Ted Max

False modesty to pretend I haven't seen this thread. I'm flattered. Not too sure about the whole award idea in general though, appreciative as I am of the comments. Place gets accused of cronyism enough, without more opportunities.

Blimey annaj. But I sense a happy ending. A pint, a dog, a pint, a chance discovery of the EDF, late-flowering love following a Forum drinks meet at the CPT. Might take a while to get there though. EDIT: Needless to say, open to all to continue. Not sure I can sustain the People's Friend melancholia for much longer.

Saturday morning, and you need to get your hair cut. When mother was alive, you used to take her up the salon every month, and while you were there Karen would just give you "a quick tidy up". Couldn't face that again, so you started to head down to Keith's on Northcross Road. "Take a seat, sir", yesterday's Daily Mirror in the waiting area, Jazz FM on the stereo. A confederacy of men for whom having their haircut was just another chore, between getting your shoes re-heeled at the cobbler's next door and buying a bit of fish from the van on the corner. What's Keith's now? A children's bookshop? A maternity shop? A shoe shop? Does it matter? You don't mind. All things change. Now you go to Stru...Clippers, a bit further up. When you first looked in, at a quiet time on your day off, you were a bit taken aback by the tattoos and the piercings on the barber. But the guy was friendly. And he talked easily, sensing your need for him to take the lead. You decide to walk down Underhill Road, get there early or there'll be a big queue. On one corner, there's a small patch of allotments where a house should be. Bomb damage? On the plot, two children are making a scarecrow. The girl is dressing it in an old jacket and a green felt hat. The boy is tying CDs to its arms. They are laughing, helping each other, giggling and bouncing with glee. Their dad looks on, shaking his head in mock-bemusement. Their shrieks clean the air. "Are you alright mate?" The dad speaking. "Yes thanks," you say, "wind's cold this morning." You wipe your smarting eyes.

I think the theory is, sharp knife = less force required = knife less likely to slip off veg onto hand. And at least you get a nice clean cut if you do happen to self-dice.

Does he ever go home, and what's that like? The question hangs in the air. The two barmaids pause, embarrassed to be caught speculating on your home life. "Pint of Southwold, please" you say. It's a true enough answer, you think. The younger barmaid returns, giggling, to the front bar. A louder laugh follows, some seconds later. Male voices joining in this time. Home. A basement flat, sorry Mum, end-of-terrace garden flat, bordered on two sides by a cemetery. It had never seemed right to move into mother's room after she'd gone, so you still sleep in the front bedroom, measuring the night by the footfalls passing the window. You like to judge the heft and tread of the passers-by, how many there are, guessing if they have far to go. Upstairs there's a young family, who have replaced the aluminium double glazing with drafty-looking sash windows, taken down the nets, making a defiant display of their stripped-pine lives to the world. Returning with your fish and chips, you pause as you open your flat door from the shared hallway. Descending footsteps presage the appearance of the young parents from upstairs, flushed in anticipation of a rare night out. Quickly, you duck inside your door; listen to them pass, cringing at the smell your take-away must have left in the hall. An advanced guard of chips go inside two bits of bread, ketchup on top; you've finished the butty before even unwrapping the rest of the supper. Fish and the remaining chips now tumble onto the plate. Radio 3 you think, Brahms probably. Home. Again.

Why thank you. I should point out that this gubbins is meant in no way to be snide about the CPT. I had a particularly quiet pint in there the other night, is all, and it sort of came back to me when I saw Sue's post about a pub with no beer. I am delighted my hero would be allowed a dog. I was beginning to feel rather sorry for him.

Friday. In come the after work crowd. Gin and lager. Perfume and twenty pound notes in the air to attract attention. You finish your pint and head to the loo. By the time you come out, a new pint is waiting on the bar. You take it, leaving the exact money stacked inside the damp ring the glass has left on the towel. No chance for a quick word with the barmaid. Someone makes a remark about how long it is taking the "f*ckin' builders" to finish off the flats opposite. You'd only just been thinking to yourself how quickly they'd risen, remembering the demolition of the previous house. Tonight it's a stop off at the Fish and Chip shop. Friday Fish. You used to enjoy a chat but the guys you know all work on the Kebab side now, and the chicken in there doesn't agree with you. Never had a kebab either, wouldn't know what to ask for and would feel embarrassed doing so. Kids outside with their cans of pop and a dog snuffling for discarded chips. You'd love to have a dog, but he wouldn't be allowed in the pub. So you had to make a choice. The weekend looms in its vast certainty.

Bob, often times I have been told by a native of that City that they prefer even the English to their wannabe counterparts in the Athens of the North. I put this down to nothing more than their love of the Glasgow banter, and respond in kind. It rarely fails to provoke a warm response.

PGC, don't mistake the Easter Road faithful's vibrant renditions of the working man's poetry for the sort of spittle-flecked distemper present at so much of the game in the South. Fans from Rangers and Hibs unite four times a year to celebrate the rituals of their shared brother- and sister-hood, re-inforcing local and national cohesion with a rich re-imagining of their separate, but bonded, oral traditions.

I see you've ceded me that little round, then. Because you are an open minded individual who seeks the good in people wherever you are, and avoids crass generalisations, I predict you will love Edinburgh too. And its citizens will also respond warmly to your vocal enthusiasm for their Glaswegian siblings.

On the contrary. Those fortunate enough to migrate to Scotland are unfailingly proud of their adopted nationality. With those who head South deemed not to be "proud Scots", there can only be one result. A net increase in proud Scots resident in Scotland.

Quiz night. Before the chattering contestants start to eye your table, you move to the front bar - wilting from the sarcastic comments and the candle lights. Seated at the bar you silently answer every overheard question, winning week after week. Special Subject Round this week: Transport. You remember some of the questions from three years ago. You decide not to award yourself the win, as it doesn't seem fair. Eyes raised to the muted Sky Sports News, you realise you are lip-reading. You cannot remember when you learnt to do that.

The population of Scotland has risen to its highest level since 1983, according to government statistics. The figures showed that the population had risen to 5,144,200 by June 2007, an increase of 27,300 compared with the previous year. The increase was mostly due to the highest levels of migration to Scotland from other parts of the UK and abroad since the 1950s.

At 9:15pm on Monday night, the clock keeps time in the lounge bar; each click shepherding the three single occupants, sentries to unspoken worlds, a second closer to the bus home, the half-heated tin of Cream of Tomato soup, the redundant setting of the alarm clock for the morning's potential-free reveille. From the front bar, the sound of banter. Never so alienating in its jolly exclusivity.

Are there framed photos of Tosh Lines on the walls? If so, I'm in. http://www.thebillbios.co.uk/lines4.jpg

Joe Kinnear expresses his views on the fourth estate somewhat forcibly. http://www.guardian.co.uk/football/2008/oct/03/newcastleunited.premierleague

Welcome. Hamlets Health Club is another one. Next to Sainsburys. I know nothing about it except it is there. Gyms are not my thing.

Thanks, Mockney.

Reports appearing that Ian Blair is on his way out. Can someone explain to me what this guy is about? He seems to be regarded by the Tory press as New Labour's man, and Boris wants him gone, yet his conduct over De Menezes, Ghaffur, Dizaei etc hardly suggests he's some bleeding heart ready to sacrifice the rank and file on the PC altar (sorry for the Mail-esque jargonese but I'm sure the point is made). Does he know where the bodies are buried in the Cash for Honours, thing, or what? What's going on here?

No, it's a reference to an unstable period he had, when he went missing for a bit. http://www.guardian.co.uk/uk/2006/feb/05/football.deniscampbell EDIT to add link.

cf Bill Bailey's classic cockney intros. Makes me chuckle just thinking of it.

I think you are right, and right again. But also think most people would think they knew Judas hung himself without having read the Gospels. Anyway, the chants are horrible. Speculating on the exact nature of their horribleness is rather pointless (even though I started it, I know).

Tiptoes into thread to say, isn't the "hanging from the tree" line, which you presumably take to be the reference to KKK lynchings, in fact a reference to Judas? Not that it makes it any less despicable, of course.

Death is death - Opus' bitter come-back single?

World's finances it is, then. Sugar on popcorn might take a whole weekend, even for the Forum's finest.