I can’t shake this feeling I’ve got. My dirty hands, have I been in the wars? The saddest thing that I’d ever seen were smokers outside the hospital doors

The Editors, there, cos I know some folk who’ve gone off to Belladrum this weekend and are you really going to induct your family into the ways of Aleister Crowley? Wicked.

So I decided, after all, to go see my cancer consultant at the Beatson, which is where you see all these smokers, and it wasn’t him, it was his registrar. But that was okay, cos he’d read the notes and his second words to me were, ‘It says here I’ve to keep it fun.’

And he did. But, whilst it’s good that my PSA levels are stable, they should be a wee bit lower. Which in the greater scheme of thing is no big deal. But you can hear the evil cancer bastard have a wee chuckle, and then you walk out into the corridor and see everyone else who’s there and you think, ‘No effing chance will you beat me.’

Sorry. I’ve been reading Reg McKay in the Record and, indeed, I saw him when I was down there. His language and style is much more emotive than mine. He writes about his ‘battle’ with his (different from mine) cancer. It’s reportage but not as I do it, but I’ve got different influences.

Still he makes you think does Reg.

So today saw us PT fans head South to Ayr for the first SFL match of the season minus lashings of ginger beer and mescaline and I like going to games from Central Station. I’m allowed into Oddbins next to it with strict instructions to ‘stand there, John, where we can see you.’

But Ayr was good. Not only did we outplay, outclass and generally gub the local United 1-1, but my continuing knowledge of Scottish hostelries expands. It included a sight which other towns will find hard to beat this season. At two o’clock in the afternoon we crashed a wedding hen party in the Tam O’Shanter Inn. At twenty past two we crashed out again. They were deadly.

But big thanks to a couple of friends (ladies? but of course) who eventually saw me onto the train back to Weegieland. And, yes, we did go back to the Tam O’Shanter. And, yes, they had gone.

But somebody said to me they like the desultory rambles I do in the blog but I don’t do them, do I?……But Dr Paul, what do you mean, Bugs Bunny is very gay? Do cartoon rabbits have degrees of gayness?……and Hi Renny, welcome on board……and nice West End Friday aft, e, but how come ppl know where I buy birthday pressies from……and you and the Vampire Slayer have a good holiday, Missie K and I’ll see you when you get back……and I don’t want to say too much about this weekend’s True Blood but it’s put me right off steak and made me worry about the effects of (too) much tomato juice (just the right amount is good)…….and if the rainforestriverman hadn’t had such a wide smile on his face he might have found his way out of the live TV studio without tripping over everything……and I’m told 13yr old Scott Campbell was on TV the other night cos he’s the Derek Rae of Scottish blogging…….and nice to see Erik the Floodstalker’s words back on the sports pages again, but the biggest byline total of any student this Summer must be Caley Uny Kirsty…….and was there really a TV prog during the week in which Man Who Lived With Bears got eaten by a bear but his camera kept recording inside the bear so there is audio of him being eaten somewhere out there……and gd frnd Clr, I bought the Lenny Bruce DVD. It’s not the exact c πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ πŸ™‚ r gag but it’s close and I’ll just pop it in the post, shall I, same address as the adtrailer,……and, and, and I’ll stop there shall I? As I say, I don’t do desultory rambles.

And great philosophical questions of our time, ‘How do you tell when black pudding is burnt?’…..but it wasn’t.

And it’s obvious that I’m a BBC apologist (No. No reason…just in case…..so far, so good) BUT, all that’s happened so far is that there’s been a complaint about your undercover reporter which the police are investigating, so wheest, but putting the apologist hat back on, to those people in Manchester who claim they were plied with drink at the BBC’s expense and they’re now worried that they’ll be made to look stupid, did anyone force you to drink the booze? And did the BBC really buy it? Did you actually ask at the time?

She’s called Lucy and with any luck she’s on Panorama on Monday night, repeated on BBC iPlayer.

Y’see I was looking at BBC kinda commissioning guidelines recently, and before a mate panics, it was the dirty words bit and it was The Green Book from the early fifties. It was what you could and couldn’t say.

For example, you couldn’t say God, Good God, Blast, Hell or Gorblimey; you couldn’t do jokes about ‘fig leaves’ (this took me ages but I think it’s a reference to Adam and Eve); and my own favourite, you had to be careful about jokes with reference to pre-natal influences such as Β ‘his mother was frightened by a donkey‘. Β Seriously.

Maybe I should turn it into a Facebook competitition? Can you supply the beginning of this gag?

On the Facebook front, btw, can I just say thanks to all those ppl who have sent me things like cupcakes, cheese and a puppy. I’ll get the thanks cards later today from Papyrus and pop them in the post, shall I? Eh, that is how you do it, don’t you?

Mind you he makes you think does Reg, and so does Facebook. Cos it’s all about using the media isn’t it, to tell people things?

Reg is going to get his wife to tell people when he dies. Son Brian, I need to give you some passwords. If you can’t write the final words I know someone else who might. Mmmmm…..You can but ask.

(It’s your call)

And then there is Eric, who died last week from cancer (generic). He blogged elsewhere and his wife (I hate the word widow) told the world through his blog, and do you know what else she did? She invited every reader to the funeral. How cool is that? And I don’t think Eric ever used the word ‘battle’ either.


Johnt850, who used to wake up in the morning with scraps of paper by the bed and not be too sure what they meant. Now I’m sitting looking at one which says ‘Felicity Kendal + bondage’. I think I can explain……….

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