The many things that cats don't understand.

An altogether better speaker.

Civilised cats (tigers in fact) who have learned to wave at windows.

I have given up on my mission to civilise cats, I've come to the conclusion that there is nothing I can do to house train them into wiping their paws on entering our humble human abode. The cats clearly see no difference and upon returning to the warm indoors insist on stamping their muddy paws, capable of retaining and spreading muck better than any re-inking stamp, all over the house. Even picking them up and wrestling with them whilst wiping the offending paws with paper towels doesn't seem to fix the problem. The mud is sticking and the cats refuse to learn. Beatrix Potter would know how to deal with these furry snakes with legs by writing a humorous short story about their dirty socks and tattered whiskers and making a handsome profit in the process no doubt, God bless them.

The Rt Hon Michael Martin MP, Speaker of the House of Commons, is a complete twat and a disgrace to modern politicians anywhere. This opinion is based on the stirring performance he gave in Parliament yesterday as seen on numerous TV newscasts. Please retire this person to an appropriate home for the bewildered before serious damage is done to an already creaky and disreputable system (but one that is strangely still the best in the world). Politicians and (muddy and disrespectful) cats and bankers; beware the wrath of Karma.

Starlings over Rome

Today I've managed to avoid going to Rome and getting mixed up with the five million starlings that have descended upon the Eternal City. They've also ascended above the city and with unmeasured abandon and little thought as to the overall effect, busy themselves creating their artworks in the winter skies. In so doing they infuriate the locals by their roosting, avoid the harsh weather further north and delight tourists and people with fancy cameras and Flikr accounts.
Today it is cold, cars are iced up, noses run and the only good thing to eat and beat the chill is a hot Pukka pie - which I did. I would've made soup but that seems too complicated and the vegetables are still firmly rooted in the shops. I will now retire to the lounge where the ironing, the fire, Ali on the couch and the glow of the TV are already beckoning in a weary, warming way.
At least I've started the annual ritual procurement exercise in true homage to those three seasonal wise men, Dickens, Nicholas and Coca-Cola and started my Christmas shopping at Amazon, the lazy man's answer to retail blues. A simple list of things that people don't really need but have to have is quickly translated into a string of irritating emails and two pages on a credit card statement that not only sets fire to the carpet when it plops through the letter box but lasts until June. Joy to the world and MasterCard. I'm sure none of this was quite what God, Jesus and the other angelic folks in the arithmetically challenged trinity had in mind 2008 years ago when this snowball began to roll but DHL, the Post Office and numerous white van firms are still rejoicing in the Christmas Chaos. Next is the tree erection episode and the Brussels sprout peeling contest.

Things that begin with T

Tea Cups - used to safely hold hot herbal drinks, the kind that have become fashionable as a result of our shameful Imperialist history, drug cravings and thirst.

Telephones - handy devices used to make and receive crank calls at odd hours of the day or night.

Thailand - far eastern country currently struggling with getting the correct balance between tourists, police and demonstrators.

Tourists - hard working but bewildered people who have gone as far as their money could get them and now want to get back home without spending any more.

Tourism - the name of an educational course carried out by the Open University and a number of badly named colleges scattered across the Central Belt.

Toyota - Japanese car firm that specialises in manufacturing cars and pick-up trucks made in Japan and other places. Noted for their "snick-snick" gear boxes.

Tantrum - extreme form of behaviour particularly noted in chimps, Scottish politicians and school teachers.

Top-Gear - amusing and irreverent TV programme and periodical that celebrates and champions the motor vehicle and the views and values of middle-aged men.

Toxic - toxic pop tune performed by "Forces Favourite" Brittany Spiers.

Thomas the Tank Engine - blue choo choo loved by small boys everywhere. An urban myth has it that Thomas was in fact the fifth Beatle.

Transcendental Meditation - a form of ritualised day-dreaming generally practised by twats and bored rich people with nothing else to do.

Twats - see above.

Travel - the art of moving smoothly between places either for business or for pleasure.

Time travel - as above but with an added dimension and a degree of danger and uncertainty.

Turnip - root vegetable that is notoriously difficult to cook and control. Popular with the agricultural classes and students for it's ability to create tummy gas.

Twix - two fingered chocolate sweet manufactured by the Mars Corporation.

Tree - leafy form of erect, growing wood worshiped by some religions and left wing pressure groups.

Tasmania - small island even further away than Australia. Popular in cartoon loving circles.

Tudor - obsolete crisp making company and one time despotic ruling family of England.

Ten Years After - 60s rock band famous for the tedious overplaying of electric blues related music at Woodstock.

Tinkerbell - Disney fairy character mildly related to the J M Barrie original and Julia Roberts.

Tentsmuir Forest - dull and over-rated area on the Fife coast that could do with being bulldozed by Donald Trump's people.

Trump (Donald) - Real estate whizz-kid who owns large golden buildings in New York run and operated by surly and unhelpful staff of questionable Afro-American origins.

Trumper - fine aristocratic and old English family from the heartlands of the Midlands. Often shows a degree of unwarranted tea-cup enthusiasm following marriage or spending too long in the cold.

Things that start with an F

F - sixth letter of the alphabet.

Ford's database - a wonder of modern engineering and the result of much IT blood, sweat and tears and strategy. Also slightly worrying due to it's big brother prowess but who really cares, if you've a driving license, a Tesco card or a mobile phone they've got you sussed anyway.

Friday - a day in the week but the one that generally leads to a longer than usual stay in bed the next day but not always.

Fat Freddie's Cat - See below.

Fabulous Furry Freak Bros - See above.

Finlay - a small grandson, in fact the smallest.

Fandango - Album by Texan rockers ZZ Top.

Fix - to repair, could be quick, could (as in most cases) take a little longer.

Frog - a variation of toad, as seen in various parts of the house, garden and orange plastic B&Q buckets.

Fleet Foxes - see Felice Brothers.

France - better than England but not as good as Scotland.

Fish - creatures that like the wet, say very little and are nice with chips and brown sauce.

Fudge - English version of tablet for softies.

Freuchie - small village in the middle of the Kingdom of Fife.

Fife - small and pleasant (sometimes grumpy) Kingdom containing Freuchie.

Fascist - extreme and unsavoury right wing political beliefs generally more stylish and interesting than the left wing version. Not a recommended choice to follow for a variety of good reasons.

Flintstone (Fred) -stone age cartoon cultural icon, dinosaur owner and male role model.

Faro - pleasant small town and plastic airport in Portugal.

Farm shops - always a host of interesting and expensive provender on display, some local, some not so. A valid diversion and second career choice for farmer's wives or possibly the partners of gay farmers.

Fender - a popular make of guitar made famous by Buddy Holly and Bob Dylan. also the maker of the "Tweed Deluxe Amplifier" and the "Twin Reverb".

Fellini - Italian movie maker with a fountain fetish.

Fetish - overly focused need or sexual preference.

Finish - the opposite of start and generally a welcome relief and a place to revel in the wonder of endorphins.

Felice Brothers, only here because I dropped the the from their formal title.

White birds

A strange and cold selection of china birds stare across and down at us as we busy ourselves in the kitchen, patter out to the garden or rescue the hoover from the cupboard of oblivion. Apart from some cheap and interesting guitars, three pairs of sunglasses and CDs dating back to the dawn of music they form my main collection. Of course I forget about them as they roost in their lofty nests, often I fail to look at them for long periods of time and when I do I wonder if any of them have crept up in value. The birds of prey of course have a secondary function as (empty at the moment) whisky decanters plucked from the vaults of Edinburgh's own £9.99 special beverage, ex-Whyte and Mackay's vaults. The ducks are ducks.

Dumpsie Daisy

Another picture from an occasional food based series that I am unlikely to repeat.

The jam here somewhere or there on the right, served as part of a scone and jam and cream ensemble, is a new flavour I've never before encountered: Dumpsie Daisy. Fortunately it's not made from either dump (?) or daisies but a conglomeration of rhubarb, ginger, apple and plum. It tasted ok but it'll never beat strawberry in a straight fight. I'm not sure Dumpsie Daisy is a proper name at all the more I think about it - it should really be two schoolgirl characters in one of Ali's pre-war Dimsie Books.

We had to escape from our house to the nearby Garden Centre due to an unexpected funeral turning up and causing major congestion outside and so had to sample the delights of the cafe for an hour. Strangely it was full of grey and slow moving retired people bent on killing time and eating salad rolls and other (also retired) grandparents child minding for a day and wheeling the little monkeys around the shop.

The funeral traffic passed away and the muddy skid pan that we call a road is now deserted, the cats are settled down now, having not killed anything for about 6 hours and the washing machine leak and flood that threatened to destroy the day earlier on has gone, I hope.

Self portrait

Following on from some Sunday breakfast inspirations and the cancellation of the football due to snow in Fife, (bacon and cream cheese bagels it was) I have completed a self portrait using the simple medium of brown bread, a Wall's sausage of some questionable % meaty variety and Heinz tomato sauce. The white coffee mug is not really relevant but adds a sense of scale and significance to the piece. It works on so many levels really.

Those of a religious persuasion may, in a certain eerie and troubled light, see a slight resemblance there to either the Prophet Mohamed, Saint Paul or Groucho Marx (all of whom would need to wearing tortoise shell Rayban Wayfarers to make it work) and will also need to ignore the pig parts in the sausage please, offers for this work are welcome but already too late as it's been scoffed.

In a further food based experiment I've come up with an alternative to the ubiquitous and over-priced fruit smoothie. My home made alternative (as shown below lurking next to the Flora in the fridge) offers all the taste and goodness of a store bought smoothie but with additional and nutritious lumps - it's the LUMPY. These allow you to thoughtfully pause as you drink so the consumer can reflect and chew, a perfect combination to lengthen the taste experience. Full production will begin once I get the shed built, the strawberry patch free from dead giraffes and the apple trees planted.

The Lumpy prototype resting.

I can't explain

I've come to the conclusion that most of the world's troubles and most everyday troubles are down to one thing, the failure to provide a proper explanation. This revelation came to me as I dozed on a flight from Exeter to Edinburgh during the week. When I look back upon my life (not always with a sense of shame) I've always been the one to fail to explain and to mumble and therefore blame. Maybe it's all in the question being asked and not the answer. I was asking someone about the tidal range on a site and he told about me the depth of the water, then I asked about the maintenance arrangements for a piece of equipment and instead he told me how it worked, then I asked him about the working pressure of the equipment and he quoted figures nothing to do with that. I smiled and nodded politely and wondered about my accent and tone and general demeanor, then got back in the car. So I've got a feeling inside but I can't explain...

In Exeter airport I had the joyful experience of sitting next to a Paris Hilton clone in the coffee shop. She was shouting in an American accent into her pink phone using phrases like "And he's like.." "And I'm like..." "And we're like..." then just when I thought the dialogue couldn't get any worse up popped a Nicole Richie clone to add a third thread to the shrill and clearly pointless conversation. Now I am an expert on the lives of some dance troupe from Wales and their creative tensions and group dynamics. Nice enough girls really but you wish they could reduce their levels of hysteria to something close to inaudible when out in public. I suppose they were just trying to explain...

Peggy the pig got a nice big carrot to chew this afternoon as we shopped in a farm shop, a place I'd normally avoid but not today. My grandson poked the carrot through the fence and Peggy didn't quite take his fingers off but certainly enjoyed the carrot. I was on a log buying mission and filled the boot of the car with logs, kindling sticks and various home baked pies and West Lothian vegetables, all designed to see us through this cold snap. My grandson managed the quip of the day, he picked up a turnip and said: "My mummy says these make you pump!" Good explanation for an eternal problem.

Random busy-ness

Most of the weekend has been spent on the hoof, in the car, around hospitals and football fields and staring up into water dripping down from ceilings (it never drips up). Overall things have worked out, mouths have been fed, processes and procedures completed and the coal fire has learned how to relight itself, a quite useful if a little scary skill. You might think it to be a significant evolutionary step like gravy mix or self cleaning ovens, it keeps the house warm anyway.

In a single idle moment I did reflect on how I am no longer the treasurer or a committee member for OOTB - a weekly open mike night in Edinburgh. After five years of various bits of hard and easy labour I'm out of the bedroom altogether and possibly slightly relieved. The truth is there is only so much original local music you can stomach and I've heard most of it over the years and to be honest I'm bored with a lot of what's about, but I had a few laughs as well.

That's not to say there are not good people and musicians dodging around, it's just like I've eaten a whole sponge cake when I should have had just a slice. So I'll take (more of )a break and then hover for a while whilst trying to understand and appreciate another wave of the marathon strummers trying to make sense of their little world, (you can't!), the grunge kids who don't know it's not 1992 anymore, the middle aged, mid-life crisis impressionists (that'll be me), the serious and virginal blues-men and the ever lovin' ever losin' hippies, god bless them all.

Thanks to the staff of this surprisingly good West Lothian hospital for looking after us (?) this weekend. A cleaner, less cluttered and better mannered hospital would be hard to find anywhere I reckon.

Bike

A rendered and artistically challenged version of my running and cycling efforts yesterday, at least I look like I'm having a good time (which I was). The bike and the helmet were borrowed, the legs, the blood supply and the sweat were however all mine. The storm of oil paint, the heavy, squally smudges and the low flying acrylics caused havoc with my rhythm. I finished last but I was the oldest and least well prepared competitor. The best part was that when I woke up this morning I didn't feel half as bad as I should have.

So one more time "I've got a bike you can ride it if you like, it's got a basket, a bell that rings and things to make it look good. I'd give it to you if I could but I borrowed it". Just don't ever continue with this and go into the other room, you may not return.

Mitch Mitchell RIP. An old drumming friend of mine said he was the best (as if that can ever be settled) but he was special for a short period when The Experience were the band to follow and black vinyl Track records held all the best memories, fired the most colourful of dreams and inspired the formerly clueless to get out and do something - I think I'm talking about the Class of 69.

More blonde ambition

Today I've mostly been eating toast, getting wet from passing rain showers and training for my "Children in Need" cycle and run mini (but big to me) biathlon, I hope to survive it and in surviving it complete it, the time being immaterial. I may at the end of the activity eat more toast and drink large amounts of Coca-Cola, in fact I'm visualising the finish right now and scoffing whatever I can imagine just to get my mental processes set onto a positive path. Every little extra effort helps I believe.

The mix up of tracks below are the 13 contenders for best of 2008 and after some careful consideration there is no clear winner and it's probably apparent to all casual readers that some essential piece has been omitted but who really cares.

White Winter Hymnal – Fleet Foxes

Rule the World – Take That

A & E - Goldfrapp

Air kisses - Jools & Verne

Why be blue – Carlene Carter

Mykonos – Fleet Foxes

Snare Drum – Lucy Wainwright Roche

Pools – The Delorean Sisters

I told her on Alderaan – Neon Neon

Grounds for divorce – Elbow

Started out with nothing – Seasick Steve

Only with you – Dennis Wilson

Frankie's Gun – The Felice Bros.

Best in show

Perhaps it's a sign of terminal boredom or being bankrupt in the Royal Bank of ideas, perhaps it's a time of life thing or maybe I've been listening to a little more music than before. Whatever we've decided that a Best of 2008 music CD is called for and that this fine piece of work will double as a greeting card that we can send out and so wish our friends and family some happy times.

It's a pretty abstract idea really, wishing somebody a merry Christmas, the key verb being "wish" of course. There may be a latent and potent power attached to wishes, I'm not sure. I've wished many things and quite nicely some have worked out, others have gone the other way, did my wish work or was it just coincidence? So we wish that people might have good things and times and have attached few pieces of stolen music and songs to the wish package.

So it's corny but not as bad as the "end of year newsletter" card where a list of holidays, promotions, kids achievements and home improvements are spread across the families annual report. If you get one of these CDs I hope you listen to it and like it, you may do neither and I may fail miserably to produce them but the wish will still be in there, which is more important if a bit less tangible.

The other thing is that looking back over the year in November (all 11 long/short months into it) it's been incredibly busy and eventful. Surrounded by weddings, funerals, pregnancies, babies, divorce, travel, illness, cars and houses and working more hours than ever - I'm thinking that we've done and seen enough in the last 11 months to fill 12. Stop the bus.

Pittenweem silence

Today I found myself spending the two minute's silence standing on the edge of a football pitch in Pittenweem looking out across wind blasted Scottish fields at the church spire in nearby Anstruther. Close by is the cemetery where most of my close family relatives are buried. The boys linked arms in silence before the start of their match, braced themselves against the cold and probably wished the silence would be over quickly so the game could start. My thoughts went out to the lives of my uncles, aunts, parents and grandparents and the wars they saw and lived through. My dad's, an unlikely sailor and the ships that sank underneath him three times, my uncle torpedoed in the Atlantic Convoys, another uncle in the Army in Italy and Germany, another in the African desert, my grandfather loading Swordfish aircraft at Crail, my other grandfather on a trawler in the North Sea - then the many friends they lost while they survived and died, older, wiser and sadder men. Our generation knows a few troubles and pains but nothing compared to what they experienced. The freezing wind and the ref's whistle to begin the game brought me back from imaginings and reflections and we drew 2 - 2 with the East Neuk, Goal a game Barclay getting yet another.
I'm bored with Obama already (even though he's a good guy), his screeching, clawing fan club, the unearned plaudits being poured upon him and the incessant media coverage. He's been elected, well so were Hitler and Mussolini in some numerical, populist way. The hard part is running the show properly once you're in. He's yet to deliver a pizza but the world expects a miracle and he and his family will pay a heavy price for it if it fails to appear. As for a racial minority success and triumph, I'm not so sure if today's white on black on yellow on brown isn't really some kind of historical blip. Haven't black people been running Africa for most of the past 5000 years? Same goes for the Indians in the Americas, the Arabs in the Middle East and Chinese in China. These white guys who arrived with guns, Bibles, bad attitude and STDs a few years ago sure screwed things up for a while but in nature all balances have to be restored eventually, so by all means Obama try and sort it out, you're riding up out of a down turn but they'll all expect a beefy payback.

From Warwick to Glenrothes

Some of Britain's ugliest ex-politicians, TV pundits and newer MPs make a noble stand against dyslexic vasectomies while the poor Daily Mail photographer behind them falls through a trap door but manages to save his mum's camera.

Most of my daylight hours this week were spent in the Midlands, home of traffic cones , dirty trees and olde worlde things and places such as Warwick. I camped out there and watched the football feast that was Celtic v Man U whilst eating fish and chips and drinking a few pints of the aptly named "Slaughter House Ale". A fine way to spend a bonfire night during which I didn't see a single bonfire or a firework.

I made it home in time for News at Ten on Thursday, tired and traveled out but I couldn't sleep so having avoided the US elections earlier I opted for the Glenrothes version. The panel of experts were wide awake while my mind sparkled with thoughts of what I needed to do at work the next day. No rest for the wicked as anyone with an active night time mind will tell you. The best bit was Nicola Sturgeon's new eye-liner look and her red shoes. The newly elected MP stuttered through his thank you speech and seemed like a decent enough chap, a shame he's on his way into a political wilderness for the over 60s with Scottish Labour.

After a fitful sleep (whatever that means) we awoke to find the central heating had expired, the cats has disappeared and the weather had turner strangely mild. I was left with no option other than to head to the shops to get a box of fireworks, chase a cat and a limping mouse around the house and await the success of the plumber's last minute rescue mission. It'll all be fine eventually.

It takes all types

Today it too cold to do anything except go to work, run about in dark country lanes in a desperate attempt to get fit for a charity run that's looming, eat yesterday's curry and look at a small to medium to large pile of ironing and imagine how it would be if it was all done. The struggle to stay warm and alive has at least five months to go. Brrrr.

The artwork below is by Erin and is representative of the strange and ongoing going ons attributed to the people who brought you the Mighty Boosh, jiggery pokery and the Bouncy Castle Song. Above it all Erin and Ali enjoy some wild toffee apples whilst dressed in the latest personal protective clothing available for party goers and young professionals alike. I may have been on the other side of the camera but I'm not sure.

An entire world away

I picked up Ali at a slightly inhospitable Aberdeen airport yesterday after her backwards and forwards and sideways trip to Australia and back again. A fearsome and fun filled itinerary included Manchester, London, Singapore, Sydney, Bangkok and Aberdeen in seven of your average earth days. This of course isn't average earth, that doesn't exist unless you believe in Dr Who. From my simple point of view I'm so glad she's back complete with the over sized Ozzy chocolates, the books for the kids, the laundry and my new opal cuff links.

Last night we cruised around the 'toon dressed as Ninja aliens and hairy creatures infested with spiders from Mars. I ate some bits of kangaroo, some fragments of crocodile, some morsels of emu and drank champagne. Ali picked up low down cereal cartons with her teeth and the grandkids did us proud as young Batman and junior Woody from Toy Story. Then it was a rush down the road to Cupar for 10a.m. football, a MacDonald's breakfast and a bright and sunny game sadly lost 4 -1 and only worthwhile for another Barclay family goal (vicarious credit and pleasure for me of course).

Music this week: Pacific Ocean Blue by Dennis Wilson scores highly, Elbow also and still, the nice discovery of Lucy Wainwright Roche (who Ali met in Manchester) and a reminder that Eddi Reader knows a thing or two. Didn't miss Jonathan Ross on the radio this Saturday as I drove north - somebody who talked a lot less and played Glen Campbell and the Yardbirds did it fine for me as I hid behind the sunglasses. Neil Young also reminded me quite pointedly why I first got myself into this music thing, hammering innocent guitars and starting the clipping of minor chords and fooling around on the edge of feedback. He also stole all my mannerisms some time in early 1971 and the ability to used the word "mind" in any given lyric.

Dennis Wilson stands under a steel piled jetty with concrete caps and decking: What would I know about structural marine architecture, self production and songwriting? God bless him where ever he is...

Shakey

Neil Young never sleeps and plays an Em on a Gretsch possibly thinking towards his big night in, on the Beeb tonight from 9.30. A strange choice for Halloween but then why shouldn't it be. Old Neil is welcome around here for as long as he likes or until the next special comes around.

Halloween has become another Americanised piece of waffle and elaborate, inappropriate celebration. I don't mind parties (I'm going to one soon) but the clamour for product and tat going from increasingly mad fancy dress down to special cakes and pizzas wears me down. Of course I've spent a large chunk of time today carving out three pumpkin heads for my grandchildren. The secret of a successful pumpkin is to use a really sharp knife and make all the cuts cleanly and quickly (and then drop an IKEA tea light in). A cutting principle that no doubt is mirrored in modern surgery and I'm sure a few aspiring doctors have practiced on pumpkins and sheep's heids from time to time (but they don't add the tea light). So the pumpkin lanterns are ok, all different if slightly angular, with a cubist styling theme going on in their finely sculpted features but scary and stark enough for the under fives. If I give them away to the kids I also wont have to suffer the rotting smell that'll arise in about three days time.

Other than that I'm on my own tonight but I did get a nice wee phone call from my other half from an airport far away in the Far away East. She'll be home in a few (long) hours and I'm looking forward to hearing about her marathon traveling experiences and marvelling at how broad her mind will have become.

If you don't get the Shakey's thing forget it.

Still

Here in West Lothian the previous week's winds and rain showers have gone leaving a cold, still atmosphere and a thickness evident in the clear and cloudy mixture of slow moving night time weather. Standing alone and listening in the garden hearing nearby trees creak, the rustle of the last of the leaves and the scampering sounds from hedges and borders as small creatures try to hide or forage. The cats miaow in the distance, tracking and scaring their fragile quarrie and then returning to deposit the half eaten remains like a prize or a piece of well done, hard worked homework.

I stare into the sky and see occasional stars whose names and positions I've never bothered to learn and never will. They seem to stay stuck in the heaven's blanket but then suddenly move by themselves in time to grey clouds drifting somewhere under the black and blue of this late hour. I let the stars navigate around me and ponder the old time sailors who read the sky like a map and saw a way home or back again, is there anybody left who could do that today?

On the ground slugs and bugs and creeping things wander in a stop go motion across the stones and slabs with no obvious purpose. Leaves and wind blown debris block their paths and they make silver spirals to avoid collisions or to leave a marker for some slower moving friend who cant keep up in the fast lane. If they are lazy and caught in a dawn raid then hungry, beady eyed birds will breakfast on them and their night will have been wasted. They move because that is what they do but their direction is always painfully circular and contemplative. I wish there was some profound lesson to learn in watching this but it's only a dumb sameness and a routine and crawl along the edge of darkness for a moment to survive in and then move on.

Proper night music isn't rock or acoustic or jazz or anything clever and quirky, it's the realm of growling Bing Crosby, slow Sinatra or the greatest male vocalist of all time, who could sing and create the mood of the deep purple and a fog catching the corner of your eye before the light's splinter hits - the late, great Matt Munro (who isn't pictured here because I'm going to watch Question Time or something and I only have a Bing photo handy).

Ross, Brand and Tennant.

Ambient and absent.

The news creates the news, particularly on the BBC (who still have the best set of TV and Radio Channels) when it's own scandals and changes are deemed more important than world shattering events. Stories of pop culture trivia make screaming headlines while screaming victims make small print and the cutting room floor. Russell Brand can be funny at times and is ok in very small doses, Jonathan Ross can be clever, informed, cheeky and lewd depending on the topic, David Tennant can be Dr Who or he can do his final metamorphosis into the next jobbing actor/comedy star or wanabee who takes the producer's fancy. Are they all worthy of being in the headlines? Well Ross and Brand act like rude 10 year olds and get paid more than football players for their gleeful and irritating wit and so deserve to get fired for their stupid pranks. David Tennant will act his way into a knighthood or a political position in the Scottish Parliament once the shock and awe of his regeneration subsides. Whatever, life will go on and a billion Chinese people wont give a stuff.

Charlie Chaplin had the right idea, don't talk much and just be a little subversive from time to time, you'll get the message across eventually.

Louie Louie is played on the radio.

"He's a good enough song writer but could he have written Louie Louie?" So said Frank Zappa and I agree up to a point and maybe beyond it. Now that the great man is dead where are we to go for caustic observations, free and dangerous music and extravagant use of the wah pedal?

Now that the weather is reminding me on a daily basis that global warming is more of a myth than ever I can only thank the bright winter stars that the grass stops growing at below 5 degrees and no longer needs to be trimmed, other than that there is nothing good to report about the Scottish climate.

Also in the news, BP have announced more huge profits thanks to the fluctuating price of oil and their excessive charges for the crap they sell in their Wild Bean Cafes, I am happy for them (the board) and their numerous share-holders. This is because I'm convinced they will either burn in some oil fueled ironic hell at some point or they'll suffer ignominious humiliation when they are all reincarnated as toads and are squashed by BP fueled motorists whilst crossing damp stretches of roadway in West Lothian. So Instant Karma will get them and they will simply pass into a dark void beyond anything that those presently living can imagine or describe.

The banks are still persisting with their light and good humoured advertising campaigns on all TV channels despite their precarious positions. Expensive cartoon people with big noses riding sleek trains revel in the 5% interest deals that are bolstering up their savings and allowing their unsustainable lifestyles to continue - but that's not reality. I like the photo of the guy holding a placard in Wall Street that reads "Jump you F**kers!"