Lost Les Paul

Lost: 1957 Les Paul Guitar c/w Bigsby. Black. No serial number. Last seen in Toronto Airport, 17th June 1970. As per the above photo.

Response via comments below please. Reward.

Rob Brydon's jumper?

In the picture: Rob Brydon can be seen here not only with Steve Coogan but also wearing  my jumper. A jumper which I believed to be in the bottom of the washing basket when all the time it was away spending a week of fine dining, lounging in posh hotels and footering across the North of England with somebody else - a Welsh comic actor in fact. A fundamental piece of the jumper/wearer relationship has been broken between my jumper and I. I'm not sure that I can ever trust it again.

I talk to the trees but they are busy talking to themselves: Today we went to Linlithgow to try to find a wool shop. Thankfully there was one (albeit I was disappointed to find that it wasn't actually made of wool) and it had the green wool required for my daughter's latest art project. Shops are brilliant really. On the way back I became aware of the conversations taking place between the trees that had survived the recent gales. They were all pretty relieved (many complaining of back and elbow injuries) but obviously more upset over their many friends and colleagues who had fallen, never to rise again. Seeing them being cut up into small pieces with chainsaws doesn't help either. A sad and cruel end for those wooden hearted stalwarts of the forest. I didn't realise how unpopular cyclists were with trees either.

Dingleberry Pie Rescue

Sadly this little bird failed to make it through the stormy week we've just experienced, a cat (who I refuse to name) is of course to blame. The bird expired upstairs in the bathroom, for some reason that's where cats take their victims.

The original Dingleberry Pie rescued from various awful fates and wheelie bins.  Part of the  post storm clear up and freezer emptying exercise. Tasty and with a spongy texture but also producing Pac-Man memories strangely enough.

Fantasy v reality...

...on this corner they meet, at the top of the street, not every single day but pretty much most, if don't see them there, I can only assume you're a little bit lost (or have very poor eyesight).

Doing everything they can

Collapsed trees block local roads...

...and cut vital services.

Battery powered: And so it came to pass that my unfortunate prediction unfortunately came true, a few brief seconds after releasing the Monkey thing to the blog sphere the power did indeed cave in and my world fell into sudden chilly darkness. 101mph winds were sweeping across Scotland brining a familiar pattern of chaos, angry dog walkers complained the MSPs and radio chat shows (all about this sort of thing and why was there no red warning?). Scotland seems to be located in the wrong place at the moment. Bugger all you can do really, as far as I can see. So as the storm raged in our small part of the universe dozens of brave trees fell over in that strange way they do, emitting loud, fatal snapping noises, then as if by some higher purpose landing across roads and bumping into telegraph poles - and so we were cut off. I immediately took a hot bath and reflected on the best toe nail cutting methods, shame I don't have a best toe nail. Then the Christmas decorations were boxed up for another year. Thereafter a deeper gloom descended as the brutal truth became clear, torches were located, candles set up like sentries, a gas burner located and guitars tuned – the power free siege and standoff had begun. I did venture out to photograph the wooden road block, buy whisky and marvel at the many dead traffic lights, as it's a public holiday nobody in their right mind will fix anything, it's not in the contract apparently.

I had also discovered that our extensive radio collection was mainly mains powered and each set stubbornly refused to accept the multiple battery requirements I offered. Why things are designed to be awkward beats me and why middle aged men are also designed to be victims of these awkward designs beats be twice. Eight batteries are needed to power up a sleeping radio, (where are they kept?) hardly economical but now I can connect with modern society without just sitting in the car running the engine for company. Thankfully Radio Scotland stopped playing accordion music for a few hours and settled for broadcasting long lists of closed roads, dead trains as they played more Mull Historical Society (every bloody day it seems), REM, Bob Dylan and Adele, pity about the obvious tyranny of the populist playlist. Three days into 2012 , one power cut, Hurricane Bawbag II and I'm already missing Radio 6's sweet vinyl sounds, never thought that would happen.

The power outage outstayed it's welcome. As evening broke upon us a great coal carrying exercise began. Two huge fires were started in a vain attempt to kill the cold and dark in a heated pincer movement, this was working fine until I realised that with no electrical pump operating the hot water system, it was in danger of over heating, the consequences would be bad I imagined. A extended period of washing dishes in scalding water in an OCD manner followed while Ali massaged salmon and fresh bread into an edible format. Meanwhile in the background a ticking time bomb was not really ticking, just melting, my precious mixed curry, hash brown and stir fry vegetable collection, housed in a now dead a slowly warming freezer. Ugh. The good news is that red wine seems to be impervious to these mild domestic emergencies, indeed it appears to taste better the deeper the crisis, particularly in the studied glow of slowly failing candles. Good to know.

After 36 hours the power is back on. What a relief.

Blog Monkey

A wall painting from the mythical island of Madeira.

The potential for a power cut: Waking up this morning to winds blowing around the house sounding like tortured Jumbo Jets, the cats are frantically purring up their own storm, determined to create an island of peace in some cosy corner were their fur wont get ruffled. Outside people are failing to light their first precious cigarette, read newspapers at bus stops or cycle in a westerly direction as the storm passes over. The radio waves will be full of information packets about routes and bridges being closed to high sided vehicles and so on. It's a dismal Tuesday in January in the UK, what do you expect? I've a clear path set before me; apart from some real work that's hanging over my head like the sword of Damocles, some real ironing that's hanging on coat hangers and some necessary hanging around just to get life on track in this brave new January. I must not get distracted by stupid Twitter feeds, my holiday weight as opposed to my true weight, the pile of left overs in the fridge, the dead mouse out of reach in the airing cupboard, the perpetually leaking windscreen or the many communication failures that dog me. At least I've got the blogging monkey PI down from my back and it's only 0815.

Possible resolutions and a poor choice of font

As it's a new year and stuff like that we decided to redecorate the lounge, it was a big job but a lot of fun, nearly there then. It took three fried eggs and three slices of toast to prompt my recovery. Along the way we considered possible resolutions that might fit with our new environment:


Make people smile.
Write more songs.
Earn enough to give someone a job helping me with things I don't do well.
Do good things.
Do everything the best I can.
Do my best not to do bad things.
Not beat myself up if I do bad things or fail to do good things.
Not beat myself up about feeling good about the good things
Stay alive and healthy.
Have the guts to stand up for what I believe is right, even if that is sometimes scary/crazy.


(All the above stolen with gratitude from Woodstock Taylor who stole them from Woody Guthrie who stole them from...)

2k12

Topical Saltire type picture taken on our recent holiday, this in no way means I'm sympathetic to the cause of the SNP, just a nice photo and a way to wish a happy new year to one and all etc. So now that the different year has begun we can finally all calm down and use that extra leap year day to go out and do something interesting or at least delusional.

If only God had written the Bible

It's the end of the year, I'm at work and I need pepped up by something. As, generally speaking and subject to modern lyrical confirmation the drugs don't work I settle for some cola and a Kit Kat. Strangely my mind can't settle on much other than marvelling and focusing on the deserving misery of others, not a worthy theme for the demise of 2011 or good for the soul, but these things happen. You can at times be overcome by uncontrollable and often laughable thought patterns that add no value or bring home the Brownie Points. The blurred line between acceptable and guilty pleasure is becoming clearer and I must make that crossing. Perhaps this schadenfreude will leave me as I meditate on the wise words of Obadiah 1:12, but no, that would never work. Middle Eastern claptrap from the dawn of so-called civilisation can't help, I'm far too European now. So seeing or hearing about the smug and self righteous hitting some temporary lifetime reef is rather good and I prefer, despite all my higher, better, (whatever you categorise them as ) feelings to savour the moment. I know fine will it wont last either way but when an inferior snake oil salesman buys a tanker full of somebody else's even worse snake oil you have to laugh.

The Black Keys – El Camino, a late but welcome Christmas present: In heaven there will only be guitars, bass, drums, odd and meaningful vocals and pinches of well placed keyboards. I'm glad I've sorted that out for myself. Maybe one day all music will sound like this, only enhanced by the vocals of Lulu, the production of Rick Rubin and far away in the distance and almost lost in the final mix but discernible just the same the faint growl of a wah wah pedal. I plan to die happy.

Average weather

Back home from a brief sojourn to Madeira only to find that average weather prevails and that soot mostly travels downwards when trapped in a chimney. As I am typing this without the benefit of spectacles or a safety harness it could go in any direction and bouts of bad spelling and terminal malaise will follow. I could try to review 2011 in these odd moments I have captured for my own personal use and reflection but I wont, the past being the strange place it always was and one inevitably distorted by poor memory, creative imaginings and distorted perception. Anyway there still are a few more days to go, garlic pasta to eat, red wine to drink and outside, seasonal adjusted but nonetheless completely average weather to enjoy. I did have a climate graph I wanted to post here that showed the problems we face here in West Lothian but I gave up due to the amount of HTML distortion it created and what's the point in moaning about what you can't change. I'm off to buy an enormous ham joint thing and I've no idea quite what to do with it apart from painting it with honey and stuffing it into a hot oven. After that it'll be a long period of stretched  improvisation in food preparation and home made music - life goes on.

Boxing Day

In a few moments Boxing Day and Christmas and that sort of thing will be over for another year. Here's a Venn Diagram or perhaps a Zen Diagram that doesn't really help explain any of it. In truth it's all a bit of a puzzle really, why has it all turned out this way and is it all too late to do anything about it? Yes and no I suppose.

After all

A wise child once said, "it's so close to Christmas that my feet won't stop jumping." That's almost exactly how I feel right now and even a vanilla milk shake, shaken, ordered and  administered in a long unbreakable glass can't calm me down. My only option seems to be to give myself a good shower, a further shake, spin dry my shorts and share this fine Christmas tree picture I took only 57 hours ago, just around the corner. So Happy Christmas to everyone (except idiots, media types and fundamentalists who don't much care about what I think anyway).

Road to Valhalla

Many readers will no doubt wonder over the photographic technical details that go with the vast array of images presented day in week out across these septic and hallowed pages. So as it's the time of year when it's that time of year again and families everywhere are on the verge of some major feud or other let me appraise you (dear reader) on my cameraesque exploits. Here we go:

Lens - full tilt boogie with optional optical symmetry and die hard glass baubles.
Exposure - 49 degrees of erectile tilt applied, removed and re-applied.
Back light - I use the horse radish manoeuvre with a well clipped pinkie.
Angle of descent - 65w (Imperial) and + or - the difference between 89/3.
Cream - Olympus long tipped applicator with a vanilla log.
Locations - I prefer those best described as wildly euphemistic or of Scandinavian origin. Natural is also a very useful word but means nothing really. If you can spot a stray cat you win an ice cream.

This particular photo was taken at an altitude of 1500m or so above the (visible) sea, ahead lies Valhalla and tributes to a number of key members of European Royal families who quite recklessly wrecked large parts of Europe because they really did not know any better. Thankfully these folks have failed to breed successfully almost everywhere apart from in England where they act as props and spokespersons for hopeless environmentally centred causes and organised religions.

Abandoned Portugal

Interesting but abandoned two storey town house, naked and forlorn except for a flag and strange Christmas picture of baby Jesus cavorting in a peculiar manner. Takes all kinds of religions I guess.

Completely unabandoned urban banana farm, that's what we lack back home, this kind of space saving, food growing, industry creating enterprise set in somebody else's backyard. All we can offer are our rusty Hillman Imp sheds, ex-Irn-Bru foundries and large retail parks persistently selling the same wonky couch over and over again.

In a bustling and vibrant part of town, near to good communication links, shops, parks and the Atlantic Ocean but nobody wants to stay here. Airline pilots, sea-captains and taxi drivers should check it out right away. A bargain at a mere half a million Euros.

Santa Maria

I was looking out of the window today and what should sail past other than an exact replica of the Santa Maria. Apparently they are on a wild journey of exploration, seeking new worlds, dolphins, turtles and that kind of thing. I fully support this venture but sadly will not be joining in, in fact I sat back, drank in the sunshine, ate a very tasty  burger, swallowed a gin and tonic and then had a warm relaxing bath. We noble but lazy Scots no longer have same strong urge that drove our forefathers to step across the distant horizon into the great blue unknown. Having said that I'm likely to get a strong urge tomorrow to rent some sharp vehicle or other and head off into the hills looking for the local version of the witch's house from Hansel and Gretel which we can plunder design ideas from and  so start yet another cultural revolution.

Estrada Monumental

For some reason abandoned and neglected buildings currently appeal to me, particularly those that lie derelict and unloved close to main roads, busy businesses and nice hotels. They remain there in all their drab glory as a poignant reminder that not everything can work out all of the time and that selling tiny and elaborate cakes to tourists can be a cut throat profession.

At the higher end of the food chain exists the common or garden restaurant parrot. These enterprising birds seem to have seen off all the local and lesser skilled dogs, cats and even snails in the neighbourhood. Now they are employed as door guardians handing out vouchers and explaining that they have a brother who has a bigger boat than the other bloke with the (smaller) boat. Pedro and Joanne here have a combined age of 147 and a combined IQ of 198. They also taste like chicken.

Cliff Bay Daily Photo

The actual cliff that has given it's name to this wonderful location, a few hours before the daily sub tropical storm and the flight of the sun beds. Use of hidden sun traps and a full continental breakfast with eggs and champagne is recommended.

Here's today's storm and a friendly rainbow chasing a fishing boat out into the Atlantic. The palm trees object but what can they do but bend over? Meanwhile we retire to the swimming pool, quaff cocktails, surf the web and read books about Groucho Marx.

All the island's garbage is trucked out to sea for deep and dirty dumping or if various conspiracy theories are true possibly exported to North Korea where this kind of thing is made very welcome as material support of a tiny part of a community based project designed to send a peaceful rocket to the folks in China. It also adds a robust and interesting flavour to locally caught tuna and swordfish.

This flight tonight

Travel stereotypes, not often you get most of them in one day or on one flight. First of all it was the bouncy black dude, baseball cap, bling and an ipod with a nicely cracked screen. He sits down right next to me in the aisle seat and immediately I get a really awful whiff of mature body odour. The usual thoughts pass across my mind but I decide to do nothing and just reach for the air tab above my head and try to deflect the aroma. That doesn't work and I decide diplomatically to put up and shut up. Then along comes my heroic rescuer, a gangling chinless wonder with a nine month old tot writhing like a just landed fish. He explains to black BO man that his wife and other kids are opposite and can we swap seats. Black dude agrees and heads away down the plane and young dad and baby are now next to me, the writhing and squirming carries on. We exchange pleasantries and eventually we become airborne.

We hit cruising altitude and the swarthy latin guy in front decides to invade my space, his greasy, oily hair having already been in my field of vision; he reclines his seat all the way, the only person on this two hour flight to think that might be a good idea. Then in a bold move his right arm appears over the head rest and hangs in front of my eye line. What kind of contortionist sleeping method is this? He clearly bites his grubby finger nails. It is at this point that the next door baby decides to follow through in his nappy whilst young dad is trying to share the same seat with his six year old daughter who wants to join the party. I'm reading a book by now, a Groucho Marx biography and I start to drift into his shared claustrophobic New York memories, ten folks in an apartment, I know the feeling, when along comes the in flight meal. Young dad is going to struggle with the bizarre hot nut, chicken and pasta combination on offer (and rice pudding, why do they bother?), it'll only end in tears. It does, then right on final approach the wee one nods off. I'm on double Karma points so far.

The next flight starts quietly (two to do today) though the passenger on our left appears a tad nervous and is twitching and ticking like a, dare I say it, bomb. Soon enough we find out why. This final approach is a real epic experience, lots of turbulence, the wheels touch and then we're up again, the engines are screaming and so are the passengers.  Mr Nervous laughs hysterically in that “I saw this coming and I'm not at all crazy" way, he gets more animated as we gain height and are buffeted by the elements once again. On my right a Mother Teresa lookalike is praying earnestly and there is genuine disquiet in the cabin. The turbulence continues but this time we land properly and applause and relief break out spontaneously. I've not heard that on an aircraft for years. I'm retiring today on triple KPs and the thought of a good stiff drink in a pub across the road from the hotel.

Wrong kind of heat

Two strange things at Bewleys Hotel Manchester:

1. It isn't quite where it says it is on the map or in the micro chipped mind of the satnav world view we follow, we are her new disciples. It has moved, shifted, carried along by the entropy of the universe through traffic cones, roadworks and diversions to some other place. Like some mysterious floating island it appears and disappears, propelled though space and time by the moods of a frosty winter moon. You dive in when you can, when the spirits allow. Those others who disappoint them or fail in their quest wonder the broad lost roads forever or possibly enter a loop of eternal parking madness at the nearby Hilton where the barrier gives you a nasty bite.

2. Even in December Bewleys don't switch the room heating on, they are committed to green things on account of their marketable Irish origins. It is controlled by the hidden switch above a panel in the ceiling near the door, easily found if you are a spy or a cast member of Mission Impossible, they always jump into these places to place bugs and secret cameras. The bus driver explained it all after the receptionist tipped him off about how best to fix it after she'd asked the head waiter. It pays to investigate all active areas.

By way of non-strange things the steak and chips is very nice and the broadband is neat.

Christopher Hitchens RIP

"I have one consistency, which is [being] against the totalitarian - on the left and on the right. The totalitarian, to me, is the enemy - the one that's absolute, the one that wants control over the inside of your head, not just your actions and your taxes. And the origins of that are theocratic, obviously. The beginning of that is the idea that there is a supreme leader, or infallible pope, or a chief rabbi, or whatever, who can ventriloquise the divine and tell us what to do.

That has secular forms, with gurus and dictators, of course, but it's essentially the same. There have been some thinkers - Orwell is pre-eminent - who understood that, unfortunately, there is innate in humans a strong tendency to worship, to become abject. So we're not just fighting the dictators. We're criticising our fellow humans for trying to short-cut, to make their lives simpler, by surrendering and saying, "[If] you offer me bliss, of course I'm going to give up some of my mental freedom for that." We say it's a false bargain: you'll get nothing. You're a fool."

From the New Statesman, interview by Richard Dawkins