Bad Wolf

Wolf City: Is it the best Prog-Rock album ever? Is it better than a resprayed black Delorean with 666 number plate? Is it a predestined piece of prophetic rock heavy metal treason to add further weight to the "Bad Wolf" in Dr Who? Possibly and probably and in effect none of these. The Bad Wolf in Dr Who is a recurring theme, a metaphor and a person, a landmark and a milestone. The clues are of course hidden in the detail and graffiti of every episode like a giant conspiracy formulated by Russell T Davies, you have to keep your eyes wide open people. It is the end of the world as we know it and very little shall be revealed.

Funnily enough tonight during the Dr Who episode we experienced a series of time travel problems brought about by using Sky plus and pausing real-time TV. We inadvertently created a time paradox by stalling on a Euro 2008 prompt whilst recording. This resulted in us having to fast forward the recording whilst it was still recording, as we had had lost the real time (back in time by 5 minutes) version. Confused? You should be. Shine on Mr Wolf.

"Oh Rose, thou art sick! The invisible worm That flies in the night, In the howling storm, Has found out thy bed Of crimson joy, And his dark secret love Does thy life destroy."

Delorean Blues

Some months after it was released I've discovered the Neon Neon album "Stainless Style". A concept album about the life of the great, misunderstood, crooked crook, visionary and egotist that was John Delorean. I can't think of a better idea for a themed album in any musical genre. Of course this one is all over the place as SFA meets disco, rap and electronica with a few Star Wars references and a sweaty Raquel Welch thrown in. It's dark, seedy, stained, stainless and truly bizarre. Having heard it a few times now (I quite enjoyed it on a new VW Passat's stereo dawdling up a crammed M40) I'm almost prepared to not give up on the music business.

Man on the moon

The logic of having faith often escapes me but then I do believe that NASA did put a man on, in and around the moon a lifetime ago. Those cigarette smoking, crew cut scientists of the sixties using electrical equipment averaging the size of a cast iron refrigerator and tons of explosive fuel actually put a man on the moon. That I'm astounded by this, believing in it and am puzzled by it, all at the same time says a little (or a lot) about my age and state of mind. Sometimes you look a technology and think, where did it all go so wrong for us?

A good example of simple complication is that ultra reliable process of purchasing goods on the the Internet. Pay your dosh and wait on the delivery. All fine until you're not in to sign for the brown shiny package and it's a hike to the depot and a gallon of unleaded to collect that elusive prize held in check by a load of grumpy guys all on the minimum wage. That in turn reminds me of my ambivalent relationship with petrol. I use it but never see it, never spill it, touch it, only tug at it and irritate it with my right foot to spray it through some tiny fireman's hose into a blazing engine and it's converted into energy and blue smoke and gone leaving only a ghostly image on my credit card, like a frozen imprint on the moon's face. You only know what you've got when it's gone and when you have created a carbon footprint far bigger than Neil Armstrong's.

Fevered memories of the day and significant things:

Tie of the day - blue speckled M&S now a little frayed at the bottom.
Coffee of the day - first cup of Gold Blend, at work at 0745.
Meal of the day - an Ali special of rice, salami and various left overs and vegetables.
Song of the day - "Useless Money" by Impossible songs (in development).
Drink of the day - Grouse + 4 ice cubes.
Goal of the day - Ballack in 49 minutes against Austria.
Chord of the day - Cmj7 as used in many songs by the Velvet Underground.
Websearch of the day - How to buy live stock.
Bank balance of the day - £97.80.

Indiana Jones and the Skull of Crystal Tips

It's a really bad film but it's a really good film in the way that Star Wars III was and James Bond can be and the last Chili Peppers album wasn't. So Indiana Jones returns to the screen older, more tired, not much wiser and with the voice of a 65 year old, grumpy action-hero. The battle is against those eternal enemies of the common American man, aliens and Reds so it's a no-brainer on who wins out...cue the intelligent troupe of monkeys, the indigenous natives with blow-pipes who never win and the ironic prairie dogs.

For Father's Day I ventured out into the wide world (with my thirteen year olds) to view local classic cars, buses, motor cycles, steam engines and general motorized junk from ages past, some of it even older than me, all on show at Lathalmond in Fife. I was in my greasy element staring into restored interiors, under blasted and painted bonnets and admiring huge and tiny engines, all robbed by enthusiasts of the chance to rest at the end of a long life. In the classic car world, once you dodge the compactor it's an eternal life of shows, pampering, waxing and no road tax for you. What did I like best (apart from yet another buffalo burger and a melting 99)?

A gleaming 1969 Wolseley 16/60 exactly the same as my first car (but it never did gleam).
Seeing open ended buses and describing to my kids how you could leap onto and off them while they moved - exhilarating and dangerous as I recall.
A VW micro bus in Irn-Bru colours - oh yes I want one.
A yellow Ferrari Dino - not really practical at all.
A Triumph Tiger motorcycle (not unlike my first mc).
A great, puffing traction engine that smelt like some kind of weird coal burning heaven.
3 Ford Mustangs in a row.
An old green lawnmower and a red pedal car.

Black finger-nail day

It's been a while since I had one but today was a black finger-nail day. The nails are not black with nail-varnish but engine oil and gunk and road grime. I had the socket set out, screwdrivers all over the place and the car all jacked up as I tried to fix my suddenly defunct windscreen washers on Mr Cougar. Ford have cunningly hidden the pump and washer system inside the front wheel arch so a road wheel, the front valance and the inner wing all have to be removed to access the beast. After a few hours struggling with rusty fasteners in the hot sun I had a clear route into the area and thankfully it was just a case of reconnecting a hose that had come away from the pump and taping it up. All done with only a few scratches, minor bruises, graveled knees and (most likely for the rest of the weekend) black finger-nails. All in all a fairly satisfying experience. Now for a spot of cookery...

King Burger

Can there ever be a greater burger than the BK Angus? All others fade into insignificance and at only a white Victorian fiver for a meal (chips + strawberry milk shake) is there any better way to get vital proteins into a pale, thin, artistic body and tomato stains on your tie? I don't think so. No doubt Frankie and Bennie do a nice cheeseburger, McDs do bargains and if I was in the US I'd go for a Wendy's or Checkers but here in South Queensferry where choice is a little more limited then it has to be BK. As the incredible (what's green and sits in the corner) sulk would say "nuff said".

ubuntu utnubu

Constant change is here to stay. One of the problems of turning grey on the top is the prospect of also turning grey on the inside and becoming cautious about if not afraid of change, or at the very least trying something different. So (in a Simpson's newsreader voice) I'm happy to announce my new but not fully consummated love affair with ubuntu (software that is). This free, openly developed software that mimics all we know and love in Windows and MS office has to be worth a try, at the worst it can only cause me a few small seizures and some chronic time wasting. At best it will open an orange and yellow rainbow of delights into my dark and stilted world of no risk and experimentation computing. We shall see.

Speaking of computers what do we need them for anyway? Apart from writing and reading this stuff, managing a few bank accounts and pin numbers and telling you the mpg of your rapidly depreciating car what good are they? Once I'm bored with ubuntu, fed up with facebook and played out on play.com I'll lie back, let old age sweetly wash over me and read a few books through my bottle-bottomed specs whilst slurping away my pension in red wine. There's a real change for us all to grasp at.

Men find that shopping is more stressful than fighting in the Battle of Bannockburn or dodging shells at the Somme. It's official but not really my actual opinion of how things are. The queues at Tesco can be grim and padding around in Jenners tedious, but it's not quite the same as having a mad Englishman running at you with a rusty spear first thing in the morning.

Food of the day: A banana dipped into a Muller fruit corner (oh yeah).

Drink of the day: Hot chocolate from the machine in our conference room.

Song of the day: "I told her on Alderon" by Neon Neon.

Book of the day: Dr Drum's manual.

Web page of the day: "Five Easy Pieces"on Wikipedia.

Weather of the day: Rain from 1700 onwards.

Cat of the day: Smudge for her incessant mewing.

List of the day: Not this one anyway.

Euro 2008 running in the background

It's with a certain interested detachment that I'm watching Euro 2008. From a distance whilst doing other things and stuffing strange objects into vacant time gaps you could say (but probably wouldn't). So it's the kind of Scottish summer we've become used to, a major sporting event takes place and we have no involvement apart from office sweeps and interrupted TV schedules. The pundits are all finding it particularly hard this year and the coverage is comprehensive but wafer thin in terms of it's passion and actual content. Nobody in the BBC cares who wins as long as it's not the French or Germans and my soft spots are for Croatia and Portugal for no good reason and as yet I've still to watch more than twenty minutes straight of any match. Perhaps I need to introduce a little more beer and crisps into the equation.

Ok, its now 21.45, two packets of crisps and some lager later Holland have beaten Italy 3 - 0. It seems that some strange, dark magic from the deep mists of time is starting to take effect.

Reach for the ambience

The weekend's nearly over and we are sunburned and worn out for various reasons. All meals (with the exception of breakfasts) have been al fresco, all cooking has been experimental, all drinking has been necessary to avoid the twin horrors of dehydration and reality, clothes have been functional and loose and our attitude remains a healthy mixture of positive, reflective and de-constructionist. Speaking of which I have managed to deconstruct some of the skin from my hands, mainly thanks to the rough edges of garden implements such as spades and heavy, unforgiving materials like concrete slabs, the guitar playing hasn't suffered mind you. A little rough skin is perfect for the Johnny Cash dunk-dada-dunk C to F to G7 sequences I'm perfecting along with my associate the good Dr Drum, I've no idea where it's all leading. Many new plants and seeds have been scattered across the garden and puzzled birds and squirrels observe all and try to correct their bearings in this seismic shift.

Today's under 13 football match was disappointing, the cruel and unmanicured pitches of the so called "garden city" (Rosyth) were useless and as there were no stanchions on the goal posts our team coloured nets could not be erected. We also got beat by a Kelty side that didn't really look up for the job but still managed to do it. Sunday is often the worst day of the week for football dads and soccer mums. Next week we'll try bigger bottles of Lucozade, the veiled threat of physical punishment and avoiding shouting anything intelligible or helpful from the touch lines.

Politicians - I'm fed up with politicians who are:

a) Unmarried, middle-aged, have no children and are clueless about real life.
b) Unable to drive and dont know how to operate a petrol pump.
c) Professional politicians who have never had a job outside of politics or Trade Union business.
d) Tory toffs with independent wealth and total detachment.
e) Scrounging socialist bastards who screw the system for every penny of expenses and their "creature comforts".

(I've nothing much of a creative nature to offer on this topic).

I'm also fed up with the UK media's covering of the USA's ridiculous pantomime of primary, pre-presidential money wasting, flag waving and utter drivel speech-mongering. Who gives a toss who gets elected in the US? Which ever grinning puppet gets in we're all on a hand-cart to Walmart via Hollywood anyway. I do love America so.

Busiest day of the year

We dug a hole the size of the Titanic.

We scattered stones and graded earth.

We drank beer and toiled under the hot sun.

I put up a fence.

We listened to Aim - Flight 602.

We talked about Uhersky Brod.

We laughed and gulped and were stunned at Little Miss Sunshine.

We ate chicken and salad and sweets.

The world turned some kind of revolution.

Football kicked off in Europe but we watched Dr Who and remained puzzled.

We hummed songs that are not written yet.

The washing machine took an awful beating. We built a water slide with a hose pipe, Fairy Liquid and a tarpaulin. It's hard to get some rest these days and the kitchen was in a terrible mess. The cat's remained laying low on account of a serious amount of small children running about. We waved at a tractor. A huge beetle was discovered along with long worms, they have all been living amongst us for some time it appears. We may well be up to no good. There is a bicycle in my boot. A large Kit-Kat and two phone calls of a work related nature. My grandchildren hosed down my dirty feet and sandals at the end of another epic day out in the garden. The tools were all very useful but the wheel barrow remains my favourite. Lara Croft films are a complete crock, so some people say. Opening Jiffy Bags in panic mode slows the overall process - thank you and goodnight Amazon.

Sweat like Jonny Cash

Uhersky Brod playing at the Phoenix 04/06. Scott Renton, Bruce Thomson and Paul Cumming (minus Dylan Matthews). I joined the band for the set by playing djembi badly from the edge. Some thoughtful and clever music from this eclectic trio with an uncompromising Scottish rasp and a black sense of humour. It all can be savored in a new, beautifully packaged cd called vz.61. A Skorpion vz.61 is the locally built small arms weapon produced in the town of Uhersky Brod which forms the subject matter for a song written and performed by "the Brods". My own favourite "Nae Drama" ended the set. When will we see their like again? Underground and unsigned: There is a huge raft of talented, careful and careless writers and performers out there, playing, performing and getting on with life whilst the wider world focuses on the trite and manufactured music that makes the media moguls rich. This unfocused but real band of musicians form an informal community that keeps some age old dream alive, writing about what they see and how they live - not a bad thing to be a small part of. The role call present last night included: Impossible Songs, CBQ, Tommy Mackay, James Jamieson, Nyk Stoddart, Fi Thom, Darren Thornberry, Ian Sclater, the Beggar Girls, Peter Micheal Rowan, Dave O'Hara and Jim Igoe. (I may have missed a few but...)

Reasons to be cheerful

Black Hole Thinking

If you've ever felt you've dug yourself a black hole and then fallen into the black hole of your own making then you'll perhaps know how I feel at times. It's as if normal thinking, basic instincts of survival and good sense elude you, you are in the moment and you act, you act in a natural way not realising you have taken a step into a black hole. That is how it all begins.

Welcome to the non-world but real enough world of Black Hole Thinking. If only it was Black Whole Thinking, then all the possibilities would be covered but no, it is a hole, a space, a void, an empty place and once you've disappeared into this hole there is only one workable strategy possible, hang on and tolerate (enjoy is not possible) the ride. You may be lucky enough to become a little numb during the ride, you may be able to bite your tongue or the fleshy part of your thumb and so divert the pain, that does work for a short time. You may close your eyes and try to drift into some safe place but you have no real protection there. The Black Hole bites.

The journey through the Black Hole nicely defies the laws of life and physics, up can be down or sideways, out can be in or inside out, time can be quick and breathtaking or crawl like an alligator in the sun on downers. Negatives spin sharp and cut, positives charge and electrocute, Black Holes are charged full of all the stuff you'd want to avoid but you can't like boxes of cutlery dropping and china cups smashing over and over again. Still you cling onto the belief you can make it and slide through this inky interior that is nothing substantial but remains real in the moment.

Then comes the final jolt and the searing heat of re-entry, crashing back into the place you left without the aid of a parachute and into cold water. It's a kind of life but nobody should ever know it.

So now you are at the other end, bruised but alive and armed with the handy tool of persistent optimism and a poor short term memory. The experience is there as a shadow in the mind but gone like a stitched up nightmare in the morning. You run your fingers through your own hair, pat your head, scratch your chin and rub your eyes...time for a cup of coffee.

Vashta Nerada explained

Staying on the subject of Dr Who and the Vashta Nerada as featured in the latest episode (the Vashta name means "shadows that melt the flesh"), these bad boy shadows are in fact (or in fiction) microscopic beings that swarm all over the universe and eat meat in a rapid piranha kind of fashion but without the trashing and biting. If you're worried at all about this tricky creature(s) then perhaps it's better to sleep with the light on (as if that would help).This link may explain more and also lead into all sorts of murky truths and facts about Dr Who, most of which are of no interest to me at all: http://tardis.wikia.com/wiki/Vashta_Nerada

In a (for us strangely) TV dominated weekend Lost reached a series finale climax last night. Lots of lost type things happened, ending in that modern time-lapse kind of way with the Island going of every body's radar, the ship blowing up, the helicopter ditching and the confused (but never hungry) survivors making a pact to lie about their experiences (groan!). Now they are back amongst us, the critics, the bewildered viewers and the many millions more who couldn't care less. So long and thanks for all the endless enigmas.

Vashta Nerada

It's hard to think of a sci-fi TV franchise more patchy and troublesome than Dr Who. In the BBC's hands it's been created, deleted, ignored, developed and finally has matured into it's current mildly compulsive form and been a mega-earner for spin of products and other series. Having said that it remains on a constant pivot point between absolute crap and brilliance, maybe that is the secret of it's survival. A great idea that is both enhanced and pillaged on a weekly basis, slave to rubbish acting, BBC contract players and dodgy production values ultimately saved by now and again good scripts, modern CGI and some kind of intrinsic x-factor that holds it all together. Perhaps it's the (good) Time Lords themselves that actually maintain it as a future-proof PR stunt. The producers of Lost, Heroes and the like must look at it and think WTF.

Thanks to Sky Plus we watched Saturday's show this evening (Sunday) after a heavy curry and a few glasses of wine, this seems to have had the desired effect on the quality and credibility of the episode, roll on next week's undoubtedly spiky conclusion.

Six silver bullets

Weather wise and otherwise it was almost the perfect day today. I did have to take six silver bullets to survive the unexpected heat but that's no matter, in fact it was a pleasure. The shopping was done, the tyres checked, tank filled up, a few minor chores and then out into the garden, shorts and all. It seems Ali and I are now one with nature and apart from a noisy garden party in the distance we enjoyed the strange privacy and cocoon that is the world of the garden. The only snag was that we were working in it rather than enjoying it but the labour was pretty pleasant in the still and in the sun. Progress is being made.

CD of the day: The Raconteurs, Connsolers of the lonely.
Song of the day: Guitar by Pete Atkin.
Food of the day: Sweet and sour chicken.
Pudding of the day: Rhubarb crumble (from the garden).
Effect of the day: Delay pedal.
Film of the day: Into the Wild.
Cookie of the day: White choc chip.
Chord of the day: Am.
Shower of the day: The evening one was the best.
Tool of the day: The edge tool.
Cat of the Day: Clint (slept indoors and ignored the wonderful weather).

Some things

The mid-week crisis of mid-life carries on, a strange tiredness smothers all life. Shoes cause small red marks on the rubbed toes or could it be the socks? Rain returns to this land after a brief spell hovering in the mid-Atlantic where I presume it bothered nobody. Three mids in this so far.

Nice to have a wee change now and then and gardening certainly helps. So here are a few other things related and otherwise:

Skyphone - All is wood
Isobel Campbell and Mark Lanegan - The flame that burns.
Polish food sections in the supermarket.
Back to back episodes of Smallville.
A familiar pie from the past.
Car cleaning and rubbing away the scratches.

It seems many funky laptops are available on the web, all deals are good, all offers are splendid and never to be repeated, all specifications are high, all delivery is free if you pay a little more than you want to, all lists are long and full of confusing numbers, all combinations are possible except the ones you might be interested in. Software isn't free as by rights it's price must remain extortionate. If only it was petrol or highland water.

The tall plumber fixed the running watery thing that has annoyed us for months but didn't do anything about until clearly exasperation set in and I should say that it was not reported by me. A small rusty washer was to blame and certainly not God, the powers that be or any of the cats, perhaps it was a guest or just fair wear and tear.

This week I spoke to a man who is almost blind. Car number plates are all he can read.

Tonight I'd like to do something worthwhile.

Stone Chips

Dropped your chips?

You load 16 tons and what do you get? Well I got some tuna risotto and a white wine spritzer thanks to Ali's intervention, now I'm very tired. It was all thanks to some kindly HGV delivery driver who dropped two pallets of stone chips in the middle of nowhere, a little south of our house, not per the instructions on the note or the ones I tried to pass across a dodgy mobile phone connection. Such is the fun of being in the middle of an extensive home and garden improvements programme. In actual fact most of the chips were bagged and it was all a wheelbarrow job but one that left me fairly sore and exhausted but also strangely satisfied. That must be the noble glory of carrying out actual physical labour or "real work" as some would describe it. Perhaps the path to true enlightenment, peace and serenity follows the road of blood, sweat, tears and stretched wheelbarrow arms and a dizzy feeling when you sit down.

Bambi burger

A warm, blue skied and sunny weekend has passed and I finally got my Bambi burger and a warm pint of beer in a plastic beaker at the Hopetoun House Carriage Trials. Lots of horses and buggies of course and all the horsey people out in their finery. Always good fun to mix with the toffs, tread in horse shit and enjoy the great outdoors, of which there is plenty around here. The horses and buggies are a splendid sight and the elegant riders and competitors make the whole thing easy on the eye and a reminder that not all in the country calendar is fox hunting, strangling badgers and snaring rabbits.

The cup final had a predicable outcome with the Huns winning (as expected) and the hard working QoS getting a grand day out but no trophy. Let's hope the mighty Gers win exactly he-haw next season. The Eurovision Song Contest was an exercise in complete crap but of course we voted for a number of the mad Eastern European offerings. Much wine, roast beef sandwiches and chocolate was needed to sustain me through it, I survived, the British entry, a pale and sickly piece of cod-funk did not. We wondered on how well Scotland might do was it permitted to enter this annual banal song-fest, would we, on our own (seen as a conquered and crushed race of course) suffer from the same tactical voting that the UK does?

Today after another visit to the temporary horse kingdom next door we returned for some sun drenched gardening, more wine and the customary back ache that goes with hard labour. Reviewing the outstanding works it's clear that one of those nice horses and a plough might come in handy about now.

Marks & Sparks

I probably have an obsession about the Marx Brothers based on the notion that heaven and eternal life may turn out to be quite similar to being trapped in one of their films. A strange kind of cross over place between hell and heaven, with love, laughter, comedy, torture, bad songs and acting and every so often some surreal piece of intervention. I am probably wrong about this.

Sparks on the other hand have produced some interesting music over the years, most of which I've avoided but that's not because I dislike them. It's more down to my capacity to take in and absorb, it's always been low compared to the true music fans.

Tea tonight was a hotch potch of M&S goodies (£10.00 for a meal for two with wine), as it turned out I added to the feast with additional M&S finely packaged chicken. Heated and served in moments and then it was gone in the ping of a microwave.

Next over to field to check on the many horses and shiny caravans that had arrived for the weekend show and then on to locate the buffalo burger van for tomorrow's lunch. No problems, it looks ready to roast and I'm assured the sun will continue to shine. It's been a long week.

Can't be bothered

Things to do when you otherwise can't be bothered:

Make scrambled eggs on toast in the microwave and toaster, add lots of pepper.

Add a liberal amount of whisky to your tea-time Nescafe.

Shop at Maplin on line for a power adaptor.

Strim large tracts of garden and be ruthless with weeds and nettles.

Clip your nails.

Recycle a few good things.

Ponder on holidays and sort a small amount of personal stuff.

Delete those texts you were keeping.

Upload a few photos and orientate them.

Sit on the couch, watch football and play with your DR3 drum machine.

Drive a Ford Fiesta with 47 miles worth of fuel left in the tank.

Imagine yourself buying and eating a buffalo burger on Saturday.

Wonder through the land of maddening emails.

Discover some "cat-kill" and bloodstains hidden behind a door.

Decide not to iron for the third night in a row.

Flick your fingers in an OC way until they hurt.

Look for a dishwasher filling methodology, find one and then abandon it.

It's the middle of the week of course.

Blank

Welcome to the world of blank things set in lists and by numbers.























The seven patterns of human wisdom in a linear form:

1. The stir fry and muddle it all up approach.
2. The make it up as you go along.
3. The intense follower and the finisher.
4. The restless believer asking questions.
5. The dreamer and whisperer.
6. The face down, hands up unbeliever.
7. The staring ahead, thinking and not blinking.

None of these are pure obstacles but each one is able to form a wild and natural barrier to clear thinking and its pursuit. Choose wisely young Skywalker.

The beat goes on

Badly behaved Space monkeys visiting the Ideal Home Exhibition and making full use of modernistic furniture and appliances. The connection with Half Man Half Biscuit and whatever nonsense they are up to will make sense to some. These monkeys were won in a magical fairground far away and are, in real life 100 times larger than this image.

The cats stare out of the window and ponder the wonders that float by on the other side of the glass. Wasps, birds and bees and everything that lives in woods and hedges gets caught up their lazy radar until one day the two collide and something tragic happens with the cats coming out on top. No matter how much we feed the cats and try to civilise them they refuse to leave their wilder ways.

Trying to put a pedal board together should be simple enough I suppose but I find it all a bloody pain. Firstly there is all the fiddling and setting up and understanding what the various things do, then putting them in an order that works and then connecting and testing. Once done its reading the manuals and a long trial and mostly error process to get the sound, effect or rhythm that you want. So far so good (it works) but I'm still a power supply and few patch leads down. Then I have to coordinate my feet to stamp on the stomp buttons at the right time so it all sounds right and tuneful. It's been a long term work in progress but this weekend has at least seen it stutter forwards and who knows where it will end?

Best photo

After some consideration I've decided that this is the best photo I've ever taken.

Things we like

impossible songs

things we like......................

There is nothing quite like honest work using gardening tools, rakes, spades and getting a blister on your palm and black fingernails. The rattle and smoke of an old lawn mower spluttering into life and bumping across an uneven lawn.The pain of physical labour and the satisfaction of having done something and not just looked at it and walked away. Cold beer in a deep glass flowing into a froth and promising a taste and experience never delivered. Doing things that aren't quite right, smoking a cigar, laughing at an un-PC joke, getting the better of somebody you don't like, spilling a secret, eating a fish supper in your car, drinking a bottle of wine alone and allowing your thoughts to drift almost endlessly, sweating and not changing your T-shirt. Sitting outside and listening the millions of sounds that make up the backdrop of the countryside, the chirps and squawks of life and death, the rustle of unseen creatures in a hedge, fat raindrops plopping onto flagstones, birds flying low like lost angels on a mercy mission. Peace.

I love the bizarre thoughts that come and take over and are then forgotten despite their colossal importance, unlike reading the poorly scripted magazine articles and listening to the non-news on the radio that never ends. The stupid bulletins based on speculation and opinion whilst around the world a billion bigger dramas are unfolding that the news reporters are missing. Real life played out under their noses and ignored and unrecognised. Shame.

Soon there will be lollipop man and women called Darren and Sharon, the young become the grey and repeat the mistakes of the past as we rely upon our inherited opinions for guidance. This is where it goes. Older.

Vacuum Song

impossible songs

"I'm just sitting here trying to sing a song that's good enough for you.

Staring into the vacuum and wondering what to do, where to place a lift and where I can just go 'oooh'.
I'm just sitting here trying to sing a song that's good enough for you."

Advice:

The best chocolate is that that is taken directly from a 5 degree fridge.

Always have your strimmer fully charged, ready for the unexpected.

It may be cheaper to take a taxi for a single journey.

Warm beer is best avoided on a hot day.

Trouser pockets are not necessarily safe places.

Dirges are just that.

Your satellite TV will do more for you than you imagine.

Crossing the road in loose shoes can be hazardous.

Drum machines may contain hidden metronomes.

Early to bed, early to rise is generally a tiring and tiresome way to live your life.

Come to think of it.

Place the ashes on the beach at low water and the tide will wash them away. Of that you can be certain.

Weekend

impossible songs

None of these Antorias are mine I'm afraid.

The return of Cadbury's Smash to the store cupboard and the dining room table has been a significant event in this weekend's nutritional experiences, what with the Chicken Kievs and the home made apple crumble and all that. Some of this was washed down with cans of root beer whilst putting together garden type toys such as slides - before the thunderstorm redefined the weekend. I remain happy and well fed but I do have a small pile of outstanding ironing to do, DVDs to watch and various instruction manuals to read. If it all gets too much they'll simply be placed into some convenient flight case for a rainy day.

Moving forward there are some plans taking shape but their shape is variable which may well be for the best. Staring into the West Lothian woodland and the fine mist that seems to hover around the edges of it soothes and helps no end. Every so often a cat, a game bird or a set of fat squirrels emerge to add movement to the landscape. Meanwhile the sky remains peppered with noisy swifts back from Africa, full of gossip and hell bent on the repair work necessary to restore their small holiday villas located in the roof of our coal cellar. The cats look on, licking their lips and yawning, ignoring the wasps building their nest under the slates and the fat and dizzy bees who seem to have recovered from the recent media panic about their extinction. Nature is a wonderful thing when left alone to get on with it's business.

Cat burglar

impossible songs

Mavis the strange, stranger of a tortoise shell cat has been finally apprehended sleeping in our lounge. For some time, we suspect she's been sneaking into the house via the open all hours cat flap and pinching Clint and Smudge's supper. This morning Olivia discovered Mavis asleep on a chair - caught in the act. The other cats were puzzled but not overly disturbed by the interloper who based on her friendly behaviour and freeloading life style may well return tonight.

Secret CDs

impossible songs

www.secretcds.co.uk

Thanks to the mighty Jim Igoe and friends for putting on Secret CDs VI at the Phoenix in Edinburgh last night. A rash of rare talent was on display and the discerning audience contained a few famous and familiar musos from the Edinburgh "go it alone and don't give a damn" music scene.

Our set was radically shortened by Ali catching a cold so we struggled through about six songs all in the key of sore throat a la Marianne Faithful. A couple of the pieces emerged decently from the ordeal and the tweaking of keys and capos to suit a major voice variation was a challenge i almost enjoyed. Afterwards we feasted on fish and chips outside a midnight Italian Pizza Friary - some comfort food after a busy evening.

Dr Drum has arrived - well he has been collected from a shed in Livingstone a week late. I'm not sure if this exactly how Internet purchasing is supposed to work, I saved a tenner on the price but had to make a 22 mile round trip to rescue him from pallet city. All I have to do now is read and understand a 60 pages instruction manual and write a few songs.

Iron manic

impossible songs

Life is full of little surprises, never did I expect to be teaching any one of my sons the guitar riff from the Sabs 1971 "Iron Man". A truly awful piece of work that even then (I recall there was a very short time when handling the first Black Sabbath album was cool) was disliked by everybody except complete meat heads. However time and marketing are strange things and now that leaden, 6th form, primitive riff has re-emerged and become associated with what looks like a very good film. My 13 year old likes the basic riff but not the rest of the song so at least he has some good taste. Iron Man should be last of the big Marvel movies, I can't imagine Dr Strange easily making it to the big screen and if he did what music would fit - the Cure? The back catalogues continue to be pillaged and our imaginations and memories are put firmly back into some desolate and dark place.

The return to NYC

impossible songs

I reserve the right to return to New York, that is my stated state and I love the paradox. To be a tourist on pilgrimage to the haunts and quarters and pavements that first fired my imagination before it froze with age and experience. Bob Dylan, Nico, Lou and Andy on the mean streets and in the plush hotels and waterfronts and galleries bless me with a jolt and jump start. I'd swear I saw the ghost of Elvis being carried out of there or was it the Algonquin or the Somewhere Else? Cheap guitars and t-shirts in a Greenwich Village store and old furniture shops in Soho and the waving cats in porcelain. The intellectual bums and the taxis and the easy breakfasts suck up the sacred dollar and the all seeing eye but I fly by in my Volvo-like helicopter, safe with my borrowed insurance. Why does this all resonate and trigger reactions in a Scot from the Central Belt? (Borrowed and not returned from the library of the buckle of the Bible Belt and the cults of lesser men.) Where is my heart and memory in these last and late days of the green and blue familiar planet? Why do I gravitate towards Expedia and Trailfinders and browse there, savouring their hook, line and sinker wonders? Saviours of the modern man and benefactors in a time of discounted famine and need. New York is not my town but it is my city - I shall return and eat a Kenny Rodger's roast chicken and sip the world's finest coffee whilst avoiding the soup kitchens and the desolation rows.

Confessions

Confessions of a food poisoner: It was "Old Sparkie's " first outing of the year yesterday. The cleaned up barbie was fired up to feed the hungry family, all exhausted after numerous wheel barrow exploits around the garden, dinosaur hunts, football blowing up and (eventually) successful searches for bicycle pumps. The food was well done and marginally less hazardous to consume than anything the local fast food joints are cooking up (I hope). I do think that the sausages, which contained bits of apple and onion and other things were rather good, their subtle flavours and their finely carbonised exterior were missed out by the numerous small children present who seemed to prefer munching on Pringles and cheese. Whatever else happens we've at least welcomed the summer and the arrival of our family of nesting swifts from Morocco with our first outdoor spectacular.Next morning everybody woke up in fine fettle and I'm taking that as being a good sign that all the toxins in the food and dirty fingers were burned away.

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Pan's Labyrinth: On Friday night we watched this strange and disturbing film, set during the Spanish Civil War it blurs reality and fantasy through some horrific events and graphic imagery. The overall effect was one of inducing the viewer to keep on drinking large amounts of red wine in order to dull the senses and focus the mind elsewhere. It may not sound as if I did but I liked the film and the sub-titles, been a while since I read a better movie.

The power of lime

impossible songs

There is a link between this Innocent looking material and a variety of problems that can occur in the inner reaches of the human body. I have proven that but I am still strangely drawn to this powerful substance both as a dip and an ingredient. Regardless of the consequences I am strangely drawn. I am a strangely drawn man and not a badly drawn boy. Such is the power of a jar of pickle that though I know it does me no good and in fact it causes me some discomfort, I am driven to finish the jar by fair means or foul. I must add it to more recipes and test the overall effect on others - my victims and victims of the pickle. Apart from participating in this kind of activity from time to time I am a normal person. I should also like to record that I do not enjoy the taste or texture of this lime pickle.

Now that it is truly May I feel that it is OK to get serious about gardening.

I'm listening but I'm not hearing very much.

Scribbles are returning to inhabit the empty pages.

Doctor Drum is in the post.

Human traffic

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The feeling of not knowing where you are going but being aware that you are heading (led?) in a certain direction.

The loss of precious time and not being in control.

The soap suds running between your toes, along the shower bottom and down the drain.

Eating sausages, beans and fish cakes and calling it turf n' surf n' company.

The remembering of things passed and past.

Confusion caused by repeatedly mis-reading a series of signs and acting on them.

Far away rain that never falls, stays in the distance and hovers over higher places.

The last day of April and the first day of May.

Asking for the thing you really want and being surprised when you get it.

A jumble of words and ideas that travel around inside of your head and come out in the form of a song after a long period of time.

Dehydration.

Every moment can be a tipping point moment.

Sitting for a long time in an uncomfortable chair is better than wearing tight shoes all day.

My left foot switch

impossible songs

It was a nice weekend for the most part. Saturday was spent all day in all of Aberdeen mostly. Swimming with kids, bacon rolls at Brechin, a tea-party for a grandchild's birthday in the afternoon and then buzzing back down the A90 both conserving and wasting petrol by dodging the numerous speed cameras. Back on the couch with pizza and wine at 10 to watch an annoying episode of Dr Who set somewhere near the present day. I always feel short changed by these episodes, no proper time travel just another alien threat that manages to avoid any serious media exposure. I mean can you imagine how the media would react to an actual alien invasion, particularly on a slow news day. I don't much care for the regular contracted BBC cast of over exposed Londoners either, (it's better than Cardiff mind you).

Sunday allowed us a little recovery, after the regular Sunday morning football it was time for a lengthy potter in the strangely sunny garden: Cleaning the BBQ, stacking logs, hammering nails into things and rearranging the garden furniture back to where it was before we started rearranging it, though it does look a lot better where it is now. The cats chased bees which I hoped they would not catch, then gave up and disappeared into the hedge, a large and unique wildlife reserve in it's own right. No carnage was reported and we pottered some more until we grew hungry. A few drinks were consumed and by eight we were comatosed on the couch in from of a flickering TV screen. On Monday the rain began.

Also on Monday my new foot switch arrived heralding a rare outing for my flight case full of odd pedals and guitar related stuff. I fiddled for two hours and an understanding the basic layout of the fretboard is beginning to return.

Their greatest hits

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Strange how listening to the past can be an effort. The greatest hits of Jefferson Airplane is not any kind of an easy listen. The music is often tuneless, with half baked songs, lyrics that are shouted rather than sung, harmonies that are clunky and two fingered guitar solos played through gutless amplification. Of course there is something else going on that I like (not just the nostalgia), I think it's the feeling and the anger but some of the material is hard labour on the ears. The quieter, acoustic stuff ages a little better, a lesson there for us all? Whatever nobody ever had cooler sunglasses and a better bass sound than Jack Cassidy and Grace Slick can wail with the best.

The fuel crisis has meant we've had no heating oil (so no heating) all week. The crisis was however self inflicted as we managed to run out prior to the real crisis and then had to wait for delivery and then for the plumber to bleed the system. Now we are bled (8.30 tonight) and hopefully warmer.

Favourite things this week:

Wooden Ships by Jefferson Airplane.

Bacon and eggs, toast and brown sauce.

Looking at but not using the new wheelbarrow.

Fires that stay lit.

The New York skyline.

Three days to eat an Easter egg.

A paperback.

Fixing a long time buzz on the 13th fret of my Antoria.

Dr Pepper Breakfast

impossible songs

Today's breakfast of choice was a can of Dr Pepper and a Mars Bar consumed alfresco at the Pitreavie Playing Fields in Dunfermline under a pale early morning sky with a fierce East wind slapping me in the face. However the accompanying football match had a good outcome, 4 - 2 in our team's favour. Not a bad start to the day.

Soon it was time to purchase a new wheelbarrow so I headed of to the local B&Q and acquired a nice mid-range model. The great thing is that when you buy a wheelbarrow, you don't need a trolley, you just wheel it around the store, clip a few heels, then through the check out and deposit it into your car.

Home via a fast food outlet (coffee break) and straight into the garage to attempt to start up the ancient, cranky lawn mower. It has been in hibernation for a few months and was pretty reluctant to start. After much futile pulling on the starting cord, sweating, swearing and a sore shoulder I removed the spark plug, cleaned it with a Swiss Army knife , sprayed WD40 here and there and tried again. It roared into life complete with a complaining cloud of blue smoke and a shower of dust. Together we ploughed across the garden narrowly avoiding a collision with the wheelbarrow and some solar lights. The garden has at least now been attended to this year (apart from one failed bonfire) and I felt fulfilled. It also helped that yesterday the kids and I rebuilt the trampoline, straightened the battered poles (Winter gales to blame) and thanks to numerous cable ties put the safety net together (correctly this time). Never forget that it is those same cable ties that keep the space shuttle flying, Disneyland functioning and also hold together much of the USA's nuclear deterrent. Cable ties are a vital invention that should not be over looked, they might just save your life, so keep a few handy.

Thanks to the limited West Lothian oil crisis we're heating the house using alternative fossil fuels, though the fossils all look a bit like coal to me and I know for a fact that the logs came from a petrol station so they are not fossils at all. If fossils did actually burn they'd be quite useful instead of being boring lumps of stripy rock that clever people seem to think were once rubbed on by fish or prehistoric snails. Most seem to end up as paper weights or under glass in a museum and are not used to fuel anything. It's a shame that they don't have a dual purpose. Of course in the future all that will be found to reveal our superior way of life with be the snipped ends of cable ties under a layer of Tesco bags.

Pot holes v speed bumps

impossible songs

The road building, modification and repair strategy in South Queensferry (and other chunks of the blessed UK banana republic) leaves me puzzled. Understandably speed bumps have been installed close to schools, pavements, houses and the resting places of dead squirrels. These creations slow traffic down and reduce the value of your car and any life remaining in it in the same unpleasant process. So the traffic is calmed, the drivers are irate but all is almost safe (unless you ride a motorcycle). However as time passes these fine roads and their bumps deteriorate until they resemble the surface of the moon, so providing a less than soothing, undulating and mostly awful experience to road users of all types.

My suggestion to resolve this pattern of chaotic road conditions is to dig up the speed bumps and deposit the surplus material into the pot holes thereby at least getting us back to a basic position of having roads that are all on one level. I think the Romans had this idea first and it is a good one. Speedfreaks, Subaru drivers and nutters should, after 12 penalty points get their left pinkies removed with a Stanley Knife. If only everything in life was so simple.

Santa Maria

impossible songs

We're playing at Jim Igoe's Secret CD night on the 7th of May. First live anything in about three months so we may start to practice any day or weekend now. It's a 30 minute slot along with Rosie Bell, Fi Thom and David Ferrard. This (from the outside) unproductive life is possibly on the verge of being productive once again, when we get the garden right.



Today at work I avoided coffee, my coffee maker was away and I survived on a can of diet Irn-Bru, a cup of tea and two cups of chilled water. Remarkably there were no blinding headaches, sneezing fits, spots before the eyes or attacks of the spider monkey chills. I did find myself staring into space or was it the BBC website?



I know that my holiday has done me good: I do not feel the need to rant, either inwardly or outwardly, I am tired at times but in a normal way and I've not put on any weight or developed any rashes or ticks. Time to book the next holiday I think.

So long and thanks for all the dolphins

impossible songs

Not too tedious a day today as I returned to work after two weeks in the sun, snow and the strange, thundery and wet weather of Aberdeen. The Algarve is now a distant but pleasant memory, grandchildren are elsewhere clutching dinosaurs and tractors and children are back at school mining for gold. Older children are busy making their way in the world and generally doing fine. I'm eating more than my fair share of chicken, Ali's home made bread and the pecan and raisin loaf that you can buy from the M&S petrol station in South Queensferry. I have recently had some red wine also, for the benefit of my health and well being of course.

Other things:

I wish I supported Queen of the South.
Enchanted is not a bad film if you've nothing else to watch.
The Eels make interesting music but not eating.
A dead wood pigeon in the garden - killed by various cats.
Sunday newspapers on a Monday.
Little pots of fruit parfait lined up in the fridge.
The sweet mystery of life and love and staying in bed.
Zorro.
Sticking pins in your windscreen washer jets and seeing where they may squirt.
Odd, unscripted bits of random cookery dished up to guests.
Pop Tarts for breakfast.
A birthday party in Aberdour with Spanish salad and prawns.
Filling road potholes with ashes from the fireplace.
Cakes in dreams and dreams in cakes.
Apple pie and custard in reality.
Reality in all it's forms - pleasant and not so. It needs to be faced up to.

Fish flags

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A short list of various things done and experienced:

Saw the Spiderwick Chronicles.
Clean jeans tramped over by a muddy cat.
Realised that there is much to be done.
Couldn't get the bonfire to light in the rain.
Shopping in Livingstone.
Harry Ramsden's fish and chips.
Liverpool v Arsenal.
Grandson staying over = dinosaur youtube searches.
Moved the shed back with only minimal injuries sustained.
Pestered by cats when typing.
Frying eggs.

My favourite sardines

Skate fillet from "Julias'".

impossible songs

Sardines from "That Shack".


impossible songs

Oily fish, garlic, potatoes and a glass of wine, eaten and enjoyed on a warm Portuguese afternoon and at no time did a bone stick in my throat. That didn't happen until I ate my second plateful a few days later, the antidote to this problem was the simple application of bread and butter washed down with a bottle of red wine, some Superbock lager and nine hours sleep and "hey presto!"no fish bone, just a mild headache and the memory of a tickle. Seafood consumption is not without it's problems, try the spaghetti and clams if you don't believe me.

We rented a car that was amongst other things "sixty day blue" from a company called Thrifty. It was a Renault Megane estate. Thrifty were not the most attentive or punctual of hire companies - the first car they offered us (also in sixty day blue) was all bashed up and had a broken mirror, I thought at first they were having a laugh but they were serious. We got serious also and got another car.

("Sixty day blue" is a trade term for a certain colour of vehicle that will remain on a used car lot for approximately that amount of time before it eventually sells).

Skull City

impossible songs

impossible songs

The picture is of a roof covered in human skulls and bones in a small chapel in Faro, Portugal. They do things differently there, I can't imagine this idea catching on in Scotland as means of coating and protecting the ceiling of the kirk. It certainly would appeal to the young (Goths) and older, darker, left of centre types however. Perhaps I'm somewhere in that number?

We've just returned from a week in the Algarve so the next few posts will feature pictures of sardines, hills, beaches and holiday scapes of sorts, so today, just to get myself adjusted to normal home life I ventured outside and painted the shed, in the rain.

Ghost in the Shell station

impossible songs

impossible songs

A series of pointless rants:

Petrol at £1.05 isn't really expensive compared to paying £1.50 for a bottle of water at an airport WH Smiths or £7.99 for a twist of printer ink in Comet or £2.45 for a tasteless Latte in cardboard at Starbucks. That's really all I have to say, a fresh perspective is wonderful if you can gain it and you can find peace at 35.1 mpg. None of this means that I can excuse the evil oil companies and supportive banks their petty minded profiteering (or Alister (banned from every pub) Darling).

Terminal 5: I will spend the rest of my life trying to avoid this place and then once I get there marvel at it's wondrous baggage handling devices and helpful and courteous staff. Nobody tries to do a bad job but sometimes things just don't come together at the correct time - but I'm not sorry for BA or BAA. Air travel now is an awful, unglamourous and tedious experience filled with shuffling queues and pointless shopping opportunities for the feeble-minded. It could be so much better but like many modern experiences it's been reduced to a MacDonald's style of quick and dirty service. Managers are absent, staff are vacant and systems are inhuman. Blade Runner meets Brave New World and humanity is the loser. If you can, stick to the fast lane in your own comfort zone with the music at 11 and marvel at God's wonderful creation - the motorway.

Alex Salmond booed at Hampden: Good, it's time this pompous wee bugger heard what Scottish people really think of him and his daft and dated ideas and the shower of no-hopers that pretend to govern Scotland. Between them all there is hardly one that could open and down a bottle of Buckfast, unscrew a screw top of Mcewans Pale Ale, smoke twenty Regal or swallow a Mars Bar supper (with brown sauce) - call yourself Scottish? We reserve the right to do what we like and die from whatever poison we choose to imbibe (at least before the English invade us again) .