Lucky Cat Lego

Almost Happy "lucky cat" New Year time.

Next up - 2026.

Apology for Anthology

Is it strange to say only *my generation had the Beatles? Not the younger ones. Not the older ones either. Just that narrow strip of time I happened to stand on. At the time it did not feel strange at all. It felt ordinary. There was nothing unusual about them. They were simply there. As if they always had been.

I was eight when the songs arrived and something in me noticed. Awareness came quietly then. You did not know what you did not know. How the rest of the world was waking up at the same time. The records were already spinning. The television already showed them. Newspapers, magazines, cinemas - all carried the same faces. It seemed fixed. Wasn’t that how the world worked?

Later they called it a Boomer thing. At eight, words like that had no weight. I knew about the big War, even if it had already ended. I knew rockets were chasing the moon. I knew cowboys, Elvis, and the long cold pause between nations. I knew the Light Programme, Children’s Hour, and Doctor Who, when the TV signal held. The Beatles slid into that knowledge without friction. Black and white faces. Scratchy records. Radios humming and glowing in the corners of rooms. They were not separate from life. They were part of it's texture. Like Bible stories or sherbet fountains. They were everywhere without trying to be.

The adults disapproved, or it felt that way. They said the songs meant nothing. They laughed at the words. They said the hair was long and wrong. They said Liverpool had never produced anything good. That was what they said. It did not matter. Everyone else leaned forward. We tested loyalties with pain and laughter, Beatles or Stones and we pretended it was a choice. The Beatles were better, everyone knew. The Stones were dangerous. Their danger complicated things. The adults said it would pass. They were wrong, though some of them understood. The ground was moving. You could feel it if you stood still long enough. But the establishment never believes in a movement until it has already fallen and is a piece of history.

The end, it turns out, is always closer than the beginning. The gods became men. Flesh and failure. They had warned us in the songs, but belief is easier than listening hard. Understanding asks something of you, and most people prefer not to pay.

By the time I'd turned sixteen it was finished. On the skids. The fractures came. Then the departures. Then the scandals. New names in music followed, eager and loud. They could play. They could write. They could perform. But they were not walking into open ground. They followed footprints already pressed into the earth. That walk could not be easily repeated. What came after was a pale imitation, sometimes beautiful, often competent, never the same. An original moment does not forgive repetition. It can only be viewed through glass, thinned and dulled. The world began to spin faster, and our heroes proved not to be bulletproof.

Now machines revive what once lived free.  Still photos move again. Voices return without breath. It is something you may accept, but not something you can savour if you were ever there. It is hollow in the way belief becomes hollowed out when it asks nothing back. We watched the progression and sensed where it led. Souls sold cheaply, performing their tributes while everything around flattens into a cartoon form. History repeats, yes, but never faithfully. Time does not always improve what it touches. Small corruptions accumulate into monsters. The Devil stays down in the details. He prefers it there.

You try to tell your version anyway. You have to. It might matter, though few will believe it. Then people age, die and vanish, and the story returns again, edited, softened, looped endlessly for easier consumption. A version of memory becomes content. Context disappears.

The planet does not need more amusement. It needs care. It needs stewards. It needs people willing to serve rather than extract. Once there was a moment when that almost surfaced. Then errant machines closed over it and it was snuffed out. Corporations and governments learned faster ways to take without giving. We arrive at the future we earn. It did not have to be this way.

* I never, ever bought any Beatles records when I was young. No LPs, books or posters either. Nothing, I don't know why. Later on I bought a few CDs and books. There are still some Beatles albums I've never listened to all the way through.

-----

Sometimes I get my head into knots over imagined desert island options i.e. If you could only take one band or artist's music with you to the island, which one would you choose? 

Perhaps: Mozart, Bowie, Gershwin, Tchaikovsky, Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, Miles Davis, Steely Dan, Pink Floyd, CSNY ... ?

Once the internal pub argument is over,  I think ... it's the Beatles.

Perpetual Anxiety

"Either you accept the terms of our cookie policy or you reject them, and if you do, you pay. That's nice - welcome to the happy and inclusive realm of journalism and web content in 2026-ish. Nobody gives it away. Everybody has to pay and pay.”

-----

I may have perpetual anxiety. 

I don't know for sure. 

It's just running in the background.

A quiet little programme. 

But I'll be looking over my shoulder.

Keeps the adrenalin high and the heart pumping. 

It's maybe for the best.

Or,

More likely.

Do we all have a dose of it?

Fight v flight.

Something up ahead. 

Just running on and away. 

However close to empty.

Unseen threats.

Panic in the air.

We are all animals after all.

Wild animals.

Well, some wilder than others.

-----

Control

Couldn't have put it better myself, whilst also conscious of still being a bit of a hypocrite here. Modern life is a series of contradictions, convenience and complications that I can't easily navigate. Everybody wants to control the world, or at least what they see as their part of it and then add those extra bits they also want to conquer and exploit. Fun-suckers.

As an alternative to my pathetic moaning here's some "happy wee cute cat" gift tags that arrived on Christmas morning attached to gifts, strangely enough.

Now ... and Then

Photo above by LB, Koln 2025.

As above, farewell for the time being.

P.S. Not this year but in case anybody forgot ...

Pre-Christmas Post

It's that time of year again. I'm of an age where I know fine well that there's not much I can think, write or say about Christmas that hasn't been widely said or shared before so I'll not bother. However I quite like the little piece (above) that the often unjustly cursed and much misunderstood internet has kindly provided for me. Please note that at times the internet has also done or at least facilitated some pretty bad things. Users beware. Happy Pre-Christmas.

Spotlight

Spotlight on Zippy, the cat who gets a little less photographic attention than sister Bungle or brother George. It's not that he's any kind of shrinking violet, it's more down to him being quite elusive and flighty compared to his siblings. He remains under the radar, carrying out his own secret missions and ... he's a better predator than the other two, a proven hunter. That of course comes with a number of other problems.

14 Downloads

So happy to know that my downloads are being scanned by McAfee before they ever dare enter the sanctity of the download folder.

The pre-Christmas malaise is upon me this morning. The feeling that things need doing and that doing needs things but also that my operating system is running in slow motion, in an agreeable way, so much so that I have no intention of jump starting it. I don't want to disturb myself.

Today the weather is also crumbly and rickety with a slight chance of pesky developing later on in the day. 

Fourteen years we were in Madeira according to Google photos and who am I to argue with a machine? It's been brought to my attention that fourteen is also the only correct way to spell 14, never forteen, apparently.

Thanks For 2025

2025: You're actually better listening to or downloading our stuff (or most other's) on Bandcamp, but I quite like the "free" graphic that Apple kindly (?) supplied for the year end. We don't do a ton of business on Apple and as you'd imagine their artist's rates are just about as piss poor as Spotify* - but over time the listener and streaming numbers add up, it's just the money that doesn't at this miserable end of the business. Fat cats and toothless minions everywhere rejoice - but know that for you, a day of reckoning (?) will come.

 *The customary moan of the creator prevails.

Art-Craft-Science

Quasi-religious moments bordering on possible wisdom described by the use of meaningful titles and labels: 

Maybe in no particular order - or is there a natural set of rules that things just follow, do we mistake that for design and purpose? 

Are things happening for understandable reasons or are they only happening by chance? 

Sometimes the answer just drops into your head from out of a clear blue sky. 

And if you fall the universe will provide you with a soft landing.

Here are next week's winning lottery numbers ...

:-------------------------------------------------------------:

John Lewis Advert 2026 - Part 2

 

Another day, another John Lewis bag. Same cat.

South Queensferry Daily Dump

A small thing: A child's scooter parked up in Hawthorn Bank. It's more abandoned than parked really. Somebody in authority should do something or perhaps the owner will come or a member of the public will react and deal with the lost scooter. It seems to have malfunctioned. The rear wheel is either jammed or pretty stiff, not turning freely. Nobody has claimed it so far. It's a broken scooter.

Maybe it's been dumped. The child, the parent, they've had enough of it. So they left it behind, expecting somebody else to notice, to use it or fix it or just dump it for them. They didn't feel responsible. So we'll maybe put some messages or a photo out on socials that there's a kid's scooter sitting on the corner. Been there all day, etc. etc. Everybody checks their socials. Right?

No surprise that nobody has claimed the scooter, or came looking or anything. So I suppose we'll hold onto it for a few days and if nothing else happens we'll dump it ... or actually do the right thing and take it to the proper recycling centre. But that's something we don't have here in SQ. We've got the bottle banks, clothes containers, cardboard bins and stuff. No proper place for this kind of thing though. You have to go into Edinburgh, to Sitehill, ten miles away. 

😒

Winter's Tale

In the dark in the mornings it's hard to find the floor. Pale shadows. the click of door handles. Run the tap. Stick the kettle on. Open a jar and check the milk. Nobody has Ovaltine first thing in the morning. Rain on the windows and wild winds coming and going but still rattling the chimney flue. Ashes in the fire place. Clean it up later and get some more firewood in. They're going to outlaw log burners soon and encourage heat pumps. I'm too far down the road for any of that. The roadway to Hell is paved with good intentions, most of which are just turned over and picked at by the crows.

They don't understand the insultion problems that most Scottish houses have, it's down to the way they were built back then. But understanding a problem before you take action isn't high on the current list of political skills and talents these days. Just do something that sounds about right, that makes a good a sound bite. It'll probably be the first thing that comes into your head or the head of your special advisor who has a degree in Australian flora and fauna. The BBC will run with it. They always do.

Breathing out the old man broke character and moved his thoughts on, "enough of that". Then he whispered something strange to the dancing shadows. He took time. He watched as they slowly disappeared into the wall, or wherever it is that shadows go once they're done. Then he went outside into the dim light and filled the feeders so that the birds might enjoy an early breakfast. There's still a lot of quiet satisfaction to be had out there. A calm sea of silence beats the thunder of a vacuum.
 

Letterboxd

Some choice material that I added: I saw somewhere that there was a thing on line called Letterboxd (without the"e") that was all the rage amongst the bright young things*. It's for fans of cinema and so on. I think by losing the offending"e" they avoid a few awkward "urban" sexual terms that don't fit so well with listing and reviewing films. More of a cinematic themed style of name might have been better. 

Letterboxd is probably no longer so popular now that I've signed up, opened an account and picked as film or two. I created a short list of those that I may have liked at some point in the past. That seems to be the whole point of the site. Know your history and brag about stuff you know. I'm no film buff, I've forgotten most of what I've seen and why I liked what I liked. 

On LB a person can interact with their fellow members but I'm not sure about that. What kind of people would even do that? Facebook for film fans? I'm averse to long, dull conversations about film and cinema anyway - though I might tackle a quick one after a wine or three. If it's a good watch then enjoy it but don't sweat over the details. I'll likely unsubscribe in a few weeks then forget anything ever happened.

*Or older weirdos.

John Lewis Advert 2026

 

 

Did an impromtu photo session yesterday with George the tuxedo cat. Turned out that we got some good material. We'll probably submit it to John Lewis once we are evacuated from the wreckage and debris of 2025. I think we have a strong contender here for the big fat John Lewis Christmas 2026 ad campaign. Things will just snowball for us, no doubt. Not sure what Christmas tune might go best with it. I know that it misses the mark but I've always had a liking for "Christmas Wrapping" by the Waitresses, my favourite bit of seasonal pop-bop.

eBay Treasures

Buried treasure: Always fun to see our stuff turn up on eBay after 20 years of who knows what kind of treatment. This is another one of the "black" promo CDs we sent out to all sorts of people and places - 20 years ago or so. They didn't really further our musical career at all but it was fun at the time. We tried and, after well over a million plays, streams and downloads on numerous platforms we're still here, standing watching the skip fire that's the music industry. Ours is a pretty common experience. I've no regrets, well not many. Messages in bottles do get found eventually.

Points Mean Prizes

Pink Floyd: I've no idea what I'm doing here, there's a number generator they say. Also something else it seems, perhaps I'll do the necessary research, later when I can be bothered. Then you just let them silently harvest your data and it's all over, painless even. Sounds familiar.

There's the promise of slightly tacky prizes and as we all know in this mad world, that seldom amounts to anything - but we can't resist. Then again the Floyd were always about that peculiar sense of loss, futility or disappointment that the faithful liked to bask in and dwell upon. Quietly leaning over the edge of reason looking down at some lyrical illustration of post-modern despair. It's also close to Christmas when things can get a bit binary and shaky.

Most likely the financial controllers just want a few more "customers" to be enticed onto their Spotify playlist to keep the now ancient flame alive. There are many other ways to listen to music. Anyway I don't expect a win but being a complete hypocrite I'd still be happy with a mug, a t-shirt or even a CD box set. There's also about 4.3 million other people in the swill, following along and grabbing a time slot right now so your chances are pretty slim.

Hospitality

Out on the ran-dan on Saturday night in Scotland's oldest, newest and smallest city (explains the dodgy photo above). It followed a hospitality afternoon at East End Park complete with an early Christmas dinner, lots of beer and a pretty poor footballing performance and final result. My internal plumbing had a good work out. I tell myself I'm too old for that sort of thing but strangely I don't seem to be suffering quite the same range of serious side effects as I did as a younger, richer man. After East End we hit the old bars and haunts of the toon, my son's keeping me upright and directed.

I'm not trouble free healthwise, but I've maybe just stopped caring as much. I get tired but I could still stand straight, cope and even string sentences together, late into the sesh at 2am. Must be the result of something new that's possibly included or left out of modern beer recipes. You don't really know what you're drinking or how potent it might be. Could just be down to elongated cosmic rays exposure and a less active imagination that's almost keeping me younger than yesterday. Good late night training for the World Cup TV ordeal that awaits us all.

BLT (as a starting point)

 

Strictly speaking this BLT is an BRT, R being for Rocket which may or may not be actual lettuce. It's certainly got green leaves and is found in the salad aisle but who knows? Is this the greatest sandwich of all time ... not sure. Here are a few other contenders:

Crayfish and rocket. Pret did a good version of this if you're too posh to DIY.

A piece (or a sandwich) on real chips with brown sauce. Once a food staple. Not sure of it's current status, it may have died along with the once ubiquitous chip pan.

Peanut butter and jam - has to be strawberry jam and crunchy peanut butter. Smucker's Goober (which is actually grape) is a good alternative if you can find it.

Pastrami and pickle (NY Deli style), possibly with some slices of American cheese somewhere in there. 

Crisps (any flavour but vinegar) but with a generous amount of mayo added for lubrication. 

Anchovies and mustard in/on toasted bread. Maybe a slice of tomato on top? A bit left field for those of you with more Presbyterian tastes and outlooks, but this can work.

I was going to add fish fingers but I'm exhausted now.

As for the bread it used to be the old Scottish plain loaf that was the best, it was the default, certainly for chips. The plain loaf seems to have been cancelled for health reasons or perhaps it's just another part of Scottish counter culture that has been outlawed by our unseen lords and masters. I can no longer find it in the markets and it's now taken to be obsolete. A strange relic from the past, like scarlet fever or corporal punishment.

These days it's sourdough (white) that's everywhere and I seem to have got myself stuck in that particular and for the mean time fashionable rut. At £2.50 for about seven slices, all full of air bubbles, it's hardly priced as a basic food. It is good bread. In fairness the other, cheaper breads can be pretty grim and tasteless, though rye can be a wee treat if you can get a good loaf. Very dense.

Please note that bread rolls, stotties, English breakfast muffins, brioche buns or whatever you call them are not included in this mild but biased opinion piece because they cannot be considered as the basic and foundational ingredient of a proper sandwich.

Blame Culture

 No one is responsible, no one is to blame.

Some are responsible, some are to blame.

Everyone is responsible, everyone is to blame.

If you don't move you don't notice your chains,

You choose.

Are Google good guys or are they part of the ... 

the problem being that we depend ...

or maybe rely on them ...

There are others we might choose ...

but we go with the easiest ...

maybe not the best ...

anymore ...

The best being ..?

You ask too many questions ...

Different Fire = Different Day

Different fire: No two fires are ever alike or identical, this one is no exception. Looking at the word "different" and I'm having one of those moments when the word just doesn't look right. It seems unable to spell itself, unable to be read and out of sync with the wider world of language where things are correct and recognizable. A terrible mistake and disconnect has taken place inside my head. Is there a name or explanation for this temporary blight which I presume we all suffer from at some point or other? It's a common enough experience, I tell myself. All of these things must pass.

Bad Karma: Many thanks to the person in the white BMW X5 who managed to rub their car body against my car body in the SQ Tesco car park yesterday. You left a huge white mark along the side of my motor and a number of scratches, while not bothering to try to contact me or wait for me coming out of the shop. You certainly made yesterday afternoon special for me. I've come to terms with it by accepting that it was just the universe's way of getting me to clean my dirty car. I spent about two hours buffing out the marks and scratches and then washing the entire vehicle. As for you, BMW X5 driver, I've forgiven you but I'm sure that Karma will get you in some form or another. Take good care out there, you thoughtless piece of ...

W T Actual F

The ultimate guide to rebuilding civilisation arrived in my Insta feed the other day: It's finally available at only £79, that thing you've always promised yourself; the illustrated guide on how to restart our world once it's a) burned to a crisp b) completely flooded c) a bleak radiation wilderness d) temporarily run by Satan while we await the return of Jesus e) being managed by hostile AI bots that we are unable to communicate with or f) invaded by aliens who regard us as farm animals ... I could go on but that's enough of the happy stuff. 

Just imagine the joy on your loved one's face as they open up this at Christmas; actually I can see the appeal, albeit somewhat limited. A book that may come in handy one terrible day, basking there on the kitchen shelf along with Jamie Oliver, 100 Microwave Meals and Mrs Beaton. I imagine the pages will be covered in highlighter ink with yellow stickies peeking out between them. The chapters on "How to make fire", "How to find your keys" and "How to kill and eat a pigeon" will be well marked up and thumbed.

It's pretentiously titled "The Book" so it's really out there to undermine or replace the "Good Book" which I think we all know isn't going to be much help for rebuilding anything unless you want to be ruled by mad kings and priests and struggle under a ton of incomprehensible laws and oppressive guilt, whilst eeking out a grim existence in some desert wilderness awaiting a messiah who will never arrive. A lot of Christians only ever bother with the New Testament at Christmas and Easter, the rest of time it's the full on misery of the Old Testament they swallow so they'll love the idea of that. Ongoing nuclear austerity for God's chosen few. That'll be popular with the Tories and Reform folks too.

I wonder if there's a short, possibly final chapter on how to build an atomic bomb from scratch, just in case your first few efforts at sorting things out on Earth II go a bit doolally and uncivilised. Perhaps that task is already addressed in the "For Idiots" series of books. The other problem is that over 300k copies have already been sold, mostly to Americans who wear red hats and have a healthy supply of guns, so I'd imagine. It's just not going to work.

Actually looking inside via the preview it's all a bit Steampunky, over drawn and odd, just another innocent stab at seasonal fun, promoting insecurity and raking in some cash over Christmas really, like a Temu T-shirt offer or a new kind of LED strip light. It's all a big, silly laugh but I'm still not buying it. If your next door neighbour gets a copy you can always nick it from them come the day, then burn their house down and then eat their warm flesh as per the instructions in Chapter 3.

Various Things

Laser show at the SQ Christmas lights switch on event.

Vintage ad for the old family business - a few steps removed.

There may be trouble ahead ...

Sgt. Pepper Live - Cheap Trick

It's Friday so time to stamp out some more of reality: Watched this a few years ago and then, me being me, forgot all about it. Head's too full. The Disney+ noise (?) about the newish and lukewarm Beatles anthology reminded me,  so I made the connection. This is a great performance of the whole of the Pepper album plus a cheeky bit of Abbey Road, if you are at all inclined to like that sort of thing. Cheap Trick, backing singers, players and the NYC Philharmonic Orchestra. All done up at the Waldorf Astoria (into which I have set foot), clearly not a night out for the plebs. Why bother with this? I've no idea.

AI AI Oh!

 

There's an ongoing revolution and I'm kind of fed up with it already. Nothing new when you're forever chasing convenience. It's in the ether, worming away into the hive mind. In the buzzing of those mysterious wires and boards where so much heat is generated and power consumed. All to help us figure things out, the servers will serve us. It saves time and the painful scouring of the grey matter, easier than reading books or just asking an expert, a fellow human perhaps. Also it's mostly billionaires who happen to be in charge of it's roll out and evolution, as an extra unplanned feature.

Nothing really wrong with that apart from all the band wagon jumping, complete lack of control, energy consumption and the potential isolation of souls and collapse of thought ... and then there's the inevitable reliance. It may cure cancer but we'll be too absorbed in the beautiful tunes, artworks, games and movies it's created to care. We'll also be mostly unemployed.

At the moment AI is really a huge extension of Google maps and the like. You ask for directions, you get a route, sometimes many different or alternative routes, all allowing for various means of transport. You take your pick and travel. You may still get lost if pathways change and the map isn't up to date, the signal drops or you miss a turn because you sneezed while at the wheel. 

AI is busy pulling information from a deep digital map and database of human knowledge and experience. There will be things missing; a reliable moral compass, nuance and emotion, god knows what else, we will never know what it doesn't know. Do you want that glorified map reader to be the likely source of all your advice, guidance, entertainment and creature comfort? Can you believe the hype?

It's probably not healthy to form any kind of weird, aspirational sub-human relationship with it either, no matter how polite or attentive it seems to be. Your faithful phone based buddy or assistant isn't a potential mate ... yet. It's been said that AI (in some sort of embodied form) may not be able to load a dishwasher properly for at least another twenty years. At that point it will have overtaken most of the human race. Well, me for sure.

Fat Balls Diary

Today's entry is a bit of a diary thing based around real or possibly fictitious events that took place yesterday, 25th - in no particular order:

Up a 6.45 and fed the cats. Cats not really enthusiastic about their breakfast, they're going through a fussy spell. Coffee, a wee cuddle from Bungle (a cat), charged up the cat trackers and then a nice warm shower to move the morning along. Took Ali a cuppa and looked out of the window, weather checking. Messaged "happy birthday" to my oldest grandson, will see him at the weekend.

🍻

7.45 I let the cats out, again not totally happy, it's a cold morning. They disappear out and about then return and meow a lot. That pattern continues all morning. Brought in some logs and kindling, cleaned out the burner, made up wood for burning, ready for the evening. Cat litter is still fresh so no need to mess around with it. Lots of muddy cat prints from yesterday on the tiles, a quick wipe fixes that.

By now I've decided not to go out, other than to pop over to the Co-op for some tea time vegetables. Start to read an article about Caravaggio but get halfway and decide to leave it for later. Not sure why but I have to read or watch anything about that warped, artistic genius, however pitched, that comes into my orbit. This also applies to Karl Ove Knausgård and Steve McQueen (the actor), people are strange.

I top up the bird feeders and of course I wonder what ones the bird's prefer. Currently we're serving a mix of Asda, Tesco and Home Bargains sourced fat balls. The sparrows and blue tits seem to like everything but the other (rainy) day I noticed the crows and magpies homing in on the Asda ones. I doubt there's much of a difference, it's all way better than McDonald's car park scrapings. 

Bird seed is however another matter. They're all on the HB cheap, shilling a ton, stuff (not pictured), every man jack in the bird world attacks it, not sure what gets eaten by whom as it's scattered everywhere but the pigeons and collared doves tend to scoop up the leftovers eagerly. 10ish breakfast with Ali, toast with PB&J and coffee and a short discussion about walnuts.

1030 put up a Jim Moir (aka Vic Reeves of course) original artwork, not a print, in the kitchen, it's called "Splart". I'm not sure about the exact meaning of it but that hardly matters. A 70+ birthday gift from my oldest daughter and her family. The Forth Bridge picture below it was an earlier gift from them.

Sorting out and fixing up the frames provided a rare sense of achievement from which I coasted into a quiet elevenses, some time after eleven. Back to reading more on Caravaggio's bad behaviour for a bit. Call from the garage, Ms P, aka Missy is in for repairs. Some straight forward, some not so. Had a brief discussion regarding exhaust manifolds and the curse of the rusted bolts, all twelve of them. Ho hum.

Cats all in, fed and asleep. After a pastrami sandwich lunch (me not the cats), 1255, off to the Co-op; three peppers, milk and cheese slices purchased. Bloody cold out there. Going to a wedding in May next year, filled out all the menu requirements etc. on line. Bish, bash, bosh. What a time to be alive. Coffee assistance required. This diary recording is hard work.

Read some stuff about the Beatles by Stuart Maconie. Quite like the "four narratives" theory he mentions, it's by Erin Torkelson Weber (not heard of her before). Now a bit easier to understand the impact of the Beatles with a 50 year perspective and a more balanced commentary. Rehashed material on them about to hit Disney +. The cats are back out - 1400 approx. No overlong siesta today as it's still chilly but dry. 

1445. Next up is some guitar noodling and a few additional black tape repairs to the Gator case I recently got as an eBay freebie with the soon to become "Punkicaster" carcass. The case has clearly had a life, having probably been run over by a stray Ryanair 737 a few times at Stansted Airport, where all lost luggage goes to die. Anyway nothing that a bit of Gorilla tape can't handle. It's in good nick inside too. For some reason I'm distracted by YouTube clips and fiddle about making some up. They all get binned, too jumpy. Ate a Christmas mince pie.

1600. Cats have returned to the fold, having not wandered too far, they get fed meaty Wiskas with no complaints and head off for a nap. No mice, birds or leaves brought back either. About time for a coffee and typing up this drivel. At least I'm not ranting about anything ... much, other than my normal inner rant running in the background. Just remembered that there's fitba tonight but not on cooncil telly. Plastic Whistle v the Pars, a mere week since the earthquake at Hampden and Scotland's most recent mystical and cultural reawakening, well up to a point. The Champions League is also on but I don't give a shit about any of that.

Five o'clock. I'm on meal duty this evening, stir fried chicken, peppers and rice. ETA 1830 all being well. I'll pace myself while Ali attends a lecture on line. Some but not all ingredients laid out in advance.

 

1850. Food done and dusted. The meal was OK, I'd give myself a 6.5. George the cat slept in my usual seat so I was demoted from the inner circle whilst dining. I can cope with that. DAFC Instagram snippet from Firhill via the Pars makes it look pretty grim there tonight i.e. cold. As ever I'm hoping for the best. 

At any moment, after a short but elaborate ceremony, the log burner will be ablaze and our primal spirits will rise as they follow the fresh new flames up to heaven where they will soothe the unjustified anger of the Gods of Winter. It's an old Fifeshire tradition firmly welded into our whimsical pagan belief systems. We're kind of stuck with it. The fire is alight.

Moving on ... got sent a link for a live stream of the footy, decided against using it, didn't look good. We're a goal down right now. 

And that's the way it stayed. Had a mug of Ovaltine and just let the remains of the day slip away while half watching something about Mozart in New York on Amazon.

Psychic Quicksand

 

Tips and techniques: despite twenty odd (?) years of striving for the mastery and well controlled use of the cast iron log burner or stove I have little or no useful advice to offer. I think I've experience of living with, cleaning, fueling and burning in most types, from a simple open fire to a closed kitchen stove but in the end have I really learned anything of value? Not much, it's all just a bit of whatever you make of it and avoiding burned fingers. However I've learned to wear the tough gloves.

The thing is that log burners are a lot like old Volkswagen campers or beetles - they look good and they smack of a certain lifestyle and in a wacky way freedom from the grid but ... they burn up dinosaurs or dead trees and put bad particles into the atmosphere. Having said that a lot of houses, furniture, guitars and all sorts of stuff are made of dead trees though it's the burning process and fumes that are the problem ... unless you're out in the wilds, like us ... well almost, despite sitting smugly on a bus route. This life is all just warm and woolly psychic quicksand.

WHERE'S MY F****IN' BUS?!

Inspired by real life events: A song about a rather pressing matter here in the slowly/rapidly crumbling First World*: For some reason Danny Sapko and Justin Hawkins keep turning up together in the socials and on YouTube. They also turned up during my family birthday lunch, a few weeks ago but that was all down to a mixed up business card set of card tricks that I was under performing (in). 

Here's Danny (no Justin however) in a band (?) where he doesn't even play bass  but this song's had thousands of plays already. OK it's been up for a few weeks but fair enough. They do all their own creative work too - home made, not too impressive. Ladies and gentlemen ... the Mellon-Collies. I don't recognise the font either. I wrote this bit today which was yesterday. 

*Not everyone on the planet thinks this way.

Old Plans

 

Rosyth imagined: I came across this old street plan of Rosyth the other day. It's from 1917 when the first phases of the town were being put together to house workers for the nearby Naval Base and Dockyard. I arrived in Rosyth as a young 'un some time in the late 1950s and stayed at two different addresses with my parents and one later on when I was first married. They're all visible on this map. 

My primary school was where the word "school"  is tentatively written on the right side of the plan. The actual house plans were all based around those of the "Garden City" project put together to house the chocolate factory staff down in Bourneville near Birmingham. 

If you were a dockyard worker (this was about 1977 for me) you were entitled to a "dockyard" house in Rosyth should one become available, so as a young married man I eventually got one to rent. We were only in that house for a year or so before buying a "project" up in Dunfermline. I've always had a soft spot for money-pits, rescues and daft projects. What's life without a small element of risk?  

Meanwhile Rosyth has expanded and been rehashed and redrawn - though this part hasn't changed too much. Well, the M90 now dominates the landscape towards the east and the fancy looking stuff laid out on the west of the drawing never quite came to be, it's a mess of housing estates at the moment. Fifty years or so later I don't think I would recognise or know anyone who lives there now ... times have moved on nicely.

Celebrity Everything and Nothing

The headline reads "I'm a Celebrity 2025 has kicked off, here's all you need to know": The crop of celebrity shows - Dancing on Ice, Strictly, I’m a Celebrity, Traitors, and the rest - regularly roll across the TV screens like long caravans of chatter, noise and light. Who are these people? Are they special or interesting in some incredible way? Perhaps we'll all discover something new during another marathon watch. Meanwhile those mostly unheard of C and D listers come into the event the way tired factory workers might walk into a bar at the end of a tough day in the 1960s - looking for something to keep them going. 

They dance, hunt the traitor, or eat strange things while the crowds watch from the other side of the reality looking glass. The tasks or trials are staged and planned out but essentially small, often foolish, but that is the point. Small tasks are easier to endure. They do not break people. They only mess up their hair or muddy their boots a little in the mediocrity of some group achivement. PPE will be provided and a personal sound bite in which you can explain yourself.

The producers build these worlds so nothing truly dangerous can happen (understandable enough). It may look hard, but it is not the kind of hard that leaves a scar or a mark. A celebrity can get wet, cry in a jungle, or wander lost through some invented ordeal, and still come out clean. At worst, they may look silly. At best, they can look brave and clever. None of it costs them more than a few days of discomfort, and discomfort is something a person can fake if the cameras and final edits are kind. That's entertainment these days.

In these shows everyone behaves well. They smile even when they don’t mean it. They speak softly. They praise one another for small things, normal and often banal things. It is the habit of people who know their fortunes can shift like winds over water. No one wants to be the weak link. No one wants to be the one the public turns away from. So they choose courtesy or humour. They avoid petulance and hard truth. They choose the safe road, because the safe road keeps them visible. It's all good PR in a fragile and fickle business.

And that is why they come. Not for the dance, or the trial, enlightenment or the journey, but for the light of exposure that shines on them while they do it. They need that light. Without it, the world forgets them and to be forgotten is the worse kind of death for a celeb. So they step forward, smile, and do the absurd activity set before them. The audience laughs. The show hits a groove and goes on. A favoured charity gets a cash boost and some names and curated images will hit the headlines. There will be celebrity chat of course and more back slapping as they all reflect. Then, for the next season, that caravan moves on down the road again with some new and over excited passengers.

Of course it can be fun but the real news is ... elsewhere.

Yesterday's Papers

Above is my one time road to retirement. Meanwhile from the Guardian: 

"Defence officials have identified at least a dozen disused oil refineries and chemical plants as possible sites to make explosives and ammunition, including Grangemouth, Southampton and Teesside.

The Ministry of Defence has been scouring Britain for places to build at least six new munitions factories as part of a £6bn programme to increase its supplies as part of a Nato-wide rearmament push.

Emails released to the Ferret website show the MoD, the Department of Business and Trade and the Health and Safety Executive believe that at least four sites at Grangemouth, where the UK’s oldest oil refinery closed earlier this year and several chemical companies have shut down, could be suitable.

Other sites include the proposed BritishVolt battery plant near Newcastle, Milford Haven oil refinery in Wales, Workington and Ulverston in Cumbria, several places on Teesside including Seal Sands, and an oil terminal on Loch Long in Scotland, close to the MoD’s underground bomb store at Glen Douglas, which is said to be the largest in Europe.

The sites were inadvertently revealed when MoD officials failed to properly redact a freedom of information response about Grangemouth, allowing the blacked-out sections to be read. The MoD apologised, admitting it had breached the confidentiality of officials and its business partners. ... "

Every so often (must be an age thing) aspects of my past life rise up from nowhere or at least get a small mention in the media. This "leak" is quite interesting if only for some of my old personal working connections with Milford Haven, Broughton Moor, Glen Douglas, Loch Long and God knows where else 😉. What goes around not only comes around but really just runs in a repeticious cycle. This is what you get when you have a succession of UK governments who don't really understand how things work in the real world, from the ground up and don't seem to know their own history.

One more thing, I've not looked at any actual papers today but the socials are quite rightly celebrating Scotland's brilliant performance last night at Hampden. Good news at last albeit it's a shame the WC is being staged in the USA - there are a lot of reasons why that seems like a bad idea to me. I hope I'm wrong on this.