his rear view mirror and tried to divine his thoughts.
I started thinking. This is why banks get robbed. If I were as tough as that, upon seeing the taxes taken from my meagre wage, I’d leave the house with a shotgun, a ski mask, and lots of anger.

You know you are a foreigner when most people assume that when they hear you are moving they assume it is to somewhere thousands of miles away rather than just down the road.

By the way, I just moved. And no, I am just moving down the road. To apparently a rough(er) part of town. It's certainly a weird mix. There are council towers across the street but there are also yuppie flats just as close. The last place was near the university and the children of the middle class are much more of a bother than the poor single mothers and drunken tramps that populate this neighbourhood. The former has the capital and the leisure to be a constant nuisance. The latter seem to have their hands full dealing with whatever it is they are rushing between. All day these young mothers are always hurrying about pushing rickety prams stuffed with wide blue-eyed children. Drunks who in my experience are rarely in a rush, but in this part of town they jaunt forward leaning slightly with a can of export in their hand to lead the way. The nights are very quiet compared with the old place where one had to listen to hysterical drunk girls shouting or crying and clumsily clomping in front of the window. If it's not the silly girls, it's the boys shouting or singing. The morning after, the sidewalks are mined with these privileged little shit's vomit. I've had the front window smashed for probably a reason less serious than 'Johnny's Sally was seen chatting with Bobby at the pub' and Johnny could only vent his frustration on my front window. During the days, these same people clog the sidewalks like pedestrian cholesterol. The bits of conversations I overhear are of such a painfully inconsequential sort I grit my teeth for minutes afterward until their grating voices clear from my head. I amazed one of the doesn't suddenly have the epiphany, begin tearing at his upturned collar, and run away screaming, "Ahhhh! You shallow wastes! All of us! Ahhhh!"

Today was ridiculously beautiful. Pink blossoms that had been shaken from trees by the strong gusts of wind littered the path through the park. Drifts accumulated at the edges of the path to create a border between the bright spring grass and the dull grey path. If that was not enough to create these purple passages, the wind continued to tussle the branches loosening a meandering rain of more blossoms. Looking down this fairy tale path through the park put me in a great mood. It also helped that the bus was full of the odd mix of 'bus people' that I enjoy so much. While I was riding the bus, I saw an apple thrown from a convenience store. A group of tourists had to hit the deck to avoid concussions. When the bus moved forward enough to look into the shop, I couldn't see any obvious culprit.
I also saw an old woman whose facial features had long disappeared in the topological map of wrinkles wearing a bright blonde bob wig. The juxtaposition was very odd, and at the very next bus stop a similarly wrinkled woman wore a similar wig. This time it was the brunette model. I have to say that I was slightly disappointed that the following stop did not hold a redhead.
That's the perfect day for me. Beautiful weather, a bizarre event, and strange looking people. Life is good.

I am not too sure about children. Theoretically they seem like a great thing around. Fresh clear minds, seeing the world with new eyes, and all that. Yet, I am not too sure. Firstly, as an only child I have had no experience with children. Also, all my cousins are either fifteen years younger or fifteen years older than me. As a result, when relating stories about children I can only describe a child’s age by what container they could fit in. For example, a newborn fits perfectly in a plastic grocery sack. Hence conversations such as this;

“How old is their kid?”

“Oh. You know. Grocery sack sized.” This is said while miming the lifting of a heavy grocery sack in front of myself.

The neighbours have a kitchen bin sized child. You know. Screams a lot. Runs into things. Eats boogers. Real cute. Today he is being quiet and patient at his mother’s side as I talk to his mother. All of a sudden his eyes go wide, and he his jaw drops. He softy whispers an astonished ‘oooooooh’. We both turn to see what marvel he beholds. We see a man huge man. He is perfectly spherical. He’s dressed in an early twentieth century straw boater’s hat and sharp three-piece suit. He looked exactly like this. Except round. I had to agree with the kid on that one. ‘ooooooh’ indeed.

I have been reading Shirer's 'The rise and fall of the third Reich'. I have also started preparing to move house and battling an impeding and stressful deadline. As a result, I have had the most bizarre dreams. You don't know fear until find yourself in 1930's Munich during a hard snow of packing peanuts has fallen and a mob of brown shirts break into your home to tear up your presentation and notes.

Let me introduce you to our building’s porters. They are three. I am not sure what they are officially employed for but I do know what they do from nine to five. They run amok. There’s the tall one. He’s your average spotty faced tracksuit wearer complete with cheap gold hoop and greasy Caesar cut. He’s more criminally minded than the others. His brand of chaos usually involves throwing away odd building resources like spools of copper wire which he then fetches from the bin on his way home. For what purpose I could not tell you, but he is fairly brazen about his activities. All tall characters must inevitably have their dumpy partner. Don Quixote had his Sancho Panza. Laurel. His Hardy. The short round one of this pair is also wall eyed. Firstly, I love the word ‘wall eyed’. It’s one of my favourite English words. It’s descriptive. It’s funny. It has a great sound too. It’s fun to pronounce. For this reason, I have an affinity for all things wall eyed. This character is no exception, but he is filthy. The smells and sounds that emanate from him have more complexity than most symphonies. In a crowded lift, He was standing near the back except for one person who was between him and the wall. The lift was completely silent and most heads were watching the excitement of the numbers increasing above the door. Then, There is a squeak and a puff of air that obviously left the rear end of someone. The noise being undeniable, a good number of people turned to look at the perpetrator. He is standing there grinning from ear to ear. He gives a wink and a nod to an attractive lady as she looked in disgust over her shoulder. The poor soul who was behind him has a face I have only seen in Vietnam War footage. His face was contorted while he slapped away whatever foul stench was climbing up him to wreak havoc in his nostrils. That stench became familiar to all and the next floor saw the entire lift evacuated leaving the porter alone, still grinning, to continue the journey upward. There is a third porter who is less of a threat to the rest of us. His sole purpose, as far as I can tell, is to be abused by the other two. The other day, I came to the gent’s toilets to find the door propped shut by a mop. I pulled it away and entered to relieve myself. I was immediately confronted by the figure of the third porter who had his chin propped by his hand and his elbows on his knees, sitting in one of the stalls. He looked up at me, got up, and left with a simple ‘cheers, mate.’ I was completely stunned. It took me a few beats to return to the work at hand during which I could not stop wondering how long he had been locked in there.

Supposedly our office is where serious business done by serious and important people takes place. We’ve had first ministers and royalty pay visits. Yet, at the heart of this flagship of industry the antics of drunken monkeys occur without comment.

Being a Scottish Gaijin, you get questions of when will you’ll go back home. “Do you think you’ll ever go back to America?” When my reply is no, there is always the follow up question, “What do you like so much over here?” The Scots are very comfortable with maintaining a contradictory opinion of their nation. While being one of the most nationalist races in Europe short of putting bombs in bins, they revel in complaining about the Scottish weather, Scottish cuisine, Scottish proximity to England, and most of all complaining about the Scots people. So, when one comes from such a country so glamorous as to have invented both hip and hop and to house the greatest individuals of our time, i.e. Britney Spears¹ It confuses them to think that this person would be more comfortable shivering in the winter darkness close to the North Sea.

My response is usually a glib “Everything I could get in the States, I have here. Plus, Haggis isn’t all that bad.” That’s the thing. It’s not that bad. If you like sausage, it’s damn tasty. The weather too. It’s really not that bad. I come from a place in America where the climate has a death toll. No one died from drizzle. Yes. It’s true. Sunshine is nice but not if it comes with 40 C (that’s around 100 F) for 4 months of the year. As well as humidity the presses on your chest like a stone. It was the ‘Everything I could get in the States’ part that was ill defined for me. What is that everything? I just know that I have never had the sensation of doing without except for the occasional craving for migas. Mmmmmm. migas. But, I think I have defined it.

Generations ago there was good reason to be in America. Even in the twentieth century Europe was a mess. When not slaughtering each other over colonial nonsense or the correct spelling of some tributary on the continent. They busied themselves still playing kings and peasants. It still exists to a lesser extent. There is a definite divide based on last names here. If your forefather helped some jackass king cross a river or win a battle, your life is pretty much set. It takes a fundamental amount of incompetence to fuck up your life if your last name has a hyphen². America has a class system but its more fluid, floated on wealth rather than pedigree. I don’t blame my ancestors for packing it in and sailing on once they realized they lost the surname lottery. These days that advantage doesn’t really exist. Europe has similar levels of prosperity and meritocracy. A few cobwebs of the class system remain, but nothing compared to earlier times. It also has the same political stability that made the States the refuge that it seems to be forgetting it was³. These are the abstractions that make up the ‘Everything’ I have a hard time naming. My daily life is little different from that in the States. It has only been augmented. Why wouldn’t I stay? Just don’t tell my mother, she still thinks I am only over here for an extended vacation.

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1. You must forgive them this, the only thing they have for a pop star is an Australian Grandmother. See Kylie Minogue. And yes, she’s still alive.


2. Yet, a good number manage the feat.


3. It doesn’t say anything about white Christian huddled masses on the statue.