Today it all feels fine, A sense of freedom fills your mind, Can’t think about tomorrow, Just breath the air inside.

A few appropriate words there for a few hangovers from the End of Pier Show at the Glasgow Met College last night, from the vastly underrated band Feeder. But more of that Show anon.

First to my withdrawal symptoms. And I don’t mean watching all those plastic cups full of white and red wine floating by me on a sea of temptation….. Sorry. I was miles away there. No. I mean the lack of contact with, and from, the sandblasting centre.

They don’t write. They don’t call. Nothing. No blog comment. No e-mails. Nothing. This either means the sandblasters didn’t like what I’ve been writing or they didn’t like what I’ve been writing and they’re considering legal action….just in case. Mmm.

Okay, maybe I shouldn’t have admitted to paying the occasional visit to the real Clatty Pat’s a generation or so ago (No. It’s not made Wikipedia, yet and maybe it’s better that way), but I did enjoy my time with you, the sandblasters, not Clatty…or was she Pat?.

And it’s not the same doing it yourself (You know what I mean….sometimes this blog gets more and more like a Frankie Howard script ) I mean getting a torch out and a set of felt tip pens and …and….No. It’s not the same, particularly when the window cleaner’s watching.

It was difficult on Monday. I was in the company of Maria on Monday and I found myself continually looking at my watch, which I realise is not the greatest of compliments to a good looking woman (not sure, CD, about the rest) but she is a financial adviser. At one point she muttered the magic words, “Is that really your date of birth?”, so I bought whatever it was she was selling.

So, Maria, when does this expedition leave for Darien, anyway? (Okay so the gag’s almost three hundred years old, but it’s a goodie). And aren’t you impressed, M, that I avoided the obvious golf chat up line?

No. It was just weird not going upstairs (at home, not in the bank), showering off the previous day’s marks just so the sandblasters would have to put on new ones and induge in the friendly banter and so on, but there was also a new group coming in this week anyway. Bit like students really.

But more tails from the sandblasting will follow. It’s the way I’m going to tell them that’s going to be the challenge.

However, thanks to those of you who have been asking how the cancer’s doing. Tests will, hopefully, be soon with results to follow. And yes, I’m more interested at this stage in its health than mine. And no, Cathcart Minor, I don’t think giving it a name is a good idea at this stage. Stick to stand up son, (of mine, maybe). Billy the Cancer indeed!

Now. To last night’s showcase of talents at Glasgow Metropolitan College which, I think runs all week. Check the website on ,lots of good things on all floors, a bit like Grace Brothers in fact. How did that read, Lydia?

Lots of nice people there, including the lovely Laura F, star of one of my favourite videos, “Laura F does Blood Transfusion”, oh and the temptation to do the original line!!!!! It can wait, though.

And Claire, it’s tomato juice I drink, not pomegranate juice. Try it some day. Long glass, ice cold tomato juice, worcester sauce, tabasco sauce and pepper, Stir but don’t shake (the glass, that is). The celery stick is used later. It’s a real man’s drink. Not that you……Anyway, you wear what you want on Sunday for Race For Life. It just sounds ambitious, that’s all.

And Oonagh, that picture of you semi-naked in an Oxfam window! I just went in to buy some CDs and look what I came away with. Adds a whole new dimension to re-cycling.

And to Kevin C. There’s no law against me selling what you think I’m selling. Oh, there is. Oh. Thanks for the tip.

And to everyone else who knows me. Nice to see you, to see you nice. Why, oh why, did I once do that Bruce Forsyth impersonation in Room 311? No. Honest, Lydia. I didn’t. Honest. But I once did kick a rolled up piece of paper into a waste paper bin! Pick that one out, Kenny Miller.

And speaking of Kenny. Bad news from the Kenny the Shed Pimp. Got a phone call from him that he’s injured his back (No. No explanation. Comments and suggestions gratefully received.) so, no new shed for the time being. Maybe I should get new wallpaper instead. Again suggestions welcome.

And finally, a nice letter has just arrived from the local Job Centre thanking me for a nice letter I sent about a nice person called Norma. That’s nice. But can she put up sheds?



3 Responses to “Today it all feels fine, A sense of freedom fills your mind, Can’t think about tomorrow, Just breath the air inside.”

  1. Thomas Alexander Says:


    The notebook book kicked into the bin. Just one of many fond memories of The Met.

    Keep your eye on the Evening Times!!!

    Thomas, or as you once called me ‘Thomo’.

  2. johnt850 Says:

    And if you ever get round to checking out C’s fundraising site for Race For Life you’ll see that lots of people call me Thommo as well!

  3. Cathcart Minor Says:


    I also remember the kick into the bin moment, a genuine highlight of my (many) years at the met.

    Just to clear up it was in fact Richard that suggested the moniker Billy and not me.

    Oh and T.A. I bought the Evening Times the other day on the rumor you had a byline but I couldn’t find it.

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