New Radiators

Actual picture but not the actual picture.

Seventeen years of gunk, corrosion, chemicals, road film, Scottish weather, high operating temperatures and environmental trashing* means the two radiators on my car need replaced. They're on their last little sad radiator legs. They're leaking. Something I noticed when a) I noticed a warm fluid leak dripping down by the front wheel that certainly wasn't coming from me or my trousers and b) the temp gauge, always steady at 80 degrees whatever the weather, decided to move by all of a millimetre to a little more than 80 degrees. OCD me quickly sweated and panicked at the sight. Fortunately these events clashed with an MOT and service booking so there was an opportunity to get everything sorted in one sweet if sightly expensive move.

*May also just have been yet another random mutant algorithm. Or a perhaps a big mutant algorithm did it and ran away.

Actual.

Squirrelproof Bins

 

Out for a healthy walk: Sometimes that irrational fear just creeps up on you. Out there, beyond the boundary of senses, no easy navigation possible, like dark waters, too deep for your feet to touch the bottom. Then, that cold breath on your shoulder slowly turning warm. What ravenous beast is this? What's out there, unnamed, rattling on the bars of it's damp dungeon, whispering spells and words to ingratiate itself with golden lies and promises as you lean into the dark spaces? Out there in the blind woods, where eyesight is unreliable, where sounds are tortured and unclear, where signs remain distorted and warped. Mostly just brisk cyclists and clumsy joggers passing by.

You shift your weight, foot to foot, uneasy, troubled. The sweat begins to stick to you. You're aware of your own smell, your nerve's show their clean edges. Sparking with invisible electricity and ferrule dirt. You're looking but not seeing anything, there are no connections to be made. There is no sense to this. A funny looking old dog that's off the lead is almost approaching but meandering across the path with no clear purpose, the owner cannot be seen.

Spittle and fury, limbs writhing and items flying in all directions, whimpering or howling tries to match the sounds of crows and seagulls attacking stray pigeons over on the foreshore. Or peace, tranquility, only the smooth hum of Chinese plastic wheels rings out across the bumpy unrepaired tramac and puddles as they breeze along, fruit shoots and bottles successfully deployed. Mums in leggings and hoodies shoving buggies, headed for the nursery.

You're in Scotland and it's still August. Will this month ever end? Please adjust your face mask and remain 2m clear of fellow humans, avoid eye contact, look serious and take care because our current litter bin designs don't seem to be very squirrel proof. Thank you. 

Here's a drone view of some early Earl Gray tea plants we're cultivating as a hedge against future shortages.

Not one of those people

If I ever were asked to sum up the UK's current state I'd probably use an illustration something like this one. That only makes me a realist, not bitter and twisted in any way and certainly not a traitor, though you can stuff your jingoistic Rule Britannia type anthems wherever they might be the least comfortable for you.

So, having established that I am not one of those people who moans and drones on and on about how things are getting worse and how the UK is an international laughing stocks, a denier of it's own putrid history and currently run by a bunch of crooks and jumped up village idiots. I actually think things, whilst far from perfect are tolerable, up to a point. Many things are wrong and are going wrong but there are quite a few good things happening in science, industry, culture, language and human relations ... I'm sure. They tend to be overlooked by a squalid media scrum over nonsense news, celebrity trivia and editorial guidelines that "promote" the jumped up village idiot's idiotic behaviour and utterances. Otherwise things are just fine if you're keen on measuring that sort of thing. 

I say that but then again I may have just coughed up a rather nasty mutant algorithm. I did walk past a school, used public transport and shopped in a shop today. That might explain everything. 42.

Here's a highly sophisticated animation showing the ritualistic dance moves of either a Russian Spy or a Young Conservative. Make your own mind up about it:

Putin, Putin, Putin.

Dance, Dance, Dance.

Like a Young Conservative.

The Glow of a German Cat

 

Meanwhile over in Germany, cats are going for a decidedly stylish but also sinister look these days. That view is of course from a human perspective, the cats may well have other opinions. I'm guessing for them it's a matter of increasing your own profile, building status, standing out in the crowd while looking cool if a little humanized, and for city cats, as basic step towards road safety and self preservation. 

TSINGTAO

I recently collected a substantial Chinese carry out from our local place and it came in this rather nice box, one which I quite like. Tsingtao is a type of Chinese beer that I've never heard of, not being much of a world traveler or beer geek etc. The carton, meal time contents duly consumed is now destined for the recycling skip across the street and will presumably return to us one day in the form of toilet rolls or a brown paper bag. It's the circle of life, as every Chinese lion knows only too well. Here's a sort of Steam Punk / Industrial rendering of it, purely for reference.

Vicarious Coffee and Cake

Custard tart and milky coffee as served up in Koln street cafe yesterday at lunchtime. Meanwhile back here we had lentil soup and oatcakes as the rain poured down on the corrugated iron roof of the croft, a wee surprise after a promising early morning brightness. Cats and dogs weather. I am of course not being factual here but referring here to the ongoing going ons going on inside and outside my head. Turns out too that a little rain does not discourage the jet skiers currently mowing through the waves and the lawns up and down the streets.

Distorted Woodland Gods

So as not to be confused with dragons or other fierce creatures the characters balance a welcoming cherry berry cupcake by creating a pyramid with their bodies much to the confusion of the woodland sprites standing by awaiting the unknown visitors who may of may not turn up today or even tomorrow subject to the availability of the right amount of golden starlight in order to fully warm up and power the proceedings and also supply the refreshments. Very thoughtful.

(Examples: One very long sentence and one very short sentence.)

In Dreams

It's found in the second aisle in Aldi, around the corner from the cheese, ready meals and cold meats. It's on your left, down a bit on the lower half of the display rack, lower than the unpleasant chocolate and the strange biscuits. It's not like the much hyped Dreamies for cats, they're hard biscuity things smelling of fish and unpleasant to human taste (I suspect). This Dreemy is really a knock off Milky Way but, quite strangely a lot better. As if the Aldi brothers had secretly nicked some old, not quite right for 2020, cost effective or PC Milky Way recipe from Mars and actually improved it. I'm impressed and I will return and buy more in my new found role as a happy customer.

Le Grand Bleu

Sailing on out into the great and somewhat misty blue yonder of the North Sea, the £150m (or thereabouts) super yacht Grand Bleu leaves her temporary mooring just beyond our back garden and heads away to London town. No doubt there's a decent socially distanced cocktail party happening there tomorrow night and nobody on board would want to miss it. There will be wheeling, there may even be dealing. Of course they will be missing the Saturday evening delights of the 'Ferry but I guess they're OK with that. Bon Voyage.

           Blurred image as she sits outside Rosyth docks ready to depart.

Confessions of a Beachcomber

 

I'm old enough to recall "the world according to beachcomber" (without capitalization). It was a silly, funny, odd column that existed in the Daily Express on certain days. It was about everything and nothing in particular. In the the pre-Python days (but still with Tony Hancock and Spike Milligan being very busy being brilliant) it did represent a slice of humour that was not mainstream BBC fodder. Having said that I cant remember a single Beachcomber anecdote whereas I've some seriously good memories of the other comedy trailblazers who didn't play the complete establishment game. None of this is relevant, comedy remains a weird profession and what is funny sometimes isn't. 

Anyway I like the idea of the observational beach comb as a piece of relaxed therapy and possibly inspiration. Living close to a beach helps and thankfully I do but my beachcombing brain and attitude are as yet not fully developed and of course I should really be combing some metaphoric and imaginary "world" beach and not just the real sludge, sand and rotting seaweed. The real Beachcomber had few answers, mainly just findings, observations and views. Finding answers are of course the hard part of real life and the combing of it. I've a way to go it seems.

The pubs are open

A real pub in an imaginary place.

 

The pubs are safe spaces say the safe space experts but if you get ill it's your own fault. The shops are safe as is your place of work ... (I ranted quite unhealthily for a bit after this and I decided to delete it all, ranting isn't helpful to anyone).

"The students are calling for the reform of the monarchy" said the newscaster regarding protests in Thailand. I quite like that phrase. I wish they were British students.

It's August but ... weather warnings have been issued. So say the motorway signs.

The Yo Sushi counter in Tesco remains closed, there are fears that it may never open. I however am unafraid.

I put a full bin of compost into my brown bin (the same sized bin), it only half filled it. Explain that if you can Jeff Bezos and Elon Musk (or you'll fail the job interview that I'm imagining), and show your working. An interesting fantasy test.

The Umbrella Academy Series 1 Episode 9 "A Serendipitous Discovery". Lovely title.

Onto plums...

Shoes on a wire

 

A daily photo type of post and a sad state of affairs, not expressed in bold text either for some reason despite sitting to the left of a colon: Unloved and unwanted and possibly infected by some terrible foot fungus that even a good quality cream might fail to cure. Nike shoes, suspended from a telephone wire above the Cowgate in Edinburgh City, August 2020. Size unknown, suspected to be at least 10s.

Content on a rainy day

An idea from above.

 This could be about being content on a rainy day, at ease and at peace despite the weather being a bit of a dampener. Or it could be about trying to create some content that rises a little above the customary pedestrian drivel you normally get here, no offence all you pedestrians out there or those with dyslexia who may think I'm bethering about predestination or simply being pedantic. It's a rainy day anyway. One of those irritating common experiences we all feel the need to speak about or describe as if no one else has ever walked out into a rainy day in their best Mountain Warehouse outdoor shoes and realized that they were simply not up to the job (the shoes) and that any planned attempt to walk up Ben Nevis will require better tooling.

Tomorrow further rain is forecast. Quite incredible. The spiders however remain busy, unbothered by the damp weather.

Cyphers in the Stones

 

Little known facts from the darkness of the past: A recent discovery has been made at the low water point near the harbour of a Scottish fishing village famed for it's confusing one way traffic system, tacky AirbnB homes and having the oldest "old school" fish and chip shop anywhere. The discovery was made by a band of Enid Blyton characters all up in Scotland for their "hols" and staying with their maiden aunt Agnes, madam at the popular  "Fisherman's Brothel" Hotel. And so it was that Sonja, Charles, Boudica and Jeffrey along with their feckless dog Sparky the Spaniel made the discovery whilst heading home for supper one July evening during Edwardian times. 

Experts have described the find as looking a lot like ancient communications from an unknown alien race. The runes can be seen at low tide in Pittenweem but only through special goggles. I took it upon myself to check out the find and have already translated their meaning but have decided not to share their message with the rest of mankind, until the time is right. Please note these pictures only show a part of the message, there are other photos that I am withholding for robust reasons of national security. 

The Blyton kids have now returned to a small village near Harrow and pose no threat to the secrecy of the project due to having been written with short attention spans and being easily distracted by a tray of hot fairy cakes or a large bowl of iced sultana buns and a jug of fresh lemonade.

Some smart arse

Some smart arse (well that's pretty unfair and judgmental right away and untrue no doubt) drew an arty picture of something called "line on turquoise" but the sad fact is it looks like a very basic diagram of the human digestive system and based on my limited knowledge and taste that works just fine for me. I'm sorry about this but actually I'm not sorry at all. I do kind of like it but it also makes me feel slightly uncomfortable. I'm thinking that it's in the South Park School of Art if there is such a thing. I also think that's what art is supposed to do so everything here is reasonable for the time being.

Textures from the concrete swamp

 

A working title: Textures of building materials viewed as if seen through the downward facing camera of a tiny Martian lander that's run off course somewhat and is about to touch down on some small construction site on the wrong planet altogether. In fact it failed to leave this planet (it's home planet) and has been flying around confused and out of control for some time, now it's power is running low, it needs a solar recharge so it's seeking out a suitable spot for a reviving nap.

 

It's an unlikely scenario I know, but I do wonder about all the nano tech applications that are taking place and how they just might intrude on normal life in unpleasant ways or perhaps run amok and fly into nostrils, microwaves and shower nozzles or be absorbed into the food chain in some strange way.

A man needs a maid

I can't quite figure out what a 24 year old Neil Young would have to say that would connect with my 17 year old self but a connection of sorts happened way back then. Naive and inexperienced and all that, a million miles away from the leafy Laurel Canyon wonderland and the Canadian prairie (in every sense), but it meant something at the time. So I caught myself singing "a man needs a maid" in the shower (?) after a pretty sweaty, full on working day. I was two glasses of wine in on an empty stomach. I managed at least two verses before forgetfulness set in.

The daily harsh reality being I made two trips to Broxburn tip today (aka the recycling centre), it's as unglamorous as it gets. Wood louse and creepy crawly infested fence posts, rotting timbers and broken wooden slats were duly disposed of. It felt, in the post thunderous August heat like climbing Ben Nevis in a diving suit. I've turned soft and unfit, I've sweated pints and been bitten by the local berry bugs as if I was the UN supply team in a famine situation, I'm now a blobby jelly man. Then I cut the grass and then I did some concrete shoring and mixing. Now all I want is a shower and lo and behold I begin to sing "a man needs a maid" and feeling conflicted as I douse myself in fake coconut body whatever gel. 

In my head it is not PC, I'm not sure why, I suffer some kind of self inflicted abstract ageist guilt. The things I liked, the phrases I go to, the thoughts I think might just be ... incorrect. Of course nobody is actually listening to my inner narrative and judging it or any of my questionable opinions as I try to keep up with the best possible contemporary guidance and pretend that I care about them and their incomprehensible logic. Like trying to walk the unenviable tightrope of SNP or Labour Party acceptance and correctness, a fucking intellectual trial and a joke in itself. Anyway at some kind of weird, possibly incorrect level, out of step with the current enlightened view ... a man probably needs a maid, I think.

Unprecedented Times

 

Sometimes there's no point in trying to write anything remotely original when there are plenty of other people, clearly cleverer than me, who can put things out there in both words and images better than I can. I do not despair at this obvious fact, I'm quite happy about it. It means I don't feel I need to take any actual responsibility for even trying to make up imaginative stuff or be relevant. Why only the other day I was saying that very thing to Mr Putin and his pure bred American red-neck lackeys, it was during one of our strategy mind control and planning, telepathic conference calls on Zoom. 

Just thinking that somebody needs to set up a newspaper or some online slightly shitty type of newscast and call it "Unprecedented Times". Maybe it already exists in the Harry Potter universe or some such fantasy landscape.

In our gated community

 

Designed to keep out the good people, keep the cats in (but there is a sizable kitty escape gap under the actual gate that's causing some chin stroking), be a timber bulwark against the cruel storms of the world and reduce the south gable end of our house to some kind of apocalyptic grey zone where the sun won't shine and nothing will ever grow again (but there will be hope as we set our faces towards grim reality and rebuild with the tortured muscles of the crude and unsophisticated life forms that we have become, a brave newish kind of alternative world). That was/is the plan and now it has come to be. It has shape, texture and a latch and hinges. I give you a poetic and unrealistic rendering of the new gate.

Here's my train

 

The roar of the engines and the blue fumes of diesel greeted him as he crossed across the platforms in the railway station. The slightly wonky and very analogue information board flipped through various versions of destination information  reality. Like some living Scrabble board it mixed the names of towns and times as it struggled to display the relevant departure information. A giant clockwork beast running down it's inner windings as he imagined elabourate and complex gears and workings spinning furiously behind the digits and letters. The journey looked straightforward. Change at London Euston and then onto Victoria, presumably by foot with local directional advice given freely all along the way. In the background the station Tannoy system seemed to perpetually argue with itself, there was no filter on the broad Liverpudlian advice that buzzed from the aging speakers, conveniently nothing actually said could be made out or understood.

Platform 2 was for London. Liverpool had been a brief stepping stone, London was likely to be more of a spiraling path, he wasn't sure. Portsmouth was something that might happen and that too was more of a stepping stone. London would require some money making, some kind of hustle and a bed for as many nights as possible. He had options, a bit like a hand in a one sided pontoon game, some might come up with the right numbers, but as for the others, who knows? These thoughts made him nervous. He truly had no idea where he was going. The journey represented an answer and a hurdle.

There was about a twenty minute wait before the next train so he found a bench. On a barrow nearby there were baskets of racing pigeons quietly cooing in anticipation of the freedom of the race. A space in the platform roof was allowing pieces of sky to send sunny beams down onto their wicker baskets. Their eyes like tiny lights searching out for hints of blue, directional information and clues as to the whereabouts of their only true master, the sun. The great orb that guided and encouraged them on journey after journey, race after race. Concepts they couldn't understand as they were simply deluded birds, masked and blunted by their calling to fly as freely and quickly as possible, guided by the sun and mysterious elements back to some cosy loft in Southport or Birkenhead where a warm perch and a prize of regular corn supplies awaited them.

He looked through the wicker work windows into the pigeon's temporarily cramped world and in turn they reacted with quiet indignation as if he was some kind of peeping Tom. They avoided his gaze at all costs with animal determination, it's not as if he was their manager about to administer a team talk of tactics before the game. No, all the whispering had been done a while ago, they were on their own on the leading edge of their competitive journey and so was he. There is such a thing as unexpected mental strength in all breeds and creatures. Flight as opposed to fight. "Oh, here's my train." A great green Deltic with a stripy yellow face was shunting a row of claret passenger coaches into the hungry platform siding.