This we did effortlessly.
With the pensioner bus passes Jimmy and I headed out to Melville castle and took the high route through the forest.
Then we passed under the road, admiring the graffiti, round the back of Dobbies and on to what we christened the Tyre bar during COVID.
It's a little jump for horses made of tyres which you can sit on. We forgot to bring a Kerry oot, so we walked on. In years gone by we've sat there and enjoyed a modest libation, shooting the breeze about fresh air and untouched snow.
From there we carried on to the Kings Acre golf club bar. It's a lovely location with friendly folk serving. Being active and putting weight on, back to alcohol and huge energy from all the sugar. What's not to like.
We stop there whenever it's open. It's been a lovely slow pace of 2km in half an hour, stopping for photos and knowing we've not got a clock on us today.
The next stop seems a bit soon but surprisingly it's another 2km. It's just along the driveway as it meanders through the course, down to the main road and then down the busy road. Again a couple of stops for the views, letting the cars go by and chat about random things like the deer on the fairways or not raking their hoof prints in the bunkers.
The Laird and Dog serves Hever Lee and it's still light as Jimmy and I enter. It's starting to get darker outside by the time we've sat down. Half way through the pint it's pitch black outside. Loanhead or Roslin can wait for another day. The bus is due on 10 mins so we finish up and head out.
By the time I get home it's saying 13500 steps and it's the most I've done for 8 weeks, or Sunday October 3rd to be precise. The last time I played golf. What pleased me was it was continuing with the 2000-3000 steps rest pattern throughout the day.
I woke up on Wednesday early and felt pretty good. Today it's Portobello and a prom walk with Simon.
It took us a bit of time to find each other as I came down bridge street while he wandered down bath street and bumped into an old guitariat from the band 35 years ago.
I never miss a photo here.
It's not San Sebastian but it's ours and the views to the bass rock are phenomenal. It's not the best photographer or camera, but trust me, it's really clear if you just look.
I stared for ages until eventually Simon appeared and said what you looking at.
Selfie taken we could walk on. Today's plan was nothing to fancy. Walk down until the bladder tells us to head to the Ormilee.
Have a pint and then circle round and walk back to bridge Street and a pint at Doctor Kelly's aka the Forrester.
There's always the chance to get a few extra steps by getting baclava at the Greek place next door. That's what days to porty are all about. A wee stroll, couple of pints and baclava.
Stopping at Swanys is a given as the #12 is door to door from Dr Kelly's. Then I get the easy walk home and steps are done.
Thursday is another Reflexology day this week so walking there and then along the Libby Dams to Mortonhall for lunch got me to 10,000 by 1pm. I kept the drink at bay until the sun set and then didn't waste too much time in getting going.
The engines started with a Hever Lee in the Hermitage. It's quite an easy stop on the road down from the golf club. There's a couple of bus stops for the emergency departure but on general it's an easy walk to most places.
I chose a #5 and headed for the last Thursday meet at the Cask and Barrel. The heart's game in Belgium reminded me of Iain and I in Brussels. A mental time with great craic as we left the hobs fans and headed off piste for a great night of darts in some bar. At some stage we were in a car but I've no idea where to or where from. I just remember thinking if this is it, that's ok too, it's been a great night. The next day was the match and the ET worldy that beat Goram from 44 yards.
I still like Belgium beer but won't approach their police again at a game. That was a drunken folly.
I left the cask by 8.30 and was home a wee bit more drunk than expected. The alcohol is a bit like radiotherapy, it wears you down. I've been on it for 4 days now, properly on the batter, relatively speaking. My worry over 5 pints and not having 6, tonight would prove prophetic in the morning.
Yes, first hangover where sleep not Musselburgh racing appealed. I'm glad I made it through the shower, tube turn, flush and other such nonsense, before getting out the house before 11. It's so important to leave the house in daylight as I've mentioned endlessly and even though I didn't fancy it, I'm glad I went.
I walked along too late for the bus down to Porty that leaves outside my mum's old family house on Mayfield road so carried on to get the #30 in Dalkeith Road. I laughed to myself about how much my stories revolve along the lines of sorry I'm late I missed the bus. My life revolves around not driving and I resist the car at every turn. It's strange, but apart from a brief flirtatious moment thinking about a Jag I pretty much don't believe in cars. I think they were a capitalist conspiracy to make us think we could dictate our futures. They were the first major decision that gave us choice or the trappings of wealth. The first time we could stomp on the scum or as the USA would say, introducing jay walking as a crime. How can a person walking ever be guilty. Oh, m'lord, "he was walking in a built up area with long hair and dark skin," springs to mind. Or, she was walking in a dimly lit area m'lord so I thought I'd offer her a lift home". These kind of defences work in a court of law but sadly are just a reminder that the wealth required to kill people is a low bar.
I arrived on the bus and walked down the uninspiring road. There's a path which is set back from the road for a wee stretch so it's not too deafening for the puir wee boy with the tinnitus.
At the bottom you join the main Edinburgh musselburgh road and stroll through the side streets, across the river where Dad took us to see Albert and his crew in some mad flotilla.
I got my £43 ticket with the free drink, fish supper and programme. I only call it a bargain because I wouldn't pay £15 for a fish supper normally and have no choice at £6 a pint. This makes the programme and entry fee a bargain.
I bet very little and reminded myself 5/7 winners are favourites so I guessed correctly which one wouldn't win but not the 5 winners. Foolish past time but there was loads of money every time for the favourites that won and lost, such is the reliability of money at the track.
Stevie and Simon certainly were doing better than me by the time Dr Shirrcco straightened me out. Unfortunately that was my the last of my green shoots of recovery. The best result I could hope for was a low alcohol afternoon and having a coffee had aided that. 3 pints of Guinness seems quite abstemious for me but of course there would be more.
Waiting at the bus stop in the high street clearly had my number. I just feel ridiculously strongly that after an event you don't wait on a bus, they're busy. You have 2 pints and then you get a bus when it's quiet. My feeding tube eventually revolted as I saw the queue fill an empty bus never mind the full one I anticipated. I beat the standard retreat and headed to Staggs, aka the volunteers arms. I thought I'll get a #30 or whatever hit my back is now agony with all this standing around, it needs me walking. I then ordered a pint and stood at the bar. When a seat became available, I ordered another and sat at the bar. I was 15/4 this morning and I know I'm hitting 15/5 no problem. I might be overdoing the alcohol but my weight passes the scrutiny I should've received next week. They were right, I do feel like I'm finished with treatment even if I forget I've still got recovery.
This is where the chuckle about my drinking this week. I've not had any for so long that I've sneaked from 1 a day, 2 a day to 7 a day effortlessly. It's a chorus I sing in my Christmas ear worm song. It's not quite as funny as I think, but it is undoubtedly true. I know I celebrate my alcoholism like I do my cancer, never mind my music career, but if I don't, who would. I love writing and performing songs to largely myself these days but it doesn't diminish my enjoyment. I subscribed to the theory that a 40 year career in rock n roll would be 4 years of fun and 36 years of hanging around, getting drunk in hotel rooms and listening while people did a sound check, a long time ago. My ego loved performance and not practicing. I loved song writing and jamming, but not tuning up or worse still unloading the gear and plugging everything in. I could do unplugging happily and it always finished with the pub but certainly not loading. If anyone didn't fancy a pint I was so upset. We need to discuss the practice, talk about the set list, get more gigs and drink more beer.
I wasn't even 24 when I hung up the microphone. I'd drink too much, sang too badly and generally was ready for another of my scrap heaps. Yes time to move on. From frying pan to fire as it turned out. Deadbeat and Life Support were binned as I drank more, smoked less drugs and work consumed too much time.
The start of the black period would be at an unfortunate marriage ceremony, my own, the one I don't remember, or choose to forget.
The point of this story was to slide effortlessly into 1990 lying on the floor of the Oxford Bar. Readers of the blog may also call this my latest epiphany. Yes my life is a constant barrage of awakenings. Sliding between bouts of sobriety and benders that lasted decades. I don't know why I never moved to France permanently in that period but I guess it's because I was in another sliding doors moment.
I'd been over to France, bringing back lots of tobacco and drink. I'd been to Hong Kong too and brought back a little chair. It's still with me. It's probably for a six year old but I found it perfect for sitting on the platform on my way to work in London the day I flew back. When colleagues asked why I wasn't jet lagged I explained I was still pissed. I also said this work is easier if your not sober. Those, would be professionals, in the city hated me calling it out back then. I couldn't help it as I felt most of them were fairly or really stupid. They liked to talk and being in a meeting meant they should talk. If you brought in consultants then you could talk even more as they wanted to, no needed to, understand the problem, the business, the reason you'd invited them in. This then ensured most of the employees stopped doing work and taught these numpties everything they knew about the problem, the business and how they didn't know the answer. This time honoured tradition of asking those who had failed to explain the problem so that the consultants could understand their failure always found favour with me. I thought their business model was flawless.
The consultants role is to find a company in a mess and charge a high rate xfor quick resolution followed by a reduced rate when the first fortnightly findings deliver a difficult management message. As Consultants you've presented your report fully aware of the strategy. You play the circus game of painting the grim picture, while having your conclusions written in your original submission for work.
At the end of week 2 you deliver the meeting they all crave. The latte is poured, the sparkling water fizzing in the glasses.
You've asked the players who got us relegated why we are so bad. You've explained why this person passes the ball too hard for you to control and how this player will drift off to sleep often so their winger goes by. You've found out about the left handed clerk who was given a right handed desk and for 38 of their 40 minutes heard them explain that they couldn't adjust their screen because the wires weren't long enough.
As you peer around the table, you gently explain this is the minutae they miss, all the time knowing that it's the people at the table who are the problem.
You smile and fill their glasses with more of the intricate detail about their professionals in whom they trust the future of their business. You send off a few sparks and let them start a little fire with he's always complaining to IT about the wires, yes she's always talking about him invading her desk space, they've been going out for years but just split up, I didn't know they'd split up.
You let them rumble on for another 20 minutes then interrupt them gently with, look team, you've brought me in to do a job so I'm conscious of time here', before gently sparking up and letting them talk out your last 30 minutes and you arrange to reconvene having done nothing, except pass a little bit of time, drink a latte and collect another 2 weeks pay.
It's worked for 1000's of years and it's proof that if it ain't broke, they won't fix it, but they know someone who'll talk about it.
So I slipped past those sliding doors and I even worked out it it was time to leave before I collected anymore. Truth is, I wish I had learned from it but I still believe strongly in stopping these idiots and cutting to the chase. Sadly society still enjoys it and is far from satiated.
There's so many ongoing debates that aren't debates, like Jesus resurrected from the myths to time. Ok, I'm going too far strolling into religion but really, does anyone believe a dead dude, I wanted to say a Deadbeat, long haired hippy dude with a beard, got up on day 3 and pushed away the stone, jogged off, then flew up in a UFO. No witnesses except his pals who were guilty only of stealing his corpse to split it up and sell it for golf to set up a charity for the poor, aka a charity for the rich to take over from the poor.
I digress away from my debates, but monologues from abortion or trans rights have grown in the slogan shouting space of these three words. None of it ever focused on the individuals who matter the most. The people who are pregnant and merely want some help and advice. The people with a mental health issue regarding their gender. Whether we make these things worse with our Lawyers or not we certainly don't help themselves individuals with our self satisfied smugness that our concerns must be heard.
I worry that as we bring the fire starters into the debate we are not doing anything about the real things we are united on. That if we stick enough pins into each other we will never have enough common interest to work together again.
That would be the final nail in our democracy dream. The dream is tarnished, in fact, there can be little debate, the dream about democracy has long since gone. It's like the #12 during the 5:30-6pm post rush hour from Portobello.
I was quite smug being timetable man on the way back from musselburgh. I got a #44 and it looked like I had 8 minutes if I got off and walked up towards my old school, Holyrood at Duddingston Kirk. This I did then the bus disappeared off to craigentinny, no it's not a train, Joppa, yes, Joppa. For Swedish readers it's true, there's a place in Edinburgh called Joppa. It's also true that when drivers finish their shift and take the bus back it drops off the timetable so I walked another stop and got back to blogging.
These consultants are dictating our debates nowadays and remind me of teams playing it out from the back. From youth football onwards it fine as you're building a skill set, you're at school. If you're a professional and you only have one foot, you can't play out of defence because the opposition know you can only pass it the way you're facing. This is why teams pressing you take the ball off you and score as easily as the consultants do when they enter the work place. You can spot the real consultants just like the real footballers with their first touch. If they sit down,check their watch, pull out a laptop and get comfy you know they've got their best interests at heart. If they dump their bag and say let's walk and talk you know they want to work.
The #12 arrived and it was off to Swanys. I'm glad I didn't want to walk back through the park. It was dark and the idea of a pint in the Sheep Heid for auld times didn't ring true. If already recalled the time we went up to witness Brendan Murphy's destructive power with the taller John MacFarlane. He might have given away over 2 stone and 8" but this was no fight. I'm not sure why I was there, probably holding a coat, no idea, was I a witness to the perceived grievance that resulted in this ceremony of an after school square go. It was short and brutal. John dazed and destroyed on the grass, Brendan shouting at him to get up. Luckily for John, Brendan was a boxer, he didn't need to kick the fuck out of the corpse John now felt like.
I enjoy a pint in the Sheep Heid. It reminds me of drinking there at lunchtime during the school day. I always went on my own. My solitude seeking solace as usual was never masking my alcoholism. I met Des Brogan my form teacher who advised me I shouldn't be there. I smugly said neither should you, sir. He knew I never fitted in that place, I don't know if he felt he fitted but my brother told me he does ghost tours now so fantastic that he no longer has to endure the borstal work that looked so tough from this pupil's pulpit.
It was too dark to walk home and Swanys is also a bit warmer. A couple of pints and I lasted until 8:30 with Jimmy and the boys before heading home. Job done I'm over 200,000 steps and I've got tomorrow to finish the month.
Saturday felt like a day of rest. It was. I did a lot of gambling and no drinking until I discovered a tin in the fridge. Old habits die hard and the tin was enjoyed before we watched Joy" a movie I'd recommend as a counter culture drug to the world of today. This was all about the first child born through IVF a procedure they proudly advertised after the movie had created 12m humans. I won't dwell on those who it sadly failed for as why would you. For some people it moved the world forward and as I looked at the cast during the film a celebration in my head produced a tear in my eye. It's hard to believe but I was delivering newspapers with headlines about test tube babies. I remember it well although I don't know my opinion. If I find it in my diary you will see a picture. Actually, now I've found my diary from July 26th 1978, you'll see all I was interested in recording was a party for the Germans from the Pollock Halls. They'd been staying there and wanted a party so when it was blown out I contacted the priest and took my turntable up to the church hall and played DJ. It was a great night, unless you enjoyed dancing, ha ha. I really enjoyed being a DJ but at 15 never knew it was a job. I loved organising it all at the drop of a hat and superb that I got the keys from the priest and all I had to do was lock up. Hard to believe how some of their priests were somewhat less than good. I was lucky and got a function hall for free.
I was so religious then, I would happily have died for the cause, whatever it was.
Like Saturday, I woke up on Sunday thinking December deserves to be recognised in all it's laziness. I'm 62 this week so getting pissed is more than a past time in December. We usually gamble like mad, eat too much and exercise later.
Tonight's tea summed it up for me. Lots of veg and a desperate Dan plate. Two hours later I'm still eating it.
Tomorrow is week 13, so it's time I leaned back and enjoyed the fact I still have a pulse.
Thank you for reading, I am so grateful for every day now.
On Wednesday it's my birthday and I hope to go to Cafe Gallo for coffee and coffee beans, before heading down to Tapa for a bottle of red Mencia wine and a celebration. My nephew James is 40 this year and if my abacus is working I'll have another celebration at the weekend!
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