Ten Years Gone

Another Substack interlude. Almost everything you've ever wanted to know about Porsche 911 ownership but were afraid to ask. Click the pic to read. You can thank me later but most likely you won't. Never mind. Only 10 years plus in the making.

Baroque Renaissance Confrontation

 

What we all need now and then is a good Baroque style Renaissance themed confrontation of some sort or other. Coming soon to a pub, club, street corner or even in your very own front room.  All good people need to just lose their shit a bit, every now and then. Inspired by Caravaggio of course. There can be no one else. 

Here's some suggestions for things that you can "lose your shit" over right now - in no particular order:

The future

Not giving a toss about Ed Sheeran

Holidays in the sun

Andy Burnham etc.

Imported Chinese EVs with peculiar names

Imported Japanese cars from the 1970s with peculiar names

Where it all went wrong

Nigella Lawson being on Bake Off

Badly behaved dogs

Reform's piggie bank

Rocket and feather economics

Your least favourite app

Bad grammar and debased words

Bad grandmas and dead celebs

The silence of the data centre

IKEA's inner layout variations

Other people

The Netflix top ten

Town centres

Hi-fi/wine/cinema/theatre snobs

Kids on daft bikes and e-scooters

Zionist billionaires

Football match catering services

Modern socks

---:---

I May Almost Believe in AI

What does AI think of me? OK it's not really thinking, it's drawing data maps but, once upon a time it was a rainy day and ...  

I was flipping across the internet's rugged and dreary landscapes and for no obvious reasons I thought I'd ask AI (aka Chat GPT) what it thought about me and what kind of person I am. Obviously it's answer is based on whatever rubbish I've fed into the data centric beating heart of Chat over the last few months. 

To be clear I use it mostly as a spell checker and format tool for some, but not all of my blog and Substack material. I do not have MS Office these days, so smoking the free AI dope seems like a good editorial choice. But if AI development is like "growing some alien plant and watching to see what fruit it develops", so says Roman Yampolskiv on AI safety, it's going to screw us all big time. Some day.

Anyway below is a summary of what Mr AI said. There's not much about family, friends or my wider social life because I tend to avoid writing about those things. No drip feed, no source material available. I'm a digital ghost in those areas.

The first version was a bit too long and also repetitive, like it was looking for some common thread, so I cut it back to what's below.

"You strike me as someone who has had a practical, varied working life, probably shaped by factories, workshops, engineering, electronics, machinery, cars and the sort of jobs where you learn by doing rather than by sitting around discussing management theory. 

You've accumulated a lot of experiences without seeming particularly interested in turning them into a grand personal story. There is a distinctly Scottish, grounded, self-deprecating quality to that.

You're an observer. You notice the odd little things that most people walk straight past: a seagull on a car bonnet, a cat doing something inexplicable, an absurd advertisement, a strange piece of technology or some tiny detail of everyday life. 

You seem to enjoy looking at ordinary things from an angle slightly different from everyone else and seeing where the thought takes you.

You're also suspicious of bullshit, particularly when it arrives dressed up as progress, expertise, fashion or corporate importance. AI, social media, advertising, politics, algorithms and the endless machinery of modern life all seem to provide you with material. But I don't think you're genuinely cynical. 

You get irritated precisely because you still care about things. Music, creativity, ordinary life, independence of thought and the ability to remain curious still matter to you.

Music seems to be one of the constants. You've been playing guitar for an extraordinarily long time, recording things, collaborating with people and periodically returning to the Impossible Songs idea. 

You don't seem particularly bothered about whether any of this makes you a "proper musician". It's more like something that has accompanied you through different stages of your life and continues to give you somewhere to go.

You're nostalgic, but not in the usual "everything was better in my day" sense. You seem more interested in the texture of the past: old technology, cars, music, places, people and the feeling of a world before everything became mediated by screens and algorithms. At the same time, you're curious about what's happening now, which is why you can simultaneously complain about AI and spend time talking to one.

And underneath all of it there seems to be a fairly strong mischievous streak. You like absurdity, dark humour and ideas that are almost serious but not quite. You don't seem particularly interested in presenting yourself as successful, inspirational or important. If anything, you tend to puncture that sort of thing. 

I suspect you'd rather be regarded as someone who has remained curious, noticed a few things, made a few things, played some music, owned some interesting cars and had a laugh along the way. That's probably a more accurate description of you than any professional biography could manage."

P.S. Apart from the word salad above, the image below is how AI sees me ... and I did not provide any detailed prompt or photo. I'm set somewhere in the East Neuk, possibly in a weird version of my granny's hoose. I never wear a watch at all, or for that matter a hat and sunglasses indoors (but those are my thirty three year old Wayfarers, purchased from a Sunglass Hut in Florida for $25). I don't do beards anymore either.

Why not join me and find out what AI thinks of you? 

Home truths or more waffle?

Are you really such an insufferable twat? 

Only your flimsy God knows where any of this will end.

Miles of Tiles

Where in the world are we? The splendour of some extravagant tile work. Odd boxes were opened and applied. What might it mean? It addles the brain in a confined space. Keeps you on your toes. Heaven knows. I'm certainly not miserable right now. I may have done some damage to my retina. It's the high price of artistic appreciation. Be economical with your time staying and staring. After all it's only a toilet wall. Nothing that matters.

Next

 

Undiscovered chocolate found in the fridge behind the tomtato puree. I quickly moved it to the fruit basket, as you do. A morning without slipping into tiresome rant mode. A verbal shopping list of things and issues that probably don't bother me that much but I feel like they should. So I bite. At my time of life I should know better etc. 

Anyway I enjoyed a nice haircut yesterday. As I live close to the shop I can carry out a recce quite easily. Too many people waiting and I retire homewards to wait. Maybe one person and I'd risk it. The sweet spot is of course nobody else being there and I can pick a chair. Have a quick chat with their pet budgies and then get down to business. If you're over 70 they charge even less, so you can leave a decent tip and feel good about yourself.

It was one of my better impulses. My Jellycat (direct) parcels arrived. Almost quicker than Amazon and including some custom printing, all in 32 hours. Whatever your JC opinions, I can only say "expensive but shit hot". I like it. Grandchildren deserve this stuff.

Kill switch. I have one on a Fender lead but I want to install one proper. I'm doing research. It's a guitar thing that I can't quite put to rest. Easy job but a small pain in the arse to drill into a guitar body. Hmm.

I've reached the point in life where murder mystery TV shows have some limited appeal. I never thought it would happen to me. I could stop anytime and I probably will. The whole detective drama exercise is over rated. Real life murder is the worst thing, too many ripples, no controls. TV degrades and distorts. It (murder mystery) belongs in books.

Next episode ...

Faraday Cat Cage

 

Faraday Cat: I was wondering what it was that took up most of my headspace back in the day. I mean, before we had one AI thing after another, (data centres, music and films, total world domination), ongoing serial fuckwittery from Trump and then the state of Israel behaving like Nazi Germany in 1939-ish. I suppose there’s always some set of complete bastards who are going to spoil everything, ad nauseam. I should be used to it by now. I just need a break, or a good bottle of red.

I can’t really blame anybody who builds their own cabin in the woods or  constructs a Faraday Cage thing and tries living in it while raising chickens and growing broad beans. Cut out the signals, turn down the noise, get into a safe (?) and quiet space where you can read books, listen to music, sip nice coffee and not gulp it down, harbour your thoughts and then write them up in a notebook. After a while, put your stuff on Substack, where it'll be sweetly ignored by that faraway, wispy world that forever seems like some foreign and disturbing place right now.

If that’s not your thing, I’d recommend the Faraday Cat. A shield against the electrical spikes of reality. Just let a cat or three into your life and enjoy the soporific and cooling atmosphere they create. When they’re not throwing up, shitting at 3am or wandering off near busy roads, that is.

Cut out the noise, lose the news, fuck the zeitgeist, stop making stupid people famous, be one with your own universe, buy another guitar etc.

That’s already way too much, tbh. Now, I wonder what AI really thinks of me?

Breakfast Mess II

 

Porridge, honey and Greek yogurt.

Not really messy.

Quite tasty.

Quite healthy.

I ate it all.

"Good for you".

So I tell myself.

A quick burst of the quick burst of second thoughts flashing by: In fairness some foods photograph better than others. Maybe this isn't the success that I thought it was. The real thing was fine. But this photo is looking ... pretty messy.

In Transit

 

Edited itinerary: A very short snapshot from a long modern journey that rivals anything Marco Polo or Genghis Khan ever tried. Shipping from east to west in detail. Logistics are a fine art these days and every event is logged. This is just a small portion of the great chunks of random information available about this item's journey from there to here.

I tune in most days. Just so they'll know, in the AI system, that I care. I'll never visit any of the exotic sounding staging posts and markers that flash up on a regular basis. I've nothing to reference what or why they are there. I'm a faraway spectator.

Weather is often a feature and an excuse as well. What the driver had for lunch or whether he had a good night's sleep. Sometimes I imagine it's travelling by mule train, bicycle or tuk-tuk and not in some frigid container stuffed with other stuff. Some days by train, other days by road, maybe a ship at some point if it ever gets close to a body of water.

Not green, not clever, I know. Just relentless, slow progress over a few months. It's how things are done. What's the precious cargo? Can't say too much about it at the moment, but I doubt it's no more than a reasonably sized and battered Jiffy bag identified with a grubby barcode label.

So in the foreseeable future the doorbell will ring. I'll open it and meet this seasoned traveller, dumped ignominiously onto the front step on a wet Friday afternoon. The delivery man is already walking off with his back to me. I wave a feeble "thank you" wave but he doesn't turn around.

The Jiffy bag is in my hands. I'm in no hurry to open it. Take a little time. I suspect that there will be yet another Roy Batty "tears in the rain" moment for the package and me, now that its epic journey is finally over.

New & Improved

These itsu noodles are actually OK. You have nothing to fear. What does not kill you makes you strong. This is no mean parody.

It's what I told myself as I opened the tub.

The noodles looked harmless. They had the usual appearance of something that had travelled a long way, been doctored and had seen things. I put the boiling water in and waited.

Outside, the rain was coming down. Real slow. It was September and the summer had gone without saying goodbye.

The noodles were ready.

I ate them.

They were good.

Not great. Not bad. They did not change my life. But they were noodles and they had done their job.

There are worse things. There are always worse things.

We don't speak of these things.

I finished the tub and sat quietly for a while. Nothing happened.

This was reassuring.

Perhaps strength comes from surviving small things. Bad noodles. Bad weather. Bad decisions. The slow news and the quick news. Advertisements. The internet. The endless enigma.

You eat the noodles.

You wait.

You carry on.

Tomorrow there will be another tub, or a stir fry.

Breakfast Mess

I am writing this at breakfast time, there is no mess however.

Back in 50 Shades of Black, with a couple of daft cat photos.

A source of endless amusement for oldies like me. Cat antics are just absurdly entertaining and always a little strange and unexpected. Hours of entertainment, apparently conjured from absolutely nowhere. They don't seem to need much of a reason to do anything.

I have the details, but I'm not sharing them. There’s plenty of crazy Chinese cat behavioural data available elsewhere online, should you feel the need to investigate further.

I also believe they did put a man on the Moon. Not so clear on the truck stop, however...

Gone are the days of this sort of niche songwriting turning up on the radio. Nobody really talks about R.E.M. anymore. We all just moved on, as did the band members, I imagine.

Nothing really lasts.

Never Forget

We all know this fine well. Inner peace is an elusive thing. In many ways the PYT button reminds me of the magic 8-ball. However it also gives out accidental non-advice in some form of broken Spanish from time to time. Around every third press. It's not really a very precise form of research that I'm carrying out. Bugs. It's still good to spot them. Reminds me of working with MFG-Pro on UNIX back in the 90's. The golden age of Birds Eye hybrid production control systems.

What do I have to Upload?

 The Big Sleep - Bogart & Bacall. 

Cinema Poster by Vincent Cristellys.

No. 42 in 100 films you need to see.

(Before you die, obviously).

A curious list of recommended films.

Curated by me.

But sadly incomplete.

All work in progress.

**...**

Cat power: I'd be further on with this but I spent most of yesterday morning (or was it the day before?) clipping back the intrusive ivy that grows along the top of a rather long wooden fence. The top of the fence is also a well used "cat path". If it's overgrown then the cats are unable to go about their regular business i.e. getting out of the garden. That causes disquiet. 

Cats like to follow set and established routes within their own territory. They are unwilling to compromise on this. So it follows that I must tend to the fast growing ivy and tame it as best I can, even in the rain. Ivy makes me cough and sneeze for some reason but my health and welfare is not their concern. Anyway now the ivy has been cut back so I can move on with various other pointless projects. Perhaps.

Great Moments in Sci-fi

 

Space Teriyaki. 

 The couch at the end of the universe.

There will be no place for you upon it.

I'll put it simply.

It is because you do not fit in.

Art by Shusei Nagaoka.

The mechanics of the modern gravity based digestion system. 

For diligent and houseproud robots only.

See them. Try them.

They're at your local virtual Waitrose.

You are already there.

Sculpture by Lagarrigue.

In the 1950s the future was always heralded by the plaintive toot of a short barreled but long winded cartoonish trumpet.

Now we are no longer quite so confident.

We suffer in a restless sleep pattern.

Dreams arrive in ink boxes.

Traffic lights turn blue tomorrow.

Loose hands fly free.

This is because the more that time passes, 

the more we realise that people do not change.

Art by Yvang.

All words by me.

PYT Button

Press the button please.

Not my own words (see them, read them here),

but worthy of a quiet red button press. 

Do try it out.

ꜛ

"Pyt" (pronounced like "pid") is a uniquely Danish word that has no direct English translation but holds profound significance in Danish culture. The expression "pyt med det" (literally "pyt with it") emerged in the mid-19th century as a way to brush off minor annoyances and setbacks. It embodies the Danish philosophy of not dwelling on things that cannot be changed, a mindset deeply rooted in the pragmatic Nordic approach to life's challenges.

In Danish society, "pyt" functions as both a word and a cultural concept. It represents the ability to accept situations beyond one's control, let go of frustrations, and move forward without unnecessary stress. Danish schools even have "pyt buttons" physical or figurative buttons children can press when they need to reset emotionally and let something go. This practice helps develop emotional resilience from an early age.

The concept of "pyt" is considered a cornerstone of Danish happiness and is often cited as one of the reasons Denmark consistently ranks among the world's happiest countries. It aligns with the Danish value of "hygge" (coziness) by fostering mental well-being through acceptance and letting go. In today's fast-paced, often perfectionist world, "pyt" offers a simple yet powerful reminder to save our energy for things that truly matter rather than exhausting ourselves over minor setbacks.

Peace of mind can be free if you're prepared to pay the price of your cherished beliefs and expectations. 

P.S. I did try to purchase a real PYT button ($18) but T&Cs apply, I don't qualify: You must possess a reasonably sound mind and body, be under 65, not live in a failed and bruised colonial state, have a GSOH and be 100% as Danish as a value pack of unsalted Lurpack (that's all very Danish isn't it?).

Smokie Pie Factor

 

Another fitba day oot. First visit of the season to Gayfield Park,  Arbroath. So nevermind the result or the fact that the Pars had about 16 shots on target whilst Arbroath had 1 and yet we ended up with a miserable 1 - 1 draw. Far better to discuss the pies. This is my favourite "pie" football ground. Three fine, top of the range, hot pies are on offer. The Steak pie, the Steak and Black pie (black being black pudding) and the veritable king of off-kilter, local pies, the Smokie pie. 

The Smokie pie is a bit like thick Cullen Skink but shoveled into a normal shell pie body. So it's smoked fish mainly. First class. Obviously these pies are also available from bakers outwith Gayfield Park but I've never ventured into Arbroath itself to try any of them. That's for another day. When you're out of town to watch a match it's fitba first (which includes the pie factor) ... then get yourself back home asap. The local economy can take care of itself. That's how we roll.

If you've read about these pies here before then it's just because it's worth repeating the fact that they exist. The simple pleasures are the best. By the way the coffee at Gayfield, like most fitba grounds, is total pish.

Surf the Paper Ocean

There are many odd things that you can think about trying, but you know fine well that you can never actually get round to doing them. So don't stress or sweat the impossibles' too much. Simple is best.

More Randoms

  

A volunteer prisoner trapped inside the glitter wall dimension takes a selfie and considers his life choices and current position while also wondering what modern day physics/magic might make of it all. 

Craigtoun Park ex-Hospital viewed from the tiny camera of some Temu drone on a summer's evening, so I imagine. My esteemed but now ruined birthplace captured from the air. It's going to be redeveloped as a redevelopment. Handy for the gowf, a few decent cafes maybe and the rolling Fife countryside. Might be an expensive place to stay. We'll see come the launch day. Gonna be a few ghosts there though and maybe mine might pay the residents a wee visit now and again, come the day.

High tech matters are effectively dealt with at this Shetland clinic.

Also a potential data centre site.

Karl Marx is regularly and deliberately misunderstood and often blamed and vilified for all sorts of stuff (I wonder why?), but let's not get into any of that right now. However this (other) guy is creating a new and effective redemption arc for the great man by matching up some his quotations and statements along with old Richard Scarry illustrations. The spoonful of sugar theory perhaps. Nothing's likely to change as a result however. Everybody just keep on rollin' in the trad media's slippery pish and stay safe out there. I'm still trying to keep alive those vague dreams of a one time "young" socialist.

Dundee Daily Photo

I encountered this young seagull up in Dundee. She decided to stand for a while on the bonnet of my car whilst I fiddled about with the settings of the car’s music player. Eventually, we struck up a kind of conversation. I’m not fluent in seagull, but I tried. A nod and a wink, etc. Through a glass darkly.

I suggested that this part of Dundee, Asda just off the Kingsway, wasn’t the best place to settle. OK, there’s a Greggs and a nearby Costa but it’s all a bit basic. I won’t say tacky but you know what I mean.

“There will be titbits and messy crumbs and wrappers to explore, but ... you’re not so far away from a better, perhaps more challenging life. The coast’s nearby, as I’m sure you know. If you can, head south across the city to the V&A, don’t be tempted by the ice cream vans and ignorant visitors with their chips and M&S meal deals, although half a macaroni cheese pie stolen from the grasp of a security guard on a smoke break might just work for you. But best to ignore these treasures. Follow the coast to Broughty Ferry or head straight up to Arbroath. There are the relics of a fishing industry up there, though pickings will be slim. The silver darlings moved on. In fact, they’re almost extinct now.”

“Better still, follow the coast to the south, round Fife Ness. I’m not sure what your range is, but stop at the Toasty Van by St Andrews’ harbour for a snack break and you could be in Crail by the early evening. Have a kip up on a roof there somewhere. Then look across and you’ll find the May Island. She sparkles like a cold diamond on the Forth and humans don’t really go there. Maybe a few twitchers and loose Americans in the summer months. Boat trippers with field glasses. It might be a bit Mad Max out there, but you’ll be with a good crowd. You’ll need to pick up a few skills; survival in a hostile environment (by human standards), eat some shit, but there will be crabs, whelks and mussels. Seals, fish maybe? A mate? Not any good to me, but ... I’m not a seagull.”

“Anyway, it’s worth a pop. Nothing against Dundee, but you’re wild and free and these old grey Scottish cities can break a person real quick, or a seagull.”

The bird didn’t say too much, but I had a strong sense of what the tone of her reply might be before it finally arrived. She stamped around on the bonnet. The metal was warm with the sun and an hour of plugging along on the motorway. The young don’t really care for advice, however well meant. I’ve seen a few things by now, lived about a dozen gull lives ... not that I’m counting.

“What the fuck do you know, you big soft prick? Sitting in a metal box fiddling with buttons. You don’t have a clue what it’s like to be out here, alone, fending for yourself. Rawk!”

“Anyway, despite my animal feelings, thanks for the advice. I might check it out, but I’ve got a date at the Burger King by Tesco. Some protein to be had there, so they say, and as you know there’s always a bit of fresh roadkill on the Kingsway or A90. I just have to watch out for those twats in their sunglasses and Teslas, oh, and the electric scooter boys.”

“Yeah, my mum told me a fairy story about the May Island. Guess I was an egg then. Don’t know if she ever saw the place for real. Perhaps I’ll head there some day. By the way, you forgot to thank me for not shitting on your windscreen. Rawk! Rawk! Now get on with your own stupid business.”

I turned the key, the car’s engine lit up and away flew the seagull.

I’ll never know if she made it to the May Island, but I’d like to think she did.

Project #99

 

Only kidding: It's not really #99 but I can call it that if I like. $99 guitar. Body from France. It's an SG Junior Partscaster. I dyed the wood a wine red. Messy of course. Red fingers for a while. A lot of tinkering was involved. Set neck, no bolts, no neck plate. Glue and clamps. It was sanded down and I built it up, added a few extras, pickguard, brass nut, electrics - and so I faked a fake Gibson.

Yeah, fake it till you make it. Used a gallon of pure elbow grease. Only took me three weeks of shed time, and I don't even have a proper shed. Plays 100% OK, will add some Mojo idc. That's what Joe Walsh might have said. Could make a lovely wall hanger for your home or office ... but that would be a waste and it's not even for sale. P90 cult rules apply.

The Long Defeat

 

If you think there are too many cats featured on this blog, then you're quite right. I do think that we can learn a lot from cats, but... we're clearly not cats and are unlikely to evolve in that direction. It wouldn't be a good thing.

We're all very busy now getting tangled up in social media's curated version of the greedy world, endless political junk, regurgitated AI slop that nobody asked for and the values of creative living and originality being worn down. We're on a familiar and historically proven road.

So, if there's one thing that cats understand, it's the concept of the "long defeat". They live their lives knowing this is the backdrop to reality and scoff at how we humans fail to grasp it or how we just ignore it.

From the relative safety of a cardboard box Bungle stares into her inner void and recognises the familiar (and arguably glorious) path of the long defeat stretched out before her.