Hell Freezes Over...

Seriously, my childhood dream has arrived.

Here.

Jesus Christ. I am so excited.

The Tale of the Missing 18 Days

18 Days it has been since the last out pouring, and I have been horrifically busy doing a millions and one things.

Well, not really. Important (and kinda funny highlights) from the last week or so;

- The man who got his arm trapped in a closing train door.
- Holding the CIS Insurance Cup at the final at Hampden
- Getting a Whisky for Pat Nevin

Mostly my weeks have been punctuated with interviews for Graduate Jobs. My first proper interview was last Friday, where I was to have a presentation before a formal interview. I got onto the train at 10.25am, with the interview at 11am, and plenty of time. Until I realised I had forgotten my bloody pen! So, a rushed upon arrival at Queen St to get one, and then hot-tailed it along George St to the Livingstone Tower, up five flights of stairs... to find that I was the only one who had turned up out of 8 people! The presentation was slightly abandoned. They then invited me to lunch, which I graciously declined. The interview proper went well, though my stomach was going mental, spinning a crazy tango inside my chest prior to entering the room. They called me on Monday to say I was successful, and that I was to come up to Aberdeen for a technical interview. Oh dear...

I went to Jacobs (who I worked for over the summer) for a technical interview, and it was not easy, in fact it was bloody tough.
"Describe to me McCabe-Thiele construction..."
"How would you use an azeotrope..."
"Explain how a distillation column plate works..."
"What measures would you take to make sure a site was safe..."
I got through it, and luckily one of the interviewers was my boss over the summer, someone who knows that I am a superstar ChemEnger.

The highlight of the last few weeks though was flying down to London for a showcase interview for a management consultancy called Accenture. They paid for my flight, so naturally I take Hazel, just so I can still pay for my trip. The parents bank roll our stay in a 4star Novotel next to Kings Cross station, which was immense. I was wearing a suit, carrying my Laptop in a bag, and a Metro, I felt like a merchant banker. The good type. I was dazzled by the incredible buildings, the massive streets, the attractive secretaries, it was amazing.

I walked into the reception area, and was given a visitors pass to allow me past the gates, which were similar to train station gates, but were made entirely out of glass. Forget steel. I was most impressed, that upon entering the lift I scanned the badge on the lift and it said thus:
"Good Afternoon, MARK SHIELDS, 7th floor, ACCENTURE. Please report to the reception."
Christ, it talked to me! I totally shat it. Then, to make me even more paranoid, the receptionist knew my name as I stepped out of the lift. I guess they must talk to each other, the lift and the reception desk.

Another highlight was Hazel being silly and stupid, in that way makes me smile just to write about it. In classic form on Wednesday night, with such incredible statements as:
- "Can you a get a gay straight man?"
- "Men can't be called Lesbians, can they?"
Truly beyond fiction, she is. Brilliant. Mind you, she made the trip more than a business waste of time, so I thank her for coming. :)

Enough of the shitty mushy shite, back onto more interesting topics.

Last week I went to Perthshire, for a weekend away with older scouts and scouters, for the camp we always fancied doing when we were Scouts. Arrival was fun, the road was not iced over (after John told us it would be) but was still a fucking crazy road. Basically driving up Ben Lawers. We cracked open the Ales and Sols right away, and let the banter flow. Car bashing (Colin McCreath, an old scouter from when I were a lad has a TVR Tuscan), slagging of old stories (stealing and crashing of cars), and Arnold apologising to John, which is something that has never happened.

Saturday entailed a hillwalk up Ben Lawers, Ben Ghlass, and back to the Scout Centre, but about 50m from the top of Ben Ghlass my back gave in, and after much deliberation I decided to head back down the hill and sleep it off in Fins car. I was in a fair bit of pain all week leading up to it, and a hillwalk was probably not a good idea in the first place. I listened to the football, talked to some other hillwalkers, and listened to music. At night I won the annual quiz, and also won the Cermamic Arab, the trophy. It is a wondrous trophy, one that I will be proud to show to anyone who is willing to see it.

We paintballed on Sunday, and for anyone who has not done it, it is fucking ace, brilliant fun. Hitting Finlay between the eyes was great, but not so great when Graeme hit me 4 times in the back, from about 15m. Bastard.

Me Colin (and pending Steven and Jonny) are going to a recording of Transmission with T-Mobile tonight (Friday) in Edinburgh, which shall be interesting.

How will we get back?!

For those of you who crave The Tale of Rock Steady series, there will be another installment this coming Sunday, as I am working at Ibrox tomorrow.

The Tale of Rock Steady 3: Finally Fame! and The Pram Rant

Rugby Rugby Rugby. It is an unusual sport, one of which I can say that I enjoy watching, do not fully understand all of the rules and have not played enough to account for any sort of proficiency in it. I find it much more tactical than football is, and is based more on a collective team effort than football, but lacks the individual skill that football allows the player to have. A try may be scored by a single player, but the whole movement has to be built up in phases and it is a real collective team effort, whereas a footballer can score a goal based on his sole ability.

I was musing the differences in the game because I was standing on the Upper East Stand at Murrayfield this weekend, for the Scotland Versus Ireland game. It was mildly boring for a very long time because the area of seating I was (vomitory 14) is home to most of the hospitality seating, meaning everyone was out for a good bevy prior to the match and came rushing at 5 minutes to kick off, being all drunk and annoyed that I could not show them to their seat in time. Also, the number of rugby fans who do not understand the points of a compass are astonishing really, with many exchanges being "This s the east stand, you are in the west stand." "Where is that?"

At half time I was approached by my supervisor who said that I had to loose my scarf. Not actually misplace it you understand, but just get rid of it. Why I wondered, it was red and beige, as close to neutral colours you can get for this match. It was because our area had been chosen to go down to the touchline for the presentation of the Triple Crown if Ireland were to win. At about 60 minutes we headed down to the players tunnel standing watching the game on a BBC monitor with that girl who does the track side interviews - cannot remember her name. Anyway, it was touch and go, for a while it was not known whether we would be needed because the game was pretty close, but in the end we were needed, and onto the pitch we headed. I was told to remove the scarf in case I was on telly. Which I was:

Figure 1 - Mark On The Telly! Taken from Youtube.

Though, in fairness, it is hard to believe it is me, it is. At last, I am Famous.

I will be singing autographs for anyone who wants one. Though I am still mystified by the fact that I was told to remove the scarf. Who can even see me fucking face never mind what it hidden around my neck underneath my massive jacket.

I said in my last post that I would have a go at the stupid silly bitches that don't fold up their prams while trying to enter a bus. My opinion on this matter is pretty obvious; they are silly cunts. Back in the day, my mother and I used to take the old 38B into town, and it was one of the old red buses that the 138 used to be, but this was when they were pretty new and orange. My memories of these bus trips are muddled and vague, though I do know a few things. Whenever we went into town I remember that there was no space for prams on the bus, so if you wanted to get on one with your child, you had to fold up the pram and put it into the luggage place.

Newer buses these days have solved a problem, and thusly created another one. By adding in these spaces on buses that you see for unfolded prams you looses seats, and standing space vanishes, and created the problem of mothers buying massive fucking prams that look like Robin Reliants that cannot be folded with asking planning permission first, and then look at you as if you have raped their mother while she lay in the morgue after you ran her over in a tank singing "Woah, the hokey-cokey!". What do they expect? I say, get rid of the spaces for the prams, and we will create more seats, more standing area, and less confusion on buses for us all.

Or, maybe charge them a fare for the pram. It takes up muchly space...

Rant Over.

The Tale of the Sleekit Smoking Man and 38th Time Unlucky

I am tired, sitting on my own on a Friday night.

I was working last night at the Rangers vs CA Osasuna match UEFA Cup match, and once again placed in the Red Zone for a bit, then moved to the West Tower where I had to direct the upper classes to their capitalist boxes where the drink free Carling and bullshit each other about how important they are, in some sort of competition. I lost patience last night for a few different reason. Firstly there is the nagging problem at football stadia in Scotland these days of the smoking ban, where you cannot smoke inside the stadium, and you cannot leave the stadium. This, in the lower regions of the stadium would mean smoking anyway, but this clientele, you would think would respect the law.

No.

There was this one gentleman who initially aroused my suspicions when coming back from "meeting a friend at the bottom of the stairs" he appeared from the top of the stairs, meaning he had came up them rather than take the lift. This is not that unusual, as we will see, for people to choose to miss the stairs, but this particular gentleman had already let off steam to me about "having to take the stairs last week". The lift had just arrived at the floor. Point 1.

Second point was he preceded to come back again, and say "I have to meet someone downstairs." He said this to my supervisor, and she said that was fine, but I had already became interested in his movement... he had already been "downstairs to meet someone" so I called bullshit. Point 2.

The third and final point was that he then walked past me at half-time, when I was too busy to confront him about his absence, and then came back "On the phone" talking to "someone" about their absence at the "bottom" of the stairs. Unfortunately I worked in a phone shop for short of 4 years, and know what screen should be on a Nokia 6230i when in a phone call. It is not the stand by screen at any rate. Point 3.

All of this makes me feel like Poirot.

I decided to leave him alone till he came back for a fourth time, just after full time. This is a transcript of what happened;
"Excuse me sir?" I said.
"Yes?" he queries.
"I wonder if you would tell me where you intend to go, as you cannot leave the stadium and return inside."
"I am going to meet someone downstairs" he explains.
"I am sorry sir, but I don't think I am allowed to let you."
"I have already been down." he says, looking slightly annoyed and worried.
"Exactly my point. And, sir, if you are caught smoking on the stairs you will be ejected from the stadium, your season ticket will be kept for the club to review your membership, and there might even be prosecution, as I am sure you are aware that it is an offence to smoke inside this ground."
He looks at me to gauge what my reaction might be. He gauged wrong. "I don't know what you mean, I have not been smoking, what is this?"
"Well sir, if you have not been smoking then I apologise, but I must warn you that the Police are not as liberal at applying the Law to offenders as myself and my supervisor."
He looks at again at me. I can see his mind working things out.
"I'll give him a phone, see if he is about." And quickly turns away.

Victory to me.

The second thing that tried my patience was the fucking "lift". I say "lift" as it more of a small room with doors and no windows, that really goes no where other than no where. It is notorious for breaking down, and Thursday was no exception. It was fine until it broke at the end of the night, when everyone is leaving drunk and merry with the late equaliser. I had to stand at the doors, with the lift randomly appearing at the floor, opening it's doors halfway, shuddering, loosing power, making loud screeching noises, telling the patrons they would have to walk down 7 stories of stairs.

One man suggested I gave him a piggyback down, and proceeded to mount me.
An other said he was a war veteran and could not use the stairs.
and one, the final patrons to leave the stadium actually challenged me to a fight over the lift, complete with faux punching and headlocks. I had to wait till the lift engineer could switch off the power, which happened at 11.45pm.

All of this might not seem so bad, but you need to be aware of the level of patience that I have. I can quite happily wait over 45 minutes for a bus,as I know it will eventually come. I also have the most incredible patience with total tools, to the great amazement of my colleagues.

A case in point happened this week once again on my infrequent bus journeys on the 38/A which have slightly increased this week with the lack of railway transport. At Jamaica St. a bunch of lovely youths jump on the bus, each of them being loud and obnoxious. I hate the bus, but was none too bothered about this. They then pushed their way to the back of the bus, shoving people out of the way and generally just fitting themselves into spaces that were not even there. One woman told the taller of the fivesome to "fuck off" when asked to move out of the way. This prompted "Did she jist tellt ye tae fuck off?" They smelled horrible, of stale sweat, shite and tobacco, and interestingly liked to bump people on head with their arms. I was seated right next to one of them.

Instead of getting infuriated like Hazel, I decided to stay calm, sample some of their banter, before switching on my Zen and listen to some The Smiths.

I just know Morissey is having much worse a time than I was.

I was going to rant about the silly bitches that don't fucking fold up their prams on the bus, but I seem to have ran out of space. For another time.

Album Review: Idlewild - Make Another World

This is me trying to be serious. Don't laugh...

Idlewild have been a part of my musical landscape since the time of my standard grades, with the purchase of The Remote Part heralding the end of the exam leave. The reason was one song, and I still love this band for this one song; You Held The World In Your Arms, possibly the best song they have ever made.

It was through this album that I discovered the beauty of the previous albums, the harsh of Hope Is Important, and the god damn brilliance of 100 Broken Windows, but I think I have finally figured out why I hate Warnings/Promises so much. It is not because it is a bad album, but I learned Idlewild backwards, going from the mellowish rock of The Remote Part to the hard angst rock of Hope Is Important, so I was wanting an album of what logically would follow my route and the fourth record was not this. It was the direct continuation of the mellowing of a band who used to rock, but who were growing up and changing their sound.

I tell you this because it was before I listened to Make Another World when I figured this out, and it was the key to understanding the direction this new album might take; even more mellow and folky. Also, I was more excited as I had recently gotten into folk music in a big way in its own right. Incredibly, Make Another World is a return to The Remote Part. The Idlewild I discovered is back, and it makes me smile like a tool.

From the first song, In Competition For The Worst Time I start grinning. This would sound perfect on one of the early albums, and the record moves from this startling opening into a slew of great songs, all of which have a little hook (the doo-doo-doo-doo in No Emotion is brilliant) and sound like a band waking up, and taking steps forward. Going forward does not mean to fall back; you can be loud and mature, this album is proof of that.

The stand out song Ghost In The Arcade is awesome, one of those songs that makes you really think back to simpler, must less important times of school, where music was the currency of the day, and every week a new band you found made you smile without worry of the consequences of your musical choices. I mean, back then I boasted had heard of Linkin Park, now I try to hide the fact that I still love that first album.

I think if I was finding Idlewild for the first time with this album I would be ecstatic, but I am not. I think I might be discovering them all over again.

Try: Ghost In The Arcade, No Emotion, Future Works.

The Tale of the 38th State

A bus. Look at its lovely blue background.

I start to worry when things that I take for granted start to fall apart like some sort of crumbling old building that I standing inside. Recently, my meticulous planning of transportation to get to certain places have been thrown into doubt, and sweat palms have been noted.

On Thursday night I got the bus back to the south for Scouts, and this was the first time I had been on a bus in a very long time. To Steven's annoyance my bus still came before his, so two finger to him I think. And approximately 4 or 5 came after I had left before he had got on his 47.

In fact, I think the last time I was on a bus was The Tale of the Jackson 38...

Anywho, it was all going well until we reach Azy's at the start of Orchard Drive. The driver pulled into the bus stop, and waited a while. I took the headphones out of my ear to see what was about to happen, and my was I surprised. The driver gets out of his cab, turns to the passengers and asks "Do I turn right here or go straight on?"

Skip this section if you live in Giffnock.

This might not be that big a problem, but to understand this you will need to know the intricacies of the 38 services circular route. When it gets to this point, the 38A turns right, and the 38 goes straight on. They pass each other going in opposite directions, and the 38 then come out where the 38A turned, and the 38A come from straight on. Crucially this means that I either walk 1 minute, or 10 minutes down the road.

Stop skipping you upper class bastards.


A few of the passengers say "Straight On" which is wrong! This is a 38A and I'll be damned if these bastards are going to get away with this! I shout out from my seat "If it's a38A it turns right" to which a few people at the front turn round and look at me as if I had just told them that I had killed their dog with my bare hands, which I did not! I used a spade.

Anyway, the driver said "Lets take a vote, who thinks this goes right?" My hand shot up. "Aye, more for going right. Cool, you'll need to give me hand later on too."

Glad to see that buses are a democracy.

On Saturday morning I went into town to get a train from Central to Bridgeton (pronounced Brigton according to Davey) for the Celtic game, and while standing on platform 14, i noticed there is a lot of people walking away from the platform. I read the TV screen.

SERVICES IN THE BRIDGETON (SORRY, BRIGTON) AREA ARE CANCELLED DUE TO AN EARLIER TRAIN FAILURE.

Train Failure? You mean it broke cause they are all shite? Surely not! Unbelievable...

I had to walk from Central to Parkhead, which is not that hard, but then I have to stand in the cold for five hours, you can colour me unimpressed...