More Nonsense From _Paul_And_Land_

Month: September, 2014

Hit the Road, Dave.

And don’t you come back no more, no more, no more, no more. Hit the the road Nick and don’t you bother heading back this way either or actually any of those other articles in Westminster. Unfortunately, every once in a while, they do. Like a couple of weeks ago, they all packed their spotted hankies with expenses paid butties, pop and crisps and headed North. The whole job lot, expenses paid, with their sharp suits, allegedly different ideas based on the colour of their neckerchiefs and their beaming false smiles and promises.

All of the rascals, climbed aboard the FlyingScotsman, no doubt, First Class, all expenses paid with prawn sarnies and Chablis for breakfast and Elevenses, preparing to meet what they thought were a bunch of soft Labour loveys.  Now here’s a thought, just a notion, a wee concept: heading in the opposite direction, that is southbound, given that entire population of Westminster was heading to their homeland, the entIre 45% on trains, buses, planes, mopeds, in cars, vans, lorries and any other form of transport available. While the capital was empty the 45% could have head further south than their most southerly outpost previous. London, could have have been taken whilst the Londoners were wandering around George Square searching for a single, solitary Scot.

Just an idea but and one which would ever have taken place and you know why? Because everyone was too busy waiting for Dave’s heart to break. “Whit did you do when we was first indy Granpa?” “I watched that bassa Cameron die of a broke heart, it was uplifting”.

Rock n’ Roll!

Are we all sitting comfortably? Good then let’s begin. Do you mind at the back, those crisp wrappers are making an awful lot of rustling. What flavour are they by the way? What do you mean cellophane? Oh trying to be clever are we, you’re looking for a thick ear, let me tell you.  Alright, we all know that you’re not actually on some huge expedition to find a thick ear so stop being so flipping pedantic and give me one of those crisps. Hmm, ready salted, my favourite. Does anyone have some Ketchup, very tasty on ready salted crisps. Honest, would we tell you pork pies or even steak and kidney pies. Ooh I love a potato and ponion pie. With gravy. What? Oh yes, let’s begin. Well you see, back in the day, a very long time ago, when the Internet meant popping round your ppneighbours for a cup of tea and Social Media meant sharing your paper with Tony in the pub, there was a thing.  A huge thing it was, bigger than Eric Pickles, that big! And it was all arranged by a wee Scottish flying thing called Midge (who along with his pals Mary and Mungo had played in a group called Vauxhall Nova, or something like that) and another scruffy chap called Bob. His mate used to wear pyjamas and wasn’t right fussed about Mondays. Clearly Bob hadn’t met Shaun Ryder, he was more than happy with Mondays but that’s another tale.

So this big thing kicked off with the status quo. Now quite how you can start with the status quo is way beyond me given that it means to carry on in the same fashion but it did.  So, yes, all very odd. Then there were some more people singing songs and intermittently Scruffy Bob would stick his unkempt locks into the telly cameras and screech “people are dying, give us the money”.   He may of said a naughty word as well however that’s an urban myth. Sorry, all you rural dwellers, it seems you’ve got to find your own myths such is the nature of myths, rural, urban or otherwise.

Any road, all manner of singers were there, singing and dancing and dancing and singing and some of them at the same time. Her Majesty Freddie Mercury even strutted about, long before Brian May ( Professor) knew any badgers or badger ways. And then Scruffy Bob popped up again to tell you to go to the Post Office or your bank or your Building Society and give him some more money. Now, this, as we’ve already discussed (that’s a cracking word, that is, talk among yourselves) was back in the day. And you see, banks and post offices and building societies used to close at dinner time on a Saturday so quite what Bob (the Scruffy one) wanted you to do when you got there was something of an unasked question. Kind of summed him up really, not thinking things through too their logical conclusion. But there you go.

Because this here thing was way back, the memory has faded but Paul Mull of Kintore might have been there and maybe even the nascent fish farmer, Roger Fig Tree, him of the who? There’s an obvious joke here but we’re big and grown up and adult so we won’t use that one. Talking of fish farms though, where does one purchase the seeds for fish? There’s a thought and Sea Monkeys, what were they all about. Case for the old Trading Standards if you want our opinion, Sea Monkeys indeed. Where were we going at this particular juncture, Paul Mull of Kintyre.

Y’see, Scruffy Bob is from Ireland and when he was but a young ‘un, he probably bopped about rwith a tune or two by Mr Mull of Kintyre and his sausage creating former Missus, Missus Mull of Kintyre and her swimming wings. Maybe our Bob rocked about to the one banned by the Radio One types, you know the one, about the ownership of that Island over the Irish Sea in Ireland.  And then that there who fellow hoping he dies before he gets old. What a load of old cobblers, he’s well happy now he’s raking it in with his fish fingers and fish seeds and flat cap and green wellies. Bloody liar.

Now if we’re talking about bloody liars, what about that Katie Melba? Has she counted all the push bikes in Beijing, of course not. So it’s not a fact Katie, its an estimation, that’s a thing we can’t deny. Which brings us to Ed Hairband. No doubt, Ed and his squeeze would have whooped it up to many of these here numbers: Katie, Roger, Scruffy Bob, the Mull of Kintyre so and even wee Midge from Vienna. Perhaps Rockin’ Ed used to stick his thumbs in his belt loops and shake his head about finding the status quo, who knows? We don’t, but it’s not a pretty image. Good Lord.  Let’s move swiftly on.

Moving on, swiftly, let’s remind ourselves of Scruffy Bob and his MoneyGrabAthon way back when: “People are dying”. Yes Bob, people are dying in this country too: starving, cold, homeless, poor people and yet when some folks try to do something about it, by showing the legislators the door, you get on your scruffy pony and wag your Independent Irish finger. You can’t even speak the language, old son, when you mix up your us’s and your yourselves’s. So what was it that Lord Bob said about independence: ‘This argument needs to be had amongst us all. You can’t selfishly resolve it amongst yourselves by taking an easy opt-out clause”. Whatever you say Bob, you’re the voice of the Establishment, along with all the other Lackies. Oh, and while we’re on, Mr Who’s got a fish farm, Mr Hairband and all the Establishment, “We won’t get fooled again” (Daltrey).

Scawtland Pt I S 5

Well ho-hum and yes, what can one say about Scawtland that hasn’t already been said by someone else over the past few weeks. Not easy is it? No it’s not, thank you but, yes but, here’s a little known factette about Scawtland: deep fried Mars Bars. Uh-uh, yep, deep fried Mars Bars, ask anyone where this culinary delight originated and the almost immediate response will be the home of Shortbread, Irn Bru and Buckfast. Now, you see, you’d be wrong as deep fried Mars Bars, rather like the elderly racist bearing the name of Scawtland’s number one or number two city (dependent upon your own personal opinion or whim or love of trams or the underground, overground, Wombling free. There are other cities in Scawtland as well, don’t you know: Dundoo, Aberdoo, Ooban and Fort William to name a slack handful. And Sterling Hayden) are not Scawtish.  For those of you who have followed this rather complicated route thus far, congratulations, have a pickled gherkin.

Where were we? Ah yes, deep fried Mars Bars and Phil the Greek (for those of you a little light in the locational skills department, Edinburgh has not been ceded by Corfu. Not at the of writing, you understand, but in these times of constant map revision anything is possible. And Town twinning, what’s that all about? Basildon twinned with Hades, yes well that works but then again even Mephistopheles himself would be a tad miffed if his Kingdom of Eternal Damnation was forced to clamber onto a motor coach every couple of years to crawl around the M25 in search of Dante’s vision of a true Hell). We digress.

Deep fried Mars Bars, if we can get back to subject in hand, are not Scawtish in origin. Oh no siree Bob, it is on good authority that this culinary delicacy, rather like American Chip Spice, emanated from South of yon wall. A lot south of yon wall. No not China. And no, before you even think it, not flipping Berlin. Hull, yes Hull. Twinned with somewhere equally err, Hull-like possibly Novobirisk or Parachute, Illinois or Medillin or somewhere else. So basically, what we’re saying here is get your facts right before you start slating somewhere because you might end up looking a bit silly. And how would you like it if some elderly racist was named after your town, well? Think on, Nigel Fartage is looking for a peerage.

The Return of the Thingie.

Great Lord and Good garden seed and other such pithy statements and the like. It’s back, in a way of speaking so to speak. Yes, here in the slumbering valleys of _Paul_And_Land_ things have been somewhat subdued for a day or three but, yes well, things have been going on and going down and going off and generally just going. Going where, we’re not to sure however we are safe in the knowledge that it’s not Macclesfield, Basing-bloody-stoke, Basildon or even Bracknell (other similarly ropey places are available should you wish to partake of non-medication drugs).

But now we’re back, from outer space, you just turned round and saw that look upon our face. That should have said faces however Gloria Gaynor would have been misquoted, well she was anyway so hmm, yes. Right, back to _Paul_And_Land_ and forgetting about the delightful Ms Gaynor. For the time being at least. We had planned a celebrity opening of the scribblings but Mr DLT of Radio One fame became unavoidably detained and our second celebrity guest, Catherine the Great of Russia also had her name scratched.  Only after long negotiation did we alight on the unforseen difficulty of her seeming death a number of years ago. So, under the circumstances, it gives me great pleasure to utilise these large cardboard scissors and declare this Oxfam charity shop open. Sorry, wrong speech, err, hang on, I’ve got it here somewhere, washing powder, baked beans, bread, no that’s not it either. Err, Trevor 07798, no not that one either. Oh blast, I’ll wing it, welcome back to the slightly mad ramblings of _Paul_And_Land_.