Hardly one o'clock

After an unusually early start to the day I'm back from the annual sponsored walk for football team funds, feet on fire and about to do the same with the BBQ. Then again rain threatens but it always does, more cooling beer is required. It may be a long weekend, I'm on the chill out music channel and it's hardly one o'clock.

No newspaper, no TV, no lottery tickets, no rest for the wicked and no peace for the parent.

Unfortunate event v nice event

Unfortunate

It's the old story, sometimes you fall flat out on your back, other times you land flat on your face. Early this morning I devised what I considered to be a foolproof plan to prevent our cats from pestering the swifts that are currently nesting in the coal cellar. Normally the cellar door is left wide open allowing easy access to birds, cats and the occasional toad. I thought that if I partly closed the door and blocked the lower part with some timber the birds could fly into the gap left at the top and the cats would be unable to get in. I did this using bits of an old pallet and some luggage ties, the end result looked impregnable.

On coming home tonight I discovered a dead swift in the downstairs toilet (and an unrelated dead mouse on the rug), my plan had failed. Clearly the restricted door gap now gave the cats a much better advantage, as the bird now had a smaller gap to get through, how come I didn't see that one coming? Outwitted by a cat.

Nice

Short but sweet musical interlude last night at the Ark on Waterloo Place. Miss Fi did a spot in the sunlit upper room showcasing the mighty range of her song writing skills, guitar styles and voices most effectively. Mr Norman Lamont ably assisted on bass and backing vocals. We had to leave early so missed the rest of the package but it was nice to get out to (what I think was) the first OOTB thing I've been to in ages. Edinburgh chanteuse Rosie Bell shared our table and we'd a nice wee chat about things in general, politics, music and her blog: for Rosie Bell click here.

What do you get?

What do you get for £80 million?

You can hear the relief in the voices of the newscasters as they declare that the Swine Flu Pandemic is now officially here. Following the panic in the streets of Mexico City, Dunoon and Greenock the media have got their wish and will be able spread misinformation and artificial hysteria. Keep the gullible public tense and afraid with some new plague, take the spotlight away from bungling politicians, social decay and the real health and lifestyle issues that kill thousands slowly and without dignity on a regular basis.

I had to laugh at an news segment on home education, when asked what he liked about being educated at home a bright eyed and grinning 10 year old said, "freedom, I can do maths if I like or maybe not at all". Congratulations smug parents, that's some great preparation for the outside world, I can't wait to see how he'll do in a MacDonald's drive-thru or in your local Kwik-Fit branch. Maybe he'll become an airline pilot, that attitude would go down very well with Flybe or Fly Maybe Not. Most likely he'll choose a career in politics.

More than this

Who could resist a new, tall and yellow 30cc 2-stroke petrol strimmer? Not me and it arrived today despite the courier being unable to find our house or the burger van or probably the Forth Bridge. It's still in the box but at any moment, when the rain stops I'll be firing it up and doing some serious damage firstly to the garden and then possibly myself. Never drink whilst operating power tools and always wear the correct protective clothing. I wonder if it'll work on the moles?

As we've bought a lot of eggs recently due some uncoordinated shopping trips eggs are very much on the menu. Boiled, scrambled and occasionally fried. It was interesting to hear the various family theories on egg boiling techniques and what the right method may be, if there is such a thing. I favour 3.30 minutes and boiled from a standstill, it is the habit of a life time and I cannot break it. The trick is to time the soldiers toasting (and their spreading and cutting) in that small amount of time and if the phone rings during the process don't answer it.

"More than this, there's got to be", Roxy Music, from the album Savalon.

Great Inventions

I've been commissioned by a major Polish and international accountancy firm (working in the retail sector)to write a short paper on the greatest inventions of the last 2000 years. What has man achieved in this time, what is the most worthy or influential or useful thing that has changed the lives and destinies of the people on this planet. Would it be nuclear fission, the computer, the internal combustion engine, vaccinations and health care, flight, concrete or television?

Well it could be any of those and a hundred others, some folks are really good at having ideas and turning them into reality, not many of them but they are out there. Anyway tonight my vote goes for the original, non-diet, non lemon, not modified Coca-Cola. It is the best thing at the right time, at the right place on the right couch with the right person. House and Smallville are on TV however (?).

Savlon and the death of Socialism

Blatant product placement.

A red sore bit on the big toe brought about by mysterious rubbing in the shoe and sock department demands simple and effective treatment with the application of a quick pinkies' worth of cooling Savlon lotion. A strange but at these times welcome product that no bathroom cabinet should be without. The other thing of course is the simple use of nature's sweet bounty and the greatest of all the world's healers, time and open toed sandals.

There isn't much difference between the BNP and the SNP, both are led by annoying, mouthy twats and both end in NP, and are biased and clueless, how sinister is that? Now they've both contrived along with the Home Counties hamsters that follow UKIP to destroy the socialist movement in Britain. Maybe I've got that wrong, maybe I'm simply blinded by the voters apathy finding some new and articulate expression in avoiding the polls and the fact that Labour politicians either look like Ron Weasley's mum, Biffo the Bear or Robert Peston and are a sad bunch of greedy, whinging, professional failures. We get what we deserve I suppose but I don't quite know what we did to let the S/BNP in, other than create a vacuum of smugness and self righteousness - all in the name of "doing the best we can because there is still much work to be done". Poor Gordon's never going to net a best seller with that line of rhetoric.

Lucky Font size? 22 down to 11 or 14 on a good day, I blame the bugs.

More daily mole photos

"Finding the hidden mole"

Heading away into the distance but not quite out of the garden a scheme of molehills. Despite theinclement weather and the use of distorted guitars the mole wars are both hotting up and somehow cooling down. The damage is not insignificant but a useful consequence is that we now have a whole load of extra fine, clean and sifted soil with which we can bathe the young potatoes now bursting forth in the rabbit-proof compound. It may be, that for a short spell the sensible thing would be to declare some form of truce with the moles and take full advantage of the situation. Man and mole in partnership, the way that some religions see things happening in heaven I suppose with lions laying down with lambs and ferrets fiddling about with foxes and so on.

Some of the negative side of my attempts to copy the Beck bolero-ing thing.

For no good reason I'm coming around to appreciating Jeff Beck more than I ever did in the last thirty years. For ages I've dismissed him as some Spinal Tap ner' do well but recently I've changed my view and decided he really is a creeping genius. His peculiar tonal range, sporadic bursts, use of weird scales and inventive phrasing is wandering across my consciousness and creating in me a strange new and totally unrealistic set of ambitions. I want to play like Jeff but not with that haircut, it stops well before that. Of course the fact that my fingers are like a pack of Walls' best porkers and that my music brain is stuck firmly in the key of E and one big fat blues scale pattern isn't going to help much but any frog can dream (?).

Worst wish

I take no pleasure in watching the Labour party currently eating itself in a panicked and brain-dead fashion. These events mark some kind of end but not the finish, this unfortunate government will stumble on for another year because it hasn't the heart or the vision to do anything else. That's the trouble with power, once it's gained it cannot easily be let go of and so now the mediocre remnant left in place can't stomach the thought of facing up to reality and going back to the nation for refreshment and a new start.

The moles in our garden are a tough bunch, they are resisting our sonic bombardment and somewhat like the Labour Party are fighting on from their small corner. Their show of defiance is oddly admirable if irritating and I'm wondering if anyone has ever been driven from their home by moles or if there is some natural predator we should be calling upon. With the amount of wildlife that seems to thrive around here less than a few feet from where our sleepy heads lay there must be something. Unfortunately most of it is lower down the food chain than a mole. This morning we had an early start when the cat brought in a bird at 4.45am, this was followed by a mouse at 5.30am and as I ventured outside later I nearly stood on a toad. Then I looked over to see a jay perched on the now larger than ever third mole hill. Maybe the introduction of a snake would help...

Vegetables

The sunny weather is working over the vegetable patch and progress is being made. Things are growing and green is turning greener. Sometimes I feel like a French peasant shifting and sifting dry earth, pulling weeds and raking and glugging red wine but it's nice to see growth.

The molehill count is up to three and they are moving in a southerly direction, away from the house. just not quite quickly enough.

Not now

Some days I just feel like spray paining "bollocks" or some other irreverent term across a wall - but it will pass. Today has been the day of the queue: Firstly on the M40 following a tragic traffic accident - one and a half hours and a lengthy detour and then more annoyingly at Birmingham Airport. Here people are treated like idiots on a regular basis, herded and shepherded as if they lacked any human spirit or sense. Queues are stretched across vacant rooms, down stopped escalators and across the check in hall because systems and people clearly cannot cope and for what? The interception of some bottled water, after shave and bottles of perfume. Bollocks!

On the plus side I enjoyed watching the pale summer moon sit quietly under the wings of the homeward bound aircraft. Simple things in difficult times.

I know I'm small...

...but I've got my Boffered Gibson Les Paul. Now complete after some extensive renovation work, filing, fiddling, screwing up and screwing down and the custom paint job of the century (not sure which one), it plays quite well. Now I need some time alone with it and the opportunity and energy to crank it up a little. Welcome to the world.

Today we found we had two mole hills. No surprise there I'm afraid but a new deterrent is now in place. The real surprise was coming home to find the power off and that the cat(s) had some managed to bring down the dining room curtains without breaking any of the rings or eyes that support them. Supernatural stuff.

1st of June

I woke up this morning with a red and sunburnt neck and for some strange reason a notion that the time had come to shave my feet. I’ve no idea if this was based on a dream, deep hygiene issues of some sort or a need to be less of a Hobbit and more of an Elf. It did coincide with a strange plan for a pop video to accompany the track “Air Kisses”, the tune that was running on in parallel in my head. I needed to collect my thoughts but couldn’t so I collected a generous portion of rhubarb crumble and custard instead, popped them in a bag and headed of across the bridge to Fife, the plan being to put in a long, productive day at work.

During the unseasonal weather, which reminds us all of the unexpected passing of global warming before our eyes and into our homes, I’ve been sustained by two things (apart from the usual goodies delivered by families and friends): Iced Lucozade, fizzing on it’s ginger own and the refreshing long drink known as overage and chilled Tennants Lager in a 50/50 relationship with 7 Up. The effects on body chemistry are drastic but manageable, the effects of the brain, the central nervous system and middle-aged and over heated addled thought processes are less clear. A glass of red wine at the ceremonial sunset celebrations whilst observing the mating of the swifts on the telephone wires also helps create an unnatural sense of balance with nature and the cosmos. “Aurum Solis” as they say. The sad part is that we seldom have the opportunity to experiment with our fluid levels and internal coolant, the weather will change tomorrow and soon this bright blue and sunny, sparkly experience will be a distant memory. I like seeing those spots before my eyes, just for short periods of time like a Stuka pilot.

“It’s a gravy train” says the crowing and baying media over MPs excessive expenses claims. Not a pretty picture that , open trains full of Bisto chugging from constituency to constituency with their brown and lumpy cargo spilling over into garden centres, real estate agents, electrical suppliers and cleaning companies. Meanwhile Alistair Dali a man who flits four times in four years is the new surrealist chancellor, flitting steadily away from responsibility, reasonable behaviour and reality. The good thing is that we are all shocked and outraged by this, we somehow expected more from these dullards. If we lived some real dictatorship or under any other totalitarian rule it would all be considered normal behaviour from the blatantly corrupt leadership. Perhaps the thin illusion of democracy has clouded our own judgement for too long.

The molehill is bigger today.

Mole Hill Daily Photo

Going Underground.

Despite the hot weather the moles have carried on working feverishly in the cool and the dark of the West Lothian underground. The mole hill is getting bigger and we are rather perplexed as to what action to take next - maybe they'll just stop, maybe they won't, maybe the house will collapse. A major worry is that moles will form an unholy alliance with the Japanese Knotweed and that may signal the end of everything.

More from the underground.

Last night we discovered another underground empire, this one overseen by a large toad. We were moving a slab and found the toad's tunnels formed by white washed snail shells, pebbles and twigs and in the middle the grey and wriggling form of the toad. After some inspection and wonderment we recovered this chilling labyrinth with a smaller stone and peace was restored. Meanwhile in another part of the garden the potatoes have started to sprout vigorously, the plan is coming together.

Mole Wars

Not an accurate mole representation.

The growing season is upon us, great swathes of green, distorted grasses and weeds, fat flapping leaves and stringy strange flowering interlopers that all must fall before the mighty strimmer. Once it’s charged and ready and I’ve finished my coffee.

Today’s background music has been brought to me thanks to the occasional use of Spotify which today has defaulted to Jonny Winter for some reason. His frenzied slide and picking is struggling to get out of the laptops wee sound holes but I cant be bothered to set up the more elaborate speakers. I’d forgotten about JW but listening to him, particularly the rough live stuff I can see the animal appeal of it all. Very busy, feverish and lick intensive playing that pleases the crowd and the fact that he is a blind albino and by now no spring chicken also springs to mind. He deserves a listen now and then.

We have a mole, maybe two. I have seen their hill, brown and fresh just outside of the back bedroom window. I suspect that more mole hills will appear and that a similar situation will arise as was two or three years ago when the high drama that was the “Crow Wars” was played out in all it’s pride and passion. The year is 2009, the month is May, welcome to the Mole Wars.

The background music is now moving onto Jeff Beck, live at Ronnie Scotts as it inevitably does but I'm going to cut more grass and make hay etc.

Owner of a lonely heart

The strange black window that is not a window.

The rhubarb harvest is coming in, stick by stick, stalk by stalk, leaf by leaf into the compost bin. The fresh stalks will be cleaned and soaked in brandy and sugar, raisins will be added and golden syrup. Then the steady baking in the slowest and most effective heat that Scottish electricity can muster - and then we breathe deeply and wait. And so to sleep.

It's true a cat can fit into a Tesco "bag for life".

Currently listening to "Owner of a lonely heart" by Yes. Going round and round in my head. Is there no end to this madness?

Life still

"Still life with fruits from tropical sources as viewed from a toy helicopter". Number 3 in a limited series of prints that are available from Invisible Graphics Plc for a reasonable period of time and an unreasonable amount of money.

It was with some relief that today’s working day ended for me and I found myself not caught up in road works, not going to a supermarket and not making the wrong choice of petrol pump on the forecourt of a soulless filling station. Home safe if a little unsound in the mind department.

Tonight is shaping up to be a night filled with a variety of entertaining possibilities: A trip to the heartlands of Fife, the chance to view the finale of the “League of Chumps” played out in some Catholic splendour and the opportunity to purchase free software and agonise over as it slowly downloads. Before all that tea will have to be ritually unfrozen and some soft drinks removed from their containers and consumed. Life is never dull but it can be predictable.

This weekend sees the return of the Hopetoun Horse Driving Trials ( last year three were found guilty , two not proven and two acquitted: boom boom), one of my favourite and least understood local events. I’ll be hanging around with the toffs eating bambi and buffalo burgers, drinking expensive beer and looking out for a hog-roast that I can observe and possibly hire. I’ll also trip over some fallen logs, shake hands with Prince Philip (one of my heroes) and stand for a long period of time in super soft horse dung without realising it. Hope the rain goes elsewhere.

Space Fish

Space fish are caught quite easily, you can use your Sky dish or even simply by using the traditional analogue television ariel. To ensure a good catch first switch off the TV but leave the mains power on (the red light). The power drawn from the network is attractive to the fish, acting as a simple bait. Atmospheric conditions play a vital part, with wispy low cloud and mist making all the difference. Sit quietly in the lounge, preferably on a comfy chair and rub your hands together, slowly but rhythmically. The heat and friction generated combined with the electricity in the TV ariel/dish system will attract the fish. The fish are trapped when they swim low through the cloud and become entangled in the static signals and rising heat, a fatal combination. They are stunned even by the relatively low voltage and fall to the ground. This can take up to half an hour so be patient but look out the window now and then to see what may have dropped by. Then simply go out with an orange B&Q bucket and collect the fish.

Once dead and rendered unattractive the fish (usually the breed “Hokiah”) should be gutted and cleaned and then oven baked in a light cream and mushroom sauce with fresh herbs and Champagne tea leaves. Don’t forget to rustle up a few boiled potatoes, butter and broccoli to go with this, it adds a nice touch of colour which may stimulate the diners appetite and gastric juices. Serve on white dishes with warm red wine set at the temperature of a Tuscany study. Keep the dessert simple, rhubarb and banana crumble or a white chocolate Magnum. With luck more fish will cooperate and appear tomorrow and you can either repeat today’s recipe, give them to a friend who likes fish or stick them in the freezer in those nice bags you get. The season for catches and experimentation is devilishly short so make the most. The astrology pages often hint strongly as when the season may begin. it’s all a matter of taste, headgear and quick response.

Then there are the giants who steal your socks, only if you are bad of course. The degrees of “badness” and the relative levels of such punishments are as yet fully undefined. Something of a moral minefield yet to be explored.

Unsafe at any speed

One careful owner, low miles and it's outlasted the Hillman Imp.

One of my daughter's kindly reminded me of a nickname I revelled in during the early eighties (not that she was there): "Tefal Heid". This came about thanks to a series of TV adverts, my bravely swept back hair style at the time and some colleagues who watched too much TV. Every so often it returns to haunt me though it fails to hurt me unlike that curious hairstyle many "round" women seem to sport (which must hurt them and certainly hurts the innocent spectator). This when they pull back their very straight, very dark hair into a severe pony tail in order to make their head appear to be the shape of a ball.

The pin eyed "ball head" then (often) sits on a ball body, topped with ball chins all served up with a white top and black (ball) leggings. It's not an uncommon look here is the malls and fine hotels of West Lothian. Does it, could it, should it have a name? The "Tweedle-Dee", the "Stern Nazi Nursery Nurse", "Mrs Tefal"?


How safe is it to eat "Healthy-living bacon" that is two days out of date? Safe but ironic I 'd say, possibly a good lifestyle choice and combination, a little risk, a little taste. I can't say that for the beleaguered smokers who are starting to look more and more odd these days. Huddled together outside pubs, sitting on doorsteps with dogs on string, leaning against large plate glass windows or staring into space in alleys piled with refuse.

It's not a happy picture and some one needs to help them and not with chewing gum or patronising campaigns. No, they need places to go, like the opium dens of old frequented by Conan-Doyle and the like. Once there they can form groups, write novels, lobby for rights and wrongs and be safe in an otherwise unsafe world. They pay their taxes (unless they are smugglers) and need places to go. Good health is undeliverable and is an illusion propped up by state propaganda, environmental and PC fascists and big business. Some choose to disregard all advice and remain "unsafe", whilst I don't envy them I respect their suicidal and animal instinct rights.

Ready, Steady,

Another crammed weekend nearly over. Week -1 for Lost Series 6 being another way of course to describe last seven non-halcyon days. Aberdeen was visited on Friday and various children and grandchildren gleefully encountered, games played, lunches lunched and science centres explored and almost destroyed. Too many cakes may have been eaten in the marvellous process.

Today (after yet another win at the football, v the mighty Pittenweem), I came dangerously close to learning how to appreciate and play the ancient game of strategy and territory known as Go. I never will play with or take up those glistening pebbles in gaming anger but I like the idea. Thanks to Mr F and Ms K. for the tuition and the Japanese feast.

Rubber fetish revisited

£12.99 from Tesco, just a little trim needed.

A busy afternoon is rushing away from me. The new rubber mats are installed in the car, only a few easy snips and cut fingers later. That had followed an encounter with a petrol station car vacuum cleaner. A new experience and one I'm not likely to repeat. After wrestling with this great suctionless hissing snake for a few minutes I realised that it had about as much breath as Grandpa Simpson walking into a blizzard. It was not providing an ideal platform for the pristine set of mats about to go down - I try but I fail. Grump.

Then arranging an odd selection of groceries, a rigid bass guitar and three large robot Transformers (= the needs of three grandsons), sundry left over items and a large and mysterious birthday present not destined for me into the reluctant boot space of Mr Cougar who needs an oil top up. Prior to this I'd had a long conversation with a motoring expert, a bloke who runs a garage, about where and when to use mineral and synthetic oils. The handbook of course advises various things described in number form but that assumes you know what's blubbering around inside your engine anyway. I was just on the point of understanding when he hit me with the sucking in air, clenched teeth, classic remark, "of course a lot of manufacturers use semi-synthetic oils these days". Groan.

Late lunch was to be a quick Burger King Whopper enjoyed alfresco at home. After leaving the Tesco jungle I sped into the BK drive through, grabbed the big bun and headed home. Sadly that was not to prove straightforward. The pot hole menders were out in force and had managed to block the main road whilst unloading a much needed tractor, a finger tapping, burger cooling delay followed. Then I found my usual easy right turn blocked by more abandoned yellow vehicles so I took what I imagined would be a speedy detour. This time it was a white van, stopped in the middle of the lane giving directions to a family of lost cyclists. When I finally arrived home a builders pick up (with a grinning radiator face) was parked across our entrance and so I abandoned all hope of a hot snack. Happiness is of course a warm bun, but under certain circumstances you take whatever you can get. Hmmmph.