Upon Us All

According to Robert Plant "upon us all a little rain must fall". Weather maps and forecasts usually show patterns of rainfall from quite a distance, maybe a mile high or thereabouts. I'm not sure, at a personal level, that's the best way to display such information. Here's what you get when you map the rainfall pattern from where it lands / hits the ground when you roll out a grid to capture it. You also get wet graph paper. After a while it's pretty much useless too, perhaps an alternative to feeble paper is required for the data recording to remain meaningful. I suppose nobody is ever 100% happy with the weather forecast whichever way it is presented.

Backwards of Downtime

Art is either everywhere or nowhere.

Try to address it if you will.

A categorical eating of pickles.

Less fuss and furor than your average Oscars ceremony.

A nasty bite from the Metropolitan Police's toothless squad

All hands on deck for BBC Scotland's  journalistic standards.

When you're low you're low.

The Royal Family: it's own dysfunctional cash machine.

A guitar shaped like a fish does not need a bicycle.

You are in way too deep for yourself.

Alternative LED bulbs from Latvia.

Computers are easy to take apart with a claw hammer.

Unexpected load in the washing machine.

What the world needs now is love sweet love.

That's the only thing there's just too little of.

Too Late for the Humans

 

In the morning I usually eat muesli.

IKEA on a Monday morning, store just open, piano music on the Tannoy, a few shoppers in masks looking and pointing. There's a synchronized shuffle in the way we move, all maintaining a safe distance. It's a peculiar place to be. Walking idly around, not really planning a purchase, just following the arrows and staring into simulated rooms on the left and right. Like a strange voyeuristic out of body trip, empty spaces, plastic fruit, wine bottles and pretend notes on pin boards. My mind is now filming it all, as if in an abandoned house or hospital for some shaky, hand held YouTube Channel.

I continue my retailing shuffle as if I'm sneaking through that vacant care home, or a mental health ward just after a false fire alarm had sounded and the evacuation exercise was complete, though nobody bothered to switch off the piped music piano track. Somewhere up above, beyond the golden clouds, perhaps God's great judgement is finally underway. All the beds are made, objects are placed here and there but nobody touches them, too late for the humans now, we've run out of sleep time. It's an immersive experience being here at the edge of the rapture but still without the full picture.

After a twenty five minute wander and ponder I was done. At the robot till I handed over an electrical signal to give them £17.50 and received a bamboo tray, a soap dish, a phone holder and some sticky pads in return. Then across to the cafe for a packet of muesli and a take away coffee. Unfortunately there were no jars of roll-mop herring available from the fridge, I was somewhat disappointed to find this out. What a time to be alive (assuming that we are indeed alive).

Beginnings of Wisdom

Cat you spot the hidden cartoon cat? 

The famous optical illusion has been circulating for many years in the veterinary sector where it is used to try solve what is commonly known as the "canine syndrome". Dogs being dogs basically. There is also the "feline syndrome" which is tackled by quite different means, using Liki-Lix mostly.

Sunday

 

Happy Sunday.

Sign Language

Are you a corpse or are you feeling wet down low?

Perhaps you're taking part in a Highland Dancing Show.

Just some other sorts of things, I'll never really know.

You can tell that this is a short poem because the text is positioned centrally on the page. A sure fire sign of poetic intent. Positioning is important. So some say. There are lots of things that some say, for example:

"Can three not very entertaining lines of forced humour actually make a poem? Maybe more space between the lines would help. Oh and a fourth line with additional detail might make it more interesting. Just a thought. You need to try harder."

Now Playing

1. Now playing on YouTube. Well it was playing there. A strange album and unpopular at the time of it's release with many people but not me. I think it's fair to say that this incarnation of the band were better without (contributions from) Jeremy Spencer. Nothing against him but that's how it is. 

2. "What do you want?"

     "To be found out ... the same as everybody else."

       From Nightmare Alley.

3. Sounds to me like your average, run of the mill ostrich. Nothing special.

4. Meanwhile let's consider the earth's atmosphere, protecting the unworthy from the great vacuum that exists beyond the firmament. As is now traditional I must credit this photograph as having been taken from a Canberra. 

5. I promise you that it's forever, it's cast iron.

Dundee Daily etc.

A former furniture store and repository now derelict, open to the weather and the current home to a large number of pigeons. Very close to the city centre it seems an odd oversight that this remains standing and undeveloped. Sign of the times I suppose, there are quite a few more development blights nearby.

On the waterfront by the V&A we have this peculiar whale sculpture. Not easily recognizable as a whale from every angle so on approaching it you seem to see a large and incomplete bus shelter. It's also surrounded by some interactive pieces that don't seem to interact or offer helpful instructions. Perhaps we visited on a bad day when the systems were down. A tribute to the many dead whales who's oil was burned up to light the lamps of our forefathers.

The Tim Tam: It's the Australian version of the Penguin biscuit and is better quality but smaller and much more expensive. A tasty if short lived treat and a footnote in my biscuit consumption history.

Cats don't have a plan

Having lived alongside various cats and been an active member of their workforce for a number of years I've finally come to the conclusion that cats do not really have a clear plan of what they might be doing. There are noises they make (incomprehensible meows mostly) that mean nothing but are still full of expression. Paws are extended and your leg gets scratched but there is no obvious meaning in the gesture. It's puzzling for the human.

Then they circle the chair you are sitting on so to encourage you to stand up and follow them but then they go nowhere. They lie on your tummy and deliberately ignore you because you are a couch now and when you need to move they are upset. They hang around by their feeding dishes as if hungry but as soon as you put some fresh food in the dish they escape via the nearby cat flap. 

It's a bit like living with some benign and almost human looking member of the Conservative Party who abstains from parliamentary votes they said they'd take part in or an elderly, regular reader of the Glasgow Herald who is unaware that they are now living in a care home. God love them though (cats, not the human equivalents), for some reason I'm addicted to this odd and slightly abusive treatment.

Spelling Mistakes on Twitter

What is the point when most things are pointless? Nothing undermines or frankly destroys the power of your witty or pithy Tweet like a well placed spelling mistake. OK I'll be generous and allow for typos, they happen, usually in the searing heat of the social media moment. Then there's also some bits poor of punctuation and grammar that are questionable, additional pieces of delight for the critical and uncaring reader. Of course looking back over my own body of shambolic work I've little right to even make such puerile observations. But I will.

On a positive note I've designed a special font named "Eagle Eye" that hopefully will mask any errors caused by hasty or thoughtless typing. It's main strength being the fact that it is mostly illegible. Examples are as below (a short extract from Finnegan's Wake). It's free at the point of use.

Your Own Daft Ideas

Outside, in the shimmering cold a puffy, poisonous cloud sinks below the moon, sneaking along some uneven path in the night time air, like an old man on his way back to the barn after an unexpected and over indulgent night out. Alternatively some alien life form or a ghost from outer space drifting along with no particular purpose. Maybe even a lost weather balloon from the Soviet era.

I saw it with my own two eyes and took a photo with those same eyes. Plain as day but at night. It was a revelation but only on a small scale. It hardly counts. In the dark you can make up what you like. When I awoke it was another day.

Often humans just invent their own reality and then decide to inhabit it. As George Orwell said "Some ideas are so stupid that only intellectuals believe them."

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.