We have travelled back to the 5th October 1997 to connect you all with this particular thought from Ali:
"The measurement of time is the measurement of the expansion of existence."
A place to park those random thoughts, stolen images, hidden conversations and incoherent babble from beyond the wall of sleep. Odd bits of music and so-called worldly wisdom may creep in from time to time. Don't expect too much and you won't feel let down.
Sunday, March 06, 2005
Saturday, March 05, 2005
Lyrics at an early stage....
The ideas here are set down mainly to capture a rythmn than say very much, but the structure seems good so we'll work on it, songs tend not to arrive all in one piece, in good shape, ready to go. Allow us some blood, sweat and tears (and wine) this weekend to develop this. Try www.impossiblesongs.com anytime you like, even if you don't buy you can get nice 2min song segments. Also www.mp3tunes.com/impossiblesongs or www.mperia.com/artists/impossible_songs
Long cold winter
The weathergirl says it’s been a long hard winter
Seems no different to me
Music hall faded in my fog of memory
Never said I’d vote for you’re idea.
If your struggling to your feet, I’ve got friends you need to meet
Long cold winter. Long cold winter.
You could die of something along that line
Makes no difference to me
Your action’s consequences hard to find
Right foot down, push back the seat.
If your struggling with defeat, I’ve got friends you need to meet
Long cold winter. Long cold winter.
Long, Cold, Long, Cold,
Stretch your babysitter; come back from the winter,
Make the change to ginger, give us back our bitterness,
Take us to the edge of your success. (nOt qUItE fInIshEd lyrIcs!)
Here’s my Samsonite Kalashnikov
Here’s the remote from my TV
Here’s the rainbow you’ve been praying for
There’s the map to East of Zee.
If your struggling to your feet, I’ve got friends you need to meet
Long cold winter. Long cold winter.
Long cold winter
The weathergirl says it’s been a long hard winter
Seems no different to me
Music hall faded in my fog of memory
Never said I’d vote for you’re idea.
If your struggling to your feet, I’ve got friends you need to meet
Long cold winter. Long cold winter.
You could die of something along that line
Makes no difference to me
Your action’s consequences hard to find
Right foot down, push back the seat.
If your struggling with defeat, I’ve got friends you need to meet
Long cold winter. Long cold winter.
Long, Cold, Long, Cold,
Stretch your babysitter; come back from the winter,
Make the change to ginger, give us back our bitterness,
Take us to the edge of your success. (nOt qUItE fInIshEd lyrIcs!)
Here’s my Samsonite Kalashnikov
Here’s the remote from my TV
Here’s the rainbow you’ve been praying for
There’s the map to East of Zee.
If your struggling to your feet, I’ve got friends you need to meet
Long cold winter. Long cold winter.
A polite breakfast in Elgin
3rd March 0800- Mansfield Hotel Elgin (Scotland). Raspberry yoghurt, fresh pineapples and melon. Coffee (in a pot with a handle too hot to handle!), toast (brown and I only ate half a slice). Two sausages, fried egg, two bits of bacon, mushrooms and black pudding c/w some brown sauce and a small glass of orange juice. Didn't much like the art work on display in the dining room, service was good however and this hotel is nice and warm.
Didn't eat anything at all until I had some soup and tiffin in Aviemore at about 2pm.
Today and yesterday I have seen a lot of snow, some close up, some at a distance.
Didn't eat anything at all until I had some soup and tiffin in Aviemore at about 2pm.
Today and yesterday I have seen a lot of snow, some close up, some at a distance.
Tuesday, March 01, 2005
A polite breakfast 3
Edinburgh. Snow fell like snow does, it's very early, I've been up since 0435 and now aeroplanes are frozen on the ground and to it, and I'm in one. Nobody is flying yet.
Edinburgh, 06.35 and I'm sitting on a plane that is going nowhere with it's snowy wings. The captain tells us things will get better once the runway opens. Once it is cleared.
0705, still going nowhere, read the paper, reading a book.
0725, the de-icer truck is due at any moment then we'll be in a queue, once they clear the snow from the runway. Conversations about work, holidays, funny events and more reading.
0745, we must eat a polite breakfast, a hot breakfast which will spoil if not eaten. We must eat it even though we are grounded. No coffee can be served however, only juice, in case of an accident. I eat mine and my fellow passengers eat theirs, quietly as we wait for the next announcement. The breakfast is ok, the weather and the airport are not.
0825, some passengers leave in a herd. Their day is wasted but they have had breakfast. They return to their offices, cars or homes. I'm wondering what to do next.
0905, no queue, no truck, no nothing. Read a book, chat, make phone calls, start to write off the morning.
1000, snow,clearing, de-icer truck has broken down.
1025, stewardess says we can go, I choose to go, we can get off the plane. I ask to go, put my name down, take my boarding card, I will escape. I will make alternative arrangements.
1045, I'm getting off the plane, I'm standing on the slushy steps, but it is raining now.
1050, from the terminal I see the de-icer truck working hard three planes away from the one I was on. They are in a queue.
1100, I am heading for the car park. It was a polite breakfast, shame about the lack of coffee.
Edinburgh, 06.35 and I'm sitting on a plane that is going nowhere with it's snowy wings. The captain tells us things will get better once the runway opens. Once it is cleared.
0705, still going nowhere, read the paper, reading a book.
0725, the de-icer truck is due at any moment then we'll be in a queue, once they clear the snow from the runway. Conversations about work, holidays, funny events and more reading.
0745, we must eat a polite breakfast, a hot breakfast which will spoil if not eaten. We must eat it even though we are grounded. No coffee can be served however, only juice, in case of an accident. I eat mine and my fellow passengers eat theirs, quietly as we wait for the next announcement. The breakfast is ok, the weather and the airport are not.
0825, some passengers leave in a herd. Their day is wasted but they have had breakfast. They return to their offices, cars or homes. I'm wondering what to do next.
0905, no queue, no truck, no nothing. Read a book, chat, make phone calls, start to write off the morning.
1000, snow,clearing, de-icer truck has broken down.
1025, stewardess says we can go, I choose to go, we can get off the plane. I ask to go, put my name down, take my boarding card, I will escape. I will make alternative arrangements.
1045, I'm getting off the plane, I'm standing on the slushy steps, but it is raining now.
1050, from the terminal I see the de-icer truck working hard three planes away from the one I was on. They are in a queue.
1100, I am heading for the car park. It was a polite breakfast, shame about the lack of coffee.
Tuesday, February 15, 2005
Get your FTMT here, there and on-line
Ladies & Gentlemen,
We at impossible songs are proud to offer the chance of a lifetime, to change your future , your outlook, your finances and your lifestyle. And all for the better. It's all on offer at our FTMT portal that guides you directly to all the stored up wisdom of the universe so.....
Rock 'n Roll down to http://fairytalemanagement.blogspot.com
and smother yourself, your kids, your house, your TV, your deep freeze, your small garden pond that needs a good clean, your Mazda 323, your toasty maker, your desert boots, your MP3 player and your pets in our funky and rewarding ideas.
If that's not good enough then guess what? You can log onto I.Tunes open an account and buy our groovy stuff and cram it into your I.pod , now available in the UK as well as the USA - we've got the sales to make, you've got the cash!! we know it works!! so download our music, YAHOO!!
Problems? try www.impossiblesongs.com get full 2 minute soundclips of all our material or www.mperia.com/artists/impossible_songs or www.mp3tunes.com/impossiblesongs for 30 second soundclips, bloggy stuff, biogs, photos, nonsense, lyrics and you can review us if you like on all our sites.
Anything else is second best, second rate and last week's corned beef hash. So bottle on down and add some FTMT (via impossible songs) to a small, significant corner of your life.
We at impossible songs are proud to offer the chance of a lifetime, to change your future , your outlook, your finances and your lifestyle. And all for the better. It's all on offer at our FTMT portal that guides you directly to all the stored up wisdom of the universe so.....
Rock 'n Roll down to http://fairytalemanagement.blogspot.com
and smother yourself, your kids, your house, your TV, your deep freeze, your small garden pond that needs a good clean, your Mazda 323, your toasty maker, your desert boots, your MP3 player and your pets in our funky and rewarding ideas.
If that's not good enough then guess what? You can log onto I.Tunes open an account and buy our groovy stuff and cram it into your I.pod , now available in the UK as well as the USA - we've got the sales to make, you've got the cash!! we know it works!! so download our music, YAHOO!!
Problems? try www.impossiblesongs.com get full 2 minute soundclips of all our material or www.mperia.com/artists/impossible_songs or www.mp3tunes.com/impossiblesongs for 30 second soundclips, bloggy stuff, biogs, photos, nonsense, lyrics and you can review us if you like on all our sites.
Anything else is second best, second rate and last week's corned beef hash. So bottle on down and add some FTMT (via impossible songs) to a small, significant corner of your life.
Sunday, February 13, 2005
$aving Europe
http://mperia.com/artists/impossible_songs only 88cents a download! And what fantastic quality! And a bit of blogging also, and gigs, and other stuff, and other people.
$aving Europe
A dying breed from yesterday
The heavens opened and took them away
The crows did a fine flying display
We promised to live eternally
The people march then pound the door
The common views are heard no more
Celebrity and trivia run the show
While we lay back, go with the flow.
The Polit bureau face to face
Smile as they conquer, fill each parking space
Their greatest hits, accomplished grace
All bend and scrape to take their place.
You drunken, smoking bastard yobs
Expect degrees and cushy jobs
This country once was run by snobs
Or held to account by angry mobs.
Then with their weapons set to stun
The troops are marshalled in Belgium
They out manoeuvre everyone
And pledge their loyalty to the sun.
Don’t fall in love with just any whore
You pay everything, but she wants more
And take the money from the night before
As you look out the window, she’s out the door.
We’ve tailored you a future bright
With enterprise and shining light
Our yes means no, our no means shite
Believe them or just what you like.
The golden isle, this home of law
The backbone of the planet’s flaws
We gave religion, doubt, guilt and god
We don’t know why, we say “because….”
Poison me with these here onions would you?
My lover wants to poison me with onions
Some strange and vegetable plot
Some unspeakable sexual act
It’s a matter of fact
In onion soup, in strange green fries
Deep in the heart of Chinese recipes
Messages, ciphers and intrigue
Cookery and chicanery lay siege
To the wok and saucepan
A culinary master plan
Whatever the consequences be
My onion poisoning lover she
Prepares an overdose to comatose
And settle me and bury me
By some sunny south facing wall
Where onions shoot up straight and tall.
Wednesday, February 09, 2005
Time Travel - DIY
If E=mc2 then in order to release E supply c to me/you/whatever.C = the speed of light = light moving. I am not conscious of how to find light that is not moving and any light I find must be moving so if E=mc2 then to release E apply light as we know it.
Another Handy Hint on how to do things from Ali
Another Handy Hint on how to do things from Ali
links, links & ideas for an evening
http://www.mperia.com/displayfull.php?searchby=artist&id=8850
or
http://fairytalemanagement.blogspot.com
or
Why not just switch on the TV, grab a beer, put your feet up, relax, enjoy the soaps or footie, walk the dawg, shave the cow, spike the sphinx, tear down the garden shed, read the funnies, fun the readies, attack an idle shark, spray a prayer, get layered, feed the furnace, unzip an apple, paint a chapel's ceiling, unplug that axe, melt some wax, catch some razors, wipe your fears, erase your back axle, twist the headphones, worship your mazda, pick a new nostril, make yours a mackeral, storm iraq, $ave america, stone those pesky crows, pull up the little weeds, say a few kind words, vote for higher tolls, eat sticks, tighten up your machine heads, sing at out of the bedroom, feel free, tell them all it's nothing to do with me, download us, explode us, ignore us, grow on us, make an extra-marital gesture, rest your weary eyes upon the open road, fly to venice, talk sense for a change...but don't act strange.
or
http://fairytalemanagement.blogspot.com
or
Why not just switch on the TV, grab a beer, put your feet up, relax, enjoy the soaps or footie, walk the dawg, shave the cow, spike the sphinx, tear down the garden shed, read the funnies, fun the readies, attack an idle shark, spray a prayer, get layered, feed the furnace, unzip an apple, paint a chapel's ceiling, unplug that axe, melt some wax, catch some razors, wipe your fears, erase your back axle, twist the headphones, worship your mazda, pick a new nostril, make yours a mackeral, storm iraq, $ave america, stone those pesky crows, pull up the little weeds, say a few kind words, vote for higher tolls, eat sticks, tighten up your machine heads, sing at out of the bedroom, feel free, tell them all it's nothing to do with me, download us, explode us, ignore us, grow on us, make an extra-marital gesture, rest your weary eyes upon the open road, fly to venice, talk sense for a change...but don't act strange.
Time Sucks
E=MC2 at times
Time Sucks
It’s amazing how much time you’ve really got
You think it’s slipping by, but then it’s not
Believe all that you like but let me say
There’s time for everything in everyday.
Don’t start to panic
Don’t get too manic
Time is elastic
See it bend round the planet.
It doesn’t scare me now, things that may come
Face the future sticking out you’re big red tongue
What’s not cant hurt you, what is you can’t control
What’s never been, cannot be seen, so let it go.
Don’t start to panic
Don’t get too manic
Time is elastic
See it bend round the planet.
Time sucks time sucks
Einstein never meant to mix us up
Things that matter are here and now today
And the sun is only eight minutes away.
Time sucks time sucks
Don’t start to panic
Don’t get too manic
Time is elastic
See it just bend round the planet.
Time Sucks
It’s amazing how much time you’ve really got
You think it’s slipping by, but then it’s not
Believe all that you like but let me say
There’s time for everything in everyday.
Don’t start to panic
Don’t get too manic
Time is elastic
See it bend round the planet.
It doesn’t scare me now, things that may come
Face the future sticking out you’re big red tongue
What’s not cant hurt you, what is you can’t control
What’s never been, cannot be seen, so let it go.
Don’t start to panic
Don’t get too manic
Time is elastic
See it bend round the planet.
Time sucks time sucks
Einstein never meant to mix us up
Things that matter are here and now today
And the sun is only eight minutes away.
Time sucks time sucks
Don’t start to panic
Don’t get too manic
Time is elastic
See it just bend round the planet.
Review - 27/01/05
Thanks to Scott for writing this rather nice review from an evening at OOTB - http://www.outofthebedroom.co.uk Edinburgh's No1 live singer/songwriter night. Waverley Bar (upstairs) 27th Jan 05. As ever www.impossiblesongs.com gives more info.
Scott @OOTB -27/01/05
"Impossible Songs then stormed onstage for their first showing of the year; well, John sort of whinged his way up, saying he used to be able to sing, play and have hair like Rob's... He can still rock with the best of them, though, as he proved by kicking into ‘Cold Fish, IS's dual-vocal groove, and proclaimed "let's go and have an accident" (this song, and the cross-legged thousands, were actually the inspiration for the second break). Ali then, after a moment of making sure all was well in the voice department, took centre stage for the well-oiled 'Happy Like', introduced by John as 'a song about train-riding in Japan on Prozac". There's quite a chilling aspect to the sound of this track, which the “kamikaze”-based vocals bear out ( "liked the food, liked the trains, baby, turned really strange"), and John worked some nice wee showboating 'jelly' rolls into the chorus as well. Final song was 'Dancing', which can be obtained for free, if the Impossibles have promo discs with them; a song about insecurities and inter-relationship gamesmanship, Ali warns "the wolf in sheep's clothing", that she "might wear you down and out with my love" (wolves are in for a hard time tonight, as you'll discover...). Another passionate vocal from Ms Hutton."
Scott @OOTB -27/01/05
"Impossible Songs then stormed onstage for their first showing of the year; well, John sort of whinged his way up, saying he used to be able to sing, play and have hair like Rob's... He can still rock with the best of them, though, as he proved by kicking into ‘Cold Fish, IS's dual-vocal groove, and proclaimed "let's go and have an accident" (this song, and the cross-legged thousands, were actually the inspiration for the second break). Ali then, after a moment of making sure all was well in the voice department, took centre stage for the well-oiled 'Happy Like', introduced by John as 'a song about train-riding in Japan on Prozac". There's quite a chilling aspect to the sound of this track, which the “kamikaze”-based vocals bear out ( "liked the food, liked the trains, baby, turned really strange"), and John worked some nice wee showboating 'jelly' rolls into the chorus as well. Final song was 'Dancing', which can be obtained for free, if the Impossibles have promo discs with them; a song about insecurities and inter-relationship gamesmanship, Ali warns "the wolf in sheep's clothing", that she "might wear you down and out with my love" (wolves are in for a hard time tonight, as you'll discover...). Another passionate vocal from Ms Hutton."
Two poems by Olivia
Pancakes
I love pancakes, with golden syrup
It falls onto my pancakes
And melts all runny
And feels funny
Which runs down to my tummy.
They are golden brown
And they’re nice and round
Hot from the pan
Syrup from a can
Butter from the fridge
Dripping from the edge.
I ate two
And didn’t give any to you.
By Olivia.
Syrus
Syrus is shy
And doesn’t like flies
He likes to go outside
And hide
And seek
He likes to roll in the mud
With his paw prints thud, thud, thud.
He is not friends with dogs
Or jumping frogs
From the waterfall
He doesn’t like them at all
He eats his dinner from a silver dish
He likes to eat fish
And chips
He sleeps and counts sheep
He peeps with his little eye
And says,
“Bye bye!”
By Olivia.
I love pancakes, with golden syrup
It falls onto my pancakes
And melts all runny
And feels funny
Which runs down to my tummy.
They are golden brown
And they’re nice and round
Hot from the pan
Syrup from a can
Butter from the fridge
Dripping from the edge.
I ate two
And didn’t give any to you.
By Olivia.
Syrus
Syrus is shy
And doesn’t like flies
He likes to go outside
And hide
And seek
He likes to roll in the mud
With his paw prints thud, thud, thud.
He is not friends with dogs
Or jumping frogs
From the waterfall
He doesn’t like them at all
He eats his dinner from a silver dish
He likes to eat fish
And chips
He sleeps and counts sheep
He peeps with his little eye
And says,
“Bye bye!”
By Olivia.
Wednesday, February 02, 2005
heartburst - all the lyrics
Here are the complete set of lyrics from our CD "heartburst", by popular demand...
buy from us direct or via www.impossiblesongs.com
heartburst
heartburst feel the pressure love joy peace or pain
filling up and spilling over forcing tiny teardrops again
heartbeat made to measure before it all began
incomplete without each other hard to see it hard to understand
a special time a seam of gold a butterfly mine a tale untold fluttering by wanting free urging it happen let destiny be a special time sky of stars musical rhyme cage without bars sparkling high invisibly be silvery trails through history see
heartburst feel the pressure love joy peace or pain
filling up and spilling over forcing tiny teardrops again
heartbeat made to measure before it all began
incomplete without each other believing in it still don't understand
butterfly on the moon
you did not have strong feelings for me
sleep in peace at night
happy living on independently
emotionally light
it was so real so real for me
it was so real so real
it is so gone so gone from me
it is so gone so gone
you did not have strong feelings for me
sleep in peace at night
happy living on independently
you did not have strong feelings for me
sleep in peace at night
happy living on independently
emotionally light
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
but you made it real for me
but you made it real for me
emotionally light
how many miles left in a stone
how many styles in a turn?
lonely me has left us well alone
white heat slow burn
it was so real so real for me
it was so real so real
it is so gone so gone from me
it is so gone so gone
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
but you made it real for me
but you made it real for me
all the vows
all the vows we'll never take
all the promises we'll never break
all the time we'll never take to whine
you're late my tea's not on the plate
for goodness sake you've not cleaned the shower there's hair in there
it's yours
all the vows we'll never take
all the promises we'll never break
all the time we'll never take to whine
all the kids we'll never spawn
all the dreams are gone
all the money we'll never make
all the chances we'll never take
all the methods of escape you'll try
you're late my tea's not on the plate
for goodness sake you've not cleaned the shower there's hair in there it's yours
all the vows we'll never take
all the promises we'll never break
all the time we'll never take to whine
are you listening to me or just watching tv?
you've not made the bed the cat wants fed
there's dishes in the sink the dryer's full
it stinks
you think you're so cool
dancing
dancing with a sheep in wolves clothing
self loving and loathing
with a lover not to be
who knew and felt every part of me
left me exposed and sad again
experience rejection pain
happens to us all
aching anger when pride takes a fall
i might wear you out
i might wear you down and out
with my love
don't want to wear you out
don't want to wear you down and out
with my love
love will wear you out
love will wear you down and out
my strange love
playing with bubbles inside balloons
whistling silly tunes
pretend that you won't be
the one who walks away from me
love will wear you out
love will wear you down and out
recurring theme
let's not talk
let's not talk about it
it just doesn't help to talk about it
let's not fight
let's not worry
let's not cry
let's not joke
let's not sing
some things are too big
some things just don't work
sometimes it's just time
it's just time to give up
sometimes you've just got to
got to take a walk
a year in this life, a year in this life
a year in this life , another year in my life
a year in this life, another year in your life
let's not talk
how i hate
ba ba ba ba ba ba ba
ba ba ba ba ba ba ba
how i hate to hate you now
how i loved to hate you then
memory replays time again
fear drains all the colour away
hope scolds and laughs at pain
dread relaxes now it's over
it's all over it's all over
that's my baby
that's my baby that's my baby boy
he's walking taller than ever i could try
don't even whisper never let him see
i'll be a model parent when he's done with me
that's my baby that's my baby boy
he's walking taller stretching to the sky
wants me to be clever wants me to win
you can take it in the neck or lay it on the chin
doing the impossible as you can tell
doing the impossible not so very well
that's my baby that's my baby girl
she talks a language indecipherable
don't even shiver keep it back from me
let it all develop unexpectedly
that's my baby that's my baby girl
moving on faster thousand miles an hour
she's flying higher running out of sky
you can walk the walk of life or you can
walk on by
doing the impossible aren't you doing it well? doing the impossible who can ever tell?
tokyo skyline
can't
get the tokyo skyline out from off my mind
take
this air-con glass box world away and let me fly
carry me there carry me anywhere
i
can't get the vicious foreplay from my memory
so
help me make believe beneath some cherry tree
carry me there carry me anywhere
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
had
to travel far to get yourself back there again
had
to disappear to clearly see yourself again
had
to be a stranger so you could feel real inside
had to find the distance then explore what lay behind
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
carry me there carry me anywhere
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
2am
karaoke bar that tired out business man
make all the plans you like waiting for the rising sun
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline.
she's a waitress
waiting for years waiting such a long time
i could never get enthusiastic 'bout my food
i could never be my best and still be understood
and any time you ask how i'd describe myself
i'll just smile and say i want to be your waitress
i just want to be yours
you've just got to be mine
i've been lucky and unlucky when it comes to love
i've been bitten then been shy of all the bugs
so anytime you want to taste my success
just give me all your tips i'll be your waitress
i just want to be yours
you've just got to be mine
i have worked the tables and the places round this town
i have heard the tales and conversations put me down
you have had the chances seen the glances from this end
here's the menu you've been missing you just help yourself
i just want to be yours
you just want to be mine
waiting for years waiting such a long time
cold fish
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready are you ready to get on alone?
you can live your life at the bottom of a wishing well
you can be a cold fish or a freak eating taco bell
see things anyway you like
want the left but need the right
now's the time for an accident let's go have one who can tell
spent the last weekend with my back against a telephone pole
you can live the lie but some day you're gonna lose control
now it's getting close to eight
i guess you won’t be home till late
take your shoes of and dance you can jam and you can jelly roll
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready are you ready to get on alone?
now it's getting close to eight
i guess you won’t be home till late
take your shoes of and dance you can jam and you can jelly roll
all words & music copyright john barclay & alison hutton may 2004 - all rights reserved
impossible songs - heartburst.
www.impossiblesongs.com
buy from us direct or via www.impossiblesongs.com
heartburst
heartburst feel the pressure love joy peace or pain
filling up and spilling over forcing tiny teardrops again
heartbeat made to measure before it all began
incomplete without each other hard to see it hard to understand
a special time a seam of gold a butterfly mine a tale untold fluttering by wanting free urging it happen let destiny be a special time sky of stars musical rhyme cage without bars sparkling high invisibly be silvery trails through history see
heartburst feel the pressure love joy peace or pain
filling up and spilling over forcing tiny teardrops again
heartbeat made to measure before it all began
incomplete without each other believing in it still don't understand
butterfly on the moon
you did not have strong feelings for me
sleep in peace at night
happy living on independently
emotionally light
it was so real so real for me
it was so real so real
it is so gone so gone from me
it is so gone so gone
you did not have strong feelings for me
sleep in peace at night
happy living on independently
you did not have strong feelings for me
sleep in peace at night
happy living on independently
emotionally light
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
but you made it real for me
but you made it real for me
emotionally light
how many miles left in a stone
how many styles in a turn?
lonely me has left us well alone
white heat slow burn
it was so real so real for me
it was so real so real
it is so gone so gone from me
it is so gone so gone
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
you did not have strong feelings
but you made it real for me
but you made it real for me
all the vows
all the vows we'll never take
all the promises we'll never break
all the time we'll never take to whine
you're late my tea's not on the plate
for goodness sake you've not cleaned the shower there's hair in there
it's yours
all the vows we'll never take
all the promises we'll never break
all the time we'll never take to whine
all the kids we'll never spawn
all the dreams are gone
all the money we'll never make
all the chances we'll never take
all the methods of escape you'll try
you're late my tea's not on the plate
for goodness sake you've not cleaned the shower there's hair in there it's yours
all the vows we'll never take
all the promises we'll never break
all the time we'll never take to whine
are you listening to me or just watching tv?
you've not made the bed the cat wants fed
there's dishes in the sink the dryer's full
it stinks
you think you're so cool
dancing
dancing with a sheep in wolves clothing
self loving and loathing
with a lover not to be
who knew and felt every part of me
left me exposed and sad again
experience rejection pain
happens to us all
aching anger when pride takes a fall
i might wear you out
i might wear you down and out
with my love
don't want to wear you out
don't want to wear you down and out
with my love
love will wear you out
love will wear you down and out
my strange love
playing with bubbles inside balloons
whistling silly tunes
pretend that you won't be
the one who walks away from me
love will wear you out
love will wear you down and out
recurring theme
let's not talk
let's not talk about it
it just doesn't help to talk about it
let's not fight
let's not worry
let's not cry
let's not joke
let's not sing
some things are too big
some things just don't work
sometimes it's just time
it's just time to give up
sometimes you've just got to
got to take a walk
a year in this life, a year in this life
a year in this life , another year in my life
a year in this life, another year in your life
let's not talk
how i hate
ba ba ba ba ba ba ba
ba ba ba ba ba ba ba
how i hate to hate you now
how i loved to hate you then
memory replays time again
fear drains all the colour away
hope scolds and laughs at pain
dread relaxes now it's over
it's all over it's all over
that's my baby
that's my baby that's my baby boy
he's walking taller than ever i could try
don't even whisper never let him see
i'll be a model parent when he's done with me
that's my baby that's my baby boy
he's walking taller stretching to the sky
wants me to be clever wants me to win
you can take it in the neck or lay it on the chin
doing the impossible as you can tell
doing the impossible not so very well
that's my baby that's my baby girl
she talks a language indecipherable
don't even shiver keep it back from me
let it all develop unexpectedly
that's my baby that's my baby girl
moving on faster thousand miles an hour
she's flying higher running out of sky
you can walk the walk of life or you can
walk on by
doing the impossible aren't you doing it well? doing the impossible who can ever tell?
tokyo skyline
can't
get the tokyo skyline out from off my mind
take
this air-con glass box world away and let me fly
carry me there carry me anywhere
i
can't get the vicious foreplay from my memory
so
help me make believe beneath some cherry tree
carry me there carry me anywhere
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
had
to travel far to get yourself back there again
had
to disappear to clearly see yourself again
had
to be a stranger so you could feel real inside
had to find the distance then explore what lay behind
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
carry me there carry me anywhere
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
2am
karaoke bar that tired out business man
make all the plans you like waiting for the rising sun
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline
tokyo skyline tokyo skyline.
she's a waitress
waiting for years waiting such a long time
i could never get enthusiastic 'bout my food
i could never be my best and still be understood
and any time you ask how i'd describe myself
i'll just smile and say i want to be your waitress
i just want to be yours
you've just got to be mine
i've been lucky and unlucky when it comes to love
i've been bitten then been shy of all the bugs
so anytime you want to taste my success
just give me all your tips i'll be your waitress
i just want to be yours
you've just got to be mine
i have worked the tables and the places round this town
i have heard the tales and conversations put me down
you have had the chances seen the glances from this end
here's the menu you've been missing you just help yourself
i just want to be yours
you just want to be mine
waiting for years waiting such a long time
cold fish
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready are you ready to get on alone?
you can live your life at the bottom of a wishing well
you can be a cold fish or a freak eating taco bell
see things anyway you like
want the left but need the right
now's the time for an accident let's go have one who can tell
spent the last weekend with my back against a telephone pole
you can live the lie but some day you're gonna lose control
now it's getting close to eight
i guess you won’t be home till late
take your shoes of and dance you can jam and you can jelly roll
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready to get on alone
are you ready are you ready to get on alone?
now it's getting close to eight
i guess you won’t be home till late
take your shoes of and dance you can jam and you can jelly roll
all words & music copyright john barclay & alison hutton may 2004 - all rights reserved
impossible songs - heartburst.
www.impossiblesongs.com
Sunday, January 30, 2005
That was the sometime of 73
Confessions of the village idiot
It is autumn, 1973. I was working in a factory that made potentiometers, though I wouldn’t be today. It was early in the evening and I had to get the bus as rain looked very likely and I had some spare cash anyway. When traveling, for no reason I’d quite regularly think that I was falling in love with some girl seated close to me on the top deck of a bus. Bus trips were almost daily occurrence for me as a teenager unless I was staying in my room or out for a walk. I’d be going to a friend’s house or a pub some where along the coast, a half-hour journey punctuated with cigarettes and that girl or girls in general. School girls, factory girls, young mums maybe. Tarty stupid girls or students, hippy chicks or their dim pals who envied their make up and clothes and weren’t carrying some prog-rock LP or stringy handbag. I wished I could read their minds. They were all very mysterious creatures. I needed non-verbal confirmation and signals. Positive messages and blinding and unambiguous eye contact. I was not an experienced person and everyone else in the world seemed to know much more than me, mostly dark secrets that I should never know, so a protective umbrella of bluff and counter bluff to cover my misconceived ignorance was raised in innumerable boy-to-boy conversations. I found it stressful and exhausting but fun at times.
But on the bus you never knew, what were those girls thinking? And why were they giggling and was I so invisible? So invisible yet laughable, surely not. Despite my crippling invisibility that I was so conscious of any spot, greasy hair or aspect of my face seemed as huge on my person scape as Stonehenge or an Easter Island Statue. As a result few conversations were struck up on my outward journey. Silent and deep in thought, remaining mysterious and aloof was my supreme if unspectacular tactic. And girls came and went, tongues stuck out sometimes or a farewell with a simple derisory glance on alighting the bus.
Your bum slid on the seat as the bus hobbled along, tight turns and up and down hills, and of course there was in those days a bus conductor resident onboard and the sweaty ticket he’d provided in your hand, or stuffed at the top of the seat back in front, between the metal and the vinyl finish. Survival drill. Look at feet regularly; avoid direct eye contact unless she was a honey and then suffer the other problems, usually in the form of an accompanying brute of a boyfriend. The loving bloody couple smugly leaning into each other and maybe going to the same pub as me. Take care, contact later could prove hazardous later in the evening.
At each bus stop I’d scan the queue. Who is coming on? Which village would yield the best potential girlfriend, who would she be and where would she sit? What a bummer if she sat downstairs.
Of course if you can see across or if you were sitting on the opposite side of the bus you could catch sight of other girls, waiting on other buses that all were going in the wrong direction. Maybe to Edinburgh, always very bad, I’m off to some wee village pub and they’re going to the city. To meet who? Going to some cool Concert? That almost smacked of a level of sophistication, some joined up piece of planning and thinking that suggested that their night out (or was it a weekend away?) had actually been planned and mapped out. They were in some high flying social network, perhaps meeting boys with sports cars or flats and rich, generous parents and generally having a whale of the kind of time I didn’t know how to have and couldn’t ever replicate. How could I compete with boys like that for girls like those? Well I thought that was how it was.
Endless torturing questions don’t help. I’m not so bad really it’s just the measuring scale has never been explained to me and I don’t know what girls want (well not altogether), but what are the signs I need to learn to read. Perhaps they are as confused as I am and they going through this lonely turmoil but why are they giggling then?
The bus is pulling up a hill, gears grind, the air is smokey a warm. Backs of heads, dark hair and shoulders, cardigan tops, anorak backs, duffel coat hoods and shirt collars. Old man sits opposite, probably going to some Ex-Serviceman’s club for a night of beer and dominoes, his regular Friday. He ignores everyone and has the “ fear of the young” aura, a quiet contempt for stupid hairstyles and silly fashions that he ended up fighting in a war to defend the rights of.
I’m not sure who is behind eyes boring into the back of my head, or reading the pages of the Sun or Daily Record, Sounds or Diana. All those eyes boring me, seeing me from angles I’ve never seen myself from. I am unrecognizable to me from their point of view. My nose must stick out a long way and my hair must be greasy at the top and full of split ends, dandruff on my collar and some stain I cannot see on my combat jacket. I wish for an out of body moment to float above this bus and lift the lid like a sardine tin and expose the passengers lying there and see each one and observe them and pass judgement on them. I don’t dare turn around, well I would if some one spoke to me or I thought I might know someone or just have some other reason, but there is none.
We slide round more corners, passengers move in sympathy with the bus, some stand for the next stop and swing and grip on the chrome handles. All the clever and curvy twisted metal that makes up a bus. Functional and sweeping, banisters and treadplates, screws and rivets. Built by Scottish engineers and fitters in Falkirk and Bathgate, painted and pressed, once new and now in service relentlessly crossing this small Kingdom for the coppers and silver coins rattling and rubbing in the conductor’s black leather change bag. And those mysterious ticket machines, how they work and print tickets, dirty fingers twist the dial, numbers like a safe combination that mark and track and charge the fare stages and journeys. All this in the head of the conductor and metered out on the ticket. So when the Inspector comes on, each one of us is accountable and permitted to be there, oh yes. We belong to this bus and we can stay as long as we wish or till the money runs out.
More grinding and toppling, as if the bus in perpetual disagreement with the road surface. Rubber and asphalt jungleing against one another. Friction and traction and big wheels suffering the intrusive potholes and drains and kerbs as the driver struggles with that huge shiney black steering wheel that pilots us along at a steady twenty five miles an hour. Imagine those gears all spinning somewhere inside that big dark engine, slivers of metal escaping to drown in an oily sea, pistons and con rods and clutches all at work, pieces working loose, oil dripping and flowing through endless pipes and hot metal. Black dust and smoke, diesel fumes and water coolant, filters and parts from Midland’s factories that export to India and Kenya so that their foreign bus services will run too. Bonnets and rust and advertisements for Askit Powders and local services, carpet shops and driving schools on cardboard sheets, businesses with very short phone numbers. Whoever responds to these optimistic ads? And if you think Askit powders work, you’ll use them anyway. None of this is of any consequence, we are only here, trapped on this bus to move ourselves from A to B in a red procession twenty minutes apart and travelling in one of two directions.
Some one has a dog on board, it just puffs and pants and strains in protest. Paws skid on the smooth bus floor upstairs with it’s smoking old owner. Dog saliva on the floor, dog tongue touches bus floor as it struggles to find a comfortable spot on the bus linoleum. The owner, lord and master pulls the dog lead and forces the dog to sit but the rear paws loose grip and the slide continues and has he paid a half fare for the dog, or is that only on the train?
Who on this bus is there that could fall in love with me. Some of those girls are too young and too silly and laugh too much which is always dangerous because that’s the very thing that could be used against me and that would be like the end. So what about girls obviously on their way home from work? Nice neat clothes, make up a little tired, hair not quite right but these are minor infringements. Their jobs are clerical and tedious and stupefying, I imagine they are bored with them. They dream of successful marriages to sales executives and an early pregnancy, of wearing exciting underwear and going on shopping trips, holidays and living quietly in Lego houses anonymous in airbrushed estates. Those happy families you see and hate in advertisements, non-existent and played by actors and models whose real lives are completely the opposite. But if that’s what’s wanted I could do that, I could give them that, I’ve got all the right attributes and skills, potentially, but I simply don’t (think I) have the inclination yet The “yet” is a worry and a distraction.
I will not fall in love with the office girls. Here I am 18 years old, nearer 19 maybe. I don’t want to settle for settling down. I tell myself this without thinking or even knowing what it actually is I want. Sad to say I don’t know my own mind and clear and purposeful thought eludes me time after time. As soon as I start to think of them and what they may be, it all escapes and evaporates and even my memory of it goes with it. So I am constantly surprised when they return and follow a similar cycle again and again. As soon as I step down the stairs of this bus the focus will have shifted back to beer or music or football or girls.
The journey continues at a less than furious pace, constant jolts of stop start progress, junctions and zebra crossings to negotiate and the sporadic delay tactics of well placed and deserted sections of road works. Tree branches scrape the roof; birds cats and dogs dodge the lumbering monster. Through the traffic film encrusted windows, smeared and spattered with yesterday’s rain, I observe all the frantic efforts of avoidance used by those would dare to cross our path. The pedestrians. The old, the frail, the near-sighted, the drunk, the confused, the preoccupied, the couldn’t give a shit, the wreck less, the stupid, the pedestrians. Back in 1973 there were a lot of them on pavements and worryingly, agonizingly, straying increasingly onto the roads.
Older towns were laid out before traffic became king, traffic grew and an imbalance was created, an unhealthy imbalance. Few understood how quickly the car would become king. In 1973 it was Vivas and Cortinas and Morris 1000s and VWs and pizzy, busy little step-thru Honda mopeds. Lorries were great dirty Atkinsons, AECs, Leylands, Scammels and Fodens with the occasional Scania representing the foreign marques. They were slow, huge and beastly and belched diesel fumes everywhere. Traffic lights were rare and strange and buses ranged and wander far and wide on regular, understandable geometric routes. Routes that were forged in the 30’s and 40’s, the decades when the trams had died like dinosaurs in a meteor shower. Towns and buses seemed at odds with one another, particularly Inverkeithing. It hated buses, it made them turn at a turning spot wasting time, squeeze through narrow streets, made then climb and descend awkward hills and hang on great hill start bus stops while OAPS struggled with the steps and inclines. It hated buses. If only it knew how it would be smoothed and tamed by the relentless progress of traffic. One ways, through routes, mini roundabouts, pelican crossings, cut in bus stops and double yellow lines. Days numbered, design unplanned but credited to some huge master council plan organically grown to bury the town in street furniture, heavy handed road markings and confusing signs. Other towns that hated buses were Aberdour and Burntisland, Kincardine, Dunfermline and Kirkcaldy. Rosyth was a bus whore, easy meat; it laid down to every bus that came its way, straight roads, big roundabouts, no significant hills and trees in the street. It’s day of reckoning and divine retribution would come, unseen and unexpected when the Tories came to power and the Navy moved away and timber frame developers, kebab shops and single parents would move in.
The rain began to beat on the bus windows. I imagined below the wiper scraping across the driver’s screen, the dodgy insulating tape on the steering wheel, the fog on all the windows downstairs. Being upstairs on the bus said a lot about you. You could smoke, you avoided bus conductress chatter, old ladies, you could climb the stairs and swing on the banister at corners or sudden stops, you had energy, you were virile, you were not with your parents, you could look down on the world, you could commandeer the big broad back seat or sit up front as if in a helicopter flying across the paddy fields of Vietnam. Upstairs was the only place to be.
I lit a cigarette and puffed out the match and tossed it to the floor, I sucked in a lungful of that hot, sweet, addictive smoke and blew it out through my nostrils. There was a smoky pattern that blasted the window glass and drifted away and I thought about Smaug the dragon guarding his lair and treasure in the Hobbit. Then, putting it simply I went into a daydream, just like Lennon and McCartney, it was just another day in my life after all. Whatever did happen took place just as easily as saying some magic word or spinning a spell or clattering a book with a wizard’s wand. The magic was tangible in the smoke. Music played far away, penguins at bus stops gawped at me and passing tigers revealed their huge unfriendly claws and bubbles blew in from the open liquid bus windows, pale blue horses galloped by completely ignoring the bus and a heavy scent filled by head and made my eyelids droop in an easy and safe upstairs sleep. But I didn’t feel asleep. The clerical girls loved me now and called my name, those tarty girls still laughed but liked my hair and ran their fingers through it and asked me questions. Candles were being lit and drinks were being passed around, there was an open bar downstairs one of the girls said. Someone handed me a bottle of beer, McEwen’s Export, and a Mars bar, in the old folded wrapper. Bags of chips in real newspaper were shared; I think it was the Daily Express, a broadsheet, printed in Scotland that they were wrapped in. It all tasted quite good though there was a lot of vinegar on the chips. I could hear Rory Gallagher on the guitar, he was using a lot of harmonics and showing off a bit and Paul Rodgers was singing lead vocal, Jack Bruce on a thumping bass riff and John Bonham hammering on the drums, John Lord was fingering the mighty Hammond keyboard far in the distance with a Roto-Sound Leslie Cabinet whirling away. Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda chugged past the bus on their hogs waving at us and Ritchie Havens was singing about freedom over and over whilst Arthur Lee said something, wagged a finger and dropped some acid right in front of me.
When we got to the stop at the Hillend Tavern who else but Melanie Safka and Sonia Christina got on, came upstairs and sat on either side of me and then began to sing quite sweetly whilst searching for some small change in my pockets. I tried not to giggle because their fingers were very tickly. In order to stop them I asked if they had tickets already but they only smiled and insisted that they had to have any change that was in my pockets. I remember touching their hair, both had single braids for some reason and long earrings. Following them upstairs was a disheveled looking Frank Zappa and a bouncy Germaine Greer both offering to sell the latest copies of OZ, for £1. I thought to myself “They’ve sold out, this is the end of the dream, it’ll be tree houses and wooden flutes next and hard backed books about sociology, the revolution is over, there is nothing new left in the universe.” I was almost getting angry but then Raquel Welch kindly offered to rub my brow with a warm soapy sponge that she had unexpectedly produced from her rucksack. The sudden eye contact with her was electric, her sparkling dark pupils drilling into mine as my jaw dropped open. Her hair was long, rich and brown and I stared at it for what I thought was a long time but really was only a few seconds, the sponge water was running down my face, trickling over my cheeks and relaxing me. “What a technique you have with your sponge!” I said rather lamely. “The magical world of movies and Hollywood have taught me everything I need to know,” she said and then she let out a slow, low growl as she touched the tip of my nose with her fingernail. She then threw her head back in a rather melodramatic fashion and uncrossed her legs, “I just might take you there one day and show you around, but only if you can be a good boy for me!”
I began to think that the bus was going very slowly now, possibly actually going in reverse. The trees and bushes in the outside world seemed disconnected from my journey, and my journey seemed disconnected from me. I wondered where on earth we could be, what fare stage were we at. I looked again and saw that we were at the industrial estate at Donibristle. The familiar factories and grey sheds and hangers stared back through the bus window and made their usual insulting, sneering faces at me. Raquel was rubbing my temple with her finger in an easy and gentle circular motion and my mouth was drying up inside. It was about then I think I first lost consciousness but looking back I don’t really regret anything.
It is autumn, 1973. I was working in a factory that made potentiometers, though I wouldn’t be today. It was early in the evening and I had to get the bus as rain looked very likely and I had some spare cash anyway. When traveling, for no reason I’d quite regularly think that I was falling in love with some girl seated close to me on the top deck of a bus. Bus trips were almost daily occurrence for me as a teenager unless I was staying in my room or out for a walk. I’d be going to a friend’s house or a pub some where along the coast, a half-hour journey punctuated with cigarettes and that girl or girls in general. School girls, factory girls, young mums maybe. Tarty stupid girls or students, hippy chicks or their dim pals who envied their make up and clothes and weren’t carrying some prog-rock LP or stringy handbag. I wished I could read their minds. They were all very mysterious creatures. I needed non-verbal confirmation and signals. Positive messages and blinding and unambiguous eye contact. I was not an experienced person and everyone else in the world seemed to know much more than me, mostly dark secrets that I should never know, so a protective umbrella of bluff and counter bluff to cover my misconceived ignorance was raised in innumerable boy-to-boy conversations. I found it stressful and exhausting but fun at times.
But on the bus you never knew, what were those girls thinking? And why were they giggling and was I so invisible? So invisible yet laughable, surely not. Despite my crippling invisibility that I was so conscious of any spot, greasy hair or aspect of my face seemed as huge on my person scape as Stonehenge or an Easter Island Statue. As a result few conversations were struck up on my outward journey. Silent and deep in thought, remaining mysterious and aloof was my supreme if unspectacular tactic. And girls came and went, tongues stuck out sometimes or a farewell with a simple derisory glance on alighting the bus.
Your bum slid on the seat as the bus hobbled along, tight turns and up and down hills, and of course there was in those days a bus conductor resident onboard and the sweaty ticket he’d provided in your hand, or stuffed at the top of the seat back in front, between the metal and the vinyl finish. Survival drill. Look at feet regularly; avoid direct eye contact unless she was a honey and then suffer the other problems, usually in the form of an accompanying brute of a boyfriend. The loving bloody couple smugly leaning into each other and maybe going to the same pub as me. Take care, contact later could prove hazardous later in the evening.
At each bus stop I’d scan the queue. Who is coming on? Which village would yield the best potential girlfriend, who would she be and where would she sit? What a bummer if she sat downstairs.
Of course if you can see across or if you were sitting on the opposite side of the bus you could catch sight of other girls, waiting on other buses that all were going in the wrong direction. Maybe to Edinburgh, always very bad, I’m off to some wee village pub and they’re going to the city. To meet who? Going to some cool Concert? That almost smacked of a level of sophistication, some joined up piece of planning and thinking that suggested that their night out (or was it a weekend away?) had actually been planned and mapped out. They were in some high flying social network, perhaps meeting boys with sports cars or flats and rich, generous parents and generally having a whale of the kind of time I didn’t know how to have and couldn’t ever replicate. How could I compete with boys like that for girls like those? Well I thought that was how it was.
Endless torturing questions don’t help. I’m not so bad really it’s just the measuring scale has never been explained to me and I don’t know what girls want (well not altogether), but what are the signs I need to learn to read. Perhaps they are as confused as I am and they going through this lonely turmoil but why are they giggling then?
The bus is pulling up a hill, gears grind, the air is smokey a warm. Backs of heads, dark hair and shoulders, cardigan tops, anorak backs, duffel coat hoods and shirt collars. Old man sits opposite, probably going to some Ex-Serviceman’s club for a night of beer and dominoes, his regular Friday. He ignores everyone and has the “ fear of the young” aura, a quiet contempt for stupid hairstyles and silly fashions that he ended up fighting in a war to defend the rights of.
I’m not sure who is behind eyes boring into the back of my head, or reading the pages of the Sun or Daily Record, Sounds or Diana. All those eyes boring me, seeing me from angles I’ve never seen myself from. I am unrecognizable to me from their point of view. My nose must stick out a long way and my hair must be greasy at the top and full of split ends, dandruff on my collar and some stain I cannot see on my combat jacket. I wish for an out of body moment to float above this bus and lift the lid like a sardine tin and expose the passengers lying there and see each one and observe them and pass judgement on them. I don’t dare turn around, well I would if some one spoke to me or I thought I might know someone or just have some other reason, but there is none.
We slide round more corners, passengers move in sympathy with the bus, some stand for the next stop and swing and grip on the chrome handles. All the clever and curvy twisted metal that makes up a bus. Functional and sweeping, banisters and treadplates, screws and rivets. Built by Scottish engineers and fitters in Falkirk and Bathgate, painted and pressed, once new and now in service relentlessly crossing this small Kingdom for the coppers and silver coins rattling and rubbing in the conductor’s black leather change bag. And those mysterious ticket machines, how they work and print tickets, dirty fingers twist the dial, numbers like a safe combination that mark and track and charge the fare stages and journeys. All this in the head of the conductor and metered out on the ticket. So when the Inspector comes on, each one of us is accountable and permitted to be there, oh yes. We belong to this bus and we can stay as long as we wish or till the money runs out.
More grinding and toppling, as if the bus in perpetual disagreement with the road surface. Rubber and asphalt jungleing against one another. Friction and traction and big wheels suffering the intrusive potholes and drains and kerbs as the driver struggles with that huge shiney black steering wheel that pilots us along at a steady twenty five miles an hour. Imagine those gears all spinning somewhere inside that big dark engine, slivers of metal escaping to drown in an oily sea, pistons and con rods and clutches all at work, pieces working loose, oil dripping and flowing through endless pipes and hot metal. Black dust and smoke, diesel fumes and water coolant, filters and parts from Midland’s factories that export to India and Kenya so that their foreign bus services will run too. Bonnets and rust and advertisements for Askit Powders and local services, carpet shops and driving schools on cardboard sheets, businesses with very short phone numbers. Whoever responds to these optimistic ads? And if you think Askit powders work, you’ll use them anyway. None of this is of any consequence, we are only here, trapped on this bus to move ourselves from A to B in a red procession twenty minutes apart and travelling in one of two directions.
Some one has a dog on board, it just puffs and pants and strains in protest. Paws skid on the smooth bus floor upstairs with it’s smoking old owner. Dog saliva on the floor, dog tongue touches bus floor as it struggles to find a comfortable spot on the bus linoleum. The owner, lord and master pulls the dog lead and forces the dog to sit but the rear paws loose grip and the slide continues and has he paid a half fare for the dog, or is that only on the train?
Who on this bus is there that could fall in love with me. Some of those girls are too young and too silly and laugh too much which is always dangerous because that’s the very thing that could be used against me and that would be like the end. So what about girls obviously on their way home from work? Nice neat clothes, make up a little tired, hair not quite right but these are minor infringements. Their jobs are clerical and tedious and stupefying, I imagine they are bored with them. They dream of successful marriages to sales executives and an early pregnancy, of wearing exciting underwear and going on shopping trips, holidays and living quietly in Lego houses anonymous in airbrushed estates. Those happy families you see and hate in advertisements, non-existent and played by actors and models whose real lives are completely the opposite. But if that’s what’s wanted I could do that, I could give them that, I’ve got all the right attributes and skills, potentially, but I simply don’t (think I) have the inclination yet The “yet” is a worry and a distraction.
I will not fall in love with the office girls. Here I am 18 years old, nearer 19 maybe. I don’t want to settle for settling down. I tell myself this without thinking or even knowing what it actually is I want. Sad to say I don’t know my own mind and clear and purposeful thought eludes me time after time. As soon as I start to think of them and what they may be, it all escapes and evaporates and even my memory of it goes with it. So I am constantly surprised when they return and follow a similar cycle again and again. As soon as I step down the stairs of this bus the focus will have shifted back to beer or music or football or girls.
The journey continues at a less than furious pace, constant jolts of stop start progress, junctions and zebra crossings to negotiate and the sporadic delay tactics of well placed and deserted sections of road works. Tree branches scrape the roof; birds cats and dogs dodge the lumbering monster. Through the traffic film encrusted windows, smeared and spattered with yesterday’s rain, I observe all the frantic efforts of avoidance used by those would dare to cross our path. The pedestrians. The old, the frail, the near-sighted, the drunk, the confused, the preoccupied, the couldn’t give a shit, the wreck less, the stupid, the pedestrians. Back in 1973 there were a lot of them on pavements and worryingly, agonizingly, straying increasingly onto the roads.
Older towns were laid out before traffic became king, traffic grew and an imbalance was created, an unhealthy imbalance. Few understood how quickly the car would become king. In 1973 it was Vivas and Cortinas and Morris 1000s and VWs and pizzy, busy little step-thru Honda mopeds. Lorries were great dirty Atkinsons, AECs, Leylands, Scammels and Fodens with the occasional Scania representing the foreign marques. They were slow, huge and beastly and belched diesel fumes everywhere. Traffic lights were rare and strange and buses ranged and wander far and wide on regular, understandable geometric routes. Routes that were forged in the 30’s and 40’s, the decades when the trams had died like dinosaurs in a meteor shower. Towns and buses seemed at odds with one another, particularly Inverkeithing. It hated buses, it made them turn at a turning spot wasting time, squeeze through narrow streets, made then climb and descend awkward hills and hang on great hill start bus stops while OAPS struggled with the steps and inclines. It hated buses. If only it knew how it would be smoothed and tamed by the relentless progress of traffic. One ways, through routes, mini roundabouts, pelican crossings, cut in bus stops and double yellow lines. Days numbered, design unplanned but credited to some huge master council plan organically grown to bury the town in street furniture, heavy handed road markings and confusing signs. Other towns that hated buses were Aberdour and Burntisland, Kincardine, Dunfermline and Kirkcaldy. Rosyth was a bus whore, easy meat; it laid down to every bus that came its way, straight roads, big roundabouts, no significant hills and trees in the street. It’s day of reckoning and divine retribution would come, unseen and unexpected when the Tories came to power and the Navy moved away and timber frame developers, kebab shops and single parents would move in.
The rain began to beat on the bus windows. I imagined below the wiper scraping across the driver’s screen, the dodgy insulating tape on the steering wheel, the fog on all the windows downstairs. Being upstairs on the bus said a lot about you. You could smoke, you avoided bus conductress chatter, old ladies, you could climb the stairs and swing on the banister at corners or sudden stops, you had energy, you were virile, you were not with your parents, you could look down on the world, you could commandeer the big broad back seat or sit up front as if in a helicopter flying across the paddy fields of Vietnam. Upstairs was the only place to be.
I lit a cigarette and puffed out the match and tossed it to the floor, I sucked in a lungful of that hot, sweet, addictive smoke and blew it out through my nostrils. There was a smoky pattern that blasted the window glass and drifted away and I thought about Smaug the dragon guarding his lair and treasure in the Hobbit. Then, putting it simply I went into a daydream, just like Lennon and McCartney, it was just another day in my life after all. Whatever did happen took place just as easily as saying some magic word or spinning a spell or clattering a book with a wizard’s wand. The magic was tangible in the smoke. Music played far away, penguins at bus stops gawped at me and passing tigers revealed their huge unfriendly claws and bubbles blew in from the open liquid bus windows, pale blue horses galloped by completely ignoring the bus and a heavy scent filled by head and made my eyelids droop in an easy and safe upstairs sleep. But I didn’t feel asleep. The clerical girls loved me now and called my name, those tarty girls still laughed but liked my hair and ran their fingers through it and asked me questions. Candles were being lit and drinks were being passed around, there was an open bar downstairs one of the girls said. Someone handed me a bottle of beer, McEwen’s Export, and a Mars bar, in the old folded wrapper. Bags of chips in real newspaper were shared; I think it was the Daily Express, a broadsheet, printed in Scotland that they were wrapped in. It all tasted quite good though there was a lot of vinegar on the chips. I could hear Rory Gallagher on the guitar, he was using a lot of harmonics and showing off a bit and Paul Rodgers was singing lead vocal, Jack Bruce on a thumping bass riff and John Bonham hammering on the drums, John Lord was fingering the mighty Hammond keyboard far in the distance with a Roto-Sound Leslie Cabinet whirling away. Dennis Hopper and Peter Fonda chugged past the bus on their hogs waving at us and Ritchie Havens was singing about freedom over and over whilst Arthur Lee said something, wagged a finger and dropped some acid right in front of me.
When we got to the stop at the Hillend Tavern who else but Melanie Safka and Sonia Christina got on, came upstairs and sat on either side of me and then began to sing quite sweetly whilst searching for some small change in my pockets. I tried not to giggle because their fingers were very tickly. In order to stop them I asked if they had tickets already but they only smiled and insisted that they had to have any change that was in my pockets. I remember touching their hair, both had single braids for some reason and long earrings. Following them upstairs was a disheveled looking Frank Zappa and a bouncy Germaine Greer both offering to sell the latest copies of OZ, for £1. I thought to myself “They’ve sold out, this is the end of the dream, it’ll be tree houses and wooden flutes next and hard backed books about sociology, the revolution is over, there is nothing new left in the universe.” I was almost getting angry but then Raquel Welch kindly offered to rub my brow with a warm soapy sponge that she had unexpectedly produced from her rucksack. The sudden eye contact with her was electric, her sparkling dark pupils drilling into mine as my jaw dropped open. Her hair was long, rich and brown and I stared at it for what I thought was a long time but really was only a few seconds, the sponge water was running down my face, trickling over my cheeks and relaxing me. “What a technique you have with your sponge!” I said rather lamely. “The magical world of movies and Hollywood have taught me everything I need to know,” she said and then she let out a slow, low growl as she touched the tip of my nose with her fingernail. She then threw her head back in a rather melodramatic fashion and uncrossed her legs, “I just might take you there one day and show you around, but only if you can be a good boy for me!”
I began to think that the bus was going very slowly now, possibly actually going in reverse. The trees and bushes in the outside world seemed disconnected from my journey, and my journey seemed disconnected from me. I wondered where on earth we could be, what fare stage were we at. I looked again and saw that we were at the industrial estate at Donibristle. The familiar factories and grey sheds and hangers stared back through the bus window and made their usual insulting, sneering faces at me. Raquel was rubbing my temple with her finger in an easy and gentle circular motion and my mouth was drying up inside. It was about then I think I first lost consciousness but looking back I don’t really regret anything.
Wednesday, January 19, 2005
Fairytale Management Theory
Fairytale Management Theory - the first few steps.
We've just launched (?) a new blog that we intend to use to deconstruct, rewire and rebuild the world. Even for us this is quite an ambitious project but every journey starts ...etc. etc.
http://fairytalemanagement.blogspot.com
is the place. We have a storehouse of wisdom, wit and revolutionary ideas that are about to hit the FTMT blog and hopefully you.
A suitable soundtrack for this can be found at www.impossiblesongs.com $aving America!
We've just launched (?) a new blog that we intend to use to deconstruct, rewire and rebuild the world. Even for us this is quite an ambitious project but every journey starts ...etc. etc.
http://fairytalemanagement.blogspot.com
is the place. We have a storehouse of wisdom, wit and revolutionary ideas that are about to hit the FTMT blog and hopefully you.
A suitable soundtrack for this can be found at www.impossiblesongs.com $aving America!
Saturday, January 15, 2005
Postcard from Titan
If we could hold our moments
In the cup of one hand
Touch rotate and examine
Could we understand?
If we could see through bubbles
Rising from the minds
Of those around us
Would we be surprised?
If we can land on Titan, and leap on the Moon
Can we not seed our galaxy, not a moment to soon?
If we could hear strange whispers
From other dimensions
Would it stop us drowning
In our own reflections?
In the cup of one hand
Touch rotate and examine
Could we understand?
If we could see through bubbles
Rising from the minds
Of those around us
Would we be surprised?
If we can land on Titan, and leap on the Moon
Can we not seed our galaxy, not a moment to soon?
If we could hear strange whispers
From other dimensions
Would it stop us drowning
In our own reflections?
Don't Disturb me.
A new lyric we've yet to use.
Don’t disturb me.
I don’t want to disturb the cat; I don’t want to wake him up,
You just tie your laces in the dark my love, and leave a memory for good luck.
I don’t want to open up the blind; I don’t want to see the light,
Comb your hair in the rear view mirror, and buckle up your seat belt tight.
I don’t want to find you floating in the lake, or face down in the swimming pool,
Don’t discuss with me the things you hate, let’s keep our relations pure.
So don’t disturb me as I try to sleep, don’t shake me as you leave,
Don’t whisper, blow a kiss or even breath, do I make my feelings clear?
I don’t need you sugaring my tea; you don’t have to spread my bread,
Don’t cream my coffee or run my bath or shower, keep yourself outside my head.
Do I make my feelings clear? Do you love me? Do I care my dear?
Do I make my feelings clear? Do I love you? Do you care my dear?
Don’t disturb me.
I don’t want to disturb the cat; I don’t want to wake him up,
You just tie your laces in the dark my love, and leave a memory for good luck.
I don’t want to open up the blind; I don’t want to see the light,
Comb your hair in the rear view mirror, and buckle up your seat belt tight.
I don’t want to find you floating in the lake, or face down in the swimming pool,
Don’t discuss with me the things you hate, let’s keep our relations pure.
So don’t disturb me as I try to sleep, don’t shake me as you leave,
Don’t whisper, blow a kiss or even breath, do I make my feelings clear?
I don’t need you sugaring my tea; you don’t have to spread my bread,
Don’t cream my coffee or run my bath or shower, keep yourself outside my head.
Do I make my feelings clear? Do you love me? Do I care my dear?
Do I make my feelings clear? Do I love you? Do you care my dear?
Syrus and the Great White Robot
Syrus is our cat and the Great White Robot is ...our tumble dryer....
Who are you to invade my universe?
Your chunky noises my space reversed
Who are you? You’re alien white
Unsteady my calm, keeps me awake at night.
Blinded by, frightened by, deafened by the great white robot
Beaten back, first attack, it has no heart, the great white robot.
GWR pays little attention
Purposely focused spinning intention
Occupied yet detached in its relocated situation
This case calls for human intervention
It’s ok boy
It’s ok
It’s ok boy
It’s ok
Who are you to usurp my rightful place?
Your growly breathing in my face?
What are you? You’re a geometrical sight.
Freeze my blood tense my muscles tight.
Who are you to invade my universe?
Your chunky noises my space reversed
Who are you? You’re alien white
Unsteady my calm, keeps me awake at night.
Blinded by, frightened by, deafened by the great white robot
Beaten back, first attack, it has no heart, the great white robot.
GWR pays little attention
Purposely focused spinning intention
Occupied yet detached in its relocated situation
This case calls for human intervention
It’s ok boy
It’s ok
It’s ok boy
It’s ok
Who are you to usurp my rightful place?
Your growly breathing in my face?
What are you? You’re a geometrical sight.
Freeze my blood tense my muscles tight.
Wednesday, January 12, 2005
A polite breakfast 2
A polite breakfast ongoing.
Thursday: I have the cold. No breakfast. Feel like a dummy. Germs come and go and seem to be a lot stronger than we humans, curse these pesky little brutes. Came home from work at 1145 and slept for five hours. Better but not 100%.
Late chicken soup breakfast anyone?
No real breakfast plans for Friday right now, some thoughts about another hot toddy however, I'll see where these go...
Thursday: I have the cold. No breakfast. Feel like a dummy. Germs come and go and seem to be a lot stronger than we humans, curse these pesky little brutes. Came home from work at 1145 and slept for five hours. Better but not 100%.
Late chicken soup breakfast anyone?
No real breakfast plans for Friday right now, some thoughts about another hot toddy however, I'll see where these go...
A polite breakfast
A polite (series of ) breakfast(s).
Saturday: Eighteen Wee Willie Winkies sizzling in a pan, two fried eggs for Joe. Liv had the sausages. Ali had sausages and bacon on two rolls, I had sausages and bacon and the stuff Liv didn't eat. Orange juice, Sunny D and coffee. Dick & Dom on the TV. We decided to go to Ocean Terminal to seek out a SpongeBob DVD, peek at the Brittania and explore. Other things happened on this windy day.
Sunday morning dawned and everyone, for a change awoke in a good humour. There was a slight delay between each awakening, some sooner, some later but all eventually by 9.15. I was cook. I started with tea and coffee as usual for Ali and myself, the kids had Sunny D or at least what little was left. Then it was lorne sausage in the fry pan, rolls buttered and the toasting of the waffles. These are tricky little beasts, 30 seconds in a hot toaster, pop them up, grab them without burning your finger (a bit like a pop tart), flip them onto a nice white plate and then apply a dose of golden or maple syrup. The kids liked golden best, with a little butter. Naturally my waffle went through a kind of experimental phase and was rather burned, but I enjoyed it. Ali stuck with the tea and well cooked sausage and rolls, a waffle and gazed out of the window at those winter white horses that gallop across the Firth of Forth. It was a blustery, window rattling, warm inside cold out, stretched out and satisfying breakfast.
Monday morning finds me in the Holiday Inn Express in Bristol. Breakfast (polite and quite apart from a distant Sky news broadcast) is a self-service hotch potch that is surprisingly pleasing. The coffee from one of those mysterious machines that promises café au late is pretty good. I have two cups. All in all it’s a bowl of (normal) Alpen and milk, orange juice (not so good), pan au chocolate, strawberry yoghurt, brown toast and marmite, a banana and more coffee. Not as many suits in here, strangely quiet.
Tuesday I was back home and had no breakfast. Well coffee and a Christmas pie at work at about 9ish.
Saw J & O & E in the evening, no breakfast memories. Then saw J & G and baby Elijah. Good end to a no-breakfast day.
Wednesday: Wow! the Forth Bridge was closed to everything due to high winds. Sat in the car in McDonald's car for twenty minutes listening to the radio. Considered a Mickey D Bfast but decided to go home and sit out the storm. Eventualy got to work at 0845 - had a Beacham's hot lemon cold cure. This cold is a stubborn one.
Saturday: Eighteen Wee Willie Winkies sizzling in a pan, two fried eggs for Joe. Liv had the sausages. Ali had sausages and bacon on two rolls, I had sausages and bacon and the stuff Liv didn't eat. Orange juice, Sunny D and coffee. Dick & Dom on the TV. We decided to go to Ocean Terminal to seek out a SpongeBob DVD, peek at the Brittania and explore. Other things happened on this windy day.
Sunday morning dawned and everyone, for a change awoke in a good humour. There was a slight delay between each awakening, some sooner, some later but all eventually by 9.15. I was cook. I started with tea and coffee as usual for Ali and myself, the kids had Sunny D or at least what little was left. Then it was lorne sausage in the fry pan, rolls buttered and the toasting of the waffles. These are tricky little beasts, 30 seconds in a hot toaster, pop them up, grab them without burning your finger (a bit like a pop tart), flip them onto a nice white plate and then apply a dose of golden or maple syrup. The kids liked golden best, with a little butter. Naturally my waffle went through a kind of experimental phase and was rather burned, but I enjoyed it. Ali stuck with the tea and well cooked sausage and rolls, a waffle and gazed out of the window at those winter white horses that gallop across the Firth of Forth. It was a blustery, window rattling, warm inside cold out, stretched out and satisfying breakfast.
Monday morning finds me in the Holiday Inn Express in Bristol. Breakfast (polite and quite apart from a distant Sky news broadcast) is a self-service hotch potch that is surprisingly pleasing. The coffee from one of those mysterious machines that promises café au late is pretty good. I have two cups. All in all it’s a bowl of (normal) Alpen and milk, orange juice (not so good), pan au chocolate, strawberry yoghurt, brown toast and marmite, a banana and more coffee. Not as many suits in here, strangely quiet.
Tuesday I was back home and had no breakfast. Well coffee and a Christmas pie at work at about 9ish.
Saw J & O & E in the evening, no breakfast memories. Then saw J & G and baby Elijah. Good end to a no-breakfast day.
Wednesday: Wow! the Forth Bridge was closed to everything due to high winds. Sat in the car in McDonald's car for twenty minutes listening to the radio. Considered a Mickey D Bfast but decided to go home and sit out the storm. Eventualy got to work at 0845 - had a Beacham's hot lemon cold cure. This cold is a stubborn one.
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