Greggs have a word for it

I'm not obsessed with sandwiches really. Just grabbing one as I rush out into the early Narnia landscape that West Lothian has now become, quite nice, quite white. The bread not the snow.

We have a new kind of coal to burn, it turns into lava like lumps, it oozes together and forms new, hot, sticky shapes as it burns. It produces a bit extra smoke (?) and it seems to burn more intensely than the other stuff, hard to poke and air but then it needs less help in the combustion process. Then it cools and sets as brittle and hard as toffee and I chuck it into potholes in the road. That's just some of things I now know about coal, oh and the coal men deliver it.

Bill Gates had a word for it

I've been heavily pregnant with a new laptop for so long now that when the birth finally comes it'll be the size of an elephant and I'll fall into a huge pit of post-natal depression and refuse to feed it (apart from odd Linux snacks). I have to go out into the jungle and sweat a bit more, mid February would maybe do, it's worse than buying a car or the right muffin from Costa. Decisions and indecision, where can I get a fuzzy laptop?

Feeling a little toxed up and needing a detox? Try blueberry juice, lemon pie, cream and a half bottle of red wine. That's all about food for today, next is laundry.

Lisa Simpson had a word for it

The disciple picks some narrow way on a broad path

Some where, possibly everywhere and probably everyday it's the Lord's day or a holy day or a festival day depending on your chosen or imposed set of beliefs. The ceremony, trappings, assumptions and duties may be bringing you down when you only want to be lifted up or at the very least listened to and understood. So even if you have no belief system you still have something because nothing is something. Your belief may be a tad indistinct, that doesn't make it irrelevant or unimportant and so in contrast to the warmth and comfort of having a Pope, a priest, a pastor, persecution or a polite politician to yourself we have the "fuzzy". No buildings, books, TV channels, platforms and sacrifices, just the rolling questions and the constant exploration. Genuine, earnest and good humoured observation welcome.


Avoid the mistake of wanting what the others think they have

Best not to get hung up about certainty. The need to pin things down and hold them in place with concrete works well in engineering but it's not so good an approach to life and the greater unknown, and that's the problem - it all is pretty much unknown. There's snake oil, smoke, mirrors and tales handed down, there's history and ruins that can be picked through. You make some conclusions, you may well hope for the best or believe the best but the edges are undeniably fuzzy. The things we don't know aren't worth strapping on a bomb bag for, going to war for or turning your back on friends for. Embrace the uncertainty and follow a fuzzy path.

Respect the shape of things

Invent.

Jeremy Clarkson had a word for it

Top Gear Chaps!

On behalf of all the one-eyed Scottish idiots I know (including myself - I'm assuming here that the one-eye is in fact the "Jap's eye" kind of one-eye) I'd like to thank JC for getting us back up into the headlines along with Carol Thatcher, Golliwogs, teddy bears and boys and Robertson's jam - the ex-jewel of Dundee. As for Father Gee Broom he's not an idiot, after all he is the PM and as such demands a little more respect, or maybe not as he's from Kirkcaldy. At least freedom of speech is being raised as an issue, the trouble being that no-one has anything remotely sensible to say about it or would know quite what to do with it if they did have it.

Divine Bigotry

Meanwhile back in Scotland, the main cause of all of England's problems for the last 1000 years (apart from the French and the Germans) bigotry and ignorance reign as we reserve the right to dislike and suspect everyone from our nearest neighbours to those out there at the ends of the colonial empire. A balanced and consistent point of view in my humble opinion and one that has led us to having one of the finest banking systems in the world, though maybe not quite a sustainable one.

Fine for me

As an example I am referring to the letter I received today from the trustees at the TSB telling me they'll charge me £15 a day as well £15.99 as a standing fine for bouncing a cheque for about the same piddling amount a few days ago. Well bugger, I thought that some one-trick idiot Fifer had bought up this bank so that the likes of me could share in it's ownership and rescue the free world from Hell's spinning pit of financial gloom and doom. Apparently not, so I must continue to embrace the uncertainty and believe in the BBC and pay up.

David Reilly had a word for it

Golden goodness pours from the heart of our farmhouse kitchen.

The entrepreneurs behind Cloudland Blue Enterprises seem to enjoy food, dietary and kitchen based blogging material which is all perfectly understandable. In order to satisfy demand I thought the above Ali + pie picture deserved a blogging outing (though it has appeared on the rival channel known as Facebook). This was taken a few weeks ago during one of our impromptu and unscheduled pie preparation evenings. Bored with no Jonathan Ross, Stramash or Stingray on the telly, Ali set about doing some apple pie creation (in fact there were two) and these magnificent fruit pies fed us and various passers-by for at least a week.

No new wild cat burglary to report last night, no strange noises or midnight disasters, just some forward planning and inward reflection, one eye on the dropping thermometer and another of the glowing coals. Quite a painful Yoga position actually, you may not wish to try it.

Schroeder had a word for it

Once we'd consumed the trout last night we resorted to couch life in order to avoid the bad weather that never came. Instead sleep came only to be dramatically ended by what seemed like a cat suspended above the bed screaming and fighting with another invisible cat, Ninja style. The stramash (as Arthur Momford would have said, also a 60s pop show fronted by Lulu as I recall) lasted no time at all but left Ali and I wide awake and shocked and Clint hiding under the bed.

Forensic investigation revealed that a cat of unknown origin had entered the house via the conveniently open cat flap, scooped up the remaining cat food and explored upstairs until he she or it encountered Clint, the stalwart and brave ginger cat. I believe that in true cartoon apple pie fashion this wild cat sniffed the trout on the frosty night breeze and decided to call in for a possible feast. At 2.30 in the morning this isn't a good test of quantum physics, nerves or levels of consciousness. No trout for a while I think.

Patsy Kensit had a word for it

Have you ever come home at night and decided you'd like to listen to a little Trout Mask Replica and then discovered that you can't find your copy? Then to make matters worse you become unsure as to whether or not you actually have a copy. Such is my dilemma tonight. I'm sure it's some where or am I sure I ever had it or is it perhaps in the car? Too cold to venture out to check, I'll settle for Planet Rock and leave CDs well alone. You never had this problem with vinyl and Mp3s are silly abstract things at best.

This a common enough problem for me, confusing reality, daydreams and memory and therefore not being quite sure what objects are where at times or actually owned by me. It also happens with onions, you think they are there in the vegetable basket, a handy supply, ready to peel and fry or whatever and then you discover there are none. Recipes at this point have to be abandoned (most likely in favour of toasted cheese) or altered in some radical and not always pleasing or satisfying way.

Carrying on with the fish theme I purchased two fish (trout in fact but nothing to do with Captain Beefheart) for 35p each in a rare and strangely successful piece of guerrilla food shopping. FD would be proud. My real mission was to get suitable biscuits inboard for an important visitor about whom no more can be said. Said fish will now be grilled with various added extras, fresh veg and frozen chips. Shame about the onions.

Jamie Oliver had a word for it

There is no pasta recipe that isn't improved by adding in hot dogs - we've all heard that one before.

Back to back episodes of Lost. Things on that island just aren't right, where will the time bandits crash next and how come the physics displayed are counter to Dr Emmet's Back to the Future basics? Talk about being lost.

Dangerous cup cakes.

Spiders in the shower that cannot be dislodged.

A road gritting spree that proves futile as floods return.

Snippets of weather, news and Iggy Pop selling car insurance.

A cat that refuses to move despite veiled threats, pressure and some gentle heaving. Then it snores loudly.

I'd have an early night if I could accurately ascertain the actual time but then I'm lost as is, some may say, my mortal soul. Not sure about my immortal soul but I think the ability to express emotion is the indication of the presence of a soul of whatever type.

Pavement cracks that threaten to talk back.

Shackleton had a word for it

Snow brings hysteria and peace in equal measure, a bit like alcohol or being in love. Once steady and reliable shoes are suddenly slippy and hated, ears fail to listen as they glow red, fingers fail to grip bags and phones and dropping cold spirals of frozen water crystals are allegedly all unique but you can never see them properly without your specs.

The news bulletins cover snow as if it came in a bomb from Russia, out to destroy capitalism, public transport and the British way of life and everybody must not travel unless essential. What the hell does that mean? What's optional travel anyway?

They could put Lord Peter Mandelson in charge of giving snow clearance advice, give him a brush and shovel and send him mincing down to some oil refinery to tell the protesters that they shouldn't have traveled out in such awful weather because it's much more reasonable to let those foreign chaps do the travelling.

Driving in snow is the worst, for one thing you always get stuck behind some joker who wants to drive exactly five miles an hour slower than your car can manage in a decent gear. You don't want to run into him but you're fed up changing gear and if he drops his speed you might start to stick. Worst of all if you try to overtake (and that involves heading out into the less clear and well gritted lane and getting splattered) you look like a complete maniac. Possible duvet day alert coming up.

Want a laugh? Click here. Thanks to P. It's not a link to the £50million appeal for funds for the forgettable but "lovable" Titian, why don't they do BOGOF at art gallery sales? Just what the Scottish economy needs right now.

Chuck Berry had a word for it

The truth is we can never quite get enough of anything, good or bad; as one Mighty Bush checks out, up springs another that sets itself alight and starts talking to you about the "Promised Land".

Nice to hear Gordon Brown admit that the current worldwide financial crisis is beyond the understanding and experience of any of the key players. That might well mean we get a little less "wisdom" imparted on us from 25 year old economics graduates and fast stream bond brokers who think that they shouldn't stir from bed for less than £100k a month. Perhaps Robert Peston will also shut his trap and curtail his published works of doom laden rambles and allow the big boys to fix things (by experimental means of course)out of sight of the hysterical mass media glare.

While the world passes by I will continue to build better bowls of spicy mince dishes, fight against the cold with coal fired heating systems, plunge into pools of icy cold lyrics and sparse punctuation, tell lies on Twitter, Facebook, Bookface, Arseface, Mr Big Blog and Tweety Pie, detune untuned guitars, iron my socks, consume copious amounts of yogurt, quaff spicy vitamins and minerals, marvel at each lost episode of Lost, explore the bigger plan and curl up in a snug duvet whilst keeping an eye on the treeline.


UFO over Burntisland Shock:

It was a bloody shock, the blood almost ran back into my frozen feet. Picture if you will a Baltic football pitch in the heights of Kelty, snell (?) winds frae the east freezing oor lugs and nethers, very unforgiving on a Sunday morning. I look over to the misty green glow that is the distant, ancient conurbation of Burntisland. High above in cloud and cold hovers an eerie amber light, twirling with queer white flashes like a drunken majorette in a Fife gala parade. I watch, my jaw dropping and my blood almost curdling (too cold to change in reality). The flying beast hovers over the ex-home of aluminium looking for some innocent to abduct and study, possibly on their way back from the Coop armed only with a Sunday Mail, a pint of milk and 16 paracetamol. It dipped, it dived and it was gone in an instant. Time stood still and somewhere in Burntisland milk spills white chill into the gutter and Glaswegian newsprint twaddle flaps alone down an alley, unread. Oh yeah.

Hard to read as presented but a good example of early Broon type lateral thinking. Good man Gordy!

A little bread with that sir?

"I can assure you that no animals at all were harmed in the planning of this wedding officer."

Things are moving in the way they are bound to, in all directions in a fairly uncoordinated way. As a part of that I spent a very pleasant rock n' roll Friday night in the company of Teddy Thompson, Tift Merritt, Miss Fi and Ali, mostly talking about mint based drinks, the music of the spheres, the magic building site that is Edinburgh and Teddy T's chat up routines.

The quest for a visually stunning drink continues. Is mint tea acceptable? I think it is. Could you add whisky or gin to it to perk it up? Probably. Does it go with cake? Not quite sure. We'll have to carry out a series of controlled experiments under test conditions once a cake base has been identified.

The spectre and horror that is Marryoke has raised it's head and it won't go away. I am veering towards some kind of adoption of this practice, indeed forming plans (and then discarding them), then forming them again. I may have to apply for some kind of meaty grant from either a public body or a drinks manufacturer or a family member. The cinematography gene in me is itchy and the artistic muse calls aloud and demands an answer (of sorts), You-Tube and the Oscars beckon and the loss of reputation and personal credibility are a small price to pay.

Teddy T in action, great band and lots of charisma, songs may need a little work. No sure about the shoe statement but that's show biz.

Sympathy for Glenrothes

Some guy who writes a newsletter dislikes Glenrothes because like many other places it's out of time and suffering from the (economic) structural decay that will become common place as the banker's revenge continues to run it's course. Bah Humbug! Art, imagination and architecture are great things when at their peak, when a major decline sets in, the temples, markets, theatres and circus tents collapse and the wild beasts and feral children run free. You could say we get what we deserve.

So what about the wider issues in Scotland? I have to admire the Greens trying to screw 100 million a year for ten years out of Wee "pointy finger" Eck. Based on my primary 7 maths that's £20k a head (maybe £60k an average household) for insulation, wind turbines and solar panels. Just imagine going down to B&Q with 60 grand to spend on your house's green credentials every year, might need a roof rack. My course of action, should I be given the opportunity would be to spend the princely sum on a nice villa in southern Spain so reducing Scotland's pollution, insulation and energy consumption problems rapidly and in my case permanently.

Survey results just in:

What is Scotland to you?

The best small minded small country in the world.

The best nationalistic dictatorship in the world - looking for the right dictator.

Where a good quality diet doesn't matter.

Never best, not even second best.

Where potholes find homes.

Where recycling means confusion.

Where mountains are small and the welcome smaller.

Where industry used to be.

Where football shirts are fashion statements.

Where culture remains primitive but engaging.

Where modern media has yet to develop.

Where there are plans but no cash.

Where we have ambition but no vision.

Where we have social services but no social life.

Where pub culture has been outlawed by pricing strategy.

Where currency is worth less than a Euro.

Where music and poetry means a series of Burns tribute acts and sod all else.

Where equality is a possibility.

Where refugees are welcomed for the recipes they bring.

Where religion is misunderstood by each generation.

Where the national sport is scratch card scratching.

Where you'll have had your tea.

A place where schools don't consider national history worth teaching.

Where mediocrity is celebrated.

Where division is by common language.

Where wild things (occasionally) run free.


Thanks to the good folks of Glenrothes.

Coming around

It's a healthy and good thing to change your mind about something, particularly if it's in the positive axis. Before I'd ever been in it I disliked the local Datoka hotel because it was new, big, brash, next to Tesco and the A90 and it just seemed out of place. Now I've been in and around it a couple of times my position has changed, for one thing it's very stylish, for another it really does work well as building. The space is sensibly and usefully divided, the decor is veering towards tacky but fits in well, the materials are rough but the effect is warmth and economy. Black is in there big time and it's serving the environment well.

The actual bedrooms are thoughtfully put together and when compared to hotels in the same price bracket actually quite nice. So I feel a little smug having moved seemlessly from one position to another, proof that my inherant stubborness has a healthy limit and than nothing is beyond redemption. Nothing that is apart from Carry On films, the excessive wearing of sports clothes, monkeys, 1970's town centres, the Lords and those with deep pink to redder necks.

Those goons in the House of Lords have set up yet another cringe worthy performance with the cash for law bending and manipulating revelations. It is scary to catch a glimpse of how arrogant and out of touch a group of people can become when they have spent years in a cosseted talking shop badly running great swathes of this country and lining their pockets in the process. In the other House of course they bellow and argue like buffoons over their black and white views on who is right and who is wrong. Strange how it never occurs to them that finding some common ground, sharing a little clear thinking and the pooling of resources in positive strategies might just help the old country along a bit more than their childish bickering. Two tribes.

The frog and toad totem pole photo collection goes from strength to strength, how's your's doing?

New dawn of some golden day

It can get noisy around these parts but we mostly respect the environment.

More than ever we're now using some obtuse and oblique strategies to describe, understand and justify our lives and I suppose to re-connect with people who orbit the same sun but not the same spot of land. A constant balancing act of blogging, micro-blogging, texting, blue toothing photos and music and the odd 150 or so emails that wraps the process in fun and clever mechanics. Sometimes watching TV is almost relaxing, the friendly ping of Twitters in the background, newspapers littering the floor as Jonathan Ross returns to the screen to grin at Tom Cruise, already busy out grinning him. Which one would the average straight guy go gay for? Is it a contest at all?

The morning frost was scraped from the car and a light January sun rose over the hedges as we headed away into Edinburgh to collect the little box that contained the remains of Smudge our cat. The usual mess of roadworks and debris greeted us into and waved us out of the city, Smudge's carton sat on the back seat, like a gift from Amazon or Play.com. At least she's back home now and we'll scatter her ashes somewhere, sometime. It seemed a good idea to buy a selection of chocolate, pizza and finger food to munch through for the remains of the day.

Before that is started on it was the heavy but healthy brunch with smoothies, sausages (must be beef), eggs, hash browns, beans, toast, bacon and a pot of tea for Ali. It set us up for a hoovering and dusting marathon, experiments with light bulbs and starters and a stream of weekend laundry. Saturday is the day for utilities, kids wrestling with PC applications, Sky Soccer Saturday, dreams of the great Scottish novel, waste bins, exploring the depth of the freezer, glossing across the mail and papers and a single candle burning on the table to remind us of a little cat.

Tomorrow is Burns 250th birthday, the media and the tourist board are excited, it's their big time and they milk like it really meant something. Haggis will be stabbed and eaten and Burn's rather inaccessible works skimmed over as cliches and warm but now exhausted phrases are repeated with an acquired profundity by people trying to connect with something already dead and disconnected from most of our daily lives. The books are dry and open, the pages are staring at the ceiling but the words fail to to lift off and fly, mainly because no one really wants them to or needs them. They are like Bible passages or Dickens prose, best summed up in a few short songs, skimmed phrases or strap-lines and then put back on the shelf for the next festival of the glorious past or redundant holiday ceremony. On Monday Tesco and M&S will discount the neeps and mash and then lay out the aisle ends with Easter eggs, yellow chickens and daffodils. You know it makes no sense but you'll put your PIN number in anyway, these are your sins and you carry them with you, no matter where.

Mr Shed 2009 & America under new management

The shed fever continues, the pressure and the sweet pain of competition grow and become as addictive as some sweet drug - like a Muller strawberry fruit corner yogurt. Now, today almost nothing else matters as much. As things hot up I've taken the radical step of adding photographs taken in the searing light of a typical West Lothian January day. This natural approach will I believe reveal the best aspects and the true nature of our wonderful shed. Click on the title link or here to see the latest suite of pictures, read and enjoy the blurb or if you are brave enough post some clean and creative shed related comment.

Meanwhile the question of the day is (and isn't likely to be answered), what is the best meal for a healthy but middle aged chap like me? Diet and lifestyle choices these days provide so many quandaries and moral dilemmas.

a) A Big Mac and a medium latte (no fries, no ketchup).

b) Poor Man's noodles with a curry twist and mackerel sauteed in olive oil.

c) A banana, a pack of 50p carrot batons and a slice of birthday cake.

d) Instant coffee, a cereal bar and a chunky Kit-Kat.

e) £25.01 worth of BP unleaded at 85.9p a litre.

f) Listening quietly to the Tom Morton show, eating nothing but possibly swallowing some saliva.

e) A plastic cup filled with fizzy vitamins and chilled water from the "Middle-aged man" Tesco range of healthy stuff.

Answers on a postcard please...

America is under new management says America, fine by me. When do we get to have a go at this over here?

Shed of the year

As it's been a hectic day at work I naturally came home eager to relax and as means of reaching new competitive highs and creative peaks and calming myself down I decided to enter our shed in the "shed of the year "contest. We are up against stiff competition from a number of international shed specialists but what the hell. My entry is simply called "Small shed ensemble with barbie and barrow accessories, at night".

The unique features of our shed are a)that you can't actually get into it, b) that it once contained a wasps nest, and c) it stands on four unique house bricks. I fully expect the judges to swoon with delight and award us some handsome prize, hopefully a new shed that the average person can get into.

Projects and the rest

For some reason I didn't want to post anything over the previous Smudge post. Some kind of respectful distance needs to be placed between the memory of the wee cat and my ramblings and occasional rants. Somethings don't easily coexist in certain kinds of space but under pressure they have to, in other words life goes on and on.

Today the Obama show has taken over everything in the media and imagination and I suppose quite rightly so. Today I have parked my cynicism, my distrust and my unbelief and decided to be moved (a bit) by his address to the nation and be impressed by the crowds and their hope and (likely) baseless optimism. Hope is the greatest thing, even if unreasonable or unrealistic it forms us up and allows a forward motion and an energy release that can change worlds. Hope is also hungry and needs the fuel of recognition and tangible success in goals realised, er..Go Obama Go...

Meanwhile looking around the room and into the PC files, unfinished projects pile up like debris on the beach, ship wrecked ideas and bits of other things that I can't quite put a value on or somehow develop from some base position. I compile lists of their names, peer into them like avatars on Facebook and stepping back see only bits of a jigsaw but without the box lid. Striking a better a better note than my twisted black guitar currently can I found a short story I'd written hidden away on the (newly re-jigged) OOTB site, how on earth did that get there? The Great Gondolli or something like that...

Smudge

Our beautiful little cat Smudge died this weekend. She'd been missing since Friday and we were fearing the worst. After searching in the woods, roadways and gardens Ali found her this morning, she'd been hit by a car a few hundred yards from home. She was a smashing, cuddly wee thing, full of fun, mischief and a great mouser and we're now missing her badly, as is her big ginger brother Clint. There are somethings you just don't want to ever have to write about.

Ah! Sweet mystery of Fife

Fife is blockaded this weekend, held hostage by FETA terrorists bent on preventing the escape of millions of doe-eyed, straw sucking Fifers hoping to stretch out their credit card advances on the streets of Edinburgh, but FETA says "thou shalt not pass". The reverse is also true with central Scotland now sealed of from the bonnie southern banks of the Firth of Froth to the bonnie ex-banks of the credit crunch. I may sneak over into Fife tomorrow, early in the morning when no one is about and the border guards are occupied with the Sunday Mail crossword or queuing for a sausage and egg McMuffin breakfast at the golden arches drive-thru.

In the mean time my supposed creative weekend has hit a dip thanks to an unexpected and so far fruitless pussy cat search. Recording and mixing plans have been dropped in favour of head scratching, looking out of the window and wandering around the hedgerows. Bugger, things are looking bleak.

Toys out of the cupboard (funk 4)

A pile of equipment litters the dining room, almost joined up by imperfect leads and devices looking a bit like the inside of Neil Young's barn after it's been robbed. Pedals and power supplies are lying across the floor in tribute to the failure of the music industry to standardise connections. A guitar waits patiently in the distance eager to rush up to Gm7, D and then back to Amaj for a last hurrah.

As it's January the salmon and home recording seasons are once again open and nothing in the vicinity is safe. The drum loop known as Funk 4 has been edited, reverbed, muted and then topped and tailed, it now lasts a mere 1 minute 30 seconds but in that time it buries the wah guitar with the slight delay and the FX effect that struggles to find four notes. Well done funk 4, we salute you.