Failed frog trees

impossible songs

impossible songs

A home for failed Christmas trees.

The piece of woodland next door is full of failed Christmas trees, cursed by being unsuited to a fickle and frankly stupid marketplace. These poor creatures were planted with the Christmas sales rush in mind, sometime around 1998. Sadly the soil they were planted into was too good; they thrived and grew quickly and a little more vigorously than their planters had planned. They missed their window of opportunity and now border our garden with their long spindly trunks and inelegant branches, like a group of teenagers who have outgrown their latest trainers and tracksuits and can’t quite afford a taxi to JJB to buy the latest Nike or Kappa crap. Each one the wrong size, look and shape for your Persimmon semi, your Bett Brothers bungalow or your Wimpy footballer’s wife-style mansion. They have walked the green mile and survived and now reach for the sky in this forgotten corner of West-Lothian where, for us and them, everyday is Christmas, whatever that means. Nice be a little bit of a misfit sometimes – it might just save your life.

Close the frog gates.

The annual plague of frogs of Biblical proportions has descended upon the Hopetoun area. The drive from the main road to our house has been transformed into a perilous journey (for them) as by headlight and white stick you try to avoid these lost, dazed and confused amphibians. The asphalt surface is a foreign land to frogs and they get rather afraid and freeze in the presence of a speeding car. I counted about 18 last night and stopped/crawled as many times in order to avoid creating carnage on these country roads. I propose that frog gates are set up and diligently closed at dusk and opened at dawn to allow the frogs safe passage between the many ponds and streams around here that make up their breeding grounds and natural habitat. Some rabbit gates and some pheasant gates might be useful also as none of them have even the smallest amount of road sense. You’d think they’d learn by now, what do evolutionists make of this kind of behavior? (Roadkill I guess - they all taste like chicken.)

Stairway to Friedrichsafen

impossible songs

impossible songs

Stairway to Friedrichsafen

Martin Freitag complete with what appears to be a hand crafted hybrid Fender Precision bass and Fender Stratocaster. I suspect that Martin, an ingenious and clever engineer and a university professor designed and built this crazy looking beast himself. Martin’s band Mobil will no doubt feature this instrument in their next set of live gigs somewhere in deepest Germany. Martin is of course our regular producer, bass player and drum programmer as well as a host of other things – he’s helped keep impossible songs working smoothly over the last five years and also allowed Ali to indulge in her passion for flipcharts. I’m not sure about the specification of the instrument, I imagine that there will be some synthesizer bits installed in the body and that the electric guitar half will only ever come with four strings – they do things very differently in Germany.

The other thing with a double neck is the weight of the thing; you need a strap the width of the M6 to be comfortable at all, no wonder a wee guy like Jimmy Page could only ever do three live songs at a time with his Gibson 6 /12. I recall that the two guys from Hot Tuna (an off-shoot from Jefferson Airplane), Jack Cassidy and Jorma Kaukomen had problems with them. Jorma had a Les Paul/Strat double neck and Jack had a Gibson/Fender bass, a course of steroids, push ups and personal training in pumping iron is mandatory.

Any Dram will do.

Sadly I won’t be entering the “Dream” competition, I’m thinking about the dram one however.

Pooh Sticks

Had a great game of Pooh sticks today on a sunny road way down by Hopetoun sawmill. We found the perfect bridge, stream and height combination and loads of useful raw materials to turn into racing devices. Sticks, dried weed stems, pine cones, bits of wood – ok I know it’s juvenile don’t want to grow up this week.

Short return post

impossible songs






impossible songs

From West Lothian to Japan

The move is over and we are (almost) settled. The house is warming and responding to our TLC, we hosed down the front of it today, rebuilt the trampoline and hacked away some of the jungle and the sun shone as we ate lunch outside. The broadband has also stammered back into life and we are reconnecting with the wider world. As an example tonight I discovered that we were played on a Japanese podcast a few hours ago. Funnily enough they played the track “Tokyo Skyline” from the “Heartburst” CD. I thought it came across well in what is basically a 50 minute “letter from Japan” radio show in the great broadcasting tradition of Alistair Cooke. The show is called Japantalk but is broadcast in American/English, nice to get a mention there so thanks…

Easy Japantalk link: http://music.podshow.com/music/listeners/podshow_details.php?ShowHash=7cc791c6ec03cba601b7a5416a2dacce

(I think we appear at about 26 minutes into the programme.)

Door the Billy.

Just like “My name is Earl” I now have a list though I’m not trying to straighten out my Karma or be a better person – I’m trying to door the Billy (IKEA parlance), fit the cabinet, hang the picture, paint the floor, cut the grass etc. Of course Ali is painting, sorting and planning feverishly at the same time. We are slowing winning.

White Room

impossible songs


impossible songs

White Room.

Flat is the bottom and white are the walls and ladders are not to be tripped over even by accident. We inspect the new billet for signs of infestation, heel marks, slips and slides and drastic battle damage. The garden (in place quite correctly) is not visible unless you stare out from a large or tiny window or care to step outside.

Goodbye/farewell.

Only a few short hours till we move, only a few hours before the broadband is disconnected and we are plunged into the abyss of disconnect in a strange house ?? miles away from the nearest telephone exchange. Our fate is therefore in the hands of “local circumstances, weather, pestilence, crows on cables and connection distances prevailing”. We may never blog, upload, download, browse or shop again. Then again we may find that a brave new supersonic highway runs along the shores of the silvery River Forth and we can hitch a long and a smooth ride upon it – is it possible, do such good things happen in a cruel world? How can God be bothered to listen to one hundred million Chinese mobile phone conversations every day, watch George Bush and his minders and read all our thoughts simultaneously and still keep the universe in its imperfect balance? Hasn’t he got better things to do with his time and will it rain over the moving weekend? Too many questions and too few answers. Thank you all for your collective indifference and whatever else, see you in the future.

The Castle has been found

impossible songs - Abercrn Castle, midhope

impossible songs

Big old castle: After living here for almost two years we’ve just discovered that the huge bulk of Abercorn Castle is on our doorstep. Proof of how effective castle design can be if you want to avoid annoying neighbours and invading armies.

Thursday.

An evening spent reviewing at OOTB. It turned out to be a full and varied show and the place was busy all night. I was pleased to see four new female acts debuting (possibly some kind of first for OOTB) and they were all stylishly different and pretty interesting. We ride an odd curve in OOTB, a few months ago when it was quieter we were considering dropping back to a twice a month thing and now it’s just about impossible to get a slot unless you turn up really early and new faces are appearing every week. That’s show business.

Friday.

More boxing and packing and sorting. Becoming bored I was starting to play a game of secret box subversion. The idea being to include incorrect items in a labelled box i.e. a bongo drum in the bathroom box and so on. I was caught on the first box.

Saturday.

An Italian meal (that was fine for me but not so good for Ali) surrounded by jubilant Irish rugby fans and then to the Usher Hall for the Garfunkel concert. He was very good, still possessing that unworldly and at times scary voice, no hint of the aging process cracking the ethereal veneer. The material was as good as you can ever get, all the old songs and a few standards thrown in for good measure, a nice change from rock and blues and delusional singer songwriters.

Sunday.

Several small furry creatures revisited: I was cleaning out the garage and came upon a rats nest in amongst some cardboard boxes that I was about to transport to the dump. Not a pleasant discovery so I gingerly raked the nest outside, found no rats (thankfully) and than decided to set fire to it. The fire took hold far more quickly than I’d expected and in no time various odd, stained and useless boxes were added to the fire and were ablaze. At one point when the wind changed direction there was a real possibility of the garage catching alight – what fun you can have when moving house.

Putting cushions in a clothing recycler: As I was dumping some of our excess baggage I found myself filling a clothing skip with cushions, handbags and strangely enough a wooden Zulu figure. Quite who would wear such an outfit beats me but if you ever see anybody wearing seven blue cushions, carrying two small black hand bags and clutching a black figure, I don’t want to hear about it.

Goose train

impossible songs

impossible songs

Geese

We’re now pondering over the pros and cons of keeping some geese at the new house (in the garden), as watch dogs. Goslings are surprisingly cheap to buy, even cheaper if you buy them as eggs but that involves some very tricky early rearing techniques that I’m not confident about. Of course if they outlive their welcome or fail in their primary task of guarding your possessions you can eat them. That process involves some unpleasantness however. The other thing about geese is that they can live a long time, some 20 to 25 years, some (and I find this hard to believe) have reached 80. The downside is that that the geese could out live the pair of us and become poor homeless orphans one day and a rather tough lunch for somebody in 2075. Best not to think about it.

Black and white.

Why is it that black and white photos seem to convey a warmth, soulfulness and depth of reality that coloured pictures just don’t? Maybe monotone vision is more natural to us and we’ve evolved (I hate the term) into colour vision but still relate more easily to black and white, it works in cinema too, once you adjust. Is the colour of the world truly artificial and we’re stuck in an inappropriate and unfamiliar point on the spectrum with more colours to come and unfold as our perceptions deepen? (Err..no!).

Trains

I got a train to work today (despite the impending strike) as my car was in for an MOT, service and quick rub down with a wire brush. Being without a car and traveling by train is a slightly disconcerting experience but at least allows a regular driver like me another angle on the world. The train was clean, not crowded and on time and I enjoyed the view of mysterious back gardens and queuing traffic for all of ten minutes before alighting at Inverkeithing station. Then the world turned rather drab as I experienced the grayness and crammed new building works and the desolate properties that surround the station – Fife badly needs a makeover, somebody needs to start caring about it because much of it looks a complete mess. The planners, the Councils and the people are allowing houses to rise that look terrible now and will end up like downtown Baghdad in a few more years.

Unbuilding chickens and Alfa Romeos

impossible songs wish for an Alfa and get a little nostalgic gradually.

impossible songs

Unbuilding beds.

I have been unbuilding, dismantling, unscrewing and packing all afternoon and I seem to be getting somewhere towards preparing for our house move but there is always something else to do. I haven’t started on the garage, shed or coal cellar yet. Ali did a load of packing when I was in Aberdeen at the weekend and with progress made I guess we’ll crack it all before the big day. In the short time we’ve been here, we’ve managed to accumulate such a lot of extra stuff and create a huge, muddy carbon boot print in the process - no doubt.

Life.

Life seemed grim this Monday morning; we both awoke with mild hangovers, fizzy tummies and overwhelming weekend fatigue. Every waking second of the weekend has been packed with and mixture of moving, setting up things in the holiday house, football and training, rain, flat/house moves in Aberdeen, children, grandchildren, swimming pools, heavy (nicely) meals, piles of boxes, landfill sites, sprinting around shops and as usual a series of unplanned events. Oh and we’re planning a house-warming party that is currently (in its early stages of conception) rivaling Princess Diana’s wedding, Glastonbury and the launch of the space shuttle as an event. I think the big garden, big logs and the wide open spaces of this odd corner of West Lothian have all gone to my head.

The chicken/ no chicken dilemma plays out.

We will not be keeping any chickens in this new garden either because:

a) We don’t know anything about them.
b) The cat will likely kill them – and he is beyond training.
c) We don’t want to have to kill them - messy.
d) There may be issues with neighbours and the like.
e) It involves an investment of time, money and chicken feed.
f) Nasty diseases, illnesses, ignorance and permits are other pertinent issues.

Lunar cat

A strange grey cat may be also adopting us, a bit like the black rabbit in Watership Down (but a cat) he breezes in a the margins of our consciousness and then whisps away over into the hedge to the field where the somewhat suicidal local game birds are hiding. His appearance has coincided with the recent pink and hazy lunar eclipse, which for once I actually witnessed.

Art Garfunkel.

In a rare social and musical experiment we are going to see man who launched all those tedious airport and high street restaurants all because he had a cool and funky name that could be exploited, Garfunkel. S & G have drifted back into by waking mind recently, I do occasionally hum “Farewell Frank Lloyd Wright” or “the Boxer” to myself in moments of weakness and I also watched a large chunk of “The Graduate” recently on ITV 4 at some ungodly hour. I hadn’t seen it since it was playing in the cinema many years ago (I think I had to lie about my age to get in), anyway it is such a beautifully shot, sunny film and strangely optimistic despite the dark, destructive family story line and S&G’s music was never better or more appropriate and the red Alfa Romeo spider is just the best looking little sports car on film.

War and compost fiction

impossible songs

impossible songs

War.

The school project rumbles on in the form of PowerPoint presentations on “Families at war” in WW2. Hard work, imaginative leaps back into a world they can’t quite believe and quirky family research for the kids. It all acts as a reminder of how removed they are from armed conflict both in time and distance and how disconnected they are from long dead grandparents.

Science Fact.

In the future and in the grey: Warehouses full of unused, unclaimed avatars, all refugees from Second Life that never lived. Lists of made up names never spoken. Virtual land and unreal real estate bought out and up by the Chinese and revolutionary North Korean investors in a web based land rush. Real money is a thing of the past, the past is the memory of real money and real money has lost its voice. Big sheds racked out with registered blogsites and web names, unwanted and forgotten, graphics packages and a trillion MP3 files that nobody ever bothered listening to. You can’t buy a thrill or a moment’s peace and all everybody wants is a little space-sex tourism and a one way ticket.

Compost.

A do it yourself (or let the worms and the action of vegetative decay do it) compost bin was left unannounced on the road by our house. The next door neighbor alerted me to this piece of green and pleasant flotsam. It turned out to be brand new and complete. Did it fall from the back of a lorry? From the cargo bay of a passing 737? From the trailer of the Lord of Linlithgow’s tractor? Who cares, now to read the instructions and start the long slow process – compost curry maybe. I’ve just found an instruction book to go with it.

Sneaky Preview

impossible songs try to travel back in time to the Middle Ages for some odd reason or other.

impossible songs

The slow torture of a move and the happy outcome.

Today we sneaked a visit to the new house - which is currently lying empty pending some minor works to improve it for us. The estate road is, at this time of year caked with mud, potholes and puddles and a warm mild dampness hung in the air as we approached the imposing looking hedge and garden. The house was clearly not being lived in so we peered in the windows and walked around the garden getting our bearings. Whatever the vague impression was that I had gathered on my first visit a few weeks ago it quickly changed and clarified as I viewed the cleared out rooms and the huge garden. The house is bigger and very different from our current one and the garden can only be described as a challenge but we both felt a little invigorated by the visit and encouraged that our plans for occupancy are not too far out. At the very least there is a place for all our garden furniture and loads of timber debris and concrete bases for barbeques and bonfires. The whole area has a slightly unkempt, primeval or Middle Ages feel about it that attracts me and I don’t quite know why. Stony, crusty old houses, unmade roads, an old church and graveyard, woods and fir trees, mud and high hedges and grim looking walls, it’s all here in an atmospheric little clump.

Oh, and quilt fairs are all very nice but not the correct places to buy quilts says Ali. Be warned quilt seekers everywhere.

The genius of shortsighted parking

impossible songs

impossible songs

Salty oil of the Rajah bread.

Rajah bread? Yes I’ve just invented / discovered it. There are many new and strange things to be found in the world when you read packaging without your glasses on. Rajah bread aka Rye bread is jolly good, particularly when spread with a little St Anvil Gild, go to the supermarket minus your glasses and get some. I’m currently enjoying some Stellar Artist and Steer Dye, it’s all caramelizing nicely.

Family Genius

In an unusual week for family press interest, Ali’s dad has featured in the Sun and the Daily Mail, neither of which we would usually read (Ali’s the FT and I’m the Scotsman) but the unexpected coverage has been very much appreciated. Anyway Tom Brown has been getting some recognition for his pioneering work with ultrasound in the early years of its development. Described as an unsung genius who has remained uncredited all these years (he’s 73) it’s great to see him receiving respect, attention and thanks. Without his efforts the baby scans and images that prospective parents and pediatric staff regard as commonplace would never have happened. Now he’s living humbly and quietly in Kinghorn Fife though still with a very active and enquiring mind and numerous projects on the go. He’s also the unsung engineering genius behind our vintage lawnmower keeping going so "mucho gracias" for that.

Furniture in Freuchie

We spent almost all of Saturday building and arranging bedroom furniture and assorted bits of household inventory in Freuchie. The crazy thing was that after all the assembly and maneuvering we were left with an enormous pile of cardboard and polystyrene wrapping. In volume there was more packaging than there was furniture – incredible. It took me two rainy trips to the recycling area in Ladybank to even make a dent on the pile. What is happening? There’s also a lot of territorial car parking goes on up there, as a “stranger” I was nicely sandwiched between a local pickup truck and a Honda. Nice to feel you don’t really belong somewhere when you can only get your car out of a space with the aid a tin opener.

Lost Vegas & the cat scratch

impossible songs

Lost Vegas and the cat that scratched too much.

The cat has the very annoying habit of trying to gain your attention by digging his claws into a) your legs b) your thighs and if he is truly desperate to engage with you c) your groin. Having a cat hang onto your groin by the claws is not fun and despite his (good but misguided I presume) intentions not quite as endearing as he’d wish. Right now as I type he is fastened onto my lap and is trying to bite my thumb. I think he may want more food or that his current bout of cat “cabin fever” (having been in, out of the rain all day) has tripped his little mind.

The blinking blue outline of the local Lost Vegas Dakota Hotel now dominates the murkier edges of the South Queensferry skyline. At first glance it appears in its cold cobalt blue warmth like some dimmed out spacecraft from Close Encounters or a set piece from a failed Audi commercial. Then you realize that it is a glowing building, and one that mischievously and stubbornly refuses to show any exterior soul. Clearly a mysterious mechanical heart beats inside in some special shielded room close to its Tardis heart. Of course it won’t go away and will continue to glow like a giant alarm clock beside the village’s bed for the rest of the century.

We now have a post code for the new house – once we get there. Despite having stood for around one hundred and thirty years it has been ignored by the Royal Mail and so has avoided a specific entry in that endless enigma, the Post Code database. Ali has struck now, raised the alarm and inserted the houses’ particulars in the system. A tirade of junk mail, credit cards, catalogues and pamphlets will follow in due course but at least we will be legitimate for web based ordering and purchases and Google earth.

Top conspiracy suicide

impossible songs




impossible songs

TV Threesome

Well I don’t watch too much TV so it was kind of strange last night to watch almost 3 hours (the programmes lasted longer than that but 3 hours is my current attention span maxed out) of the stuff and now write about it.

Firstly Top Gear, a bizarre, funny exercise in mad superlatives, gloating and politically incorrect pantomime humour (as the audience plays along nicely). I like cars but this programme is like a silly exaggeration of anything to do with motoring and statistics and figures and jargon. If Top Gear was a rock band it’d be Spinal Tap.

Then a show documenting various shades of 9/11 conspiracy theories. At first I was intrigued at the amount of CT activity on the go and the amount of money and commercialism that backs it up. Sadly not much of it stacks up to anything and of course it’s difficult for Middle America to do anything without relying upon tele-evangelist rhetoric and posturing or some Wayne’s World suburban basement to carry the message forth. “4000 Jews stayed home on 9/11 because MOSAD told them to?” I don’t buy that any more than the theory that it wasn’t an airliner that hit the Pentagon; it was a pilot less drone. As for the Twin Towers being demolished by explosive charges...c’mon. If this show was a rock band it’d be Kiss.

Finally a documentary about Kurt Cobain’s last (miserable) days before being found dead in his greenhouse by an electrical contractor. A bleak, rainy Washington State didn’t look too attractive but the truth doesn’t matter now as young Kurt’s home life and lifestyle is already romanticized and distorted beyond belief, in 13 short years or so. A selection of overweight, podgy, unhealthy looking ex-friends were lined up to tell their tales about the boy wonder, I’m sure they regularly dine out on the strained associations and tall tales they have now spun into some new form of reality. Nothing distorts the memory like empty ambition and a need to impress – particularly now that this wafer thin slice of history can be retold any way you damn well like. In the end I felt truly sorry for Cobain, never quite crawling out of his own wreckage, a butterfly killed on a wheel and a guy with a real raw talent well wasted in a few years. I also felt sorry for his grandfather who seemed a simple enough guy, still living in a brown veneered trailer in Kurt’s home town of Aberdeen. It looked like none of the Nirvana millions had trickled down his way, though you can never tell. I’m bound to empathize with grandparents these days any how, so I don’t need any excuses. If this was a rock band (and it was) it’d be the Jimi Hendrix Experience.

Several small creatures...

Pippa and Mylo on holiday catching a few February rays.



impossible songs

Pippa and Mylo

Two new guests have been staying with us this week, the rabbit and guinea pig that belong to my oldest daughter. They traveled happily down from Aberdeen in the back seat of a Grande Punto and have set up home in our garden, in a hutch of course. It’s a bit like having another two kids for a week (as if we needed any more) except that you can get away with throwing them a few carrots and a fistful of greens everyday. Human children generally need a bit more care and attention. Syrus the cat has remained indifferent and distant towards these new domesticated rodent visitors; however as if to demonstrate his full feline superiority and orphan bad boy history, he killed a wild rabbit and ate it on our door step the evening after Pippa and Mylo arrived.

80 boxes.

Eighty boxes have been delivered, flat packed they somehow they don’t take up as much space as I’d expected. They are deflated and we’ll have to open them up and fill them with our odd belongings over the next few weeks – some kind of clear out will also occur. Moving house is such a cathartic experience.

Italian food & seasoning.

What is with Italian restaurants and the big deal they make about black pepper? They dish it out like it was some kind of rare and expensive spice, shipped over from the orient on a three masted clipper and landed fresh in Dundee this very morning. Then they stick it in a pepper mill the size of a double bass and the poor waiter needs a course in manual handling and a risk assessment signed by the Pope to get it between the tables. Ok the food’s generally good but relax about the pepper thing. One final point, though the food is fine, the descriptions tend not to match the content of the meal – a little poetic license stretched a little too far perhaps?

P.S. The lesson for today is that if you put out a big fat worm (even accidentally); you can catch a big fat fish. Here endeth the sermon.

Season of the which?

"Impossible, gently, fingery twitch on the wah wah pedal and the volume switch, gets you high and makes you tick tick tick, like a bomb with a melody and a bullet with an itch... /music."

impossible songs play.. kerplunk!

impossible songs

Slash music I’m not.

After doing nothing musical for about a month I started messing around late last night on the guitar whilst Ali continued her weekend long “sort”. It’s been a kind of dull weekend for me, mostly working and lounging apart from the Friday night dance. So for no particular reason I picked up my old resonator semi-acoustic, detuned it (E to D) and started messing with a slide guitar piece I wrote years ago called “Mother Russia”.

As my rusty technique became a little more lubricated I added some wah pedal and less slide and more finger. This led me to plugging into a proper amp and turning on the reverb, delay and chorus effects until I got what sounded like a decent mix. By this time I was playing an elongated version of “Twin Song” from the “Scapes CD” which eventually morphed into a new “Russian Twin Song”.

Anyway the spacey bedroom sound was pretty good I thought and got me back into at least doing some music after weeks of floundering, flapping and not much else. The thing is now the countdown to our ecstatic move to the primeval village of stony retreat has now begun and we still have 88 boxes to fill and a trampoline to dismantle. I think I may be entering a season of rare creativity…

Build a better beast

Designs for life, leaving, staying, coming back, moving on, beating control freaks, taking a break, getting yourself "over the rainbow" without tears.



impossible songs

The idiots guide to starting your own cult.

First be wise, charismatic but flawed in a likeable way.
Have a warm house with lots of tea and plain biscuits on the go.
Have a pretty wife.
Have very strong views and refuse to compromise them.
Call other people idiots, but not to their faces.
Develop difficult belief systems that appeal to people.
Make people think it’s tough to join and stay.
Befriend odd balls and weirdos and misfits.
Ask them for money to help the cause.
Ask them for more money to help the cause.
Tell people that the outside world is corrupt but you can escape from it here.
Make up flyers and leaflets that tease people and provoke enquiries.
Always use emotional blackmail in your dealings with people.
Have secret knowledge but hold it back.
Tell half the story.
Tell kids that their parents are beyond help.
Quote from a worthy book of quotations.
Make it seem exclusive (because it is).
Run meetings where only you get to speak.
Control, control, control…

The idiots guide to joining a cult.

Follow your friends who have already joined.
Don’t have any ideas of your own.
Have ideas of your own but you don’t feel sure about them.
Take pride in thinking that you are open to anything.
Be on the lookout for answers and certainty.
Be lonely.
Be easily led.
Be fed up with your life.
Be on a downer.
Wander into a meeting drunk and broke.
Join so that you can gather material and write a book exposing them.
Do it for a laugh, but then the laugh never comes along.
Have a desire to change the world but don’t know how to.
Fancy somebody who already goes…

The idiots guide to leaving a cult.

Fall out with the leader(s).
Get your own ideas.
Fall out with the members.
Do something absolutely unspeakable.
Steal from them.
Run very fast in the opposite direction and change your name.
Move house.
Publish an expose.
Stop fancying the person you fancied.
Run and when they come after you foam at the mouth.
Run and when they come after you just smile.
Start a whispering campaign.
Tell everybody that you have a big knife.
Tell them that you want the money you gave them back.
Join a martial arts club.
Become a heretic, a witch or an intellectual.
Get them to leave you.
Join a rival cult.
Start your own cult…. (Oops).