If the M6 was the M9

The break up of the United Kingdom by asphalt based logic (except for viewers in NI who seem to lack a useful road numbering system): Some clever person came up with the idea of splitting the septic isle into administrative regions that correspond to the main road network. So you get your boundaries from the road routes, A1-M1, A9-M9 etc. It kind of dings away some nationalistic ideas (or does it?) and creates new, maybe even warlike tribal areas in between the potholed carriageways. Scotland looks OK in the main, we could lose all those stuffy border Tories and rugby twats whilst declaring Edinburgh a free if slightly fractured state. 

It's a lesser plan than the SNP's independence idea; oh wait. they don't have any ideas currently, just wind, pish and being busy featherbedding themselves. Anyway I might start a political or even a pagan movement based on this so we can storm the cultural barricades. 

We're in District 9 by the way, the surly pink zone that also annexes Orkney and Shetland. Sorry about the other island communities, you're still floating away and ignored. Meanwhile in certain, even more dystopian scenarios, the Mayor of London could rule almost anywhere that the Russians might allow.

Pickle Sandwich

A few days ago I mentioned my requirement for pickles and how forgetful I had been when trying to buy them. I finally got a jar from an actual shop* and started putting them to good use. So here we have two kinds of sourdough bread, ham, cream cheese, mustard and pickle forming up into a pleasing pickle tribute of a lunchtime sandwich. 

*The shop was one of the latest "horse free" supermarkets where there are no horses roaming around distracting or possibly intimidating would be and otherwise carefree shoppers. I'm quite glad that the concept of a "horse free" supermarket has finally caught on around here. It certainly alters the retail experience in a good way. I realise that this is a topical topic but if you will just imagine going in to do your grocery shopping and not being even gently harassed by a horse (however friendly or nice it may be) and it certainly makes for trouble free Polo Mint and apple purchases, including the multi-packs. There's also a lot less dung in the aisles and fewer confusing altercations at the check outs when people try to buy the horse as part of their shopping tally and cant find the barcode. If any of this seems ridiculous to you then we're clearly living in different universes.

Grateful Dad

This is where it all began, in a book by Jasper MacSweeny Esq, written and illustrated pretty much in the days of yore and profundity in a farm cottage in Tullibody. Some scary hippies stole it, shipped it to the West Coast (Greenock) and the rest is a kind of blurred and garbled bit of forgotten history. Incidentally my imaginary tribute band name is of course the Grateful Dad*.

*Obviously already in use by various people far and wide so forget it. 

CRIMSON KINGs etc.

Robert Fripp isn't one of my heroes but he might be one of yours.

Looking for pickles in Tesco, no particular type, just pickles. Walked up and down a few aisles, didn't see any obvious pickles. Promptly forgot about pickles and bought some fresh peppers, tomatoes and bananas instead. Back home I'm thinking "I quite fancy a pickle, a pickle like the pickle the bloke in that film, the name of which I can't remember, was eating from that pickle jar, in France." Then I remembered that I forgot about the pickles and failed even to find their aisle in the shop. Now I'm thinking that I should just visit another shop and start all over again. In some ways this explains my relationship with King Crimson, in other ways it doesn't.

Thin Wines of the World

 

Another superficial film and drink review: Wine now comes in cutting edge design, ultra thin, recycled something or other bottles. There's no glass or anything. A triumph of modern fabrication in a satisfying shape. It's from Australia but bottled in Basingstoke or someplace. It makes a few journeys and there's a manufacturing process that are not too helpful for the green credentials but it's a reasonable try. Saving the planet one skinny weird bottle at a time, though your fridge shelves might need to be adapted for a good fit. We sipped the red and white varieties whilst watching the new mumble-core movie adaption of Dune. Quite thirsty work with all that heat, sand and wanton destruction.

Orange is the new Orange

 

It's part of your five a day. Five fruity treats you're allowed by law. The Scottish Government might think so. They know what's best for us some say, now that they lost their profile pronouns to keep the oldies on side. Back to oranges; ironic somewhat in a country where our national fruit is the bramble, available fresh for only one week in September weather permitting. So scoff some fruit and take a brisk walk and a wee peek at the tweets from observers of the GB news. 

They being the dodgy commentators and smarties who certainly know where the bodies are buried. They're just not telling anyone because, well in their opinion nobody could care less anyway. Just best to appreciate that the bodies were buried there by the Russians, though some may indeed have been reanimated and continued on as MPs. Nothing to see here.

I hadn't really enjoyed oranges for years. I felt guilty. Imagine the Tudors getting a crate of them from the King of Spain, between wars that is. The food taster would be busy but eventually they'd be able to eat some. It must've been a knockout moment at the court. "This (orange coloured?) fruit is fuckin' brilliant your majesty!" In return they sent them a crate of cabbages and a bucket of welks. 

Looking back in history it's hard to understand why more Scottish people(s) didn't up sticks and move to Spain, the South of France or Italy just to get out of the dreich and gloomy weather. I suppose there were various employment laws, ongoing inquisitions and religious persecutions that may have discouraged such free movement. There's always some Priti Patel type waiting out there to piss on your chips. Anyway I'm back to liking oranges. 

The Ways We Were

Typical Saturday night in a working class home in Scotland in the 1960s. Open reel tapes, analogue TV, self contained record deck with a lid, massive radio - genuine wooden finishes abound. Mum's carrying a good tune there too while dad sorts out the sonic engineering and playback. Maybe, with a bit of practice, opportunity will knock for them some day.

In the mean time best tidy that equipment away, have a look over the Daily Record crossword puzzle and kick back on the couch. A few cans of Tennants cooling at the back door, 20 Regal and a willing child ready to head down to the chip shop about 7.30 pm while taking the dug oot. Everything tied up just in time for the Black and White Minstrel's Show on the telly. Those boys can really sing. If only somebody would invent a TV recording device now.

A Walk Across The Rooftops

There's a rumour that it's going to be a different season soon. The weather may become milder or colder. There's road works, traffic lights, tourist types circulating and political uncertainty in the air. An unspoken sense of some kind of unpleasant "change" being brought upon us. By degrees Governments and authorities being less able to cope with sharing the planet with regular humans. Odd and complex creatures. It's a familiar script in life's recurring cycle of dramas.

So I was considering the fate of the Kerfuffle family. They live nearby and unsurprisingly their lives seem to be in a permanent state of kerfuffle. Their neighbour, Freddy the Fish has confirmed this in some of his more lucid moments, messages from  across the bar room floor. Freddy likes the odd drink or two, anytime, anywhere. He is quite observant and provides a droll commentary on local events though not always as lucid as I might like. Too much detail and the shutters go up, as has already happened in the mysterious house down the road. Freddy knows the truth but isn't telling.

You'll be glad to hear, if you didn't already know, that the Kerfuffles are presently nestling down and lying low. Their assets may well be seized at any moment. The Kerfuffles are in a quiet kerfuffle. Financial clarity is important.  "Dictators don't play chess", says Mr Kerfuffle, "they don't like the rules. They gamble, they play Blackjack, they bluff and they smirk in the face of their victim." "Maybe so", says Mrs Kerfuffle, "but don't try to tell me you wouldn't want to play just a single hand with one and try to win big". 

"I am not a victim!" Mr Kerfuffle thinks to himself for a moment. He can only do this because he cannot think to anyone else. His eyes are on fire, almost. "I would play, I would play my hand but I would hold my nerve and take the match to the limit. That is how you play against a dictator."

It was at that moment, across town that Mr Dick Taitor walked into the local pub, ordered a beer and asked the barman if he knew of the whereabouts of the Kerfuffle family. "I'd like to spend some dirty money" says Dick. "I'd like to take your dirty money" says the barman. At the other end of the bar stood Freddy the Fish, he was playing close attention to the conversation. Mr Taitor looked to him to be an "interesting prospect". He said that to himself a number of times, allowing the cement of that thought to cure.

Back at the Kerfuffle's sleep had broken out, well it had for Mrs K. Mr K decided that it was the perfect opportunity to head away as his good lady snoozed in the armchair. There was a message from Freddy on his phone he felt he should respond to. He stuffed a biscuit into his mouth, put on his jacket, grabbed his wallet and quietly crunched his way out of the door without rattling the door lock at all. As the door quietly closed Mrs K opened one eye and smiled a little smile to herself.

Mr K entered the pub by the wrong door. Nobody cared. He recognized the rear profile of Mr T and hesitated for a moment. There was history. The jacket was quite distinctive. Helly Hanson. He turned headed out the in door. Nobody cared. Once on the street and in the air he began thinking again. He knew Freddy would be in there and may have spotted him. Freddy was all ears and about 50% eyes. Mr K had a few drinks down the road and then, propped up with Dutch Courage headed back to see what Mr T and Freddy might be up to.

Now, an hour or so later all three men, Mr K, Mr T and Freddy are in the pub, sitting together around a round brown pub table of the kind we all know and damage occasionally. There were conversations, these are in the past now. They are playing a discrete game of Pontoon and drinking red wine from a bottle in the centre of the round table. Dirty money is being passed between them. A sly enquirer might just see the wads of cash hidden in their fists or being quickly moved in and out of pockets and transferred as the games progress. Most locals are smart enough to look away and the bar staff are whispering to each other about their own little windfalls of dirty money tonight. It came via a series of "keep the change" orders. "Nice" is what they are thinking.

In life however everything ends in tears. Sometimes these can be happy tears, other times not so happy. You can never really tell. It's all in the turn of the cards and the whirring of the wheels ... maybe some beads of perspiration too, oh, and you might find that you have a dry mouth. If this was all just a dream I'd say so now but it wasn't. It was a full set of dreams, one after the other. In proper order. They only became jumbled as my recall fumbled. It's a poor excuse but the best I can do.

So the three of them are deep in the dirty money card game. 

"Fuck me that was grim", says Mr Taitor as he trousered close to £1000 in scraggy notes. The other two said nothing, both are observing their sorry shoes and the sorry bar floor. The word "sorry" seems to have been added to every area they encounter within their blurry field of vision. The cash machine up at the Co-op also took quite a hammering.

"Time Please!" The bar staff are eager to tidy up, they've had a good night, well a good night of extravagant tipping and they sense that the best is now over so best end it here. It's getting close to home time. The body language from Freddy and Mr K is fairly low key, subdued and pale faced. They both have a story to tell but no one to tell it to. Before they could collect themselves it became apparent that Mr Taitor fled the scene in his pre-booked taxi, at least five minutes ago.

Freddy makes it home. The house is empty like always. There's no drink, no cigarettes, no heating right now and the bed is unmade. He slinks in, avoiding noise as if he might wake up some imaginary sleeping partner. Tomorrow will be ... tomorrow. Perhaps his pension payment will hit the bank a few days early. He remembers working on the railway. Happy, greasy, grimy days. That British Rail  pension's traveled further than he ever did.

Mr K returned home also. His wife, whom he had sneaked away from without so much as a word, was still in her armchair and wide awake. She was engrossed in a cookery show she was watching on catch up TV. Mr K opened his mouth and hoped he'd quickly find some reasonable explanation to offer for both his absence and his loss of a significant amount of money in the disastrous card game. "Shoosh!" She cried, "this pasta bake recipe is one of the best I've ever come across". Which, strangely enough is also how my family and I discovered this delicious meal, so anyway, let's all get on with following the recipe...

Man in a Hat

 

This film is either "Man in a Hat" or "The Man in a Hat". It's not really about hats. It's not really about anything obvious as there is little or no dialogue. It is strangely interesting and watchable but without an obvious story or plot line. Nothing is as at seems and nothing really adds up. It's a surreal pattern on slow moving wallpaper, it's enigmatic but it doesn't leave the viewer empty or feeling down. It makes France look attractive and buzzing around in an unreliable Fiat 500 almost sensible. There's French food and wine and a good soundtrack. The actor who plays Stannis Baratheon* is in it (he's not the man with the hat) and he's possibly a more interesting character than the main character. The other actors I know nothing about. I realise this is a rubbish film review but this is more of a diary entry, that's why I don't really review films. 

*Stannis Baratheon is a fictional character in the A Song of Ice and Fire series of epic fantasy novels by American author George R. R. Martin, and its television adaptation Game of Thrones. He is the second son of Steffon Baratheon and Cassandra Estermont, as well as the brother of Robert – lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Renly – lord of Storm's End, so I'm told.

Inspirational UK

Friday is the day we* moan about things we* seem to be unable to change, the steam can then slowly escape: Let's not fool ourselves*, at the moment the UK is one of the least inspirational and respectable places to be. We* are reduced and diminished by the antics of the present government, the feebleness of the  opposition parties and the inept devolved parliaments devoid of power and focus. Some humane leadership would be nice, some honesty would be better. When nothing is true and everything is possible and we* find ourselves here, on a downwards trajectory.

Today's artistic effort: Black doves crossing the once purple planet.

*The joys and possibilities of having unidentified but imagined borderline multiple split personalities.

The Rest is Politics

Message begins: The Rest is Politics is worth a listen (mostly). You may or may not agree with the two nodding and talking heads, what with their diverse backgrounds and reputations but (there is always a but) it's accessible and informative, mostly. It also means I'm in a little less of an echo chamber regards opinions and outlook, that's pretty important now that our homeland has lost it's moral compass and it's way in the world. I'm not really liking this new, blunted instrument version of reality. Message ends.

Inner Conflict

When you buy things you don't really want to consume but that simply look good on the fridge shelf so you'll be cheered up every time you open it's door. There may well be a longish German word/term for this kind of eccentric behaviour, I don't know. If there isn't then there should be. I'm looking forward to handing one these, along with a glass nicely topped up with ice, as a cooling drink to a visitor one fine day in the near future.

South Queensferry Daily Photo

FFS South Queensferry, you need to up your game. What is this? Street Art? A prelude to the Edinburgh Fringe? Perhaps it's some piece of social commentary referring to homeless issues, refugees, the plight of wildlife or poor waste management. Surely everybody knows that a good teddy bear like this deserves a more dignified send off than abandonment on a rubbish pile. Anyway no worries, he's coming to live with us now*. There, that's it sorted.

*Subject to Home Office clearance, security and criminal background checks, ethic origin evidence acceptance, health conditions, vaccination records, suitable bio-metrics and having a fair wind behind us.

Coasting

Concrete barriers from a time when coastal defences were required, not for increased sea levels but for possible invasion. They still speak of threats, remote for a time but maybe not so remote now. Their defensive moment is long gone but I bet the builders felt good about putting them in place. Funny how people need to just do things; bake a pie, cut the grass, hoover the stairs or build a barricade. Somehow it makes things better even it the final product is ineffective or irrelevant to the situation arising. It fills up the time, coasting perhaps. I'll go on and boil a kettle, just in case. 

Football

 

Yesterday's foray into footballing misery found us at Gayfield Stadium in Arbroath. Like a poor pop festival on concrete. Plump security staff preside over our entry, the Pie Hut and six sad portaloos provided for the seven hundred that made up the traveling support. That's the common standard for what you get with an £18 ticket. We saw our team, Dunfermline, beat one nil. On a sunny afternoon and despite enjoying a black pudding and steak pie and some good company the universe was clearly against us. It's the one thing you cannot beat. Footballing fate is always cruel for one of the teams involved. Neither side played particularly well. My team hit the post twice, the bar once and were denied a penalty. In my head we were 1 - 4 up. How a fan sees it versus reality and the universe.

Lower league games maybe lack the quality and panache of the higher leagues but as a "fan" who attends this subtle torture once a month I see it as a better, earthier experience. The top needs the bottom to survive. Where players and coaches learn their trade, hear the praise and abuse and remain unrewarded and unrecognised unless they break through the pie crust and into a top drawer club. You sell your soul on the way there but what were you ever planning to do with your soul anyway? The unsold souls of yesterday's game have their aches and pains this morning and probably don't care much about the scores. They put a shift in, just like a team member at McDonalds or a Russian soldier and now it's all about the next one and a bollocking from the manager. Just you against the universe, that's everyone's fate. 

Coffee, pies and concrete.

Dead Meat

We don't eat this sort thing very often, a big chunk of meat that is, cooked to perfection. Consuming it might take a few days. It did.

Royal Yacht

I'm not a serious economist but clearly there's now no need to order and build a new Royal Yacht for the royal family (God bless them and keep them in their ignorant splendor) and waste mega-bucks. Simply seize any one the numerous ex-oligarch yachts lying idly about in whatever watery space they are parked in and repurpose it. Then the royals can take it out for a paddle whenever they like if they simply cover the running costs; two weeks in the summer and week at Christmas. Also when not in use it could be on Airbnb and offered up for holidays and weddings for the general public at discounted rates. 

An easy win for taxpayers and those who want to see Russian criminals served a nice cold plate of revenge. It's the basis of the whole colonial "get rich quick" theory that Britain's used for hundreds of years. Simply steal stuff from people, doesn't matter who they are and then consider it all your own. I don't think the royals would have a problem with this tactic, it's in their blood and the present government would happily loot and pillage from any poor unfortunate that got in their way. What's the problem?

Lovely Pics

Bad news everywhere, I know I sometimes don't help with the opinions I share. So here's a lovely picture painted by one of my grand daughters. An unusual piece of colour, composition and white space. There's a lot of original thought and maturity in the detail.

Meanwhile in the kitchen back to taking simple flowery photos ...

Bathroom Great Coat

WC Fields always said that a wise man should maintain a decent Great Coat hanging up in his bathroom "just in case". Who am I to disagree with this ageless and sound advice? 

EU Blues

I see no reason why Ukraine should not be allowed to join the EU, there's a fairly obvious space opened up recently. British dumb-fuckery still abounds. Strange how some close at hand didn't appreciate the opportunities at the time but as things slowly unravel it's a little clearer who has been calling the shots and who has been played. I can still recall those words from my youth, "I wonder who they are, the men who really run this land..." Evolution is a slow and unpredictable process. Painful at times too.