Burglary and reflection

To catch a...

There is nothing like the demystifying of crime and an encounter with the hard edge of abrasive human nature to cause you to pause and check your relative position in this cracked universe. Loved ones and family always comes out on top, friends and employment follow, leisure and creative impulses fill the next few carriages of the derailed, steaming and hissing train wreck. Then it becomes a scramble to make sense of possessions and objects, tools and toys and knitted things we might use to keep out the cold. There in that new and sanctified panic room of refreshed learning and enlightenment you can give a clear and concise statement and let it hang in the moist air. Probably nobody will be listening but that doesn’t matter, it’s a reconciliation exercise that you need to undertake, more within than without, more found than lost, something, something, something. (I intend to keep my laptop in my cavernous boot and there are guards everywhere.)

So the bags of spoil and evidence were piled up on the table, sad and muddy after their ordeal, time out in the wild, unloved, rejected and almost returned to nature except for the intervention of Linlithgow’s finest. Our shopping list has diminished but the electrical goods remain out there in pubs, on eBay or Gumtree and the Sky card is in the back pocket of someone’s jeans. They were promised Sky Sports, Movies and all the good music channels when they handed over their forty quid, sadly all they got was Living, Sci-fi and Dave. He-haw.

So what’s done is done and I console myself with bottle of cheap red wine, a smoked sausage chopped up and basted in pasta sauce, eyeing up evolving plans to buy big dogs and bigger jeeps, because we can. There is no doubt we are where we are meant to be, I’m at a fizzy point of peace and I can load more free music up onto Jamendo as a charitable gesture of thanks to the rest of Europe, for still being there.

Motorcycle Diaries

Finally got round to watching this film, a marvellous experience, filled in a few gaps within my knowledge and romanticised a legend a little more. Nothing wrong with a dose of that.

Meanwhile various crimes and misdemeanours have been committed on our patch and the beginnings of a new and brave new world of siege mentality are building up. Then of course it will diminish as time passes and other experiences build up in their place. The tide forever turns...and we need a dog and a flock of geese.

Great to hear that the UK Government and big Gordy will pursue the Libyans for victim related compensation for innumerable IRA crimes. Then of course we'll need to pursue the various US groups who financed the procurement of bomb making materials and then we can follow that up with rearresting the many guilty terrorists and extremists released as part of the NI Peace Process. Bloody Sunday marvellous - an exercise in double standards that must be the envy of the rest of world. Were is Bono when you need him?

Sunday PM

Typical countryside scene in the Hopetoun Woods area.

Often on a Sunday afternoon the mind turns to bigger questions, we reflect, he hope, we consider...we also peel shed loads of apples and take long coffee breaks in between flicking across the acres of available Sunday news print. Slow news day today it would seem.

Pickles & Beatles

Raw materials patiently await their fate.

The chutney diaries

There was a certain air of cottage industry in the cottage yesterday. The effort began with some strenuous stretching and pole dancing in desperate attempt to pick apples from the apple tree and a few odd plums from the plum tree. So using a combination of a step ladder, a pole and a picking head we harvested about six pounds of apples in the rain and also in buckets. The procedure was reminiscent of something that might have been depicted in a Spike Milligan cartoon, all spiky lines and scaffolding. The apples and plums form the base ingredients for the chutney, other herbs, spices, vinegar and mysterious substances were added after the marathon peeling session was done. Then a handy cauldron was placed on the open fire and we allowed the mixture to stew and simmer. In a parallel exercise glass storage jars were sterilised, castrated, vulcanised and baked in the electric Aga in anticipation of being filled with the brown boiled broth. Once two months have passed we will know if we have succeeded.

The Beatles etc.

The Beatles work, play and general level of exceptional genius is being celebrated mostly in black and white on the BBC. 40 years since this and 42 years since that and time has passed we are told. Everything is significant and everybody involved had a hand in changing popular culture as they built a chain smoking road out of the sixties that funnily enough got us into the seventies. They regularly remind us of these things when wheeled out on chat shows and chatting interminably in the Sunday supplements. John Lennon had a blacked out Rolls Royce which was understandably very difficult to steer from 60 to 70 or even at relatively slow speeds. All of that made getting out of the seventies a bit of a struggle but eventually pop music made it to the eighties: good in places I‘m told, some remarkable births occurred and stray mullets were contrived before surprise surprise along came the nineties. Disappointment was all around and unbridled up to a point. So I’m not sure about this at all and whatever happened next had a smiley face, big films, drug references and air conditioning attached and sadly a number of good people didn’t quite make it.

Back in the sixties things are still the way they were and that’s relief to all of us who remain resistant to change and move outside of time, according to the BBC we are somewhere in India. I believe Ringo owned a special Mini filled with drums but not oil drums, they don’t make them like that anymore. Still we listen to Sgt Pepper, the album and the stereo sound, perhaps not appreciating the music and invariably misunderstanding the lyrics, but I am constantly reminded that nothing is real and I was rather immature at the time and so were you. Some say that Abbey Road is a better record anyway.

The chutney diaries again

The chutney is now in the jar(s). The diary is closed for the time being.

Perfectly poised, posing in their pots, the chutney sets and hibernates till ready.

Motor Museum

Sometimes our house is quite busy, full of friends and family or the same but in the reverse order. It’s nothing like this photograph however but I’ve taken to being rather fond of it (the photo), a feeling that will rapidly pass. I quite like the horizontal figure in the floor level basement beneath the mock-Tudor Chapel.

So we trailed along the trail that is known as the Fife Coastal Path and came upon the fine West Lothian town that is Borrowstone Town Nessnessness or Bo’ness for short. At that point we realised that we had strayed quite away from the silvery Tay and had little alternative other than pay a visit to the motor museum, mostly on account of the incessant rain (see previous blogs) and the need to chat. It was well worth the loss of a fiver to see a fine line of James Bond vehicles, 50’s relics and a shining example of my favourite car of all time, a Delorean. These magic beasts could have been all over our streets and motorways had it not been for the buffoonery of the UK government, the failure of the tax payer to stump up some cash, the Troubles and the uncovering of one or two of JD’s more unfortunate and ill conceived business practices. I’m sure that in some parallel universe the venture succeeded and that gleaming Deloreans are out there now, cruising down leafy boulevards, hogging the fast lane, school running only and petulant children and taking a bashing in ASDA car parks.

Front ended Delorean that may never quite recover from it's car park bashing.

49 days of rain on Skye

I was going to write a lengthy piece about the rather bizarre, wooden and knotted legs that belong to TV and movie superstar Sarah Jessica Parker. However on starting this project I realized that I was unable to find the original photo that first sparked the idea. Needless to say I’ve now looked at numerous photos of the said SJP but as yet not found the weird leggy one so the piece has been abandoned or at least put on hold pending further research.

The 40 days of rain on Skye was a reference to an article in the Daily Telegraph Pole that said something about something regarding at least 49 days of consecutive rain experienced by the small Scottish village of Skye on the island of Cloud (made famous in various boat songs and Vanilla themed films). It may well be touching 52 or 53 by now, we certainly are here in West Lothian although our counting skills are lamentable so I’m less than sure.

Meanwhile “devil may care” raconteur Mr Alexander Brother Salmond has released a series of policies and proposals on the numb and unsuspecting Scottish public. This followed his previous release of a mass murderer on the grounds of chronic “international class” attention seeking and the over use of inverted commas. Anyway we’re now getting the chance to vote for a new Forth Bridge, fiscal autonomy and also freedom from the oppressive English based weather, a phenomenon that has troubled us since approximately 1314, or quarter past one. I may scrape a pencil on paper and register a vote or two once my opportunity comes then again I may avoid the Newton community centre altogether and head straight for the village pub now made safe thanks to number of swinging regulations that prevent the sale of alcohol to Chavs and other minority groups. There is of course only one word for all of this and that is Draconian. “A pint of Draconian please my good man“.

40 days of rain on Skye

Ali says “I’m not really sure that bread and fish go well together”, my retort “ I rather think that the Lord Jesus would have something to say about that “.

So where would you rather spend your last few days? Within one of the world’s harshest political regimes where human rights are a joke, where a despotic dynasty rules, the media is corrupt and controlled and health care inconsistent and is patchy, or would you prefer to die in Libya?

Google maps and sat pics are officially unreliable and out of date. We’ve not lived in Inchgarvie House for over four years but according to the great G our cars are still parked there. (Maybe they are and maybe some good looking doppelganger couple are driving them around and managing to avoid us). You do have to twiddle with this:



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Golden Wonders x 2

The last potato harvest has come in, just prior to the monsoon season restarting. Plums are next, in fact right on the cusp of harvesting now and the apples are following up at the rear. Then it's back to famine, pot noodles and cheese on toast.

Question: How long to you have to leave a loaf in the bread bin before it develops strange sweet smelling growths that are white and wispy like alien spiders webs?

Answer: Only a few days it would seem, well maybe a week at a push. It can happen though and when left to it's own devices domestic science never fails to prove it's point with mould, fungus and weird growth spurts.

Dumped this vid on Facebook a few minutes ago, it's about 18 minutes long but worth watching. Deserves to go viral as some might say.

Dunfermline Upper

There was at one time an Upper and Lower Dunfermline railway station. Now there is just a Dunfermline (and a weird hospital stop to the East). The Upper was paved over to host a B&Q, Comet and various curtain shops thereby creating another kind of modern wasteland (and a Sheriff Court). A few good pubs, British Leyland dealerships and streets also perished in the unfortunate aftermath of what is known as 60's economies and 70's town planning and the birth of the retail park. Now all that remains of our grand railway heritage is this sign, propped up against a mail truck in the Bo'ness Railway Museum. Progress.

The news that the nasal and whinging Oasis brothers have finally had a final tiff and jacked it all must surely come as a relief to music lovers from Manchester to Mexico City. Only the tabloids will miss them albeit their musical nosediving will probably continue to keep them in the public domain till Friday (latest). Glad to see their shameless Beatles rip-off finally grind to a foul mouthed halt. Progress.

The road and the miles

I was (and you may be as well) shocked/appalled/indifferent/suicidal/quite happy/grim faced/philosophical/pleased* (*delete as applicable) to discover this vintage bootleg CD recording of the first proper, grown up gig I ever went to. It's out there on the web somewhere and you can probably buy it if you are mad enough. Some sly Dundonian obviously crept into the Caird Hall with a Grundig battery operated cassette recorder concealed inside his greasy combat jacket and then pressed the play and record key to capture the event on some Woolworths (Winfield) C90.

As I recall the overall noise level in the Caird Hall was at ear splitting level and there was a high degree of riotous assembly going on within the audience. Some chaps with long hair and scarves were smoking Players No6, drinking from bottles and carousing with willowy young women in tight jeans and peasant tops. Perhaps the brave bootlegger stood to one side in some perfect acoustic zone so that the music flowed into the primitive microphone he was holding thus avoiding the mayhem in the auditorium. I presume he managed to avoid the attentions of Mr Peter Grant who would have quietly cracked his skull for such an offence, then again it may have been a roadie who did it as an inside job.

I noticed that the review gave it 2 out of 10 for sound quality and 6 out of 10 for content: no surprises there then. At the very least I'd give the front cover a decent score, I think it may include some older members of the Broccoli family who have sadly moved onwards and upwards since ending their chosen careers, hammering spikes into railway sleepers.

Heard it on the tiny speakers

What is the measure of your success? For a holistic view of that and what might mean an appropriate answer, forget it. Too many spikes, flat lines and screaming dips along the way to take any kind of general view. Occasionally however a performance indicator comes along that isn’t just a bank balance print, a speedometer dial or a birthday card count. This week’s semi-permanent and possible to fail at any time measure is the newly discovered Jamendo music player and general gatherer of statistics and slushy numbers on the flickering screen. In our line of extremely low level promotion, activity and generally “not giving a stuff” Jamendo has yielded a strange and unexpected phenomenon - actual attention translated into stats and reviews. I suppose it’s not all that odd but for us considering the relatively short time we’ve been active on this site coupled with the numbers is unusual and a little unsettling - perhaps unbelievable. It may simply be that this wed site holds an audience that we’ve never before encountered and that their appetites and interest are set at levels we are unfamiliar with. Certainly it is a mainly European mainland focused thing (based in Luxembourg), so that removes the plethora of look-alikes and look nothing likes that inhabit myspace, cdbaby and reverb nation etc. Any progress there is hard work and not particularly rewarding, you sweat waiting on downloads, feedback, comments and streams that never come or are reported 6 months after the event. By then you’ve stopped caring. So Jamendo has rewarded us by at least restoring some faith and belief in the power of…power. The scores so far after 5 days activity and no promotion on our part are (according to the Luxembourg jury): 1471 listens, 47 downloads, 7 starred (no idea what that means!), play listed 4, reviews 4 (1 in Spanish), an overall rating of 7.3 out of 10 and one garbled message from an Estonian prostitute. Bizarre in a splendid, remote (phew!) and slightly unhinged European way.

Poor Man’s Noodles - the return

It’s strange how you return to comfort foods, even when you are not uncomfortable, even when you are smug, self righteous and on top of the world. In actual fact I’m none of these (aspirational) things, more hungry than anything. I first discovered the concept of Poor Man’s noodles on some blank afternoon idly watching the second disc that accompanied the feature Spirited Away, one of the few second discs I‘ve ever watched. The director Hayao Miyazaki shows how he treats the animation team to an evening meal following a long session of scribbling and pencilling the characters. He has an enormous vat of bubbling instant noodles into which he adds smoked mackerel and about a dozen raw eggs. Then he ladles the slurpy gloop into small white bowls and distributes it around the workforce who quickly devour it with chopsticks, wide smiles and an some eager satisfaction. Maybe it’s a Japanese custom for the boss to cook dinner now and again and serve his staff with mock Eastern humility. Any way I immediately thought; “eggs, mackerel and noodles, how can such a concoction fail?” Indeed, once I’d gathered the ingredients and tried it out I was not disappointed, albeit some might see it as an acquired taste and the consistency and pale colouring as a little extreme. You have to break through the colour thing though and just enjoy the warm and filling feeling (?). This recipe is not to be confused with some noodle based aberration that omits the fish and adds cheese and butter, not the real thing and you will die bitterly disappointed. So the PMN has returned to my recipe cannon, thinking now of opening a fast food joint based on them. Might not succeed here but in a world of spirits and monsters…

Selected media moments

Tales from Earthsea. Somewhere on the Skybox ex-Film 4.
“When you dance I can really love” Neil Young.
“Cinnamon Girl” Neil Young.
“Silence of the Trams” See it on UTube.
Scotland on Sunday - various topical articles.
Candide on Wikipedia - climbing the cultural mountain.
Channel Four News - Channel 4 presumably.
Learning about Annualism.
Annualing about Learningism.

My city in ruins...

Farewell then to Scotland's international reputation, ruined for the time being by the actions of the theologically challenged and evangelical Mr MacAskill and the seedy and greasy Mr Salmond. Meanwhile the real power brokers stay deathly silent and remove themselves one or two degrees from the heat of the action and will remain there until the furore dies down. Uncomfortable times.

The rain returned with a vengeance beating down as I hurried over to the kingdom early this morning to deal with some unplanned working events. It was dripping down my nose in the early morning light and down my back: Must get me a Barbour and a sturdy 4 x 4 if I am to pursue this outdoor lifestyle successfully.

Next was an attempt at the classic Sunday morning occupation of goal post erection coupled with net untangling: this should really be an Olympic sport, done by teams of two, denied the essential Velcro, no ladder, ill matching uprights and crossbars, no mole clamps and done in a howling gale against the clock and under the disapproving eye of an eager referee. Surely a sport our beleaguered footballing nation could triumph in and in a small way we'd be involved in the beautiful game at some level, it might in fact enhance our crumbling coefficient. At the very least it could be part of the pre-match entertainment at the World Cup.

Lunch was provided by the local House-Elf garden centre, roll-mop herring, celery salad and a scone on jam. Just about odd enough to keep me going till the mince and tatties platter arrives tonight, it's a common enough meal amongst ethnic minority members and outcasts.

I vow to thee my clunker

Could this be the greatest product the world has ever seen? Naturally not available in the UK where a conspiracy of purchasing and procurement dumbing down reigns. No, this life saving item can't be bought in the newly "just and compassionate" environs of Scotland, but you can get it for a measly $3 in any Winn-Dixie in the States. Attempt to buy it here and you'll be blanked or end up in Halfords with a smaller European Redex product that costs £10 and doesn't exactly promise the earth in terms of performance.

Anyway, enough ranting, it works a treat on power steering noises and leaks and is currently pulsing through the veins and arteries of Mr Cougar keeping it all sweet (for the time being). As for Mandelson's ridiculous and obscene scrappage scheme, how about some compassion for the ill and aging car population? Save the clunkers I say, the cars that have actually been driven and used properly and clocked 100k deserve better than a paltry £2000 signing off fee. In fact only yesterday Mr Cougar had to perform emergency surgery on a poor old MR2 with a distinct starting problem and a badly located battery (what were Toyota thinking with that design?) on a petrol station forecourt, try doing that with a new Kia Picanto or any Renault.

Big in Japan

Finally we are making a breakthrough on the mainland of that magical and far away place called Western Europe. The cultural and musical trade barriers are coming down and it's looking strangely and unexpectedly good, even in Spain and even in Spanish. This flourish of activity may of course be a total fluke, I'm carrying out a series of intensive tests to establish the full facts. Next step of course is to crack Japan, once we master the Nippon web language and translate our great swathes of material.

In the garden we now have a strain of grass that grows an inch a day. It was chopped on Monday and by this afternoon was back being a jungle. Why isn't there a chemical available? The potatoes on the other hand remain small but tasty and we are now three quarters through the crop. It was worth the dig.

Libyan human rights?

Keep on rockin' in free world etc. etc.

Libya's record on human rights is rather poor. Some 200 North African refugees were rounded up and tortured this month as they crossed over the border, some were killed. At least 20 Libyans were shot this month by troops from their own army. In Libya it is illegal to criticise or disagree with the government and those who do disappear... but we keep on rockin'...

Of course we here in Scotland now occupy the moral high ground, our politicians have shown compassion and mercy, marvellous and lofty examples of humanity at its best some would say. We can now be smug and self righteous and applaud the values that lead us into holding the world's moral compass, so we think. Another view may be that the UK is weak and bewildered, our sense of purpose and justice has become diluted. We huff and puff to impress with our waspish actions, hand wringing and an artificial sense of "the right thing being done". Two hundred and more dead souls cry out for justice from the green fields of Lockerbie and thousands more from the hot sand and dust of Libya. Their voices are unheard in the international clamour for political clout, power and the black, black oil.

Fish supper

After accidentally stepping into some spilled diesel at a Shell station I experienced that awful feeling of losing one's footing on the clutch, at a junction. My left foot was behaving as if it was on the Cresta Run, my car was behaving as if some incontinent lunatic was poking it's innards with a sharp stick. With 15 minutes to go before my son's football match kicked of I decided that a de-stress reward was needed and headed into the garden city of Rosyth for a fish supper needed for a late and partly forgotten tea. £3.90 and three minutes later my diesel soul was clean and I was scoffing hot chips and white fish. Next a short hop across to the legendary Civil Service Club (where as a young man I learned the fine arts of drinking and smoking) and its football pitches for a feast of rainy entertainment that ended in a friendly 3 - 1 defeat. Just can't quite get the chippy/diesel smell out of the car.

Green Mile mouse

I like animals, in fact I'm sitting on one in the left of this picture and not being bad to it all, quite the reverse, a few minutes later "Blue" decided to try to be bad to me by attempting to unseat me, another story for another day. So back to the facts, this morning the cats presented me with yet one more dead mouse. Poor thing, pathetic, spark out on the floor boards and ignored by it's furry killers. " Was it not warm?" asked Ali, "do you expect me to give it the kiss of life?" I said. Sadly I've not got the Green Mile gift but I've found another way to recycle the many miscellaneous dead creatures the cats regularly provide. An easy quick flip with a plastic dustpan over the hedge and into the potholes of our unmade roadway, untouched by human hand regardless of their body temperature. Their tiny remains smoothing the way for local traffic of all sorts.

A break in the weather gave me the rare opportunity for an excellent aerobic strimmer workout. First the fueling ceremony where you try to get a 1:50 ratio between petrol and two stroke mix without soaking your jeans. Then pulling the start chord on the mighty 30cc engine in a bid to coax it into life. With a compression setting that would shame a Harley Davidson this can take time and effort, swearing and sweat. Once it's running then you leave it to warm up (no kiss of life) and then pull the trigger, stall it and start the whole bloody agonising process again. Finally we are roaring and cutting, up to my knees in nettles and thistles, weed debris flashing in all directions as I seem to stand inside this petrol powered vegetation liquidiser (the safety goggles effect). An hour later the garden is totally devastated and I am plastered with green muck so I remove all my spattered clothes at the back door and head for the shower. Phew.

Fish pie

Not quite the table setting for tonight's feast

The oven is on at 200 and the fish pie is slowly baking, we are in rundown, worn out and full Sunday night/Monday morning mode. A busy weekend is passing , six times across the bridge and back again, busy bbqs, weather and it's many moods, football, stir fry experiments, teeming weans and waning teens and no strimming done. Now it's time to make some plans and eat the pie...

How high the moon?

Nothing is happening apart from dodging meteorite showers and observing migratory birds. The weather is playing havoc with the TV schedules and the grass cutting. Somewhere in Edinburgh a festival is taking place and tram building works are stalling while money remains in there as yet another thing to be argued over. Holidays are complete and there is a cheese mountain somewhere else close by. Meanwhile a lorry load of writer’s blocks have been dumped on the doorstep as we await a decision on planning permission.

I’ve two Les Paul type guitars, one a 1973 Antoria, heavier and more dense than a Gibson and 2008 Gibson/Baldwin Les Paul that is a little less substantial but easier to carry. The man behind those designs but not the production has died at the age of 94. His gifts to the world were multi-tracking and a solid lump of wood that has churned out the heaviest riffs and licks for the last fifty years. No mealy mouthed twang or screechy ping from these guitars, just wails and growls and some rare moments with the pots screwed down and the amp cranked up to create the legendary “woman” sound , one that many try to reach but few attain. Thanks for the dream and a possible means of getting there.