Still Life v DIY Flag

Still life with roses, wood and water.

Flag testing has been underway all day. Glad to say there have been no incidents or accidents so far other than unrelated head banging moments,  as per usual.

If for some reason you're lost, can't quite get your bearings, blundering about in the dark or generally overcome with a serious disorientation problem then the simple answer is, where ever you may be or think you may be...follow the flag.

Shorty McHumbucker

#lessnegativeposting Here's the unrecognised star of this year's Wickerman Festival; Shorty McHumbucker no less. Funny how as part of the comprehensive suite of presentational works and logistical planning the bathroom has to get a fresh lick of paint. Here's to better weather and the one size hats fitting all.

A fun place 2

When I said previously "a place not run by Tory slimers and snake bellied goons" I should have added "a place not run my these cheesy and untrustworthy examples of  a poor apology for the leadership of the Labour Party". In any kind of sane world they would actually be working for the people instead of living out their own warped fantasies of having a glorious political career, one devoid of any grasp of socialist ideals and the representation of our needs in ordinary daily life. Ugh! A clear out is required.

A fun place

Kirkcaldy: a divided place.

Voting for a brave new Scotland?

A place where rights and freedoms are supported and respected.
A place where voices are heard and listened to.
A place with good health care is coupled with the promotion of good health education.
A place where social services have a light but positive touch.
A place where politics is positive and not fearful and negative.
A place where housing is decent and affordable and is supported as being a basic right.
A place where we can get a proper education.
A place where people give back in proportion to what they take.
A place where we can make money ethically.
A place that makes things, sells things and, if it can, gives things away.
A place where we understand things are not perfect but we work, a bit at a time to make them better.
A place where we tolerate and support diversity, eccentricity and creativity in others.
A place where crime is dealt with quickly and effectively.
A place where superstores and retail parks don’t dominate our town and lives.
A place where nature is in it’s right place and respected.
A place that people will want to visit, holiday in and work in.
A place that knows its roots, its history and its traditions.
A place that has a respected voice in the world.
A place that doesn’t shout me, me, me all the time.
A place where fingers don’t point and tongues don’t wag.
A safe place we can call home.
A place not run by Tory slime balls.
A clean place.
A fun place.

This all becomes a bit too pious and predicable after a while, too worthy and possibly stupid. A box ticking exercise. It’s hard not to include indicative and desirable things like having clean public toilets, no potholes in the road, a four day week, nonstop erotic cabaret, banning religion, no snappy dogs, cheap petrol, no bingo and having a Yellow Brick Road we can all just skip along on whilst whistling a happy tune. Well maybe some day.

Seasonal Variations

Webs of extremism, the death of blogging and barefoot bowls. 

Rumour has it that summer's here and so are the sporting events and regular vapid weather speculation conversations. The World Cup being the most gripping and enjoyable bit so far. I took a lot of it in, avoided the pundits and the back stories and concentrated on the basics, the matches and the beer and cutting the grass. I wasn't disappointed but it was gone in a blur, like Alan Hansen. The tennis at Wimbledon passed me by as if it was some ghostly event populated by unrecognisable players and blonde clones – once Murray was bumped anyway. Now the spotlight is on the mean city of Glasgow, an unbridled opportunity for Scotland to look...seriously and determinedly Scottish. I already have a strong sense of trepidation over these over hyped games as they are duly hijacked by the clumsy efforts of the less subtle factions in both the Yes and No camps and the ever hysterical BBC. This will be a defining moment that, like most so called defining moments fails to define anything meaningful, yet everybody will be on the look out for one to cherish, grasping their own personal bit of belonging to whatever unpleasant nonsense the Commonwealth represents and what the UK and Scotia might mean. Scotland will most likely sink without a trace in the blue chip events and we'll, as usual assume the position of polite loser and genial but badly spoken host. In the heat of the moment our grammar, dress sense and  deodorant choices will let us down but eventually some bright young hero will arise and thanks to relentless over exposure inspire the masses only then to have his or her medals stolen by some dumb ass who thinks they really are gold. It'll be fun, I can hardly wait and I've already got all the tickets I need...for Wickerman.

Cat Wars

Weapon of mass confusion.

There's a bit of an undeclared cat war going on around here. It started with a few meows and twitches but it's turned into a full scale, cat-flap battering, pissing and staring contest between cats that most likely have no balls but are desperately trying at act as if they do. Peace seems a long way from breaking out as the nightly skirmishes and tactical batterings run on. We're not sure but there may be up to six guerrilla felines involved, two of them being ours. One is in the secret service and a bit of a Mata-Hari character, the other, a bemused, reluctant and unhappy combatant just makes a lot of noise and wets his pants at the sound of gunfire. The other players are the local bad boy cutie, a stray lady with peculiar white paws, an old gentleman like Captain Mainwaring and a tiny boy/girl soldier of unknown origins. Anyway it's time for the humans strike back, anytime, anywhere and mostly in our pyjamas. Some time in the wee, small hours peace will surely come.

On Days Like These

Pre-retirement and the ghost of Hilda

Saving the pier at Culross from old age etc.

Spent today on a pre-retirement course in Glasgow, a city where, despite all the positive messages and health initiatives a high percentage of those on the street don't really look right or well. It's a curious mixture of tattoos, obesity, strange clothing trapped and moulded onto posturing body shapes topped of with a whining, chiming vocal din shouted into the battered microphone of a mobile phone. That does it I'm afraid and it's on every street corner. All acted out whilst smoking roll ups and drinking ginger, oblivious and lacking any self awareness as bemused tourists look on as they alight their coach bound for freedom. We breed our stereotypes so well, so consistently.

The course was like some precursor for coffee time in Hell or a shopping channel audience audition. Mature, wrinkled people like me, moaning, bald and swollen and wanting out of whatever they were in. I felt like I was trapped in an old people's home but one that, alas and alack, I fitted into perfectly. We were for a brief time a club. Our common purpose apparently being to get some cash, milk some pension funds, have some long and short term investments and then do what we like and "be happy but careful". It all sounds tricky to me but many have ambled down this care worn path before me and lived to be at least 64. There is hope it seems. The best part was the rather confused and well over 60 trainer who used the words "logistics" and "catalyst" to describe major lifetime events when she really meant "arrangements" and "epiphany". I just giggled as I communed with the ghost of Hilda Baker, prostitute on the floor.

Park and Tram

The Edinburgh tram riding experience isn't so bad, just forget the cost and the incompetence. For a few quid you can pleasantly slide for squeaky miles  across the industrial hog weed infested wasteland that eventually brings you the streets of the capital, abruptly. You pass beige offices, Aston Martin dealerships, the Krispy Kreme outlet, ruins and would-be slums, puzzled shoppers and students and scattered palatial dwellings. From the tram you see the backside of everything, raw, abandoned and cocky with graffiti. Edinburgh is a curious mix. When the sun shines and the grass turns brown, the wasps pretend to be bees and the family gathers there probably is no better place to be.

Worse than blowing up flats?

I'm actually quite taken by the Scottish Team's outfit for the Commonsense Games, unlikely I'll every wear one however (no, wait a minute, I don't like it much at all). The thing is, viewed with some detachment, the whole kilt, trews, bunnets, shawls and bagpipes things doesn't really add up to a great look. It's all pretty odd and I can say that as a kilt owner and occasional wearer. There can't be anybody who truly wants to wear this stuff, it's just...expected of us and we play up and live up to those expectations. That's what the Scots do best. All that will change post Sept 18 when Wee Eck's new Caledonian Hipster look and lifestyle is launched officially.

Things flying about

Today the washed out and broody skies were crowded with various flying machines. All of them (obviously) quite hard to photograph. They move too fast and high. I presume that there is a special technique for this sort of thing. Clearly I know nothing about it and I only own a £40 camera.

Meanwhile the big, cataclysmic voting day in September rolls inexorably towards us like a jam donut wobbling down the Royal Mile whilst chased by a hungry poodle. So now we find Wee Eck and Diddy Cameron getting politely booed by shipbuilders and the Queen's procession of minders close every road in West Fife, it may be the end of all reason and the demise of the M&S eat for two for a tenner offer forever. So as world peace gets no kind of chance the standards of media reporting and honest discussion seem on the brink of total collapse, here's a good piece about the Scottish situation and the tiresome and often inappropriate use of the term bully. Good on you Robert.

Seems like everyone is on holiday

Sandy, dry, warm tones and new ceramic surfaces, gleaming white and pristine, still unfinished but all there in the void that was. Cold and clean, dripping and gurgling and ready. Bright reflections and quirky space, hidden features and openings and the whizzing of fans and air and cold water turning hot. Unmarked and easy, strong, bold and compact outside of daylight. Picked out and slotted in, proportional and perfect in places and wabi sabi in others. Lazy and busy and hidden behind the anonymity of a closed door that you can peek around, squint and stare in but no key hole or latch as we await the compliant lock design. One hot and bothered question remains...who will the brave soldier and righteous warrior be, the chosen one who Christens and launches this spectacular and spiritual space?

Feckless Eejit

Here I am, a distant figure in my own head, captured by GG.

You (a person in the general sense) cannot help but see yourself in certain ways, some honest, some complimentary, sometimes self effacing and sometimes slightly romanticised to the point of being for a while a complete and utter nonsensical type of person. The key is not to be too delusional, pretentious or over extravagant. Just admit to yourself that from time to time you will behave like a feckless eejit and everything will eventually work out fine. Honesty is almost the best policy. Honest.

Jack White's Telecaster

As it's too early on a Sunday morning to go out and do the noisy power tool joinery repairs I need to do so  I'll pass the time writing more of this pointless drivel. Jack White's Telecaster was OK, made a lot of strange noises and there's no doubt went down well with the Glastonbury crowd yesterday. I'd have liked it better in a natural finish rather than faded Toilet Duck blue, my own bad taste of course. He's good but hard to watch or listen to for anything more than a couple of songs, I feel a headache coming on by then and the urge to channel surf back to the World Cup. I've no idea why I can only take small doses of him because I should really be able to just get the music, whatever it is. However I enjoyed Metallica's set and watched the whole thing. I didn't really expect to do that. They did blether on about "nice" things and some incongruous hippy drippy ideals between their tunes, all of which are about death, poison, horror etc. Nothing makes sense these days, heavy metal bands trying hard to please, whatever next?  Strangely entertaining in it's own way though, like watching a piano tumble down Ben Nevis and their cover of Whisky in the Jar was just right.

Change

Change has to be obviously; I think it was Donovan who came up with that lyric a long time ago. Change was something I reflected on yesterday whilst driving along in my stately and almost clean but battered old Volvo, tweed sports jacket on, grand daughters chattering in the back and Matt Monro's greatest Hits on the car stereo (even that kind of device now sounds dated - a CD player). I probably wasn't speeding either. Where has my former, inner wild child and socialist revolutionary gone? At least I was tempted to smoke a fag later on last night as we spilled out of a good humoured birthday party pub and onto the Edinburgh streets. The young lit up carelessly, giggling  and laughing. I just said no. Of course I'd only managed a pint of shandy and a bit of a Scotch Egg with a runny centre.

Henry Miller on getting old

"If at eighty you’re not a cripple or an invalid, if you have your health, if you still enjoy a good walk, a good meal (with all the trimmings), if you can sleep without first taking a pill, if birds and flowers, mountains and sea still inspire you, you are a most fortunate individual and you should get down on your knees morning and night and thank the good Lord for his savin’ and keepin’ power. If you are young in years but already weary in spirit, already on the way to becoming an automaton, it may do you good to say to your boss — under your breath, of course — “Fuck you, Jack! You don’t own me!” … If you can fall in love again and again, if you can forgive your parents for the crime of bringing you into the world, if you are content to get nowhere, just take each day as it comes, if you can forgive as well as forget, if you can keep from growing sour, surly, bitter and cynical, man you’ve got it half licked."

OK, I don't agree with every word but I do agree with most of the words. I think that is perfectly reasonable. There's more of his hokum and such stuff here. Sometimes I sit down and wonder just what it is I'm looking for and what everything means or might mean and why so much in life makes no sense whatsoever. Then I realise I'm sitting down and I'm feeling neither anxious or sad, I'm at peace with myself and I'm actually quite happy that way.

Fails to disappoint

Today: Fife looking onto West Lothian, a long way from Fargo.

I think it was the Daily Telegraph TV critic that said Fargo had "failed to disappoint", an odd turn of phrase really. It seems like disappointment might have been an expected thing, a natural phenomenon, what you get when you regurgitate film onto TV and in so doing stretch a premise or an idea into 10 episodes with a different cast and plot line but the same frozen location . Whilst Fargo certainly didn't disappoint it did fail to explain itself. It all was pointless, nothing needed to happen, it was cruel and absurd. As Lorne Malvo put it his way a number of unexplained times as he repeated "is this what you want?" I felt those words ringing in my ear in the final moments as the cold water and ice closed over the hapless Lester. Here was an ending that needn't have been, this is true of so many things and almost profound but nobody is really listening anyway. "I used to have such positive opinions of people..."

Painting garden furniture

A day spent reasonably well, at work for the first nine hours or so as is the custom here in the western hemisphere, then home and after some early evening sunshine, blood, sweat and spilled Cuprinol the ceremonial annual painting of the rickety garden furniture took place followed by massive amounts of ice cold beer to celebrate. Now I feel a bit...

In praise of Shreddies

Before scoffing more bad food and over processed stuff, nature reminds us of our mortality via orchid flowers.

On rethinking the last jumbled up post I realise I'm no hipster. I lack the tattoos, the beard and a long list of other things, significantly I don't give a toss either. This is good news as it means I can now get on with the rest of my life without worrying about gaining and maintaining that particular stupid image, (me with that look). So it's back to concentrating on sorting a balanced diet involving wine and oil, understanding the mesmerising amount of options for Fender wiring systems and painting the slowly fading garden furniture. Before that some kind of second breakfast is required. It's necessary to fill a gap; earlier it was Shreddies and bananas, I have overcome the feeling of wanting to gag when encountering Shreddies, I'm free of that. It was partly a texture, partly an image thing. Turns out that mixed with a sliced banana they work well  as an early morning kick starter for the expanding man's digestive processes. Then the rumbles begin and you know it's a bacon roll you really need.

Home before the postcards

Hard to feel sorry for the England team (or anybody who gets beat at a football match). Anyway good to see the Messiah chose to be with those mortal fans in the main stand and then decided, as part of the divine visitation, very briefly to walk amongst them. Oh how they sang and partied.

I'm not sure what hipsters look like, what they do or where they go. So when I found myself in a bleached wood and chick pea cafe in Aberdeen I felt out of my depth. There were devices and teapots everywhere. Ugly people beautifully dressed, hip staff in black and conundrums played out all across the menus like entrance exams into some strange organisation. I didn't choose wisely. After the order of soups, breads, sausage rolls and salads c/w expensive juice in rat-proof cans it was cake time. "Four pieces of carrot cake." I said, squinting at the selection and nibbling on random samples and crumbs. "You are being boring" retorted the waitress like some female Jeremy Paxman interrogator. "You need some flour-free brownies." I was unaware of that and have been so for most of my life. I gave in and took a selection of their wares back to the table. It was all fine, in fact pretty filling and substantial. Lunch, queer cakes and modern jazz. Maybe I am an old hipster after all.