My Favourite Despot

Do you find politics a bit dull?
Are the leaders just too grey and boring for your liking?

Then maybe you should consider a move to beautiful Turkmenistan! Here, the inspired leadership of Saparmurat Niyazov (or Turkmenbashi to we mere mortals) will liven up your life, and with a cabinet reshuffle and high-level sacking on a virtual daily basis, there's never a dull moment!

Not convinced yet? Well how about this:



Yes, it's a gold statue of Niyazov, which rotates to ensure that he is always facing the sun!

Or maybe this will sway you:

Opera and ballet banned due to being being "unnecessary"!

Lip-synching and recorded music banned!

Gold teeth banned, long hair and beards in young men discouraged!

The "ages of man" redefined, and the months renamed!

National celebrations for "Melon Day"!

Hospitals outwith the capital closed!


Ice palace planned for middle of desert!

Driving test revised to include section on Niyazov's book of "spiritual" sayings!

Said book blasted into space!

And best of all:

He writes poetry!

Truly an inspiration to us all, I'm sure you'll agree. I'm off to buy me a one-way ticket to Turkmenistan!

Betsie's Pantheon of Greatness

The first of an occasional series

Myrna Loy



One half of the best screen couple ever - with William Powell in the Thin Man series of films (hell, Nick and Nora almost make marriage look appealing), Miss Loy was one of the top box office draws of the 1930s, co-starring with all the top male stars (Gable, Tracy, Grant etc), and showing her skills both in drama and as a fine comedienne. She also featured in the rarely-bettered cast of one of my favourite comedies, Libelled Lady.
Her autobiography revealed her to be a charming, caring, self-effacing lady, who deserves a higher profile than she currently enjoys amongst film fans. Owner of the most requested nose in plastic surgeries in the USA in the 1940s, fact fans.

Sergei Baltacha



Ukrainian footballer of the 1980s, Soviet international player, Olympic medallist, and, most importantly, St Johnstone player in the early 90s. A real class act on the field, an intelligent reader of the game and defensively strong. Quite possibly the best player ever to pull on a shirt for Saints. He seems to have a thing for saints, having done the UK footballing rounds of them (that Paisley mob of the Mirren variety, and Southampton for a while too I believe), as well as, on his arrival for Ipswich, being the first USSR type in the British game.
A thoroughly decent chap from a very sports-oriented family, his son having reached the giddy heights of playing for Scotland U21s in football, and his daughter, Elena, now being the number one British ladies tennis player.

David Quantick



British music journalist, with the NME when it was supposedly good (i.e a long long time ago...), and, latterly, assorted monthly magazines of the grown-up, every issue with a hagiography of some rock dinosaur or other, variety. Also does a fine line in comedy (with musical emphasis, natch), with much radio and occasional TV work. Responsible for the top hit comedy show "Lloyd Cole Knew My Father". Often spotted in the professional company of Andrew Collins and Stuart "Macaroni" Maconie.
A Quantick byline or credit is a guarantee of wit, and ensures much guffawing on my part, and for that I salute him.

Jimmy Webb



Wichita Lineman. Galveston. By The Time I Get To Phoenix. Macarthur Park. The case rests. Genius.

With these dreadful adverts you are spoiling us

I think I must be watching too much TV (I say watching, mostly it's just that noisy, flickering thing in the corner), for I am beginning to be inordinately irritated by some of the adverts. While I'm struggling to think of any I actually like, there are a select few which completely set my teeth on edge:

Vanish Oxi-action Max
For a start, the slogan "trust pink, forget stains" leads me to suspect that this is little more than lesbian propaganda, but setting that to one side for a minute, this is a particularly bad example of the Overacting school of advertisement making. A demonstration girl clad in bright pink accosts a passer-by, grabbing her dirty top to demonstrate the amazing stain-removing properties of Vanish. As a crowd gathers round them, Demonstration girl rubs beetroot into the top. Shock, horror, bewilderment and a ludicrous gasp overcome the onlookers. But fear not! The amazing properties of Vanish shift the stain! Truly it is a miracle of our time! Well, you'd think so to hear them anyway...

Canesten
So you work in an advertsing agency. How very glamorous and hip you think you are. And what exciting cutting-edge product do you end up promoting? Thrush treatment cream. Ha! Strangely enough, no mention is made of unpleasant itching or discharge (and they could have used that lovely blue liquid too). No, what we really want to know is that the company is thirty years old. Like we care...

Sensodyne/Colgate/some other brand
"I noticed I was getting a funny coating on my teeth. I asked my dentist, and he suggested I use Toothpaste. Now my teeth are shiny and clean! I recommend it!"

Activia Yoghurt
I don't want bifidis digestivum in my vocabulary, thanks all the same. And it sounds suspiciously made up in any case...

Whichever car is using that god-awful Spin Doctors song
Stop it now, you evil bastards!

Splenda
Smug bitch with a perfect house by the sea, perfect children and perfect blue and cream tableware, witters on about how everyone loves her "no-sugar" baking. Stop deluding yourself woman! There is sugar in them! It's supposedly made from the stuff! And most of us wouldn't use "no-sugar" as a synonym for "packed full of artificial sweetener" anyway! I hate her!

Oh, and Courtney Love and Steve Coogan? What the...?

Farewell, Mo

A political great

Back from the dead

So my computer decided to crash again this week. One hard drive reformat later, and I'm back, back, back! Though not necessarily for long: the old dear is on her last legs (yes, I'm still talking about the computer), and is liable to give up the ghost completely any time now. Hardy surprising really, I am after all at the cutting edge of technology here, with my 32MB RAM and 2GB drive. I'm like a supermarket checkout girl with only an abacus to count on. It's a miracle I'm even online to be frank.

I'm due an upgrade shortly, but it's a slightly complicated process, due to the Betsie Clan's Technology Hand-me-down Scheme. Here's how it works: my brother buys some nice shiny new piece of equipment; he gives his previous version to my mum; I then acquire her, by now outdated, stuff. So, at a rough estimate, at any given time I'm about five years behind the latest trends. I wonder if that qualifies as retro chic? If not, then I could always unleash the ancient Mac lurking in the loft, from the Time Before CD-ROM. Unfortunately the betamax video didn't make it into the new century, or I really could be living in a timewarp (well, more than normal anyway...)

This time there's going to be a slight break with family tradition, as I've got a lovely new hard drive sitting awaiting the (taking too long for my liking) swap-over moment. Oh the excitement! Now if I only lived somewhere I could actually get that fancy broadbean thingamajig, I'd be the happiest little bunny on the planet...


Addendum 1
Attention sign writers of the western world - putting "Polite Notice" at the start of your terse request does not in fact make it so. Try using "please" or "thank you" instead, it's so much nicer.

Addendum 2
My candidate for the least arousing word in the English dictionary - slurp. Yeuch.

Who belongs to Glasgow?

I was in Glasgow on Thursday, and couldn't resist a look in the window of the shop I used to work in. It's always amusing to see what tat - oops, I mean top quality merchandise - they're trying to flog to a gullible public.

And this is what I saw:



No, not the overly-orange slapper, I do of course mean the ever-so-tasteful Candy Bikini. Isn't it beautiful?

A trip to the Big City can be a slightly disturbing experience. It's five years since I left, and every return visit highlights that Life Moves On - shops have changed hands, pubs closed, restaurants disappeared. It's getting so every sentence I utter starts with the classic phrase "In my day...", as it dawns on me that yet another old haunt no longer exists. Apparently cities aren't like parents of dead teens, preserving for eternity all their old possessions as though denying that change is even a word in the dictionary.

Well, never mind, I'll just have to start treating it like any other town, though as the coaster in the shop put it so wisely, you can take the girl out of Glasgow, but you can't take the Glasgow out of the girl...

The Bland, The Delusional And The Despicable

... Or to put it another way, it's the Big Brother 6 UK final night.

I've been watching BB since the first series, admiring Caggy's "interesting" lipliner technique, wondering how Penny ever gained employment as a teacher, suffering the sight of a naked Jade Goody, falling asleep at yet another Tickle run-through of a Star Wars book plotline, and learning how to do a "dance of disrespect" in a Lipgloss Bitch stylee.

This series, though, has failed to grip me as previously (and that's from someone who stuck with the boreathon of BB4 till the bitter end). While it's inevitable that the contestants will become more knowing, wise to the ways of working the cameras for maximum exposure, and keen to exploit every opportunity they can milk when they leave the house, cynicism seems to have overtaken the whole setup.

From the use of people known to Endemol as housemates (Maxwell and Eugene both having prior connections, and Derek and Orlaith invited to apply rather than auditioning), to the disregard for the mental health of the housemates (immature contestants invited to deal with their "issues" in front of the nation rather than being rejected as applicants for fear that they wouldn't cope well either in the house or after their exit), the main concern of the production team seems to be controlling the house and engineering ratings-grabbing headlines. The character of Big Brother him/herself has been more prevalent this year, interfering with the voting process, the housemates' interaction and, of course, making full use of the editing process to make sure the public thinks what they want us to think at any given moment. No, I don't want to see "Big Brother" have a sense of humour and wind up the housemates, I want as little interference with the contestants as possible. I want to see housemates interact with each other, not just react to created situations.

The choice of housemates has been particularly poor this year, perhaps giving some explanation as to why so much control needed to be exerted over them. The women seem to have been selected mainly on grounds of breast size (why else were Lesley and Saskia there?) and willingness to wonder around undressed (yes Sam and Orlaith, we've seen you, now put them away please...). The men (well, boys mainly) apparently had to be living, breathing stereotypes (cheeky chappy Maxwell, camp hairdresser Craig, ghetto spokesperson Science), or deliberately against the grain (posh black gay tory Derek, so socially-awkward it hurts geekboy Eugene). The key statement needed to get yourself into the house seems to have been that old favourite "I do want I want and I don't care what anyone else says. If I think someone's a bitch I'll tell them to their face" - well worked out folks, the producers want conflict, make sure you say you'll provide it. Well, call me fussy, but watching a bunch of idiots arguing for the twentieth time in a week about food is not the best entertainment I've ever seen.

So those categories - who fits under what header?

The Bland: Vanessa (yes I know, who?), Sam (say something, don't just giggle), Roberto (you're Italian, you like food, now what else can you do?), Eugene (he may be a nice guy, he may be endearing, but would you actually want to talk to him?), Orlaith (she likes her fake breasts. and moisturing. that's it), Anthony (not very bright, not very interesting)

The Delusional: Mary (psychobabble and new-age nonsense a-go-go), Craig (the most handsome, clever man in the house, surrounded by evil people out to get him. and of course he doesn't fancy Ant'nee), Science (Leeds has a ghetto? you're a good rapper?), Makosi (first she was a virgin, then she was pregnant, queen of fake drama and fake tears)

The Despicable: Lesley (not a good word to say for anyone, or anything), Saskia (I'm so very glad I don't have to live in a house with "people like you", dear), Maxwell (everyone's favourite football thug and violent tempered fool), Kinga (put.the.bottle.down. and stop shouting. and act like a grown-up. and don't pretend to be drunk on non-alcoholic wine), Craig, again (sexual harassment isn't big or clever)

The exceptions: Kemal (can be childish and annoying, but also intelligent and interesting to listen to), and Derek (complete bitch at times, caring and considerate at others, actually entertaining unlike so many)

And the winner is.... Anthony. Yawn....


Film of the week: Buster Keaton in One Week

Song of the week: Sweet Billy Pilgrim - Stars Spill Out Of Cups

Robin Cook: A Brief Tribute

It was a sad day yesterday with the premature death of the former British Foreign Secretary Robin Cook (see reflections in The Guardian, the Sunday Herald and The Times).

I had the great pleasure to meet him once, back in my (very) brief membership of my university Labour Club, and have had a high opinion of him ever since. Most impressive on that occasion was his fierce intelligence, an innate ability to cut to the heart of an issue and dissect it before his audience, without the distraction of extraneous waffle so prevalent in most politicians (particularly, it has to be said, with TB's New Labour). He actually seemed to think about what he was saying, as if examining freshly his own attitude towards an issue before commenting on it, and actually taking aboard what others said to him. Having had the misfortune over the years to witness some of the automatons passing as politicians these days, with their pre-programmed answers triggered upon the utterance of a key word, regardless of what has actually been asked of them, I can assure you that this is something of a rarity these days...

While his time in high office may not have lived up to his own expectations, let alone those of others (we're still waiting for that ethical foreign policy - any day now will do), he proved himself, especially on the issue of Iraq, to be that most unusual of species: the politician who puts integrity ahead of personal position and power.

With his death, and the continuing ill-health of the marvellous Mo Mowlam, it has been a bad week for British politics: we are sadly lacking in characters as strong and committed as these two, and the nation is the worse for such an absence.

The New (Not So) Soft Shoe

Ah, summertime - good weather (well, sometimes), long light evenings, strolling around in your summer finery, isn't it great?

The only thing that seems to suffer at this time of the year is my feet. Summer footwear just doesn't like me. I seem to be missing the girly shoes-and-handbags gene, so all I want from shoes is that they fit reasonably well, don't cost the earth, and don't look utterly hideous. Not too much to ask, you wouldn't think. And yet, every year, the dreaded World Of Sandals leaves me a bloodied, crippled wreck.

I should have known better really - seeing all those other people happily walking around in open toed, open-backed, feet-freeing styles led me to believe it was a straightforward business. So I took the plunge, and bought myself one of those thong-style numbers. What could possibly go wrong? Only a tiny little bit of leather between two toes, that couldn't hurt, now could it? About a month or so later, the wounds and blisters have finally healed...

Time for attempt number two - a simple straightforward slip-on wooden-soled effort this time. They seemed fine at home, so I thought I'd brave an expedition into town. I even planned ahead - "they might slip off" I thought, "so I'll make sure the strap is suitably tight". They stayed on - so well, in fact, that the chafing started to annoy me. When the lesions threatened to start bleeding I had to stop and loosen the strap a notch: cue both "toes over the edge" and "oops I've lost my shoe" syndromes... And all that whilst trekking from shop to shop on a quest for a shoe stretcher - beat that Alanis.

The shoe stretcher is for my other summer shoe purchase, the absolutely essential baby blue mocassins. Currently, walking a mile in them results in bleeding ankles - I have my doubts as to whether that was the original meaning of the saying...

So is it just me who has these problems? Are the myriad of happy shoppers, nonchalantly strolling about flaunting their fancy footwear, secretly in agony? Are they just better actors than me? Do they start limping as soon as they think no-one can see them?

Or should I add sensitive feet to the already irritatingly long list? (teeth, eyes, skin, soul...) If anyone knows of a location where it's safe to wander around barefoot and do away with the problem altogether, please let me know (ideally, this should Involve being able to leave the house - it gets lonely after a while). Thank you, and goodnight.

I Just Don't Know What To Do With Myself

I'm in trouble.

After 11 years or so, on and off, the moment has finally come: I'm bored of the internet.

Help! I still log on of an eve (well, the computer is handily placed in the living room, and it looks so sad when it's switched off), but nothing seems to hold my attention for long. I'm sick of my usual haunts, and too uninspired to think of any new ones. Reader, I need your help!

There must be some sites out there I'm missing: something funny, smart, unusual, creative, stupid, entertaining - hell, I'll even settle for intellectually stimulating if I must...

Give me some suggestions, please, oh kind people, or I may be forced to come up with something equally thrilling to match yesterday's entertainment in Betsie's World - defrosting the freezer. My, that was fun (handy tip folks, why wait for ice to melt when you have a hairdryer and a knife?).

So please, save me from housework, and give me links to keep me sane, and, more importantly, online...

Spamalamadingdong

Now I'm no expert, but I'm willing to bet that Hurries T. Snigger, Upchucks P. Knowing and Hurrying E. Crossbones aren't actually real people...

Second-hand Bookshops Will Be My Downfall

I visited my local Oxfam bookstore the other day, coming home with a small stash of readable goodies (details below). There's just something about a second-hand bookshop I can't resist, and they have the incredible habit of parting me from my cash. Back in my west-end Glasgow days, when there were a variety of such establishments to cater to my habit, it wasn't unheard of for me to stumble to the counter with a pile so high I could no longer see. Even now, a book is my preferred method of spending the last of my pennies - nothing in the bank? Can't afford the gas bill? Living on toast for a fortnight? Oh, never mind, a quick book will make it all feel better...

Second-hand stores have several advantages over the regular shops. For one thing, the books are cheaper, and thus you can buy more at one go. For another, the stock can be far more interesting. Books long out-of-print and unavailable elsewhere (well, before the invention of the internet anyway) pop up unexpectedly, and, unlike in first-hand retailers, regular turnover of stock and titles makes for a far more worthwhile browsing experience. With the older book, even the inscriptions at the front, or scribbles in the margin can be interesting, revealing something of the past owners.

In some ways, I prefer the process of buying a second-hand book to the actual reading of it - the promise of ideas unexplored and stories unheard can be far more alluring than the reality revealed upon opening the pages. So there you go, second-hand books are but a cheap metaphor after all...


My latest bargains:

James McLevy - Casebook of a Victorian Detective possibly an inspiration for Arthur Conan-Doyle. Or possibly not

Truman Capote - In Cold Blood: A True Account Of A Multiple Murder And Its Consequences slightly more respectable than buying a True Crime magazine

Alastair Phillips - Glasgow's Herald 1783-1983 Two Hundred Years Of A Newspaper the history of one of Scotland's main papers

Andrew Collins - Where Did It All Go Right? Growing Up Normal In The 70s a riposte to the "my childhood hell" school of publishing

Charlotte Greig - Will You Still Love Me Tomorrow? Girl Groups From The 50s On The Ronettes! The Shangri-las! Bananarama! Published in 1989, so no Spice Girls. Drat

Peter Carey - True History Of The Kelly Gang "is the song of Australia, and it sings its protest in a voice at once crude and delicate, menacing and heart-wrenching" it says here

Ann Wroe - Perkin biography of Perkin Warbeck, pretender to the English throne, who claimed to be one of the Princes in the Tower...

Alison Weir - The Princes In The Tower a take on the story of the two Princes, sons of Edward IV, imprisoned and allegedy killed at the behest of their uncle, Richard III