Body Mass Index Angst

After a number of years of self image struggle, footwear problems and expanding trousers I have now been reduced and summarised into a cruel set of numbers, none of which I understand. My total gross weight has fairly ballooned since I was last weighed in 1955, I appear to have rocketed from 9lbs or so to an astonishing 12st 7lbs, where those other 11st 12lb came from I'll never know, though I suspect that the never ending Christmas Chilly pot and my slow new-age metabolism may have something to do with it.

I also now have a newly realised Body Mass Index (or BMI as those in the know put it), this scores me at 27.6 and, a bit like our well respected banks, places me effectively into something known as the red zone. I'm not sure if I should be proud, scared or indifferent. Thankfully my BMI is a little less than a black hole ~10⁵–10^{9 M Sun.}

Body fat comes in an impressive 3.7 standard pounds, which sounds more like a figure skating score based on some artistic tumbles and a crash into the advertising boards. Body Fat Percentage is a respectable 27.6, much of this most dangerous of materials is or course contained in my head and based on years of prejudice, good humoured bigotry and listening to rubbish music whilst eating Mars Bars and drinking Irn-Bru. There is little hope of a healing taking place, liposuction between the ears seems the only workable solution followed by a course of political correction therapy from the Jack Straw Institute .

Finally we have Body Water Percentage; 52.6. I thought that, based on the Charles Darwin, Mark Twain and the Incredible Hulk School of Meta-Psychics that I was pretty much 99% water anyway, the rest being cocoa butter, olive oil and unsaturated fat plus a few Spanish related E numbers. Wrong again, but I must stop this persistent urination and involuntary twitching.

Thankfully then modern science and the bathroom scales department at John Lewis have given me more to worry about than I ever dreamed possible as my body (unlike my unsound mind) expands at a rate approximately twice that of the rest of the universe. Soon like some bloated cloud of toxic MacDonald's garbage I shall overcome and absorb much of Central Scotland, then Europe and eventually the red might that is China itself. Sound like a neat plan.

How it all may end unless portions are reduced and I eat from plates made in Lilliput, the overall full head of hair effect would actually be ok.

International oven symbol

Old man rests in new case.

The older I get the more frustrated I get about the lack of an easily recognisably, internationally and religiously recognised symbol for the humble electric oven in the domestic kitchen environment. It’s what the world needs right now. Our bridies and in extreme cases pasties are crying out for a simple indicator to be established.

Today is the birthday of Elvis Presley but unfortunately he is far too dead to enjoy it.

Meanwhile I spent a few hours or was it nano-seconds restringing a guitar, fiddling with tiny allen keys and cross head screws, removing unfriendly buzzes and glitches and winding machine heads, stretching the strings and surprisingly improving the overall action. For a short while I felt like some wise old successful watchmaker bring the cold metal to life, adjusting and tuning and (I think) improving. The problem is that new strings and a degreased fret board don’t make your fingers any more agile or upgrade basic and rutted skills to those of a virtuoso, not so far anyway.

The snow has returned to fill the 3” vacuum that the previous dump left when it was salted away by the delayed but eventually enthusiastic clearance by the authorities. They, like those nebulous creatures “the general public” none of whom I have ever met except at the odd bus stop or funeral, hate the slippy white stuff. Anyway the powers that be abhor the snow, unless it is viewed through glass in the Alps or figures in the backgrounds of the Heroes of Telemark and so are hell bent on stamping it out provided the budget and the prime contractors allow. Meanwhile the be-wigged Transport Minister keeps one eye on the weather but remains preoccupied with providing the Forth Bridge painters with high protein breakfasts; rightly so in my view. Once winter is over, sometime in May, we’ll have a full and robust wash up, look at lessons learned and enjoy a feast of seasonal smoked salmon and free range scrambled eggs.

The turbulent weather, the jet stream and my chronic misunderstanding of the concept of time meant that I missed the window of opportunity to get to the dump. My car is now full of rubbish, still steaming in the boot and back seats 24 hours later. Tomorrow, regardless of weather or potential personal injury I will seek out an open dump and once I find it, dump.

Puzzled

Why is it that computers, despite years of development still cause so much irritation and swear word production to the likes of dullards like me? Appliances (like laptops) should just work as a car or dishwasher does when you press a button. "Programme not responding" is my trusty laptop's favourite catchphrase, the other variations being "Windows Explorer not responding" and "Google Chrome not responding", utterly useless and frustrating. So despite numerous clear-outs, reboots, updates, scans and various other events it still persists in stopping, shutting down or just going as slow as a drunken slug in a drunken slug race.

If I didn't know better I'd suspect that it was built and programmed during the heyday of the mighty British Leyland but no it's some Chinese piece of HP sourced mass produced black plastic gunge purchased by me from a local Currys emporium when I was it seems at my most uniformed and naive. Roll on the next day and the bright new morning of the golden eagle's easy cash machine deposit when I will seriously think about proper corrective action and then not bother to take it.

Stop press: late Christmas present arrival, 1500hrs today. Snazzy Les Paul case, I feel the need to book a flight to somewhere and do a spot of impromptu electric busking on arrival. Life, despite the devilish and regular laptop torture is good.

Bad cat

This is how we treat bad (IKEA) cats who get down and get dirty in our house.

Sam Barber and the Outcasts at the Voodoo rooms Edinburgh, 05/01/11.

A good time was had by all.

Back to work Wednesday

No chocolate, no fried breakfast, no lie in, no hoovering, no hovering either. Back at work and, strangely while I was there some ex-Amazon material arrived at home, which thanks to the time it took to get here must have been dispatched from the dark heart of the Amazon Basin itself - but there are still more items out there, somewhere.

What we did today

Ali and I did a spot of clothes shopping in the toon with a brief interlude for tea and toast in a fine eating establishment at the concrete and concrete Ocean Terminal. The only ocean terminal I know of that does not in fact have an ocean of any type nearby. Ali got a nice hat with feathers and a refitted fur collar, I got my new bowler polished and a ream of buff paper flyers to hold.

There was a good movie on at the Vue Cinema so we watched it and ate ice cream, some people say it may win an award or two, you never can tell (the movie not the ice cream).

Missy was accidentally uploaded onto Facebook but doesn't seem to mind and is none the worse. Sadly nobody likes her so far and of course I'm now on the Fife Facebook Diet.

Downstairs daily photo

Youngest daughter's classy piece of doodling (detail) on a scrap of card. Retrieved from the dining room table earlier this morning.

Grandson No2's recent monster sketch, fixed by fridge magnet (Obama photo or egg timer) to the fridge door (lower), obviously in the kitchen.

Discovered item (in piano stool) in the living room. Alternate career path and income stream pursued by the seven dwarfs prior to their one big hit of 1937 or whenever.

Downstairs lobby, on the basket thing top where stuff awaits mostly categorisation, collection or abandonment. Instruction booklet for the new and very capable hoover, which is in fact a Vax.

Other random things accomplished:

Rogue and unloved Christmas tree surgically removed from living room via front door, now naked and prostrate in front garden.

Glitter and tinsel boxed and placed in 360 day storage system.

Major laundry and bed sorting works undertaken.

Pasta masterpiece created from found items in the bottom of the refrigerator.

Two Christmas specials retrieved from Sky Plus and consumed (score, three out of five for both).

Christmas officially over.

37 days later

Co-op car park, 1705, 1st January 2011.

37 days later, snow sculptures, debris, broken trees and road damage still remain everywhere, no sign of a permanent fix or an early Spring. Christmas and New Year have been way too busy but way too good and much time has been taken up with...life. Blogging and all the other peripheral stuff has stopped, simply no time, pleasantly all on hold or something. Meanwhile the Facebook diet (twice a week max) has started and I've culled a few "friends" so that the whole thing makes a little more sense. I've also lost track of time, holidays can have a weird, happy effect on things. No plans to retire however.

Boxing Day just

I love the smell of Pot Noodle in the morning, or even at 1235, the actual time. Some well meant predictions from 2010:

“I pledge to vote against an increase in tuition fees”, Nick Clegg, Vince Cable, Danny Alexander etc.

“2010 will be an excellent year for higher education”, Alan Johnston.

“A British nuclear disaster and a Tory victory (?)”, Sarah Goldsmith.

“David Cameron will fail to form a government”, James Macintyre.

“England to win the World Cup”, Mathew Burgess and Marco Dion.

“David Milliband to lead the Labour Party”, Nick Robinson.

“This winter will be unusually mild and dry”, Met Office on 28th October 2010.

“Quantum physics to discover how to generate electricity from water”, Jane’s Psychic Predictions for 2010.

“The Euro is a protection against the (financial) crisis“, Jose Manuel Barraso.

“We’ll write more material and play more gigs in 2010”, Impossible Songs.

I admire all good and hopeful intentions of these prediction makers, sadly they didn’t get it right for a variety of reasons. The older you get the more you realise that nobody really knows what they are talking about, but clearly they enjoy living in the illusion and broadcasting whenever is convenient. So what about 2011?

When the day began I had a headful of wild, trapped and untapped ideas. It was a marvellous experience, mulling over how these ideas would eventually translate into some kind of reality. It all looked so promising until I thoughtlessly sipped a cup of coffee and read one of the Sunday papers. The mind work was immediately erased and I am left, desolate with a blank sheet of crumpled paper somewhere inside my head, that is until I start again tomorrow.

Spent the rest of this chilly Boxing Pox afternoon studying Durer’s Rhinocesors, Franks Casket, the Lindow Man and the potted history of Barclay James Harvest.

Last Christmas Post

Merry Christmas etc.

As it was Christmas Eve I decided to spend my Lottery winnings on a slap up breakfast whilst on the way to work. 32% of the loot was swiftly squandered on a McMuffin meal at the frozen drive-thru. By the time I got to the office I had to reheat the entire ensemble in the microwave and waft the sausage and latte smell from the window. Tasty! The remaining cash has gone towards that villa in the Vendee, a silver Bentley, a '59 Les Paul and various trust funds and charities. Satisfying.

Once breakfast was over I wandered around the estate and from time to time stood still and listened, mostly for snow noises and odd items of wildlife. Peaceful and for those few brief moments I truly felt goodwill to all men, women, squirrels and people in general. The timeless magic of Christmas, the deep cold and some mid-winter madness had descended upon me, like some seasonal and very pleasant drug. Lunch was with my close family after a sleigh run, French onion soup and playing with the grand kids. All very excited.

When I got home and parked up, the cat (Clint) ran out of the house and pissed on my car. Odd, slightly insulting but forgivable behaviour. Then we ate Bambi burgers and brown sauce, visited Aberdour, drank two G&Ts, some homemade plum vodka and a slug of Japanese whisky. Merry Christmas when it comes around, there is no law against it as far as I know.

Socialism

The real tragedy in the Tommy Sheridan case is twofold, Gail's mistaken loyalty coupled with loved-up blindness and the self inflicted death of Scottish Socialism for at least a generation. Well done Tommy, your idiotic and self-righteous behaviour sustains the awful political imbalance at a time when it's the last thing we need and in the process ruins innocent lives.

Travel plans

Snow Patrol

We have normalised into a snowbound, blinding white lifetime experience. Cold is the new warm, drafts are the new summer breezes and slides are the new steadies. Everything takes longer, traffic moves occasionally and when it does it seems to be in slow motion and on the verge of imminent collision. Travel has become a tense, peculiar experience, like in some perpetual frozen water flume or via Flybe. Our arrival anywhere is uncertain with the only certainty being the ever decreasing temperatures exploring the plummeting minus scales. Coal fires struggle against the freezing air, spitting weak willed heat in the great chasm of cold that surrounds and envelopes all like a silent cold breath of death.

The beauty and wonder that we once observed in snow flakes and winter frosting now mocks us and holds us in it’s icy grip, enthralled not by the artistry and intricacy of pattern but by the choking power of this white blanket of suffocation. We remain stuck in our tracks, no traction, no action, only the cruel depth of unfathomable cold that holds the germs and bacteria at bay, that stops the virus spreading and chills the tiny birds as they fall to earth in the stillness of the early morning air.

Meanwhile the public blame the politicians, BAA, the Royal Mail and the authorities who can only blame the un-forecast weather, the recession, the general lack of funding and the climate’s changes on all of their predecessors. Of course nobody is wholly responsible, we are unable to plan for the unexpected and the unthinkable and such planning, if it ever existed would quickly be dismissed as unaffordable and unrealistic so why bother? Ditch the mathematical models, the speculation, let the cold wash over you and rush away, like bank statements or exam results the numbers are only scribbles on a page or symbols on a dial, they are not excuses for misery or inaction. Embrace the perverse non warmth and uncertainty of the new ice age, it will only last until the next lunar eclipse, the next schizophrenic volcanic episode or the outcome of the next unsatisfactory general election.

Dark

Playing games in the dark is too risky, a court has ruled and the darkness and any associated play that may take place in it has been outlawed forever. Lady Justice Smith and Lord Justice Ward have dismissed an appeal by the Boy Scouts over a £7000 compensation claim. So no more games in the dark for the Scouts or any other character building organisation that might seek to remove the young from their tedious and tame lives, now incessantly lived in a pointless cotton wool wrapped and video screen glare. Apparently “Playing in the dark creates an unacceptable risk” if you are young and live in Castle Bromwich in the West Midlands.

Bridies

Because it’s cold all of the time basic things like food consumption and sleep form the majority of the day’s highlights. Today is steak bridie and donut day, an annual event when, on the cusp of Christmas celebrations and other vague and misunderstood Solstice pursuits we have a Stephen’s lunch and an unrelated quiz. The nourishment elements outstrip the quiz - generally I perform quite poorly in the quiz but perform rather well in the bridie and donut consumption. There is no prize for that only the warm and unseen glow of internal smugness. Merry Bridiemess.

What's wrong with Jeff Beck?

Listening to "Emotion and Commotion" is a curious experience, the touch, the tone and the technical ability are all there; just not enough emotion or commotion. Another puzzler of an album sliding into the ranks of easy listening, great mashing, growling standards and growing old rather gracefully but it all adds up to something that's a bit ineffective.

Ubiquitous flakes

Snow x 3 somewhere in the trees panorama. Today has been yet another snow day.

Cherry Mallow Pop Tarts: bought in the cold and snow in a pleasant enough Safeway in Banff, Canada, sometime back then in September. They made the long journey back from Canada to Scotland - now sadly are gone, but they did form the foundations of a few highly nutritious breakfasts. Note toaster setting four was used hence the burnt edges.

Trying hard to be a real dog but failing miserably in the cafe at Sainsbury's (as per yesterday's chocolate snowball), this fine fellow keeps watch over the car park and the rival and apparently inferior cafe at M&S across the way. Naturally he ignores the chavy and unhealthy KFC premises that lie between. Your own cuddly dog for a mere £14.99.

Snow photography, still trying to capture those elusive but ubiquitous flakes.

Safe as milk

The death of some old rock star or musician becomes a regular and (as the heroes fall) a more poignant event each time. Today it's the Captain (first person to use that moniker as I recall) who has shuffled far beyond this mortal thingy. As part of that elusive "sweet song of youth" memory, I remember sitting upstairs listening to Beefheart, downstairs my parents were watching the Black and White Minstrels. In many ways that sums up the generational divide that took place then, certainly in my life in the early seventies, it says something about what might be considered weird now and mainstream then. Progress, prejudice, knowledge and the dawn of art rock.

Sainsbuy's cafe: beware the hot chocolate snowball. A mind bending, overdosing sugar rush that pushes the on the boundary of good sense and health, almost like some sweet poison, not sure I could stomach it again.

Frozen Friends Cryogenics...

…was the name of a virtual company I formed, the name being stolen from a Larson Far Side cartoon. The company was a dummy manufacturing (and cryogenic) outfit that I was using to test MRP software. That’s “Materials Requirements Planning, in fact it was MRP II now that I think about it. As we were struggling to freeze the dead effectively and working against time it meant that there were a lot of refrigeration components in the inventory and just to keep it interesting some bodies. Frozen Friends was used as a training aid, a pilot site and as a place to trial the software repair patches that invariably dog such systems. Now it’s gone, my career (?) has moved on and that’s that. I still have fond but vague and misty, almost frozen memories.

Ready meals are never quite as ready as the name suggests. For one thing I don’t like micro waving them so they get the oven treatment. That takes thirty five minutes, maybe forty five if the meal was mistakenly frozen so there is a lot of waiting attached to a ready meal feast. They do that peculiar shrinking thing also where they shape shift mysteriously in the over, they bubble and blacken at the edges and then form an unexpectedly strong bond with the plastic tub. Hungry and lazy people like me eat them from the tub, this saves on numerous other dull and wasteful processes and gets to the heart of the matter, eating the boiling gloop. That’s a more appropriate name, boiling gloop.

Christmas cards are pointless but I lack the courage and conviction to stop sending them (or giving them to be precise). They seem now like objects from a bygone age, like pigeon post or the pony express, like stone tablets or slate and chalk. They have a life of about five seconds, the time taken to read the names and greetings and then say (either inwardly or outwardly to your partner) “oh it’s from X and Y, nice…” Then the card is made to stand in a geometrically challenging way on a flat surface, forgotten until it’s removed some time later, usually the 2nd of January. Humbug, Extra Strong Mint and Berwick Cockles, must be Christmas time again.

Facebook map of the world

Where Facebook connects and where it doesn't.

The best guitar I never did buy

I didn't buy it but I owned it for about six months in 1975. This sunburst Telecaster was to be the bed-rock instrument in a band of Jocks doomed to failure before it even got started. The guitar was brand new at the time, needing played in and stretched and the truth is I wasn't much of a player. You could say I was improving,very slowly. Had I know my rate of improvement was to be as turgid as it turned out to be I'd probably have taken up the saxophone or retired and practiced deep cleansing meditation. There is nothing worse than having unbridled enthusiasm and buckets of ideas but no obvious work ethic or discipline. The concept of the band was therefore more attractive than the reality and of course it foundered, eventually broken apart on the rocks on the beach at St Oeuns on Jersey. I recall the rehearsal processes, long and feeble versions of songs by Poco, Blind Faith and Little Feat, all done at a clattering and unrelenting pace, punctuated by arguments, as if we were inventing punk rock by pulling balmy West Coast songs through a relentless distortion mangle, framed in a smoky haze. The good parts go down as lessons almost learned, how not to overdo reverb, how not to communicate, prioritising work and the dangers of terminal shoe gazing. Had I kept a hold of the guitar (I'd have had to steal it to do this), I'd probably have sold it on soon after and that would've been that. Now it lives on in the back of my head as a ghostly, frustrated memory, the symbol of a failed effort, wasted time and some good fun. I've never owned another Telecaster either, you can't replace what you never had.

Monday

Monday (which was today) was mostly cold, very cold. Ate some soup that had matured nicely in the fridge over an eight day stretch, no side effects so far but worried about the blackened chickpeas. The post also arrived; miscellaneous Christmas flotsam from Amazon, also cards, circulars, letters for other houses and Tesco vouchers. I suspect there is much more to come. It is truly December in a Siberian sense. Somebody has also mixed up the teabags. Why would anybody do that?

On TV, nothing in particular, a Sky Plus documentary about the recording process of "Band on the Run", great potential but not realised mainly due to some painfully unnecessary repetition and McCartney's irritating vocal delivery. How time passes and how much gets forgotten.

There may be meteors overhead, watch out.