Working Lunch

impossible songs

impossible songs

Secret Eye

Once again I met with the Secret Eye in a small Chinese restaurant in the port of Rosyth. Thankfully the rain had stopped. At first I listened intently to his opening tales, there was light and there was new colour, but as lunch progressed they became increasingly far fetched and my interest waned. My attention span has never been particularly strong – as I’m sure you must know. I munched through Crispy Wan Tan as he began to bore me with details I didn’t need to hear, I trawled the fork around the dry plate of my main course, (Red-neck of chicken) and felt myself stumble into one fuzzy day dream after another. It was becoming a long meal.

Finally when we reached the banana fritter stage, the Secret Eye began to share with me some of his more relevant and up to date information. He had inside knowledge (he believed), he said he had contacts, he had capability and he had taken notes. His jigsaw puzzle description fell from its open box and was scattered across the patterned table cloth. I recognised many of the pieces and though I had not seen them for a long time I could still make sense of their shapes and place them accurately together. The Secret Eye said, “This is what I have seen, you have it and now my work is over, what you do now with these pieces is your affair.” I thanked the Secret Eye and passed across the customary forty pieces of silver, a fair wage for a job well done. “So what do you plan to do next?” he asked me. I just laughed and took a sip from my orange juice. “There is no next, there are no actions to take, these puzzle pieces don’t belong here with me or with you,” I said. “Take your money and spend it for the good of your lifestyle, then take your information and hide it away forever, like dogs bury bones and postmen lose letters. Think of how climbers hang from ropes and petals float and how the woodpecker feeds from the tree bark. Swing a little in some warm summer breeze and relax about life.”

As we rose from the table and settled the bill an ambulance sped past on the road outside. Its siren was blaring and its blue lights were flashing. “We don’t know who is in there,” said the Secret Eye. I looked at him directly and whispered, “I know, but you need not worry, for it is just another lost angel that you can never now know”.

We love the BBC

impossible songs

impossible songs

BBC v OOTB

I arrived late at Out of the Bedroom (in the cellar of the Cannons’ Gait Bar, Edinburgh) on Thursday night to find sweetly organised musical chaos taking place. The BBC were filming three “sponsored” musicians for a slot in a new BBC2 Gaelic arts show due to be screened in the new year. Of course the very scent of a TV camera crew had produced numerous wanabees and OOTB strangers all hoping for their five minutes of fame. In many ways it was interesting to consider all of the OOTB regulars (and supporters) who didn’t show on the night compared to those who did. Anyway the place was heaving and all available open mike slots were unusually swallowed up by about 7.30. From what I saw and later heard about, a few good performances did take place despite the evil eye of the camera. Some lucky people were also interviewed by the TV crew. Of course there were highs and lows and mild terminal boredom at times but certainly it was all worth while. It was curious also to see how some optimistic and naive individuals had equated the presence of a camera crew with the opportunity to “do an X Factor”, imagine thinking the Beeb would film a whole night at OOTB and then screen it? I’m pretty sure that when the show gets an airing OOTB will only really feature in a small fraction. Anyway Ali and I took some belated satisfaction from selling the BBC producer four CDs. I’m just thinking that the next time the numbers are a little down how effective it would be to start a “the BBC’ll be in again on Thursday” rumour.

Clear air turbulance

impossible songs

impossible songs

Air travel is really ok most of the time.

Things – performance issues that you don’t know about or understand the details of, in aircraft handling shouldn’t really worry you (or you shouldn’t let them worry you).
The old airbus doesn’t perform so well going into a 45 knot wind, or does it? Thursday evening coming into Edinburgh courtesy of Easyjet was bumpy to say the least. I suppose you could certainly argue that if it doesn’t crash and you land in one piece at the correct airport then it’s a pretty good aeroplane. I think, that I’ll decide that it is a good aeroplane and that despite having had a slightly awkward flight based on this experience I’ll not worry the next time I’m in one. It is no doubt a lot better than an Islander, a BAC111 (ah memories), a Dash or one of the early 737s. Then of course there was the Tri-Star with that enormous engine in the tail and the weird “condensation” problem inside.

Never better.

Getting older and losing energy, anybody up for that? Older isn’t better but it is tolerable, less things fit into the time he way they used to and reactions and processes no longer flash across and spark as they once did, and I tend to forget things. But losing energy? Well yes and no. Time flies by and there are always things to do to fill it even the smallest gap. When was there ever a slow time? Was there ever decent thinking time? Probably not, so much of my perception of things now is a confused mixture of illusional and delusional blurred by my need to keeping up contacts and the spinning of the plates. Anyway after a few glasses of wine and weighing up the pros and cons the truth is; things were never better.

Henley and the Beatles

impossible songs

impossible songs

Get your Bentley down to Henley.

I spent most of last week at the Henley Business College being wined and dined by a rather large UK contractor and “reflecting” on a number of issues and challenges (so the usual kind of training course things prevailed!). Once I’d recovered from my luggage getting lost in Heathrow (Mo had it somewhere under Carousel 5 for about 45 minutes apparently) and a fevered and frantic drive along the M4 to Henley, everything settled down nicely and I had quite a good time. The highlight of the week (apart from the Celtic game viewed on the college cinema screen) was a booze cruise up the Thames, in the dark and at times in differing sizes of circles - followed by despatching a crate of wine in the college bar. They also have the best ever coffee machines there and a riverside location to die for. Education? Well just ask me about the adventures of Trafalgar House, BP or Budweiser.

The Beatles are back on my stereo.

Yesterday we (the kids and I) headed up to McDuff for my grandson’s birthday party – something I never dreamt could be so much fun or so rewarding. On the way up we stopped at Tesco in Dundee and I bought a copy of the “new” Beatles CD “Love”. Only once I’d popped it into the car stereo did I realise that in all my 52 years I’d never bought a single Beatles record, tape or CD. Now I’ve always loved the Beatle’s music, God knows I grew up with them and like most of my generation was shocked, embarrassed, confused, in love and blown away by so many of their activities that not having bought any of their material seems like a huge sin and omission. Looking back I must have been the one buying Cream or Jimi Hendrix records and then swopping them on for furtive and prolonged listens to Abbey Road or Sergeant Pepper. Anyway “Love” is an interesting mix of familiar tracks, a soundscape based on a Las Vegas circus show, remixed and at times bled together with samples from their best songs. Strangely it’s Ringo’s drums that in my opinion come out best as they pound through every track. Of course the songs are far beyond criticism or comment other than to say that the George Harrison material stands up pretty well against those other two song writing powerhouses. Funny how time slips way... and a pity they didn’t remix in a little more of the second side of Abbey Road.

Podcast explanations

impossible songs podcast

Podcast

The Gcast Podcast currently playing on this page (and also on the Fairytale Management Blog and on Impossible Songs Garageband page) is made up as follows:

Hunter (Remix) - from the “Roughboys” CD. “Yes! This (Hunter) is like Belle and Sebastian with a Casio keyboard - that’s a good thing because I love Belle and Sebastian and I love Casio keyboards, nice melody, nice voice. I love the simplicity - so not overwhelming in any way. I think this is a well crafted tune and kicks a bit of ass. – sergius gregory from Homer, Alaska on 30 Oct2006” Well this how Gregory reviewed the track a few weeks ago, one thing’s for sure there is no Casio keyboard anywhere on it, to my knowledge but I’m glad he liked the track.

Let’s make Pearls - from “Scapes”. Described as “sublime alt-pop reminiscent of Electrum” by Podcaster Threefromleith. Who am I to argue?

Butterfly on the Moon - From "Hearburst", the song and title are really nothing to do with one another, it was just a great title to use (we thought). I love Ali's double tracked vocals and the whispy guitar.

White and Red (Remix) - from the “Roughboys CD”. The raspy, underlying guitar sound in the middle passages was my desperate attempt to copy Jimmy Page’s sound used on the album “Houses...”.

Bite the Baby - a bonus track from “Sneakin’ out”. The tune (?) came about from my kids and I making up a song about a Nintendo game we used to play regularly, strangely this song is currently our second best selling download!

On Nonsense - instrumental guitar stramash from “Social Enterprise”. Two separate tracks mixed together for no particular reason. Kind of an ongoing riff on “Whole Lotta Love”.

Silence – remix of a never properly released track firstly done on “Early Eurosongs” and then in this form on “Sneakin’ out”. Recorded only on DAT tape and in a hurry one Sunday afternoon in Germany. A heavier guitar was added and remastering done about a year later.

Nobody Jones – original mix from “Border Crossing”. This song gestated for about two years before we finished it and recorded it, then it got remixed, voices were added, extra guitars and synths were added and so it was lengthened by about a minute and was finally put out on “Roughboys”. Nobody Jones is a brilliant singer/songwriter currently living and performing in Edinburgh, the song is nothing to do with him; it was just that the name scanned in really well.

East of Z – East African and exotic sounding track from “Social Enterprise”.

Tokyo Skyline – from the CD “Heartburst”. Occasionally blamed on the film “Lost in Translation” but to be honest I can’t remember what came first, I think the song may have been Pittenweem or Baltimore Skyline at some point.

All songs are Barclay/Hutton compositions for Impossible Songs; production is mostly the work of Martin Freitag except when the Roughboys get involved. Martin also plays bass and has done most of the drum programmes. Siggi Richter is also in there on keyboards. Ali Hutton of course provides the main vocals and most of the lyrics; John Barclay plays a variety of guitars and twiddles with sliders and buttons on the desk. Impossible Songs’ use Cubase software and Zoom equipment to record and mix and from time to time I contribute a pot of home made vegetable soup and Ali arranges flowers. There is something quite soothing and reassuring at times in the way we choose to exhibit our muso, stereotypical patterns of behaviour.

All your secrets

impossible songs

impossible songs

All your secrets are out there, you just don’t know about it yet, like the flowers in a Gypsy garden, like a tree hanging over your sleepy head, like a shadow hiding in a corner. All so unguarded and unremembered. Secrets that float and talk, that takes no encouragement. Grave and static, hollow and dangerous, creeping in and around the edges. Wherever you live you are seen when you think you are unseen and followed when you think the road is clear. Lights shine in your rear view mirror, occupants grow uneasy, and somebody sits on your back bumper for miles and then is gone, quickly. A phone rings in a room and then stops as you pick it up, a curtain wafts in the breeze, a door closes by itself, a dog barks. Where did the lipstick on the coffee cup rim come from? How is that paper in the bin? Where is the loose change I put down on the table? Who sent that letter? Where am I really going? All your secrets are out there, fighting for a place and fighting for space in a drowned pool. You think you are a hunter, but then you are hunted, you think you are on top of things but then you find yourself far behind the pack. Wolves and sheep meet and hold long conversations, sticks and stones build structures, names are written on walls in graffiti islands and public ruins. Posters are torn down or plastered over boarded up windows. Decay is structural and steady; truth is at the end of a tunnel that you never can reach. All your secrets are out there, all your secrets are mine...for I saw them first.

A few days

impossible songs

impossible songs

Thursday

The never ending busy-ness continues with no breather for Ali or poor old me. Tonight it’s a quick trip into OOTB to view the new fold back on the PA and see the latest additions to the Cannons’ Gait furnishings. Then via the back streets of Edinburgh up to the Baby Tiger Night at the Café Royal, where we play a half hour set through their frankly magnificent PA. Also on the bill are Lindsay Sugden and friends, Son of Thom and the Elegy. It’s a pretty good night all round and CDs are exchanged; our set is a mixture of the flawed and the perfect, whilst everyone else concentrates on cellos and tuneful guitar thumping. Thanks to Baby Tiger for putting the night on anyway.

Friday

A day at work and then recovering at home and with a full house, football practice, various neds on Buckie, visit a grandchild (and a son and daughter in law), discuss Ice Age II, eat a quick pizza, make exotic toasties, struggle with the automated tills in ASDA, “Have I got news” etc..Nice to get a few hours sleep.

Saturday

Lazy sleep in at last, stay in all morning and make detailed observations on a great deal of rain, some serious chat around family business, a sick cat at the vets, then in the evening visiting some very old friends in Fife. The kids say theirs is the best home made pizza in the world, tiddlywinks, bathing a baby and getting home late. Some time spent thinking about the various consequences of loads of things and a few glasses of red wine to finish the day. Try to ignore the football results.

Sunday

Bacon rolls and straight out the door and across the bridge for full on football action in not so sunny Inverkeithing. We win 3 – 2 and my boy gets number two and lays on number three. It doesn’t get better than this even if the weather is crap. Then up to the holiday cottage for a little pond forking i.e. draining the pond without falling in, whilst Ali Hoovers. The artful pond forking does seem to work though only time will tell – wait till the levels drop. The cottage’s heating isn’t working however and so despite numerous attempts at programming and cajoling the system we just give up and depart for West Lothian and a cosy stir fry (no lunch today), (Ali and I also lift the lounge carpet and leave it there). Last gasp at the OOTB accounts – we know now where we stand: Singer/songwriters in Edinburgh – we stand with you - I think! What next? A spot of extreme ironing maybe or do I try on my tux in readiness for the 007 film premiere we’re heading for on Thursday? Can't wait!

Big Time

impossible songs

impossible songs

The wedding presents we didn’t get,
The passage of thought but I still forget,
The practiced pain and the false regret.
Here is the place where time slips away.

The fish hook eyes and the pointed stare,
The glimpse or touch of your underwear,
The cement and concrete tyre track trail,
This is a place where time slipped away.

A casual glance and the journey south,
The twist in my smile, the curve of your mouth,
The splash of water to end the drought,
There in that place where time slipped away.

This is place where time slipped away,
And we’re living here still, even today,
You can visit us here but you can’t stay,
In the precious place where time slipped away.

Kids with guns

impossible songs

impossible songs

Call of the mild.

Getting too cold for my liking, we now are experiencing the two duvet and one cat nights, how long will this go on for? Experts seem to think that a prolonged cold spell (known as winter in some parts of the world) is about to break forth on us. It appears that as the Gulf Stream decays out in the North Atlantic we are no longer protected from the icy, deep water currents that prevail, or come from the North Polo (or Pole as National Geographic might put it). These big black deepwater beasts are going to cause our heating costs to soar and give us a few miserable weeks leading up to the early days of 2007. Already a white icy substance has been forming on my car windscreen every morning. No matter what I try or how often I run and rev the engine it’s back the next morning. To make matters worse I’ve just heard that all fish will die when I am 102. This means I can’t even look forward to a decent fish supper high tea for my birthday treat. The only good news seems to be that if you eat and drink like a Frenchman (or woman) your overall health will improve or at least stabilise. Hopefully it won’t go as far as having to learn the language properly. God bless the Auld Alliance I say and pass me another bottle of Tesco’s finest red plonk.

Privacy.

Some people want privacy and peace and enjoy building big walls around themselves, while others spend hours on the web, writing books, filming films or just blethering about everything they’ve said, done, eaten or thought about. Now the curse of the common touch of progress has blown into that utterly pointless, tacky dwelling somewhere in Edinburgh known as Bute House, as if any of us cared.


We are all bankrupt.

Well at least we had some fun spending it, though we’ve no idea what we spent it on. Perhaps a few nice lunches, some shoes that didn’t quite fit, a crap CD or DVD, a new exhaust from Kwik-fit, some golf lessons or a weekend in Paris. Money just goes, money doesn’t talk, it swears and now more Scots than ever are broke and probably staring into wardrobes full of shirts or dresses they don’t really like the look of. At least the Clydesdale Bank, HBOS and RBS are doing alright as are the acres of shopping big sheds and malls that munch on the carcasses of once vibrant towns. Whatever the plight of the chattering classes, financial bankruptcy isn’t the worst kind of debt to be in. It’s when you lose your soul you’ve got the real problems and there is no helpline in the Indian sub-continent or a bureau or a website that can get that back for you – it’s other people you have to look to then.

Cocaine.

The drug of choice for the rich and famous that has left a bloody and despairing legacy in Columbia. Every year the FARC Marxists guerrilla group earns about £2 billion from the trade while snooty white kids snort it through £20 notes in the hope that they’ll get high and get feted and glamorised like Kate Moss or some other pretty air-head. I’d imagine that these good people make sure they drink fair trade coffee, eat dolphin free tuna, use eco friendly detergents and want to “make poverty history”. It’s a shame they don’t get the connection between their cocaine and the misery meted out to the peasants of South America who survive by growing the stuff while looking down the barrel of an AK47.

Win Zippy

impossible zippy songs

impossible songs

Win Zippy

A whirlwind visit to McDuff and Aberdeen to check on the grown up children and their progress. I received a late bottle of a Glenfiddich liqueur and a DVD of the Da Vinci Code and the unexpected removal of the rear part of the car’s exhaust to add to the fun of a few days out. In a northern mix of rain and sun we braved Codona’s funfair by the beach in Aberdeen and were somewhere between being fleeced and rewarded by the various attractions and arcades. Grabbing a gift from those “crane” machines is a popular family obsession (on the last visit we salvaged two large cuddly Disney toys); this time it was just one, but a giant Zippy no less. I dread to think of what its actual cost to us must have been but who cares?

We were just finishing lunching on mince, skirlie and salad (this is Aberdeen!) and listening to a Freddy Mercury impersonator doing his sound check whilst the football results rolled up on Sky sports. Then we wandered over to the arcade where the kids were still pummelling the “crane” thing just in time to see a giant Zippy hover across the booth and into the hopper that was set to give him freedom. A great and rare moment to savour after two hours of struggling with these crap machines – much cheering and air punching followed.

After three glasses of wine, some fajitas, chocolate and Glenfiddich the Da Vinci Code doesn’t seem so bad a movie, apart from the last quarter and the whole ridiculous Roslin guardian thing. It’s very hard not to think of the retail park, Costco, Ikea and all the Swedish meatballs and Chelsea Tractors just a few minutes away from one of Mary Magdalene’s temporary resting places. One piece (?) of Scottish history they’ve managed to miss out of the vague and patchy Scottish curriculum, next year perhaps? After all history is “just one thing after another” and who really knows what happened when?

Three pumpkins

impossible songs

impossible songs

Three pumpkins and a mild furore.

Hovis and Oblivion are the names of these two fine, slowly rotting seasonal creations carved out from the best of Tesco pumpkins. The third is in McDuff on top of a fridge and frightening any small children that venture too close. Cutting open these pointless vegetables or fruits or whatever they are has now become an annual event for me and I am an expert – commissions welcome.

Random weekend...

impossible songs

impossible songs


Random weekend jottings:

Photo above: Many hands make large non-fat delicious fruity pudding disappear. The hands in question belong to Ali, Tommy and most importantly Caroline (who made the pudding). I held back for all of ten seconds before piling in for my slice.

Who knows the history of and the correct words to the “Worm Song” (Nobody likes me, everybody hates me etc.)? The problem is what form of lyrical magic should come next, “I think I’ll go and eat some worms” or “Because I like to eat worms”. The debate is raging on, answers on a postcard please.

Freuchie is a small village in Fife. I spent the morning after my birthday walking around it taking photographs for the ASC website. Sunny, open and clean with the radio masts of East and West Lomond looking down upon the bright Eden valley below. One thing that spoils Freuchie is the inappropriate garish street furniture everywhere; signs, instructions and large yellow painted tracts of roadway representing the worst parts of traffic management. Every where you look some piece of heavy duty signage reminds you that you should be obeying some trivial rule. There must be better ways to get traffic control messages across than this and keep wee villages looking cute.

I wandered back to the new holiday cottage where deep conversations about building works and alterations were taking place. I avoided these and watched a solitary robin as he skipped and skidded across the patio slabs in the hazy sunshine. I enjoyed the peace and sensible planting of the back garden for a few moments and then returned to help with the measuring up. I also watched a horse peeing in the field across the road, unbelievable how much urine a small horse can produce. I thought for a moment that it could be the equine equivalent of blogging.

Lunch on Saturday was Pittenweem Haddock and a pint of Belhaven upstairs in the local pub (avoiding Sky Sports in the bar below) 100 yards from the house. The haddock was nice enough but I doubt it ever saw Pittenweem or ever spoke with an East Fife twang, the fishing industry in Fife is no longer what it once was.

We watched Mettalica’s “Some kind of monster” on TV during the week. I’d just come in after a long day spent down in Birmingham and it seemed like perfect couch fodder television. Turned out it was fun, excruciating and fascinating and for Ali an unexpected feast of metal, one of her early musical loves (?). The statistics on Metallica’s sales and life style excesses are mind boggling and their behaviour is incomprehensible but it all hangs together somehow and they survive. Makes me wish I’d tried a bit harder at playing those tight E minor riffs when I was a teenager.

Quote of the week (?) from “My Name Was Judas” by CK Stead:

“Our friend was not the Messiah, nor will there be one, this is the truth I write, it will not hurt you, grasp it.”

Buy a CD, watch a video

New CD - out right now - click cover to hear samples and buy.

impossible songs

Video produced and shot by Confushion: Music by Impossible Songs.

Saturday

impossible songs

impossible songs

Saturday morning diary.

No discernable hangover but a fuzzy head.
Watching re-runs of Scrubs on TV
Finding disgorged mouse stomachs on the paving slabs
Elvis at the Last Supper, beside whom would he sit?
Where to go for the rest of the day.
The shittiest thing that ever happened to me.
Having a shave in the shower and realising how much of your face you’ve missed when you come out.
Sitting up on the worktops
A sausage and fried egg bap with brown sauce.
Where does morning dew come from and how come it lasts all day?
Wearing an old T shirt.
Walking along the corridor singing Peter Gabriel songs.
A long conversation about autism.
Flaky broadband not working.
Trying not to eat the remains of last night’s popcorn.
Having an idea for a song and then forgetting it.
Deciding to go out for Saturday lunch, but where to go?
Deciding not to go to a Japanese Supermarket even if it may help the kids do their homework project.
Changing the bed sheets.
Sitting outside in the frail October sun.
Being 50 years and 51 weeks old, well almost.
Suddenly having something that may turn out to be the beginning of a retirement plan.
Going to the bottle bank yesterday and taking the bags out of the car today.
Interesting new Gnarls Barkley video.
Finding a lottery ticket in my pocket.
Coffee, tea, Coffee, tea, Coffee, tea, Coffee, tea, etc.
Thinking about another busy week ahead.
Thinking why are certain things sexy and certain other things not.
Why have I got spots this week?
I’m looking forward to something but I don’t quite know what it is yet.
Appliances making odd clicking noises and water pipes gurgling.
Being unable to get away from the couch.
Grenadine, Sprite and cherry cocktails.
Lunch at the SQ Bistro, baked potato, haggis and cheese. Weird but tasty.
£30 parking fine in South Queensferry High Street. Bugger.
Home and straight into the garden.

City of Bamboo

impossible songs

City of Bamboo - modern myth, modern fable, tea cloth underneath the table, never here, never able...

In the City of Bamboo
We sit cross legged and we watch you
We study all the things you do
All the stupid things you do
It seems you hardly have a clue
In this City of Bamboo

We are free but we are slaves
We stay excited and are brave
We’re resentful and engaged
As we seek the prefect wave
To try to be as good as you
In this City of Bamboo

The girl will cook a prefect meal
The doctor asks “how do you feel?”
The peasants offer jellied eel
The rushing rodents make you squeal
You just do what you have to do
In this City of Bamboo

The banker’s coins they shine like art
The actor plays his vital part
The priest and prostitute must part
That damp ignition will not start
I cannot leave and nor can you
In this City of Bamboo.



new video

Sugar Moon

impossible songs

impossible songs

Sugar Moon

Never mind the conspiracy theories about space travel and lunar landings and all the rest, none of that matters anymore. Space is out there and we all know that in time we will all be “out there” also – even it it’s as cremated ash particles. So I like to speculate every so often on what may be beyond earth and I currently like to think that the moon’s surface is made of sugar. Sugar burnt black and brown, syrupy at the edges, oozing and congealing as it basks in the rays of our sun shining down through the non-existent atmosphere. And right there below the surface are a number of warm, soft baked pears. Sounds ok and feasible to me, so remember when you next visit the moon, bring a spoon and a carton of fresh cream.

Video

A fun afternoon was spent at the Confushion household filming a version of the song “Not Pretty”. Ali and I now feel sure we can get Equity cards on the basis of our fine, spontaneous and largely unscripted performances, maybe a Brit, a Bafta or an Oscar awaits? Of course full credit must go the direction and production skills of Fraser and Karen as we stretched them to their limits with our petulant artistic demands, strops and a series of unreasonable requests. A quick dish of Fraser’s curry soon calmed us down and filming resumed with Ali digging her very red fingernails into me and my trousers getting soaked by a brace of water cannons. These deadly weapons were aimed and fired by some innocent children coerced into participation by the aggressive production team and Ali in particular. The drive back to East Lothian (in wet pants) was reminiscent of sitting uncomfortably in a moving steam bath, a thing I seem to have done many times in nightmares. Ali however slept soundly all the way home, purring like a well fed cat. We eagerly await the final, polished and edited version of the vid.

Go Forth and Tunnel

It’s a Forth tunnel we need, not another bridge. Locally fabricated in Rosyth, sunk in the estuary, pumped dry and filled with a roadway. There are lots of suitable sites in the South Queensferry and Rosyth areas. Bring your shovels next weekend and we’ll do some test digging, or if you have about £50million to spare then give me a call. It’ll be money well spent as (once the powers that be decide what to do) a new bridge will be at least £1.5 billion and the project may become even more embarrassing than the sad saga of the Parliament Building.

Good Life

impossible songs

impossible songs

The Good Life

The good life is paid for with the pure gold of guilt.
There really isn’t anything quite like it.
Its deep to the bottom, it’s tall to the top,
And nobody knows when the guilt will stop.

God given and demonstrated, remonstrated, white, Anglo Saxon or Scottish Presbyterian guilt. Mined in the highlands from water soft streams and springs, a Celtic mist of unrequited dreams, black Bibles and Hymn books and sermons on the dysfunctional dismount. Every bloody word and breath made to count. Something surrounding, spinning and dancing, like brave waves breaking, though that isn’t actually happening. It’s a ritual for the observer, a practice for the participant, some masturbation for the sycophant, a dash of mysticism, controlled and crippled in the shining candles and silver cups – all with wine and biscuits.

Guilty over money, guilty over sex, guilty in relationships, guilty about your ex, guilty about perversion, stealing, lying, not properly trying, standing still while inside dying.

Guilty about telling the truth, the shame of exposure and worst still losing your highly valued composure.

Family quilt, family guilt, do what thou wilt, do without guilt, do what thou quilt.

Standing naked before this made up God, imagined in some other mind, yet transferred so effectively over to mine.

Guilty if I deny Him (him), guilty for my unbelief but sick to the back teeth of this piss poor heritage, that sits me at this edge, pulls my loyalty to it’s limit for all the sins I failed so miserably to commit but am credited with.

Here alone, like a bad criminal, every guilty thought a taken prisoner of the subliminal:

God & Guilt.

Walking on egg shells in climbing boots.
Pulling hairs out by their roots.
The roots are deep in generation’s worth of ignorance, twisted.
Here come the black suits to keep you black listed.
Anger to pile on the guilt and squeezed,
Into the hardest bullet ball you could ever believe.
Never fire that bullet.

Jews, Hebrews, Muslims, Buddhists, Scientologists, Amish, Palestinians, Pictish, Catholic, fanatic, frantics, charismatics, statics, caravans and 4x4s, Solidarity Party, Buckfast smashed by the off-licence doors.

Bad Batch

impossible songs - faced with a bad batch...

impossible songs


Bad Batch Engineering

The drain hose on our dishwasher has a pin hole in it, we found it today, and it’s been leaking for months and has created a black, damp morass under the kitchen floor. Just what you like to discover on a Sunday afternoon after a few glasses of wine. I tried to phone the warranty company but they close at 1500 on Sunday (fair enough, try tomorrow). When the engineer arrives at either AM or PM some day next week I fully expect him to say “Ah! There was a bad batch of these hoses issued, you’ve been unlucky...” A few months ago when our oil tank leaked, (yes, we live in the sticks many miles away from the Russian gas fields so we only have oil and running water here), guess what? Our leaky tank came from a “bad batch” that somehow made their way into public use. Any “bad batch” 737s out there, or Space Shuttles or Coca-Cola or Aspirin? Beware folks, remember that quality systems, (you know, the things that numerous consultants are making big bucks from all year long), don’t always give you good quality, just consistently similar crap.

Jesus Camp

Somewhere in the buckle of the Bible belt the Army of God is stirring up it’s youngest and most easily controlled recruits, far away you may say, but it could still happen here yet. Camp out, figure out, work out and space out for George Bush, the right to carry arms and Jesus. Religious geeks wherever you are, stay busy brainwashing the 10 year old kids about “two kinds of people in the world, those who love Jesus and those who don’t”. And so the question is what do you want to do to those who don’t actually follow Jesus: Love them? Help them? Feed them? Do good Christian stuff as per the beatitudes? Be constructive in any kind of way? Hell no, let’s just burn the heathen masses out like the “good guys” did in the Old Testament, like the Israelis did last month when they left a million thirty year old cluster bombs in the villages of Lebanon. That’s God’s chosen people I’m talking about by the way, that’s how they treat their neighbours who don’t follow their God.

It never fails to amaze me how blinkered and intolerant people can be when they adopt fundamentalist beliefs of whatever kind. It’s a slippery slope, best stay away if you know what’s good for you. “White and red, black and blue, trying hard not to be like you”.

Ok enough ranting for one day.

Breathing out your soul.

Breathing out your soul,
In invisible smoke,
The chemical demons,
Explore the emotions,
Explore some kind of consciousness,
Export the emptiness,
So you may set sail,
Make a ghostly thing whole,
Breathing out your soul.