Sour Alba

Just spent ages trying to get a panel of my picks from Amazon to appear on the blog. No matter what I did, nothing would appear. Wracked my brains for ages and then remembered: I browse with an ad blocker.

Duh!

So if you don’t browse with an ad blocker and are interested in some journo reading, here y’are:

I have just read Arthur MacMillan’s excellent autopsy of the corpse of Scottish newspapers in the British Journalism Review. It is a forensic examination of what’s gone wrong and why there is no hope. And it rightly fingers the muppets and Johnston Press and Gannet who have brought what we laughingly call Scotland’s quality papers to their knees.

However, the article falls into the trap of by implication exonerating Andrew Neil, who is as responsible for the demise of the Hootsmon as the overpromoted local newspaper crowd. While JP has had a massively detrimental effect on the paper and the website, Neil cannot escape blame. Here’s why: [Read more →]

Ah, what a tangled web we we weave when we practise to write silly season stories about things we know little about.

A key danger of being a journalist is writing about a topic when sections of your audience know far more about it than you. This danger is multiplied when you’re flamming up a total non-story.

Sun and Mail hackette Julie Moult knows all about this after scribbling up some desperate nonsense about a photoshopped image of a politician. (Incidentally, the paper used the image without permission despite repeated request by the creator to stop lifting his work). She made several basic errors in the piece - such as describing what had happened as Googlebombing. (My favourite is the fact-box that says the practice of Googlebombing began in the “early 1990s” - a good trick as the Google.com domain was not registered until 1997.) [Read more →]

God bless Biffy Clyro. And may He also bless the audience who watched them at a recent BBC Introducing set at the Reading and Leeds Festival.

The Ayrshire rockers performed a really sweet acoustic cover of Rage Against The Machines “Killing in the name of”. Perhaps due to it being on TV ‘n’ that, the group sang the famed repeating chorus at the end thus: “Ooo-oooo I won’t do you what you tell me.” [Read more →]

Scorned wife offers “used condom wrapper and a photo of the tart’s knickers” on eBay. The product description includes a hilarious account of how the items came into her possession. Key quote: “Sorry love, I’ve been meaning to tell you for years but I am a closet transvestite and [the knickers] are mine.” What a tangled web we weave, etc, etc.

I am now back from my travels to Hong Kong and Oz. In lieu of a proper post, I’ve updated one of my favourite web things:

visited 20 states (8.88%)
Create your own visited map of The World.

Still so much to see…

It’s a long way from Edinburgh to Airlie Beach in Australia, where I am at present. A one-hour flight to London was followed by an 11-hour flight to Hong Kong. Then the cheeky wee ten-hour flight to Sydney was followed by a 90-minute hop to Brisbane which led us nicely to the last hour-and-a-half jet to Proserpine.

Sound far? It’s an even longer way travelling with three small children. But the problem is not the kids (who were great). It’s the twisted band of airborne child hating Nazis who pollute our skies.

You know who you are. The ones who tut and tsk whenever someone under the age of 20 sits within a 15-yard circle of you. Humorless moany-faced misanthropes with faces like a bulldog licking piss of a nettle. I haven’t seen joyless faces that shone so brightly with a hatred of the young since I was at school.

I’ve had enough. I’ve had enough of being cringeingly polite and meekly apologising for my child being a child. I have, therefore, come up with a four-point plan for a parent on the edge (and any parent travelling with children is a parent on the edge).

Phase 1: The appeal to reason. “We were all children once so why not calm down and go back to your duty-free-fuelled fantasies about the air hostesses.”

Phase 2: Sarcasm. “Why, yes, I can keep my toddler quiet. There’s a mute button but I choose not to use it because I find sleep boring.”

Phase 3: The hard truth. “You’re flying Economy on a long-haul flight. If you wanted a good night’s sleep you should have travelled first-class. On a cruise ship. Preferably the Titanic.

Phase 4: Direct action. Ever been curious what the passage from the aircraft loo to the outside of the plane looks like? Well, you’re going to find out. The last thing you will hear is that funny hissing flush followed by a rushing roar of air. But don’t worry, you won’t be alone. To accompany you on your way to your imminent demise 30,000 feet below, you’ll have the chafing distraction of a Thomas The Tank Engine colouring book wedged sideways in your duodenum, hammered into place to the tune of The Wheels On The Bus.

You have been warned.

The stunning events in Glasgow East show that Scottish Labour needs to hurry up and choose its new leader so the new incumbent can be hounded out in the wake of the party’s shaming defeat.

I was pleased to learn that career mass war criminal (allegedly) Radovan Karadzic has finally been brought to book. There aren’t many laughs to be had out of the Balkan conflicts but I was tickled to hear that the former leader of the Serbian Republic of Bosnia and Hercegovina had been living in secret as an alternative healer.

Can you imagine having your chakras realigned by that guy?

“Hi there, I’ve been having trouble with my sciatica.”

“Well, I would recommend a combination of treatments. Chiropracty, hopi ear candles and rounding up all males over the age of 15 and dumping their bodies in a mass grave for the glory of Greater Serbia.”

Finally, a shout out to Goran Kojic who is officially the journo with the worst news sense in Europe. As editor the Belgrade magazine Healthy Life, he commissioned pieces from one of the most wanted men in the world without every clocking that Karadzic was anything other than your run of the mill tea tree hugger.