Being Middle Class is Class

Allow me to set the scene.  The sun is shining and I am sat in picturesque Inverleith Park in Edinburgh.  The model boat club members are tyring to avoid swans fed on organic, wholemeal bread, there are two games of cricket and a softball game being played, the catering van here is selling crepes, and people are actually 'picking up after themselves'.  Perhaps I've chose the wrong place to 'shoot up' - although it's the Greg's I'm eating that seems to be getting the more disparaging looks.

It's a lot nicer than the park I used to live next to.  There you would never see groups of people using cricket or baseball bats for their intended recreational purposes.

The differences between my current and previous EH residence is typical of the class divide you see all the time in Edinburgh.  Okay it might not be 'favela' to 'Fettes', but I've definately moved to the better side of the tram works.  It's only recently however I've been a victim of crime - turns out in Edinburgh you can't leave your football boots outside the front door to air.

I'm quite naive when it comes to stuff like this, being from the Highlands I'm not particularly security concious.  At casa del Downie we safeguard our belongings by hididng the back door key underneath the wheelie bin, making it marginally less convenient for any potential burglars - and leaving us dangerously exposed on collection day.  I remember a brief period of security paranoia when mum - obviously concerned about the foibles of our existing system - insisted we kept the key in a new camouflaged key holder.  Ordered from a catalogue it was disguised as a grey rock which looked inconspicuous amongst the red chipie stones at our back step.

She's a worrier my mum.  When we were in school my brother and I were instructed to sit in the middle of the bus, her reasoning being that if the bus was invololved in a head on collision the kids at the the front would be fucked, likewise if the bus was rear-ended it would be the kids at the back that would get it.  She didn't like it when I pointed out the middle of the bus was the furthest from the exits.  We talked about it and it was decided an aisle seat in the middle would provide the desired aisle access needed for a quick getaway, while also protecting from collisions from the front or behind - top decks were out of the question.  On a seating plan the optimal seats are as follows.

The fact I now live in the big smoke obviously doesn't help things.  To be honest I can't blame my mum for worrying.  When I first moved to Edinburgh my flat was situated in an area of such socio-economic depression it would be prime real-estate for Olympic or Commonwealth re-generation, plus, conveniently enough, it was located adjacent to a methadone clinic.  But despite the knife attacks, the car fires, and the prostitutes at the end of the road - who once asked me how my mum was, a case of mistaken identity, I hope - I was never concerned about living there, I was always confident that the wee 'jake baws' who ran about the place would rather rob houses where there was stuff actually worth stealing, i.e. none of the houses in close proximity.  Even crack-dens could provide better offerings than my granny's old TV set and a freeview box.  When two plain clothed detectives came to inquire about one of my neighbours, I was convinced they had come to bust me for not paying my TV licence.

The only time I was ever worried was when my American pals came to stay with me.  I made them aware of the dangers that the local young team posed, but they didn't seem particularly bothered.

In reality Edinburgh isn't all that intimidating the only gun fire we get here is to let us know its lunchtime - and I'm pretty sure they just do it to scare tourists.

Perhaps we do lead a sheltered life in this country.  I know my traumatic tales of personal torment such as the time I got my head stuck in a chair, or when i got locked in a potraloo, paled in comparison to my ex-girlfriend's anecdotes of being caught up in a bomb plot in Madrid, or a Columbian earthquake.  It may not have been an earthquake but my pals did a good job recreating one while I was locked in there, and I've never been involved in an explosion that I didn't create myself.  I remember we were in Madrid when she told me about the obviously harrowing, life affirming experience of witnessing an ETA bomb attack.  As usual in these situations I managed to say the wrong thing.

In school the highlight of our summer was an agricultural event called the Black Isle show.  It was never called off on account of a bomb scare but its eclectic mix of teuchters, minks, gypsies, and farmers meant that fireworks normally ensued, usually set to the soundtrack of a Robbie William's tribute act at the shows culmination dance.  The best thing about the Black Isle Show was that a few of the girls would usually have cousins with them who were on their holidays or they were there with friends from different schools.  It was a great opportunity for us to impress, usually by offering to pay the girls onto a ride - 'onto' not 'for ' - we would spend all the money we made from berry picking over the summer on buying tat and paying girls onto the attractions.

As the years progressed the vomit was less likely to induced by waltzers as it was by half a bottle of Grants - or a combination of the two at least.  I served a decent amount of my drinking apprentiship at the shows but aside from locking me in a toilet, my friends and I didn't cause all that much carnage.  There was one year when my pal got drunk and decided it would be a good idea to have a nap in the middle of the road which resulted in him getting, well, run-over.

So maybe we're not street wise in the Highlands but we don't need to be, we've only got one street, we're 'high street wise'.  And its not like bestiality is the only law being broken, last time I was home my pal was complaining of opportunist thieves in the neighbouhood.

That's the standard of thief we have in the Highlands, if that car was left in the seemingly safe surroundings of Trinity Edinburgh it would be in the same place as my football boots.  The only joy-ride a true Highlander is interested in are the ones at the Black Isle show.

As you climb life's social ladder you'll find yourself looking down less, probably because you no longer have to constantly scan the pavement for pitbull-mastif dogshit.  I'll admit it is nicer living in leafy Trinity with the cricket players and touch rugby tournaments than next to the methadone clinic.  But the more you have, the more you have to lose - I mean I have Sky now.  When I'm king of the castle I'll be happy to have the walls, and the gun to let me know when lunch is. 

Penguins, Ducks, and Sheep-Staggers

On my very first foray into the world of stand-up comedy, on the very first occasion I stood on a stage in front of paying customers, I told my very first joke, the first joke I had ever written - or written down at least - and it was about my hometown.

'You can take the man out of Dingwall, but you probably shouldn't'.

The next time someone asks you where you're from feel free to use this joke, just insert your town/village/caravan site - it works particularly well if you're from the isle of Man - and if people don't laugh just remember; a good one liner is much like an Andy Barrowman square ball in the 82nd minute of a Scottish Cup semi-final, it's all in the delivery.

My opening gambits usually revolve around my Highland hometown which tends to induce heckles about bestiality - fancy word for sheep shagging - which is ridiculous considering most folk in the Highlands are too religious to shag the sheep - not without marrying them first at least.  Aside from bestiality many individuals first association with Dingwall is to its football club, Ross County, or the 'Staggies' as they're affectionately known.  And on that fateful cherry popping evening in Glasgow one hearty County admirer stood up and shouted...

Which in a fervent Glaswegian accent sounded an awful lot like..

I was in Glasgow I'd prepared myself for a knife attack what I wasn't expecting was a heckle about Ross County. It turned out not to be an isolated incident either, since then I've had lots of audience members threaten to stab me.

In truth Ross County doesn't belong solely to Dingwall.  The club's stadium, Victoria Park, is the only in Britain where the capacity of the stadium is larger than the town's population.  Despite this the club is well supported with one of the highest average attendances in the Scottish first division.  Ross County is the most Northerly professional club in Britain, the club's demographic of fans covers a geographical area larger than Belgium drawing from towns and villages such as Alness, Invergordon, Tain, Dornoch and further flung outreaches such as Lewis, Wick, Thurso, and Orkney.  In a modern day Jacobite rebellion Victoria Park makes a fitting place for 'Bonnie Prince Adams' to raise his standard.

Despite our Northerly disposition please ensure the sat-nav takes you to Dingwall, not St Tropez, because apparently, according to Trovit property..

Dingwall, the county town of Ross and Cromarty, situated a mere 14 miles from the 'city' - pssssshhtttt - of Inverness, has the sunniest climate of the County enjoying a milder micro climate.

That's a bit like saying it's the 'coolest' town in Death Valley.  I've yet to witness the residents of Balintore or Gairloch rushing to Dingwall to 'warm up'.  Looking on the huddled home fans in Victoria Parks Jail End - named so because of the stands close proximity to the Sheriff Court, which comes in handy when hosting Raith Rovers fans - the scene resembles a colony of penguins on an Attenborough documentary rather than a Bounty advert.

Anyone who has ever been part of the jail end colony might agree that the often incomprehensible Dingwallian dialect resembles a Pingu sound-bite.  Some lucky naturists might even have been fortunate enough to catch a rare slipping, sliding, flapping, performance from Gary McSwegan - although to be fair he was more of a donkey than a penguin.  Now I may have stretched the penguin analogies a little far, but when it comes to comparisons with birded, beaked, buddies, there was one particular Highland derby when my uncle managed to take it to the next level.

Mo Johnston, Alfie Conn, Steven Pressley and Kenny Miller are a select group of players who have crossed a divide as old as football itself.  A division between two teams separated by intense rivalry and religion, locked in a never ending battle for domination of the Scottish game.  I'm talking of course about players who have played for both Celtic and Rangers.  Players who have made headlines when deciding to change allegiances.  In the Highlands Ross County and local rivals Inverness Caledonian Thistle swap players like cups of sugar, the divide between the two teams has been crossed more often than a Wayne Rooney spelling test, or a certain Polish ex-Celtic goalkeeper.  For the last few Highland derbies Calley has fielded a number of ex-County players making the opposition lineup pretty easy to recite..

And despite the fact so many of County's players have crossed the Kessock Bridge to play down the ferry - Barry Wilson, Stuart Golabeck, Don MacMillan, Roy McBain, Nicky Walker, Richard Hastings, Gary McSwegan, Graham Bayne, Steven Hislop, John Rankin, Lionel Djebi-Zadi, Don Cowie, Andy Barrowman - it doesn't make them any less popular if they return to Victoria Park in Calley colours.

During one particular Highland Derby Calley full back Roy McBain was singled out for particularly abusive treatment.  Every time he touched the ball my uncle would go through a bizarre ritual that involved flapping arms and snapping fingers.  He was dancing around the Jail end shouting..

Despite my previous association with the polar South, and despite the fact one of Dingwall's pre-game  drinking establishments is called the 'Mallard', this isn't how the Jail end chooses to express their dislike for a certain player.  My uncle had got himself a little mixed up, what we were actually singing was...

The hand gestures were a little different as well.

Ross County is a football club at the heart of its community, as was evident when the team made it to the final of the 2010 Scottish Cup, the exodus from the Highlands on that day was like a repeat of the clearances.  Personally I have been involved with the club since taking in my first ever game aged six years old.  I played in the boys club, I worked and coached with County during my university years - the club even hosted an 'under achievers' meeting I attended when I was at school.  Ross County has provided me with as many memories and moments as any mentally unstable family member dancing about the home end.

• There was the announcements my friends and I would get Stadium announcer Ally MacKintosh to read out at half time.

• There was the time my brother and I almost enticed a full scale riot after Calley fans started throwing bricks at our supporters bus thanks to our gestures out the back window.

• There was the time I got pelted in the testicles from a stray shot - probably McSwegan's - and had to hobble home at half time while the St John's ambulance people pointed and laughed at me.

• There was the time the police put my intoxicated pal on a bus back to Dingwall when he had actually travelled to the game from Edinburgh.

• There was the time one of the boys got knocked out after some over-zealous celebrations at the Challenge Cup final.

• There was the time when working for the club I managed to get lost giving primary school pupils a tour of the stadium.

• There was the time we broke onto the pitch and had a game in our kilts on my eighteenth birthday party.

• There was the time when coaching for County I travelled to Orkney only to realise I'd forgotten to take any footballs.

• There was the time we told some English guys we didn't accept English notes when selling programmes outside Victoria Park before an Under-18's Scotland versus England game

• There was the time we had our inflatable sheep confiscated at Easter Road.

I apologise to any reader who may have expected an informative blog on an interesting, if slightly obscure, Scottish football team.  You may have expected me to talk about my favourite players, - Billy Ferris, Karim Boukrra - my favourite moments, - run to the Scottish Cup final 2010, 5-1 Victory against Calley in 2003 - or some of the clubs successes - Scottish Cup Finalists 2010, Second Division Champions 2007/8, Challenge Cup Winners 2011, 2007, Third Division Champions 1998/99 - the clubs history, - formed in 1929 County played in the Highland league until being accepted into the Scottish Third Division in 1994 - or their attempts at developing the stadium, facilities and youth teams - Victoria Park is home to the 'Highland Football Academy' which boasts some of the finest training facilities in Scotland and has already produced talented young players such as Gary MacKay-Steven.

It's almost inconceivable to think that Ross County and Inverness could potentially both be in Scottish footballs top flight a little over 17 years after their introduction into the Scottish Football League.  We have something that's rare in Scottish football at the moment, a talented team, a forward thinking club and a set of supporters who appreciate their efforts.  Flying high at the top of the Scottish first division - 3 points clear with two games in hand as I write this - and still basking in the success of their incredible 2010 Scottish cup run, Ross County are a club - hopefully - on the up.

2012 is the year of the Stag.  Promotion is on the horizon.  Don't like it..??  Then I'm gonnae stab ye.  You heard me right.

Stand Up for Sit Down Drinking

Scotland is a country with amongst the highest rates of obesity, heroin use - I maintain that we must be the only country in the world with obese heroin addicts - and alcoholism in Europe.  Only Finland are able to compete, although they don't seem to be too concerned; in fact Finland came third in a recent poll investigating standards of living, which means they must do a pretty good job presenting the positive side to over eating, drinking, and shooting up.

We however are not so optimistic in Scotland.  The Scottish government have set out plans to fight our excessive drinking culture - which makes sense I suppose considering excessive drinking tends to result in fighting anyway - but they are missing the point, without a drinking culture in Scotland there would be no culture, drinking is our culture.

Consider our ancient traditions, heroes, and pastimes and you can't help but think our ancestors were pished when they conceived them.  'Tossing the Caber' for example is just the 15th century equivalent of stealing traffic cones.

The 'tossing of the caber' actually has it origins in bridge building.  The caber would be thrown across a burn - Scottish word for stream - or river with the objective to have it land as straight and flat as possible in order to create a simple bridge.  Which proves my point, only a drunk Scottish person would consider this a more appropriate method than just 'building a bridge'.

Capoeira is a Brazilian martial art which combines deadly strikes, kicks and punches with aesthetic dance and music.  Capoeira originated in Brazil in the 17th century and claims to be the first to blend dance and martial arts; look at Highland dancing however and you'd have to say that we were at it centuries before them.  My mum used to send me to highland dancing lessons - retribution for being born male - and the more I did Highland Dancing the more I realised it's just a series of hops and kicks designed to keep people away from you.  It doesn't take a genius to work out that kneeing and kicking at waist height could have been potentially disabling to our kilt wearing ancestors.  Perhaps it was a way for young Scottish woman to keep undesirables away from them.

Apparently the world's first recorded circumcision occurred just after Highland Dancers started dancing the 'Sword Dance'.

Consider for a second what life would be like without the ingenious inventions and revelations of drunk Scottish people.  If Alexander Fleming wasn't a lazy bastard who couldn't be arshed washing up a mouldy petri dish we'd have no penicillin, millions would die, and Alexander Graham Bell only invented the phone so he could call his ex-girlfriend at silly o'clock at night.

Drunk phone calls always end in self-loathing in the foetal position - just me..??  Thankfully for Alexander Graham Bell texting came sometime later.

Golf is another favourite Scottish pastime.   Devised in the links of Lothian and Fife as early as the 16th century, golf is a game so obviously invented by a Scotsman due to fact it is essentially a sport that revolves around a pub.

All great decisions by Scottish people have been made made when they were drunk.  Do you really think Robert the Bruce would have taken on a 22,000 strong army at Bannockburn if he was sober..??  There's a story from the first day of battle which sums up the whole encounter.  An English Knight spotted Bruce unarmoured, carrying only an axe, the Knight drew his lance and charged towards the Scottish King.  Bruce hit the Knight so hard he broke his axe and the heavily armoured Knight's head in the process.  Bruce expressed only regret at breaking his axe.  This episode sums up the Scottish psyche, a Scotsman thinks he can take on anyone when he's drunk.

That, and we're quite handy with an axe.

Scottish people only make poor decisions when they're sober.  Bonnie Prince Charlie's Jacobite army for example, conquered Edinburgh, defeated the heavily armed and outnumbered government army at Prestonpans, sacked Carlisle, and made for London making it as far as Derby.  Their unprecedented success was only usurped when they began to sober up and started on a disastrous retreat back to Scotland.

Telling Scottish people not to get drunk is like telling water not to be wet.  Whisky - aside from Susan Boyle - is after all our most famous export - and Susan Boyle is a clear and obvious illustration of how important alcohol is to the male population of West Lothian, how else are they supposed to make love to their woman..??

I've done a little travelling in my time and everywhere I have gone I've always encountered drunk people, our problem is that we're just a little more vocal than others.  When you are abroad and people find out you are Scottish they expect you to be drunk.  A few years ago a pal and I were staying in a hostel in Miami, we would sit out on the terrace most days at around four o'clock and have a few beers, the American boys thought this was pretty mental.

Our mates would probably have made fun of us for drinking Corona Light at four o'clock in the evening, horses for courses I suppose.

In my opinion there is a simple and obvious solution to the negative effects of our - and perhaps Finland's - drinking culture.  When you are on holiday there is an air of sophistication, an enjoyable ambiance centred around the option of getting drunk while sitting down.  The folk around you are drunk, you just don't notice them because they're sitting down.  Perhaps if there was more seating on, or around the streets of our fair nation our country's binging habits could be more easily reversed.

We've all been there, you have ended up lying in the gutter purely because there was nowhere suitable to sit - just me..??

So, I say raise a toast to our drinking culture, salute our excessive ancestors, and shoot down the drinking culture vultures.  Nicola Sturgeon take note, chill out, sit down and crack open a beer. 

Slange ava..!!

My Quarter Life Crisis

Apparently just before you are about to have a stroke you can smell burning toast - an urban myth most likely attributed to some unfortunate person who had a stroke while making their breakfast.  So, I start everyday convinced I am losing brain function thanks to the new toaster at work, on which we have yet to find the optimal toast temperature.

I've mentioned in this blog several occasions where I thought I was having a stroke.  So I'm not sure if the title of this entry necessarily negates my predicted life expectancy or if it is representative of my massive hypochondria.  Either way I think it reflects an inner dialogue I've been having for a while now, 'what should I do with my life?'

And apparently I'm not the only one, there are millions of other twenty something's fearing the reaper, frightened they are wasting their lives.  I read an article recently claiming people are having their mid-life crisis earlier.  Soon kids will be breaking down during circle time contemplating whether to get a 'fixed rate', 'variable' or 'tracker' mortgage when they leave primary school.  Not that I am thinking about mortgages - thanks to Wikipedia for mortgage types - no, no, no, my quarter life crisis runs more along the lines of 'do I want to be an International Film, or Rock star?'  At least with old age I am starting to become a little more realistic, I no longer believe I'm going to play for Scotland - just manage them.

So what should I do with my life?  I've had a few ideas.

1) Start a Business.

I like this idea because I would get to 'be my own boss'.  The biggest issue however would be that I would 'be my own boss'.  Aside from the fact my boss has no obvious talent, drive, or ambition, he is, on the whole, a bit of a wanker.  Also the only busines ideas I have tend to involve chip shops, tanning salons and public houses - all of which are pretty plentiful in the part of the world I inhabit.

2)  Devise an innovative, exciting product I could display on Dragons Den.

The only issue I can envisage with this is the fact I would need to find a business partner to work the Thunder Machine.

3)  Write a Children's Book.

I started writing a Children's Book, however my fondness for bad language and scenes of a violent and sexual nature mean it's now just, a 'book'.

4)  Pursue a career in comedy.

If I do decide to follow this line of work, and you see me in a years time, please remember it's just a pound I'm asking for.

My dream job when I was in primary school was to write songs for Bon Jovi - after listening to 'Thank You for Loving Me' I feel I may have grown out of the role.  My brother was always been a little more realistic, when he was young he wanted to be a minister, a PE teaching Minister who played football professionally.  He had the three professions at the top of the sex offenders list well covered.

I'm jealous of people who know exactly what they want from life, who have vision, ambition and drive from an early age.  Aside from penning power ballads for Bon Jovi I've never really know what I wanted to do.  I had a brief spell where I wanted to be a vet.  My mum told me that the fact that I ran away from wasps, and was scared of almost ever creature I encountered meant this career choice was unlikely to work out.  In hindsight I think it was an easier way for her to get me off the vet idea without having to just come out and say I wasn't clever enough.

It obviously isn't necessarily a 'crisis' to have thoughts of self-improvement, I just need to remind myself I'm the king of procrastination.  My dream is to do very little and get paid lots for doing it - so naturally I've applied to FIFA.  And like any good SNP manifesto, all these well-meaning ideas will ultimately result in a return to the comfortable status quo with a distinct lack of Independence.

I never used to be this bitter and pessimistic, there was a time when the glass was half full - although a glass can never actually be half empty, the 'empty' glass is comprised of 50% water and 50% air meaning it is never truly empty - I used to have lots of unique ideas when I was younger.

'You Won't Go Back Once You've Been Smacked'.  That was the tag line, I even devised an advertising campaign for my aftershave where attractive male models tried to score 'Smack' off their dealers.

This is actually the culmination of two ideas.  I've been thinking that perhaps lockets would be a more suitable flavour of condom considering they start off hard boiled then go all gooey after you've sooked them for a while. 

'Vigrin Condom's' makes sense, they do everything else.  I was on a train recently and was flicking through a Virgin Holiday brochure, I noticed in the brochure the Kids holiday club was called 'V-Kids Club' and I wondered why isn't it called 'Virgin Kids Club?'  But then I suppose that would attract a completely different type of traveller.

Why is it only Communists Dictators should enjoy such luxury..?  It's time see-through coffins hit the mainstream.

They probably already have these in Japan.  Finally you can enjoy urinating in the shower guilt free.  I'm currently working on a version for girls.

The entrepreneurial spirit was knocked out of me for good during an unfortunate incident involving a chip shop in secondary school.  I have been victim of a number of injustices in my time - I was told I couldn't play the bagpipes in primary school purely because there wasn't enough of them, the music teacher then proceeded to throw a chair at me when I complained, true story - but this particular incident has left me as emotionally scarred as actually eating from the chip shop in question would.

A new chippy opening comprises a fairly significant event in Dingwall, so in an attempt to ensure the students of Dingwall Academy were aware of the opening of the new culinary centre of their universe students were challenged to come up with a name for the new chip shop.  Whoever could come up with the best name would win £100 in vouchers, get the first fish supper served in the shop for free, and get their name and photo in the paper.  Not bad.  Since my 1999 'Shinty Player of the Year' accolade - an award kept within my family from 1996 to 2000, the only blip being 1997, the year my brother was eligible to win -I had experienced a bit of dry run on the success front.  I put my creative brain cells to good work and came up with a name I thought was pretty snappy and original with a good chance of winning.

Now I'm not suggesting I should have won the competition - I should have won the competition - but being forced to watch my best mate being paraded at assemblies and buying a new golf bag with his winnings was tough take, considering his pathetic effort.

'Mr Fish'



Mr Fish is a bigger injustice than O'Bamma winning the Nobel peace prize for 'writing a book'.  I'd have happily buried my pal in a see-through coffin after Fishgate.

I'll admit that see-through coffins are unlikely to be snapped up by the mourning masses, and Duncan Banatyne is probably not interested in investing in Shower Urinals or 'Smack' Aftershave - I've yet to hear back from Richard Branson regarding the Virgin Condoms.  Still, it all seems more likely than actually landing a full-time, permanent position in this current economic climate.  So maybe I will end up being an International Superstar.....I think I can smell toast burning.