Are you waiting for the hour When you can screw me? Cos you’re big enough to do the Wall Street Shuffle Let your money hustle Bet you’d sell your mother You can buy another

Except you can’t, can you?. But in the week when capitalism almost imploded, some very apposite lyrics from 10cc although I always preferred their more amorous American equivalent, The Loving Spoonful, but some people might prefer Marvel. It’s a Google thing. Check it out and good researching, mes amis.

But more of the week’s financial shenanininagans (sp) later.

Other things have been happening. I’ve spent a day or two rubbing shoulders with the freshers at Glasgow University and very pleasant it’s been as well. I well remember my own days at that age and the wise words of the very old and very sage Dennis who told me; “Drink white wine. It doesn’t colour your vomit.” And I am now a student at said institution.

But worry not, Parfery person, I don’t think you and I will be bumping into each other. (Rubbing shoulders would be nice, though) I’ve signed up for a evening course in autobiography writing so I can learn how to write this blook that I’m now 20,000 words into. Only 80,000 to go.

And words are so important. I read a recent billing in the Radio Times for one of those D-I-Y programmes talking about working on the home of Cathy “whose partner died in a freak accident”. I hate those programmes. I did watch it. I am keeping it to myself. It was so freaky.

And can I mention to one of the members of the copy tasting team, whom we’ll call C to protect her identity (as in C for Claire), that I accept all responsibility for typos but I note the very wise words of Professor Brian Cathcart of Kingston University who said “even the best writers make a mistake in spelling, grammar, style or content at least every 500 words.” One typo in 40,000 words of bogging ain’t bad, is it? So far, so good.

I just hope my new friends at the Society of Proofreaders and Editors didn’t read that although I’m not sure if they actually read blogs like this. Possibly Days Like This and there’s still time to submit entries. Check out www.scottishbooktrust.com plus some new creative writing material there as well.

Interesting hearing Ian Rankin on the radio this morning talking about how he kept all his rejection slips and how his latest novel was based on a screenplay he never ever sold, but turned into a weekly story and thence into a novel. Even more interesting was hearing some of the albums he was about to go and buy after the interview was over. Wow, the lyrics I could plunder but watch out for Elbow coming soon to a Jools Holland programme near you (ta for the heads up, Missie K, and make sure you watch, L frae Troon)

And down at Maggie’s Farm we’d a really good session discussing the cancer rather than last night’s football results. There is so much experience in these guys, some of whom got the All Clear years ago yet still feel the need to come along and drop in. We’ve got a night out next week at the City Halls, listening to a psychologist called Claire (different one) talking about the stress of coping with prostate cancer. Real people talking. It’s great. 

And the 74 year old on Viagra from the Glasgow Royal may be an urban myth but in twenty years time I’d like to be that urban myth.

Although I did notice that Tayside health people have set up a virtual clinic for people wanting more information about  the follow up to prostate cancer treatment but I couldn’t get the website to work. I’ll keep trying and will keep you posted…just in case.

And I did watch Living with Jade Goody…on the Living channel. Ah, now the title makes sense. All I can say is that programme, and all the publishing deals she’s had in magazines in the last few weeks, make it harder and harder to feel sympathy for her. But I still do but, hey, what do I know and I’m not even a window cleaner?

Well, I know enough to pick up a free t-shirt at Firhill given out by some very nice looking young women, courtesy of the Sun newspaper, in a marketing ploy pioneered some time ago by some incredibly good looking young women who became known as the Condom Girls, my Mates. I’ve still to write that chapter in the book but it may become a standard text should I ever become a marketing guru.

Oh, and Thistle play Rangers this week. It’s on TV and I’m slightly concerned that one of the people I go to games with wrote in his newspaper today, that should the Jags go 3-0 up with ten minutes to go he will be dancing “a crazed homoerotic victory jig in his pink and grey top”. I’ll be the embarrassed one with my head in my hands two seats along from him.

See television listings are like blogs. You write things not expecting people to get back to you, but they do, albeit unwittingly. Spell it out or park it, I always say. No. It’s not really me, is it, but I’ll give it a go. 

So if I’d been down at Night of the Tiger at the Arches (maybe, maybe not ladies), what animal would I have been? Maybe a Ring Tailed Lemur? I’ll watch the I Saw You column in The List with interest.

But before I go can I say a big thank you to the kiosk person at ASDA who had problems with a wrinkled ten pound note of mine and blamed the wee “curners”. Our eyes met and we laughed. Isn’t that a lovely word? So the next time kiosk people, and everyone else dealing with the public, find a very annoying customer very annoying, just look at them and think, “You’re a really annoying wee curner”. Guaranteed to work and put a smile on your face.

And finally, I don’t do political comment but if I did….I’d leave it to these people;

The amazing Tom Wolfe (1988) talking about the financial world; “It took big, sophisticated investors to understand it. You had to have talent…genius…mastery of the universe”

An unnamed BBC reporter watching the poor (sic) people walking out of Lehmann Brothers; “You can’t be a master of the universe when all your possessions are in a cardboard box.”

Me; “Doesn’t stop you becoming a literary master of the universe and I know a lot, before you ask.”

cya

Johnt850, of what some in the Doublet Bar now call the Johnzo school of writing

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