Ewan Morrison Writes

Since August 2007, Ewan has been writing a humourous weekly column for Scotland on Sunday under the names Weegie Bored and Last Tango in Partick. You can find them on the SOS wesbite - there’s an archive down the bottom right hand column. or click on the following links, for a sample.

http://scotlandonsunday.scotsman.com/

Also I’ve a few posted BELOW.

Topics covered include - plastiscene model making in the 70’s - quitting smoking - neighbours who shag in the backgarden - fights at the reycling bins. etc x 45.

CLICK ON THE LINKS

http://news.scotsman.com/opinion/Ewan-Morrison-Weegie-bored.4139894.jp

http://news.scotsman.com/opinion/Ewan-Morrison-39After-a-cuff.4260558.jp

http://news.scotsman.com/12634/Ewan-Morrison-39I-shall-have.4210619.jp

http://news.scotsman.com/12634/Ewan-Morrison-39Most-bigbreasted-women.4095306.jp

Ewan Morrison: ‘Most big-breasted women I’ve known say their bosoms are, in fact, no fun’

Published Date:
18 May 2008
By Ewan Morrison
BOOBS are getting bigger. I kid you not. I could barely get my shopping done this week for being attacked by cleavage. At every corner huge chests were knocking me to the ground. I swear it’s not just the spring testosterone talking.
I was in the poultry aisle, and there was a woman, prodding away at chicken breasts, her own the size of Christmas turkeys. I escaped to the fruit and veg aisle, only to walk straight into two living watermelons. I almost screamed: “My God, ladies! Will you put them away!”

Is it the final demise of feminism? Millions of alienated women queuing up to get mega-Jordan implants, or stuffing silicone bags, known as ‘chicken fillets’, into their new Katie Price-branded bras? Is it all just fake or are birds really getting bigger?

For want of a pair of my own to measure I decided on some research. The facts are shocking. It’s not boob jobs that are to blame (only 10,000 in the UK last year). Surveys show that British jugs really are growing generation by generation. The average bra size is now 36C, up from 34B a decade ago. Marks & Spencer has just increased its range by three sizes to a J. And newer labels like Lejaby now go up to a mesmerising double J.

While this is good news for those of us who take a close and personal interest in such things, it must be bad news for the owners themselves.

Most big-breasted women I’ve known say their bosoms are, in fact, no fun. They complain of backache, nipple insensitivity, stretch marks, unwanted attention from leering pervs and the perpetual fear of the droop.

The growth, some scientists claim, is partly due to the general global slide into obesity. The real demon, though, seems to be environmental oestrogen pollution. It’s everywhere, but especially in the water system courtesy of decades of the contraceptive pill and HRT.

Then there are these scary things called xeno-oestrogens - chemicals that are found in everything from lipstick to tampons and spermicides. Other synthetic oestrogens are in the food chain. Battery chickens are pumped full of the stuff to give them - you guessed it - bigger breasts.

Who cares, I thought to myself. Why not just lie back and enjoy it all? Since scientists say we’re getting bigger in all things - brain size, height, longer life expectancy - maybe I’ll even gain an inch or two of manhood in my lifetime.

But fate is cruel. Studies in Germany have just revealed that penises are shrinking, with the average loss of half a centimetre in the past five years. Environmental oestrogen is again to blame. As the average chap is between 13cm and 15cm, if this yearly shrinkage continues, and the sperm count continues going down, then the end of the world could be closer than we think.

Where are we heading? Oestrogen consumption could go exponential, as women’s breasts become so large they are unable to move, and men fall into a constant state of arousal over so many reclining females, who they are nonetheless technically unable to satisfy. Suicide figures will rise as birth rates fall and chaps shrink.

Thinking about all this has destroyed my libido this week. Every time I see a bosom bouncing past, I think of battery chickens and of how the end is nigh. I shall be avoiding the poultry aisle from now on.

Ewan Morrison: ‘I pictured streetwise immigrants huddled round a bonfire that was once my bed’

Published Date:
04 May 2008
By Ewan Morrison
WHAT could be more humiliating than having the Salvation Army refuse the furniture you’ve donated to them, because it’s in “inferior condition”? Well, perhaps it’s pleading with the men in overalls as they head for the door, while trying to polish the surfaces with an old sock. “The scratches aren’t deep… and that’s just some dried-on soup, see!”
Worse still is being left alone with a fridge freezer, a double bed, a dining table, four chairs and a 1970s stereo, all sitting there defiantly as if saying: “Well, you’ve abused us for years, now you’re stuck with us! We refuse to be refuse!”

Okay, I have to admit, my motivation was not entirely charitable to start with. The idea of furthering the cause of God’s little helpers makes my skin crawl, but I was willing to indulge in a little ethical hypocrisy, given the trip to the tip they’d be saving me.

After the stunning rejection, however, there was only one choice left – dump it all on the street. It was a Thursday and my collection day is Wednesday, so the stuff would be sitting there another six days and the council could slam a fine on me, but I thought: “Fine! Bring it on.”

Two hours it took to lug all the stuff out, and I was so knackered afterwards that I took a wee nap, which turned into a full night’s sleep. Come morning, fear of arrest ran through my waking dreams. I ran outside to try to drag some stuff back inside before the council cops arrived. But to my amazement, all of it, bar the stereo, had gone. Whoosh! Saved by God knows who.

Later in the day the fairy godfather of refuse reusing reappeared. I watched from my window as a man of possibly Slavic origin with a white van stopped by the old stereo (and a few shelves I’d added), put the lot in the back and drove off. I imagined that the inside was brimming with CD players, futons and computer terminals, all rescued from the neighbourhood. I pictured scores of streetwise immigrants chilling out with my freezer or huddled round a bonfire that was once my bed. I was rather ironically redeemed. By my selfishness, I had done more social good than the Salvation Army.

As a result I have caught the reusing bug. All week I’ve been picking up things from the streets: a pine dresser from Maryhill Road is now in my bedroom; the kids have two scooters from a skip. I’ve also been scouring the ‘for free’ sections on websites like Gumtree.

A lava lamp from Bishopbriggs; pine shelving from Govan; a kitten and collection of stilettos in a size 10 from some very friendly gentleman in Edinburgh (I chose to decline his offer) – all free for collection.

Once you’ve got over the bourgeois fear of other people rummaging through your old things and you through theirs, reusing seems a truly radical way to live. There are some big ecological implications too: reusing is 99% energy efficient (1% is wasted in driving around) compared with recycling, which is estimated to be less than 20%.

Crushing, stripping and melting the parts of, say, a computer, for recycling creates a lot more toxic crap than giving it away to someone in need or leaving it on the street so it can find a new home. I’d like to thank the Salvation Army for teaching me that there’s an ‘F’ of a difference between refuse and reuse.