Mountains, churches, pubs

Dear Reader,

It took a while since my last post, I mean the real one, not that service announcement.

I could claim too much work, and that would be true. But mostly, I needed to recover. Because this time someone made me climb mountains. Yes, I am talking plural here. As in two. And we are talking serious mountains, >9,000 feet above sea level.

Usually while traveling I follow three strict rules:

  1. mountains from the bottom
  2. churches from the outside
  3. pubs from the inside

This time I broke two of those rules, and that required some serious resting afterwards. At 9,000 feet above sea level cigarettes are just not the same. And while climbing uphill, I sounded almost like one of Glynsky’s steam engines. You guessed correctly, this isn’t for me.

I knew that before, and for the next 20 years I will stick to above mentioned rules again. But someone wanted to convince me, that mountaineering is fun.

So, is it?

Well, you climb up a mountain, which requires paying a lot of attention, where you set your foot. Thus, you have neither time nor eyes to look around. All you see is rock, or rocks. And when you take a break, or reach the summit, what do you see?

More Mountains, more rocks. How exiting is that?

Next annoyance, you have to shlep all the stuff you need or want with you. So, no surprise when looking at the menu. And extra work. Since mountain climbing is somewhat dangerous, alcohol is out of the question. Again, where is the fun in that? And then you have to climb down again.

But like with all other activities, the most important issue are the people. Looking at the people participating in any activity always tells you all you need to know. And this is where mountain climbing is like jogging: nobody is having fun. Or at least they are all hiding it brilliantly from their faces. No smiling, no laughter. They all have the same strained, stressed, worried look on their faces.

Why that should be fun, beats me. But if you enjoy it, keep going. It means less people where I like to be, in cities and on sea.

With a cigarette and a drink,

Engine Room

Soccer is coming home

Dear Reader,

As you know, I could not care less about this World Cup thing going on right now. And clearly, I like the protagonists of diablog too much, to comment on the ‘success’ of their team. Pardon my coughing.

Luckily, someone else did that for me:


I hope, that is settled then?!

Stay tuned.

Engine Room

PS: This post is in the category Sport. As it is not about Football, obviously.

scotland the grave…

Dear diablog,

Sometimes life plays you a bum hand – a free trip on the Titanic, a course in Turkish mining, hair like Arthur Scargill, a sense of smell when a dung beetle – or being born a Scot.

My views on the upcoming ‘Yes we want to be an insignificance/No, we don’t want to stop leeching off the rest of the UK’ vote are already well known. Heightened now by an excited email from a Scottish friend telling me that though he lived in France (see what I’d said about leaving the place!) and couldn’t vote, a German friend of his living in Glasgow (who, bizarrely can vote) had offered to vote ‘on his behalf’.

So there you go, they are skanks as well and appear to be pleased to adopt voting procedures common in Zimbabwe and Bosnia. Niiiice.

But then, from time to time, things perk up and you realise you weren’t born a Scot and you have just been royally entertained by someone – and that, even better, Glynsky and Pete may be on the verge of recruiting a new ‘part timer’ on a ‘Zero hours’ pay scale!

Apparently, wanting to be known in the future as Erasmus,


(for reasons only he knows) said geezer’s views are not only at worst parallel to mine, they on occasion go into orbit leaving me as mere cinders spilt on the carpet.

As an intro, here are some of his thoughts on ‘Scottish and Irish Questions’ :

The origin of all the problems was William lll of England who was a Dutch orange and kicked the shit out of James ll (or Vl if you are a Scot) banishing him to the ignominy he deserved as a) a Scot and b) a habitual paddler in deer blood. For the purposes of this story, a plonker.

As a confirmed protestant (not a good idea being a catholic in England at that time) he then looked around for those best suited to the next kicking and chose the Micks. This was a bit sad really as most of them are quite nice and friendly despite having been chosen later and for the same reason by Cromwell.

He needed a few more people to assist in this intention – and at the lowest possible cost (being Dutch). So he set about recruiting a large number of Scottish Presbyterian Neo Nazis doling out promises of packets of land with slave income to recompense them for the ‘liberation’ efforts they exercised over the north of Ireland.

Their willingness to assist was fuelled by the in bred desire of all Scots to escape their depressing and crap climate which had been forced on them by being caged in by the sun worshipping Romans who recognised the bipolar Picts for what they really were (bi and near the pole) and, as the NHS should do now, pinned them behind a wall to keep them from scaring the shit out of kids.

In later years the English, of course, were much cleverer and sold the world the notion of ‘The British Empire’ which was not in fact British but ‘Scottish’ as their pathological and lemming like desire to leave was exploited by those bright southerners to get someone (anyone!!) to go to stinking hot climates, meet people who they could regularly bomb or beat up (the continuing Scot desire for self aggrandisement) and to steal local stuff (which they had done for centuries to the Irish) and send it back to England for those who could appreciate it.

There is but one way to dispose of the problem – in keeping with the great American tradition of a 3 Point Plan.
• Charter P+O to supply sufficient ex Korean ferry boats to relocate all of Scot parentage back into the land of their fathers.
• Get the Queen Victoria to accompany any of Irish parentage from Glasgow back to Ireland.
• Relocate Celtic (and probably Liverpool) Football Club to Belfast.

So there you have it, History like she should be taught, ideas for a new series of reality TV shows, shades of Simon Sharma and, I hope, a possible future contributor to G+P.

Yours, diablog, toasting oranges

pete is like a fish out of water…

Dear diablog,

Engine Room, earlier this week, submitted us to his continuing (continuous?) – and inaccurate –  ravings on ‘delicious’ apparently American based food. Much he knows.

The real deal is never far from where you live, and how much fresher could a 15″ (oh Ok Smiles, 375mm) trout be than this


when caught right outside Pete’s back door – by two young boys with £11.99 rods no less!

Surveying the view of the first catch whilst it was on its way to being landed


amazingly lead, in the blink of an eye, to….


Continue reading “pete is like a fish out of water…”

Morning Is Broken

Some of us are what is known as Morning People and some of us are like me, mainly miserable sods until around 11am when the caffeine finally kicks.

I have serious admiration, or is it intense dislike, of those that rise with the Lark, bound out of bed and whistle their way down to breakfast whilst chatting away sociably to any poor sod that comes into view.

I have given up trying influence my current wife many years back, and like lots of men live in fear of the hard stare that only a woman can produce.

Continue reading “Morning Is Broken”

keep it up…

Dear diablog,

Glynsky is away for a couple of days with Engine Room – will he (me that is) survive?

This post is, therefore, placed here by the Smiles’ hated ‘pre booking’ system as the plane leaves well early.

Sorry, diablog, that you are for today on auto.

After all the food and drink consumed over the summer it is time to regain some semblance of fitness – and probably balance.

I delved, with the help of Philippaphillipa-real

into the various options available – bearing in mind that there was an open window on my computer screen titled ‘Pete and bollox’! – and came up with a film of Mrs. Smiles preparing for a shopping outing.

No wonder the poor chap gets so tired. She has him by the …s.

Yours, diablog, juggling the books


Just put me on a boat

Dear Reader,

The diablog boat trip was wonderful. Thanks to Pete, Smiles, Mrs. Glysnkette and Mrs. Pete!
Glynsky, like always, failed. No brunette, blond, or redhead for me. Glynsky did not drown and even stopped each and every prank.

But all that could not darken the day.
Sunshine, wind and a boat. That is pretty much paradise for me. OK, Pete still has to learn, that there is no need for a motor, wind is free of charge. But he saved me from spending the day down in the engine room.
No cell phones ringing, no radio, no TV. No traffic lights, no screaming, yelling or any other troubles.

And then Pete plays the most wonderful piece of music ever written here. What more could one ask for?

Since we already had “Sailing” by Christopher Cross on diablog, here is the other “Sailing” song, by Rod Stewart:

which matches my current state of mind. Yes, that is home in the background.

Sailing home,
Engine Room