Double Neck

Despite the extreme weather today's pony express got through bringing six machine heads, one Gibson neck, one nut, some circulars and mail not meant for me. The first three items allowed project #1 to move forward by a few degrees. (Above) The new neck is on the left, the old iguana neck is on the right. The photo below was taken after a short struggle that saw the neck fitted, the nut glued in place and the machine heads fitted and my palm getting a screwdriver burn. Strings on tomorrow.

A brief history of time, idleness and ongoing projects:

1. As above, supersonic neck refit.

2. Record outstanding works of musical significance.

3. Stop leak in car floor pan.

4. Fix sunroof in car.

5. Fix air-con in car.

6. Fix bathroom ceiling.

7. Various outstanding chutney issues.

8. Book holiday.

9. Reorganise kitchen broom cupboard.

10.Many garden related things.

11. Win lottery.

12. Eat unseasonal food currently blocking up the freezer.

That'll do I think.

Taman Shud

When you google Mars Bar, photos of Marianne F turn up. Forty odd years on and the new fangled web and old but magical black and white news world have long and persistent memories.

I continue to lose weight thanks to my dogged refusal eat anymore Mars Bars or one a day as was the custom round these here parts. In a daydreamy state today I calculated that if all the Mars Bars I'd ever eaten were laid end to end they would stretch all the way from Newton to St Bridget's Kirk in Dalgety Bay (via the coastal path). After 56 years enough is therefore enough and I will no longer tread the long and winding chocolate path between here (or there) and the birthplace of Bridget the famous Fife midget. My diet is therefore safe for the time being as I cling to the wreckage of this inspiring and slightly worrying vision.

It was fairly late in the day and in life when I first discovered the hidden world of the Lego album cover cult. My infatuation lasted a few hours and then it faded away to not very much as I failed to find a Lego Sergeant Pepper or a Tyrannosaurus Rex, Prophets Sears & Sages the Angels of the Ages (in mono), better luck next time Lego people.

Meanwhile, the hidden codes of Taman Shud or Shad or Shod and the radioactive death haunt me like any good mystery should.

Disgusted of Tunbridge Wells

In a spectacular piece of Kamikaze reorganisation the BBC are replacing Radcliffe and Maconie with Jo Whiley from whenever they get around to it. Unbelievable. The evening R2 slot goes to a blond, sycophantic irritant who knows nothing about music and R&M head out for a 1300 - 1600 wilderness slot on Radio 6, an interesting enough station but not one that is car friendly in any sense. "Cheerio all you truckers". What are they playing at? Spoiled my day it did, until I undercooked and then overcooked the tea time pizza which really spoiled things. I'll get over it eventually but in the mean time I'm grinding my teeth like a proper old codger.

Cute Dinosaur

Dinosaur doodle.

Thought collections

THE LARGE THE SET IN UPPERCASE IS NOT IMPORTANT. "These fish are very, very sad. The sad fish send their beams of concentration towards the target. Loud ZAP! ZAP! noises are emitted, they echo across the room stunning members of the public and unrelated animals. Any casual observer might well think that these fish are playing a game of darts, well... what do you think? It's easy to misunderstand the ways of scribbled fish, particularly around here."

Any similarity between these fish and the silver ones on a slab in a fish shop is purely coincidental as these fish were hand crafted on paper and brought to life by crayon and pencil by various incredibly talented people when in the Owlers last week.

Danelectro 12 string on which you can play many more chords than the normal 4. Depending on your talent and dexterity it may be very difficult to play if you only have 6 fingers on your left hand and even more so when you only have the regular 5 digits (that also includes thumbs and things) but don't be discouraged by apparent limitations such as these. Stretch the boundaries.

Well that's my thoughts collected.

MRLS

It's not often that an impromptu celebratory pyrotechnic display comes perilously close to wiping out your entire family and laying waste to a large part of a Scottish city centre. Yesterday we came squarely up against that point and thankfully all walked away. Some of the wiser and more aware spectators ran away at great speed. I presume that the ASBO is by now in the post. What'll happen the next time we get together?

Starting the revolution

Up early awaiting a delivery from John Lewis, due sometime between 0500 and midnight. It's also my second son's 30th birthday today, a time for reflection, family gathering, meals, drinking and if possible some revolutionary activity. The card above is a reminder of such possibilities, an analogy (the fuller exploits of Mr Ernesto) I wouldn't want to take too far but even now, after all these painful years I refuse to give up on my heroes and my world wide and wonky ideology.

Laptop still working though the battery has now completely given up the ghost and is sending feeble, occasional, blinking messages asking for help or urgent replacement. I think not.

On a rare musical note (did this blog start out as a music blog?) Mr Gibson/Baldwin Les Paul Jr long term restoration project is undergoing a neck transplant. One delinquent neck has now been surgically removed and a replacement is eagerly awaited. Like Mr G/B I have also lost a little weight, something like 2lbs this week simply by avoiding the twin evils of chocolate and more chocolate.

Forget the sledgehammer

Above following on from the KoL picture below.

After a whole day of running utilities like Algerian diarrhoea the laptop has risen, Lazarus like back to a working state of some sort. praise the digital gods etc. and abandon the sledgehammer for the mean time.

Sledgehammer

It appears that Gary Tank Commander (right) has joined the Kings of Leon. Good then.

The laptop saga carries on, unfortunately taking a downward slump with what appears to be a collapsing battery and relentless set of disk/disc/dusk/dosk/operating errors that try to correct themselves but never get better. The question is, disk doctor or sledgehammer. Enough to drive a man to drink smoothies and eat toast and double thick, organic marmalade.

Soup and Dolphin Bagel

Losing weight by the religious avoidance of chocolate and normal massive amounts of fried food is not as easy as it sounds. It may be the greatest test of endurance I have ever experienced as I struggle on uphill to get back downhill. The revised but punishing soup strategy however may be the answer. Yesterday I made a large pot of bubbling vegetables and pulses allowing it to settle and metamorphose (?) overnight, today I am eating it along with pickled dolphin from 1953, lightly spread across as toasted bagel. I can feel the pounds and the guilt and years of care falling away like snow in the sun sliding from a country dyke. Soon a new and lighter spring day will dawn as I use up less gravity and space within this rarefied and slimmer atmosphere. Thank you soup. Also nice to drive home in what is an acceptable attempt at daylight.

Anther view of Narnia World, so turn left at Mordor, take Junction 9 to Hogwarts and then straight down the rabbit hole and you're almost there. Alternatively stare at this picture and wait for the mysterious swoosh.

ned ned rose

Burns night: I always feel a little guilty on Burns night, whilst I appreciate his huge body of work and worldwide status I've never really enjoyed his material. I could blame my mean and dull upbringing or my schooling or my thick and prejudiced head but what's the point. I'm a traitor to my homeland and national bard, as bad as an Andy Gray, a Nazi sympathiser, somebody who doesn't respect Islam or dislikes Heinz Beans and doesn't go "whooo" when they see a shooting star. Mr Burns I apologise for my serial ignorance, all I can say is that your namesake's got some pretty good lines in the Simpsons - most episodes anyway.

Narnia Theme Park

Nice to see that the estate of C S Lewis have sanctioned the building of the world's first Narnia Theme Park in Penrith. The only slight problem is the perpetual winter weather and the unscripted outbreak of distant traffic cones. The rides are mainly walks but as entry was free I didn't expect too much, that's a good business model for anything outdoors in the UK. Meanwhile upstairs in the coal fired restaurant the soup was excellent, unfortunately they'd run out of Turkish Delight by the time it came around for dessert so we were able to get back to the real world before any time had elapsed at all. On reflection it was a pretty narrow escape and we were soon able to rejoin the familiar width that is the long running saga of the parallel M6 Theme Park in a twinkling (whatever that is).

Aslan and a gay friend guard the entrance to nowhere in particular.

This experience was called "The troubled thoughts of Vince Cable and other misconceptions".

Buddha likes to hang out in the bushes, he still manages to see everything through closed eyes but understands very little.

Kylie Minogue set in stone and thankfully neither dancing nor gyrating. Needs to lose the headgear I reckon.

Whaley B Daily Photo

Err, not quite Whaley B, this was lunch, upstairs in Narnia, just outside Penrith. It's a salmon sandwich with couscous and salad. Frozen Dr Who related pictures to follow.

Owlers.

A snip at 89 Grand, one careful owner, full service history, modest MPG however and only available in black. Get your summer 'Vette right here, right now.

Memory

The Madcap Laughs

I now realise one of the great problems facing my generation. Memory. Ghosts and black and white footage from a guilty and misunderstood past. I’m old enough and just about lucid enough to recall the recent old world order. The last days of Empire, the fabled, pink tinged and toned Mercator Projection classroom map of the world, made of some kind of glossy cloth. Perhaps that is why I am in this perpetual state on unease, shifting my weight from foot to foot, side to side, twitching occasionally, waiting on the Royal Procession to pass and hoping for permission to carry on and put three spoonfuls of sugar in my tea. It all comes flooding back when I go to a school parents night and talk to those young and dysfunctional teachers: I get the jitters, perhaps it was that chav lady language teacher with bad teeth and complete schemey accent from Lochgelly that did it.

Three minutes thirty seconds is too long for the contents of a small tin of soup to spend in a powerful microwave.

Labour on the rampage. What a bunch of complete tossers make up the shadow cabinet now, I cannot, anywhere inside me find a kind word or thought for any of them. It’s a chronic source of disappointment to see how we (one time socialists) are represented: Milliband Vanilli, Ed Balls, Yvette Cooper, Douglas Alexander and the rest. Absolutely awful, at least it’ll be 4 years before they get a hold of anything they can properly screw up. Of course that means the others, the bloodsucking Tory vampires (not the good kind) with their toady LibDems will prevail. Oh to be in Bermuda, in a triangle, just sitting tight, to avoid the scandal.

Dundee cash machine (in a Scotmid no less) pays out double amounts of notes. A living dream in the septic city of jute, jam, pies and thirty year old grannies. Marvellous, worthy of a folk song. The bookies, drug dealers and off-licences will be rejoicing. The cash machine company director said “If people using the ATM see it as a bit of fun, so be it” and they can all keep the money. The ATM was shutdown shortly after the company were alerted. I’d love to think it was all part of an ongoing conspiracy or anarchist plot.

I don’t have any mouth ulcers at the moment but if I did I’d apply some Bonjela to those little, painful and unwelcome oral volcanoes. Oysters give you ulcers, not many people know that.

Still life with Bonjela.

Google Hook

It never occurred to me that old drums, like old guitars could be really valuable. Obvious I suppose, anything old eventually takes on some extra value…but drums kits get battered and guitars and piano just usually get played so that makes no sense. Keith Moon’s kit (or one of them that survived) is only valued at half a million dollars. I’ve never really trashed a guitar. or played one to the limit or attacked it like a drum kit, I’ve always been respectful and restrained, most times, not a naturally exuberant player. I wish I was. There’s a mental block thing that takes over that slows down thinking, playing and finding those elusive notes. They fail to connect, run together and then stray into the unfamiliar, beautiful territory that is a unique place of creation. The unique place of creation, another place I cannot find. Guarded and protected by an angel with a flashing fiery sword and an expensive guitar. In the background a sullen looking pasty faced angel taps on an old drum kit.

I don’t care about the news today. About bankers bonuses, excessive profits, huge losses, floods and disasters, what politicians are going to say in their leaked speeches, the opinions of other reporters, finance and foreign correspondents, human interest stories and what the weather was like today in the Channel Islands, Wales and the Home Counties, I’m not bothered about the price of petrol either. Sadly there is less and less on the shining flat box that we still describe as TV that engages me. Somewhere in the remote, dark blue corners there are programmes that make me laugh. Programmes hidden in the deep pools. I shall seek them out. TV needs to make people laugh more, they could show some reruns of Lady Warsi‘s speeches.

World's most expensive guitar.

West Lothian Daily Doodle

Elaborate boot doodle (detail) that clearly was not done by me as a) I don't have the time and b) generally I don't doodle and c) is signed by somebody else. Recent life changing events have however conspired against me and made me consider taking it up; but more as an indoor sport than an art form.

Food is important to people but it has to be the right kind. This processed and expensive mock-Italian excuse for bread, eggs and ham doesn't really work for me. I did eat it though, I was hungry. That's the power that rubbish food has over us and generally we are too weak to resist. I may form a focus group - myself.

Irritable Tuesday Daily Photo

The view from Edinburgh Airport, Gate 18, 0820 and thankfully things seem to be moving in the distance and unexpectedly all is well in the world.

Late Lunch: Pret ex-crayfish and rocket sandwich. Possibly the greatest sandwich ever conceived and build by the divine sandwich planners. Somewhat over priced however.

T2 at Birmingham Airport. An airport so shabby, dull and amenity free that it makes Edinburgh look good. 3 hours lost here thanks to rearranged winter schedules, National Car Hire and various twists of fickle fate.

The definitive list of Tuesday consumed food (should be plus one coffee) at 1955. The relentless discipline continues and I have avoided Mars, Snickers, Caramels and Dairy Milk for 10 of your earth days. I feed good in a strange, smug way. I do not need chocolate to live and be happy.

Top notes to write up:

Fashion (the meaning of)

Sandwiches (the fillings of)

Top 5 Neil Young songs (the best of)

Citroen C3 (the crap fuel consumption of)

Food obsessions (the understanding of).

Blue Monday Diary

Back end of a VW Passat (or Pasta according to spell checker) that rolled into me at traffic lights in Dunfermline. The driver was oblivious of the whole thing, even when I honked my horn, then he did it again. Eventually I managed to confront him, suggesting that he may wish to consider improving his driving skills and overall observation of the road. Photo taken by passenger.

A version of Spidey, drawn by my daughter whilst dodging homework and eating fish fingers.

Trees planted according to the explicit orders of Winston Churchill and local legend, it's a long, complicated story. I may tell it one day, once I can clear my head of maths, physics and the exploration and explanation of reality.

Missy's diary: Day 417

"Another frustrating and humiliating day; as usual I return from rodent patrol hungry and have to gain the attention of the two regular humans in my house so that they might address my plight. All I want is a simple portion of Tesco mutated chicken but do you think they get it? The softly spoken one who smells nice, pats me and talks to me, wasting precious time. I rub against her legs and feet and purr a bit but she just calls me "princess" or some other soppy name, not much bloody use when you are hungry! Sometimes I have to sit right on top of the plastic screen thing that she tip taps on before she pays any attention at all and then she just looks at the tuggy fur on my bum or claws at under my chin."

"The other human, who doesn't smell so nice and tends to make loud, unexpected noises is easier. For one thing he's always near to the large white box where the meat is hidden. If I make a kind of pathetic squeak he usually responds but I have to wait until he's fed himself first, greedy bastard. Then he talks to me but it's sing-song gibberish and the tone is irritating, like a dog fart echo in a subway. He's not really suited to house sharing with the more sophisticated life forms and higher mammals. Did I say that he's all fingers and thumbs with the food packets? What an Oscar winning performance he makes of getting into any sealed package and if I'm not careful Anna the other cat (the old weird one who once had a part in the Simpsons I think) hovers near the food dishes in that stupid geriatric way that old folks do. Has she no self awareness at all? She's only got one gawky, black tooth, proper puts me off my meal sometimes and she's continually whining on about the past and her chronic bowel problems. Who wants to hear her coffin dodging medical history? Good God it can be tough around here and don't even get me started on the totally soporific, one brain-celled Clint, where did they get that ginger dumb-ass from?"

"Oh yeah, this guy's a local dosser and free-loader, he comes in a few times a night and eats the left-overs. What a dead beat! The human that smells nice and listens to Quincy Jones and Simply Red (ugh!) thinks he's the bees knees but basically he's just at it and the humans don't get it. Note the evil-eye glint in the photo, that pretty much sums him up. Anyway I'm headed out of the back door portal, they've been out feeding the birds in the garden, how thick are these people?"

Eardrum damage

Early Mott the Hoople induced damage. Thankfully now healed.