The chronicles of Ruin, continued.
Call me Ishmael said....intelligence is knowing what to do when you don't know what to do.
Anonymous said... When I don't know what to do,I come here.
10 September 2009 22:59
Is he lord of all he surveys? Nice eye for kitsch.
Monarch of the Glen, Lord of the Isles, Chieftain of Chieftains, is Buster of that ilk,seen here on his procession to England
Lots of lovely trees around for Buster to choose from.
My goodness, that word killiecrankie. In the late sixties, early seventies, my father used to drive the family up to Inverness for our summer holidays. The road then was very twisty and it was hard to overtake other vehicles. From memory, the scenery at Killiecrankie was then not as pleasant as your photos, Mr. Ishmael, seem to suggest - I think it was more barren. On the other hand, do children ever care what the scenery looks like? Nowadays, they have in-car entertainment...
It is wonderful, the noo, mr caractacus, lush and densely forested; one of the nicest places in England.
Beautiful. "In the woods we return to reason and faith ... all mean egotism vanishes" - Emerson.
Gert lush, Mr Smith. What is the tree with the red bits?
"killiecrankie"I always used to think it was an invocation to bring about the demise of that singularly untalented couple who seem to forever populate kids TV programmes a few years ago.One was a man (reputedly) and the other was a little fat tart with a face that looked as thought it had been steeped in porridge and then hit with the flat of a frying pan.
Mr T' old 'un,Are you not confusing them with the Alexanders?
As a child I used to think there was someting wrong with me for being uneasy, to put it fucking mildly, about the Crankies and their grown-up equivalent, Andy fucking Stewart and the White Heather Club. Now that BBC Jock attempts to portray some of the splendour of devolved Jock culture I realise that I was right all along - a freakshow of angry, ginger misfits some of them whining in Gaaelic. With the esception of His Plebian Grace, Rab C Nesbitt, there is not one engaging Scottish comic creation just a miasma of grotesque, jumped-up, smirking in-jokers. Were there to be international exposure of Jock TV then smart successful Scotland would be a laughung stock, for all the wrong reasons, rather like it's most famous, most gross, tragedian, Mr Gordon Snot, buttonholing Power in the kitchens of the Mighty, stuttering, gibbering his megalomania, the man wi' all the Sol-you-shuns.-------------------The tree, Lilith, bedecked in red, is the Rowan.
Ah, yes, I thought it must be after I had commented. What a wonderful tree the Rowan is. In the slight blur I wondered if it was a Chilean Flame tree but then realised you are Eastwards and that it is September. :-) Happy travelling and may your stops in English service stations be brief.
Thanks Lilith, I would happily exchange and English service station with overpirced confectionery, surly staff and no facilities for this Holiday Inn, peopled through the night with insomniac drunks, prostitutes, over-smiley Polish staff and this morning eight skiving uniformed police officers, in for an hour's worth of feet-up on the furniture and free coffee, it has been just two the past few six a.m.s but last night being Saturday the thin blue line standing between us and decency must have been overstretched and in need of a good rest before finishing their shift. I went and sat beside them scowlingly and I suppose I was lucky not to be arrested and fall down the stairs for having disturbed their sneering, bullying peace. MAgnificent professionalism of our emergency services doing a great job of protecting themselves.
Has Buster spotted one of the staff slacking off? He doesn't look happy, shirkers everywhere - simply not on. Best part of England to be sure, to be sure.
What were they thinking of Mr Ishmael? The plods should have been arresting each other for looking after each other's children...
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