Naked Blog

ATMOSPHERIC

Sunday's trip to the English Lake District was notable mostly for the ever-present thunder.

Rumble, rumble, rumble it went - but all afternoon, not just half an hour.

At one point, on a high spur, everybody's hair stood on end, and the air started to glow.

Plasma.

"Down!" I shouted. "Get the fuck out of here!"

We were that close to being struck by lightning.

Mostly it was cloud to cloud, but just when we descended to the road at Threlkeld we saw a mighty spark hit the hill behind us where we'd just been.

Dangerous place, England, if you ask me.

There's a photo of the hair, which Bob the owner is going to email. You will be the first to see it. We had a very lucky escape.

This one is Derwent Water from Blencathra. (I think.)



More pretty pics.

Thanks to the judges at Post Of The Week for giving this week's award to my little effort "Pistol Pete Will Hang 'Em High". (With title by Chav Gav.)

Peer recommendation, and praise indeed.

"A master-class in effective story-telling, with not a word wasted. You’ll feel like you were there."

How kind. But remember, anyone who can't make a readable drama out of something as startling as a courtroom should possibly be finding some other hobby.

It's making the tiny, the everyday, fascinating which is the great bloggers' art.

CARRY ON IN COURT

PREVIOUSLY ON NAKED BLOG: On Tuesday, Peter our hero was summoned to the Sheriff Court for possible service as juror. Although not required on that day, he still had to suffer the proximity of a somewhat disturbing young man with a phone and an attitude.

The second salient point was that one of the jurors who WAS selected turned out to know the accused, and thus got let off.

The week has moved on to Friday now, which is where our tale resumes...

Court buildings are horrible, you know. Full of ghastly young people - even worse than those on the 21 bus. Scum, but more concentrated. I passed this painted teenage girl, shouting to a blinged up youth in compulsory tracksuit: "What you doin here, gadgie?"

"I'm up for assault!" he replied, showing all the remorse of a vulture. He kicked her on her butt then, playfully, and you sensed they'd soon be mating, producing lots of hapless offspring for you and I to pay for. Heterosexuality can be very expensive. But I digress.

One floor up I trotted with heavy heart, and there what did I see but another tracksuited youth shouting down to his pals over the banister, soon to be restrained by a Security guy. And - mardi gras - it was schemietwat with the phone I'd had the misfortune of sitting beside last time. Let's call this young man "Wayne".

Into the courtroom, where someone was getting sentenced, but this time I didn't bother watching. The man sitting next to me was sniffing, which I detest. Then he started talking football to the guy on the other side of him. Me I did some su doku.

Well, somehow I wasn't that surprised when Wayne wandered into the courtroom too, followed by a couple of youths I presumed were his fan club. And THEN - the Sheriff called him into the dock. Good gracious! I was so correct in my estimation on Tuesday - he was a felon all right.

The clerk called the register, and then the jury ballot began.

Not me, not me, not me, not me... etc, until the penultimate selection.

Moi.

On the jury! To try young Wayne of all people.

IT'S A SMALL WORLD

"I can see why Peter called this 'You couldn't make it up,'" I hear you thinking. But you'd be wrong. We've barely started.

Because Wayne wasn't the only repeat from Tuesday. The man who was excused jury then, for knowing that day's accused, was selected again and sitting right next to me. I'm going to call him Michael, as he vaguely resembled a straight Michael Barrymore. Lean and manic.

Wayne sat impassive, seemingly sans phone, while the clerk read out his charges and the trial began. The first witness was called.

Suddenly, Michael the juror on my left started whispering urgently. "Ah dinnae fuckin believe it!" he hissed. "Ah ken her tae - twice in wan week that makes."

That's right. Michael, who'd been excused jury for knowing the accused on Tuesday, today was acquainted with the first witness in a totally different case. "Ah dinnae believe it!" he kept going on. "Dinnae believe it..."

"You'll have to tell the sheriff - quickly" I said. And tell him he did. Michael was, once again, dismissed from the jury, and we remaining were sent to the jury room.

TWELVE ANGRY MEN

It was a pleasant enough space, light and airy despite the hot day. Air conditioned, I think they call that. The only features were a water cooler, coffee machine, toilets and - most important of all - in the centre a large oval table for fifteen. Me I chose the middle of one of the large sides, for maximum visibility and for my words to have greatest effect. I began to study my peers, whilst making my own pitch.

Most prominent was a guy opposite me. About fifty, with greying and vanishing hair, cheeky chappy type. He said he delivered Chinese meals, but you could tell from his intelligence he was probably a PhD. On my right was a woman who worked for the Inland Revenue, a friend of someone on my walking group, it turned out. At one end of the table was a girl from university. She was studying Spanish and Mandarin.

Chinese meal guy said Mandarin was up and coming. I said they'd said that about the Russian language in the sixties, and look at Russia now. But China was probably different, I demurred.

The chat went on. And on. "What on earth's taking so long?" I asked. "Can't be that unusual.

They agreed.

---

Student girl said she hoped the case wouldn't stretch into next week, as it was the last two weeks of her course, and she wanted to be there. Revenue lady said she should have been at a retirement do this afternoon, but obviously not now. We all agreed that Wayne was intrinsicially unpleasant, and that it was actually intimidating having him and his associates knowing our names and faces. We also agreed that this was a very unsatisfactory jury system. I refrained from mentioning that movie where a juror gets her child kidnapped, but I did tell them about Wayne cavorting and shouting outside the court.

More coffee. Another wee.

Ken, our court official, eventually returned, and shepherded us back. Sheriff looked at us earnestly, almost sorrowfully, I sensed. His grey curly wig looked just so right on his head. You wondered if he wore women's knickers, like judges are reputed to enjoy.

He told us there were strict rules about what a jury can and cannot hear, and whilst sometimes you can continue with fourteen jurors, in this case he felt it safer to discharge us, and we were free to go.

HONOURABLE DISCHARGE

Outside in the unblinking sun we said our goodbyes. "Nice chatting," I offererd round. And then back into the street through the scum and scumettes at the gates, smoking.

Wayne the accused was no doubt set free until another trial date. Michael the badly connected juror was negotiating his book rights. Me I wandered aimlessly back through the touristy streets to the bingo. Justice was done - or at least my contribution.

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."