Avoid Corona beer and you'll be fine

The faithful and bemused praying for the great man, all in the hope that he won't be struck down by the terrible beer virus from Mexico. 

Typical Sunday

A healthy portion of Corona. Part of your 5 a day.

Typical Sunday so far: A quick run out to the airport in the pouring rain, aquaplaned vehicles strewn across the carriageway, debris getting cleared up, some storm moving cross country etc.  For breakfast a nice petri dish of Corona Virus with a side of virtual reality and a small dose of actual reality. All quite tricky to digest. Flushed out some hidden IKEA boxes that were hiding out but no longer hidden as they've been caught. Short but inwardly effective rant to myself about the government and it's complete lack of competence and credibility (this line of thought is really a mental rabbit hole that actually has no rabbits and isn't a hole it's just a dark and unpleasant experience). For lunch some Eno & Fripp placed in alphabetical order rather than alpha male order. Now I'm headed out to panic buy a bottle of wine. Done.

One day all your fine album covers will look like this.

29th February

Only comes around every four years but in truth it's just like any other day. Same outlook, same light, same dark and twilight, same clouds. I'm underwhelmed. In 2024 something special needs to take place, some cosmic event. Over to you cosmos.

Altered States

The (funked up) Peacock Skirt by Aubrey Beardsley.

Living on in the "end of days": Nobody is talking about Brexit anymore, Scottish Independence has been sidelined (mostly), Boris Johnson's stupid outbursts and calculated misdemeanors have been shelved, Trump's lunatic rants aren't even worth clicking on to view. The BBC loves a cheap to cover story where editorial input is minimal and experts can solemnly comment from far away. Corona-virus rules the airways, the primary concern of everyone it seems, particularly those with those awkward "underlying health issues". That could be me or you, that 60th milestone is a long way behind now. 

We're relearning hand washing, not touching your own face, only flushing the loo when the lid is closed, a 2m rule between people and no handshaking or sneezing in a crowded room. We don't travel, we work from home (except those on minimum wage who need to actually turn up somewhere and sweat), we self isolate, alert the authorities, we cower down (TV on mute) and await the angel of death or fearful solitude or a chirpy Tesco delivery. Next it'll be looters in clownish beanie hats stealing your stock of surgical masks. Let them have them but cough into the carton first.

When the world is running down, you make the best of what's still around, black markets abound where farmers used to rule: cans of tuna and beans, beer and 7Up, books in boxes and box-sets that were never boxed because they're digital, candles to calm the demons and shredded 24hr news reports on a loop. A comfy couch and a room with a view of the bus stop where those still waiting can receive the Last Rights simply by producing their bus pass (or entitlement card to give it it's Sunday name). I hope none of it ever happens and I don't even know quite what it is.

Daily Cat

Blue tinge: No heating in the house but Clint the cat is still watching yet another episode of Hoovie's Garage on YouTube.

Another's Psychedelic Breakfast

I blame the large cocktail of porridge, honey, cream and mystery spores. The breakfast of champions in some cultures.  Clearly I overdid it but it was worthwhile and a new world record was set even as I stared blankly out of the window to visually survey the strange spectacle: Six vehicles of various kinds and one redundant aerated bath carcass all parked up in the front garden and eager for work. A compositional masterpiece. The sun will never rise or set set on such a random but well formed scene again in my lifetime (I suspect). Lunch was the less sophisticated but equally nutritious pie on a roll, a Scottish classic but it led nowhere in terms of inspiration. Well that's my food and drug blog done for the week.

Craigtoun

I was born in this house 65 years ago (give or take a bit and it's not quite my birthday either). Now a ruin it was Mount Melville House (owned by the Younger brewing family) from 1904 and then from about 1949 until the late 90s Craigtoun Hospital. It sits unloved and empty a few miles south west of St Andrews, a deep pocketed developer is required to rescue it so it seems. Not likely to happen any time soon.

Quiet Life

Yesterday: A non-sensational day, the promised snow failed to fall from the sky. It chose to appear as rain, the persistent kind. A million drivers and commuters cheered inwardly at the weather forecasts failure. Window gawpers like me were left with a sense of both relief and loss at the postponed spectacle (maybe next week). As the rain beat upon the house a new boiler was delivered, encased in heavy cardboard and on a barrow, various pipes and vents also arrived in bags and a single naked firebrick completed the bill of materials. It will be installed and hopefully set up and running later in the week. We'll also have a Hive device to control the beast remotely and so manage our environment even when we're not in it. The promise of luxury and a warm, quiet life for now and a hold on decisions until better, greener solutions hit the market.

The Gods over Fife

Looking down on Leven, Methil, Mossmorran, Dalgety Bay and Rosyth from what might be described as a reasonable height. Seeing into homes, pubs and allotments in Valleyfield, Crossford, Crossgates and Kelty. Peering through shutters and walking across the bare boards of homes in Crombie, Glenrothes and Aberdour. Creating potholes and puddles all across the county, hanging dogshit in black bags on bushes, allowing the bins at the recycling centre to overflow, finding your tyres and lacerating them with the correct amount of broken glass. Nicking your washing, your bank card and breaking into your garages. Whispering in your neighbour's ear that you're up to no good and that your missus is a bit of a .... and your weans are running wild.

These are the everyday tasks and actions of the Gods that look after this resolute, confused and tarnished little kingdom of Fifeshire. They breathe out and vegetables grow, they breathe in and your fag goes out, they cough and you drop your half bottle of Buckfast onto a slab, they sneeze and your cocaine is scattered across your mate's copy of the Daily Record, they think and you think that you don't (but none of it is true). Being a proper God is no joke, ask any of us, we'll tell you the truth (up to a point).

A clean pair of heels

Garage Band Revival: Another view of the everyday mundane aspects of everyday mundane life viewed through those rose tinted spectacles that your granny had back in the day when life was simple, beer was 10p a pint and Cadbury's Cream Eggs and Mars Bars were substantial pieces of fodder that you could comfortably live on for at least a fortnight in the "old money" version of black and white time that existed back then in 425 lines only. The trouble is that none of it really happened because it's forgotten and that renders the past redundant and open to dispute, no two views of the same experience are ever the same. Here in this fuzzy illustration, the past has been shown a clean pair of heels, we've run away, it's buried and gone, over the hill, in the back of beyond, packed up a shifted elsewhere. Or is it? I just caught a fleeting glimpse, from out the corner of my eye...

Thank you

Thank you for visiting,

What were you thinking?

Are you a Bot or not?

Whatever, I forgive and I also forgot.

Blues and yellows

View from the office this morning through 60s tinted glasses: The wild winds hammer down the Forth Valley and whistle through our letterbox delivering a chilly message. The seasonal blues and grays prevail; the yellows are inside my head in a summer dream that's trapped in February. Six days to go to the next milestone and payday. I'm a little sleepy and lethargic due to a heavy breakfast; haggis-cheese (that is a thing) and bacon on a brown roll, supplied by the local Mafia cafe/office. Heavy but tasty. In other news I now know that 60mph winds and car covers don't agree, in future I will review user procedures according to reliable weather forecasting sources.

Normalisation of the Strange

Original photo by LB.

I'm not the only person who thinks this (I'm not the only person who thinks anything, thoughts are pretty commonplace and mine are nothing special, often learned rather than original) but I suspect that cats take drugs on a regular basis. After a few years of observation and cat monitoring it's the only reasonable conclusion I can come to. What I'm not sure about is where their sources might me. There's a wild world out there that is wilder than we think.

Undercover

Spring may be in the air somewhere but here in the far north the rain is wet and regular and the wind is a series of patches of turbulent air moving and swirling in whatever direction it chooses causing actual damage from time to time. We have moved away from a rural location to a proper town so weather based environmental issues are less relevant but still worrying. The sea is visible from various windows, any day it may rise, well in the future.

In this busy idyll the car needs a tent so that it's new outdoor life can be tolerated, I suspect not really enjoyed though, hence the "all weather" covering. We'll see how long that lasts. The weather will be closely monitored and a long hot summer is kind of anticipated but only as a guilty pleasure because whatever the conditions there's really no weather pattern that pleases everybody and that's left me confused as to what to wish for. Flood, drought or pestilence? One man's shit appears to be another man's pancake etc.

All the new films on Netflix this week

The title is a poorly constructed lie. I've no idea what's new on Netflix and even if I did I'm not sure I'd list them here. I do like films though, I also like spoilers. It's OK to know how it all ends or what the plot twist is or even if it's any good. Knowing is not a reason not watch. Films are not immersive experiences that you need to sweat and work your way through. Mostly they're poorer versions of books and the opportunity to let your imagination coast out of gear for a couple of hours while you admire the acting and cinematography. You might get a laugh or a jump scare or two on the way, maybe even a tear in the corner of your eye. 

Netflix promises a lot...so does Amazon...sometimes they hit the spot, sometimes not. There are other providers. One day this bloated market will collapse but why worry about that just now? Soap, movie and comedy fixes are there for us all. Stay on that couch and use the JustEat App. Keep us amused while the wreckers go about their business in the shadows, in Oxford or Cambridge, behind the closed doors of No10, in the Kremlin, the White House and probably in some random Starbucks near to you.

Despite everything: This is new on Netflix, "Miss Americana", Taylor Swift's story, it's pretty good in my humble opinion.

Cat view

Using virtual reality cat vision it is possible to see through the eyes of any passing cat to understand how they observe the world, quite wonderful technology. Here's a cat-cam view this morning of the big bad outside world beyond our front door (door also included for reference).

Solid Fuel

Some say solid fuel is a bowl of warm porridge, some say glowing logs or coal, charcoal for the barbie, some say other things that I have little knowledge about: rocket fuel or atomic isotopes for example. We're still with logs just now, they're working well on the domestic front. Maybe too well, perhaps a log burning rocket isn't a bad idea, very Jules Verne when I think about it. His ghost may be whispering to me, that still small voice can be persistent. A greener and long term proposition for a lower-tech version of space exploration. Just grow a few trees on the moon ready for your return journey or wait a while longer and go interstellar. Some patience might be needed and the wood drying times are critical for decent combustion.

Time will crawl

Photo by Bob Mazzer.

Nobody owns time, it's just time. We exist within it. You can't stop it. It's interesting to talk about it, to speculate about it's nature and how, one day we might somehow move through it, as if it was a swimming pool or a field of wheat. All good conversation fodder after a few drinks. We like to think of how people from the future might visit us and tip us off about danger. As if we'd listen to advice from an "expert". 

Nobody owns the weather either, they just pretend that they know a bit about it. The seasons are a rough guide but inconsistent, the weather man or lady offers a hint but it's vague. Satellites see storms but from afar. Easiest is just to look out of the window (in this country look West), you'll see it coming, clearer than a TV screen. If you can't see it coming that means it's foggy or the rain is already here or clouds are a bit lower than usual. Thank you for listening to my TED talk.

Cat upheaval

Moving house: The last major family piece of our abstract and living jigsaw has now moved back in. The cats of course, no longer orphaned and free from temporary care. I did a quick oil and acrylic sketch of them shortly after they arrived to mark the moment. I captured them getting orientated and comfortable within their new surroundings and of course enjoying the warmth of the main bedroom radiator.

Fixin' Banksy

When I think about art my mind goes down a rabbit hole. Usually it looks like Bugs Bunny's home, deep and wide, with carrots stacked in cupboards. I've Luddite DNA with a pinch of Calvinism added for good measure, some things can't be escaped from. People used to say things like "I don't know much but I know what I like" in order to divert from their ordinary ignorance and lack of really caring. It's probably a little more complex than that, firstly what are you allowed to like? What do you allow yourself to like? Do you understand what you like? Does any of it really matter? These are awkward questions and I can't be bothered answering them, truth is most art is pretty boring; framed wallpaper, splattered ideas, ragged collages and the lazy copying of far away genius. A bit like somebody describing last night's dream but using pastels, oil paint or a spray can to do it. "Hell is other people expressing themselves and then talking about it Ad Nauseam." As a wise man once mused to himself but thought better of sharing (so he buried it in some non-ironic blog post). 

I find I like things in spasms, I burst into a fit of understanding and for a brief moment I get it. Then I think about a cheese and pickle sandwich or kittens and so the tableau moves on, art's a distant memory when you have to hoover the rug and fix dinner or just look out of the window. These honeymoon encounters are OK, just not intellectually worthy enough, I'm still not knowing what I like but I know what I wouldn't buy, fleeting moments of clarity are not so rewarding. There are just too many images, my retina are run ragged. The conversation is too long, too historical and weighted, too worn out, I can't concentrate. Perhaps a cull is required, an embargo, burn down the art schools (?). But in a throw away culture all culture will eventually be thrown away, ashes to ashes. Rome will be raised to the ground and we wont know what we've lost but we won't miss it either. Maybe I'm the one who's missing something, cheap and nasty DNA kicks in. Nothing lasts but everything is going to be sustainable.