I don’t say that I blame her People don’t know what they want If you spend your life looking behind you You don’t see what’s up front Was there anything I could do?

Wise words there from the Go-Betweens, from a few years back, and guitarist, Robert Forster, was in town at Oran Mor last week. Looking back, I should have gone. I didn’t.

Musically speaking can I, by the way, say thanks to Heather C and Missie K for all your suggestions for new albums recently? That autofill thing on my Rainforest River Account is just so easy to use. And I did buy the new Kings Of Leon album, but the lyrics I’d like to use, I’ll leave just now, just in case……

I’m trying, as regular recipients of my e-mails and funnies over the last six months will testify. Thanks guys, and thanks for the patience, and thanks to those who send in the funnies. Keep ’em coming. All contributions welcome.

Ah, the power of hindsight. Now what coping mechanisms have made this week better? Actually a goodly number.

I started the week off with Doctor Fiona who’s planning to run a marathon, and thinks I should see a dietician? Now this, no doubt, will come as a surprise to anyone who has ever seen me massacre half a Rennie Mackintosh BLT, or my shopping list which once began with breadsticks and taramasalata, albeit unwittingly. Hey, I needed a second course, okay?

And, L frae Troon, I did okay with that fish finger sandwich the other lunchtime, didn’t I? I’d never had one of those sober before.

And that same Monday night, I went to a “Managing the Stress of Prostate Cancer” presentation given by a prominent lady psychologist (who for professional reasons and to protect her identity we’ll call Clr+1. No. No obvious reason) at the City Halls here in Glasgow and very good she was too. Mind you, a good looking woman and a room full of men with prostate problems? Even Johnny Cash at San Quentin would have been envious.

And maybe, just maybe, and only hypothetically, I might just have had a private word with Clr+1 down at Maggie’s Farm, over a period of an hour or so, but it was worth it to come away with the image of making sure I didn’t trip over a broken stool leg, unless it was being held up by a worry balloon. One helluva coping mechanism, but so far, so good,

Like your first few days at Uny I suppose. Unless you’re a theology student late for your first ever tutorial, and your only reason is a dead body on the line. Nice chatting to you, Mr Cathcart. It made my Monday. Hope it did the same for your new tutor.

Wednesday night saw me at the football at Firhill and there’s a rumour I had an actual ten second conversation with son Brian. I did leave a phone message with your mum a few days earlier but you know what mums are like with these things.

He, I, Stevie Boy and the Rainforest Riverman (in London) spent most of the pre-game against Rangers texting each other about where we were sitting, except for the Riverman, who was relaxing in his tree-house lounge, and I would like to say serious thanks to my gd frnd Clr (srprs, srprs) who first introduced me to the joy of txt, (that gag’s in the blogging contract, okay, and you should see the bit I deleted!), and a gentleman always pays for the taxis. (I’ve now deleted that bit as well)

I’d like to introduce you, C, to my mate, J-P, who curates at the Art Galleries (how’s your mum and Laura F, by the way, C ?) and he needs 2 lrn 2 txt. That’s J-P, who phoned (!) me from the other side of the Jackie Husband stand five minutes after the game started. Would someone please have a word with him or he’ll never reach forty?

And what can I say about those Rangers fans? Why did they leave when they’re winning? We’re losing and we’re the ones singing, “Cheerio, cheerio”. But why did they sing the chorus of the Famine Song at us?

We’re Partick Thistle fans. We eat at the Ubiquitous Chip (now that would be a really good call. Seriously. I’d like that) and we drink Rhubarb vodka with champagne (Well, not me obviously) but I did see it advertised in a Byres Road shop. Why did you come to mind at that point, Torrance One?

But I loved the Herald’s description of the public address announcements at the game as “Carry On in the Co-op Cup, with more banter than a Chewin’ the Fat box set.”  Ah, the fingers that brings to mind. Sorry. I was tomato juicing all lunchtime today. It’s been a long time since I’ve done that.

And I did a guest PR workshop at a college, which shall remain nameless, in the Commerc(e)ial Centre of Glasgow. Well I would have done, except the Great Gods of the Fire Alarm intervened, but if any student did manage to devise a good “Man looks for Woman” type ad, then I will run it in an appropriate magazine.

Yes. For once in my academic life, I digressed from the brief. But, yes, I will let you all know how I get on. How’s that for an opening line on a first date? “No. I didn’t write it, I got some students who’d never met me before…….”

Actually, those of you who do know me, also please feel free. Everything considered.

And if the High Horse Level Committee don’t mind, then I’d like to say thanks to Jacquie and Michelle from that College, and it would be nice to meet you again. Professionally speaking, Parfery-person, professionally speaking….that’s all.

I also noticed Gordon Brown (you know him, Sarah’s man. Hasn’t he lost weight? She not feeding him properly?) gave out advice to students in the seventies including this nugget, “Your best chances of crashing a party are with a carry-out (“cairry-oot”). A bag of empty cans, weighted down with bricks often works.”

Not in Chancellor Street, Partick, it didn’t, Gordon. Want to see the scars? Happy daze, student daze. We were poor but we were miserable. We had to sleep two to a bed.

And finally, can I, just, maybe, say something nice about that idiot illusionist, David Blaine? I read one tabloid columnist who complained that “he wasn’t doing it for a good cause or raising money for charity, he just wanted his name in the headlines.” On behalf of straightforward attention seekers, everywhere, I salute you David Blaine.

Ah, the power of hindsight. It’s what makes me such a “know-it-all bastard”…… it says here.

cya

Johnt850…..or somthing (sic)……

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