The Post That Alienates 9 Out Of 10 Of My Followers

Geez, crivvens, help ma boab. Putting pictures in any sort of order that you may want on your blog post is enough to make a man cranky. By the time I was done adding the photos to that last post I decided to abandon any thought of writing an accompaning piece.

You see it's that time of the month that I turn into an inconsiderate, grumpy fuck. The last thing I need now is for life to throw curveballs at me now. I might not be bleeding in my genitailia area, or suffering cramps or bloating or many of the other symptoms that women go through on a monthly basis for 3 - 7 or maybe even 10 days or more but nonetheless I get especially cranky, uncaring and insensitive for a part of the month. Why? Because I'm a guy. I roll that way. And I'm man enough to admit it. When I get "You will never understand what it feels like!" thrown at me every month all sympathy for the plight of all those who are suffering the effects of periods goes out flying out the window.

I didn't get the chance to choose to be man or woman when I was conceived. To my knowledge there was no specialist sperm in the nutsack with a clipboard asking my spermself "If you are jammy enough to reach the egg do you want to be male or female, you better choose now or I will choose for you?" As far as I know that didn't happen. It was a 50/50 chance of being of being born male or female and I didn't have any say in the decision. I just got lucky. I hold my hands up and say I got lucky. And I'm glad I have no prospect of having to produce a kid out of a pee hole. But that is not a reason to hold a grudge. I will not know what it is like to suffer from the cramps or the headaches or the bloatedness or having to buy tampons but its no walk in the park for me either. I have to hear all about it.

I know I should be more considerate and caring and I probably should not write this post as if all men are like me because there are probably some really nice guys out there that know how to react the way that they should. In truth I don't know enough about the rest of the male population to write for them but I do know me. I'm Scottish, that makes me part Vulcan, I might not have the pointy ears but I am emotionally stunted. I don't deal with crying very well. In my experience Scottish men only cry themselves when their football team has just lost the league title on the last day of the season or when Scotland wins the Six Nations rugby Grand Slam (actually that one hasn't happened yet), in other words they'll cry over the things that don't really matter. Things that they can get over quickly. The rest of the time we act like men made of rock. You have as much chance of getting tears from us as you have of getting a blood donation from a pebble.

We might not be much, but at least we are predictable. We expect our womenfolk to be the same. When they are having a great weekend we enjoy it, we expect things to continue in that vein. We do not expect a conversation to end up with her in tears. When those tears suddenly explode out of a random conversation we see mountains in the far distance and want to run away towards them. When we are able to fight that inner urge to flee the scene at speed and ask what is wrong we are genuinely concerned, we want to know what it was that we said so we can first of all avoid that uncomfortable moment forever more and secondly, this is more in hope than expectation, have a chance of fixing it. The last thing we want to hear is "I don't want to talk about it!", because when we hear that those far away mountains creep closer and call our name. They get closer still when that is followed up with "I can't talk to you!"

Its then that I turn from a concerned husband who is trying to be caring and considerate to his wife into someone who is a selfish grumpy ogre because its then that I realise I have to go through this every month until I am close to 50, and then just as the periods end I will have to listen to effects of the hot flushes". Oh joy!

And noone ever warns us when we fall in love that this is going to happen. Sure the warning signs were there from our mothers, but we were young, we were boys, that was our mother we just thought it was because we were being naughty.

And so we meet a beautiful, intelligent, woman who likes us for who we are and she isn't psycho and so we fall in love. It's only later that we find out that she suffers from periods of emotional instability. I can bet that not too many girls write into their diaries 'Today was a really bad period. Suffered cramps, headaches, and conflicting emotions but on the upside I met a boy who told me I was the most beautiful being on this earth. He says he already knows he wants to marry me.'

Why? Because guys like a simple, predictable life. Most
of us probably fall for the love of our life during the rest of the month when we don't have to stand on eggshells. It ain't no walk in the park second guessing what to say or do all the time. It's hard work. It's what makes me grumpy, uncaring and insensitive every month and I don't care to dress it up. It's not my hormones, it's who I am.

Not only have I probably lost the majority of my blog's readership I will probably now have a wife a who is no longer talking to me - this is the price I am willing to pay to give you something new to read.

No End To My Wants

So I got my craving for Ceviche satisfied last weekend (much to the dismay the following morning of my better half) but this weekend I have a new desire.

It's Autumn. Which generally for me means one thing to look forward to. No not Christmas (that when I am this skint is too far away to think about just yet). Not Thanksgiving (although I am getting strangely excited for my first experience of it). No this is the time of year I look forward to the rugby season starting proper. For me the club game in Scotland hasn't lived up to its promise from the days when the amateur sport turned professional in the 90s. So for me the season really starts when the Autumn Internationals begin.

I've loved the game of rugby since I was fortunate enough to go to the right school that actually involved it in the sporting curriculum. I learned to play just before the game turned professional, when Scotland had some amazing talents in the international squad and when Bill McLaren still commentated for the BBC. Had I gone to that same school now, I might not have had the same interest in the sport I have today. For a start there is a shortage of talented players in Scotland now that would find a place in a World XV but since when has that stopped us Scots enjoying our sport? We seem to revel in the underdog role.

I think it is most likely the lack of a Bill McLaren type of commentator on the box that would mean I wouldn't have the same interest in the sport. Today's commentators seem to lack the enthusiasm and joy for the sport that the great man had. The commentators of today certainly don't lack passion for the sport but its somehow not manifested in the same way. The ex players that commentate today focus a lot more on the mistakes within the game rather than the good plays. The English commentators especially, seem biased in the opinions. Bill in contrast focused less on the mistakes, mentioning them but laughing them off perhaps with a quick memorable turn of phrase and was enthusiastic about good plays no matter the nationality the executioner of the play was. I suspect it was his enthusiasm for the game that meant I learnt to play and enjoy the game more than I would have from just the training field alone. It is his approach to commentating that allows someone who is new to the sport to enjoy it as an outsider looking in. A neutral not sure of the rules does not want to listen for 5 minutes of half time why a particular play was bad, if the play breaks down they can see it for themselves they want to be able to see the more enjoyable elements. Sport is serious but at the same time its there for us as entertainment.

Thanks to Bill, today I look forward to the Autumn internationals. I wish I could take my wife to the home of Scottish rugby, Murrayfield this weekend to watch Scotland take on Australia. Not because I expect Scotland to win, I don't we have beaten them since 1982, but I would love her to take in the atmosphere of the stadium as the national anthem is sung. I would love her to enjoy a great exciting game, one with hard tackles but unlike football (soccer) one with fair play and none of the dramatics of the over paid football players.

Had Bill McLaren not retired in 2002 and his voice could be heard around the stadium I suspect she might even be suitably distracted from the rain and the cold wind to enjoy the game that bit more. But that would for me maybe a good reason to stay here in Utah as I would be sure to hear from her at the end of the game "Why can't you talk like him? I'd love you forever if you talked like him."

Sadly though I can neither talk with his Hawick lilt or take my wife to the game at the weekend. Life is not fair sometimes.

I suppose we could go to the Fiddlers Elbow to enjoy the game but that will only be an option if the game is on late enough back home to take into the account for the time difference here for the place to be open. And its not the same as watching it in pub back home, full of Scots and Australians with an invested interest in the game.

When Sporting Idols Were Human

Today when Real Madrid can spend 80 million pounds on a Portuguese footballer and 56 million on another Brazilian and can afford to pay them weekly wages on top that most of us can't dream of in a lifetime of working its almost hard to imagine that sport didn't always have such superstars. In sport there has always been athletes that have excelled above the rest but not all got the lifestyle that today's top athletes can expect.


I was just reading the story behind a new song written by Blair Douglas, a founding member of Runrig, the song is about a man named Giovanni "Johnny" Moscardini, who though born in Scotland in 1897 who went on to have a successful football career in Italy during the 20s and 30s. He became the top scorer for his club Pisa, before playing for the Italian national team where he was capped 9 times only to give it all up to help run his Uncle's ice cream shop back in Scotland. Somehow I just don't see Ronaldo or Kaka doing likewise. They might well send a cheque back home to a relative that needed some help but I doubt they'd be willing to give up their priviliged lifestyle to physically help the family business.

Yet sporting history is littered with interesting stories. Around the same time when Giovanni was playing football for Italy a Scottish runner was refusing to run his best event at the 1924 Olympics, the 100 meters, because it clashed with his religious beliefs. The heats were to be run on a Sunday so Eric Liddell, a devout protestant, felt that with it being the day of the Sabbath he could not compete. Instead he decided to train for the 400 meters, another event he was good at but was only expected to come 3rd in. A lot of today's 100 meter sprinters will double up on the 200 meters but it takes a special athlete to be able to compete at both 100 and 400 meters such is the differences in the discipline of the two events.

As it turned out, he not only won the race but set a new world record.


After his athletics career was over he continued his Missionary work in China, staying on to carry his work in 1941 when the British government advice was to leave due to the war between China & Japan. The Japanese later overtook the mission station with its members interned at the Weifang Internment Camp. Liddell died of a brain tumour hastened by malnourishment and overwork in 1945, months before the Japanese surrended. An unfortunate end for a man that was so admired by his peers for not only his athletic ability but for the man he was.

Its not only the athletes of the distant past that have interesting life stories, more recent athletes have done so as well. Take the story of amateur Scottish cyclist Graham Obree. When his bike shop failed with the burden of bad debts he decided that the way out of his problems was to beat the World hour velodrome record which had stood for 9 years. Unlike his English rival, Chris Boardman, who had access to the help of the UK Olympic team for coaching and sponsorship as well as custom made carbon fibre superbikes thanks to the backing of Lotus, Graham had to not only design his own training regime but build his own bike from left over stock from his shop and parts from an old washing machine.

The bike he subsequently designed had an unusual riding position, which he later became famous for, because not only was it aerodynamic but also because it allowed him to put more pressure on the pedals allowing him to get up to speed without the need for standing up. On his first attempt at the record he failed but he had booked the track for 24 hours so decided to come back early next morning to try again. In order to prevent his body from seizing up while he slept, he made himself drink pint after pint of water so that he would have to wake up every two hours for toilet trips which allowed him to stretch his muscles. With so much punishment on his body it should have been a waste of time even going back on track. The day before he had been fresh and had failed the old record by a kilometer, but this time the effort was not in vain and he beat the record by over 400 meters.


At a time when most professional cyclists seemed to be ruining the sport by competing with the aid of illegal drugs the World governing cycling body (the UCI) seemed to be more concerned that the evolution of the bicycle was making it possible for a disproportionate improvement to track records. So they banned the unusual elbows tucked in riding position that Graham had used to set his record, which meant that this necessitated the need for a new bike to be designed and built if he was to continue racing after Chris Boardman broke it a week after he had set it.

His new bike had yet another unusual riding position, later to be named the Superman position because of the way his arms were outstretched in front of him as he rode. He used this new bike to win the World Championship pursuit.

Not bad for someone who had to get over bouts of depression, which at times in his life was so severe that he had tried to kill himself not once but twice. The first time as a child when he was only saved by the luck of his father getting off of work unusually early and once as an adult after his brother died of a car crash, this time being saved by a woman who was checking out a barn.

To me its unusual stories like that can make Sport so much more interesting than impressive skills and crazy income levels and the building of expensive superteams such as Real Madrid.