Words. Sentences. Stuff.

Stranraer is 118 miles away from Alloa, meaning that there are only three grounds in Scotland further afield. I didn’t fully appreciate that before I left, but I do now. My right ankle certainly appreciates it, given that it’s now in a perpetual state of readiness for an outbreak of a Canadian Barn Dance.

Yes, it was a day spent observing advertising hoardings with odd dialing codes, which can only mean another Alloa away day.

Jude pulled out from the trip yesterday so I was on my lonesome as I bombed down the M77, but thankfully there was plenty to keep me entertained on the way down.

For example, I saw a traffic sign outside Maybole warning me of the presence of otters. Now, I’ve never seen a real life otter — and I still haven’t — but today was the first time I’ve ever been warned about them.

There’s a Cassillis Hotel and Cassillis Road in Maybole, which will be of interest to only one person and he probably already knows.

Every town in Ayrshire welcomes you on the way in and Hastes Ye Back on the way out.

Roads in South Ayrshire are obsessed with monitoring your average speed.

Sections of the road between Girvan and Stranraer are like driving round the Hawaii coast on Test Drive Unlimited. I know that sounds unlikely, but I thought it on the way home too, so it must be true.

Stair Park in Stranraer is wee. In fact, it’s toaty, as you can probably see from the photograph. But seriously, it’s very small and this is coming from someone who spends every second Saturday at Recreation Park. Stair Park is the sort of place you see at the side of the road and you’re likely to drive past because you think that can’t possibly be a football stadium — that’s surely part of a generous doll house. But no, that is it.

So, that was my Saturday. I left the house today at 12:10 and I arrived back at 19:05 but it was all worth it because today, at the 17th attempt, after travelling more than 1,000 miles to 11 different grounds scattered across the country, I finally saw Alloa win away from home.

Moan the Wasps!

Between The Lines went live at Fiction At Work today. I’m not sure what, if anything, the little picture accompanying the story has to do with the story, but it’s a lovely little picture so I’m not complaining.

Please click the link and enjoy the story.

Between The Lines is a short story of mine that starts in the middle of a sentence, finishes 500 words further along the same sentence and tells a brief tale of a guy doing coke in a nightclub toilet. Between The Lines, y’see. Geddit?

Anyway, I’m pleased to announce the story will appear in the 23 February edition of Fiction At Work. The more eagle-eyed among you will recognise this link from last month. That was Marshmallows. That was a different story. This is something new.

Expect more links, cakes and directions in a week’s time.

One of the things I enjoy most about the various iPods I have scattered around the house is using them to listen to audiobooks. There’s something rather pleasant about being read to, perhaps a rather obvious connection to our youth, childhood etc. You get to a certain age and the only things likely to be read to you are your rights. If you’re lucky.

Stephen Fry reading the Harry Potter books is a joy. James Van Der Beek’s reading of Lunar Park was surprisingly good, as was George Guidall’s performance of American Gods.

The downside is, audiobooks are rather expensive, so it was this thought that took me to eBay and started a hunt for a cheap Bret Easton Ellis audiobook — perhaps Rules of Attraction, if such a thing exists.

But rather thatn finding a cheap Bret Easton Ellis audiobook, I found an expensive Bret Easton Ellis hardback. A seller was looking for £221 for their first edition, second impression of the UK hardback version of American Psycho. It was in good nick, too. Only slight discolouring of the pages and slight bumping to the dust jacket. In fact, it looked almost as good as the first edition, first impression copy I have on my bookshelf.

I only bought it because I lost my paperback copy, but it would seem that the £10 I paid for it in 1998 has produced something like a 2000% return in the 11 years hence. And it that isn’t a woot moment then I’ll have to look up woot in my urban dictionary. In fact, I might have to do that anyway.

Roving reporter explaining about the damage done to roads in the South of England following the severe weather we’ve all been enjoying:

REPORTER: So if you discover a pothole, please tell your council so they can look into it.

The council doing anything other than just staring into a hole, I’m sure is implied.

It’s just about eight o’clock so I suppose it could all go horribly wrong in the last four hours, but so far, this has been a first-rate Saturday.

First up, I discovered that my latest attempt to turn £10 into £1000 from betting is still ongoing. Some NBA team beat another NBA team in the wee hours so I woke to find my account was now in proud possession of £50. A personal best. I really am that bad at gambling.

Next up, the postie delivered my copy of Random Acts of Writing, along with a lovely letter from the editor.

The actual publication itself has a nice, indie publisher sort of feel to it. I don’t want to use the term pulp because it’s better quality paper than that, but it does have the feel of something that you could roll up and stick in your pocket in a bohemian type way, maybe replacing an old, battered Henry Miller or a collection of erotic memoirs, before heading off for a croque monsieur.

And there’s a nice sentiment on the inside page where they encourage that the magazine be left in a public place when you’re finished reading it and send them a picture of it. I’m planning on buying a few extra copies to do just that.

So, after getting my morning chores out of the way, the early afternoon was spent reading the mag from cover to cover.

I was in two minds about going to the football this afternoon. First, my mate, Jude, wasn’t going so I’d be on my lonesome. Second, it was bloody cold. Third, Alloa have been woeful this season. In the end, a guilty conscience got the better of me and so off I went.

Surprisingly, in the first half, Alloa were excellent and found themselves 2-0 up just as I was reaching the head of the pie queue. And then, at half-time as I was enjoying the standard pie / bovril combo, they announced the winner of the 50/50 draw and, lawks-a-mercy, I’d only gone and bloody well won £120!

I’ve been buying 50/50 tickets for just over a season or so and I’ve been had the ticket numbered one higher than the eventual winner, but I’ve never scooped the prize before. Given that the prize can range from £75 to £200 depending on the number of tickets sold, I can officiallly reveal that £120 is better than a boot in the bawz.

Second half, we weren’t up to much, Ayr eventually equalised and just as I was expecting someone to pick my winnings from my pocket, we got a well dodgy 88th minute penalty to pinch the game at the end.

And then, just to round off the best Saturday of 2009 so far, Tesco’s has knocked £3 off a bottle of Black Label.

Top notch.

Last month, I mentioned that Random Acts of Writing had picked up one of my short stories — The Hornbill In The Hall.

Well, the issue containing the story is hot off the presses and if you find yourself in the north of Scotland at any point in the near future, you can buy a copy in any one of the following outlets:

Loch Croispol Bookshop: Durness
Bogbain Farm: Inshes, Inverness.
Waterstone’s: Eastgate Shopping Centre, Inverness
Nairn Bookshop: Nairn
An Lanntair: Stornoway
Emporium: Cromarty
An Tobar: Mull
Green Kite: Strathpeffer

You can also buy online via the website shop.

Apparently, there are two hornbill related stories in this issue; a boon for all fans of African birdlife. I can’t speak for the other story, but mine was inspired by a Hamish Gilchrist sculpture that I first saw last year in Strathearn Gallery in Crieff and then saw again at the Pittenweem Festival a few months later. You can see a picture of it — and read a little about Hamish — by clicking this link. You can see it more of his sculptures on his own site, here. Sadly, his own site is a hornbill free zone, but don’t let that put you off. His stuff is amazing.

Oddly, though, the inspirational sculpture in question is actually of a toucan, but the Toucan In The Hall didn’t sound as good.

Further update and photographic evidence will be given as soon as I receive my copy. So that’s something for us all to look forward to.