Bridgerton Hobbits

It's finally happened: watching the latest car crash (also worryingly enthralling) episode of "Rings of Power" I was struck by the odd possibility of some hobbit world that had developed a quasi-Bridgerton culture. I know, daft but somehow closer than you might think. The "Derry Girls" Irish speaking, dirty and clumsy hobbit ladies have now strayed into some unlikely hobbit/halfling camp in the middle of a desert where equally idiotic hobbits dream of ... the Shire (didn't see that coming). Despite living in a subsistence based economy in a wasteland, nobody actually does anything. Hmm.

The good news is that romance and relationships are now rearing their quirky little heads. The girls with mushrooms and carrots teased into their ratty hair and horrid grimy fingers are the new evangelists for some dear green place over the hills. Their peculiar beauty routines and the fact that, as active refugees, they have time for all this, following ordeal after ordeal, can only lead to some Bridgerton style mash up. Love and guerrilla gardens in the sand dunes as they pamper themselves before attending the Great Royal Ball; after that they find the promised land and are summoned before the queen for a success rating and a pat on the head.

In order for it to work Amazon and Netflix might have to compromise their flagship shows, but it could all happen. Never let artistic integrity (long gone for both now) get in the way of a genre bending opportunity and reviews that might actually be positive.

I'm only scratching at the surface but here are some ideas: The mad multi cultural Scottish Dwarves (yes they are fucking crazy and not in a good way) might team up with Rebus to solve crimes in an even more gloomy version of Edinburgh's underground crime world than the real one. Also I'm actually insulted by the way these two dimensional dwarves are written and portrayed. Not sure why.

The stiff, stuck up and frankly stupid elves could work as "agents" on Selling Sunset. Elves zipping about in high powered sports cars is something I'd watch. Perhaps their complete absence of body language, fashion style and sense of humour would transform the luxury property market in LA,  just maybe not in a good way. 

As for Sauron, the clearly psychotic demi-god with multiple childhood issues; a dose of fun and lighter relief in the spectrum of evil is required. Some sunshine, lost souls, cocktails and proper hedonism. I'd transport him back to ancient Greece to team up with Jeff Goldblum's Zeus in Kaos. They'd set the world to rights, no problem.

So what about the dumb-ass, space hopping, clueless Gandalf hanging out with Tom Bombadil? Tom never did make sense in the books but was an interesting enough diversion, now I'm not sure. He comes complete with a bizarre Dorset accent, one set to rival Robert Fripps'. Words fail me, so I'm stopping now. 

Cats V Helicopters

Putin must be stopped (said no western politician ever). Our flimsy defences are no match for the might of the Soviet forces and the backhanders the Kremlin has given to our illustrious political classes over the years. Who would have thought that 60 years of defence reviews, each one less thought through than the previous one would leave us with weakened and light weight armed forces? Nobody really knows what to do other than wag fingers and be photographed at the right places and then discussed in tedious Guardian articles.

Never mind all that, the military are on exercises this week. Scotland is under some imaginary siege. Grey/green convoys are out on the roads upsetting the traffic watchers. Greggs are doing record business as the September sunshine continues whilst the squaddies vape in unison in their break time. There are warnings and signs (?), paranoia and headlines and we have low flying helicopters buzzing our town. Well not very low but very loud when flying over us. Our normally stable cats don't like these pesky machines, understandably. They fill the sky over the garden with their engine noise and the cats scatter, headed into the relative safety of the house. They dislike them even more than vacuum cleaners, their other mechanical nemesis. Won't somebody think of the felines?

Aberdour Daily Photo

These photos are not really of Aberdour but more taken from Aberdour on a very calm, balmy September afternoon. A day of Indian summer weather. In the distance there is Inchcolm, an island in the Forth complete with ruined abbey and various abandoned fortifications. St Columba never did visit but stray angels can be seen there every Halloween. Below is a zoomed in shot. 

The afternoon is spent lazily wandering along in the sun, kicking the dust and making up band names up whilst discussing the physical ailments of the over 60s. We're filled up full with heavy but tasty sandwiches, along with soup and salad from a local bistro . (Never liked the word bistro but it is what it is - a sort of cafe where things are slightly more expensive and a little bit nicer but the service is worse).

A brave soul on a paddle board drifts across the bay at the Black Sands. There's sand there but it never has been black, or has it? Aberdour is a lovely wee place that I've got to know very well over many years but it still seems blighted by local shops and hotels that just can't quite make it, so there's a sense of noble failure and valiant but fruitless effort in the air. Shops and eateries churn on, in and out of business as the seasons turn over. It's a tough gig. The struggle is real. The premises are vacant.

The historical (they all are) castle and gardens. It's £7.50 (Highlander location = fan tourist trap) to visit so we maintained a safe distance to avoid being compromised. Out of shot is a robot lawnmower mowing a non robotic lawn, quietly and efficiently in line with mandatory manpower cuts. Meanwhile drones disguised as picnic tables await their next Amazon delivery mission.

Outbreak

 

There's been a nasty outbreak of these screens on my Planet X feed. Maybe it's me, maybe it's things in the wider world, maybe it's retribution. I'll never know and I'm not bothered. If the whole thing folded tomorrow we'd all just go elsewhere and browse. We're basically all cattle in little herds chewing on straw bales and looking blankly over the fence. X is just one of many straw bales. I'm also well aware that I'm only really writing this insignificant message in Sharpie on yet another brand of straw bale.

Grand Designs

Grand designs and cats in low definition.

On some Wednesdays we build furniture.

Furniture for cats and people.

Meanwhile this product is in the style of the Greeks and I'm already won over by those two simple words - Greek Style. I am however reluctant to try it, just in case it turns out to be not quite what I'm expecting. The eternal tension between life expectations and the hard face of reality remains and often stops progress or experimentation. It's a cruel world when you're human, but I'm almost ready to get down from this high place and hopefully smell the coffee. What if it's awful?

Webs of Silence

I have become the sort of person who takes photos of spider's webs when out in the garden in the early morning foggy dew. Little did I think that my golden autumn years would be spent this way. All that training, education and workplace experience have led to this kind of thing. The crown of creation on my life and career are now activities that some may consider to be fine examples of wasteful, hollowed out and vacuous pastimes. But ...

"What is this life if, full of care, we have no time to stand and stare."

"Leisure" by W H Davies.

P.S. Here's George quietly sitting 20' up a tree in a pigeon's nest.

Cellardyke Daily Photo

 

The long and winding roads of central Scotland took me away to Cellardyke in Fife. I traveled via St Andrews University where I made an urgent delivery and also purchased an unexpected emergency duvet (student life etc.), but enough of that. My other job was involved going to Anstruther cemetery to tidy up two family graves that sadly don't really get much care and attention because there's very few family members left alive from my generation who are able to maintain the gravestones. Not an unusual situation I imagine.

The task is a bit of a challenge, locating the graves being the hardest part before brushing them down and cleaning and refreshing the stones and lettering as best as I can. There I am with my orange B&Q bucket of materials; some crazy old man wondering back and forwards among the grave stones squinting at names and dates before settling down onto his knees to clean one. Is this peculiar behaviour in a cemetery? Probably not but it feels awkward at the time. I undertake this work every couple of years and I get an odd sense of well being from it.

Once the gravestone cleaning was done I rewarded myself with a stroll around Cellardyke, my first ever (I suppose my only) home town. It was one of those warm, misty but kind of wild at the edge September days. The sea being in particularly good form. I looked suitably dangerous. Rough and rowdy out across the rocks but reasonably clear and manageable in the community organised Cellardyke Tidal Pool. This busy pool has had recent upgrading works done and it's a credit to those local folks who have pushed and pulled to get the funding and the improvement plans completed. It's a fine wee, if slightly ramshackle corner of the village with the reworked pool, the pizza shack, coffee caravan and an outdoor sports and water sports centre all being well used.

One Word

 

Photo etc. by AG.

Winter is Coming

"Bungle" photo by LB.

The buzzing of a not too distant chainsaw, trees are being hacked into shape. A heavy fog sits on the water and it's droplets move in to drip from branches and hedges. Foghorn blasts resonate across the invisible river. The air is damp and tastes of sea mist. A completely unrelated delivery of logs arrives as a tree branch crashes down in a nearby garden. Cars are moved for safety to allow tree surgery works to get underway. The men hack and saw through the pile of timber and leaves and the debris goes into the back of their truck. 

It is becoming a very wooden Friday morning. Things are being tidied. I empty the log pallet, one dirty log at a time. The winter stock of logs are slowly piled up into storage with a fair bit of honest sweat and effort on my part, strangely satisfying though. I stand back and review the loaded up storage spaces. We're looking squarely into winter already. All three cats snooze quietly indoors through the whole proceedings as their staff continue to plan and prepare the strategy to keep them warm.

If I Were You (A Trilogy)

 "If I were you I'd get that seen to."

- living in a time of 

guilty skin conditions

signs of a judgement

applied on those who stray

who choose to stay away

from the holy places

inside and out -

But I'm clean.

Sixteen Once

"So let it rock, let it roll

Let the Bible Belt come and save my soul

Hold on to 16 as long as you can ..."

As per the previous post - I can't deny that I was once a lot younger than I am now, hard to believe I know but I didn't hold on to 16 any longer than anyone else did, nobody does, it's a normal thing. Resistance is futile. I didn't own a Strat either; there were Bibles and belts though, but no actual Bible Belt. My soul took flight and refused cheap salvation, eventually. You're working class in Scotland, it's the 1970s and you're going to have to work because that's what's for you and further education won't be an option ... but you'll still keep on learning. 16 was 54 years ago, or thereabouts. 

I wouldn't want to be that kid again. If I ever met him I don't know what advice I'd give him and it would be a waste of time anyway because I know he wouldn't be listening, too busy dreaming dumb and grubby dreams. Reality hits everyone eventually. The painful truths of growing up and over your mistakes. Maybe giving advice about getting over things is more useful than giving advice about avoiding things. Better to regret doing something than doing nothing (this of course comes with a few major caveats for real life). My generation were 16 once, it was about the time that Jimi Hendrix died.

Night Bird Flying

When Electric Lady Studios were simply analogue: From what I've heard of this material so far, it does sound good, even to my cloth and compromised ears. Sorted and mastered up by the old wizard Eddie Kramer himself. Devotees and  listeners will be familiar with all the tracks, part of that slightly peculiar batch of songs and instrumentals from a time when Hendrix's creativity was wobbling (so I've always thought), in the final year before he died. The old saying still goes though: "even Hendrix playing badly is better than anybody else playing well". Some might see this as another "cash in" package but from what I've heard from Eddie Kramer I'm pretty sure there's a lot of love, honesty and pride in the work that's been carried out on fixing up these tracks. One question might be how come has it taken so long to materialize? Tech solutions, other priorities, legal wrangles maybe. 

So it takes me back to a 16 year old me skipping school and eagerly purchasing "The Cry of Love" from Bruce's Records in Edinburgh's Rose Street in 1970. In truth it wasn't the album I'd hoped it would be but "better than etc." prevailed and a lot of that music has stayed with me over that last 50+ years. From what I've heard so far the remastered i.e. previously unreleased material, is very good. The multiple layering of the guitars on "Night Bird Flying" were tremendous back then. Today they are still as fresh, complex and delightful, even if age, nostalgia and reflection tend to add and remove their own measures of brightness and distortion. 

I guess the audience for this material and these kind of deluxe bundles is slowly diminishing as are the witnesses and the fan base. It's perhaps the last hurrah before some AI monster beats down the studio doors and extrapolates way on into the blue yonder with enhanced and re-imagined Hendrix style music destined to trash the legacy but increase the income from what looks like a new official entity; "Experience Hendrix". I don't really want to be around for that.

The official blurb from Electric Lady Studios: 

A Jimi Hendrix Vision' is an in-depth project from Experience Hendrix, encompassing 3CD/1 Blu-ray of previously unreleased music Jimi Hendrix recorded at his newly-created recording facility in 1970. The deluxe box set offers 39 tracks (38 previously unreleased) that were recorded by the new-look Experience (Billy Cox on bass, Mitch Mitchell on drums) at Electric Lady Studios between June and August of 1970, just before the legendary musician's untimely death the following month. The project also includes 20 newly-created 5.1 surround sound mixes of the entire 'First Rays of the New Rising Sun' album plus three bonus tracks ('Valleys of Neptune', 'Pali Gap' and 'Lover Man'). The Blu-ray includes the critically acclaimed, full-length documentary 'Electric Lady Studios: A Jimi Hendrix Vision'. The film chronicles the creation of the studio, rising from the rubble of a bankrupt Manhattan nightclub to state-of-the-art recording facility inspired by Hendrix's desire for a permanent studio. Directed by John McDermott and Produced by Janie Hendrix, George Scott and McDermott, the film features exclusive interviews with Steve Winwood (who joined Hendrix on the first night of recording at the new studio), Experience bassist Billy Cox, and original Electric Lady staff members who helped Hendrix realize his dream. The documentary includes never-before-seen footage and photos as well as track breakdowns of Hendrix classics such as 'Freedom', 'Angel' and 'Dolly Dagger' by recording engineer Eddie Kramer. The package includes an extensive booklet filled with unpublished photos, Hendrix's handwritten song drafts, and comprehensive liner notes.

Last Resting Place

 "Last Resting Place."

Photo by Andy Robbins.

I think that this simple photo is one of the best I have ever seen. It's also a fine work of art in my opinion and a statement. Everything about it, including the title that it's been given, is just about perfect. The sense of peace and conclusion conveyed is almost overwhelming along with what seems like the supernatural cleansing and preserving power of the cold and the frost. At the conclusion of any philosophical argument it all boils down to the moment that nature delivers and then removes. Something that's true for us all.

I came across this on X-Box Twitter where it was posted with no explanation or back story. You could study the photo and make up your own and that might cover a wide range of things, issues and circumstances, I don't know. There's a lot of rubbish out there on the socials but sometimes, as in this instance, I discovered a wee gem. If you don't get it, I don't mind, my taste is my own.

Thursday Already

I nearly forgot that this place existed.

This blog place that is.

Neglected for a few days.

(as above)

Absent minded me.

Probably a healthy thing.

Irregular.

Not much to say.

Truth is nobody is waiting for the next entry.

Or exit.

But there's traffic.

There's always traffic.

Passing by.

Maybe stopping for a bit.

(as above)

International destinations.

Blanks.

Anonymity.

Machine intelligence.

Bots and plots.

A voice crying out.

There, in an imaginary wilderness.

(as above).

Little France

French black pudding and apple stuff.

Les Merguez, Salad and French Fries.

Somewhat sausage heavy: Dining at possibly the world's noisiest restaurant, Chez Jules in Edinburgh. Loud music and shouty conversations persist in a confined space but despite that it's still an enjoyable experience even for oldies. Makes no sense really at my time of life with my worn out ears, low threshold of pain and what not. Young ears remain resilient until at least age 35, then they collapse like a dry sponge. Cheap (for Edinburgh) and cheerful French food is also available here. Not pictured is what nicer things everyone else had, obviously, and my farewell creme brulee and greasy but tasty onion rings.

We're Almost Everywhere

Our music has been on Amazon for years, even before everyone disliked Amazon and online shopping, exploitation and everything. Sad to say it's not really taken off for us either, we regularly receive only the tiniest of fake buttons on a monthly basis from the great Amazonian cash collecting beast. I blame lack of promotion and imagination on our part, that and the economic downturn which prevails on most of the planet's battered surface.

Cockroach of Vegetables

Our mostly futile bid for some sort of self sufficiency in vegetables took another blow recently*. We've reached the second wave of kale planting as I defiantly tried again with another type of kale plant. Hopefully more resistant to being scoffed by tiny mites. I was encouraged by in depth and verified (?) scientific research found on YouTube that held a view that kale was a plant that couldn't fail. Tough and idiot proof they said. Hmm. It was described as the cockroach of vegetables, one that had survived all sorts of cataclysmic disasters and severe environmental events and moreover is highly resistant to pests. 

Unfortunately the various pests of South Queensferry (most of which are largely invisible) have not read this particular memo. After a week of being planted, these kale plants are slowly being decimated by something unseen. It may simply be God yet again acting out his judgement upon us in the form of pestilence and famine (except for the actual pests), and that's nothing more than we deserve. I take heart however from knowing that some small creature is doing well and feeding it's family from my £3.99 tub of kale plugs ex-Brechin Castle garden centre and in the end are probably scoffing even more of it than we would have had it survived and thrived.

*The peas, potatoes and plums do seem to be OK, maybe we should just plant things that begin with P?

South Queensferry Daily ...

(Above) That time they filmed Crystal Voyager at the Binks.

Any awkward situation in life is made better by (delete as inapplicable):

Doing something invisible

Doing nothing visible

Good grooming

Screaming at the top of your voice

Expressing a credible view

Wearing a "band" T shirt

Maintaining a detailed spreadsheet 

Removing a false moustache

Ripping it up and starting again

Using the word "nuance" in a sentence

Purchasing an inflatable boat online

Telling the whole truth

Smoking twenty fags in quick succession

Simply alighting from the bus

Cold pizza

Hiding in a corner

Writing a strongly worded letter/email/text

Giving cats cat treats.

----------------------------------------------------------------------

Post Script:

In my opinion it's always best to apply some spray on bleach/cleaner to a toilet brush before tackling the cleaning of the sanitary china.

Dear email bots. Why do I have to unsubscribe when I didn't subscribe in the first place?

Why has nothing been put in place in this country to provide us with a properly functioning government?

Looking at a menu of French foods and thinking, I should like something here but I'm not sure I do.

The characters in TV shows and movies are not your actual friends.

We get the weather we deserve.

Two Eggs Trilogy

Not every day but on some days 

I'll have two eggs for breakfast.

Salvador Dalí's "In Voluptas Mors"

Also used on the "Silence of the Lambs" Butterfly.

A short piece of motion capture entitled

"Copy, cut and paste".

Then and Now

Something from the Cellardyke Echo, 1865.

This remarkable little article, the author of which is unknown, is 159 years old and is taken from a very small local newspaper based in a village in the East Neuk of Fife: Cellardyke. It's curated articles are regularly republished here by the Cellardyke Trust, an organization that covers numerous aspects of old and new stories, photos and historical events from the East Neuk. 

What struck me about this story, apart from actual bizarre events described, is the quality of the writing and the depth of language used. It seems that back in those days a reporter on a tiny provincial paper was far more capable, creative and descriptive with his prose than most modern journalists and reporters are nowadays. I also wonder at how teaching standards for the English language (within the current education system) have perhaps deteriorated or been dumbed down over the years when reflecting on this piece's penmanship. Then, thinking about all that, how well the actual newspaper's readers were served by the standards of reporting ... anyway it's all in the past now. (I don't doubt that levels of corruption in the press back in those days were much different but they could certainly put an entertaining story together when compared to so much of today's popular piffle both in print and online.)

"Anstruther -Lynch Law in the East of Fife. 

In the early part of Monday afternoon, the west end of the neighbouring town of Cellardyke was the scene of a most extraordinary and singular occurrence, so far, at least, as the East Neuk is concerned. At the time in question, a notorious character, of the name of James Haggart, better known by the sobriquet of “Abernethy,’ was seen entering the town of Cellardyke, where public feeling was running very strongly against him in consequence of his being implicated in a case of a peculiarly bad and heartless nature. Whether the matter had been preconcerted or not, we are unable to state, but no sooner had he made his appearance than the women in the neighbourhood gathered together and began to give unmistakable expression to their anger and abhorrence by hooting and pelting him with stones. 

Quailing before the fury of his assailants, the craven attempted to beat a retreat, but he was no match for his nimble-tongued, nimble-limbed pursuers, who continued to shower upon him whatever of hard missile or foul epithet that came readiest in the way. In this manner he reached the top of the road at Caddies Burn, when he was either struck down by a stone, or, what was more probable, he pretended to be under the influence of liquor, and so cast himself, in apparent helplessness, on the ground. This clumsy appeal, however, to move their compassion, was treated with utter disdain by his female adversaries — who had now increased to hundreds— for, amidst a perfect Babel of mingled screams of laughter and yells of execration, they crowded around the prostrate wretch. In a twinkling he was almost buried beneath a mass of potato stems and earth, which were brought by right willing hands from the adjoining field, and a cooling sedative was also now and then administered m the shape of sundry bucketfuls of water. The noise and confusion drew large numbers to the spot, but the graver portion of the community, when they saw that neither life nor limb were in any great danger, moved quietly on when they ascertained the cause, or remained the passive, if not amused, spectators of the extraordinary hubbub. 

The sympathies of some Highland halfdealsmen were, however, more active than those of the townsfolk, for after a vigorous attempt these “children of the mist” at length succeeded in rescuing the drenched and forlorn- looking outcast from the vengeance of the “Lynchers,” many of whom seemed half mad with frolic and excitement. The assistance of the bobbies was ultimately obtained, and under the safe escort of those liveried footmen of the law he was majestically marched off to the lock-up, followed of course by an immense train of men, women, and children. While on their triumphal progress, the heroines who made themselves so conspicuous in this rough and ready administration of justice were vociferously cheered by the large groups of half-dealsmen and others lounging about the shore – a compliment which bashfulness did not prevent them from returning with gratitude and effect. 

So far as we can learn, no bodily injury was sustained by the victim of popular rage, although it is to be hoped that the sharp reproof which he has received will have the effect of making him a wiser and better man for the future, and that it will also be a warning to others that the inhabitants of Cellardyke will not with impunity allow their town to be insulted and dishonoured by practices that make the cheek of humanity blush with shame and resentment."