Hooray, it’s my fucking birthday.  Whoop-de-fucking-doo.  The thing is, I genuinely don’t care about birthdays, either in a positive or a negative sense, but Facebook and birthdays are an ungodly fucking combination, really they are.

“Yo, happy birthday dude.”  “Hey man, have a good one.”  Fuck off!  If you really, truly care then at least buy me something expensive, and if you don’t care enough to do that, which you shouldn’t, then let’s just drop all the shallow platitudes shall we. I don’t care about my birthday, so there’s no need for you to pretend to.

Can you tell I’m tired?

Last night was brilliant.  The Scottish Enlightenment were fucking awesome and the New Music Innovation thingy in Glasgow was surprisingly interesting.  The thing is, it was the third night out on the lash in a row for me, so by the time I stumbled back from Haymarket to our house I was pretty clapped out.  My legs ache this morning.  How does a hangover and a lack of sleep make your legs ache?

So, I am considering a late afternoon nap before I go and play fives and then head out to the Wark to kick my liver while it’s well and truly down.  Bit of a run around, nice tea, lots of beer.  Consider the weekend launched!

1. Most obscure member of your family who consistently remembers your birthday.
2. Coolest childhood birthday party moment you can remember.
3. Biggest birthday trouble you’ve been in.
4. At which gig have you felt either much, much too young or much, much too old?
5. Do you prefer birthdays or Christmas (or Thanksgiving, Easter or Whitsun if you want).

The five songs are from Uncut’s Best of 2003 covermount compilation.

Hamell on Trial – Oughta Go Round

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Paul Westerberg – Crackle & Drag

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Willard Grant Conspiracy – Soft Hand

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The Handsome Family – Far From any Road

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The Fiery Furnaces – Two Fat Feet

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I just found out that on their way back from France, my brother and his missus were stranded in Charles de Gaulle for the best part of a day due to snow in Iceland (yes, seriously).

Now airports are bad enough, but Charles de Gaulle in Paris is absolutely one of the worst.  At least in the UK people have slowly started to realise that it is not absolutely mandatory for them to resemble all the joys of a 70s council tower block staffed by recently lobotomised members of the living dead.  It doesn’t make the conference centre carpet any the less depressing, nor the chairs anything less than an absolute masterpiece of anti-ergonomics.  They have not one single comfortable position – not one!  Mrs. Toad travels regularly in America and assures me that theirs are worse, although I haven’t seen it for myself.

But Charles de Gaulle amazes me.  Given the French have such pride in their love of the good things in life, why the flying fuck is it so impossible to get a decent meal at their biggest national airport?  Eh?  It’s almost like they want people to arrive in Britain or even America and be grateful for the food.

And while we’re on the topic of airport stupidity, I’d be a lot more receptive to our pretence of taking national security at all seriously if we didn’t put its enforcement in the hands of our stupidest people.  Nail clippers. Honestly, if you’re desperate and dangerous enough that you are capable of hijacking a plane armed only with a set of nail clippers then I seriously doubt removing them from your possession is going to make much difference.  How about a thick book?  Or a wooden spoon?  Or caustic wit and hurtful sarcasm?  Fucking retards.

I have nothing but sympathy for anyone forced to spend more than about twenty minutes in these desolate cathedrals of idiocy and depression.

The Handsome Family – All the Time in Airports
My Teenage Stride – To Live and Die in the Airport Lounge