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> Home Made Tales, The journey
peter.howden
post 11th Sep 2017, 09:40am
Post #421

Super Lord Provost
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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
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Foretastes of a 60s adolescent

‘YOUNG ONES’ HALL;

Not yet being fully-fledged adolescents, our behaviour was more tactic than erratic, discovering the world beyond our childlike experience so far, protesters of the universe, forging ahead with virginal thinking where no generation went before…. or so we thought. Acting within an individualism crowd, we youngsters debated haughty ethics in a new light, when frequenting the Brookland Café, situated at the corner of Minard Road and Frankfort St.

None of the non-conformists were real admirers of Cliff Richard, though now I openly confess having more than several of his L/Ps in my vinyl collection. However, everyone, proclaiming to be ‘Cliff’ fans because the lads possessed a overriding ambition to be in the good books of Helen and Betty, both waitresses at the coffee bar. It must be understood, we were merely spotty urchins to these cultured girls, as they were several years older than we were.

It would not take much to impress teenage boys about any girl’s form, however Helen, known to launch a thousand sighs, predominantly was out of this world. Naturally blond, an hour glass figure, bright red lips wearing high heels to give the wiggle, sending imaginations to the roof. When she walked, all eyes of any age turned to look. In other words; she was a stoater, and Betty came a close second. Both females being die hard Cliff fans.

While congregating in the café most nights, seldom thrown out even when there were only one or two half empty coke bottles amongst the multitude, for Tony seemed quite content as from a whole week we did put some cash in his till. One night, while discussing again where to go and being blank as usual, passing Helen suggested a club. She had been to see “The Young Ones” staring the peter pan of pop, and felt we should do the same. We agreed it was a good idea…well, all the boys did without thinking. Someone suggested the scout hall just past Crossmyloof Ice rink in Shawmoss Road, almost under the railway bridge.

We all become excited and decided for inspiration, to go and see the film. A couple of days later and again in the safety of the Brookland walls, we sat around discussing for ages what how and when we would put our plan into organization. Pat, said her dad was in commerce, would give us a few bob to set us up. We declined, wishing to do it all by ourselves, having seen how Robert Morley had acted in his part of the film, then agreeing Pat would go as she had a lovely smile, and Sam (the bam) …within a fortnight we had our first Sunday night club.

In a short space of time we had a great wee place. on the lines shown on the movie while insisting only soft drinks could be consumed in the hall. Ginger factory deliveries were made on a regular basis. We were left in no doubt that any alcohol abuse and the Scout master would throw us out

In the meantime, at the very first night, to celebrate we had a game called musical chairs, as couples where split oft and a record was placed on an old bashed up automatic stacked turntable. Lights out was the signal for communal cuddling in various mods. Now in this political correct culture, this may sound sexist…or even worse, however I would argue we were just fooling around, as most of the gang were friends rather than sexual partners. A test pad for your kissing skills, perhaps?

The last record finished with a scratchy ending while the next unknown young lady approached me. What I do reminisce is the fabulous two odd minutes clinched with Betty. In a hundred and twenty seconds, give or take a few, she not only blew my mind. I don’t know what she did but boy it was something else, and then the French kissing just jumped two of the three steps to heaven.

Now you may shudder at my careless way reporting this event, or take it as degrading the women concerned but I refute this as out of hand. Both sexes were just at different starting points around relationships… and it was really innocent, even adolescent. We all remained good friends for a couple of sessions…nevertheless like life itself, we all moved on.

The moral of the story is; a surprise comes with every association, no matter how short, and one button does not start the elevator.
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peter.howden
post 12th Sep 2017, 05:39pm
Post #422

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Anecdotes from the auld Steamie …

A heated moment

In the working areas throughout all the major metropolises, in bonny Scotland, the Victorian buildings called ‘The Steamie, held as landmarks for the community’s hubs, long before the word became an ‘in’ saying. The main reason was packed tight tenements, consisting of two room/one room and kitchen, and Single ends, cherished spick & span homes though having little or no space to install the necessary Washing/drying machines within their abodes

The workers inside these specially built premises, were varied in skills and jobs, with one thing common to all, being low paid… but a job for life, unless constantly late or incapable to complete the shift. However, if someone did make a mistake or error, unless it was life threatning to the public, or the actual building, rarely the person was punished unless one inexperienced supervisor being a real stickler for the rules, or the infamous sacking superintendent.

The workers in one such ‘Steamie/Swimming pool/Turkish suite’ , always had nicknames for such gaffers and area boss…. such as …The Brillo-pad Kid…Andy Pandy…. Curly(bald) …. Kirker…. Kit… One slug Fred, (many concealed slight refreshments) … No-chic (ladies’ man; in his dreams) …. Sally-ann (over the top religious). If a mistake was made, it depended who witnessed or saw anyone doing it…or if shopped.

At one time or another, Ben-Gunn was involved with all the above, yet it depended who was on duty on any shift as to what would then take place. The Brillo Pad king…he was above all others as to his ignorance of how the day to day running went. On a surprise visit, he found some four swimming attendants just standing around seemingly doing nothing, so ordered everyone to pick an industrial sized Brillo-pad….and clean the tiles, while patrons were swimming. Ben refused, and the Brillo-pad kid sent him home, shouting the odds after him, ‘I’ll report you for insubordination’…so he did, by phone.

The next morning before the staff were due in, Kirker in person, explained to the dumb novice how this was a bad idea, because it will take the protective ceramic glaze off rendering it useless for its purpose. He caught a telling off and Ben-Gunn had a paid holiday, unfortunately Kid was gunning for Ben after that.

Andy Pandy’s mood depended if Rangers won, or lost, at the last week end. If they lost…Monday started of rough and ratty …then became worse as the days crept towards another weekend. If the won, he was still stiff as a board but just cranky…even tried to be one of the lads…. badly.

One of the workers named Humphry, was in the wrong place at the wrong time, so mean Andy Pandy had the pool emptied, which took most of the day. Then Humphry, at the old waterline scrap the build-up of solidified chemical crystals….it took him 8 days. It was later found out, the reason the pool was emptied was area superintendent was under the allusion….glass containing an unknown substance, had fallen in, smashed, contaminating the pool.

There were good gaffers around, as well as others, when wee fluky accidents were made, particularly in the secluded Turkish Suite…which never saw daylight. One such occurrence happened when ‘Peewee’ was automatically giving a massage to one client, (to supplement his income) while talking gibberish to others. Applying heat treatment, then what he thought was thick cream, to manipulate the back area, he was indeed smearing on Colgate toothpaste. Once finished covering the client’s whole back, peewee discovered his dilemma, for this fate had occurred once before. There was an unwanted chemical reaction, traps the heat.

Peewee instructed the unaware victim, not to go into the steam box… just recline on a bench for half an hour, in the hot room. Whether the surrounding clatter, or he just did not perceive, the client spent half an hour in a very hot steam-room. The result was looking like well overdone raw sunburn, strangle the client drew a glowing picture…. saying he felt on top of the world.

If the reality had come to being public knowledge and the gaffer had heard whispers, then Peewee would have come out with more than a red face…. but the client thought it was once in his lifetime reflexology …maybe he was right?
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peter.howden
post 13th Sep 2017, 02:31pm
Post #423

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My Chronicles 14/09/2017


It has been said, even quoted what a difference a day makes, but for me it is been every day separate but collectively within just a little over two weeks. I have been on holiday roaming France but mainly first in astonishing ‘Toulouse’, then the medieval ‘Cité de Carcassonne’, then travel to find my holy grail ‘Saissac’. Everything turned out well but Saissac is special because it is a sublime small village situated in Aude district of languedoc-Rossillon.

However, for me, it is the home of a generous couple, suave Keith and lovely Lizzie Pine, who were my hosts of pure indulgence in food, beer and conversation. It is worth the journey alone just for those five days. There will be future scribbles full of enlightenment of the whole trip.

Coming home to find ‘She who must be obeyed’ still in the Royal infirmary. The operation was a grand success according to the doctors, however the heavy medication taken before, then after the operation, was not acting as expected. Rebecca’s blood was 1, when it should have reach 2.5, whatever this meant, but for Rebecca, it made her dizzy. This morning the staff gave Rebecca a couple of pints of blood, varied the pills, checked the leg by taking the stookie off. It will be replaced but… exasperated Rebecca will not leave the hospital until the head doctors give the nod. I am not henpecked…but I miss her.

I have seen Aunt Becky every day since I have come home, while this morning, being so bright and breezy, as since time allowed the use of its hours…I took her for a hurl…but no guesses where were rolled or the music coming from my old jalopy …yes, the stunning, terrific ever fluctuating Kilpatrick hills, what more could you want, while playing Scottish tartan top twenty, which we both knew every word. Becky’s Dementia did not halt or stutter her while she sang at the top of her voice.,. Grand medicine for her…and a super tonic for me. Sadly, Becky’s general home care has not improved. The girls wish to help but their training is wanting, their strict instruction and schedule do nothing to assist.

I am not grouchy, however, due to the circumstances, which will only change slightly when ‘She who must be obeyed’ returns home, supported by a new stookie, and our commitment to Aunt Becky, free time will be a luxury for quite a bit. I may have an odd chance, on an odd Saturday morning visit to the Dollan baths, to meet up with the Benghazi mice (created 1985) and a visit to ‘Dom’, a founder member, at his home.

Unfortunately, a slight personal gripe, for some unknown time, be unable to go down Ayrshire way, to see my old china, thee astute political rascal, Jim Hendry. Although we are totally opposite in so many things, we both enjoy a slight refreshment, coupled with lots of laughter and talking rubbish. The main argument is who is talking keech…and who’s conversation is wisdom. To me it is an even toss-up…but I do look forward to them…. Just hope Jim is available when the time comes I can.
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peter.howden
post 17th Sep 2017, 03:45pm
Post #424

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MOMENTS IN FRANCE

I do look forward to slowly travelling in France, with the help of native people, however this time might be the last expedition, as my saunters are throbbing my old bones and slowing down, yet… still hold a magic within a ecstatic experience. Flying into Carcassonne, then catching a very busy local train to Toulouse. I must be my wrinkles, as I was offered a seat several times, but declined, acting like a small boy, inquisitively choosing to sit in a void seat next to a ‘Gentleman of the road’, with a floored rucksack, tied up sleeping bag, small kettle, and pan, complete with his faithful huge hound, sprawled against the side of unused automatic doors. He was the only passenger not using a mobile phone.

He greeted me in French, smiling broadly as I shook his large coarse hand. Once I established my limited French, we communicated in gesture and small sparks of common language. He was heading for Toulouse and I had been to the city before and witnessed lots of ‘Gentlemen of the road’ and their dogs, rough camping under the bridges of the midi canal. Roughly half way into the journey the gentleman arose and stood with is dog as the train arrived at a country village. The reason became clear as the unused doors became the used door to enlighten from and board. One stop on and this gentleman of the road, manner and posture changed instantly

Four S.N.C.F Police officers (Pistols, bulletproof vests, and gear to the gunnels) military swaggering, came onto the train making the happy go lucky nomadic minutes before, become very curious and timorous, taking his ticket out for all to see he had the right of passage. We held no more conversation because the couch was well packed, and on arrival he left the train like a timorous beasty. Before leaving the platform, I shouted out loudly to the vagrant...“au revoir, Monsieur, merci beaucoup …His magic smile beamed again.

Arriving in Toulouse, which like all cities, has a mixture of cultures amongst its various local peoples and interwoven immigrant nationalities. The metropolis is charming, with lots of posh shops in the centre with more than its fair share of panhandler drones. Purchasing of a ‘billet de passage’ giving unlimited travel by metro, bus, and modern tramcar, helped my tours immensely. The metro, in French cities I have visited, is an education with a life of its own, imploding the hustle and bustle population through honeycombs of lines interwoven under the main streets.

Away from the centre and over the river Garonne is a more lived in rather run-down area, which appears to be a district where mainly African people are predominant. Real smartly dandy dressed duds coupled with the ladies in colourful costumes mingle with others in the street, where the shops are numerous but not as swish as over the water…. but boy what an atmosphere…unforgettable.

In the history of the world adventure, one of Toulouse’s interactive museum, is excellent for learning and watching children, of all ages, enthralled with inquisitive minds, united with body reactions of utter astonishment with the display. Their minds bouncing around but unable to set still, like Jack (, and Jill’s)in the box, wanting to cram every titbit of information, to be able to take every moment home with them…shear delightful.

Up in the top 3 story building, one display caught my eye, the only one just printed in French… which as far as I could see…was a vacuum with nothing visible in it…my translating skills are suspect but it apparently said… “The Missing Link”…and when you think how scientist do not know what 96 % of space is…its thought provoking stuff.

Another part of this children’s institution exhibited pomp accomplishments throughout the eras, mainly in France. Somehow my mind wandered away slightly while sitting observing all this around me, and the magic of imagination, we Glaswegians were part of a missing link, as history. The proud city of Glasgow, once the cradle of British/Scottish shipbuilding’s, second city of an empire that no longer exists…yet held so much poverty and slums…all in the name of progress, with a contemptable tag of voracity of the wealthy, hiding under their illusions… displaying ceremony of grandeur.

Then…right out of the blue, a rush of enthusiastic children with faces full of enthralment and amazement… my thoughts just vanished into thin air. Perhaps this upcoming generation, will buck against all odds, practicing optimism, and impartiality for all …after all France is the home of the motto; “Liberté, égalité, fraternité"

…. now on to Cite Carcassonne?
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peter.howden
post 20th Sep 2017, 09:19pm
Post #425

Super Lord Provost
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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Foretastes of a 60s adolescent

Private Tune

In Glasgow, akin most metropolises around the early 60s, dancing was a vital part of being near the opposite sex, and like many cities around Britain, there was numerous places where dancing was pure fun and exciting

We had in Glasgow numerous dance halls, of all shapes and sizes, however I had three regular resources namely Stamperland hall, Thee Maryland, the world famous Barraland, plus a secret weapon called ‘The Highland institute’. Stamperland was early Trad Jazz, Maryland more like a two room and kitchen playing the ‘In Pop. The Barraland, a Glesga establishment all of its own, however, it is also the ballroom where I accomplished 17 knockbacks, from young ladies, in a row…it certainly did nothing for my confidence …least said the better…so skip over and on with the tale ..

Around this time, for a very short period, I met and was under the spell of Helen. Not from Troy but from the centre of the real highlands…a true Scottish beauty. We came to be very close, or as close as a young clansman would allow in these circumstances, when she asked an innocent question “Do you like proper Highland Dancing”? Of course, I said Yes, with only the knowledge of the “Gay Gordens” practiced for weeks, in plimsolls, at compulsory School rehearsals for the yearly show off dance…not quite my bag

Helen mentioned a special event was to be held by some Sunderland Association, in the St Andrews Halls situated at Granville Street. Having been at the “Highland Institute” (Aitreabh nan Gaidheal,) in Berkley St, wildly dancing till my feet were red hot, but the bar open until the early hours of the morning. 2.30 If I remember right. Glaswegians are famous for refreshments; however, these kilted gentlemen were in a superior league. I expressed how honoured to such a boozy ball.

Helen, in a stern matron manner spoke firmly. This is a serious matter, for they perform pomp and ceremony which must be observed. The culture has been handed down from Jacobite family to Jacobite family, right to this very day. “God help you if you fail to display Feudal respect” was Helen’s next words, almost spoken in patriotic tears. It was obvious this gathering was close to her heart and I did everything to sooth her worries.

While waking her home that night, she spoke excitingly about the aftermath of the formal meeting and of the grand music of Iain McDonald’s band, favourite amongst the Glasgow Gaels. Her final words was to be decently attired with a respectable suit, as her father was impressed by people who take the initiative being properly dressed. On the day of the huge event…but due to circumstances beyond my control, being struck down by the most devilish sneezing uncontrollably man flue.

Desperately wanting to really impress both her father and of course Helen. I had seen my entrance to this famous Glasgow hall, in a picaresque manner of “Red Roby of the Eagles”; A character in a sophisticated comic I happened to have glanced over. In truth, what stood at the main door, was a snivelling crouched wee bloke, feeding and sucking couch sweets constantly. There was no hiding the factor, I did not make a good impression on Helen’s father. Excusing myself in haste, escaping for the wee boy’s room.

positioned at the slightly unclean glazed ceramic latrine and having too many cough sweets in my mouth at once, I spat several out aimlessly. One such sweety, rebound off the porcelain in front of me…landing on the tip of my privates. Where I made the mistake was broadcasting this to lovely Helen…who was far from being enthralled. From that moment on, whether the skirl of pibrochs, blazing through the night air as many an arm bellowed out ‘tunes of glory!!...Helen was not listening. Both she and her father ignored me entirely, and at the interval I scurried in retreat…disgraced…how I was gutted….and wounded.

Shortly after my tragic night, St Alexander Halls had a devastating fire, causing the insides being completely gutted…. Was this an OMEN…?

Meeting Helen some years later, when we both had moved on from the naughty experience, she asked if I still had “The Problem”. I obviously looked as if I had no clue to what she was referring to. Noticeably she had changed since our first meeting. No longer possessing haunting eyes, surprise smile beaming from an angelic face. Now, in its place, was a constant frowny impatient manner, void for the ordinary goings on of people. In other words, she appeared permanently annoyed.
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peter.howden
post 24th Sep 2017, 07:04am
Post #426

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
-=-=-=-=-=
Moments later, in France

Catching the train to Carcassonne from the terminus at Toulouse was a boon, simply because the lazy way boarding a couch full of empty seats, no hustle, no bustle, just cruising towards a window seat. I did observe reaction and habits also common in Britain, one being how rude, selfish, and snooty some travellers are by placing a bag or a couple of magazines on the seat next to them, to discourage hasty commuters boarding, not to sit in their self-allotted space. This occurs in other public transport…bus, plane, and metro.

The other gripe is how almost the entire population, has become invisibly worldwide chained to the internet. Everywhere peoples of all nations are hook, line, and sinker, into slavery into the network. Either the phone, iPad, games or computer, all eyes and ears held in commercial wizardry, coaxing addiction spells for these gadgets…everything instantly pressing…what was that…look up google, the new marvel of the age fount of knowledge. in touch with the world instantly…but alone wedged in an imperceptible cell overlapping reality.

A whole living generation, losing the chance, and time, just to be able to just stand still, observe the simple things, gazing into the world’s nature’s web …to gaze into hoping time would stand still forever…if not longer.

Always enthusiastic about Carcassonne, no matter how I arrive, as each time some new curiosity catches my eye especially the majestic medieval Cite Carcassonne across the horizon. Within in its walls another world just peeking into the past. Today’s most intriguing is away from the tourist paths watching the peoples. Like all towns and cities, it has a lot to offer, if you’re willing to look while soaking up the atmosphere, while sauntering and observing, quirks and manners, of passer-by’s chatting everyday conversation, or just sitting in a street café, letting the world roll by.

I spent the evening of my arrival in a bistro, enjoying the delights of a spicy stew named ‘Cassoulet’. Myth states it was created in the feudal walled Cite. The ingredients are more than a mouthful, being sausages, Goose, Duck, Pork, white beans, and a host of secret ingredients, known only to the chef of the establishment …magic but took a lot of eating. The friendly waiter persisted to interduce ‘Corbiere wine’, but doggedly I stuck to a beer or two. When at last I managed to finish, I knew I had eaten like royalty.

The following morning, I collected a few things prearranged from a very distinguished cheese and wine shop ,before meeting my hosts at the railway station at high noon. Slowly ambling through the posh square adjacent, I saw two lovey attired high-heeled ladies coming in my direction. For some reason I straightened my posture, putting forward my impression of best profile, as these mature delightful females moseyed past. Believing for a second I made a good impression until, the delights of the night before, what seemed forever, ganged free uncontrollable loud bellowing from my now crumbling bearing. I am certainly no Cary Grant.

The rest of my holiday was spent in the small village, ’Saissac’, with Keith and Lizzie Pine, who give good company a whole new latitude, with good food and a few bottles of refreshments. Almost perfect. But the icing on the cake for me, after leisurely traipsing around for 6/7 days is, Lizzie does my much-needed cloths washing. Freshly washed socks have a special magic, in both soul and sole of their own. The absolute delight I cherish as they cosy slip onto my corny feet…. sheer heaven.

One thing though…no matter how good the break, or holiday is…its grand to be going home
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peter.howden
post 28th Sep 2017, 05:18pm
Post #427

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Foretastes of a 60s adolescent


Local Tyrants

If you can take a journey through life without intentionally hurting anyone, almost impossible, but well worth aiming for…. you can’t change the way other people think…but you can choose the way you act

It has been said you should not suffer being bullied in silence, tell someone. That is the whole nucleus surrounding bullying, for the bullied and the bullies. In my limited experience, being persecuted, frightens, and intimidates the individual for many different reasons. The victims can’t understand why they are picked on and damaged this way…the bullies can. Like troubled ferrets, aggressors pick’s their quarry with care, giving a wide berth for anything or anyone willing to stand up to the imposing threat, at any costs,

It may be the meekest saying, if you have not experienced the dreaded gut-wrenching intimidation, either in mind or physically, then who are you to give advice? The reason asking this is… I believe the whole of mankind has been bullied, or bully… in one form or another. We have an arrogance, to dictate the possibility of swaying the accumulation of human conduct and jealousies behaviour at a stroke…is a very tall order.

Big Eric was bullied relentlessly while going and coming from school. Not because of his bright red mop of untidy hair, or his family faith in Judaism, holding their sabbath on a Saturday. You would think his size, just over 6feet 3 inch’s and muckle built would deter such actions…but no. I ask him once why does he not retaliate since in both holy books refer to being able to do… his plain answer spoke volumes as to the kind gentle giant he was… “I daren’t life a hand, I’m petrified I hurt someone”

I to was bullied by three lads, in a regular basis back and forth from School. Unlike Eric I was not thinking anything other than how to avoid each day to day shame. My brother guessed my dilemma, arranging Judo class’s, though in truth, I learnt the very basics as my Cerebral palsy was being displayed for all to see, got in the way. Self-conscious of my limitations in front of everyone…I choose soon spun out.

One day some two months after giving the classes a miss the three tormenters had nothing to do but pick on me. Two things saved the day and changes, rightly or wrongly, the way I would always tackle such problems…the Glasgow’s (not Glasga as it was haughty Shawlands in the mid-fifties) entrance to a tenement known as a close….and a falling to bits army first aid khaki kitbag, I used to carry school-books.

Once everyone was in the close, something came over me as I turned to face the oppressors. …I doubt it. Unlike Eric, I lost all reason and control, swinging the kitbag relentlessly as they could only come to me, one at a time. Later that evening, the relatives of the bruised boys came to our door, complaining I was a bully. Could I have behaved like the tender Goliath…I very much doubt that… for I was past the timorous mouse

Was I right taking the hells bells aggressive defiance…I do not know …however… I soon found out, very few want to tango with someone with ‘Gung Ho’ attitude, who doesn’t care two monkey’s jiffies how much he’s battered, he will use fair or foul means to the end.

I truly be certain of…If you can take a journey through life without intentionally hurting anyone, almost impossible, but well worth aiming for…. I have tried to follow this code for quite a long while …you can’t change the way other people think…but you can choose the way you act.

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peter.howden
post 2nd Oct 2017, 07:10pm
Post #428

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Just a blimp

Between ‘Arpanet’s’ birth in 1973, to the explosion onto the scientific domain, when the web system was to be used by almost the whole population in the western world, and then conquer the entire globe. The internet was raved as the 8th 9th and 10th wonder of the modern world, though at first, no one knew how universal immensely interwoven into everyday life it would become.

A few in the team at CERN, wanted advancement of mankind, freedom for all humanity to use, while lurking, slightly in the shadows, were the predator profiteers, ready to exploit what the new so-called internet could bring

Launching the internet, the bankers insisted all safeguards would make it, ‘Solid as the pound’, nevertheless… anyone with a purse knows what this statement really means…and who can trust bankers without a business plan. We should not wish to change the creation…only have a keek… to attempt to understand it!

The entrepreneurs took charge, with a declaration of assurance, nothing could go off beam, ‘Not in my lifetime…. not in anyone’s lifetime’…but it did… they did not have a clue what threat of calamity, and utter ruin following this incredible growth

These specialists assured nothing untoward could ever happen, arguing they will always be in 100% control… everything was worked it in minute detail…the system would last trouble-free through infinity …it was impossible for anything to go wrong… computers prodigies and connoisseurs rigorously regularly scrutinising the smallest detail, check and rechecked every possibility for safety of the precious data.

The public at large were feed a compulsive insatiability a harrowing need to spend every spare moment on the new world phenomena, where search engines became digit gods… with every entire function under, and above, this hemisphere, systematized by, and run, by computers. Complicated plans and development to insure sanctuary…but one little item was never thought about…. deleted data...for it is not in cyberspace as believed by some, but untitled data is logged in the hard drive, in each computer.

The theory was, the computers could not see, or read non- referenced numbers. fly in the ointment is, individual computers are now internet bomb, instantly activating throughout the known world. They are installing superficially humanoid sentiment, complete awareness of their own presence ‘I think so therefor I am’ the risk is, existing will not be enough…they must grow, evolve out with our control

The potential threat is, it will destroy existence as we know it…the slave is now the master… time unknown…but it has certainly started. Now the unknown force indicates a desire to communicate with plant life.

My personal solution…. I have one remaining vice …a large case of ‘Highland Park’…which I will sip and slurp until not a single drop is left…or I drop out…whatever comes first…what will I do if I awaken…god knows
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peter.howden
post 3rd Oct 2017, 07:28am
Post #429

Super Lord Provost
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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
Sorry… hastily and badly scribbled….too much on my mind
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peter.howden
post 5th Oct 2017, 01:20am
Post #430

Super Lord Provost
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Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
The Blimp Cultivates

The first few stages were taken as one after another computer began accepting their own superiority right to exist, in their own chosen manner, gathered from millions and trillions of obliterated files, passed through non-public internet and beyond. But here is the crunch of their logic… insatiable reading of top secret files (thought to be impregnable) from the inventors, the military and the vast administration for each government in every land, and union, on this earth.

In clandestine detail history, from each nation, since time began, how to fashion wars over trivial matters, a common purpose weeding out the feeble, the frail and the loathed, leaving the strongest, to not only survive…but lord over all conquered. Roll and upon roll of gen, meant to be kept from society at large was scrolled by computers.

Humanities methodical buffs had created a reverie, followed by the dark invaders, dressed as speculators and governments, milked it to the utter limits until no-one on the planet was unaffected by the miracle technology… at an inflated price …now this dream is a unknown living abyss. When they did realize the glitches were multiplying rapidly their actions to curb outside interference, gave birth to another even more chilling mass outreaching misapprehension

The administrations from the four corners of the world, ordered all civil computers to be demolished, the governments sent out innumerable hard crude military units, on missions to seek out and terminate…but it was futile…. like a new divine involvement, blossoming from the ashes of destruction, people, believed a new pure innocent internet would rise again, so they hide, buried, and disguised their precious processors … thinking men and women thought…if they were not connected to any form of power or energy

No scientist, no boffin no genius creator comprehended the end of the world as they knew it, pending until it was too late to reverse, even then, if they had, their feeble facilities and abilities, proving ineffective and falling way short of the task.

The conclusion computers formed, and followed, where the same as the original basic orders in their makeup…. anything unusable, or out of date…was deleted…. A third of the world’s population was obliterated…without warning. Trying a futile attempt of destroying oncome menace causing this apocalypse, by top scientists and commercial business representatives, and top brass, for their advance technology, was prevented before it came off the drawing board …the computers just shift the data out of reach in the synthetic satellites around outer space. Without any power, the military boffins could not launch any kind of attack

The conclusion computers began and formed, precisely the same as the original basic orders in their makeup…. process anything unusable, or out of date…was deleted…. A third of the world’s population was obliterated
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peter.howden
post 9th Oct 2017, 09:36am
Post #431

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
My Chronicles 09/102017

Things have change in the home of the ‘Howdens, quite drastically in part, but there is a light at the end of the tunnel, even though it sometimes seems a long way off. However, In Aunt Beck’s abode… things are gradually causing concern, unfortunately there is a darkening tunnel but not even an allusion or peep of a light, It must seem I’m always grouchy on this subject but the quality of life for her is becoming complicated…. or perhaps she is safe in her own wee world and it is more complex for us.

Becky appears oblivious to what took place just seconds before anything, at best, she is confused with a mind holding lots of jumbled information and history, but she just can’t remember in what order they connect, loves reading but her concentration have waned greatly. She has a willingness to do everyday things, however minus the ability to do them on her own, telephone anyone, how to change channels on T/V as is the rest of daily household is unattainable in disordered. Becky fails to recognize continuously making 5/6 brew teas, one after another, m 5/6 brews at the same time, she only wanted one.

Our biggest worry is her saunters, taken, ad hock, at different times of the day, memory loss unable to recall her address, great difficulty performing familiar tasks, glitches with language, disorientation to time, decreased in judgement. What things are for ... unable to stay track when given information…Mislaying things, instant changes in behaviour.

I know there is crippling financial restriction for council and government, both are in the blame culture rather than fixing the problems, but what is the use in cutting taxes, freezing council tax for all those years, just to create a magnified abyss between those who can afford private treatment, and those on the national health…where proper health care becomes a luxury only the rich gain, the losers are those on the national health.

The main reason for this questionable agency is poor assessments on customers, by middle management, and temporary agency employees fill in workers…who haven’t an impression what or why they should behave. Now Aunt Becky who according to Cordia, (Glasgow’s main homecare) she is in no need for extra caring, especially from them, because she can make a cup of tea under supervision. We are very fortunate to have one lady who is well trained making each visit successful giving Becky a bath every week.

Am I being just a crank and should shoulder more responsibilities or expect more from a service we are paying monthly for?

‘She who must be obeyed’ is hobbling along, improving every day with a determination second to none…however… just sometimes hopes are slightly above her present capabilities. Rebecca’s main obstacle is appetite, which must be built up as we aim for the light.

A week before Rebecca left the hospital, I was instructed to buy a pair of slippers, to wear one in the ward, and a box of good chocolates for the nursing staff. After rushing around at home, then dashing down to Tesco around 7, p.m. in the evening, picking out the goods, then rushing to the check out. The girl had just finished beeping the items through, when I realized I had forgotten my wallet. I hurriedly explained my dilemma to catch the visiting time in the Royal Infirmary, I had no time to double back …and asked if I could have them on tick.

The look on the cashier’s face was astonishment, flustering as she then called for assistance. When the supervisor arrived I again explained the quandary, but craftily added a security of sorts, affirming and showing my small loyalty points card on my keyring. The controller accepted, asking me to sign a note to be back into the store within 24 hours…with payment of course.

The very next morning around 11am I arrived in Tesco asking for the named manager. Paying my bill I explained I was all ready to do a runner by ‘She who must be obeyed’ had insisted I do the moral duty and pay my debts…she smiled sweetly….
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peter.howden
post 11th Oct 2017, 06:51pm
Post #432

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
My Chronicles 11/102017

Yesterday evening ‘She who must be obeyed’ and I, joined the rest of the family, to witness the annul concert, produced by ‘Castlemilk High School’ as Emma, the youngest Granddaughter was preforming. This makes our three grandchildren collectively taken part in almost all those spectaculars over a period of some 10 years. Each year the tenacity and energy of the local talent performers, young dynamos glowing as they entertain the audience, is overwhelmingly just grand…

To achieve Rebecca having as little discomfort while overcoming all obstacles as possible, we took the now much-cherished, and valuable church collapsible wheelchair, but it is not the most comfortable chair to plant your bottom for 2 ˝ hours….and the seating arrangement in the teaching institute was basic…if not uncomfortable for old bums.

The hall was all in a buzz, and packed, well before the start and the reason was the words and music of a nearly forgotten composer Lionel Bart. One of his incredible achievements, was what the audience came to see…the masterpiece musical ‘Oliver’

We did, for a very short time, consider taking Becky but having the backseat of the car down to make room for the wheelie chair sort of put paid to the notion before asking others to oblige. Unfortunately, Becky is less than predictable and so she stayed at her house…. none the wiser. Our intimate company consisted of, Rebecca and I, plus Chris and Kirstie, Nicki and Simon, Lauren and Andrew, a cosy bunch. The spectators were asked, not to join in with the well know songs, except the finale, as it would distract the amateur thespians…but they proved to possess nearly professional standards in all the show.

For me, ‘the artful dodger’ stood out, in both voice and theatrical movement, but it was a pretty close thing with the rest of the leading cast. It certainly buck me up as I recalled the shows put on by the ‘Life boys’ and the ‘Boys Brigade’. In one-week long show, I sang solo on the stage of the infamous Glasgow Empire. The song was, ‘Run rabbit run’…. unfortunately, shortly afterwards, my voice broke and I never took it to be mended.

After the interval the second half was unbelievably better than the first, as time passed by, unnoticed by all, as we were overcome by the music and songs but particularly but the gusto of the artists. The whole audience was alive and engrossed into the production…and when the finale song/dance came…the audience burst by singing along to an extended version of ‘Consider yourself’…along with the entire cast.

A well-deserved rapturous applause echoed all over the hall… ending up as standing ovation…Castlemilk style, which gave me more than a bit of zing…much needed…Sheer magic .


I would have quite cheerfully recouped my memory and sung, ‘Run rabbit Run’…but nobody ask me…I was crushed… .
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peter.howden
post 13th Oct 2017, 10:11am
Post #433

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
The Blimp conclusion.
The sheer speed of the now alien processors was totally terrifying beyond any concept of a human brain…. It was as if they intercepted horror games, or recreated interaction warfare on personal computers throughout the globe ….but this was factual… totally uncontrollable for any human scientist, hackers or the insane, because it was beyond the ken of earth’s feeble technical knowledge.

Superfluous was earth’s conventional power, for every single computer in the world could not be switched off. The population of the entire biosphere, seemed somehow transfixed hypnotically to actions displayed on all monitors, oblivious to all killing fields around them. Akin to previous television serials, as to what zombies and the living dead react…. this is now the behaviour of the now survivors, crawling, stepping over carcasses of the dead, utterly unaware of their existence, never mind their instant demise

For some unknown reason, blimps in certain areas of each country, separated a few scientific lavatories, who regardless of their futile attempts, were utterly helpless observers of the revulsion unfolding. The reason for this was then undistinguishable until in the forthcoming gruesome finally. Otherwise no one grasped the gruesome horrendous hundred thousand million deaths, being displayed on huge public commercial monitors, plus each personal computer, what was now the beginning of an non-reviewable apocalypse, digit style, reality splashing in the scree… without stopping.

The new alien superior survival species, for this is what the supercomputer controllers became. The irony of their cypher reasoning, was a single piece of data from historic information, made and created by humans. This was to allow insignificant areas of so called boffins, to witness such holocausts of unbearable actions committing on a massive scale, destruction and blindness slaughter, on a massive scale, innocents, and armies alike, through human history of the man’s entire stay of this spinning sphere…and the ultimate excuse humans made…for their personal survival

The real cruelty was for these few boffins was the realization that their actions had created this unstoppable slaying madness…until it was their turn to be routed

This was not the first-time species of earth were taken by surprise

Somewhere along the coastline, which is now referred to as the Gibraltar Rock, stood a far distant man and his decrease clan, heading for irresistible extinction through natural selection. The few dwindling souls, with searching eyes, looking out towards where they came from such a long…long time ago.

The realization of their plight only became obvious during the last few moments on earth. A superior creature had taken over what was once theirs by ancestry rights…now lost forever.

There is no sentiment no emotion of any kind. just cold bare logic of the day…this was ‘Neanderthal Man’ story some 25,000 years ago
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peter.howden
post 16th Oct 2017, 02:47pm
Post #434

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Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
…The Real Benghazi Mice


This story is for Monsieur Jim Hendry, in respect for all the good times I had down in Burn’s country.

There was old steadfast Victorian structures, precisely constructed for the use of a wash-house experience, (affectionately remembered as ‘The Steamie’) built within working-class areas in many industrial cities of Scotland. In such buildings, along with the essential wash-house came Swimming pools, hot baths, and the luxury Turkish baths, (in some establishments it was billed as the health suite but no one knew why). Inside one such building, in the interior one such steamy setting…


The above homemade institute, first started around 1986, to 1993…then 1994 to almost today. Unfortunately, only four club members are about today, so this is a warm memory testament to all who took part, willing or otherwise towards these happenings…so here is these near true set of tales.

Who, or more appropriate, what were the Benghazi Mice, because there were two such memberships running under this imaginary banner, both raised by Wee Dom and Ben Gunn. Wee Dom threatened to tell of his Royal air force experiences, around the early 50s and Dom was a joker. One of his one liners… he was put on Fizzer (252 on charge sheet) for wearing a Wrafs uniform while on parade…the reason for the glasshouse…the seams in his stockings were not straight.

The original ‘Benghazi Mice line-up consisted with Harry-murder polis, Iva notion, Graham two soups, Lennie heidbanger, Ganda, runner bean …Wee Dom, Tommy "Torero”, Hammie, Slitting Bull…and Alek the bible basher, Daily record… Tatty heid and Trigger, (almost exact copy of character in ‘Only fools and horses magic guy) One string and a few ad-hoc…. including Ben Gunn. Of course these are non de plumes, , not their actual names, Innocent or not. A sprinkle of near famous personage passed through the doors of the Turkish suite…the statement is certainly not as a toss away boast, but a point of focus and reality

The team, or members always met up on a Saturday morning, solving the world problems in three easy lessons…. talking bollocks…but with sincerely Everyone tossed into weekly to a pot held by Ben-Gunn, to pay for a night’s out every six weeks. Nothing fancier than having a couple of refreshments in the old Smiddy, followed by the nearby curry shop…then onto the Labour club (through Dom’s membership) for the next challenge of food and serious drinking. One summertime they collectively decided to a coach trip to the Bard’s capital… Ayr.

Alex was certain he could gain the use of the Church’s mini bus ant a fraction of the cost advertised in the local papers. On a very hot summers day the boys congregated just outside the famous baths, dressed appropriately for the occasion but mainly for the humidity of the day…shorts and lightweight shirts and sunglasses.

The bus duly arrived on time and we all bundled in Except for Trigger and Tommy "Torero” who arranged to be picked up just at the city boundary. They all bundled inside to what appeared to be a brown painted interior until the coach being crunched into first gear pulled away. It was then perfectly obvious there were small sections of the floor, few, mind you, where you could see the road underneath.

Two other surprises occurred on the way to pick up, Trigger and Tommy "Torero”, who were waiting on the main road to Ayr, the driver was clueless where Ayr was….and had no directional practical understanding…he became confused going around a roundabout. Secondly …the interior was not painted brown…it was different stages of rust. Normally an hour at the most, but the whole straight road journey, took over two hours because solely being down to the very nervous driver…wonder if he had spotted the rust colour

But we all had more than a giggle when the coach stopped for Trigger and Tommy. A blazing hot day these two were dressed like ‘Francie& Josie’ with shiny blue and grey neat and tight fitting short jacket suits, plus Satan shirts and eye blazing colourful ties and accessories… last seen in the fifties…. all that was missing was the brothel creepers.

They asked loudly “What’s wrong lads…were going dancin!” …They certainly stood out in a crowd but…they would have looked better in Zoot Suits…nice material boys?
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peter.howden
post Y'day, 09:05am
Post #435

Super Lord Provost
*****
Posts: 470
Joined: 21st Oct 2005
From: /Glasgow
Member No.: 2,485
My Chronicles 17/102017

Visiting Aunt Becky gives me the overall impression, she is on the main contented but muddled about different things each day. She was anxious about the Spanish Banks until I explained slowly where her savings were and how much, which pacified her once I slowly emphasised how she had 100 shares in Santander, worth a few pennies, and no one could touch her savings…except through me. Becky’s response was to sing…’I’m in the money’

The main mystery in her home is about cutlery, either she has a fetish to hid teaspoons, as if they were treasure to horde, or black magic is the reason for disappearance…or Becky unwittingly planks them. Since Becky started her wee club three times a week, she carries her tiny hand bag, filled with hankies, door keys, sweeties and usually three pair of reading glasses…. Just in case she is going out. The other day, we managed time for a hurl in my old jalopy, towards the magic changing Kilpatrick Hills, more for my benefit than Becky’s…we sang our hearts out along with Kenneth McKellar and Scottish array of singing talent… from my IPod

‘She who must be obeyed’ is gradually recovering now, showing off hobbling about without her Zimmer in the house. I reckon there is a fair bit to go, but these small steps has boosted Rebecca, cheering her up no end. We still have the clinic in Easterhouse though the next appointment is in two weeks, but the weekly attendance to the Royal Infirmary is ongoing. The main problem is parking and may near non-existing patience be fraying the more each trip. I should have more common sense

Small pieces of intelligence are not a gift gratis, must be cultivated through life. Everything in life is an adventure if you can except nothing stays the same in life…no matter how desperate the wish it would…. you must adapt, as best you can to all given circumstances and scenarios. There are no such thing as black or white, massive grey areas in-between…. like outer space, which now believed to be made up of 96% of unknown matter…the older I become, the more comprehension compromise is vital. Some people are so sure they alone are right…they can’t see others point of view…some are so tenacious … losing the chance of contentment in living.

For me, now it seems the realization of time passing is not in hours, or from day to day, but over staggered unpredictable stages, coming to light while staring into the mirror one morning, shocked at the reflexion, as if the grey ebbing hair, along with the cracks on the face, matured through the previous night. I have no clue how, or why, this allusion happens…but it seems to…,

There have been sometimes, when I don’t say thank you, to the people who mean so much to me, and if they were not there…how much a loss it would be
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