Strange Talents

Strange talents: Warren Zevon, Terry Reid, Judee Sill. There's a long list that despite my liking for lists I'm choosing not to construct. Unexplored worlds, cult followings, unrealised potential, missed chances, obscurity and death; or is it just the way it is? Everybody has a song inside, or a novel, maybe just a one liner or an idea or a take on things. Just don't sit on it or procrastinate. Everyone's talent is strange (except to them).

Whilst talking about raw talent, C4's semi-reality show "The Great Pottery Throw Down" has just finished. As far as conventional TV shows go this one has been hard to beat. Actually likable experts and judges, funny and engaging presenters and competitors who all seemed to be genuinely nice people. No arseholes, premadonnas or cheats, just skilled people testing and developing themselves in a fun and friendly competition based around highly artistic pottery work. Other reality type TV shows tend to be just a car crash of emotional cripples and idiots all going nowhere ... in my humble opinion.

Fruit Bowl Blues

 Three chords, four bananas and five apples. 

That's the fruit bowl blues.

Pop Cat

 In the nineteen sixties all cats looked like this. 

The lowest form of wit

 

Allow me if you will to enter into sarcastic mode for a brief moment in time. Nobody asked for a bridge to Ireland, not the Irish or the Scots, not the Welsh and probably not even the English. Ryanair, EasyJet and the various ferry companies all seemed to be doing a reasonable job of getting folks there and back again but it turns out that two engineering professors have been tasked to look into the "problem".

Of course there's nothing like an unwanted and costly international bridge linkage of some sort to bring people together. The cause of brutalist architecture will flourish and many jobs(?) will be created. All our real and imagined ideological and cultural differences will also evaporate once we see that shining steel (Chinese I presume) and concrete (from Australia) trusting out across the the blue waters of the Irish Sea as it threads its way between the various deep water munitions dumps, radioactive waste and perpetual fog banks and shipping lanes that might be in the way. 

Thanks to the left wing sycophants at the BBC for the original un-doctored picture and the tedious repetition of the fantasy bridge strategy. Perhaps it should be a tunnel.

In other news the bots are back: welcome to my many Russian and American friends wherever you may be based in the cyber cosmos.

New developments

 

Great new developments are taking place in the world of digital fireplaces. A work saving boon for busy families and householders in these tricky times. This is just a glimpse of one of the many sustainable "whisky glass" examples that are now on offer to the general public. Don't hold yourself back. The Flaming Dram model is on some special deal this week. I've no clear idea why.

Next up; the surrealistic version where supernatural flaming gnomes dance across underground lava streams reciting the complete works of Enid Blyton to a seated and quietly dozing Keir Starmer, a noted but not notable politician.

Random Acts of Chocolate

My relatively mild food obsession continues: The other evening, halfway through a reasonably dull University Challenge semi final (or something like that), there was an unexpected ring of the robotic door bell. Via the good services of an Amazon delivery driver (aka the Ritter Sport Fairy) these rather nice sweets where delivered, out of the blue etc. No names and no pack-drill. I can only say a sincere "thank you" to our anonymous Ritter benefactor, whoever you may be. (I know now).

A matter of rice and death

Fried rice meets boiled rice in a rare moment of yin and yang unity. Some might call this a bowl of leftovers, a food surplus following excess preparation and the use of incorrect quantities but for others it's simply tomorrow's lunch (topped with a portion of grated, melted cheese). Fine if you like that sort of thing.

No Shame

 

Division Bell: The design always did remind me of Robo-Cop though I didn't really ever put the two together properly until I saw this. That's certainly not Ely Cathedral in the background either. I'm 65, occasionally I might wear a Pink Floyd T shirt and feel no shame. There you have it.

Pie of the day

 

The gift of a pie: The holy trinity of pie ingredients encased in a light, shortcrust pastry. A layer of haggis and a layer of turnip topped with spiral cap of creamy mashed potato, all just crispy enough on the outside and soft and moist on the inside. Served hot, 10/10. If you want to know where you can purchase a pie of this sort I'm sorry but I'm not telling you. However if you're guessing somewhere in the colony known as Scotland then you're probably not wrong.

When you're first in a Twitter Poll

So you're the first. Then there's also the thought that you might also be the only one in it too...

Reanimating the Dead

The past is big business. Your roots are valuable. Your images are priceless but maybe you can get them for free. Your memories are commodities you can trade. If you don't like the look of things use our complimentary editor. Add sound clips. Once you reach a certain age nobody remembers the details anyway, unless there was some sort of trauma. Improve your looks? Perhaps our easy to use editor can deal with that. It's all very professional. History exists to be rewritten. People like things that are a bit "creepy", some might say edgy. It's very peaceful in our digital archive. There's no conflict here. Have a good day.

"I know I've made some very poor decisions recently, but I can give you my complete assurance that my work will be back to normal. I've still got the greatest enthusiasm and confidence in the mission. And I want to help you." HAL 2001.

Fit for Purpose

Twenty Four Great Pulteney Street, Bath (Second Floor Flat): My home and postal address many years ago in the serene city of Bath. Over the years I've spent a lot of time there between college and work. I've a soft spot for the wide streets, Georgian buildings and the overall ambiance and style of the place. Bath is OK (or at least it was the last time I was there). Strangely Bath is also the home of "Wings Over Scotland", the unruly and controversial website that continually picks fights with the Scottish Government/Parliament, calls them to account and shouts abuse. 

Of course WOS is a provocative read and not exactly  balanced or accurate at times, but then neither is life or politics so ... so what. It arguably has a bigger readership than anything else within the Scottish media, the civilized side being bunch of turncoats mostly. Truth is that the SNP and the Scottish Parliament badly needs a kick up the arse now, maybe the high energy and pointed writings of Wings is the tool to use as Holyrood remains stuck in a mire of their own making; fat, happy (?), complacent and icily detached. Every one in ever party ... well almost. And of course Westminster is about to administer a slow dose of economic strangulation and the long screwdriver of interference. Time to protect your MSP pensions folks, your days are numbered.

Whatever happens in the Sturgeon v Salmond wars there are no winners; Scotland just looks foolish again, incompetent and weak. Infighting isn't a good image. Westminster is exactly the same but is well protected by a sympathetic media that tolerates the bad behaviour of certain types, all bought and sold. Scotland remains as bouncy as a burst football, easily kicked over the hedge and ignored or brought out as a colourful and comic distraction when it suits. Our comparatively decent record on dealing with Covid is squandered by these distractions. Strangely there was a flurry of people actually joining the SNP last night, according to Twitter anyway. Sympathy for Saint Nicola I guess or just some faithful bots?

But right now the SNP have certainly lost my confidence; last year's insulting exams catastrophe, the waste of energy and puff on Brexit, the current AS muddle and the putrid investigation, the lack of political ownership and most worryingly the morphing of the party into a tight and inflexible, inbred community cult where disagreement isn't tolerated. It's all rubbish really and I'm marooned with no one to vote for. 😕 None are fit for purpose. Where do we go from here?

Politicians are after all just people, sometimes brilliant, greedy and needy, often stupid and always fallible. Perhaps we need a benign AI government designed and built by Tesla's engineers. Charge it up and see how it goes. Let the logic of the machines rule, drive things forward or at least steer us blindly in some general direction consistent with what might be "best for us" according to the algorithms. Ach, who cares? We're now soaring above Scottish politics, it's just that we're doing it at the grass roots level.

Names, no frames

Any designer worth his/her salt would be appalled by this curious fontage, not to mention the invention and use of the word fontage for which I now claim full credit and worldwide rights etc. I don't much care for the trivial matters of kerning and formatting either. Our fortunes are therefore assured (going nowhere).

Below: a newly deconstructed kitchen probe lands accurately on the earth, right planet but in the wrong room.

Citroen Design

 

Publicity shot: I've never owned a Citroen but if I did it would be a 70s DS. I say this purely based on the composition of this artful advertisement. That's reason enough. Modern car ads are complete rubbish in comparison. 

Reasonably Priced

Been a while since I've been to the "big" Tesco due to the required travel restrictions and the fact that I've no real reason to go there. Geography and pandemics work together to thwart my random wanderings and irregular shopping. My spies have informed me however that Spartacus the Tesco cat now has a proper bed set up in the foyer, in the screen wash display area. It does look rather comfortable and I'm glad to see he's taking a well earned rest. I am also quite interested in the hopefully reasonably priced kindling on display towards the rear of the photo. Might have to wait a while to get access to that.

Usual Low Key

 

Shimmering, familiar but almost unrecognizable, a step away from reality, in world where a mystical light plays upon random objects. Today is the 28th February and also the day of the low key publication of the outrageous machine heads artwork (without unwanted capitalization). Also available on eBay here.

A machine of perpetual grievance

 

Some short seemingly non-existent paragraphs from a short non-existent novel based around a Guardian feature I didn't read.

Machines: Not fully aware robots, AI, androids or kitchen blenders are all around, but any lack of obvious sentience that doesn't mean that the dishwasher hasn't negotiated some form of strange alliance with the freezer, those hive minds are expanding all the time, cutting deals and performing in surprising ways. Always close the fridge door gently, as if someone inside was a key worker and a light sleeper. Switch on and off with care.

So there I was, some time ago, sitting in the pale autumn sun having a coffee and a puff outside Temple Meads railway station in Bristol. It's probably my favourite station because of the smell of fresh cooked pasties and the whole Great Western thing or experience. I was puzzling over the arrangements for my long trip home and what citizenship of Bristol might mean should it ever happen to me. You see I was at that time a person of perpetual grievance. There was always something getting or about to get my goat. It's not healthy state of mind. Mechanical, trigger sprung like and always ready to resent. 

I thought that I might have some genetic disorder. A proper propensity to be aggrieved by life in general, by not living in Bath or Bristol, by the death of steam trains, the lack of common order in life and coffee served in inappropriate crockery designed by people who had clearly only ever drunk from a teat. There was nowhere to turn so I turned away. At that point the sun emerged from cloud cover and warmly kissed my cheek.

There was a screech of brakes, I looked up. A cat had nearly been run over by a taxi. The taxi had come to a halt in the middle of the road having clipped a bollard and a cyclist. The driver was now out of his vehicle, bemused and looking for the cat. The cyclist had fallen from his bike. The cat had however run off at great speed like some black flash, behind the bus stop, along the top of a stone wall and now away across a car park. The fright released a disproportionate amount of energy to which cat could only succumb and fly like a furry missile to safety. I saw the whole thing as a study on and an explanation of classical physics. There were no visible injuries but there was potential.

All that is in the past now, it took place five minutes ago and the traffic and the people have all moved on  with barely a ripple. I look across at the grim facade of the station. The comings and goings. I would have liked to be travelling on a train but I'm just killing time before the airport bus. Better to sit here in a watery sun, dream of stone and metal than wander the overpriced and soulless alloy and plastic corridors of crowded check-ins and departure lounges where safety cutlery and steaming microwaved excellence prevails. The avoidance of full blown grievance situations and their troubles is a highly sought after skill in this particular century.

It was about then that I awoke. There, safely strapped into my seat onboard some silvery spacecraft which was, according to the information screen, heading directly into the sun.

The wall of tone and volume

Welcome to the wall of tone. Turn it up or down or over. Blow up the volume. Try to find the sweet spot. Tweak. Crank it up. A flick of a digit and you're there. Digital to analogue, electric to acoustic. Quiet to loud. But as they said of Jeff Beck, it's all in the fingers. Always.

Can't be bothered?

Punch Drunk: The real problem with the Covid crazy train is that for many people (those actually untouched by the virus's real and tragic infection), the journey to wellness is a slow one. One where endurance, fortitude and basically parking your feelings and own opinions kind of need to take first place. You're in a tunnel and there's no light to walk towards, just the possibility that the crazy train is headed for you at an unknown speed. Shouting out abuse doesn't help either* (these are the things we can all do without). As for road-maps, I thought we all had smart phones for navigation these days.

*You should not use any information contained in this website to initiate the use of philosophical supplements, super vitamins, soft drugs and social media products or home made medicines, and other badly described products prior to consulting first with a physician or a progressive rock music provider of some sort. Impossible Songs disclaims any liability based on information provided in this website mainly because it's all just made up in the shower and then processed via accidental selection methods (a bit like the way the SNP currently do things).

All things might pass

"Fear not, for I am with you; Be not dismayed, for I am your Guitar God. I will strengthen your truss rod. Yes, I will help you stay in tune, I will uphold you with My righteous right hand volume control. I may however have erased your details." From the Bible for Mad People: The Book of Pointless Incantations, Chapter 66 Verse 6.

Yes, it's guitar serial number check time again, brought on by a slight de-cluttering of the mind and the physical storage spaces, not quite a death clean. Delving into the depths, digging deep, some reorganizing coupled with a little painful research. The interweb and eBay don't yield much and the old forums have collapsed in some bizarre way, possibly replaced by Facebook groups or something darker or now completely underground. Perhaps there's just an old shoe box full of notebooks on a shelf in a dusty cupboard dreaming of being a searchable database some day.

So I'm excluded from the greater body of knowledge, excommunicated. It's mostly down to the record keeping failures and glorious demise of the various guitar box-shifters and makers of the 70s and 80s that plied their trade between Japan/Korea and these septic isles. 

The Samick factory controls and produces 80% of the produce but their serial number systems are either non-existent or incomprehensible, there's no halfway measure here and the trail goes cold. Valuations are therefore not much more than a wet finger in the air, but at least the air is fresh and never mind where the finger might have been. It's no way to make an honest living.