Bad phone day

Good evening Lums, actually, when does evening become morning its 20minutes after midnight, it seems too early to say good morning, good night sounds like I'm retiring to bed with my candle and Willie Winkie cap?

I have seriously fallen out of love with my HTC Desire Android mobile phone.

Its taken almost exactly a year. It hasn't been a sudden fracture, its been building. I've grown increasingly unhappy with its behaviour and its fickle attitude. It has shown me a side of it I couldn't have imagined during the months long honeymoon period even when it was leaving my stranded at midnight with no way home, but now I'm exasperated, lets list.

Unavailable data feeds, it is always claiming Facebook is unplugged or something, I mean , come on?

Unreliable memory card, which is a pain if you see something you want to take a picture of, but the memory card has went AWOL, even though I know its right where it should be, its just lazy. The Virgin Network is feeble, how is it I see loads of folk happily phoning, texting and tweetering on the tube with their bloody i-hypes but as soon as I walk under the bough of a tree or into a shadow I lose any signal, pathetic. About a week ago it gave up synching with my Gmail account, meaning I cant see my busy social diary, I've missed so many champagne receptions and Gok Wan parties as a result, no , not really, but I could have. I thought if I just deleted my account and loaded it again, that would sort that, its a favoured technique of the IT professional, but it wont let me without returning the phone to just out the box status. I cant access Twitter, actually I cant remember my password but this phone should have anticipated that and Friend Stream has stopped streaming, seriously compromising my 24/7 connectivity with the brotherhood of man.

Bloody Steve Jobs and his glittery shiny things, I'm beginning to covet them.

I was at a seminar today, an invite came winging my way because of the job I'm doing, you know, the big sports day in a couple of years. Why don't they have an Olympic egg and spoon race anyway, a three-legged egg and spoon race, over 400 metres, that would be good wouldn't it? I had an idea after watching The Biggest Loser for The Obesity Games, where only morbidly fat folk would compete in all the Olympic sports. The Americans would love that, hoovering up all the medals, we could make them chocolate ones to get them to try harder.

It was full of boffins and as one speaker described a couple of delegates, information security rock stars. They didn't look like rock stars.

There really is nothing funnier than technical geeky boffins being funny, well, when I say that, I probably mean unfunnier, forget the probably, I definitely do mean unfunny, sorry, that should be UNFUNNY!!

I heard the same in-joke 3 times in 3 separate presentations, strap yourself in, here it comes...Les Rogge, the famous (??? I'd never heard of him) Gentleman Bank Robber when arrested was asked why he had resorted to robbing banks (cue, 2 second pause to set up the punch-line) he replied (another, shorter pause) "Because that's where the money was". A polite "ahem" as somebody cleared their throat, it might have been me and a very gentle sonic wave of appreciation that presented itself as a kind of collective sigh. And that was the first time we heard it.

But, I tell you what, these guys love their stuff, the technical kernel sized granularity of networks and computering. For someone like me, that wonders why electricity doesn't leak all over the floor when I unplug something, its a bit confusing. In fact, I think I may have audio-dyslexia. I can see their lips moving, and it sounds like English, but all I hear is BLAH, BLAH, BLAH.

I did hear one fella though, and this is class, maybe he had a bet on with his pals to say it or something, but when highlighting an oversight of the organisers in some minor trifling matter, he called it a , this is brilliant, a cognitive discombobulation. Another highlight was a guy from Interpol or somewhere making a point by splitting a great big bag of rice with a Stanley knife, spilling slippy slidey basmati rice all over the stage, those crazhy Dutschhh.

Lang May Yer Lum Reek.

And there will be no BEVVEYING

My lum is fair reeking,

I enjoy writing this little blog, it is of course not going to win any Pulitzer prizes but I have a bit of fun doing it and to be honest, it gives me something to think about. But any kicks I get from it are multiplied ten fold when someone leaves a little comment, so thanks to Mr Michael R and any one else that has over the past few months. At the very least it lets me know someone reads it from time to time, but to think it motivates a person to think and then do something with that thought is really quite thrilling.

Its been three months or so with my anti-apple HTC Desire Android phone, so I think a user update will be of public service, and you never know, if someone from HTC or Google reads it, they might leave a comment too, though in this particular instance, free stuff would be better. Lets get one thing out the way first, I love it. Even in the face of that i-phone 4 and its "this changes everything, again" advertising slogan. Well, they got that right, it has changed everything, now we know Apple can make an arse of things too, and perhaps they are not all cloned geniuses.

Anyway, back to the HTC. I love the Apps, though a little too many of those useless novelty apps beginning to sneak into the store, Google apps are generally brilliant and well thought out and easy to use. I'm loving Latitude, though I've only got one pal listed on it, still it will tell me when we're close by, and we can wave across the road at each other and text hello. Speaking of texting, the only little gripe I have is about predictive text. On numerous occasions i have sent away a message, placing perfect trust in the predictive numskulls inside my handset, only to look at it later and think, It must be like receiving a message from the policeman in Allo, Allo. The other little negative stoking my lum is the battery life, it lasts a day, but not with bluetooth, or Wi-Fi on. But all in all, I like it and would recommend it to anyone.

Jimmy Reid passed away today. Most I expect wont really have noticed, or even know who I'm talking about but he was perhaps one of the most admirable Scotsmen of the last 50 years.

Back in the early 70s, when the nationalised shipbuilding yards of the upper Clyde were threatened with closure he led a very unusual, and very successful industrial action that had Scottish socialism and Scottish pragmatism stamped all over it.

Instead of organising a strike, or a sit in, or a go slow, or a work to rule, all those ultimately destructive and confrontational actions that went so far later in the decade to crippling the UK's manufacturing capacity, he led a work in.

He knew that if he led the workers out the yard, they would lock the gates and that would be that, what Jimmy Reid argued was that the yards were viable, and they were mistaken in wanting to close them and he set out to show them that the Scottish working man could do just that in an inspiring and disciplined way.

As shop steward he addressed the thousands of at risk shipbuilders, it was televised and went on to be broadcast around the world. I was too young to remember it at the time, but even years later I was still aware of it, and I think its this more than any other thing that has left a slight socialist mark on me, one that I'm pleased with, even proud of in this day and age. So, he stands up in front of these hard arsed welders and grafters to tell them what the union was going to do.

"We are not going on strike. We are not even having a sit-in strike. Nobody and nothing will come in and nothing will go out without our permission. And there will be no hooliganism, there will be no vandalism and there will be no bevveying, because the world is watching us"

And it worked, the government relented, changed their plans and some say the only reason there are still ships built in Govan and Scotstoun today is because of what Jimmy Reid inspired and the positive action he led the people to take.

In some ways he filled a very Scottish brief, working class, from humble beginnings, rooted in the poverty of pre-war industrial Glasgow, but a man who learns, expresses himself intellectually for the common good of the put upon, going on to become one of our finest journalists, broadcasters and even philosphers, yet never forgetting why.

I've nicked a piece from the BBC website tonight, in an unprecedented step for the Reeking Lum, I'll paste it below, hopefully because I've paid my TV licence I'm entitled too, it paints a little colour of what went on in Govan in 1971. Apologies for the multitude of fonts.

RIP Jimmy Reid, lang may yer lum reek.

Jimmy Reid brought the British Government's attention to the Scottish shipbuilding industry by organising a work-in of the Upper Clyde Shipbuilders in 1971.

The communist shop-steward helped to reverse the decision of the British Government to close the ship yards. Edward Heath took a U-turn and announced a £35 million injection of cash into the yards at Govan, Scotstoun and Linthouse.

Within three years, shipbuilding on the Upper Clyde had received around £101 million of public grants and credits, with £20 million going to the UCS.

In a revealing interview to the BBC programme UK Confidential, Reid explains how he gained support for his cause from celebrities such as John Lennon and how he went about organising the campaign.

Why did you go for the work-in in 1971?

8,500 jobs in the yard were at stake with the closure of UCS

Because it was the only logical effective form of opposition to closure. Strike action was unthinkable, we would have left the factory, the yards and that would have delighted the government because they would have put padlocks on the gates. So that was out.

We did consider a second strike but I reckon it was far too negative that, and we had an enormous order book, plenty of work and the logical thing was, why don't we work-in, refuse to accept redundancy and work.

It seems to me talking to former government ministers from that time, you really surprised the government with what you did. Did you really expect to surprise them as much as you did?
Yes I've no doubt that the form of the struggle that we had adopted took everything, everyone aback, and not only that but the way we elucidated, we explained our case. For example when asked; "what if the police came in, what are you going to do?" We won't resist, we are not violent, they will need to come and drag us out. We would only resist in that respect.
You're talking about eight thousand workers, overwhelmingly family men with kids.
This was an image that I think the chief constables told the government that they couldn't guarantee that their members, that is the policemen, would carry that out, because it would alienate the whole community.

Why did you not buy the government's argument that - and I'm just putting their argument, they said, this is not commercially viable?
Their case was untrue. The facts didn't tally.
We had agreements we had reached about the interchangeability of certain work grades and all the rest of it that were quite significantly ahead of anything else in British shipbuilding, and so we had these things going.
Now the truth of the matter is, as the Ridley report clearly shows, this was Nicholas Ridley in the opposition. He had produced this report, secret, confidential, and it suggested a number in the shadow Cabinet including Heath and Margaret Thatcher who was a minister at the time, saying, we should butcher the Upper Clyde and sell its assets cheaply to those in the Lower Clyde.
The significant difference was that the Upper Clyde was publicly owned, and the Lower Clyde was privately owned.
And Ridley as we all now know, and everyone knows but we knew it at the time, was a Thatcherite before the term was coined. And that's why when you look back to these times, we had been sacrificed at the altar of a political ideology. It was a political ideology of Thatcherism before Margaret Thatcher embraced it.
Now you received support from across the world and I believe that one of the people you received support from was somebody you thought was a revolutionary. Can you tell me that story?
Yes we had a press conference. So you get this crowded press room and they're answering the questions and some of the stewards that were guarding the gate as it were, I don't mean guarding in any sense except making sure what was going on and what was going out was acceptable.

John Lennon supported the workers

So they come in and they said: "Hey Jimmy you've got a big wagon wheel out there of roses for you". I'd never received flowers from anybody, not the done thing in Clydeside for a man to get flowers and so I said: "Who's it from?" He says: "I don't know but there's a cheque here," and he looked and all he could see was Lennon, L-e-n-n-o-n. He said: "Lennon, some guy called Lennon".
One of the old communist shop stewards from Dumbarton, he says, "it cannae be Lenin, he's dead".

That's amazing, having pop stars supporting your campaign.
Well not only pop stars. It was people in the entertainment industry in general.
I think Jack Bruce came out of retirement to give a concert for us in London and Eric Clapton.
So stars together, put on a show for us in Glasgow, it was like a royal command performance, all coming and queuing.
But that's less important than the weekly contributions and children having little jumble sales at street corners and churches.
Believe it or not we actually got regular contributions from a Conservative party constituency association that thought we were right and the government was wrong and the money poured in, and then from abroad, all over Europe.

The Mos Eisley Mardi Gras

The Monday Reek

Howay Lums, less than a week to go before my exile across the border begins and I'm beginning to feel like Steve McQueen on that boat in Papillon especially as I have no idea where I'll be living yet, or indeed what I'll be living in. A cardboard box, a wheely bin, a bus shelter, I have many options in my price range. I have a phone call on Monday to set the relocation agents scurrying across the metropolis looking for that elusive penthouse loft conversion with river views and only 5 minutes from work, I think it may be a tall order as I have specifically stated that I am not willing to sleep with any cash rich old Arabs or murder and assume anyones identity.

Back to the weekend though and I have to say, it started off with some real rock'n'roll on Friday night with my attendance at the end of season curling club dinner. It was in quite grand surroundings of Kincaid House in the nearby village of Milton of Campsie and possibly because of that, I was instructed to wear slacks. Now, I don't think anyone under fifty has ever worn slacks, or even I suspect, know what slacks are, so I played it safe, wearing a grey suit and subdued tie. Not that I am fond of exuberant ties and novelty ties should, whenever they are spotted around some knobs throat, be jammed in the doors of train carriages, just as they are leaving the station.

So the dinner went well and then the bombshell, with the revelation that everyone around the table was expected to stand up and tell a funny story or something. My curling colleague to my right then produced a notepad with four or five pages of jokes. The only rule, apart from the one ordering us to tell a humorous story was that it should be clean and free from profanity. The first old fella got up and told a joke about a bus conductress. This was topical stuff I thought, my Gran was a bus conductress until they got rid of them all in 1972. The story took an unexpected turn that ended with the bus conductress hanging her open legs out the back of the bus because the driver had had mustard on his sandwiches.

Frankie Boyle can sleep easy I think but after that there was a definite awkward silence only punctuated by fake appreciative mumblings, until my note padded chum thought he would take up the running with his researched efforts. It was car crash comedy, there may be some cancers that are funnier than the offerings he served up. Thanks for trying isn't what you want to hear when you have finished your little piece, no matter how well meaning it is. Another, longer, stagnant silence. Then I entered, stage left.

I still believed at this point that we all had to do it and we were going to be there all night waiting for all these old jokes and stories to be drawn like a lanced boil out their heads so tried to think of something to say that could be made to sound remotely entertaining. So off I went, telling the true story of how my very first boss when I started working in the distillery at Cambus used to say the fish he caught last night was so big, he "used its een fir curlin stanes" (een = eyes about 500 years ago in Central Scotland). That got a little spontaneous laugh, I think it was the way I told it, so on I ploughed with another of his tall tales. "Last night the coal board were roond at ma hoose, they werny happy wi ma gairden, there tellin me to stop growing ma carrots because ther knocking aw the miners helmets aff ". Another little laughter burst, but then I did over cook the accent a bit, still, you have to remember the audience and mine were all almost over 105. I like to think that it was too hard to follow so nobody tried and we wrapped up the evening on that hilarious note, though maybe I may have inadvertently loaded the straw that finally broke the camels back of the audiences appetite for funny curling stories.

Saturday and still no car for the weekly visit to see the children and this Saturday has brought an added complication because my bubble headed daughter had left her jacket in a shop in town and I, because I only live 10 miles away from it in the opposite direction could just nip in and get it. Of course I can sweetheart I said and off I went to catch a bus to town then a train to Alloa. Incident free and the weather was gorgeous so it was actually all quite pleasant being moved about the country with minimal effort. Sorry did I say incident free, I meant a total balls up. I went to the wrong shop, thereby asking the wrong shop assistant to retrieve from the wrong lost property bucket, the wrong jacket. It was the right colour, and material so I think its an easy mistake to make, especially if you discount its tiny tiny size that would hardly fit a 10 rear old, never mind my 16 near 17 year old woman-child.

Alloa with the sun out. The temptation to expose as much flesh to the sun as possible cannot be resisted by the fine folk of Alloa. Acres of wobbly blue white skin, a scrabble bag of indian ink tattoos anywhere within reach of their right hand, normally the lower left arm, where mum will be lovingly etched or perhaps, dad. At least most of them are spelled correctly. Faded baggy vest tops, hurriedly pulled from the suitcase from last years holiday and the obligatory tracky bottoms. I suspect these and the lovely grey marl sweatpants are worn purely because of the effort it saves, what with having no buttons or zips to bother about, all that fastening is just a hassle we can do with out.

Maybe it was because it was the finest day of the year so far, and right bang in the middle of the Easter holidays to boot, but Alloa resembled some alternative universe Miami South Beach or The Mos Eisley Mardi Gras. After 15 minutes of course, the skin isn't pasty white, its taking on tones. Not tones of bronze and rich dark tan though, oh no, tones of blotchy pink, like a tiger prawn with a well skelped arse. If you look hard enough, if you can that is, sometimes you can see shapes like the way you can on the surface of the moon. The blotches are trying to spell out a message perhaps, HELP, probably.

Still, a good thing about Alloa is the number of Bookies there are in town means virtually everyone has one each so none of them are very busy, even on Grand National Day. I manage to get the bets on, with the normal scatter gun science that has proved so fruitless in the past 30 or so years and settle down to watch the race with No1 Daughter. Clare Balding is looking well, in a manly kind of way but who is that resident BBC bookie. Some fat cockney that looks like he should be selling meat pies in Albert Sq, a gangsta butcha. Big hand for the horse that just decided, after being pampered like a premiership footballer, fed all the best oats, put up in the cosiest of stables and driven around in the finest horseboxes, that he just didn't fancy it and stayed on the start line when all the others were mindlessly tearing off to their uncertain destiny.

I used to smoke, I haven't for well over a year now and when I think of the money it used to cost, I'm even more happy I have managed to cut it out, but it does make it easy for me to justify spending money on DVDs. But honestly, when you see The Thing for £2 in Asda, its more of a crime not to buy it and for less than a packet of ten fags.

Sunday and I'm in Love. In love with a mobile phone I spotted in the window of a Virgin Media Shop. The HTC Desire, its a bit of a poncy name, but it could just as easily been called the HTC 5dollaifuckyoulongtimeyankeeboy for the allure that it gave off on first sight. So I immediately signed up for a two year relationship with the thing, lets see how we get on.

Lang may yer lum reek