Naked Blog

AND THE HEAT GOES ON

Isn't this weather absolutely gorgeous? It's rare that summer starts so spectacularly, for everyone, on exactly the same day. Which was Monday of this week, and of course the May Bank Holiday.

"But we had a smashing May!" you can almost hear the cries, from the wet and cloudy future which is sure to come, this being Scotland not Spain.

But that is then, and this is now. Enjoy. You have my full permission.

GRUPPENFUHRER RULES OK

Being a group leader has its perks. You get taken to beauty spots, with petrol paid by the club, there to suss out a pretty walk and afterwards driven right back home. I could take a lot of punishment like that. Methinks the investment in GPS and Memory Map was money well spent!



Purists are snooty at GPS. They feel map and compass should be all that's required. That you navigate from feature to feature, completely ignoring the assistance in the sky kindly provided by my US readers. And now I learn that still purer purists don't even like compasses. They feel you should manage with map and terrain alone. Sense the lie of the land. Doubtless the purest purists of all would eschew even maps, and by reverting to the cave days simply guess and hope for the best. Trial and error.



That's fine if you live all your life within ten square miles, like people used to. Community. But being dropped off at Lochgoilhead and asked to make a pretty walk across the Argyll Forest Park to Loch Long, in hopefully a single figure number of hours, requires all that technology can offer. Methinks.

My Garmin GPS has opened a whole world for me. It is as simple and as truthful as that. (But still you take your compass, just in case. They don't need batteries and never break down.)



So yesterday was fabulous, alone in the sun and the forest with my feelings and thoughts. How blessed I am. And how I wished you were there alongside to share my joy.

GUILTY AS CHARGED

Yes, it's back to the Sheriff Court in an hour or so, to reprise the story below, give or take a detail. Will I get selected (balloted) this time? Watch this space to find out. Now that this week's walking duties are completed, a nice case could be quite interesting. Nothing sordid or unpleasant though. Give me a victimless crime.

Lots of pics from yesterday, but they're on the phone camera, and I've not yet mastered how to get them to you without the email feature, which continues to be farked. But there must be a way. There always is.

Later

And now I have mastered it.

A tree in springtime.

PISTOL PETE WILL HANG 'EM HIGH

On yesterday's attendance at Edinburgh Sheriff Court for jury duty.

I arrived at the Court with only minutes to spare, having forced down a Cheddar Cheese Salad baguette from the Co-op. (Well - jury lunch wasn't until 1pm and I didn't want low blood sugar clouding my vital judgement.)

Find a seat, said the cop just inside the door.

Panic. Row after row of people, with no empty seats. Rather I saw a judge-looking man right at the front of the court with grey wig, and various other minions in black gowns. Oh boy I must be late!

There, the cop pointed, unsmiling. And there was next to some young man you'd hesitate to sit beside even on a bus. Slouched right down in the seat, be-jeaned legs wide apart (no smart clothing here), intruding on to my part of the seating. Horrible. I really hoped he wouldn't get picked.

IN THE DOCK

Another cop rose from a basement in front of us, handcuffed to the accused. (I presume.) They sat in what I imagined was the dock. The dock! A blond legal chick with open necked sweat-shirt under her black gown started talking to the judge. Sheriff, I should say from now on. This was a Sheriff Court. She called him Your Honour. She said the accused was sorry for what he'd done, and had been on a college course in film production. He'd already spent several months in jail, and it upset him, as he was more educated than the prisoners.

"Speak up m'dear!" I felt like shouting. "And wtf's he supposed to have done?" I could find no easy way of judging this case. Around me were one hundred potential jurors. You could hear a pin drop. You could even hear the schemietwat next to me using his MOBILE PHONE! There he sat, legs apart, going text, text, text. I tried to catch the policeman's eye, but he blanked me. Seemed I was sitting next to a felon rather than a potential juror.

Counsel kept bleating on. Accused was up for assault on his partner, I had ascertained, even despite my continuing unease at the young man beside me. Text, text, text he bashed on, making no attempt to hide his Nokia. Outrage.

Long story short: the Sheriff sentenced the dude to twelve months, and he left, looking distinctly unhappy. On the point of tears, to be honest. And then it sank in. This was not my case. This was not the jury. At that stage we were simply sitting in the public gallery while ordinary court business happened. And that's why I can report these proceedings. Public. Gallery. Not juror. Yet.

---

Another hapless young man came and went, and then on to the main business. Me.

The Clerk Of The Court came over and gave a spiel. He called the register. We all had a slip of paper. People present went in to a ballot jar, and those absent were put to one side. To be tried and fined in the near future, I would hope. No public duty, if you ask me.

All rise, and the Sheriff returned. The accused (my accused) was brought in by a different cop. Didn't notice if he was cuffed or not. Too busy watching his face. "Are you (let's call him Andy) Andy?" the Sheriff demanded.

Andy agreed.

The Clerk Of The Court then read out Andy's charges.

Here I'm stuck, blogwise, and here I have to say that I wasn't eventually balloted for this case, so am technically free - as a person in the public gallery - to report what happened. Technically. I think. But I might be wrong, in which case the consequences could be catastrophic.

It was to do with the charge of supplying drugs. No victim was to be seen. Generally having a good time then, you might say.

Clerk started pulling fifteen names out of the hat. "Number sixty-nine, John Smith..." Full names. Andy the accused watched them with interest as they filed into the jury seats one by one. Me I sat trembling with excitement. And then the fifteen were complete.

DEAL OR NO DEAL

The Sheriff leant forward and spoke to them. "Do any of you know any reason why you can't try this case?"

Dude raised his hand. "I think I know the accused."

"THINK you know?" echoed the Sheriff, with just a hint of sarcasm. "You are excused from this jury. Please speak to the official outside."

Andy the accused was watching all this and smiling effusively. Then they picked a replacement for the excusee and it was a young girl sitting right in front of me. Lots of make-up, bright red lipstick, nose-piercings and forties curly hair. Brunette.

Brunette was over the moon! Waltzed down the aisle beaming, and the accused beamed right on back at her. His counsel came over then and spoke in his accused earhole. "Stop grinning at the jurors," I could swear were his words, although of course I couldn't hear.

Then the Sheriff spoke over the court to me and the others not picked. "Thank you for attending. You can all leave now, but phone on Wednesday (that's now today) after five for more instructions."

Now - Thursday's court, if indeed there is one, will be drawn from fewer people, so there's a higher chance moi will get picked. But sadly I've important plans tomorrow, to reconnoitre another walk for the group in the Loch Lomond National Park. Getting a lift, starting a six am. Will be infinitely harder if I have to cancel to try some other dude or dudette.

Mixed feelings.

Ta to Chav Gav for today's title.

Another strange spike, this time almost 1.8k on Monday, trailed over 1k on Sunday. Just like the olden days. Take a look and tell me wtf.

...AND THE LAW WON

Yes, that's right. I've passed (if that is the correct verb) the first stage of the jury selection process, the pre-recorded phone message. Jurors 1 to 100 (moi)have to attend court at eleven this morning, whereas jurors 101 to 200 need not.

It's so exciting! Surely I can discuss the personalities here, if not the actual case? Surely. Even the election of the jury spokesman would fill several blog pages if I had half a chance. You get lunch from 1 to 2, but you're not allowed to leave the building. You have to dress comfortably but smartly to reflect the seriousness of what you're doing. If you're threatened by look or by gesture then you have to report that immediately. There will be several police officers (cops) in the court.

And what if I fall in love with the accused? It's not impossible. Just as for that much greater gay writer Jean Genet, handsome criminals do have their appeal. Leith's full of them. It's a legal minefield. Mebbe I'll take my glasses - study the accused more clearly. We don't have much money but...

WOTTA SCORCHA!!!

Oh yes. High pressure all over the damn place has released the hot and angry May sun from its wintry pallor. Yesterday was the Pentland double roller coaster, and thank gawd I remembered a hat! Even so, my face, neck and the ninety minutes of head exposure have got me looking like a broiled chicken! Be so handsome when it goes brown though.

Just a fortnight ago I was walking through snow flecks on that same walk.

Walking in the heat! Oh dear. Must wear cotton from now on. Cotton quickly soaks with sweat and cools you down. Technical dry clothing, which is what I had on, has no cooling function at all. Wear it for long, and you'd completely desiccate I truly swear. Fortunately I'd a litre of water and half litre of coffee.

People everywhere on the hills. Like Princes Street. Fun having lunch on the top of West Kip and watching macho fat guys passing out on their way up to me. "You done good," I would say. "It's a hard pull up that face. A hard pull."

Haha. You don't need to teach an old dog new tricks.

Missed the Flotterstone, as it was a bank holiday and I knew it'd be heaving. Instead I got chatting to a nice young couple (mixed) at the bus stop. They were new to Edinburgh, they said. It was wonderful to have all of this so close to a city, they went on. I had to agree of course, glossing over the fact I didn't discover it myself till age 59.

Better late than never, and other assorted cliches. I gave them a short course on Scotland's outdoors. They were particularly interested in islands and midges. I mentioned Mull, Skye and Avon Skin So Soft, which is the repellent of choice.

EMAIL ME

My vodafone email is still farked. Four calls to their help centre, which I now realise is useless. They're just like: well it works on the website. Of course it works on the damn website - I want it to work on my PHONE. PCs I've been happily emailing from since nineteen canteen. It's phone I want. Phone. So I can blog pretty pictures for you.

Anyways - I stumbled upon a Welcome email from the System Administrator, from way back in February. (Seems like a lifetime.) I will write to him/her and get proper advice.

GOOD DAY SUNSHINE

Now youse all have a fabulous Ruby Tuesday. Take the day off. Life's too short to be cooped up in front of a computer all day. Or in a courtroom staring at the sexy accused.

Well - I told you the weather was hot |:)

NEXT TO GODLINESS

Since I stopped drinking on Wednesday, I find much more time on my hands. Already I've cleaned one of the shower walls, and just this minute felt suddenly impelled to clean the toilet.

Houses suck. I hate them. Be happy in a cubicle.

You do nothing especially dirty, and yet dirty is what your house doth get.

This morning on the Gadget Show (Channel 5) they were testing robot floor cleaners. Household. Now that's my kind of gadget! And I can't imagine what Darling Zoe would make of one. Kitty ecstasy. But of course, Zoe is really a woman trapped in a cat's body, and women like cleaning. It's genetic.

This all came about because some time back I spotted a Mr Muscle thing called Shower Bright - No Need To Scrub Ever Again.

Well.

I bought the largest bottle, immediately. And only when I got home spied the horrible instruction, "Start With A Clean Shower". Fuck's sake! If I had a clean shower to start with, I wouldn't be spending good beer money on their violet-smelling gunk, now would I?

We shall see how things progress. But as I say, it's so disheartening. I've lived in this house thirty five years, and in those I must have cleaned the shower at least half a dozen times. Yet always - always - after six months or so the tiles are black and mossy again. Not fair. Not.

NO-ONE CAN HEAR YOU SCREAM

But toilets and showers are not the only items. Oh no.

In cyberspace things get dirty too. So I pay good beer money to McAfee to keep the nasties at bay, and top that up with Ad-Aware and Spybot - Search and Destroy. (Love that name! So Schwarzenegger! So Van Damme! And whatever happened to the gorgeous Dolph?)

Ad-Aware SE was straight to the point when I clicked on it.

"Your definitions have not been updated for 193 days. Update now?"

Well, yes, of course. Mais oui. But they wouldn't. Update. Ad-Aware SE is as finished as the Twist, it would appear. But you can get Ad-Aware 2007 Free, which is, as the name suggests, free. I'd take it like a shot, but not sure whether you have to uninstall the SE first.

There was an almost identical situation with Spybot, where version 1.4 is also over. Good news here is that as you switch the application off, there's a panel inviting you to update to Ver 1.5.2. Which is free, and now with added RootAlyzer. And which catches stuff even as it arrives, which the other blighter didn't.

Already caught one monster when I went on to some phone site to find the cost of 0870 calls. They're 10p a minute, as it turns out, and I'd been on one to Vodafone for half an hour.

Thieving bastards!

BLOG THE MOMENT

This is because my Vodafone email has gone wonky on me, and I need it for moblogging - those pics of Sam and me and the dildos, for instance were on your screen only moments after being captured. Photos (I REFUSE to say "images") and stories, hot off the press.

But now Donald Ducked.

They're phoning me back within 24 hours.

And 24 hours from right now I'll know whether or not to attend the Sheriff Court for sentencing jury service on Tuesday.

"Guilty as Charged! Off with his head!"

I've got a little scab on the inside rim of my nose which I can't help picking. Bound to be cancer.

Please note the links above are to pages offering free downloads. Only in the rarest of circumstances would we give linkage to wholly commercial sites such as McAfee, Vodafone and Mr Muscle.

JUST TIME FOR A QUICKIE

Seems Labour have done badly in some elections yesterday. There's no surprise. Me I know SFA about politics, but lots about people, and I'm betting Tony Blair is sitting in the Bahamas or some such place laughing his socks off. Socks off. Mingling with the Tories he always was himself, really.

In politics, showbiz is everything. It is the start and it is the finish, not overlooking anything in between. Television has reduced us to a nation of sleb-hunting voyeurs, unable to focus on anything deeper than the skin. Say the word "actor" to almost any woman or gay man and they will respond with either Brad Pitt or George Clooney.

And in 1997 Tony was the nearest thing we'd seen to a Pitt or a Clooney. And sadly but inevitably, Gordon Brown's pin-up days are long behind him, never to return. And the one thing he did seem to have, economic competence, now seems to have vanished faster than a bout of SAD in the springtime.

Shame, as I think he's a good man.

Beyond our Ken - London Mayoral Election

Outside of London people think of that place mostly in terms of the forthcoming Olympics. Which they will pay for, whilst Lord Coe and the IOC take the glory. Local blogger Alan Sharp, the one who kindly invited me to Mount Everest, wins POTW for his Olympic post here.

Zoe Williams in a recent Guardian tears mayoral candidate Boris Johnson to bits. And then gets mightily savaged herself in the comments. Internet newspapers? Things have come a long way.

Synchronicity

Yesterday I at last got round to plugging the new Nokia mobile device (phone) into Brad the PC. You get a CD with Nokia PC Suite on it. With that you can synchronise contacts and music. But the last thing I want on my Nokia is the email of every single person Brad has auto-saved over the two years. There are email people and there are phone people. Rarely the twain do meet. And me I never email or phone people anyway.

So I managed to avert this synchronous mess by ticking "One way Sync", an oxymoron if ever I heard of it. Now my phone directory is duplicated on Brad. Brill.

Then you can synchronise your music. On Brad the PC there's almost none, as I've no real wish to listen to decent music through my crappy PC speakers. But I got the hang of it in the end. There's a thing called Nokia Music Manager which shunts it from the PC onto the phone fairly easily.

I chose "optimise music for mobile device", which more or less reduces the songs to voice and drum track. The sort of thing you hear out of schemie earplugs on buses. I'll redo it NOT optimised that way. Quality. Class act.

Funeral Rites

Didn't make it to Jackie's funeral yesterday, as Babs my regular funeral partner has broken her foot and was in hospital. Plus I hardly knew the guy, as mentioned.

Do you ever wonder how many will come to your send-off?

OLD SOLDIERS NEVER DIE

State funeral out of the Port o Leith Bar today.

Old Jackie, a "guy at the end of the bar" character.

Every bar has one - or more. Or else it's not a place I wish to be.

I don't know Jackie's second name. Even on the Port noticeboard it just said "Jackie Sodjer".

Let me explain. Jackie greeted just about everyone with the expression: "Howzitgaunsodjer?" ("How's it going, soldier?") So that is how he came to be known. He was so good at expressions they even made him into a jingle on Leith FM.

Maybe he'll be doing jingles in Heaven.

I'm sure Jackie had one hundred stories to tell, but now we'll never hear them.

Rest well, Jackie. I never really knew you.

THE BECKHAMS OF GRIEF

...was how someone once described the McCanns. Who were on BBC Breakfast this morning, after the screening of their ITV documentary last night. More here.

Why oh why do I watch them and still think, "liars"? Why do I do that? I'm not a nasty person. (If I thought there was the slightest chance they would actually see this then I wouldn't write it. Unlike the Daily Express.) But what is it about them which is so suspicious?

THE FAMILY WAY

Those Austrian children fathered by their grandfather were described on BBC Breakfast this morning as being "relatively well". Ouch!

So I quickly texted my opinion of this fox's paw, and it was corrected by the next bulletin. Well done, Aunty Beeb. For money I would work for you more regularly. There aren't many of us left who still understand the English language.

MORE SAMSHAW REDEMPTION

Sam and me relaxing in George Street. Then we went to Harvey Nicks for some window shopping.

An SAS-looking guy opened the door for us - he had a radio earpiece. "This is serious shit, hon," I said to Sam. "They'll be watching us on every camera." (It would be clear from our clothes and demeanour how near to penniless we were.)

Menswear on the first floor. (For my transatlantic readers that means one up.)

Shoes... blue leather shoes for 750 pounds. The most expensive shoes I've ever seen. "Would you buy those shoes - even if you were rich?" Sam asked. "Like a shot, hon," I replied. "Like a shot. I'd buy every damn thing that caught my eye."

Soon a young brown-skinned salesguy turned up. (His skin IS apposite to my tale.) "You're of Indian descent," I said to him. "How do you feel having one of your holy words used to sell fashion?" I turned, pointed. The section was called MAHARISHI.

"Oh, I'm not religious," he replied. "But anyway - we've also got JESUS ELVIS." (Or maybe ELVIS JESUS, I forget.) He swept the two of us along, past PRADA and PAUL SMITH, right up to JESUS ELVIS. (Or vice versa.) "You even get a free Jesus cross and chain," he said. Sam was mightily impressed, I could tell - but I sensed more by the young man than the fashions.

POST PRANDIAL

"Let's go to the Newtown Bar, hen," Sam declared, after Harvey Nicks. (A reasonably respectable gay haunt, frequented by those past the first flush. People like us, in fact.)

"OK, I said... we'll play rentboys and sugar daddies." He laughed at that.

---

Newtown pretty uneventful. "Next I fancy that cool place on the corner of Broughton Street," I declared. Where the cool people mill about, coolly.

"OK, hen," Sam said. "And we can sit outside, so I can smoke." (Sam has conquered the demon drink, and I'm proud of him. He says the weed is next. I mentioned Allen Carr, but he thought I meant Alan Carr, the uber-camp comedian.)

First we dropped off in some sex shop. Wow what porn they were selling! All legal too. Did you know it's on DVD these days? And not all American? Awesome.

Here's a shot of the toystore.

Then to the Port o Leith Bar - the place which launched a thousand somethings. Mary the Landlady was there, and Gary, and Little Alex. "You don't need to worry about your hair here," Gary said. "You're at home now."

FRIENDS, RE-UNITED

This week I've been reunited with not one but two friends.

Oh, I should say that I've got just 30 minutes here with you, and then I LITERALLY don't have a moment to myself until Sunday evening. Some call it getting a life - white men call him The Lone Ranger.

Thank you all for enjoying the pic of Turnhouse Hill below. It's a very great joy to sit on top of a mini-mountain and blog away at California or Seattle or some such place, and then directly to you. Progress.

That was Monday.

Tuesday I texted Stewart my former hill-walking companion. He's bought trekking poles. I said it's the last dry day for several - fancy trying them out?

Normally as you know I'm far too shy even to text anyone, far less converse on the telephone, but something - maybe alcohol from the day before - propelled me forward.

And what a nice day! Some bits of the Pentlands I'd never been on, and then some bits I had. Oh we talked non stop.



Remember the dead Maharishi? Of course you do. Well, he's made lots of Colleges over the decades, combining meditation with standard stuff, usually business courses. And guess where the next one is to be built. That's right. Leith. You couldn't make it up. Clearly my quarter century of meditation has enlightened the local consciousness so much that former sleb Donovan has selected our town for the next Academy.

Some come here to plunder, others to enlighten. You decide.

Our day in the hills took a little longer than I'd anticipated, as Stew is still on the road to full fitness. So I ran out of food. Hit the wall. Fuel emergency, as they say in aeronautics. But Stewie kindly gave me grape juice and dried apricots in the bealach. Much revived, I was then able to shove him up the last hill, Turnhouse. After which we collapsed into the Flotterstone for much needed sustenance. I had lager and potato wedges, and Stewart had Pentland Ale.

Then to a Wetherspoons pub in George Street, a former bank, The Standing Order. This was cheap and reasonably cheerful, but they had football on in the main room, so there was a bit of an abundance of up-market schemies, if you getta my drifta.

I must say my new Italian friends seem to have arriverderci'd as quick as they ciao'ed. Foreigners. Only good things to come out of Italy are pasta and Joey Tribbiani.

So that was two quite hard days. Stewart did well on Tuesday. Eight hundred metres ascent is not to be sneezed at. We made promises and plans.

SAMSHAW REDEMPTION

Well. You could have bowled me over with a Columbine when who should I see behind the bar in the Port Inn last night but Sam Shaw! How lovely. Like the warm bask of a nice fire when you return home. Constitution Street - the home of civilised life. Oh - but it's so dug up. For the trams. Sam said he hadn't had a drink for over five months. I said that's marvellous - I wish I could do the same. You kind of imagine there's some guiding intelligence behind the tram fiasco, but times I kinda wonder. They say Princes Street is gonna be shut for seven months. This town is too important, too beautiful, to be left in the hands of here today, gone tomorrow politicians. It needs some sort of World Heritage protection from the carpetbaggers and money grubbers who're running it. Surprised Donald Trump hasn't put an offer in for the Port o Leith Bar.

I was nervous about showing Sam my new, white, oldman hair. Makes me look roughly ninety. I've aged twenty years in two with this alopecia. But I plucked up the courage. Went to the gents and stuck my woolly hat in my pocket. Came out. Sam talked about everything else except my hair, thus proving how awful it is.

Ah well. Some of us were put on earth to suffer.

And suffer I'll be doing plenty on Sunday, leading about twenty folk southward into England, across cowfields and bog and hill. Roman remains. I'll look like one after that, I tellsya. Have a lovely weekend.

Eagle-eyed readers might have noticed last night's post, VILLAGE PEOPLE, is no longer here. That's because it wasn't helpful. Don't drink and post. You'd think that'd have sunk in by now - what with me being a Lifetime Achievement person.

MISTY MOISTY MONDAY MORNING

This was Turnhouse Hill at 10 this morning. Bit clearer now. Enjoying BLT triple deep fill sandwich on top of West Kip. It's a man's life on the hilltops you know.

And in the Sheriff Court...

Read on....

HUNG JURY

Respectability at last! It's taken all these years to come to pass, but soon I'm going to be on a jury. Next month, if I'm selected. How exciting is that.

Sadly I won't be able to discuss the case here, as they send you to jail for that. But I wish I could, as I'd value your opinions no end. Verdicts were never my strong point. It takes a fashion advisor and several pints of lager before I can decide on even a shirt to buy. Sending a man to the electric chair or some such fol-de-rol just hasn't entered my orbit so far.

Trial by blog. It would be so simple. I could put the salient points of evidence here each day, and at the end you could all vote in the comment box. "HOW DO YOU FIND THE DEFENDANT?" And "IS THAT THE VERDICT OF YOU ALL?" Ooooo. You couldn't make it up. So great I'm amazed no-one's thought of it yet.

---

In reality of course, no-one reaches a verdict purely (or even mainly) on the evidence. Only a machine could do that. The difference between myself and the other jurors will be that (hopefully) I'm a little more aware of my prejudices.

People who are CLEARLY GUILTY include (but are not restricted to)

The unemployed

The poor

People under 25

Men

Smokers

Tabloid readers

Scottish people

Polish people

Unnaturally pale people

Drinkers in or near Great Junction Street

In fact, just about everyone in Leith

It strikes me that some of the above categories also include just about the best homosex going - and this might pose a problem in the court, as if you know the accused you have to say so.

Because - gay male readers will know of what I speak - the criminal classes make amazing lovers. Amazing. Oh yes. *Rolls eyes at the memories over the decades.* The simple fact of them being with someone consenting - enthusiastic even - rather than having to rape their way through the showers every Friday night, fills a handsome ex-con with joy to behold. Oh yes, yes. And don't get me started on the muscles and tattoos. Real, not gym-tits. Butch, not spray-on.

But respectability at last.

Arrivederci!