This is not quite enough

I came home early from work (well about 2ish), I'd been daydreaming about going out for quick spin around the estate on my new bargain bike bought from a bloke in Buffies Brae so I wanted the weekend to start. The dream however was quickly quashed or squashed by Mother Nature's determination to provide a backdrop of raindrops to my outdoor adventures. I looked out of the window and willed the rain to stop, that didn't work. Then I thought about getting wet and how maybe that was not so bad. Then I thought about what people would think (?) and how I'd be labelled as a mad bloke from that house who cycles in the rain for pleasure. Then I sat down for a period of reflection, a beef salad sandwich and a bit of the Tom Morton show. Then I wandered over to the garage in the rain and sprayed WD40 here and there and loosened some Allan headed screws (that was good, satisfying and it's not any kind of euphemism). Then I chatted to a neighbour and picked up an errant package that he'd collected for Ali. Then I came in and started writing this drivel...and laughing to myself at the stupid monkey picture and decided that this is enough of that for the day. As Tom Morton said "If I'd known that it was this far away I'd never have come here in the first place".

Gumtree bike

You can tell summer is somewhere nearby, the air is strangely moist and the wind is strangely strong and a young man's mind turns to cycling and other two-wheeled type of endeavours - but I had no bike. That was yesterday of course, today I have a bike and I am officially a cyclist again thanks to exploring Gumtree's huge selection of keenly priced, used bicycles and after a few phone calls, ta-da! buying one. So I'm already planning a brief circuit of Loch Lomond, an excursion to the weekend horsey event at Hopetoun and a jaunt to John O'Groats via the May Island. I'm not planning on falling from it, getting soaked in rain showers, bumping into potholes or going up hills, ever.

Funny how in some photos bike wheels can look less than round, in fact they can look crooked and quite uncircular and unwheel-like. It is an optical illusion brought about by a dodgy lens, bad light and unsteady hands.

On a more serious note

The Scheme: I’ve avoided this BBC TV show for a while (one of many I purposely stay away from) but I accidently saw some of it last night. A sad and disturbing programme that chronicles the trials, tribulations, despair, stupidity and occasional warmth to be found in “typical” Scottish housing scheme. The turgid and repetitive misery must rankle politicians and do gooders in general as the drug abuse, petty crime and circle of squalor and meaningless behaviour is displayed and negotiated. It’s not a great advertisement for the habitual wearers of Glasgow Rangers football tops either. The message is clear; there is no way out and though they are certainly in need of some it’s hard to summon up sympathy for the real life characters all of whom comply nicely with the middle-class view of schemey stereotypes. I can imagine the smug but guilty feeling voyeuristic viewers sweating over the desperate antics of these victims, wondering were on earth our society is going and what is the point of having any aspirations in a place where socially mobility is actively seen to be running in reverse. The cast last night were both desolate and formidable in a way that makes you want to punch your own head and then the head of any nearby politician:

The gangly, inarticulate junkie who’s in a spiral of dependency, who will look forty-nine on his twenty-fourth birthday and who will be dead before he’s twenty-five.

The teenage trouble maker whom social services try to train and educate but who, despite support and cajoling falls back into robbery and violence when he’s bored or disaffected, which is mostly all the time.

The long suffering mother, robbed and abused by her feral offspring but with no option other than grow older and weaker defending the indefensible.

The teenage mum daubed with cheap make up and bruises, abandoned by her child’s feckless father who tries to build a home and find some meaning. Her clueless and dependant approach to life forever supported by a weak system that will relentlessly churn out another lost generation that will in turn make all the same mistakes.

The rough and evangelical carers, trying to build a community with real teeth on the dead gums of a rotting estate. They struggle to milk funds from a frustrated and broken system only to be forever beaten back by bureaucracy, cost hurdles and the apathy and pithy disregard of their own peers.

A well meaning, careworn gardener creating an oasis of expensive floral colour within the rubble, beaten down grass, strewn litter and graffiti who gets only a second prize (presumably for pluck and persistence) year in year out in the local gardening competition. His appreciative wife looks on and shrugs as he is crushed and denied the glory of a deserved victory.

Watching this a few weeks after the SNP victory and the jingoism and bluster that followed I can’t but worry about the soft underbelly of Scotland and the fatal flaws we all know lurk on the edges of our national psyche. Even the most deluded optimist can see that the difference between this version of a civilised pocket of Scotland and any given Third World shanty town is measured in single figure millimetres. There is a big job to do out there and Cameron’s Big Society doesn’t look tough enough to tackle it just yet.

But is it art?

As below: emergency anti-soot measures set in place and working like a dream. An alternate view is that it may be an art installation of some type as well as a functional device for maintaining a dust free atmosphere within the happy home.

Slow news day with minimal effort expended

Last night's Game of Thrones did the unthinkable, it killed (in a truly horrible manner) someone who I thought was a major character in just the sixth episode. That's a classy bit of TV script writing and admirable risk taking. I'm now hooked as it's clear that anything can happen and it turns out that the GoT shop is open now. Buy, buy, buy. Decent review and plot/weird name reminder thingy here also.

Today the gales died down a bit, that was a relief, having said that the sports section of the Sunday Times remains gaffer taped across the fireplace in a desperate bid to stop the flying soot from covering miscellaneous cats and laptops. Every so often it makes a draughty paper rustle which is really spooky, it picks it's moments. The kids have declared it to be a piece of artwork as well as an anti-soot device. Possibly. We might publish the results later.

Meanwhile in other news a cat did hop into a delivery van and at home we ate two tins of meatballs.

Official: God hates us all

Blanche Caldwell Barrow - a song dedication perhaps.

In the pre-volcanic and post-rapture fall out one thing is still clear and that's the flat 7Up at the back of the fridge. Anyway many good and upright religious people are perplexed by the weekend's events or lack of them. Of course it may well be a simple delay brought about by God wishing to "test the faith" of believers. That's the trouble with God, you never quite know what he's thinking or quite what he's planning. It's all big picture stuff with him and very confusing for the faithfull, the earthbound, the gullible and the media types.

So it was reassuring tonight when, possibly as an answer to all the rapture hoo-hah and disappointment God decided to blow across Scotland with a mighty wind and so surprised all Fifers and Edinburgh based commuters with the complete closure of the Forth and Tay Bridges. An act and demonstration worthy of any huge and self respecting God in my opinion - the cosmos is at his command so he knocks over a few trees in West Lothian. That'll sort out those complacent bastards in the Church of Scotland on their way home from the General Assembly tea party.

In the apocalyptic road chaos that followed I had to make a detour across to the badlands of Grangemouth in a terror stricken effort to cross the frothing and hostile waters of the River Forth. By the time I got to Skinflats my extra strong mint was sucked as smooth as the Papal Ring itself and my knuckles were as white as the bleached lambs of Inverbervie. The roads were of course festooned with pieces of trees, leaves, B&Q buckets, MacDonalds cartons and various abandoned curtain sided vehicles. When I eventually got home the cats were asleep but the kids slide in the garden was upside down and the lounge was covered in storm driven soot. Thanks for the reminder dear God that you are Lord of all things (world's ends included) and that you delight in providing minor moments of inconvenience to err...test us?

Key Performance Indicators

Here are some numbers from our recent Spotify sales. Nice to see somebody played our track "I miss that boy" 17 times in a row back in February. These streaming listens generate very little money but at least give us the satisfaction of knowing that folks listen to our music, sometimes repeatedly or in some excessive random patterns. I can imagine the neighbours banging on the walls round about listen 5 or 6.

The esoteric magic that is the rambling and unfocused Ford Cougar diaries enjoys some phenomenal web stats mostly from hits in Mexico, Columbia and other regions in Central America. It all started on the 8th of May and might well die back at any time. Currently clocking about 700 hits per day. Not a bad run.

Other indicators? Well we've demoed a few things and scribbled some verses and done a lot of key change alteration works. I was also was overtaken by a truck loaded with helium today as I crossed the Forth Bridge for the fourth time (today)...that set me thinking about many things. I'm still trying to put it all together in a bid to create some sort of theory.

End of the worldish

Still life with quiche and Bob Dylan.

I saw probably the least ambitious airline in the world the other day, Brussels Air, flying to Brussels from Birmingham. Where else could they go? The above snack formed another part of the same day's life affirming experiences, the vanilla and honey smoothie providing the overall nadir, the book provided some unexpected laughs. The Higgidy quiche came with a little poem inside the carton by way of explaining the bakers philosophy or justify killing pigs or something, it was printed upside down light brown on mid brown. Anyway the pie tasted quite nice and here's an example of the poetry.

Higgidy, Piggidy Pie
Oh my, oh my, oh my
Your insides are herby
Your outside is curvy
And all of you tastes divine.

On the plane home the guy next to me appeared to be having a bad day. After reading his book for five minutes he spent the remainder of the flight leaning forward with his head in his hands almost in the brace position. Perhaps he disliked the current Flybe background muzak, currently Pink Floyd's "Comfortably Numb" and a song by Take That I don't recognise played on a fuzzy loop.

Today the Mac returned home after a nifty piece of electronic resurrection and exploration. Welcome home. I picked it up this morning in Edinburgh, city of trams, potholes and more empty coffee shops than is surely healthy for the market. As I wandered the streets I braced myself for the shock of the impending rapture, on the hour, every hour but God didn't turn up. It was a bit of a relief that nothing really happened; so the grass got cut and the weeds got pulled. I'd hate to be pulled up into the misty blue bliss of heaven (or down to the fiery pit of hell) knowing that the power of the dandelions and clover had won the day back on earth.

The only water in the forest is the river

Why would anybody put a cuddly toy inside a display microwave in IKEA? Perhaps it's some kind of shiny miniature Tardis.

Technopolis: The struggle to keep up is exhausting. Learning to operate a new cooker with two ovens, multiple control selections, heating and fan options, to heat up some frozen chips. Getting a grey and balding head around a new Macbook, making it's easy to use and intuitive features look complicated, failing to grasp the obvious and unable to take instructions literally. Not being sure what an HD display really looks like, not being sure whether it's off or on, no knowing what scart cable to put where, no following instructions, paying an extra £10 a month for nothing. Being too lazy to use the text option to insert user names and passwords into a phone key pad, paying whatever £s a month for ?MB of Internet dross and not using it. Having the same reading glasses for six years and bringing the pages ever closer (or further away) but reluctant to go in for an eye test and upgrade. Putting food into the freezer and never taking it out again...that's a mystery.

Doctor's wife: If you were perplexed, puzzled, confused or infuriated by the latest Dr Who episode then this well informed and well written article might just help.

Mature manure

Buying things out in the sticks is always interesting and at times a bit vague and imprecise. Roadside produce can be bought simply by handing a few quid to the nearest person in some adjacent field who nods his head and points, you never really know who you are dealing with. I suppose it all adds to the local economy eventually via some mysterious financial circle. If only we had some home made produce we could stuff into tough bags, leave out in all weathers and then observe from a safe distance as the sad townie's cash rolled in.

Here is the manure now placed in situ, ready to be spread and fed back into Steven Hawking's good earth. Note the dangerous red bag strategy. Maybe we'll get a crop, maybe we'll not.

The only living boy in Stobo Castle

The pool is deserted but the cafe is packed.

Shining corridor.

Mouse's eye view of Stobo Castle, health spa: taken from some outside sanctuary a safe distance from 100 chattering and excited ladies - meanwhile Ali's inside having some brilliant treatments I believe.

We enjoyed a fine anniversary break at Stobo in the borders. Brilliant location, good food, huge room and all the spa type facilities and services you'd imagine. Thought the hotel was busy the odd part was that I was the only bloke there, so I had all the (male) facilities to myself: Steam room, sauna etc. I also had a hot stone massage which literally transported me to far away places in the form of a near out of body experience. Proof if there ever was that drugs are quite unnecessary if you have the need to get high. The body, oils, hot stones and err... the massage techniques of the trained professional have mysterious properties. I'll be back.

Being the only male in amongst a weekend's worth of women is weird, like being a fox in a chicken coup or maybe a sprat in a sea of sharks, the feelings shifted from panic to relaxation and back again. So after epiphany of the massage we had a nice lingering meal and a few sherbets, we then retired to watch the grand finale of Eurovision. By the time the 20th vote was cast I was comatosed. I'm sure somebody from Eastern Europe won eventually and not the brittle, feeble entry from the UK. It seems the cold war never really ended but thereafter the sun did set on Stobo. Next day it was an early breakfast, swimming, more pampered women and more steam room torture and then back home by the long road, via IKEA and a dung emporium. More on that tomorrow.

Prince Philip is God

oops!

End of the world etc.: The world isn't going to end on 21^st May. How do I know this? The time is not right, quite simply, we're all going to have to wait. The false panics of the fifties and sixties, the apathy of the eighties and nineties and the fuzzy thinking of the present day have convinced me that a) we wont end the world via some nuclear mistake and b) God wont end the world because of his great wrath/master plan/indifference or to honour some Biblical prophecy. We will survive beyond the 21^st May and slowly but surely find cures and solutions for cancer, hunger, HIV, poverty and so on. Then just as we think we've cracked it, we're stable and everybody is prosperous the Giant Killer Vampire Penguins will arise from their Antarctic hibernation. They will be hungry for blood and (as they'll strike at night) they'll take us all by surprise. That's about it...can't quite put a precise date on it yet, in fact I may not live to see it...keep looking south though. If I'm wrong then I guess it could be the next big asteroid, I think it's due May 21 2012.

5 mad religions:

Prince Phillip Movement. The Yaohnanen tribe on the island of Tanna worship PP as a god. He's the son of an ancient spirit that lives in a nearby volcano. So now you know (my personal favourite).

The Jon Frum Movement. Another island based cult on Tanna. They believe a wealthy American man called Jon Frum will bring them wealth etc. They await his arrival...any day now.

Jedi-ism. Maybe not completely mad, maybe more tongue in cheek but thanks to George Lucas there are many followers out there who fully believe in the Force.

Raelism. Founded by a French racing driver (Claude Vorihons), they believe that aliens created man 25,000 years ago in their laboratory. The aliens are coming back for us for a meeting up in Jerusalem in 2025, just before the giant penguins get here perhaps.

The Church of All Worlds. A neo-pagan religion that began in 1962 and is based on the fictional religion found in the book “Stranger in a Strange Land” by Robert A Heinlein.

Unrelated rubbish: I'm very pleased to hear that Princess beatrice is to sell the most famous hat in the world on Ebay and donate the proceeds to charity. I hope this leads to other celebs and members of royal households selling off random wedding related objects (and hats in general if there are any available) in such a decent and generous way. I'll surely put a decent bid in for Prince Billy's dad's Aston Martin.

Lost posts

Blogger has been down and out for 24, 36, 48 who knows how many hours. All those lost posts, where are they, will they ever be found? Who really cares?

Rain stops play

It's raining away across the fields but you can't tell.

More (damp) still life.

Strange how indifferent cats can be towards rain, other times they plainly refuse to go out in it. Today it's not a problem.

Unplanted potatoes.

At work this afternoon I was struggling with a fiendish and slow moving piece of on-line training. A modern form of torture with little else to compare, worst of all the topic was Microsoft Share Point (groan). That prompted the day dream of coming home and doing a little relaxing gardening in the evening sunshine, then the rain came and that dream died.

Slow and surreal news on a rainy day: The SNP are now tucked up within their ugly monster Parliament building and at full and gawky strength, the work on the trams is going to restart (by stopping up Princess Street again), four hives worth of bees were stolen in Dundee and Edinburgh Zoo's dodgy management team appears to have been cleared of wrong doing in time for the panda's arrival and an old bloke who fell over in a cave was rescued by Border's Mountain Rescue (?). Then the Bank of England announces that inflation may reach 5%, that actually sounds quite good compared to what it feels like at the moment. How many economists and statisticians did it take to work that out?

Mug shot

Artwork can be reproduced in different ways that may allow them to be more easily seen, appreciated, function and, best of all they can sometimes turned into something different altogether. Transformation, one thing to another.

Artist David Reilly with flowers and white bowl.

Meanwhile Anne Reilly specialises in all kinds of things: still life with prawns, avocado, chili sauce (100% edible).

The pleasure of sweetness

At a street market in Aberdeen: never did quite get around to sampling the pleasures of BAKLAVA unfortunately. Some strange combination of molten rock and knitted headgear perhaps, that would be something, like that stuff the stone god eats in Return to Oz. We settled for sugared crepes instead, a little undercooked, over priced and not quite tasty enough. On another dodgy sea-food stall the giant prawns (or prawnies as they were described) were a strange, red, chewy experience. Street food in street markets seems to be the main draw for the general public, everything else, all the crafts, beads, books and plants are secondary. Scotland loves food, hates liberals and just about tolerates it's own weather.

Times up...

...for the Scottish Labour Party. After years of neglect, poor leadership and awful representation the arrogant Labour overlords who assumed the (good old, honest, hard working etc. etc.) Scottish people would love them and forgive them indefinitely have lost and lost badly. The wheels have fallen off the party machine. Hopefully they will recover but it will take an internal revolution, massive re-engagement and some honest apologies over the next five years if they are ever to offer a credible and serious alternative. Having said that, as usual 48% of potential Scottish voters find a toddle to the polling station and marking a few crosses on some pieces of paper too much like hard work, particularly if it might rain or something's on the telly- they'll get what they deserve, perhaps they've got it already.

What to do next? Sit back and munch a fish finger sandwich of course, waiting patiently on the AV results coming out.

Are we Almond Valley?

Some conceptual art (left out in the rain for added effect) laid out on the Art College car park.

Voted eventually, held out until 2100 or thereabouts. Three kisses on lilac, peach and white papers, not easy if you happen to be colour blind or over 55. Earlier in the evening it was the Student Fashion Show at Edinburgh Art College, an entertaining and informative 90 minutes; women, men, scary monsters, super creeps and a good choice of music. I live and learn. The salmon caviar and the roast beef on toast was particularly enjoyable - these days it's always about food unfortunately.

Alternative Vote

Smoke rising over it

I wish I cared a bit more about AV and the arguments for it’s apparent (but unproven) superiority over normal voting systems. If we do get AV tomorrow when the scribbled blue crayon Xs are counted up and counted down then the way is paved for us to explore AV plus. AV plus is of course a fully proportional system which would of course be the next natural step. Whilst this may in various scientific and statistical ways appear fairer (an over used and not wholly attractive term if there ever was one), the real problem will all voting systems isn’t the system, it’s the candidates. When you look at the field, their pedigrees, careers and their actual capabilities it’s hardly any wonder that voters are fed up and apathetic. The truth is that he current political system does not attract people of a particularly high calibre nor people with the necessary backbone to represent their constituents honestly and wholeheartedly. That’s the problem and few extra Xs and some magical algorithms wont fix it.

Disaster today. Up, fed cats, cleaned cats, cleaned me, frittered about and rushed out of the house, no petrol so a quick pit stop for some of Arabia’s finest snake oil and onto work. Once there I realised I’d forgotten my fruit. My gorgeous green apple and nicely bruised banana were back home, idly lying back in the kitchen fruit bowl.

Imran Khan says “Pakistan has lost its dignity and self belief”. The reason is? “ Pakistan has the most corrupt and incompetent government in its history.” Well that’s good to hear, they’ve also got atomic weapons and have been given $28 Billion is US aid over the last few years.

In the good old days I mostly attended a chilly primary school and cared little for external things other than occasional assassinations and the way that Britain seemed to be in the centre of every crisis in the world (or to blame for them). I believed that Britain was hated by all foreigners because we’d stolen all their sugar, corn and butter and locked all of their zebras and lions up in our fashionable zoos. Then there was the Cold War which just seemed to drag on and on. Living in a council house with only coal fire and no central heating I understood that pretty well, cold was something you fought against with blankets, curtains and pots of soup and the air-attack siren that was tested once a week, just to add a little drama to the otherwise silent and grave soundtrack. My uncle and aunt were high up in the Civil Defence, they had hats and armbands and went on exercises every weekend in their Austin A60. I had absolutely no idea what was going on and looking back it’s clear that neither did anybody else, we just became indifferent to the cold, sterling in a non decimal form and the black and white lifestyle. Maybe that’s what was good about the good old days. Funny how I recall the fifties and sixties in monochrome and the seventies in wishy washy colour, the eighties are like a fireworks party, the nineties are white with a chrome trim. The last decade, whatever it was called has plumes of smoke rising over it.