Absurdist

Good evening, absurdist and unfunny comedy tweeting is my new thing, for a short while anyway. It's designed to irritate, slightly but not to the point of actual irritation. Subtle. Like most things I'll eventually get over it and it'll all just drift away somewhere and be buried under the next bad idea. 

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2. John Barclay‏ @Johnbarclay1 6h6 hours ago

   Retweet if you got up this morning and discovered a naughty pigeon roosting in your wardrobe.

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3. John Barclay‏ @Johnbarclay1 Sep 24

   Retweet if you've ever considered borrowing an #omnibus without the owner's permission.

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4. John Barclay‏ @Johnbarclay1 Sep 24

   Retweet if your office cleaner accidently removed your toupee with a #dyson

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That time again

As the sun and her procession slips backwards or downwards over the Tropic of Cancer, the prices of Scotch Eggs in petrol station shops fall and the major political parties get together to disagree on their many differences, the great garden's apples are ready to pick. Some are so ready they pick themselves by falling into inaccessible places where they are eaten by grey worms no one has ever seen. Some, the slow and the fearful, are eventually caught and placed in plastic trugs awaiting processing as a punishment for their stubbornness. The birds eat a few too. There will be decisions made, a bit of a mess on the floor, energy expended and a lot more gooey mush in the compost heap before it's all over. Then it will be over, officially and all product will be ritually frozen in plastic bags tagged with Sharpie information settling old scores as the trees and their fruit compete for I'm not quite sure what; harvest I suppose.

Killing Eve

All the fun of a dentist's drill. This is an awkward, compelling, scary series to watch. We're only two episodes in and there's more to go and there's books and other things out there, growing, moving and changing. The world is a frightening place and the media confirms that again and again...but that doesn't make it real.

Backwards home

A lonely bench on the railway station platform at Berwick upon Tweed, somewhere between Dunbar and Newcastle and just a tiny bit inside the tiny country of Englandshire.

London daily photo

Signal light in Leicester Square tube station.

English Opera, their venue and who knows that else (upper levels, detail).

Free but strangely unreasonably priced wine consumed in an interesting and challenging and often changing environment.

Some wag has painted one of lions in Trafalgar Square bright orange. Should've gone closer to find out why but...didn't.

Going down a flight of stairs in the Reform Club.

 

Egg and avocado breakfast c/w flat whites, or flats white.

King's Cross information board, a blast of signs and symbols and, as you might expect, information. People come and gather by it just be hypnotized by it's ethereal glow and mighty power and then disperse quickly like frightened lemmings.

Lost footballs

Some are more lost than others, some are not lost at all, simply misplaced.

Two steps forward

Two steps forwards, one step back, things that remind you that it's worth getting up in the morning.

Burning down the house

GSA 2018 (the aftermath), water colour and pastel. Prints are available.

There's been a deafening silence across all fronts since the last Great Fire of Glasgow. No news or explanation, no plan for investigation or actual inquiry. Not even a sycophantic, mealy mouthed report from the BBC. A huge area of Glasgow has been devastated, shops, homes, businesses, traffic and pedestrian access have been affected at who knows what cost but nothing has been said. Not even a proper sorry (for compelling legal reasons I'm sure). 

I visited the scene (well got as close as you can get), peered through the dust and the security fence and despite the gusty conditions executed a quick water colour of the site. Bemused tourists, eager to sample the various Big Mac Willow Tearoom attractions looked on, photo phones were clicked and brows were scratched. Nobody's saying anything much about this bomb site. 

Security is tight, there's danger here. There's also a brave new world of blameless acts bubbling under, no pointing fingers, no explanation. The stricken locals and general public couldn't handle the truth could they? The courageous  fire fighters and emergency services will have their own ideas but they remain gagged by the council, the intelligentsia and awkward procedures. Maybe a faulty toaster left by a hapless security guard, a cigarette end, vandalism, poor design or management, no fire plan or adequate health and safety cover; you choose. The artists, academics and board of governors have closed ranks. Heritage and history are competing for cash in this impractical and cruel age of austerity. Don't kid yourself either as to where the heart and soul of Glasgow is, it's not anywhere in this ruin.

It'll take a good business case to regenerate this burned out modern folly and the cash shouldn't come easily, I'm pretty sure there's no appetite for a second phoenix like attempt from the Glasgow public. What do you want? A new Art College or an atmospheric Hampden Park? What about decent housing, infrastructure, clean spaces and a respectful town plan that allows ordinary people to live their lives in safety and with an educated dignity? Never mind the flags, the tourists, the rich overseas students and the vanity projects. That's the cart, the horse is the Art College and the rest.

A would be artist's impression.

40 years

Any Fall types out there? 40 years is a long time to front a band, I'd be exhausted after 40 minutes. Anyway you can crowdfund this book and get some extra goodies here. I think you should. The author (Mr Tommy Mackay) is very clever and famous and the artist (Greg Moodie) knows a thing or two too. Aidan Moffat may be a pop star or something. That's really all I can say at the moment.

Moon Cake

Could I learn to love the Moon Cake? 

Could I learn to love the moon?

That ball of light that makes me crazy

Every lunatic month too soon.

Meter Maid

We've now got a smart meter installed so we can manage things around here  like energy and the lack of energy. According to smart meter observers and critics it'll save us at least £11 a year. That's a reasonable breakfast for one at the Old Smiddy near Doune so maybe not so bad.

Pop Art

Don't let anyone tell you that pop art died in the sixties. It lives on but in a kind of pasted up and stilted way without the aggression and hair and substance abuse that first brought it to life. Typical, it's like most things, most movements, once it's alive and realised it's pretty much dead. Life kills art sooner or later but nobody really notices. That would require some wider awareness and some concern.

Windfall

First proper wind fall apple of the year. Is windfall one word or two, who knows? Plenty of people no doubt.

Glasgow daily phony

There's nothing like a swift dose of art to make you (me) feel like a phony and a non-believer. That assumes I once was a believer or at least wanted to be one. Now I'm not sure, I'm a committed passer-by mostly. Street Art, Modern Art, Art Art, it's all the same and while I'm interested in it I'm more interested in how it actually affects things. That'll be me again being impacted upon and/or missing the point. How it affects me. So there's Angry Art, Peaceful Art, Ineffective Art and Smart Art...there are other descriptions out there, equally silly. I saw a lot of it, it affected me. I took random photos but have passed no meaningful comment. Art. It's all over the place.

Chrysanthemum tea and sympathy

Everyone is calm around here now, must be the chrysanthemum tea taking effect, we're all relaxed, exercises done, staring out of the window with "that" look in our eyes. Everyone is of course two cats and I. The weather is better but it was never really bad. We've generated quite a lot of sympathy for the Devil, in whatever form he takes. It's not always physical either, just thoughts sometimes. He's not evil, just misunderstood. You can tell that to the children. There are other things you need to tell them if they'll listen. Turns out that God was a bit of a bully most of the time. In every story there's at least two sides, sometimes more. 

Fifty already

It's now over 50 years since 2001 was released, the precise dates escape me and don't really matter. I doubt there will be a movie that is so striking, so misunderstood and so mystical ever made again. (That sentence caused me a lot of syntax and brain cell problems). I am however a bear of little imagination and am easily led by the great commentators and Svengalis of modern culture. They may have gotten to me. My opinions are flawed by their contaminated thoughts. Also please note that I may well be one of them but in a naturally dormant and uncommunicative state. That is my way of influencing the world and nudging the universe in my chosen direction by disguise and steady stealth. I remain hidden in the ether, floating high above your head like an errant thought bubble.

Preparing for print head

It's funny how most major consumer products have become simpler, more reliable and more robust over the years. Cars, TVs, washing machines, even (non-Apple) mobile phones. Alas this is not the case with printers. They are the fragile pre-madonnas of the technical world, flighty and complicated, always temperamental, needy and hungry for ink and attention, at war with any external device and prone to violent mood swings and fits or simply sulking and not talking to anyone. I can say this with some confidence having just un-boxed and installed a Canon 9100 series printer. Of course even though it's called a Canon 9100 (as per the handbook) it only responds to instructions when you call it a Canon 9150, and why not indeed? Names are important.

The whole process, including downloading numerous "helpful" but now completely inaccessible files takes about two hours. Everywhere there are tiny tabs and spring loaded orifices, hidden chambers that move without warning like alien jaws and then random and circular instructions that appear on a tiny screen, "wait a while" I'm politely told. So I waited. Sure enough, once all the whirring and mysterious checking and resetting is done it becomes possible to print. 

I print gingerly in black and white. Avoid colours at all costs, the cartridges are filled with a mystery elixir that could confidently slop around in the Holy Grail and grant eternal life. Even better (and more profitable) there are now two extra cartridges where there once were four. A pale purple and wheezy looking grey. Six to buy, six to fiddle with, six to stain your finger tips, six to dispose of. Why? Of course there is a chance that this printer may be the one that breaks the mould, the one that performs like a faithful collie and just gets on with it's core task, printing. I hope so.