Marx & Parks

I was never in love with Nico, but I was in love with the idea.
I was never sure about anything, but now I am.
I was never in love with Nico, but she was in love with me.
In the end, it was all adopted like an orphan's eager dream.
Whatever I may think , it could not be as it seemed.

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Born with a name like Marx

Born with a name like Marx
With no linkage to the Vaudeville stage or the lyrics of Van Dyke Parks
A watery light shining in the dark
Floating like some alphabetical candle over all our thoughts of progress.
Through the world of modern history,
In the mists of explained mystery,
The Devil’s detail in the heresy,
But born with a name like Marx.

Fallen Fifers.

Another cup final is over,
Another afternoon in the sun,
Another day of parking problems,
At least it didn’t end up eight one.

Another Hampden Park Hamburger
Another sea of white and green
Another piece of football murder
For one more time think what may have been.

Seven Nation Army get Into the Valley
Cheerleaders and Republica do the dance
Our heritage seems so squashed and fragile
Last subdued outpost of circumstance.

MOTs and normal stuff

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MOTs and the cat and normal things

A week of preparation for tests and test passing, centred around the pain and tension of the MOT outcome. Two Mazdas in one week, both performed well and we can now salute the skill of their Japanese designers, amazing how these machines, so neglected (well in my case anyway) for 364 days a year still manage to pass this annual eleven-plus examination. The same cannot be said sadly for my elders son’s Fiat which died this week and will not be mourned (expect perhaps for the loss of it’s Irish number plate) as it is replaced by a new Astra that I am assured has all the right toys.

The cat’s MOT took place today at the Vets surgery just of Lothian Road. He performed well also, though the journey to the vets and the arrival of two barking dogs in the surgery did not exactly put him at ease. He was fine anyway; we departed the surgery with a bag of fur-ball biscuits, worm drops and a fully weighed, sounded and vaccinated Syrus – and a bag with dirty towel. The kids came along for the spectacle and enjoyed most of it, apart from the “nervous cat” smell that now hangs in the car. Magic tree anyone?

A short hop across to Sainsbury’s at Craigleith left me infuriated. The shop was packed, chaos seemed to reign in every aisle, and the tills were awash with queues puzzling over their pin numbers and to crown it all I couldn’t get the items I was looking for. Finally getting to the head of my till queue the unfortunate assistant had to tell me that his machine had “crashed”. I could take no more and in an unusual move for me abandoned my shopping and walked out the store. I wont be back, well not for a few weeks. God bless Tesco South Queensferry, it seemed like a haven of calm and organisation after that and I got all the stuff I was looking for. Saturday lunch, hunted and gathered.

The afternoon was spent watching “the Cat Returns” a Studio Ghibli DVD. The four us sat in the lounge watching this strange Alice in Wonderland type of tale about a young girl and the kingdom of cats. I think we all found it to be an odd mixture of puzzling, amusing, quirky but always great to look at. The story never really catches fire and the dialogue is wooden, but the animation quality and the draughtsmanship of Studio Ghibli within this and all of their productions always impress me. We are not fixated with cats by the way.

Tea. Pasta and mince and sauce and wine, quite a successful combination that helps Saturday evening roll along. We also discover, courtesy of the BBC that we are a far from stupid family, if you believe in the odd measures, tests and general mixed messages about fitness and mental health they send out. We’re planning an eco-igloo now anyway, probably without a full-time TV.

Then of course the slightly off-season snowfall, a snow ball fight, cars stuck in the snow and an unusually laid-back Sunday morning (football cancelled). Works for me.

Live sleepover

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Live sleepover

Tickover, Nico on the desertshore
Past, present some time before
Grey days in a fictional attic
Punished by god for my antics
Cable-tied wrists of good humour fanatics
These are the crimes that go unrecognised
They were black and white before my brown eyes
Trouble brews in a three sugared tea
Isn’t that just like me?
I hear the holidays are over; the kids next door are home,
Bored,
Next year we’ll try harder not to bother,
Another live sleepover.



Christmas Passed

Seems odd to think, that bag over there held my children’s Christmas presents once.
Now it’s full of leads, cable ties, adaptors and bits of microphones.
Dirty.
Forlorn by the side of the stage in a gig tray.
While somebody strikes out on the white guitar made by the Gibson Company.
The bag is a part of his audience now and as the music carries on,
I think of a Christmas past, here in early March.
A cocktail of the happy and unhappy, of making the best of things, as usual.
Panic buying, all in that bag, gift ideas that burn brightly then come to nothing,
All wrapped in that bag.

Nico

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Nico

She wants to be like Nico
Dark and slim, mysterious and dim
In love with him.
Hanging around smoking long cigarettes,
Day dreaming in cafes, learning to forget.
Drifting across the cracks in the New York sidewalks
Staying in bed till three, talking the street talk.
She wants to be like Nico
But she lives in Bellshill
She’s just failed her standard grades
And her mother is ill.
She ate a deep fried pizza and bought an NME,
Some more black eyeliner and a cup of sweet tea.
She found the old LPs in her dad’s collection
When life makes no sense, you just make up connections.
She wants to be like Nico
And ride a white horse,
She’s dead – of course.

Dangerous Mice

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If you any sense of humour at all and like small, dark eyed, furry animals and music..

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House + four other things

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House

Light the fire without firelighters
Sticks and stones, pyramids, coal and wood
Burn all the evidence
Hide the story of the heist
Hide all the trails in vapour and in smoke
Years in which to live
Years to live out a dream, watching birds raise families
And never reaching such a quiet conclusion.

Altered states

In a constant state of rebellion with gods and men
But just sit here for long enough and the security light goes off.
Watch the stars and aeroplanes; track the changes in the sky
Just you and I
Sleep in a peaceful bed; sleep sound in a peaceful bed
And I’d eat you up with a spoon
As everything can now make sense between us
Fire and water runs between us
And no further explanations are necessary.

OOTB 201

Smoking cigars with Scott Renton and David O.
Our backs are sat, to the wall
And the performers have all gone home
And we reflect, on the marks we make upon this world
The performers have all gone home
But there is still a lot to do.

Listening

Listening to Beth Orton sing
On the your small stereo by Sony that I like
No bells or whistles just music in the dark, songs spreading
All across the house and out into the dark.
Sleeping animals hear the sounds
And puzzle over man’s mysterious habits if they puzzle at all.
I must visit the bottle bank.

Parents

Just think of how little your parents know about you
How you are perceived so inaccurately
With what you let them see
A frozen image of misunderstanding
Their relative testimony so fractured
And all far away from the truth about you,
I like to think I know the truth.

Questions

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Not quite right Questions that cry for vague answers of a sort.

Has anyone noticed that when “the Chain” by Fleetwood Mac is playing on your car stereo it is impossible to get stopped by a red light?
Is anybody worried that in the near future (by 2016) there will be heaps (mountains possibly) of discarded mobile phones by the sides of our clogged up roadways?
Does drinking Coca-Cola make small children hysterical?
What is the best course of action to take when trapped on the beach trying to locate a lost football?
Do farmer’s markets represent good value for money or is it all overpriced shit?
Does the bottom of the sea have a smell?
Is the most common password in the world S3cr3t?
What do pigeons eat that makes them so fat?
Has anybody ever assembled a piece of flat pack furniture correctly at the first attempt?
Extended warranties – do they represent good value for money and on what appliances is it best to take them out on?
Divorce and marriage – what is the point?
Timing belts, do they ever really break, apart from on Fords?
Why do you have to wash out bottles that are due to be recycled?
Esoteric is a word that did not exist in common conversation before 1981, true or false?
Vegetarians are all rather irritable and concentrate on chewing food and salivating too much – true?
Where is the tipping point in pirate impersonations?
Is smoking now the most desirable form of anti social behaviour?
Shaving doesn’t have to hurt does it?
Can you eat mussels without feeling sick?
Where can I find my socks?
Exactly which trees should we cut down in order to maintain our view and is this behaviour morally reprehensible?

OOTB 200th edition

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OOTB 200

Over and done
Fun
Selected reports and performances
Some folks missed out
Some folks dipped in
We made the big figure
Pirates emerged
Had a few laughs
Figure it out for yourself
The best experiences are shared and live.

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Of mice and herring

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Herring

The herring have returned to the Forth Estuary, seventy-five years after they were driven away or exhausted by thoughtless and persistent over fishing – by members of my family. Now they are returning, from breeding grounds in the Baltic and on the Scandinavian seaboard, from Iceland and Greenland and some mysterious icy depths. I saw two today, in oil and a tin. We all partook of the lubricated flesh, on toast with cream cheese. We may well buy more and store them up, dead shoals in their tin coffins, bathed in embalming oil for viscosity out of water, neatly placed in our many new white plastic containers. Perhaps in years to come archaeologists will come across them and marvel at their unexpected discovery lurking under our windowsills, the treasure of the herring catacombs.

Mice

5am and Syrus the cat caught another mouse. Some poor rodent soul, scavenging to feed himself and the family caught unawares. There were apparently dull thuds and other odd noises as the cat finished of his mortal enemy on our bedroom floor. He was clearly satisfied with the kill and the consumption but still ate a hearty cat food breakfast half an hour later. Fortunately I slept through the entire event thanks to my crystal clear conscience and having spent the previous day in Birmingham. Ali described it all to me in graphic detail however. Cats don’t seem to understand electricity or heat or keyboards, what do their parents teach them?

Later as I stood in the kitchen eating a fried egg roll and looking out of the window a passing rifleman shot twice at something (not me thankfully) in the woods across the road. He disappeared with a colleague as if in pursuit of something, something larger and more interesting than a mouse or a herring I suppose.

The house is also going through a phase of reorganisation or reinvention. Furniture is moving, items are being put away, and new shelves, units and drapes are appearing. For a few days I thought we had a poltergeist but then it turned out to be more natural than supernatural. Having as big (and as complex) a family as we do means that our house has to be Tardis like in its adaptability to deal with the constant sets of changes, expansions and occupancy that we enjoy. It all works anyhow.

Pancakes:

1 pack of pancake mix.
2 eggs. (preferably a little overage)
250ml of cold water.
A drop of blue milk.
Oil & pan.
Source of heat.

Mix up the stuff. Cook the lot a small ladle full at a time in the (hot) oil in the pan. (when the batter bubbles all over it’s time to turn or flip the pancake). Eat straight away with syrup, condensed milk, butter and a fork. I’ve no idea what is in the pancake mix, it looks like wall filler.

Lazy Rock and Rollers

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LAZY ROCK 'n ROLLERS

“We are lazy rock and rollers
Lazy rock and rollers, lazy and we don’t have the time,
To walk with the animals or talk with the animals
Or even step right out of line.
We’re not inclined and we don’t mind.”

This is the ballad of and to and for the lazy rock and rollers, too lazy to practice properly, learn words and chords and arrangements or anything. They just bum around all day, buy reduced organic produce from the dump fridge in Tesco, drink cheap red wine, smoke Café Crème cigars and wear T-shirts they bought on E Bay or at play.com. The drive old Japanese or Korean cars, they play only occasional gigs and with borrowed gear and their strings are worn and rusty. They live in odd places between the housing schemes and country houses around here, there and in Fife. They play breathing and hold your breath type games while crossing the Forth Road Bridge or on occasions the Kincardine Bridge. They seldom use the Tay Bridge as they dislike the A92 and any mention of North East Fife. They take holidays in Ibiza sometimes and have all done at least one parachute jump for charity.

They shave 4.2 times per week unless they are female, shaving stats are about 1.25 for the ladies (unconfirmed). Nostril hair may at times be clipped.

Their favourite chord is B minor at the second fret because it fits around so many cute licks sliding back to the A major or 7 and Fleetwood Mac use it a lot.

They call their trainers “sneakers” but not “pumps”.

They know all the names of all the Ramones and who is dead and have argued about which ones are in Heaven and which ones are in Hell.

Female LRRs may have been “Miss Wrangler” at some disco at one time.

They don’t quite know how to behave on a bus or where to sit.

They don’t ever do gardens, but they like to make sure the waste is in the correct bin, green, blue or brown. They instinctively know what days what bins are emptied without having to refer to the list that is stuck to the fridge door. Bottle Banks?

They like the idea of eating oily fish five times a week but Chinese is hard to beat.

The ultimate LRRs guitar is the Epiphone Les Paul copy in sunburst finish. The “Slash” edition is particularly popular.

The animal thing is hard to fathom, they’d like to own horses and live near Montreaux but they think climate isn’t great by Lake Geneva. Being photographed with a horse is cool, unless the horse is in Dublin. Being photographed with a horse in New York is far too much of a touristy thing and to be avoided.

LLRs have day jobs in all sorts of walks of life; some however are unemployed or sponge. Some are housewives and rock chicks. Some work in Ikea or social work.

Bamboo & nonsense

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Bamboo is not pictured - just a frosty thing in a field


Feed the winter in your heart, feed the fog that stalks your mind. Look out over these fields close by, frost and white slices of cloud and filtered light. Dream of the strange warming, the spring that rushes towards you to end the winter’s battles and skirmishes.

In the heat of the fight the mother’s desert their children. Their white angry eyes cannot quite see a right way so they stab backwards in anger, tearing at any emotion too raw to make sense of. You have become some unspeakable cannibal and the direction you lost was the fault of that bigger, unimagined navigational mistake – a long time ago. Here comes the song of timely revenge and sick vengeance. In the mean time I have turned into a phoenix yet again.

These are the days you never dreamed you’d see, days when you’d talk to yourself and do your best to squeeze the happiness from every moment, funny how that can work so well for us.

The bamboo will rise in just three days, so says the book of the wise and voices that whisper. Anoint your head with bamboo juice and black bean sauce, sweet chilly pickle and all I’ve ever cooked for you, seek shelter in its thick bamboo and sauces, dripping new growth. Hide and be safe in some sunny garden somewhere behind this bamboo curtain I have constructed for you. I love you more than my Meccano set.

These are the words that some of you will repeat.

Brokeback Mountain

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Brokeback Mountain

Saturday evening came around and we’d planned to go to the cinema to see “Walk the line” The Johnny Cash biopic. It sounded the best of a not very interesting selection of movies so we both fancied it and as I’d grown up with JC’s music I was curious to see how he’d be portrayed. I ‘d always liked the corny country stuff, despite the fact that for many years he was uncool, unhip and all the rest of those crap labels get applied to talent in that “mid-life/ mid career” place. Anyway the show was sold out so ice cream and tea bought and in hand we had little other choice than “Brokeback Mountain”. It seemed to me over hyped, Oscar hyped, gay hyped etc. so do we wait for the DVD and see from the couch? That was really how we both felt and I expected Ali to sleep through most of and I thought I would just get sleepy, restless and irritable.

The dull ads and trailers nearly had us both asleep by the time the film had begun. Then I guess as things took hold and the story unravelled we both found ourselves fully interested and affected. The film turned out to be stronger, starker and much more powerful than I had expected. The gay sex scenes and so called cowboy issues were strangely irrelevant in the overall story of bleak and blighted lives hampered by an inability to change circumstances and seize opportunities. The traps that are convention, responsibility and acceptance sprang hard shut on these two individual’s in ways that many of any sexual persuasion would empathise with. Pivotal moments creeping up and around and then the release of gut-wrenching emotions as realisation and resignation kick in. So when was / is / has been the best time of your life? Think about it, you may be surprised and if it’s not right now perhaps you have some work to do.

So whatever you love, whoever you really love, your need of them may well force you to make the toughest of choices. If you’ve never reached a point like that in your life then to be honest I’m not sure if I feel happy or sad for you, you’ve certainly missed something. Come the day I hope that you choose well young Skywalker.

Getting back to the basic film, the cinematography was pretty good and young Donnie Darko’s in it; don’t you just think time travel is the best thing?



Grave of the fireflies

Friday found us at the BG annual dance in the Edinburgh Conference Centre. As ever (?) I was on my best behaviour and did not get pissed nor even feel the need to. My kilt did require some urgent first aid with some black thread and a needle but this was administered a home just before we left. Ali of course looked sexy and splendid in a slim, shiny red dress, her shoes however, though right for the outfit were clearly hurting her feet from fairly early on in the evening.

The meal was fine, the company pleasant, and the speeches short and at times funny and then the dancing began. I’m a firm believer that if you go to a dance, you should dance and that’s it, just let yourself go. We were quickly up for the first dance and I guess Ali’s shoes lasted about 30 seconds tops; they were quickly abandoned by the front of the stage, beneath the band’s guitarist’s Line 6 effects bar. The golden shoes, upside down, lying there like two accident victims hurled from a speeding train wreck or air crash. Alone, rejected and as sorry and sad as any given scene from “Grave of the fireflies”. We danced on, shoeless.

Bootleg Tom Mackay

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Bootleg Tom Mackay

“Killer Civil Servant” The Foul: First in what may turn out to be a hundredweight of Fall tribute bands is the solo incarnation of the out of the bedroom incarceration that has become the Foul. I believe this CD lasts for all of 31 minutes and can be played at weddings. (Giggly, excited girls, you read it here first!).

As sweet as a bus journey through West Lothian, as risky as riding down the side of a coal bing on a mini scrambler (without a helmet), warm as Waverley lager, as comforting as a fistful of dynamite, as enlightening as the next four episodes of “Lost”. The city of Edinburgh, and all of her city fathers (from just outside of South Queensferry) is/are so proud of this piece of work and also that Tom is an ex-Fifer.

Tom is also in fact, in fiction and in real life a civil servant; so it came as no surprise to me that he has had a long time love affair with progressive rock music, nights out on the town, anti-smoking legislation in the 80s, laminate flooring and a band called the Fall. It was his admiration for the Fall however that went on to inhabit the very core of his being and also made things happen at the core of his life long learning and enterprise enterprises. In a nut shell it has given us this magnificent recording which history will completely envelope in myth, mystery, mince, muggles and Maltesers. My favourite track is “Ballroom Insect”, but that’s just what I think today.

Things that people are saying already:

“This CD may be free but I’ll not be giving you my copy officer!”

“As I was playing “Killer Civil Servant” this morning the sun shone through my bedroom window, “what a remarkable coincidence” I thought.”

“As I was whistling “Ballroom Insect” I actually looked down at the ground and saw some insects cavorting.”

“Whilst going past a butcher’s shop and looking in the window I remembered that I had heard a song on this CD entitled “Your heart out”.”

“I had no idea he had it in him.”

“A woman walked past our house talking loudly into a mobile phone just at the beginning of “Clear off”.”

“Fame and fortune beckons.”

“Dice Man is not a character in the Tom Cruise film “Top Gun” is he?”

“Just get some rolls, a paper and a lottery ticket pet.”

More information? A free listen? A free download? A free lunch?

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Cannonballs to be fired

Thinking of things that have been left in our house by family members made me think of the following things that have been left in our house by family members:

Ice axe, drum kit, baby shampoo, Nintendo magazines, Galaxy chocolate, dress shoes, hair bands, plates, dishes, soap, bananas, coats, a glove, socks, DVDs about football, cuddly toys, Happy Meal toys, beer, wristbands, White Stripes CD, mobile phones, poetry books, various small sweets.

Thinking of fangs that have beer left in our luxury liner by family pets made me drunk at the thoughts of tinkering with time left in our lives by complete strangers:

Ice cube, oil drum kit, baby snakes, Nintendo boxing gloves, Ford Galaxy, stone age shoes, metal bands, pirates, fishes, soapy bananas, cords, a golly-wog, sticks, DVDs about philosophy, cuddly trees, Happy Meal crumbs, bears, wristwatches, members of the White Stripes, mobile shops and libraries, poetry people, various small seats.

Tinkering with prangs that have been happy accidents in our luxury laundry by famous pets made me Rin Tin Tin at the idea of an Alsatian breakfast with all the time left to think of complete idiots:

Iceberg, oil rigs kit, snakes eating cows, Nintendo peace programme, HMS Ford Galaxy, stone age petrifaction, metal age petrifaction, plots, fish fingers, banana skins inside out, chords, absent without leave, cheese sticks, DVDs about pills and cola, young trees from the Sahara, Happy Meal change, rats, wrists exposed, members of the KLF, mobile sculpture and librarians, poetry’s raw materials, various small exposed sentences.

Flying the coop.

Chicken noises are rare round here, it’s mostly wild dogs you hear, early morning serenade, to various rabbits and bitches and mates. The chickens are quiet, understandably, the cock wont crow or assert himself, their little hen house is a silent place, until the sun comes up then out they race. Don’t try to experiment with chickens, unless some rare inspiration has landed upon you and drives you to do something culinary that none of us have ever thought about: To serve a nice, cooked chicken dinner to your immediate family.

Dead people

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Dead people on mountain tops

The cremated ash of dead people scattered or piled on top of mountains, so where better to be? Part of somebody else's' good idea? So when you expire and capsize, roll off the top, roll and shuffle from this mortal coil to a higher physical plane. Under the big blue sky as your ashes become part of the hill, part of a mountain range, an eternal piece of the bigger picture, caressed by gentle clouds in a heavenly illusion. Few people (if any) are born on top of mountains. Some will never get to the top of any mountain either dead or alive. So it remains that romantic, hill minded outdoor people could at least in death escape to somewhere where their heart can lie at peace (sic). For others, life spent in board or management or production meetings, on the shop floor, in a cab or in a kitchen. Here is a final lone grasp at the elusive, abstract truth that is freedom. Jeremy spoke in class today. Jeremy spoke in class today.

Poor people will not bother. They stay in the clay in the graves of paupers or will squirm as their ash is squirted over some ugly rose bush in a "garden" of obscurity and forget. Rich people will fight death as long as they can afford to and then lose the battle quietly. They may go to the football stadium or penalty spot or mantelpieces or cupboards or into the sea. They may be laid out in a cardboard box and interred at the correct depth to have a tree grow from their stomach. One day that tree will be cut down. But those purple mountains call one and all in a strange way.

Ash stifles the growth, the healthy alpines starve, the grass dries and browns and petrifies, as all their roots fail, the ash chokes the life from them and they give up their grasp of the summit. Winds and frosts, snows and teaming rain, weak sun and blistered mist hack at this tired rock. Black rain has fallen. Your ash has brought about the end; your ash has cracked the strength of the peak, your years now gone are at the heart of this personal rot.

Scientists from the University of Bavarian Soil Design Team have (thanks to EU funding) established all that has ever been said on the matter (of all the above) is completely true and examples can be seen on 1177 European peaks and hilltops. Pope Gregory is of course to be thanked for all of this and the subsequent chanting in the corridor. Dead people's remains’s remaining on mountaintops is not sustainable. Bring your dead back down to earth, to their former battlefields and golf courses, to their back gardens and mausoleums, to their allotments and friendly carrot patches. To the pure all thought is pure, to the impure it is a lottery scratch card.

Some say that Jesus left earth from the Mount of Olives - but he was not made of any kind of ash at this time.

Cryogenics and the Antarctic call out as possible options or places, even just your DNA reflected in a mirror, someday could be regenerated into your actual DNA on this side of the mirror. If the mirror can be preserved and your DNA revitalised them perhaps we can make you into a small blob on a pilot dish. You will not be recognisable, your self-awareness will be very low and being ash on a mountain may seem very attractive but the processes are developing all the time. Come back and surprise your grand children in their own dotage. Think of how many times you could say, "I told your parents so.."

These are your precious atoms, divided and scattered like some lost tribe that has passed the pinnacle of it's civilisation and now runs afraid before the descent of a Dark Age.

No time for electricity or entropy or synergy: living in a modern life.
Not time for prematurity, for shadows or impurity: living in a modern life.
What's mine is mine is mine is mine, is mine is mine is mine is mine: living in a modern life.
Those ashes pass from peak to sea, the dust explores the atmosphere: living in a modern life.

Middle aged mind

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Go away, throw away

Go away; let’s just throw away.

Lookin’ after aging relatives

Wishin’ they’d take a little more of their sedatives

Making the mistake of holidaying down in Wales

But I'll be ok, I'll drink the local ale,

Being so far behind the times that you miss the January sales.

Feelin' less and less sympathy for dolphins and whales,

These are all, troubles of the middle aged mind

These are all, troubles of the middle aged mind.


Come back here, down to zero

Come back here, right down to some place close to zero.

Pin number fits right into the convenient slot

Bought some things, they’re in my trolley, not sure what I got,

Making the mistake of trying to make a plan,

Making the mistake of trying to understand,

Being in love, trying the best to be who I am.

These are all, troubles of the middle aged mind

These are all, troubles of the middle aged mind

If you think it’s funny, brother it's coming up, straight behind.


Credit card bills, just numbers on a page

Call the call centre, try to cap the rage

She’s on page three but can’t count up to the page

I’m livin’ life at that slightly awkward stage

These are the problems, this is middle age.

I’ve got no problems; I’m just middle aged.

May all your rats turn out to be voles

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May all your rats turn out to be voles

The detox week may be over but the effects go carry on. This Saturday I had about six cups of coffee and two glasses of wine during the day. The caffeine and alcohol rush made it impossible to sleep and impossible to think creatively. I found myself on the couch at one thirty in the morning flicking between Big Brother Live (tedious) and “A man called Horse” (annoying). I did eventually manage to sleep and decided to eat normally for all of today. The rest of the week has yet to happen.

Whilst trying to describe a road map of Switzerland this morning I could not remember the name of Jackson Pollock. I was trying to say that the map looked to me like one of his works, every other artists name (and a few authors were attempted) and we explored various theories about memory, recall and filing systems. I tried to think myself back to our visit to MOMA in New York to hook onto something but nothing came, then after half an hour and whilst frying two eggs the name popped back into by head. How the hell does that happen?

Every so often you come up against people who have never heard of Salvador Dali, or the House of Commons or existentialism or something. What makes them tick? Then I think how little I know about mathematics or soap operas or rugby and I realise none of it matters.

Today we cut the hedge (8 feet high x 100 feet long), it took two hours. After ten minutes we both realised how unfit we were and also what a devilish instrument a hedge trimmer can be. Ali cut the sides whilst I cut the top and also the part adjacent to the field. The field was of course a quagmire into which the stepladder and I sank numerous times. During the process we found one birds nest and a dead rat, which we decided on a politically correct basis to describe as a vole. “How do you think it died?” asked Ali, it seemed likely the cat had had a paw in it’s demise but we will of course never know. It started me thinking about Ratty in “Wind in the Willows” and how pleasant and friendly he seemed and of course the similarly named Ratty in “Tales of the Riverbank” (Jonny Morris voice over). Both these rats were champions for the rat cause but are not really associated with the more unpleasant sides of rat habits. We agreed that these rats were of course cleverly disguised voles; Mole and Vole would never have worked well as a named partnership nor been so popular so Ratty was not doubt born as result.

After the arm crushing hedge trimming we went out for a cycle, after half a mile and with only half the right amount of air in both my tyres and lungs we stopped. We did see either a grouse or a sparrow hawk (middle aged sight cannot be relied upon) and three deer that were very close by but over the wall in the deer park itself. We struggled back home, cycling up the muddy hill and collapsing onto the couch for lunch and an hour’s recovery coma.

On the creative side we’ve written two new songs from scratch this week; “Time of your life” and “Modern life” (maybe too much of a life thing going on there). Whatever it means we’re on target to demo a mixture on brand new and older songs prior to our next recording venture in Germany with Martin at the end of March. Good progress.

Original lyrics are not easy to write but we soldier on, anyway - but imagine if Frank Zappa had invented the George Foreman Grill it could have been the Frank Zappa Fat Zapper.