Somnanbulists Concerned with Somersaults,

I keep finding ways in which the equipment that I have at my disposal is limited. At one of the only two departments in the country that have the celebrated grade 5 rating, it's unacceptable. Some first year undergraduates were telling me last week how they were shocked at the outdated status of the apparatus at such an esteemed institution. All this week, we've had problems trying to install a type of video camera onto our apparatus, we had to order parts to comply with Windows 95, a floppy disk drive and a dying computer and we still can't get it to work.

The Canadian called up this evening. Instinctively, I stonewalled him. I don't enjoy being mean but it was my natural reaction to the situation. He disturbed me whilst I was working, he then went on to dispute what I told him, before beginning to speak about inconsequential rubbish. Of course, during his stay, The Canadian could have learned how to be a better person from me, but he chose not to.

Bombers of the Kicked Apparition,

A wild boar is at large. It escaped from an abbatoir in St. Andrews.

Today's picture features The Mighty Roars in BBC Manchester.

They finally gave me a desk and a chair at work. I thought it would be peaceful there. I was wrong, we have to share the space with a research group, who when not arguing, re-enact comedy sketches from the telly. I listened to KEXP to shut them out, it was snowing in Seattle.

I've begun looking for somewhere to rent again, mainly because I fear The Canadian will return and to escape my family arguing about The Canadian. Having said that, I caused the latest dispute because cousin spilled the details of an emither I sent to her a few weeks ago.

People are turning their attention to Christmas; as ever, I will be protesting throughout the holiday period. Our traditional Boxing Day family "raffle" is the only part of Christmas that fits in with the communist ethos.

Healers of Experimental Souls,

Sometimes it would be better if I wasn’t such a great guy, it would be better if I could just ignore problems and problematic people, it would be better if I didn’t care and was more selfish. I can be studying away in my quarters and I only have to go to the kitchen for a drink to end up losing half a day to housework. If I see a dish needing washed, waste needing recycled properly, stale bread needing fed to the birds, clothes needing washed, hung out, tumble-dried, folded or put away, I deal with them despite the fact everyone else has ignored these important jobs.

The Canadian called. I stonewalled him with monosyllabic answers. He called me “buddy” despite the fact we have a mutual hatred – this annoyed me. He better not make a habit of it, I won’t let that happen.

Since Google have taken over the running of Blogger, things are more awkward. It’s no longer possible to search all blogs from the toolbar in any blogspot. Also, each post no longer has its own individual http:// address, this no longer allows me to reference specific previous articles in each episode of The Bellyaches.

Football was nice. ManYoo didn’t deserve to win, Celtic deserved a draw at least and that’s what they got. The vile sectarian, bigoted hatred from the ManYoo fans should be noted and they should be punished.

It’s been a difficult week, it’s been physically tiring and I think I have shin splints again. The pain in my legs is constant; it only wears off when I lie in a warm bed. I can’t see a time in the near future when I’ll be able to rest properly. I have to stand up and play football too much.

My favourite news story of the week is the fight of residents of a block of flats, probably now considered a slum, to remain in their homes despite the council condemning the building and ordering them to leave before its demolition. The residents have been led by 69-year-old Stanley Lawson who was seen on the news waving a Confederate flag. He’s also emblazoned on the building “Citizen’s Republic of Pennywell”, “Remember the Alamo” and “No Surrender” in spray paint. Another resident gave an impassioned speech comparing their situation to the Highland Clearances and the ethnic cleansing that has taken place through history in other parts of the world. They’re great and I hope they win against the councillors, who probably sit in plush offices whilst dealing out these aggressive orders, before they go home to their picturesque homes in idyllic neighbourhoods.

Metropolitan Sociopaths Banished to Under a Rock,

From the author of The Cone Gatherers and as reviewed for Tumultuous Greenhorns, Formerly Doctrinaires, The Missionaries, Guests of War is set in 1939 at the beginning of WWII and it charts the fortunes of the women, children and school teachers of the city Gowburgh as they are forced to evacuate to the safety of Lanrigg, a respectable village in the Scottish Borders.

As with other books by Robin Jenkins, there are a great number of characters of which no one takes overall precedence. The story begins in Gowburgh as the schoolteachers prepare for the departure and decide which mothers will be allowed to accompany their children to the countryside. Some mothers qualified for the evacuation automatically because of the age and number of children they had whilst others like Mrs McShelvie had to be interviewed and selected to join the party as a caretaker.

Upon arrival at Lanrigg, the class difference begins to affect the evacuees. Initially, the mothers and children were stored like cattle in the tiny village hall before the town council decided which children would be fostered by which residents. Maverick schoolteacher, Mr Roy comes to the fore in aiding the Gowburgh evacuees’ struggle against the neglectful, resentful and incompetent Lanrigg people. He ensures that one of the nicest Gowburgh mothers is housed with Mrs Cargill, a wealthy, yet friendly lady on her grand estate. He battled to have the empty Lammermuir mansion available to accommodate the mothers and children for who foster homes could not be found; despite loaned to Lanrigg Council to host the Gowburgh contingent, the snobby council decided to leave it vacant in order to protect the architecture and artefacts of the building. In an act of revenge, he managed to alter the paperwork such that the schools two most hideous ruffians would be sent to the council leader’s house for care.

After some time, some mothers and children begun to yearn for Gowburgh whilst others became more attached to the Lanrigg life and began to behave in the style of its denizens. The most interesting case was that of Mrs McShelvie after being appointed caretaker of the Lammermuir mansion, she faced a battle with her inner self. She had always longed to live in the country and became desperate to stay in Lanrigg and grow into one on its townsfolk but at the same time, she knew that her background was in the deprived Gowburgh streets and she lived with the mothers and children of Lammermuir house who had no interest in bettering themselves or country life. Eventually, she grew distant from the occupants of Lammermuir and when her son died at his Lanrigg foster home in an accident, Mrs McShelvie isolates herself by deciding to veto Lanrigg’s plans for a mass celebration of his life and a huge funeral service in favour of a non-religious burial with only a few people in attendance.

I liked being able to identify with these two characters, non-conformists with a sense of duty. They have ambition but they know their limitations, and these limitations are imposed on them through no fault of their own, they were born into their backgrounds. Mrs McShelvie, in particular, feels helpless because she thinks that the prejudiced opinions of the Lanrigg people if the Gowburgh evacuees can all learn to behave with more dignity. Although this book was set nearly 70 years ago, I feel that much of the class differences still exist in today’s society, I feel out of place being a Methilite in St. Andrews, and should a similar city-to-country evacuation occur when The Canadian gets involved in WWIII, I’m sure the city dwellers might suffer a similar level of hostility.

Hideous Hoards of Crumbling Undead Men,

After being introduced to Jeffrey Lewis through City & Eastern Songs, on the recommendation of 6music’s Marc Riley, I have been eager to see a live show. Unfortunately, it’s always been the case that he has only been nearby whilst supporting nincompoops. An opportunity eventually arose in the shape of a double headline gig at the Bongo Club in Embra, as organised by the EU IndieSoc – Misty’s Big Adventure also share headliner status. When I hear a Misty’s Big Adventure song on the radio, I take notice because they’re always different from the rest and they usually add a jaunty three minutes to anyone’s day.

Students, smelly, smelly students. Put them in charge of anything and it’ll be a mess. That’s an overreaction but after arriving 15 minutes after doors were scheduled to open, we were sent away for 20 minutes because they were running behind.

First on were Kategoes, a band from Birmingham who have been supporting Misty’s Big Adventure on their UK tour. Kate and Joe arrived on stage in bathing costumes, Beth and Bird with handkerchiefs on their noggins and Susie came complete with waders, woolly jumper, tammy and fishing rod because for the night they were Kategoes…To The Beach. They, especially Kate, are mad. They’ve gone for every gimmick under the Sun but they’re all the better for it. Their songs are really driven by Kate’s piano (this gives them a Dresden Dolls-like quality) but the use of mandolin, clarinet, violin and squeaky dog toy sets them apart from the standard fare available. The vocals are sometimes fast and punky but Kategoes are also quite capable of superb harmonies involving Beth and Susie. Lyrics range from touching and poignant to manic and nonsensical. They’re great. Having said that, there was still that awkward space at the front; that space that no one dares to stand in. Jeffrey Lewis was the man who went and stood in that huge clearance by himself.

A short while later, Jeffrey was on stage with his brother Jack and Dave the drummer. Jeffrey was still scribbling what I presumed to be the setlist on a scrap of paper right up until they begun playing. He began with his poem/song about England, the land of pounds; this was great. Then they rocked out with a song I didn’t recognise. It continued like this, Jeff’s delicate rambles would alternate with a noisy rocky one. They did Anxiety Attack, Williamsburg Will Oldham Horror, Something Good and The Singing Tree from City & Eastern Songs. We were treated to Creeping Brain complete with the comic book show projected onto a screen as controlled by Jeff’s foot on a laptop. The same technology was in use for Jeff’s lo-fi, low-budget documentary on The History of Communism in China. I love Roll Bus Roll which is one of their newer ones; it’s a unique talent to be able to sing such beautiful songs in with vocals that are basically off-key and unremarkable. Most of the songs are about subjects and feelings that people can relate to (obviously not The Man with the Golden Arm); “Roll bus, roll, take me off, a rolled up sweater makes the window soft”, that’s a situation in which everyone has been in (except from the Queen, probably). The songs also confer a sense of vulnerability that craves sympathy and decent upstanding people like me are quite willing to offer that to the mortal suffering that anxiety attack. They’re something special. I’d suggest that Jeff & Jack Lewis are commissioned to sing the next James Bond theme tune, perhaps Jeff can draw the movie too.

Whilst I did like Misty’s Big Adventure to an extent beforehand, I did fear that all their songs would sound the same and that it would all become too much for me. My fears were confirmed. There were 7 of them, none of them were violinists or cellists, and then there was a moron dancer in a suit with gloves stitched to it. Their songs generally all have the same fast, stomping beat through them, only the words delivered by the novelty vocals of Grandmaster Gareth – he’s more of an announcer or a narrator than a singer – differ in each song. It became tiring. It was late and I did not want to have that dancing glove monster in my face. We left them to make their racket and we went back to the car to listen to Janice Long on Radio Double One – finer musical output from Birmingham.

Equerries Valued by No One,

These are simpler times. It feels as if the cloud overshadowing our lives has rained itself out. Nothing remains of The Canadian’s visit except the flat rechargeable batteries for the digital camera I had loaned to him. I missed out on a cracking photo opportunity today; not the albino starling, but a silly arty shot of a brae, a street sign and Fife life. Of course, the quality of The Canadian’s photos, which he emailed back home, made my inconvenience worthwhile. They were all pictures of The Canadian against nondescript backgrounds, in front of a field, a road, a wall. None of them are like Father Dougal’s. Whilst I was working at my desk, he interrupted to ask me to take one of him; of course, I asked where he’d like me to take it, he replied, “Just here.”, ergo he has one of him framed simply by my doorway. He never took any photos of us to show his folks back home.

I still have plenty of complaints about The Canadian; about how he kept talking in an exaggerated Scottish accent, about how he kept interrupting me in my work to ask how to spell words, about how he kept kissing the Union Jack in front of me, about how he laughed like Muttley at the most immature things, about how he yearned to see Sectarian violence during his holiday. I’m trying to stop.

The only problem caused by The Canadian's departure is that other people's flaws become apparent. Sometimes I become frustated living with this family, I feel like I'm the one looking after them rather than the other way around. Some of the blunders that occur would never take place under my regime. The fridge is full of cheese.

I went out on a proper walk this morning before the bad weather moved in, sometimes I need to here the sea crash against the rocks. The brae, created by isostacy, had to be scaled on the way home.

I did waste too much time watching videos of Jeffrey Lewis gigs on YouTube. It’s part of the build-up for tomorrow night’s gig at the Bongo Club.

I did do a few hours work in my new office, the kitchen, before heading out into the storm to play football. Wearing jogging pants would be giving in but I did wear two t-shirts under my strip and gloves, which hampered my throw-ins (throw-ins are my best skill). We won 2-1 and are now through to the next round of the cup, which is bad because it means we will have to go out into another winter evening to play again.

I returned to watch The Music Show, which has King Creosote playing three songs live in the studio, they’re great. Afterwards, I bought some CDs on t’internet because I need some new stuff to amuse me, I’ve ordered up albums by Saint Jude’s Infirmary, Union of Knives and The Singleman Affair as well as the single by Poppy and the Jezebels. Some of these might be bad choices.

Dogged Readers Who Like Outpourings of Hatred From a Potential Ogre,

These past 4 weeks have been blighted by The Canadian, he’s finally gone home but we’re still dealing with the fallout.

The Canadian is Father’s cousin’s son. We received a call saying, “I arrive tomorrow, can I live with you?” Out of loyalty to his uncle, Father agreed but then asked my aunt, down the road, if she could let him live in one of her spare rooms. So, these were the arrangements: a Canadian stranger, aged 21, who we were lead to believe was a little naïve, didn’t drink or smoke and who would be doing his own thing out of our way (visiting Belfast, Newcastle, London, Brighton and Gibraltar!), would turn up in 24 hours, he would do his own thing, not drink, not smoke and might require our guidance now and again.

He informed my aunt that he liked taking walks and going out for jogs.

After 24 hours, it became apparent that he was either on the run from the law in Canada, on the run from his family to join the UK army or his family knew he was horrid and just wanted rid of him for 4 weeks. He had all kinds of human slurry turning up at my aunt’s door looking for him, he was going out for these “walks” at all sorts of weird times and then these “walks” were followed by mammoth stints in the shower. He was on the phone dialling everyone and anyone. My aunt would ask him what he’d want to eat, she’d prepare it, tell him when it would be ready and then at time of serving, he’d say he was going out for a walk. He trashed the room he was staying in, he was found drinking neat vodka of a Sunday morning and he was very aggressive towards my aunt.

After a week of this, my ever-diplomatic Father decided to move him in with us, to, at least, save his sister’s nerves; this meant brother sleeping in the livingroom on a blow-up mattress and that creep turning his room into a pigsty. All the same stuff happened.

He was just horrible. He preached religion to us. He tried to impose his right-wing politics on us. He lay in bed until lunchtime. He stared at MyArse through the night. He did try to join the army, he went to speak to them, they found it a little weird that a foreigner would like to join the UK army but they said they’d call him. Meantime, he worked on a letter that he would voluntarily write to strengthen his application, the letter is hilarious but also insulting; I don’t put words in the same dead great grandfather’s mouth. I asked why he didn’t want to join the Canadian army, he replied, “They just use the cast-off weapons of the Brits.”

He kept his “walks” up, he kept his showers up. There was always an extraordinary amount of time between him coming up the garden path and actually coming in the door, I have no idea why. It was quite obvious that he was an alcoholic, who desperately tried to eliminate the smell of booze from his self. Of course, he used all our toiletries to do this. I like brushing my teeth as much as the next person, but I don’t have the whole house smelling of mint.

In any discussion with him, he always sided with the lazy, the dishonest, the criminal that exist within our society – because he was one of them. He took great interest when we explained to him the various breeds of human slurry that live in our street; he took great interest in the drug dealers, “Show me the house”.

He didn’t eat meals with us, he skulked off to buy take-aways before dinner, otherwise he lived off what he could sneak out of our chocolate biscuit barrel and our crisps box. The crumbs accumulated under brother’s desk and bed. When he wasn’t on his walks, he was in bed or on MyArse. I heard the shouts one day to which I rushed through.

“I am such an idiot.”
“What have you done?”
“Do you know anything about MySpace? Can I change my age in my profile? I’ve put down my age as 17 but I can’t pass for 17 with the photo I’ve added.”
“Why are you making up fake MySpaces?”
“It’s a contingency plan, man”
“What?”
“If I don’t get in the army, I’ll meet a nice English girl.”
“That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve heard.”
“What? You don’t think MySpace is the best site for that?”

He is 21; everyone thought he was 15, in his build and the way he acted. Eventually, we all just hoped he wouldn’t talk to us. He eventually got the message that I hated him after I issued an ultimatum; I said he should stay in, hug the phone and wait on that call from the army or make the most of his holiday because one walk around Methil is enough for a normal tourist.

“If you like walking so much, try the Fife Coastal Path, bridge to bridge, it’s a great walk as long as you’re prepared. Do a section and then get the bus back home.”
“But then I wouldn’t meet any drunken tramps.”
“What?!?!”

He knew I was onto him. I told him that he could do what he was doing here back in Canada and at least, my brother wouldn’t have to be sleeping in the livingroom while he did it. He decided he would practise an evil stare at me for the next few days. I would quite happily have come to blows with him; I was sharper mentally and physically. He never spoke to me for the rest of his time except to ask for some photocopies of a letter the army had given him; after my ultimatum he decided to Edinburgh to pressure them into a decision so that he could go and visit London (i.e. make the most of his holiday) the day after he met with them. He never did visit London, he was supposedly going to London for 3 days, leaving on Thursday, this turned into supposedly leaving for Newcastle on Friday, then he finally left on Saturday, supposedly to stay for a few nights in Glasgow - but he came back after a few hours.

There was no getting rid of him. He was a racist (a stout defender of Nick Griffin), a bigot, a sexist (very aggressive towards women), an alcoholic, a smoker (“Can you wash this jumper it has a mark on it?” “That’s a burn mark.” “No, it’s not.”), a liar, ungrateful, greedy, smarmy, ignorant, selfish, loud, all other negative adjectives in the world can be applied to him.

He used our resources as if they were unlimited. He couldn’t work the television, he asked me how to switch it on, he said that it was too complicated and that he’d just leave it on when he was finished watching it. I showed him how to switch it off, but he stuck to his word, he just played music very loudly to drown out the television. His music was George Michael, Queen, Sting, Elton John, Proclaimers and U2, he called all of my music “life music” based on hearing me play Shoot the Head, Kill the Ghoul by Jeffrey Lewis in the car when I had to give him a lift one evening. I had intended to scratch all his CDs before he left or, as they were all copies, switch them for copies of good stuff, but I’m bigger than that.

One of the best Canadian incidents occurred when he coming back from one of his “walks”, he ran into Jehovah’s Witnesses. He came in a few minutes later boasting. Mother went mad.

“I told them not to come to our house because we’re a good Catholic family.”
“Excuse me?”
“What?”
“Don’t you ever tell anyone that they can’t come to our door. And another thing: I was christened as a Protestant.”

He was disgusted.

“And my sons don’t have a religion because I have given them the right to choose their own beliefs. Also, might I add, you haven’t been to mass since you arrived.”

He spent 4 weeks here, he wandered the streets of Methil, he lay in bed and he played on MyArse. He spent two days in Edinburgh, during which he hassled the army recruitment officers and went to the cinema. He spent two days in Glasgow; he said he went on a tour of the bars there “because there’s some history in those places”. He came back bragging about making a friend in Glasgow, he showed us the freak’s number on a scrap of paper: someone called "Alex” – a swastika denoted the letter “x”. He never saw any of the beautiful scenery Scotland enjoys.

None of my friends understood my hatred of The Canadian. The Bellyaches readership will probably think I’m over-reacting. The world is a lesser place for his existence. He’s hoping to come back. He might have serious problems with drug abuse and alcoholism and he might come from a unsettled background but that's not a reason to cross the Atlantic and foist himself upon us. I'd have a modicum of respect for him if he admitted these problems and started dealing with them. He arrived as a stranger, he left as a stranger and as far as I’m concerned the White Stripes have to be obeyed, we don’t know him, we don’t owe him.

Resentful Cartographers who can Recommend a Decent Ramble,

I haven't made much progress toward achieving the goal in the lab, I've encountered problems but I feel I've made a breakthrough; I'm now able to recognise problems and put them right. The piece of kit I have to work with was built in-house so there is no such thing as an instruction book, however I've been noting down everything I've been told since the start and I've created the only instruction book in existence, or at least the only paper set of instructions I'll have access to, it's a wonderful resource. The melting point of melamine still remains unknown.

I don't know how I feel about the burden of The Canadian now. I still feel there's nothing likeable about him and that's he's the most selfish and disrespectful person I've ever known, but his time with us will be over in a few days. I was amazed by some words that I had to wait patiently to recieve today, they weren't what I wanted to hear but my admiration for the person who spoke them can help me tolerate life more easily until the moment he leaves for the airport. The unrest around the family right now cannot be attributed to cultural differences, their have been no hilarious misunderstandings, and only incidents of family members being insulted and having their generosity. loyalty, patience and kindness abused.

It's a terrible state of affairs when my week has been filled only by work and rage.

Bandits Hiding in Ditches,

Midlake played at King Tut’s in Glasgow on Sunday; it was billed as the Bella Union tour because they had Robert Gomez and Fionn Regan tagging along.

After purchasing some much-needed badges for The Sheep of Badges, we took up a patch just behind the mixing desk on the top tier. Robert Gomez was on first, he’s a member of the Denton mafia. He was accompanied by what later turned out to be Midlake’s drummer and bass player, a keyboard dude and a lovely violinist (I love violins in pop records). It was quite clear why the genius who writes the contracts for Bella Union had handed one out to Robert Gomez. His set was full of songs with nice rhythms and melodies. A comment from the crowd that the sound was akin to My Latest Novel was wrong, fellow Bella Unionists, My Latest Novel, exhibit much more delicate arrangements, it was a case of lazy pigeon-holing. I felt that some of the songs could have been set off perfectly with some female backing vocals but the violinist’s microphone was faulty and we couldn’t hear her at all. I’d like to switch the radio on of a morning and have Robert Gomez’s songs playing. I’ll be looking to buy some tunes later.

Fionn Regan came along next, with his guitar. Stuart from Belle & Sebastian arrived to stand beside us, we did not say “Hiii”; he ignored us first. Midlake’s drummer provided some simple beats to Fionn’s songs. I have his album, The End of History; it’s quite good; and he definitely had a following in the audience. The place fell silent for him to sing his folksy tales that reference vague stuff, no more so than for Put a Penny in the Slot. Fionn enunciates very clearly, it’s quite strange. And even when the venue was very, very quiet, he was often shouting at us and asking for his microphone to be turned up. He was very good overall, he received rapturous applause and came back for an encore.

I found the Midlake set very odd, it was not like being at a gig – it resembled an awards ceremony more. It was as if people had only turned up to congratulate them on what a fabulous album The Trials of Van Occupanther is and they weren’t really bothered about the sound of what was played to them. I was happy to take part in this blinkered fawning. They weren’t bad, they had a nervous start. They were much tighter on the three proper songs from Bamnan and Slivercork which they played; Balloon Maker, Kingfish Pies and Some of Them Were Superstitious – they had weird and wonderful videos projected onto the screen throughout the gig but the video for the latter song was something special (partially visible on YouTube). Three was the right amount of songs to play from the first album because the two albums don’t fit together very well despite both being great.

I was going to love their set no matter what, I knew all the words anyway, I could hear the album in my head – that was enough. However, the mixing in King Tut’s was dreadful, it was either the sound level on the drum kit or the bass guitar which annoyed me at times; during In This Camp, I should have heard “I wanted to marry Babette” (the opening line of the chorus), what I heard was “I wanted to BOOOOOM” – every single chorus in that song was drowned out. They played every song from their current album to much applause.

It was a good night, and excellent value at £7.50. I failed to steal the poster I wanted to but David Twinnie got a shout-out from Janice Long on the way home. “Spellbinding” was the biggest and most cheesy word he could think of.

Hobgoblins from the Cellar,

Let me not be too consumed with this world
Sometimes I want to go home
And stay out of sight for a long time.

I can agree with this sentiment wholeheartedly, but right now, I share a home with my very own George Bush.

I can list many occurrences of strange and odd behaviour. I was told I might be reading too much into things, but I know something’s not right. I can be as mean as I want to be because I know he has no recourse. It's hard to be anything but icy and uninterested in his business, at least to his face. Sometimes I try to shock him into thinking we’re a family of ogres. So far, I’ve made us out as bigots, racists and communists.

Friday was a strange day. I had a short stint at yooni. The town of Oorban residents were supposedly meeting in St Andrews for lunch before going to meet Pete in Dundee for shopping. I said I was taking no part because of the need to be home for the man who MIGHT have been coming to fix the central heating. I then agreed to have lunch. Lunch took ages so I assumed I’d missed the gas man and then I went to Dundee. Lunch was nice if only slightly ruined by not knowing how the vinegar dispenser worked. I had to eat quickly to ensure the chicken “burger” and its accompaniments were not pickled. JD commented on me being louder and funnier than usual, he has a nerve; I’m always a comedy genius. Someone later passed a similar comment that evening, my behaviour must have been all wrong on Friday.

Saturday passed without incident and only the Celtic vs. Hearts match. I also decided that I want to design fireworks.

I went out for a walk along Leven beach on Sunday morning. On my way back, I bumped into The Canadian who was out on one of his “walks”. What followed could only be compared to the scenes from a new action movie I’m writing based on a character that is a cross between Bill Oddie and James Bond. Thankfully, this did not last for long because it was wrong.

And finally, I’ll recount another example of the local people having no manners or respect for others. I was at the service station, after purchasing fuel for the journey to King Tut’s; I went over to check my tyres. I pulled up to the machine and got out of the car. Whilst I was taking the first dust cap off, a moron on a bicycle, parks between my car and the machine and starts inflating his tyres. He gave no acknowledgement of what he had done, not before, during or after this act of impatience and selfishness. Of course, if he had asked to go first, I would have allowed him to - because I’m a great guy - but it’s not about that.

I’ll report on that Midlake gig tomorrow night. I have to allow time for other people to write their reports first, so I can cut and paste mine together.