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http://www.stewart-kirkpatrick.com
And 'mon the Hibs!
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http://www.stewart-kirkpatrick.com
And 'mon the Hibs!
Recent front page messages:
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Best answers to questions:
» Helicopter Parents
Talking Ted
In their very young primary school years, my kids' class had a toy bear that would be sent home with a lucky bairn. "Talking Ted" had a diary where said kid could detail what they did with their weekend.
It all started innocently enough: a stick drawing and "we goed to teh swings". But then the pushy parents got in on the act.
First of all, Talking Ted stopped watching *any* telly. Instead he went for lots of bike rides. His writing dramatically improved, he started typing and he covered several pages with his accounts. He stopped drawing with crayon and then indulged in long photo essays. Ted started doing lots of arts and crafts, going to Italian lessons and planting lollo rosso in the family's organic vegetable patch. He took up the cello, ballet, rugby and improvisational theatre.
Someone had to draw a line in the sand. When he came to our house, he went to see Hibs play. He had a pie.
(Mon 14th Sep 2009, 14:40, More)
Talking Ted
In their very young primary school years, my kids' class had a toy bear that would be sent home with a lucky bairn. "Talking Ted" had a diary where said kid could detail what they did with their weekend.
It all started innocently enough: a stick drawing and "we goed to teh swings". But then the pushy parents got in on the act.
First of all, Talking Ted stopped watching *any* telly. Instead he went for lots of bike rides. His writing dramatically improved, he started typing and he covered several pages with his accounts. He stopped drawing with crayon and then indulged in long photo essays. Ted started doing lots of arts and crafts, going to Italian lessons and planting lollo rosso in the family's organic vegetable patch. He took up the cello, ballet, rugby and improvisational theatre.
Someone had to draw a line in the sand. When he came to our house, he went to see Hibs play. He had a pie.
(Mon 14th Sep 2009, 14:40, More)
» We have to talk
Classic "we need to talk" gag
HER SIDE OF THE STORY
He was in an odd mood Saturday night. We planned to meet at a pub for a drink. I spent the afternoon shopping with the girls and I thought it might have been my fault because I was a bit later than I promised, but he didn't say anything much about it. The conversation was very slow going so I thought we should go off somewhere more intimate so we could talk more privately. We went to this restaurant and he was STILL acting a bit funny.Tried to cheer him up and started to wonder whether it was me or something else. I asked him, and he said no. But I wasn't really sure. So anyway, in the car on the way back home, I said that I loved him deeply and he just put his arm around me.I didn't know what the hell that meant because you knowhe didn't say it back or anything, this is really worrying me. We finally got back home and I was wondering if he was going to leave me! So, saying "we need to talk" I tried to get him to engage with me but he just switched on the TV,and sat with a distant look in his eyes that seemed to say it's all over between us. Reluctantly, I said I was going to go to bed. Then after about 10 minutes, he joined me and to my surprise, he responded to my advances and we made love. But, he still seemed really distracted, so afterwards I just wanted to confront him but I just cried myself to sleep. I just don't know where I stand and I don't know what to do anymore. I mean, I really think he's seeing someone else and that my life is a disaster.
HIS SIDE OF THE STORY
Hibs lost. Got a shag though.
(Fri 20th Apr 2007, 14:55, More)
Classic "we need to talk" gag
HER SIDE OF THE STORY
He was in an odd mood Saturday night. We planned to meet at a pub for a drink. I spent the afternoon shopping with the girls and I thought it might have been my fault because I was a bit later than I promised, but he didn't say anything much about it. The conversation was very slow going so I thought we should go off somewhere more intimate so we could talk more privately. We went to this restaurant and he was STILL acting a bit funny.Tried to cheer him up and started to wonder whether it was me or something else. I asked him, and he said no. But I wasn't really sure. So anyway, in the car on the way back home, I said that I loved him deeply and he just put his arm around me.I didn't know what the hell that meant because you knowhe didn't say it back or anything, this is really worrying me. We finally got back home and I was wondering if he was going to leave me! So, saying "we need to talk" I tried to get him to engage with me but he just switched on the TV,and sat with a distant look in his eyes that seemed to say it's all over between us. Reluctantly, I said I was going to go to bed. Then after about 10 minutes, he joined me and to my surprise, he responded to my advances and we made love. But, he still seemed really distracted, so afterwards I just wanted to confront him but I just cried myself to sleep. I just don't know where I stand and I don't know what to do anymore. I mean, I really think he's seeing someone else and that my life is a disaster.
HIS SIDE OF THE STORY
Hibs lost. Got a shag though.
(Fri 20th Apr 2007, 14:55, More)
» Well, that taught 'em
It burnsssssss ussss
I went on a stag night with a bunch of rugby lads. (I know, I know). They'd asked me to arrange a nice curry house. But what they actually wanted was not a "nice curry house" but a "deserted wipe-clean soundproofed warzone".
Why do rugby lads feel the need to get naked when they drink? I drink. I drink a lot. I've done many, many regrettable things when drunk but I have never ever feel the need to get my kit off in a public place. And why do drunken rugby lads like playing with each other's genitals? Why?
Anyway, these bladdered yahoos start terrorising the very polite, very efficient restaurant staff. Shouting, swearing, getting naked (why???) and waving their knobs about. Mercifully, we were screened from the rest of the diners by a growing human screen of very serious-looking Asian gentlement. One rugger bugger in particular was having great fun dunking his bollocks in things: beer, water, yoghurt, rice.
He then decided to rub the sensitive flesh of his "his meat and two veg" with his curry. He was eating vindaloo.
Oh my, did he quickly realise the error of his ways! He started shouting for water. But, mysteriously, all the staff had disappeared. His calls became more insistent but still there was not a waiter to be seen. Then he started to become polite, asking "please" for some water - but there was nobody to hear his requests. Even after the sobbing began.It was almost eerie. Having hovered over us for the entire meal, the waiters left us alone for a good 15 minutes so this guy could stew in his own juices.
Length? Dear me no, it was really fiery vindaloo.
(Tue 1st May 2007, 12:22, More)
It burnsssssss ussss
I went on a stag night with a bunch of rugby lads. (I know, I know). They'd asked me to arrange a nice curry house. But what they actually wanted was not a "nice curry house" but a "deserted wipe-clean soundproofed warzone".
Why do rugby lads feel the need to get naked when they drink? I drink. I drink a lot. I've done many, many regrettable things when drunk but I have never ever feel the need to get my kit off in a public place. And why do drunken rugby lads like playing with each other's genitals? Why?
Anyway, these bladdered yahoos start terrorising the very polite, very efficient restaurant staff. Shouting, swearing, getting naked (why???) and waving their knobs about. Mercifully, we were screened from the rest of the diners by a growing human screen of very serious-looking Asian gentlement. One rugger bugger in particular was having great fun dunking his bollocks in things: beer, water, yoghurt, rice.
He then decided to rub the sensitive flesh of his "his meat and two veg" with his curry. He was eating vindaloo.
Oh my, did he quickly realise the error of his ways! He started shouting for water. But, mysteriously, all the staff had disappeared. His calls became more insistent but still there was not a waiter to be seen. Then he started to become polite, asking "please" for some water - but there was nobody to hear his requests. Even after the sobbing began.It was almost eerie. Having hovered over us for the entire meal, the waiters left us alone for a good 15 minutes so this guy could stew in his own juices.
Length? Dear me no, it was really fiery vindaloo.
(Tue 1st May 2007, 12:22, More)
» Awesome Sickies
How not to do it
Many years and beers and cheers ago a legendary drinker phoned into my work several hours into his shift to say he could not come in that day because he had flu.
They sacked him.
They didn't sack him for the phone call. They sacked him because he had in fact already turned up for the shift completely and utterly stocious. As he could not talk, let alone work, he had been sent home, where he fell into a drunken slumber until he woke up a few hours later and remembered he should be at work. Then he reached for the phone...
Smooth.
(Wed 14th Jun 2006, 15:53, More)
How not to do it
Many years and beers and cheers ago a legendary drinker phoned into my work several hours into his shift to say he could not come in that day because he had flu.
They sacked him.
They didn't sack him for the phone call. They sacked him because he had in fact already turned up for the shift completely and utterly stocious. As he could not talk, let alone work, he had been sent home, where he fell into a drunken slumber until he woke up a few hours later and remembered he should be at work. Then he reached for the phone...
Smooth.
(Wed 14th Jun 2006, 15:53, More)
» Cars
The curse of the smelliest car in Scottish journalism
Long before I started my own newspaper (seriously), I worked for a scuzzy Glescae tabloid. For the attendant pestering of the bereaved, wannabe famous and sexually liberated I required a car.
It was a Honda Civic-shaped curse. Nice enough car but it cost me a fortune (the clutch went, the car got nicked, the insurance was crippling). But the worst thing was the smell. For six months it stank like Saddam Hussein was hiding in the glove box - in his current condition. I had to keep the windows open come rain or rain (this was Glasgow...) I would drive past sewage works and things would smell better. Nobody else would get in my lonely chariot of pong.
I hunted high and low for the source of my torment. Then six months after a hot, hot summer, I had cause to lift the spare wheel (located in the boot) and there, lodged underneath it, almost invisible, was the source of my four-wheeled isolation: a packet of Sainsbury's button mushrooms. All solid matter had long ago corrupted away and contained within was a tiny black pool that was the distillation of all human hate, despair and rectal turpitude. It dripped on my hand and smelled like cancer had been impregnated by catarrh while going airtight with a ripe Vieux Boulogne suffering from dysentery.
I briefly considered making a gift of it to my editor but instead just chucked it. I would have got angry at it for ruining my life for half a year but as a tabloid hack I secretly suspected that it was my conscience...
(Mon 26th Apr 2010, 14:56, More)
The curse of the smelliest car in Scottish journalism
Long before I started my own newspaper (seriously), I worked for a scuzzy Glescae tabloid. For the attendant pestering of the bereaved, wannabe famous and sexually liberated I required a car.
It was a Honda Civic-shaped curse. Nice enough car but it cost me a fortune (the clutch went, the car got nicked, the insurance was crippling). But the worst thing was the smell. For six months it stank like Saddam Hussein was hiding in the glove box - in his current condition. I had to keep the windows open come rain or rain (this was Glasgow...) I would drive past sewage works and things would smell better. Nobody else would get in my lonely chariot of pong.
I hunted high and low for the source of my torment. Then six months after a hot, hot summer, I had cause to lift the spare wheel (located in the boot) and there, lodged underneath it, almost invisible, was the source of my four-wheeled isolation: a packet of Sainsbury's button mushrooms. All solid matter had long ago corrupted away and contained within was a tiny black pool that was the distillation of all human hate, despair and rectal turpitude. It dripped on my hand and smelled like cancer had been impregnated by catarrh while going airtight with a ripe Vieux Boulogne suffering from dysentery.
I briefly considered making a gift of it to my editor but instead just chucked it. I would have got angry at it for ruining my life for half a year but as a tabloid hack I secretly suspected that it was my conscience...
(Mon 26th Apr 2010, 14:56, More)