Insolence for the indolent

impossible songs

impossible songs

Insolence for her?

Surely this has to be the best / worst / most awful product ever, as advertised on TV by a pouting, sneering blonde - an image we all aspire to. This Christmas give her some "Insolence", then on her birthday surprise her with a little "Petulance" and possibly for your anniversary a nice bottle of "Stroppy" or perhaps the cheeky aroma of "Huffy" or just plain old "(In a friggin', don't even talk to me, bad little number called...) Moody". Can you imagine being in the brainstorming session that came up with this as a marketing idea - aimed squarely at Ned Girls, hormonal and hyper teenagers and bunny boilers of all sorts. I hope it smells like a French rugby team's armpits after a night out in a Scunthorpe curry parlour.

I guess a male range will follow in due course: "Diverted Flatulence", "Ignorance (is complete and utter bliss)", "Selfish Lazy Beast", "Greedy Fat Bugger" and of course "Uncommunicative".

Good cat bad cat

impossible songs & the bad and the good




impossible songs

The unbearable lightness of heavy responsibility.

Friday evening was spent in panic and crisis as our cats displayed for the first time the darker shades of their characters. Clint (the naughty kitten) disappeared into the West Lothian darkness at about 7.45 pm. He failed to reappear by 8.15 unlike his (good) sister Smudge. Having recently lost our long term cat Syrus we called out a two person search party straight away - in the rain. "History has repeated itself yet again" was all I could think as we staggered around in the fields, woods and roadways in the dark and cold, banging on a feeding dish and whistling and calling. At about 11.30 we abandoned the house to house, hedge to tree search and came home, tired and well and truly down in the dumps. Our little cat was lost and the feeling of being powerless and unable to search further was awful.

Then a miracle: It came after we'd gone to sleep thinking about how we'd have to tell the kids of how yet another cat had disappeared into the Hopetoun Triangle. Clint trotted in at 5.00am, clean, alert, dry and warm - where had he been? What had he done? Did he care or show any sign of remorse? Well no he's a bloody cat and doesn't bother in the least.

A few theories have been floated on this one: Parallel worlds, kidnap, rabbit hole, chimney, UFO abduction, hiding under a strangers bed, exploring the fields, wandering into another house - none can be confirmed to explain how he (a small and timid kitten) effectively vanished for 10 hours on a cold and horrible night - at least he's back, we're sane again and the squirrel soup is on the cooker.

Dusseldorf

impossible songs

impossible songs

Too much red meat is murder

I spent a couple of days in Dusseldorf, (the airport is featured in the picture) went to a meeting, drank some beer and had a large steak in a traditional German Argentinian Steak House. The Euro weather was as weather is most of the time and the traffic was as thick as it is at the Maybury at 1700hrs on a wet Friday. On the way home many a happy hour was spent at Heathrow meditating in between delayed flights, staring at the ceiling and reading and eating more processed meat and milky coffee in an unconcentrated, uncontented way.

Today (Friday) it was two steak pies from the Gyle and a rhubarb pie from the Coop re-steamed in the microwave to retain the flavour. Then I prepared a tasty pot of squirrel soup complete with a full range of imaginary ingredients. This was followed by no more pies or meat but an unplanned cat hunt - more of which later.

Not so secret squirrel

impossible songs

impossible songs

A shot in the dark

A squirrel appears to have set up home in our chimney, a better and warmer home in winter than some bare tree out in the woods I suppose. The actual chimney is the one in our bedroom unfortunately, the net result being a series of wild and unexpected scratching noises that occur in the middle of the night as he/she stores his/her nuts in the space behind our blocked up fireplace. These noises are about three feet from my head. This nocturnal lodger did freak both of us out to begin with but we have now settled down a little and are coming to terms with the new visitor (we don't run out of the bedroom screaming anymore). His timing and his habits leave a lot to be desired however, the 3am scratch and sniff session being the most irritating. Next week the cheeky Cockney scamp of a sweep from Mary Poppins (Dick van Dyke no less) is due to sweep and hoover our lum, we'll see how Mr Squirrel likes that. In the end it's live and let live I suppose, I'm saying that and feeling rather guilty because I ran over two poor little rabbits this morning - by accident.

Ferry Christmas

Above: Tommy Mackay - guitar techno-guru.
Below: The mighty stage rises from the Forth.








impossible songs


impossible songs

Ali and I drifted into the seasonal spotlight in South Queensferry tonight to assist with the pre-Christmas celebrations (?) by singing backing vocals on Norman Lamont's (or is it the Wright Bros?) rather clever song "Christmas Revolution". Tommy Mackay also assisted with the doo-whops after his own short and sweet performance. The magnificent inflatable and multi-coloured stage was littered with dignitaries, elves and brass bands and a howling (well moaning) gale was blowing in from the sea, a feature we've become used to around here. After that Tommy, Caroline, Norman and the Impossibles retired to the Boat House for strong drink, salmon, salad and pigeon breasts along with Spanish black pudding - a traditional Christmas treat in these parts. Meanwhile outside in the cold distance the fire works popped and sparkled as the children sang and had their own seasonal strops over undelivered Nintendo Wiis. I believe it is only the 2nd of December today, a long and busy month lies stretched out before us all.

A bear for all seasons

impossible songs

impossible songs

The last bear related post I can be bothered with.

This rather innocent looking and sin resistant bear can be purchased over the net in order to commemorate your child's first Roman Catholic Communion. Complete with chalice and grapes motif this tasteful gift underscores the rightful place of the teddy bear within religious ceremony. I suppose that any suitable name can be given to this bear once he has been gifted to the fortunate child, so making the associations and links between cuddly toys and the deep mysteries faith firm and possibly even lifelong. Any warming comfort you can get for your tormented soul in the darkest nights of life's lowest levels can't be a bad thing and it puts a few more rattling coins into the collection plate.

The Frog Prince

impossible songs

impossible songs

The Frog Kingdom meets the real world.

Finally caught on film (or phone) the holy and high king of Frogland & Hopetoun's image is revealed for all to see. This ancient, mysterious and wise beast lives, breathes and catches flies in our coal cellar and on our back step. Normally he is hidden but he will appear when it rains, at night or if the local cats are on the prowl and disturb him (or if we perform strange and primal incantations). His tadpoles are many and various, some have met sad and mysterious ends, some have made it to the lawn and beyond and a few ventured under the garden gate into the wide world and various roadway pot holes - beyond the trampoline. He may in fact be Queen of Frogland also but that is another matter altogether and we lack the expertise or motivation to explore the possible answer. I could be wrong but it is likely that his name is Mohamed, we will never know the answer to this, like so many of life's other deeper questions. Our human position is clear, simple and primitive while this grand king/queen frog/toad straddles the universe in an arc of triumphant lizard like amphibious power.

The Golden Compost

impossible songs

Mohamed and a new disciple.




impossible songs

The great bear tale and the threat to Islam and the free world.

You can tell a lot about the followers of a religion from the glimpses you get into their perception of their god. If you believe that any god is mortally offended by calling a teddy bear Mohamed or Jesus or Buddha or Allah or Clapton then frankly I'm worried about your belief system. It must be as small, narrow and unreal as the god you'd probably wish for isn't. The trouble is that nothing can be proved, only argued about or rioted about with a hysteria and level of stupidity that can only be marvelled at. I'm sure that in some darker material parallel world they've sorted all this out - but it seems beyond us in this one. The awful thing is the way this story focuses attention on the absurd and cruel side of things in Sudan rather than the humanitarian crisis that is running unchecked in the rest of the country.

Fly and become

They mean well, they try hard, they look good and they eventually get you there. Planes with propellers that is, real ones that make a turboprop noise and swirl their blades in defiance of the blue sky and anything daft enough to get too close. My regular runs with Flybe continue and in a new peak of reliability and punctuality they have not let me down since September. That dangerous thing known as confidence is starting to form, like ice on wing tips and control surfaces. I will be back some time shortly and hope to find the blades still turning on time.

Flybe have also opened a curious new cupboard known as the "executive lounge" down by Gate 15 in Edinburgh Airport. Simply key in a PIN number and find yourself greeted by a canteen atmosphere, a pile of crisp packets and snacks designed to tempt the tired traveller and a queer looking coffee machine. There is little in either style or ambiance to separate this haven from the rest of the terminal and it will never be any kind of travel Mecca as it only could cope with about 25 brave souls at any given time but it's a start - so where is the finish and why was the red wine uncorked at 6 o'clock this morning?

While I'm moaning about Edinburgh Airport it's time something was done about the huge cheesy pictures and crap quotations that tower over the long pedestrian travelator that takes you to the east end. Posed, awful and artificial, these photos suck like an Irn Bru lolly (just look at the clean cut he-men drinking whisky in what looks like a bar set up in an air brushed studio) - welcome to Scotland.

I'm not in love with motorways either or the behaviour that is exhibited there, it's like a stretched out wrestling bout with oddly matched competitors trying to beat you or scare you out of the safe place you want to sit in, which is left of a broken white line most of the time. Today I was passed on the inside by a speed camera van, the driver oblivious to his own under-taking and the fact that he was doing 85 while I queued in the fast lane at 71 or so. Aren't our policemen (on traffic duty anyway) some kind of wonderful thing?

impossible songs

impossible songs

One hundred days

You can always tell when I'm on a downward spiral, eating oily fish, drinking Southern Comfort and talking about survival.

The lowest bit you get, kicks in, the basement bits of the bass notes play on and drown the silence so you forget.

A hundred days without sleep and a hundred nights of sleep, a tonic for the soul and tea and biscuits for the priest.

This is the place where the rain gets in, it touches and travels every where, for the rain is so very thin.

impossible songs

impossible songs

Cat on high

This is a cat called Clint climbing up curtains, a practice he enjoys, however he seldom has a workable plan for returning back to earth from these high places.
impossible songs



impossible songs

Toe, Knee, Hand, Cock.

impossible songs


impossible songs

The Blood Donor

Giving blood.
Not giving blood and feeling guilty.
Giving blood and getting a bruise or a sore arm.
Giving blood and eating two chocolate biscuits you don’t really want.
Forgetting to give blood.
Making polite conversation with fellow donors.
Wondering what the doctor is saying to those whose blood is turned down.
Being behind somebody you know in the blood donor queue but not talking to them.
Wanting to run away after the first bit when they prick your thumb.
Giving blood when you should be Christmas shopping.
Doing Christmas shopping on line but still not giving blood.
Being smug because you’ve given 47 pints.
Worrying that you might have dog poo on your shoe as you lie on the bed.
Being in conflict with yourself because you hate the idea of giving blood.
Having a sore arm but not because you gave blood.
Having a sore arm and still forgetting to give blood.
Having a sore arm because you fell from a ladder a month ago.
Ignoring the reminder letter (that was sent to the wrong address).
Getting a tired male nurse with bad breath.
Finding that it’s cold in the blood donor centre.
Parking badly whilst giving blood.
Just getting on and giving blood.

Angels passing by

impossible songs


impossible songs

Reports of clever things.

Cats not crashing down from atop curtain poles but waiting for rescue and then offering mild scratchy resistance.
Driving in the dark, in the rain and in the cold.
Sleeping on the couch.
Forgetting to eat, missing meals, eating snacks and losing track of time.
Stopping and looking over hedges and noticing how much rubbish people throw out from their cars.
Pedal carts and self propelled diggers.
Medallions of bacon three thick upon a roll topped with salsa.
A cruise liner sinks in the Antarctic, the news reports that those rescued were cold.
25 million records are missing – they are held on 2 CDs. That makes the UK population worth about 4.5 CDs. A sobering thought.
Channel hopping.
The rain is slowly washing away our elaborate network of roads.
Being in Morrison’s in Aberdeen is like being in Latvia.
A car boot full of random objects and things purchased without any clear plan being in place.
Thinking about WC Fields love of the way words sound rather than what they may mean.
Listening to the Bing Crosby story on the radio.
Dreaming of lost keys and having to close down and lock up an amusement park - alone.
The sea crashing onto the land like neither ever learns.
Following a blue Ford Focus with an L plate and finding that another blue Ford Focus with an L plate has squeezed in between us. How strange.

Awkward

Wistful disapproval
Penance there to pay
Look at the world through binoculars
And try to find a way

Distance pushed between us
Battle plans are drawn
Drums will rumble and curtains tear
The peace just rages on

Spies and notes and subterfuge
Sorcery and device
Hell and heaven will dance alone
With angels passing by.

Tuesday and futile musings

impossible songs - thinking of Tuesday.

impossible songs

Tuesday is the day of the week where time runs along very quickly in some uncontrolled stream that cannot ever be controlled. Work is a friendly or unfriendly flurry of other things and reasons and clock watching. Hurry to the school to collect the kids and join the traffic in dangerous, rainy places where only headlights penetrate. Tea is planned well in advance and eaten by the warming glow of the television with added juice as we wait on the heating cutting in. The cats clamber deliberately over every unnecessary obstacle that is not in front of them as if they were exploring the moon. Homework may be Algebra or English or a project or a geographic exploration. Usually Wikipedia provides the answer and ice creams are consumed all round. Pack up the belongings and check for missing links and think of things that need passed on like last weeks laundry. Hammer a piano or gently roll across the keyboard and tune the guitar and teach a chord or two. E4 and Sky One and don’t forget to record Ugly Betty then a final sweet or chocolate. Back in the back seat and count the raindrops over the bridge, passing a tenner to the lady in the toll booth. The road home is via Stuart Maconi and Mark Radcliffe and misunderstood explanations about REM, Radiohead and unknown special guests. Tired as you may be tomorrow is another day but not one like Tuesday.


Futile Musings

The end of the spiritual world is at hand.
House prices are rising too quickly but not around here.
Bacon sandwiches and breathing in peanut dust will be the death of us.
In ten years time the sea will have risen by .75 metres.
If China and USA don’t wind their necks in...
Pay here to reduce your carbon footprint.
Road pricing is the answer to all our traffic problems.
God is Brazilian – if he wants to be.
You need a new couch this Christmas.
Railway lines don’t go to farmyards as a rule.
Drink wisely.
Education is the answer - but what is the question?
Believe what you read in the press.
There’s always change at Agnews in St Andrews.
At £5999 the Renault Clio is a great buy.
A Mars a day helps you...
Blue Ray is the future of DVD technology and marine life.
Tonic whine.
Keep you brain fit with Nintendo and running on the spot.
For a peaceful holiday come to Ireland.
Why are the white lines painted in the wrong places on the road?
Glitter pens in a set.
The cure for hangovers is Coca Cola.
A living legend died today.
I don’t want a goat for Christmas unless it’s a real one.
Mystic comics.
Use words that sound nice rather than those that mean something.
Pixie Dust that is free from the Disney Store may prove to be a disappointment.
The distant plop of a jumping kitten in the night.
Pizza and ravioli form a balanced meal but not a balanced diet.

Simple things are...

impossible songs

impossible songs



A week of unexpected shelves.

This weeks CD & DVD play list:

1000 years of Popular Song by Richard Thompson.
Remember that Night by David Gilmour.
Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix.
The Movie by Clare and the Reasons.
Unknown album by Josh Ritter.
Dirt Farmer by Levon Helm.
Presence by Led Zeppelin.
Shrek.

This weeks TV shows:

The Simpsons (various episodes but particularly the “Plough King” one).
The X Factor (I’ve no idea why).
I’m a Celebrity get me out of this banal TV programme.
Scotland V Italy.
Pop Junior and CBBC (whilst babysitting a 3 year old).














The family that eats together...

...performs other miscellaneous activities.

Most of this weekend has been spent cooking, doing homework (or helping with it in a feeble way), laundry, pottering and for once successfully putting up shelves in the kitchen. These shelves are up, level, secure and populated with colourful items that formerly had no place to go. These hitherto ignored items now look down upon us all from a new and elevated position as we go about our humble daily duties. Despite the pressure they place upon us we refuse to worship them in their lofty, cloudy and near perfect retreat (as false gods or anything else) and we simply enjoy them for what they are – random odd items now with a decent home.

Discoveries of the week.

Morrison’s at the Gyle are selling jam donuts, 10 for one pound Sterling. Nothing odd there you may think, but in fact these are the best donuts ever (as far as my extensive research can now reveal), firm, sweet, very jammy (jam in the middle, not on the edge Asda!), they don’t go damp; they are coated in icing sugar. As proof of their excellence even the totally carnivorous kittens were strangely drawn to them and smitten, this resulted in various emergency security measures being quickly taken to protect and preserve.

The kittens have now been outside in the garden a few times and are exploring very small parts of the big bad world with a great deal of nervous trepidation. Wet grass seems to be a particular problem, this hostile surface cannot be crossed by them and they view it like the Flat Earth Society would a trip across the Atlantic Ocean. Their use of the cat flap is a success however, it must seem to them like a portal to a new dimension, a bit like Stargate or the Time Tunnel, except it leads to the wide lands of the wet grass, the sharp edge of the world and eventually, as they will discover - tasty rabbits. Heaven is out there, in other words.

Always more

impossible songs

impossible songs

Always more brilliant ideas and the end of Christmas.

Every year the ideas just get better, the gifts more useful, attractive and shiny and you wonder how lived so long without these marvellous things. Then there are parties and meals and friends, things to say, things to do, jokes to hear and conversations to listen in to. Attractive couches on which to rest after eating too much and drinking too heavily and sleeping too late. Perhaps there will be something good on the telly. Drip, drip, drop and the damp and frozen postman brings more cards and seasonal flyers, all day and night Indian take aways, taxis to the airport, gas services and double glazing and teaser promotions for the summer holidays (just around the corner). Then comes the one and only ever, greatest Dixons, Currys, Argos sale and the two tone couch adverts mouthed by a familiar face from the seventies as the leggy girls relax in studio sized lounges. Looking forward to getting back to work and being surly and deadpan in the morning, if only for a break from the hollow celebrations that truly add up to nothing because we are all celebrating nothing much in particular. Avoidance of the cold and seeking out the vital warmth. Perhaps at this point the real world will intrude: a real wedding, a real birthday or two, being happy - that’s more like it. And the sparklers will sparkle, the wine will fizz and pop, the stars will shine and the many crooked paths to heaven will be strewn with leaves of green and it’s only still November fifteen.

And your toe nails wont hurt any more because they've now recovered from their vicious pruning.

Blade Runner & Buzz

impossible songs

Endless Flight.

Ever been on a flight and thought that horrible thought “There’s something not quite right here” or “What’s that squeaking sound? That’s not normal” or worst of all “why is the plane shuddering like that?” These were some of the unwanted notions that crossed my mind flying up from Bristol tonight, however I didn’t panic or even sweat, I just had a bad feeling that thankfully was completely unfounded and irrational as we ploughed into 150mph headwinds at 27000ft. Of course if the “vague notion that is God” had wanted us to fly he’d have given us rubber bands and propellers on our heads, doesn't help either, but it would have been an interesting evolutionary step.

Blade Runner.

Why are so many people fixated with Blade Runner and the Rick Deckard character? It’s a film about chain smoking robots and set in a dingy, dripping LA that probably looks a lot like the current LA and that has only taken 25 years. So why are there no Replicants out on the streets by now, driving cabs, directing traffic and flipping burgers? The answer is that it is pointless to develop robots to do really basic human tasks (as opposed to repetitive factory work) when cheap, desperate and exploited labour pours into the West and the US on a daily basis to plug the gaps. Cyber punk, science fiction, science fact and the wider world’s free market economy have failed to deliver the new reality that was promised and the bright and shining robots have not risen up to free mankind from the slavery of hard labour and polishing car windscreens.

Buzz gets easy bucks.

When Buzz Aldrin came back from the moon on Apollo 11 he filed an expenses claim for $33.31. Hard to imagine quite what it was for but if I was the clerk who processed it I’d have framed the form and paid him myself.

Remember Fife

impossible songs

impossible songs

A Guide to Fife.

Would Fife survive as an independent nation? This ancient Kingdom is surrounded on three sides by deep, sometimes slivery and often murky waters, connected by bridges and potential borders, steeped in a royal history and drunken left wing politics it has all the background and X-Factor. In economic terms it is rich in (well hidden) coal, tourism, has a golfing heritage, petro-chemical processing, remnants of heavy industry, distilling and farming not to mention having its own motor racing circuit and Deep Sea World: Fife has the resources and potential. It could be the Monaco of the North, the San Marino of Caledonia, and the Lichtenstein of the Lomonds or even the Falkland Islands of Falkland. It might just work with a little fortitude, brainwashing, back-stabbing and imagination. What would Mr Ecky Salmond say? “It is quite correct for every region/nation to aspire towards self reliance and self governance!” I think that’s on record as being his own spirited view and of course if all else fails Fife has the Singing Kettle, Burntisland Shipyard, Freuchie and the Fence Collective.

Remember.

Today at my son’s football match in Glenrothes the referee called for a minutes silence before the game. The two young teams and officials stood in a silent circle on the pitch as the November sun burnt low and bright behind some bare trees, the sun bathed them in a warm glow silhouetting their forms and contrasted with the bitter cold of the North wind. I’m not sure many of the boys grasped the significance of the event or understood the meaning; they all complied however making it a strangely magical and silent moment. I was double minded about pulling out my camera and snapping the event, so strong was the image, in the end however out of respect I decided against it and committed it all to memory. Somehow now, every 11/11 I think of my own father and recall how he always had a tear in his eye during remembrance services. His best friend died on HMS Hood along with hundreds of others and the loss, along with other unspoken war-time memories seemed to haunt him, now it has all been passed over and haunts me in a vicarious way I can’t understand at all.

This is not here

impossible songs

impossible songs

The middle of nowhere.

This is the most recent place we have been to in the ongoing (since August) search for Syrus our lost cat. Ten thirty last Tuesday evening found us in “the middle of nowhere” near a remote cottage on a hill top overlooking the Forth. According to a reliable source Syrus had been sighted crossing over the cottage’s garden a few hours previously. We spent an hour in the cold, dark and wet calling, stumbling and dish thumping in the wild and dark woodland outside the house whilst the sympathetic but bemused inhabitants looked on. Sadly the search proved fruitless, wherever he is, he is not wishing to be found just yet.

The Stag

Another QF Arts Festival sponsored open mike night took place at the Stags Head in the village last night. Norman, Tommy, Ali and I set up the PA and then sat around chatting for an hour whilst nothing happened and nobody crossed the threshold. Then on the stroke of nine a plethora of performers arrived including guitar superstars and journeymen Fraser and John (aka Confushion). Some of the other willing participants were complete strangers (always nice), with original material which was an added bonus. Thereafter the night fairly got going and we had a good, lively two hour session of songs, music and jamming that would have lasted much longer if not for closing time and the organisers well established early morning routines. Nice when things work out.

Lions etc...

impossible songs

impossible songs

Lions for Lambs

A cynical piece of Oscar angling, an honest wake up call, superstars reminding on and revisiting past glories, a left wing punch on the chin or Robert Redford playing god?

This film could be any of these things and more. It’s a rare thing in that it’s a film that leaves the viewer cold, hot, affected and dry-mouthed at the end – there are no cheap laughs or worthwhile thrills left these days. There is however hope out there, but not as we know or would like it to be. It’s a bleak and fragile hope and a reminder that all the “Eve of Destruction” rhetoric and posturing of the Cold War and the 60s hasn’t really changed much other than in image and location evolution. The stellar cast and their bright eyed intensity beguile the viewer and scratch the surface of memory, as if attempting a return to their halcyon days but are all ultimately, slightly beyond belief.

Robert Redford’s character, a caring yet detached college professor, is the most annoying and significantly thumbnail sketched portrayal within the film. The professor’s role in life seems to be to cherry pick and anoint his chosen movers and shares “for the best”. Redford plays the part like a flightless god, an observer and reluctant participant who’ll change the world through the longest game, a game he knows can’t ever be won.

Meryl Streep is the deeply concerned and conflicted journalist working for a news agency owned by a soap/hygiene company. She feels trapped in the narrow band of peak time news gathering and despairs over the lost integrity and shifting interests of both her employers and her audience. She also needs the money. For her any engagement with and spooning medicine out to the great American public is a daunting task, not even Mary Poppins could handle it these days. In the end she is just another butterfly broken on the wheel as the news story escapes her clutches.

Tom Cruise is the presidential wanabee, the slick grin and the language and the intensity are all picture perfect. His master military plan is clear, simple enough and to some believable, but as previous similar conflicts have proven, tragically flawed. People and circumstances quickly conspire to reduce a strategy that looks good on paper to yet another gung-ho military failure, the tracks of which will be covered by a blizzard in a few hours. Cruise’s character reels from the blow of the sharp reality of failure, but you know he’ll recover quickly. In payment an Afro/American and a Hispanic are the offered up to the mountain as sacrifices whilst the white middle classes ponder the future before scuttling back to their respective East and West Coast hideouts. Middle America is significantly missing in action in its lack of voice, opinion and representation here.

As a film it’s worth a watch, we caught it on preview earlier this week and it has held my attention since.