Deep Fried Art

You would imagine that the home of the school of deep fried art would be somewhere in Scotland's central belt. Right at the buckle bit with the extra hole that's been carved out with a pen knife to accomodate middle-age spread and the results of our other national pastimes. Anyway it's not, it's more star spangled and we probably wouldn't start with our precious electronic devices either.

Jubilee - day whatever

Sir Tom, a bloke who can actually sing and gets better with age.

It's been a long haul this weekend trying to ignore / remain indifferent to the Jubilee, particularly when you don't really feel grumpy or anti, just disconnected from it. The weather, decent conversation, a remote control helicopter and a certain amount of alcohol have all helped over these festive days. Last night however, after a few sweet wines I was stuck to the couch observing a panoply of mock and rock and genuine royalty passing across our punctured flat screen. Glum and awkward VIPs watched a stream of token performances that was at least entertaining, the sum total trying hard and of course failing in representing sixty years of a corrupt business with some palatable music and lame comedy - a cavalcade of things that the Brits do or by volume of sales and headlines are thought to like. Well at least we're past this point without terrorists or protesters taking pot shots at the great and the good or some other embarrassing incident; the Queen must be really tense knowing she's surrounded by such duffers. In the end only the rain reigns on British parades.

Helicopter video No1 here http://www.twitvid.com/7QOAX

Jubilee

The TV is off, tortured with apparent choice but silent now, the radio is dead, no buzzes, swishes or chattering sounds. The web sticks on e-trading pages, wiki sites about films and cartoonists or obscure people who may or may not be dead. The world is temporarily flat, quiet and pleasant, all things are in their rightful place. Outside the weather is threatening like a glum fist, rain will pour on the Jubilee celebrations, on Wimbledon, on the Olympics, running down the backs of the corporate sponsors and participants equally. We're famous round the world for being grey and damp and exploitative. Sooner than now under red, white and blue canvas performers of yesteryear are to be trotted out, greased up as family favourites to sing the songs that backtracked the decline of a muddled Empire, the bloody annoying sixties, the Three Day Week, the Miner's Strike, the Troubles, British Leyland, the pointless wars here and there, the capitulation to European ideals and imported values, industrial decay and financial ruin - sponsored by RBS. This is the unfairly represented culture of tacky compilation CDs, cheap and facile documentaries, art and theatre luvvies spouting pointed and esoteric wisdom, things that weren't really there or truly important but happened to be filmed, time and tragedy re-imagined and history rewritten not by the victors or participants but by the media- all owned and edited by somebody else, not us. Some parallel version of Britain that never actually existed is now celebrated to death with swirling bunting and a hanging mentality of contradicted misunderstanding. Once it's recorded it's like a tattoo, it can never be erased or forgotten unless that is you're Simon Dee, Gary Glitter or Alf Garnet.

I don't mind the Queen or the Royals or the yelping corgis, I'm not for beheading them or even cutting their income - poor sods. Years of inbreeding, hair loss, phone taps, hypocritical and sycophantic press coverage and politician's stupidity have damaged them enough, let them be. It's the forced marching, grinning, cheering, torch relays and flag waving I can't take, the pomp, pimp and circumcision of this backwards island. Here floating alone out in the North Sea, led by a coalition of buffoons who lie and manipulate as if they were doing nothing more than plotting to hide a stash of fags and beer behind the bike sheds out of sight of their parents and the headmaster. God, Britain is both a terrific and awful place to be; Union Jack cakes, chocolate and souvenirs, tomorrow’s trash and tat served up today. Red top messages penned by idiots and mercenaries that we cant believe in, no jolly swaggering victorious Army or significant Navy presence, no fuel for the RAF's aeroplanes and the BBC smugly reporting the finest detail for the common man/woman/child, looking straight into the camera like a dog caught licking it's balls as the great British public and sundry ethnic components observe it all, licence fees duly paid and tea sweetened and stirred from some safe and weatherbeaten distance. You've never had it so good you lucky bastards, ASDA's petrol's down to £1.31 you know, Muller are doing a range of Best of British yogurts and they've rescued some folks from the clutches of the Taliban.

Forthside daily photo

Two swans idly paddle around in the waters of the Forth, in the background a huge steel structure waits to be floated in position downstream. This heavy metal lump will form part of the tower foundations for the new crossing.

Prometheus

The film comes out on Friday or thereabouts, quite an exciting prospect if you are like me one of the original 70's Alien film fans. I'm contemplating the potential for delight and the likelihood of disappointment.

Journey to Potato Land

This is what happens when you absent mindedly leave a pile of potatoes in a bag, in a dark place for eight months and then in a moment of clarity (not mine) bring them out into the bright sunlight. Forgetfulness isn't a sign of old age and imminent brain cell collapse it's s sign of something else...but I forget what that something is.

Not Norway

Odd sponsor.

Not Norway or anywhere else. After spending a pleasant sunny day wandering around at the local horse trials, barbecuing various bits of dead animals, eating Culross ice cream and quaffing wine and cider it soon was time to capsize onto the (now bat free) couch and endure the maschionistic pleasures of Eurovision. Set in the decidedly dodgy location of Azerbaijan it's hard to say anything new about this multicoloured spectacle of tasteless torture - my stomach started to turn and my attention span fell drastically short of the mark. Pretty girls, pretty boys, grannies and the Hump swanning about, cartwheeling, caterwauling, cooking biscuits and occasionally singing. The final result was of no real interest to me so I accepted defeat to the bigger Maytime fatigue and inspired over eating at about eleven, a while before the final points haul was calculated. It turned out that within all the political, back slapping, Euro unfriendly and block voting strategies only four nations voted for this year's Olympic Host Country and the cradle of modern democracy, black pudding and pop music, the UK. Our new allies turn out to be Estonia, Ireland, Latvia and what was possibly a grudged single point from the good folks in modern Belgium. A diplomatic eye opener, an expected face slapping and the basis for a new foreign policy or two? At least we're not Norway.

Torro Rosso. Today full Euro envy faltered a little more when the Grand Prix fizzled out in Monaco and the rain began, meanwhile the sun was frazzling us here. The result made me think, “why don't Red Bull just make sports cars instead of expensive sugary juice?”

WTF. Scottish TV Channel Alba is resolutely broadcasting the Junior Cup final between Auchinleck Talbot and Shotts Bon Accord from the stadium in Livingstone. The commentary is in Gaelic – a very popular language here in the central belt. Shotts won 2 – 1.

In other news. Seen on a beach in Fife today, three roe deer, running east then (when they saw me and I tried to take their photo) running west.

Mr B outwits a bat

Bat resting up on the curtains

You know it's going to be a difficult Friday night when, just as you've had some nice wine and are about to settle down and watch some pulp TV, Graeme Norton etc, along comes a bat. This one flew out of the fireplace and orbited the room like some buzzing Messerschmidt or refugee from Gotham City for ten minutes before alighting, puffed out on the curtains. We quickly recovered from the initial shock and sat still on the couch with cushions on our heads, the bat ignored us and we ignored him. The impasse however didn't last and he started flying again and more worryingly swooping.  We retreated from the cowering couch position and opened the front door and closed various other doors. He still flew in circles showing no inclination to leave us in peace. We discussed butterfly net and trap and possible legal options to rid ourselves of this mutated flying mouse and then seeing them all as too complicated or beyond us gave up, the bat had won it seemed. Then suddenly he perked up, flew out into the hall, spiraled around exploring his new surroundings (with a few extra swoops to unnerve us) and then headed out the front door, his radar now on spiky high alert I imagine. We breathed a hearty sigh of relief and closed the front door.  Just at that Graeme Norton came on the TV babbling as usual, I wonder, what did that bat really know?

Here come the warm jets

Actual evidence that bicycles were used instead of cars.

Reflections in the canal No1.

Reflections in the canal No2.

While Scotland basks in a pre-winter heat wave, the SNP fanny about with campaigns and the Euro crisis goes on unchecked we venture out and skive about on bikes in West Lothian. Warm jets of unrecognisable weather have pushed the clouds across to Poland and so the strange twin gifts of heat and light have been bestowed upon us. Strong in the knowledge no good thing can last past the weekend we have to capitalise on the moment and visit local canals, pubs and post industrial beauty spots as is the custom.

What cats do

This poor bird flew all the from Morocco to get to our coal cellar, then these guys pounced.

The Prime Suspect.

A possible suspect but I ask you, is that likely?
Cat photos by CBQ of course - we thank you.

Even the early part of the evening today was warm, so warm that I parked my deep philosophical turmoil inducing search for the truth and the meaning of life and strolled out into the garden to fix the fence. This selfless act of self abuse accompanied by a fair degree of physical pain left me feeling bruised but smug. I deserved my ham and mustard combos and the rewarding cool drink of  7 Up Lite mixed with fresh orange, suddenly all was well in the world and the guilt I felt over the unfortunate dead swallow was forgotten. I also narrowly missed the prelims in the Eurovision Song Contest and was comforted by the shocking news that nothing interesting was happening to anyone on Facebook and Twitter was err...busy as usual,  so I wasn't missing much, then I ironed ten clean shirts. In May life is good unless you're a migrating bird.

My mini Moog memory

By Thursday we'll all have forgotten about this fine piece of work. Such is the temporary and transient nature of stuff on the web. Now where was I?

Refuge of the road

Music. I'd forgotten just how good this sprawling and panoramic song was/is. An atmospheric piece to absorb and daydream in and out of whilst driving in a car. A car of course simply being a machine for driving in. No more, no less. A CD player is a different kind of transportation altogether.

Meat. Pastrami is quite possibly the most magical of cold processed meats, a tangy sandwich filler and illicit treat that skelps the face of chocolate and bites at the bottom of fresh fruit. It's probably not that good for you at all but you can always do an 80 second plank after consumption.

Media. Doing my best to avoid examples but it creeps up and over you everywhere. There are too many screens they say. I can only take in one at a time, my limitations have their benefit.

The inconsistent gardener

Fiskars Commando approved ethnically cleansing weed tool.

Caution impending sales pitch and wild exaggeration ahead: maybe not quite all that but this strangely robust weeding device has to be one of our most satisfying acquisitions and useful gardening tools ever. Firstly it works, secondly it works every time and thirdly it pulls weeds out along with their great brown and white root systems in an almost screaming surgical fashion. If you imagine weeds, dandelions and thistles to be like unwanted tumours in your garden then this fella will send you into a squelching, thrusting, tooth-pulling operational ecstasy as it removes the little buggers in style and effortlessly (well almost). Downsides: it does hurt your hands after a while and it is strangely addictive, your brown bin will be crammed. Double downside: perhaps you have friends who like/admire weeds or have green tinged sympathy in that direction - your mental plant purging behaviour will cause them offence and they may turn their faces away from you now you've shown your true murdering colours.

Chump Onions

Just back from a quick trip up to Aberdeen and footballed out with a full days worth of incomprehensible punditry across the Chump Onions League and the Scottish Cup, but it's not over. More touchline drama, wisdom and argument to come this afternoon in the sunny suburbs of Kirkcaldy aka the land that time didn't even bother to remember to forget. Shaping up for a good weekend, then it's onto the Euro fest in a few weeks. Too much fitba can damage the brain.

Tipples without tribulation

Getting in the drinks at the South Queensferry Dakota.

I may have over indulged a few times this week, a combination of business, romance and pleasure, celebration, opportunity and necessity if you like. Now the weekend looms up and I might just as well carry on. First of all and last of all a few random observations gleaned from elsewhere:

Tommy Mackay ‏@TommyReckless

Hippopotomonstrosesquipedaliophobia - Fear of long words. True!

Retweeted by John Barclay

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Neil Forsyth ‏@mrneilforsyth

My greatest fear of being murdered would be the police subsequently going through my stuff.

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Joe Barclay ‏@JoeBarclay95

@JohnBarclay1 Thought you might appreciate this..http://youtu.be/LgfPYetWWJw

Retweeted by John Barclay

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The link above almost soothes the furrowed brows of  the geeky people who like Game of Thrones and who haven't quite gotten over what happened to Ned Stark - I don't think I ever will.

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Robot week - day 7

A wise old robot once said...

A wise old man of the world and taxi driver told me an interesting fact the other day. A few years ago the centre of Edinburgh (St Andrew's Square) was a mere 10 miles away from the centre of South Queensferry as logged on any reliable taxi's odometer. Now that same journey registers 11.2 miles on an odometer. There's some green and pleasant progress for you. A decade's worth of road improvements, tramworks and general traffic shenanigans has moved Edinburgh more than an extra mile away from it's (not so) near neighbour in the 'Ferry. It makes me wonder quite where the centre of Edinburgh will be in another ten years.

Other than that it's all over now for another hectic robot week, it's been thrilling and well worth the effort to celebrate a useful robot's quiet life in photographs and words.

Robot week - day 6

Still life with robot and yogurt.

We're now getting near the end of robot week. I'm not sure there will be another. It's not done my blogging reputation any good I suspect, it's that fine line between an idea taken too far and a good idea. I can't really tell the difference, then again neither can most people. So that's how you suffer if a post a day (or every 6 days out of 7) is a KPI you become bound up with. There's a lot I could say, I'm working away (away) and I'm eating steak probably too regularly and for the moment life is good.

Robot week - day 5

OK I admit that I took a lot of daft shots of a red robot alarm clock and having no clear idea what to do with them decided to blog them in this rather silly fashion under the rather forced and unimaginative banner of robot week, probably not one of my better ideas. Anyway here's me stating the patently obvious, a robot with an apple that's slowly being eaten by the photographer. There really is no meaning to any of this juvenile drivel. I do however have a warm feeling of Karma points accumulation and a strong, gripping sense of being one with the universe (aka inner peace), I may just be last night's red wine and steak and relaxation coming back on me.

Robot week - day 4

Storm: I'm looking forward to my first storm, watching it through that window, slowly building, hugging a hot coffee as it arrives with white topped waves, spitting and angry rain, sounds of thundering and swooshing, a strained wind that tears at trees and roots, forces pushing grass aside and rattling the glass in the frames. I'm nursing the idea of being warm indoors watch the storm, staring at the clouds and learning their names.

Sea Monkeys: I'm not clear on why sea monkeys should rank so highly on search engines all year round. Perhaps it's the combination of words, lots of dry people searching for the sea, lots of monkey obsessed monkey lovers searching for monkeys, nobody actually searching for the product know as Sea Monkeys though. That's the power and the confusion and the contradictions of the Internet for you. N.B. Real monkeys and the real sea(s) are both better researched out with the constraints of the Internet.

Robot Voices: Behind us we leave a trail of words, often badly spelt, poorly pronounced, subject to grammatical error with meanings and structures stretched beyond recognition and general serial misuse and ignorance. Add to that a wakeful of slang and swearing, sentence bombs of inappropriate and lazy speech and incorrect intonation and phrase construction. People can be very cruel and abusive towards words and language failing to see and appreciate the true beauty of clear and simple verbal communication. Thankfully (if properly programmed) this is not a problem you get with robots, they always speak properly, accurately and economically, as far as their human masters actions and silly mechanical robot voices will allow. That's just another factual type of observation here from me to pad out Robot Week.

Robot week - day 3

On Sunday's we relax and dream dreams. Thoughts of robot week are frankly absent, other things taking precedence as our robot consciousness slept. Everywhere there was football as the season ended, there were open days and closed days and muddy football matches on common ground in Dunfermline, the home of disappointment.

At times my head is full of clever things that seem to get edged out by weighty and powerful stupid things. That's very frustrating but a situation I've come to expect, possibly even thrive on. Sooner or later the good stuff returns and is captured (and then sunk by an obscurity torpedo). But it's nice when you walk into the kitchen and Warren Zevron is on the radio or you can reel off parts of Steve Millar's "Recall the beginning; a journey from Eden", life makes some sense in these moments.  I console myself with thoughts of successful breakfast assembly, Jeep and Subaru dealerships visited, great swathes of Fife captured, late night meals and conversations, family employment success, building up unbuildable toys with grand kids and the inevitable headaches and digestive upsets that good food and drink might just bring and driving, driving driving. If only the weather was conducive to and supportive of cycling.