Farty's Friday Chart

A nice simple one for a change. Definitely a song title this time.



Name that tune.

Wedding Way Out West

West of Embra, at any rate.

The groom had earlier said that he was planning to wear the kilt, not to the service but to the reception afterwards as a wee surprise for his bride. "Oh, really? And what's the tartan?" asked Mr Farty in all innocence.

"Och, she'll be wearin' a white dress," he winked.

***

It was a warm day as the sun valiantly attempted to break through the dense barrier of Scotch mist. Guests were congregating around the church, chattering animatedly as the ladies compared handbags and hats, while the menfolk debated the much more meaty matter of the price of a pint.

Red Hat Lady

Eventually, everyone trooped inside the kirk and picked their positions in the pews. The bride arrived fashionably late, looking radiant in her thigh-length wedding dress.

"Haud on a minute," she explained, "Ah've jist got tae finish feedin' the
wean." Shortly the infant was unplugged from her breast and thrust into the arms of a rather surprised looking matron at the back of the church. "Mind this fer a minute woodje?"

"Do you -"
"Aye!"
"And do you -"
"Aye!"
"Right. Let's get tae the bevy."

Refreshing

Invisabul Dawg

There's nothing like a long-lens camera for catching innocent moments like this one. (Little tykes refused to pose for their pictures.)
Flower Girls

Red Hat Lady veered into view. "Mr F," she declared. "You're a guid photographer." It was a statement rather than a question. Mr Farty nodded in acknowledgement and she went on. "The bride's wearing a garter," she explained, "but naebody has taken her foty with it yet. Ah was jist wondering if you might be prepared - no, dinnae fash yersel, I'll see tae it that nae charges are pressed this time. Jist dinnae drool too much. And keep both hands on the camera. And fer feck's sake try tae keep yer sporran on."

Garter Girl and Groom

The father of the bride demonstrated the Highland Stagger. Christ, in two years that'll be me, then, thought Mr Farty.
Highland Fling

Talking of which, Little Miss Farty and her beau were also in attendance. "Be careful no tae get mah feet in the foto," she warned. "Ah'm no wearin' mah shoes!"
Young Love

Being the soul of discretion, Mr Farty cropped his daughter's feet out of the picture. See?
What's Afoot?

Tattoos - the ultimate fashion accessory. Mr Farty was sooooooooo tempted to airbrush this one out.
Hot or Not?

There's something magical about a wedding. Innit?
Mr & Mrs

A Brief History Of Scotchland - Part 5

Embra Castle: originally built way back in 2002 to host a "gig" by Russian fake lesbian pop duo Tattoo.



Oopsy. That should of course read, The Embra Military Tatu.
Note: To see The Embra Tattoo and the concurrent Embra Festival and Embra Fridge, it is advisable to visit Embra.



The Castle Esplanade was added as an afterthought, to fleece tourists provide shelter for the Heelanders and their coos and sheep and that, from any attacking Vikings, Weegies or English (boo!).



It also makes a handy place to stick 8500 screaming Girls Aloud fans.



There were no less than three warm-up acts, but Mr Farty didn't mind, he just checked out his favourite blogs blog on the moby to while away the time until Heaven on Earth happened.



No, Mr Farty didn't take his camera with him. He just wanted to soak up the atmosphere.

There was ♥♥♥Nadine Coyle♥♥♥, and, er, the blonde one. And the redhead with the really pale skin. And that one that's married to a footballer. She was in that William video. And the other one.

Together? They.Were.Ace.

Here endeth today's lesson.

Farty's Friday Chart

Stupidest song lyric ever, IMHO. Unless you know better, of course.

Farty's Funetic Alphabet

Soo. A while ago, a friend told me he was compiling a non-phonetic alphabet. As in, like the Phonetic Alphabet, but instead of Foxtrot Tango and that, none of his words actually sounded like they started with their initial letters. O=Onion, P=Pterodactyl, that kind of thing.

I never heard any more of it, and anyway it sounds too much like hard work. Here's what I dreamed up instead. None of my words even contains the corresponding letter, but I'm sure it all makes sense. *cough*

A Fonzie
B Honey
C Rap
D Minor
E Farm
F King
G Whizz
H Steps
I Pod
J SpliffLeno
K Memory
L Damnation
M Tea
N Party
O Dear
P Shower
Q Toilet
R Doubloons
S Bend
T Cake
U Tube
V Neck
W Clone
X Men
Y Not
Z Nap

If you ask nicely, I'll explain any one that's confusing you.

Stereogram #2

At last Farty's hydrangea has come into bloom. Click to enlarge if you just like pretty flowers, or try that crossing/uncrossing your eyes thing on the small version to see the stereo image. About four inches wide at arm's length works best for me; try concentrating on the bloom just left of bottom centre.

News Drought

I was going to write a post about Father Ted being arrested for war crimes, but NewsBiscuit beat me to it, curse them!

And there isn't any other news, really. Except that Glasgow has come top of the Scotch licence dodgers' league. They prefer to splash out on expensive flat-screen TVs than spend money on a mandatory licence. Mind you, that does look impressive, don't you think?

The back view? Not so great.


Princess Camilla of Horseface was slated this month when she was spotted with a Golliwog in her car boot. It's a doll, FFS! I picked up one of these (only far, far better crafted) in Jo'burg airport and gave it to a black lady friend, Rachael Piggot. She adored it.

Chanteuse Amy Whinehouse has been tipped to play the next Dr Who. She's halfway there already, that sure as hell ain't human blood pumping through her veins and feck knows what planet she lives on.


And finally, sport. Celtic football club are looking to sign Romanian defender Gabriela Cheeky. Or was it Monika? All these footballers look the same to me, sigh.

Toot toot!

Indescribable

"It was a terrible, indescribable thing vaster than any subway train – a shapeless congerie of protoplasmic bubbles, faintly self-luminous, and with myriads of temporary eyes forming and un-forming as pustules of greenish light all over the tunnel-filling front that bore down upon us, crushing the frantic penguins and slithering over the glistening floor that it and its kind had swept so evilly free of all litter."
—H. P. Lovecraft



Have you ever seen something which literally defied description? I have.

It started out quite normally. A new girl had arrived in the Nodnol office; let's call her Laura. She was hella good at her job, but that's not what caught my attention. And what with those being the days of steam radio, before Al Gore invented t'internet, it certainly wasn't her appearance; I had no idea what she looked like. But I could figure it out from her voice.

Laura came from the Republic of Oireland, where leprechauns still leave crocks of gold at the end of the rainbow. Where the grass truly is greener. Ah, to hear her talk about her home town, 'twas a marvellous place indeed. Did you know, for example, that the Oirish had Clones long before Professor Wilmut stopped shagging sheep long enough to make a copy of one? (Fer feck's sake, why? Why make an identical copy of an animal from a species famous for looking exactly the same as each other?)

I digress. I used to phone Laura for the odd chat, and while she told me about the wonders of the Emerald Isle, I would listen to her silky-smooth voice, like Baileys Oirish Cream on the rocks, and build up a mental image of her. Let's see.

From the bottom up:
Impossibly high heels, definately FM shoes by anyone's standard.
Long, smooth, tanned legs going all the way up to her chin.
Tights Stockings with the tops just peeping out from under...
A really, really short skirt.
Bit of midriff showing. Slim waist, possibly a pierced belly-button. With an emerald in it.
Some kind of flimsy blouse revealing more than it covered.
Lots of cleavage.
Arms bare except for perhaps a fashionable bangle.
Long fingernails, highly varnished and bright crimson...
To match her glossy lipstick...
And long, flowing red hair, cascading down over her shoulders.
Flashing green eyes. (Can redheads even have green eyes?)
Blindingly white, perfect teeth.
A nose like a ski slope.

Nothing special, just a cross between Nadine off Girls Aloud and Jessica off Roger Rabbit.





All the blokes in Embra fancied her something rotten, so imagine my surprise and delight when she casually dropped into the conversation that some new piece of software was due to be installed, some kind of flexible rattlesnake, and she would have to come up to Embra to explain it to us geeks. As geek-in-chief, I was to get a one-hour session all to myself.

Really, really should have exchanged photos first.

The big day arrived. I spramped myself up, clean shirt, new tie, cut a couple of feet off the end of my beard, turned my underpants inside out. Checked the mirror - OMG I'm gorgeous! Off to work.

The phone call came - "someone in reception for you." Oh boyohboyohboy!

Looked around reception. And around again. Finally, an angelic voice came from somewhere near my waist: "Yew most be Fartee. Oim Laura. Hi."

My eyes tried to focus, but all I could see was a short, vaguely female shape dressed in tweed. I introduced myself and led her off to my lair desk. An hour later, we said our goodbyes and off she went to her next meeting. And an hour after that, I'd completely forgotten what she looked like.

The next time we spoke on the phone again, she was, of course, fantastic. Literally.

Am I a bad person?

Wheel of Falkirk Part 2

So where were we? Oh, yes. At the end of the yellow brick road. But the wizard of Oz was out, so on we went...

Suddenly, everything went dark.


It turned out that the light at the end of the tunnel was an oncoming boat.


When we emerged from the other end, it appeared that we weren't in Kansas anymore.


At first glance, it looked as if we'd run out of canal.


In a sense, we had. For we had reached [cue dramatic music] The Wheel Of Falkirk!!!


Better known as The Falkirk Wheel.


"Well, that was nice", said Mrs Farty. "Now where's the café?"

Just as we were sitting down with our tea and scones, I glanced out of the window.

"Holy crap, a flying boat!!!"


"The brochure said something about gondolas," said Mrs Farty without batting an eyelid, as another behemoth dropped past us.


<science bit>
"Yes, apparently that's what they call the buckets that carry the boats. As one gondola goes up with its cargo, another comes down. It's all so finely balanced that it only takes the power of an electric kettle to drive it. And at five minutes from start to finish, it's much faster than the eleven locks that used to connect the Union Canal to the Forth and Clyde Canal, which leads to nothing of interest except maybe Glasgow."
</science bit>

What do you want, a 25-second video? *sigh* Very well...


Then we went for a poke around the shop before heading home. Luckily, we didn't get caught in a traffic jam.

Farty's Friday Chart

I don't think I've done a flow chart since the 1970s. However, this cut-down version doesn't fit too badly with the song. Can you name that tune?

Lies, Damned Lies and Wetherspoons

I wonder why I get so many visits from perverts? It's not as if I'm forever banging on about pounding, drilling, asian babes, hardcore and that.





It's like you can't believe anything you read on the intertubes anymore. Why, just today as our bus circled the Lizzie Brice roundabout in Livingston, I wondered WTF is/was Lizzie Brice? So I googled her and found that she was burned at the stake as the last witch in Scotchland. She died of old age in 1865 aged 89, so there wouldn't have been much to burn.

Oh, but hang on. The last witch in Scotland was burned at the stake in 1722. Or possibly in 1657. Or in 1727. Or what about Helen Duncan, who was convicted of witchcraft in 1944? That's the thing about witches, they won't stay dead.

The reason we were in Livingston was to visit our Eldest Grandson. Had a nice meal, went for a wander round the shops. Nipped into Wetherspoons to get a cup of tea, a capperchi capuch another cup of tea and a Coke. Well, I went inside while Mrs F sat outside with EG. "Is one of your party under 18?" asked the snooty barman.

"Er, yes, but what's that got to do with it? I'm not buying alcohol after all."

"Doesn't matter, the law says that because these are licensed premises, if one of you is under 18 then I can only serve you if you're buying at least one meal."

Aye, right. So we went next door to the licensed Chicago Rock Cafe, with EG in tow, walked up to the bar and bought our drinks with no trouble whatsoever.

Funny, that.

Stay tuned for Farty's Friday Chart, coming your way in just over half an hour. I'm off to watch Charlotte Church.

Toot toot!

Wheel of Falkirk Part 1

Mr Farty has been on a field trip carrying out some basic research for his blog. Or perhaps he just had a day out with Mrs Farty. And his S5000.

At first there was nothing to see but scenery.


Thankfully, before long they chanced upon...more scenery.


Just when they felt they couldn't bear the excitement for another moment, they stumbled upon a pair of kids, engrossed in the thrill of fishing.


Glancing down, Mrs Farty exclaimed: "Jings! Thistles!"


Glancing up, Mr Farty remarked: "Crivvens! Raspberries!"


As they reached a canal lock, Mr Farty wondered where they kept the key?


"Perhaps it's in that little house," replied Mrs Farty.


(to be continued)