Secret CDs and UFOs in January

My favourite news story of the day has to be that of a UFO colliding with a wind turbine, I'm more inclined to think that a big boy did it, hit it with a stone and then ran away - but then aliens will be aliens.
Edinburgh's Secret CDs night isn't as you might think a pub night out for Midlothian cross dressers but is the recurrent showcase night for local original music run by Jim Igoe. Jim tries hard to put together a varied combination of acts and in the process allows them to hawk their CDs (on the night and via the web link in the blog title) and hopefully gain a wider audience.

We attended the first session of the year last night and enjoyed the easy going efforts of William Douglas, possibly the best undiscovered talent in the city. William pushes light humour with strong observation and getting the maximum melody from the minimum chords. He also has the look and charisma of a young Neil Young, hungry and edgy. His songs and the use of 7ths and repetitive sequences ending up in unexpected places are polished, the lyrics are childlike, fresh and just a bit dark and unsettling. I've watched him now for about five years and always expected a breakthrough to occur, maybe this year, maybe these songs.

Ali enjoyed a quartet known as "Lipsync for a Lullaby", a strange mix of cello, guitar, drum, bass and a loop pedal. I'd need to hear a bit more of them to form a final opinion as their live performance was a little disjointed and the high and floating vocals were lost in the lipsync and cacophony.

At home retro cooking returns with Poor Man's Noodles back on the menu.

Wild eyed cats strike curious etc.

Our cats either leaping in a peculiar way or stuck to the wall thanks to the special Velcro suits Ali knitted for their Christmas or possibly just doing something else.

I refuse to believe that January is the most depressing month of the year, how can it be when you can get such a buzz from tearing down decorations and hurling dead trees to the foot of your garden? It should be an Olympic sport really and we'd be damn good at it.

Actually the most depressing month of the year is September when your holiday credit card bill mugs you with a mixture of cash transactions, stupid impulse buys and currency conversions. Then again that happens most months. The biting January cold is quite hard to take mind you, we're on two scuttles a night for coal and a brace of the finest sticks plus a can of de-icer every three days and that's without roasting any chestnuts or making a bed properly. Thankfully going back to work has been a joy and the roads on which I travel shine like new pennies thanks to the black ice, Mr Cougars dim lights and the mysterious West Lothian pot holes.

P.S. Instant coffee is a strange substance, ever noticed how you start to dislike it's suddenly bitter taste once you get three quarters of the way down any jar regardless of the brand or type or the size of the jar. Hmmm.

Dinosaur eh?

The people who write or broadcast about history make it their own and interpret it on their terms, often very narrowly and with only very shallow insight. Apart from my general dissatisfaction with Scottish history not being taught properly in Scottish schools I can now add to that my annoyance at Prog Rock continually being rehashed via the Beeb and summed up as "truly" represented by the efforts of Yes, ELP and bloody Genesis. It's as if ten years of music and loads of bands have to be succinctly summed up in 40 minutes - so we'll use stock film and interviews to "capture" our version on the cheap. Punk and Glam rock hardly fare better with the same old protagonists getting credit for inventing whole genres of music that in fact evolved over time in a thousand different ways. The real life development of rock music isn't lived in sound bites and vox pops nor was it exclusively summed up by the Old Grey Whistle Test, the disastrous Isle of White Festival or any Reading Festival. I was there or there abouts as I recall.

Worse than the Katzenjammer Kids

Eyeless in Gaza

The (outside) world events as portrayed in the news often leave me puzzled and ultimately cynical and pessimistic. The repeated conflict in Gaza, the aggression and ludicrous self belief of the Israelis, the belligerent Hammas forces, the impotence of the Western powers and the intransigence and posturing of the Soviet Bloc (or whatever it calls itself). Meanwhile the Arabs and sunglass wearing followers of Islam bay like tethered hounds or fiddle for quick solutions as if they were looking for the keys to their Lexus and Cadillac SUVs. It seems like every man-jack is determined to fulfil all the garish Biblical prophecies in the book of Revelation or the Qur’an and then some. Lions, beasts, whores, harlots, lakes of fire, tattooed numbers, rockets and AK47s all line up to confuse and pick out an eternal story than runs and runs and doesn’t get better. Meanwhile innocent people suffer and the arms brokers make a few million more. Where’s the bit in the Bible about wiping the planet clean and starting again?

Having said that who wants a clean planet? If we got the chance to start again we’ve all be in fig leaves and fighting over the last banana before burning down the forest to create a chill-out zone and a clearing to plant out our carrots. Then we’d snare the last of the rabbits before turning them into warm slippers and furry hats then feeding the remains to the feral cats we were trying to domesticate. That is of course unless we change track, mind sets and beliefs and adopt the “Celebration” model for community life. Celebration in Florida is a (more than most) manufactured town and a master-planned community in Osceola County near Disney World. It was developed over time by The Walt Disney Company albeit their influence has decreased over the years. Perhaps the answer is out there, not in focused religions, acute political stances or blind tribalism but in manufactured, sanitized small communities that manage themselves and build big fences and feed the residents a nice big dose of Soma on a regular basis – in the water mains, drinks machines and chip shop vinegar. The application of this may just make the likes of Cumbernauld, Glenrothes or the Middle East acceptable places to stay and would ease the practical problems of government a thousand fold. Strange that the Israelis haven’t as yet demonstrably tapped into the Gazza water supplies.

Power is fine but useless without control. Benign control only comes via healthy fear or slavish love but fear is the most effective. Love can be too strong and is prone to turning, love also spawns idealism – itself a threat and possible destabilizing agent. So whoever controls the water controls the population – you don’t need their hearts and minds when you have a grip on their plumbing systems. Barack Obama and the Presbyterian Church know this very well and this will be one of their key subliminally managed strategies in the thousand year plan.

I probably won’t watch much of Celebrity Big Brother, firstly there are no celebrities in it that I admire, many of them I don’t even know and secondly like most reality shows the banality and repetition is now becoming tedious – the format is dead. A third reason to avoid it is the hooting Davina pulling faces and shoving her hair out of her eyes. January should find me staring into the screen savoring old Coen Bros. films or hijacking Ali’s discovery of Grey’s Anatomy or her boxed set of Bones – that seems better although Ulrika Jonsson and Tommy Sheridan are a possible nightmare love match from either Heaven or Valhalla. Still thinking of films what is the cultural importance and legacy of the movie Garden State?

I picked up a random radio question, “what makes you/me proud to be British (or Scottish)?” For once I can be positive about something and can readily summon up a list of answers in a rough top 10:

Kilts, tartans, whisky and clans (but not Robbie Burns).
Hills, lochs and the Forth Bridges.
Getting to the top of the M6, seeing the gloom ahead and knowing I’m nearly home.
The selective use of bagpipes but not as WMDs.
Fife, Edinburgh Castle, the Clyde Submarine Base, Leuchars and Lossiemouth.
Boiled eggs and soldiers, beef sausage, Irn Bru, pies and bridies.
The East Neuk and the rise and decline of herring fishing.
Pubs, chip shops and Oor Wullie as they used to be.
Scottish weddings and (in a dour and respectful way) funerals.
Chick Murray and the eclectic and shambolic world of Scottish comedy.

God again

Thanks to Paul for this test of belief, logic and the amplified mechanics of the wheels and cogs all spinning in the heavenly spheres that circle our pretty little empty heads: Battleground God.

MMIX

The lucky cats at Ocean Terminal welcome MMIX

2009 started frosty, clean and sharp but has now turned back to the customary wet, dripping and muddy mud-fest that we struggle through daily. I found this out whilst transporting the Christmas tree from it's triumphant stance in the lounge to a less than triumphant and much more undignified slow death on the bonfire site. Stripped naked and neglected and due to be burned during some future drunken barbecue it would make a fine central character in some poignant allegorical tale of spiritual decline. Today and in the coming days many such trees will find themselves on death-row, behind a hedge or wall or compressed into the brown wheelie bin you can never fill in winter. I also hoovered without breaking anything and celebrated with coffee and twenty minutes of Planet Rock's heaviest heavy metal muck from the past reminding me of the brief time I spent on duty as a youth. A state of mind and dishevelled dress that was not encouraged, recognised or understood by the authorities in Central Scotland in 1969.They did play "Little Wing" by JH which sounded fab, hard to believe it's over forty years old and still fresh as an Afghan Black five skinner rolled out on a gate fold sleeve.

So all the decorations are down and organised in boxes and colours and so on but they will still manage to be in a complete mess when we next unpack them, the 2008 Christmas Gremlins will be to blame.

Determined to beat the gloom I drove into the 'Ferry to see what was on, as expected shops were shut and barricaded, people walked dogs aimlessly and a heavy dull set of clouds were set up in the sky. To cheer myself up I browsed around the M&S shop in the petrol station checking the grim newspaper headlines, the ready meals and having a useful conversation with a cash machine. Home again for ironing, fish pie and farewell to Paul who was heading back to the great industrial wasteland and Irish refugee camp that is Scallie country.

Yesterday - Science Fiction, Ghostly Tales and Fairy Stories: Well that would be Ali's journey through the mind of Arthur C Clarke via his writings, Jonathan Creek's strange and badly scripted and plotted murderous bathroom and the Brothers Grimm with Heath Ledger and Matt Damon. I watched the first half hour of this thinking "what a complete mess" then my agile mind twigged that it must be the work of Terry Gilliam otherwise how could it so creative, chaotic and unfunny. In the end it's relentless stupidity won me over and as the story ended almost happily I was hungry for cheese, wine, home made bread and cough mixture. I slept like the Sleeping Beauty albeit with a molten throat.

She walks, talks and roller skates.

Stuff of the year

2008 then:

My old mum died at the age of 85 after a short illness.

My fourth grandchild, the lovely Imogen was born.

The family grew and grew (grandchildren's birthdays are great), some lost teeth and curly hair but they all like staying with us.

We had a cracking holiday in the Algarve and ate lots of sardines.

Emma's big birthday was celebrated with the best party of the year.

Mr Cougar joined our fleet of utility vehicles.

We went to New York and did everything.

Paul became Dr Paul.

We played at Perthshire Amber.

The garden was extensively remodelled and improved.

The kittens became cats but Syrus did not return from his extended wander.

I left OOTB after five years of involvement.

The credit crunch happened and still is - thank you GB.

People split up, grew apart and some came together.

Met up with and old friend I hadn't seen since 1977.

Erin and Guy moved into the best ever flat in Aberdeen.

I kept my head above water at work and a step nearer retiral.

Built three decent bonfires and set off a few fireworks.

Supported faithfully at various large and small football matches.

I flew on 36 different flights to get here.

Ali had a whirlwind trip to Oz and the far east.

Various health scares and traumas were dealt with successfully.

The Holyrood muddle may yet get us a new Forth crossing.

Recorded and mixed a few tracks, had ideas and have plenty more on the go.

Discovered BOFFER.

Ended up with £45.50 in my TSB current account.

Stuck with Facebook (and the rest of the on-line gibberish) despite my healthy dislike of it.

Cooked a full Christmas dinner (almost).

Blogged the usual load of tosh and almost got away with it.

The Fleet Foxes: easily the best band of the year, let's hope they don't die from over exposure now that they've made the Radio 2 playlists.

Walgreens medicines

Today I am doing my best to overcome the head cold that has been dogging me for a week. The small selection of American sourced Walgreen remedies I rely upon haven't dented it so far, I may have to seek specialist advice. The trouble is I get up feeling awful then slowly recover until early evening when the pain and the splutter return, my cold is a creature of the night. It thrives and grows in the dark and warm and then scurries away, complaining bitterly when daylight finally comes round but leaving nasty traces behind. I've also carried out brief sorties into it's territory using Beecham's products and some ASDA paracetamol, it's a war of stealth, patience and attrition now. I will get the better of it before the first rays of 2009's golden dawn or die trying.

Safe pair of hands

We're in that limbo period between the big seasonal days, stupid sales are on, between the world of work and real life and feasts and leftovers. The house is full of family and the dishwasher is on overtime and AC/DC are on the radio. So what's that to do with what I know today I didn't know yesterday?

I don't like Portishead (the band not the place).
Thomas and the Magic Railroad is an awful kids movie.
Potatoes when mashed can survive much maltreatment.
Fluff and dust neither rest nor sleep.
People are strange.
Wii snowboarding is not my best sport.
Crackers get worse with every Christmas.
Digital radio is fun.
There are issues with Word in ubuntu.
Blueberries are perfect with Muller corners.
I can beat the common cold (but it takes time).
We're getting a new second in the New Year thanks to the Atomic clock.

Merry Christmas (late)

Who can be bothered blogging about what they did over Christmas time? Not me - but happy Christmas.

Turkey

Now it's downhill all the way to Christmas Day and I'm home and ready to start preparations by reading about turkey cooking times, doing some fridge unpacking and plunging my hands into cold water to rescue drowning vegetables. I also now know that there are few available chestnuts in the world, holly doesn't seem to come with red berries anymore and though the cat is trying to pick up a pen with his muddy paws and can never succeed at this. It probably wont snow either but I never did expect it to.

Last night we ventured out to China China in the heart of the metropolis and ate mock Chinese food all hot and packaged into the atmosphere of a festive factory canteen. The kids enjoyed the experimentation and the ice cream machine and I didn't over eat due to a rampant sore throat and inner conflict about the whole "all you can eat" philosophy. I came home and drank two glasses of brandy, took some non prescription drugs and watched an episode of Smallville and today I do feel a little better.

Iconic image survives and thrives

Nice to see a little reminder of past glories, bonfires and parties whilst trawling around and across the wicked web. This locally produced image is the work of Mr CBQ (link left) as featured on his latest creation and some previous material. I can only say that whilst he lit the fire with care and appropriate caution (as I recall) I built it. The shadowy images in the smoke and vapour are of course some of my beloved offspring standing on top of an ancient wall.

Older people sleeping

Over soup and sandwiches today that eternal, compelling question once again arose, "Why is it difficult for old(er) to stay over at your/our/anybodies house?" I've just returned from a night of couch hoping in Aberdeen and thankfully it doesn't seem odd for a chap of my somewhat stretched out years (cat age of 254) to spend the night on the couch. In other parts of humankind it's unthinkable, as if older people have strange and elaborate sleep needs and rituals that can only satisfied in a familiar and controlled environment. Perhaps they sleep upside down like bats, or in coffins, or they need hourly injections of milky drinks and the use of free flushing toilets - all night. Whatever way I'm not there yet, perhaps a full and frank initiation is carried out a benchmark ages like 60 or 65. Of course Charles Dickens the inventor of Christmas, class wars, misery and pre-electronics radio always had to sleep in a cast iron north/south facing bed in order to benefit from the earth's magnetic forces washing over him - there may be more to this than I realise.

My phone's not here yet despite a series of long calls to the sub-continent, refusal by a telephone company to text delivery details, befuddlement at the anomalies in the post code database and me being "in" at the time of delivery (but the delivery company say I was "out"). Was I in or out? Do I really want to have to learn to work another phone and horde another box, charger and instructions in a drawer, all "just in case"?

Mr Cougar suffered a dislocated mirror thanks to an undocumented street incident in the area of North Anderson Drive, Aberdeen. The culprit may have been stumbling junkies, weary football fans after a day of delight in Inverness, dog walkers daydreaming, old people sleep walking or aliens looking for samples, I'll never know. Ford's designers didn't quite get that part of the project right and added in "snap-off" mirrors instead of folding ones (like every other car on the planet), Duh! I only noticed the damage when leaving the fair city so a quick pit stop repair was called for, thankfully it snapped back on and none of the electrics suffered.

Replacement mirror not required: This time.

Dude! Where's my phone?

I waited in all afternoon for the delivery man who was due to bring me a new and sexy Sony Eric Idle phone. Did he show up? Did he bizzzz!!! My patience has been stretched but I did concoct a decent curry and wrapped a few presents whilst wastefully standing by. Grrrr!

Vox Wyman bass

Blue tin of biscuits.

Vox bass, similar but not the same.

A visit from Fingers Farrell prompted the opening of the blue biscuit tin, the one that has been on top of the fridge for a month patiently waiting on Christmas, visitors or some kind of domestic emergency. I only ate three, not sure how many the others ate. The purpose of the visit was to collect an ailing Vox Bill Wyman bass dating back to around 1964. It was played regularly in the 70s and 80s (by me) and then after a holiday up north spent a few years forgotten and somewhat neglected in lofts and cupboards. The lacquer is cracking, both pick ups are broken (but original) and various parts are loose, mouldy, rusted or seized. A fine project for any guitar enthusiast and I trust Mr F to do a fine fixing job on it.

Electronic drums are fab. Not the wee Dr Rhythm type I mess with or fiddly machines but the big, full size kits that can sound like anything you like. Brilliant in fact, as I discovered today watching somebody who knew a thing or two working out on such a kit. Why did they not catch on?

Hallelujah 2

Rest in peace if you can, Facebook fans want you alive again and No1 to prove a point that seems important, suddenly. Popular culture and a huge machine argue for the poison X that marks the treasured No 1 spot - but it's only a song after all and they blow in the wind and fly like flags, nag memories, tear at edges and tell people things that others don't understand (or so the special listener thinks), it's only a song after all. Rest in peace.

Hallelujah

After two nights of wrapping Christmas presents I was starting to get ragged around the edges, in the mind, with the sticky tape and to make matters worse my knees were sore. I'd also realised about 24 hours after Ali had said it that as a general rule presents should all be wrapped in the same paper according to the recipient. Some how that plain piece of packing truth and logic has eluded me all these years. Like most men I thought you used the nearest, handiest sized bit of paper and then moved on to the next pattern. The resultant uncoordinated effect somehow enhancing the Christmas experience and bringing great joy and so on. Once this festive light penetrated my brain a new and well blended school of packaging emerged - apart from the stuff I did yesterday which does have a certain chaotic charm to it.

Chaos is common at Christmas, in shops, on the road, in peoples houses, on TV, in schools and workplaces. Everybody (apart from you non-Christmas weird folks) is contaminated by this festooning madness and desperate attempts to some how gather together a never ending list of gifts, quaint and inedible foods and random shiny objects. I succumbed to the lunacy many years ago and a masochistic and truculent way enjoy the whole thing: Christ bringing chaos to the world, none of what happens ever being quite what he must have planned or hoped for. It shows how far people can deviate from some simple ideas in just a millimetre of time - and heaven on earth is as likely as peace on earth.

Hallelujah is the Christmas number one, sung soulfully by a decent young singer from X-Factor but totally ruined in the sanitizing process. Shrek and dead boy Buckley gave it a new context and now it has truly been kicked into broadcasting oblivion in the worst way possible. Can you imagine Chav families squatting around their walnut stereo-gramme or head expanders and puzzling over what those lyrics have to do with Christmas? God knows it'll turn up on all the Chrissy compilations from next year on and along with Mad World just to add another layer of theological and unthinking chaos to the mix. Mr Cohen's pension fund will however get a nice little boost in January.

Everybody's happy, everybody's laughing.

Kryptonite and stars and cowboy boots

The celebrations are well underway, our pet starfish has been candy appled (as in apple the fruit) and metal flaked into Christmas and our best piece of green Kryptonite has new sparkly neighbours to join him by his seat of wisdom and solitude. Soon chestnuts will be roasting on the open fire etc. etc.
Today I ventured out into the shops, the idea being that I would buy a series of items that I had carefully listed about five minutes before I left the house. These items were all destined to be Christmas gifts for loads of people. Sure enough when I reached the shops stuff was everywhere (apart from Woolworth's, a shadow of it's former self and now looking more like down town West Beirut did in the 70s), so I had to start choosing things to buy. This didn't really take long as most things were available, all shiny and bright today, all new and desirable, glittering prizes to be stored under the transplanted tree until we can take the suspense no more and rip them to shreds.

I was taken by a sprightly old guy at one of the check outs, joking about being under 25 as he bought his wine in Livingstone's Walmart. He was old from the top of his head to his knees. Below the knee however he was young enough to be wearing silly cowboy boots like Bono or John Wayne - good for him, I want a pair.

Bankers eh? What are they like? Back in a previous life I endured long training sessions being taught about Materials Requirement Planning (MRPII) and when it came to inventory management (and you don't really want inventory but real life tells you need some) the banks were the boys we looked up to. Normal organisations just kept losing inventory (trucks, heavy metal, spare parts, pallets), it just drifted away, but this never happened with banks. They had the best storage and inventory control systems going because nobody ever lost track of money, while the dumbo dinosaur manufacturing industry just couldn't keep track of all their washers, springs and bolts. Well that was back in the 80s, seems that things are different now, we've no manufacturing left (MRP II too late!) and now it's the turn of the hedge funds and the banks that fuel them to have trouble getting the numbers to add up. Somehow another 50 Billion just sneaked away while they were sipping on cocktails and listening to Elton John. Bugger the lot, bring back MRP II, proper compliance checks and some decent stock visibility and control.

Non domestic non goddess

I like cooking if it's leading some where, in other words not just for me. I also like the squirrelesque tactic of preparing food and hording it until a nuclear winter comes along or rampant inflation makes us have to eat nettles and thistles as in days of yore. Today I made a vat of soup (15% only) and a dumpster sized pasta bake even though I wasn't hungry or particularly bored - now I await Ali and my daughter and son in law to arrive, they'll not really fancy any of that but just have a nice cup of tea and Tesco cookie.

Turkeys at Christmas. Firstly Christmas is far too long a festival whatever it is supposed to be about, it should last a weekend but it, like an unwelcome house guest lasts a whole season. This is not a sustainable situation, soon there will be only two seasons, irrespective of weather or tides and they will consist of a short wet summer and a long cold Festive Season (where autumn, winter and spring used to be). So I ventured out to order a turkey at our local farm shop only to be told they'd just one left and it was the size of a bungalow and would cost a week's wages and it'd feed West Lothian and it wasn't quite dead yet.

On paper and in my head it all seemed so simple, perhaps a few shopaholic locals confused the barn for a rural branch of Woolworths and absconded with all the decent sized birds. Now that I think about it they may have done me a big favour, a nice slab of freshly machine gunned venison might be the perfect Christmas roast to share with the family.

Not hitting bottles

The world is clear, cold, frosty and diamond white. I am seeing clearly through the mist and star light thanks to an uncompromising diet of fruit corner yogurts, big Kit Kats, microwave foodstuff and the occasional fresh vegetable coupled with my flat on back sleeping technique and a lot of running up and down staircases.

The days leading up to what some in the west describe as the Christmas season has so far been almost healthy and pretty much alcohol free - since Sunday. Not sure I feel any better overall, probably because as you get older some body functions become odd and less efficient. Shaving cuts are generally disastrous events requiring the pressure of Desperate Dan type thumbs on the leaking chin to stem the flow. I could illustrate other related things by describing staccato piccolo playing or the uneven flow of cat food from a squeezed sachet (but I won't bother) - or the gases produced by a Greek Pizza oven left on overnight and the hissing breath of a black Prussian locomotive steaming out of Belgrade Station.

One nice side effect is that I can no longer eat three mincemeat pies in a row, drink a whole pint of milk or scoff a packet of Jacobs Fruit Clubs. In some strange way I am now at peace with (very small parts of) the world and comfortable in my own wrinkly skin.

Did you notice that the girl in the photo also has two mouths?