The jiners and hauders-on are marchin’ fae Clydebank, Come on noo and hear him, he’ll be ower thrang tae bide. Turn oot Jock and Jimmie, leave your crane and your muckle gantries, Great John Maclean’s coming back tae the Clyde.

John MacLean was a committed republican socialist whose politics were far too socialist for Red Clydesiders such as Jimmy Maxton whose (Maxton’s) body is buried across the road from me and whose (Maxton’s)  autobiography was written by the arch-Tory Gordon Brown….and yes, e, AJ and I visited the new Riverside Museum in downtown Partick on Wednesday afternoon.

(Can I stress that Maxton’s body is not actually buried in the back garden of Angela and Stefan’s at No 6 but in the massif cemetery which is figuratively ‘across the road’ from me?)

And the version of the John MacLean March that I used was sung by me. Often. Drunkenly. So that’s at least four and a half years ago. Wow! Four and a half years. Clean and clear. But still an addict. Albeit recovered.

I still miss it. Alcohol. I was down Byres Road the other night at about 8 o’clock. I miss the ability to wander into a pub, order a quiet pint and not being unhappy when it becomes something more. I like, however, being alive, even if I can’t always get what I want. But I try so hard.

And the Rolling Stones lyric there reminds me it was Father’s Day recently. I think Son Brian would rather I played bands like the Stones and Free rather than a track like Mellefresh vs deadmau5 (Adam K Dirty Remix)’s version of Hey Baby. I said to the rrm that my son (who ultimately has Power of Attorney over me) thinks I’m ‘insane’. The rrm, being a kindly old buffer, said, ‘hypothetically, most sons think their dads are weird’ to which I could only reply, ‘and do most dads talk to Vampire Slayers?’……, set, match and championship to the forty-two year old weirdo in black.

Son Brian’s pressie to me was a laptop cooling pad (black) and no, nobody I’ve mentioned it to, has ever heard of such a thing, but I am happy. With his exam result. As well.

And whilst the Vampire Slayer is there……I bought a couple of black t-shirts recently. Identical. Couldn’t tell them apart. No. No reason.

And I’ve been doing some  nursing (kinda) recently. As has the gorgeous W. Separately. Different people. And I was just considering the significance of this when I dozed off. A jolly interesting dream was then interrupted by the (real) postman. He didn’t even have the decency to ring twice. 

tbh, I’ve been doing more hospital visiting than nursing and I’ve been asked a few times about my own stay in hospital a while back and I’m afraid I can remember very little of it. I was totally jellied out my head all the time I was in. The nurses kept feeding me pills, coated in many colours. The attraction is understandable. The pills. And the nurses.

But I do remember the blue night light, the family of the man in the bed next to me who showed me a photo of him, passed out, on a mobile phone, and the man who worked in the Indian restaurant who got brought pakora at half past eleven at night………and the female ward across the corridor.

Actually speaking of W (as I occasionally do 😀 ) the running schedule did not go too well this week. I must not come into the house, open up e-mails and then go for a run ‘cos all I want to do is run home and answer them. Week Two of the Schedule is a re-run next week. 

And to all those women in Glasgow’s Queen Street Station on Thursday morning picking up their bags from Left Luggage having left them there pre-Take That nite out…….you weren’t that optimistic about meeting Howard, back-stage, were you? All of you?

And if you are a Freeview viewer whose sexuality is off at a tangent (I may have mis-read that mail) can I recommend your new channels Rabbit and its sister, Gay Rabbit, both dating and txting channels? (I have such a deep voice when in masterful mood. With dogs. Canine dogs.)  

I was in someone’s house as the switchover happened and we Rabbit hopped…….and it was so boring…..but the fun is inventing what the Rabbit TLAs might mean b4 u look ’em up in the Urban Dictionary……it could be a drinking game……for those who drink.

And finally, I was talking about the Riverside Museum….we liked it. I had already promised to go with someone else. That will happen. I’m going nowhere. Well. To the Riverside. Obvioulsy. Just say when. Bring a friend. Or a wean.

Cya, keep(ing) it fun and still wearing that badge? Attracted more attention down the Riverside than a Mosspark headed 59.

Johnt850, who has met a lot of very pleasant nurses in a cancer ward this week. And would like to say thanks. Down Byres Road. 8 o’clock.

So can I just say a quick word about the anniversary of my Date of Birth on 2nd July? Soon. As most ppl know, it’s not that I want to be ‘young’ for the rest of my life, it’s just that I refuse to be defined by a number and have therefore chosen to remain 42 for the rest of that life (there’s a wee What If….. just wandered thru my neurotic consciousness).

The absurdity of using numbers as a justification was brought home to me when I saw a man on the BBC News channel respond to the question, ‘What is wrong with circuses?’ with the answer, ‘Well, it’s 2011.’

What a f**king stupid answer! (let alone ignoring the beliefs of people with different calendars such as Jews and Jedi Warriors). It was no explanation at all!  We hide behind numbers. We use them as an excuse. They are merely there for purposes of identification. Not definition. I actually like the music I play these days. If I can use that as an example.

And when I’m asked what’s on the ones and twos at home, I can honestly say Daft Punk is playing at my house, my house, except it’s LCD Soundsystem playing Daft Punk is playing at my house, my house. But you’ve gotta set them up.

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