Roll-of-linoleum

In the early 1990s, Kirkcaldy had quite a vibrant music scene (in fact, I'm sure, it still has).

And it had to really, because - although Kirkcaldy is geographically very close to the big city, bright lights and cool, cool people of Edinburgh - it finds itself stranded by the lack of any direct link over the icy Forth and - as a result - often feels so very insular at times.

During those early '90s years, the Lang Toun still hummed to the pungent reek of the manufacture of many a roll-of-linoleum (as celebrated by Billy Connolly) much in the same way that the air of Edinburgh at the time was filled by the ever-present whiff of fermenting hops. This seemingly ubiquitous scent - combined with a relentless mist/fog/haar and only two dedicated record shops - made for a particularly underwhelming mix. My fellow students and I (of Fife College, nee Kirkcaldy Tech) spent some really fucking dreary lunchtimes, trudging those KDY streets, I can tell you.

Sleeves Records in Whytescauseway was by far the best place to go for friendly, knowledgeable service. If you wanted one of the limited Wedding Present Brassneck 7"s with a handpainted sleeve, then they were going to be your best bet. Now and again, Sleeves would have clearance sales where they'd get rid of any old guff for about 10p each. From those clearance racks, I remember buying 12" versions of Blur's She's So High (which I've still got), The Cranberries' debut, Uncertain, and Smashing Pumpkins' Tristessa (both of which I sold for over £20 each a few years later!). Sadly, Sleeves disappeared from the Kirkcaldy's retail landscape some years ago.

We also frequented some other place in The Postings shopping centre, adjacent to the town's "state-of-the-art" bus station (the old stances down at the windblown, salty-aired esplanade might have been considered "past it" by the mid-1980s, but I sure missed the romance of waiting for the Alexander's/Fife Scottish #7 whilst peering across the Forth at Leith docks and Arthur's Seat from under the furry hood of a pre-teen parker). I can't remember the name of the shop (although it underwent a few changes of name in a very short space of time), but I can still picture the moustachioed, metal-fan owner. His shop was an unutterably dismal affair, but we used to go in because, sometimes in amongst the unlimited quantities of limited edition metal singles (occasionally with free plinths - whatever the fuck they were), we would pick up the odd hard-to-find indie gem.

His racks were also filled with countless, reduced-to-clear, major label also-rans, the most memorable of which was soul crooner David Peaston. To this day, I've never even heard a David Peaston recording, but - bless him - old Peasto (if I may call him that) came to represent all that was bland, dreary, grey and wrong in the twilight years of our teenhood. David Peaston might have been brilliant. I'll never know. But having Googled for him tonight, I have found that he was quite a celebrated - and awarded - artiste back in the day. I am also humbled to note that his Wiki page states he was diagnosed with diabetes a few years ago and has had both his legs amputated as a result.

Poor soul, David Peaston was our early '90s scapegoat. Aye, T-Hall stinks off piss. Rave on 'n' that!

Grassy arse

That's a nice, round figure.

Ta.

Qunts are still running the world

Hesitation and deviation I can live with. Repetition seriously gets my goat.

And I suppose that's the whole point of those annoying little stings that sponsors of TV programmes bookend the breaks with. Love 'em or hate 'em, the sponsors want to get inside our brains; miniature Trojan horses, slinking their way into your subconsciousness, repeated endlessly until you eventually realise you cannot shake that stupid little jingle, phrase or image.

It works in one way, because here I am talking about their endeavours to sell us stuff we may not want or need. On the other hand, it drives me so utterly insane that (with the exception of Cadbury's) I specifically avoid buying any of their products simply on a point of principle.

These sponsors are going out of their way to plague my very existence with their odiously repetitious brain injections.

Cadbury's: The nation's favourite.
Trudie... lights! TRUDIE!!!
Harvey's: The furniture store.
Change your outlook with Flybe.

That cock-end who spends his time staking-out bugs and germs on The Bill.

On and on and on they go. The only one I think I ever liked was the Beamish one they used to use on Inspector Morse in the early to mid 1990s. Mainly because it was silent.

Sometimes they're so woefully tedious that I find myself hurling abuse at the TV. The current focus of my hatred are those 3 Mobile stings which appear relentlessly throughout Channel Four's comedy schedule.

I know you've seen them; the "hilarious" stand-up with Bruno Martelli/Mika hair and Portmeirion blazer dropping one tiresomely weak internet/mobile phone-related gag after another like he was letting the air out of a balloon very slowly indeed. It turns out that the man in question is a real-life comedian called Spencer Brown and, looking at some of the clips of his routine posted on YouTube, seems decent enough. But, I'm sorry Spence (you don't mind if I call you that, do you?), they've made you look like a complete bell-end and you're really getting on everyone's fucking tits.

But, at the end of the day, a job's a job, I suppose. Hey... we all gotta eat!

We have the answer to all your fears...

...it's short, it's simple, it's crystal clear

I've been trawling my way through hours and hours and hours of old VHS-C and Digital Hi8 camcorder tapes of late.

I'm in the process of digitally backing them all up on the PC and will subsequently copy the mpegs to a secondary hard drive before going on to create DVDs. Belt and braces stuff.

Since 1999, I've amassed so much footage of the kids growing up that I'm terrified I lose a moment of it. A chewed-up tape; a broken camcorder; a scratched or cracked DVD; a jiggered hard drive. I live in constant fear of any or all of these things, so I'm not taking any chances.

It has been lovely watching it all again. Our 10 year old is great, but she is beginning to develop some decidedly moody tendencies of late. I'm so glad that I've captured so many of those innocent, special and often fascinatingly inconsequential moments from her life down the years. Burbling away as a wee baby only a few weeks old; taking her first steps; chattering in that cartoon-y voice that all kids up to the age of about 8 seem to have. We've got it all down. Same with our 7 year old.

I know it's a cliche, but they really do grow up quick. If you have children, I urge you to record them regularly. Don't just dig out the camcorder on special occasions like birthdays or family get-togethers; be sure to record all manner of everyday non-events. Trust me, one day - perhaps five or six years down the line when you finally get round to transferring it all - you'll be so very, very glad you did.