A little bread with that sir?

"I can assure you that no animals at all were harmed in the planning of this wedding officer."

Things are moving in the way they are bound to, in all directions in a fairly uncoordinated way. As a part of that I spent a very pleasant rock n' roll Friday night in the company of Teddy Thompson, Tift Merritt, Miss Fi and Ali, mostly talking about mint based drinks, the music of the spheres, the magic building site that is Edinburgh and Teddy T's chat up routines.

The quest for a visually stunning drink continues. Is mint tea acceptable? I think it is. Could you add whisky or gin to it to perk it up? Probably. Does it go with cake? Not quite sure. We'll have to carry out a series of controlled experiments under test conditions once a cake base has been identified.

The spectre and horror that is Marryoke has raised it's head and it won't go away. I am veering towards some kind of adoption of this practice, indeed forming plans (and then discarding them), then forming them again. I may have to apply for some kind of meaty grant from either a public body or a drinks manufacturer or a family member. The cinematography gene in me is itchy and the artistic muse calls aloud and demands an answer (of sorts), You-Tube and the Oscars beckon and the loss of reputation and personal credibility are a small price to pay.

Teddy T in action, great band and lots of charisma, songs may need a little work. No sure about the shoe statement but that's show biz.

Sympathy for Glenrothes

Some guy who writes a newsletter dislikes Glenrothes because like many other places it's out of time and suffering from the (economic) structural decay that will become common place as the banker's revenge continues to run it's course. Bah Humbug! Art, imagination and architecture are great things when at their peak, when a major decline sets in, the temples, markets, theatres and circus tents collapse and the wild beasts and feral children run free. You could say we get what we deserve.

So what about the wider issues in Scotland? I have to admire the Greens trying to screw 100 million a year for ten years out of Wee "pointy finger" Eck. Based on my primary 7 maths that's £20k a head (maybe £60k an average household) for insulation, wind turbines and solar panels. Just imagine going down to B&Q with 60 grand to spend on your house's green credentials every year, might need a roof rack. My course of action, should I be given the opportunity would be to spend the princely sum on a nice villa in southern Spain so reducing Scotland's pollution, insulation and energy consumption problems rapidly and in my case permanently.

Survey results just in:

What is Scotland to you?

The best small minded small country in the world.

The best nationalistic dictatorship in the world - looking for the right dictator.

Where a good quality diet doesn't matter.

Never best, not even second best.

Where potholes find homes.

Where recycling means confusion.

Where mountains are small and the welcome smaller.

Where industry used to be.

Where football shirts are fashion statements.

Where culture remains primitive but engaging.

Where modern media has yet to develop.

Where there are plans but no cash.

Where we have ambition but no vision.

Where we have social services but no social life.

Where pub culture has been outlawed by pricing strategy.

Where currency is worth less than a Euro.

Where music and poetry means a series of Burns tribute acts and sod all else.

Where equality is a possibility.

Where refugees are welcomed for the recipes they bring.

Where religion is misunderstood by each generation.

Where the national sport is scratch card scratching.

Where you'll have had your tea.

A place where schools don't consider national history worth teaching.

Where mediocrity is celebrated.

Where division is by common language.

Where wild things (occasionally) run free.


Thanks to the good folks of Glenrothes.

Coming around

It's a healthy and good thing to change your mind about something, particularly if it's in the positive axis. Before I'd ever been in it I disliked the local Datoka hotel because it was new, big, brash, next to Tesco and the A90 and it just seemed out of place. Now I've been in and around it a couple of times my position has changed, for one thing it's very stylish, for another it really does work well as building. The space is sensibly and usefully divided, the decor is veering towards tacky but fits in well, the materials are rough but the effect is warmth and economy. Black is in there big time and it's serving the environment well.

The actual bedrooms are thoughtfully put together and when compared to hotels in the same price bracket actually quite nice. So I feel a little smug having moved seemlessly from one position to another, proof that my inherant stubborness has a healthy limit and than nothing is beyond redemption. Nothing that is apart from Carry On films, the excessive wearing of sports clothes, monkeys, 1970's town centres, the Lords and those with deep pink to redder necks.

Those goons in the House of Lords have set up yet another cringe worthy performance with the cash for law bending and manipulating revelations. It is scary to catch a glimpse of how arrogant and out of touch a group of people can become when they have spent years in a cosseted talking shop badly running great swathes of this country and lining their pockets in the process. In the other House of course they bellow and argue like buffoons over their black and white views on who is right and who is wrong. Strange how it never occurs to them that finding some common ground, sharing a little clear thinking and the pooling of resources in positive strategies might just help the old country along a bit more than their childish bickering. Two tribes.

The frog and toad totem pole photo collection goes from strength to strength, how's your's doing?

New dawn of some golden day

It can get noisy around these parts but we mostly respect the environment.

More than ever we're now using some obtuse and oblique strategies to describe, understand and justify our lives and I suppose to re-connect with people who orbit the same sun but not the same spot of land. A constant balancing act of blogging, micro-blogging, texting, blue toothing photos and music and the odd 150 or so emails that wraps the process in fun and clever mechanics. Sometimes watching TV is almost relaxing, the friendly ping of Twitters in the background, newspapers littering the floor as Jonathan Ross returns to the screen to grin at Tom Cruise, already busy out grinning him. Which one would the average straight guy go gay for? Is it a contest at all?

The morning frost was scraped from the car and a light January sun rose over the hedges as we headed away into Edinburgh to collect the little box that contained the remains of Smudge our cat. The usual mess of roadworks and debris greeted us into and waved us out of the city, Smudge's carton sat on the back seat, like a gift from Amazon or Play.com. At least she's back home now and we'll scatter her ashes somewhere, sometime. It seemed a good idea to buy a selection of chocolate, pizza and finger food to munch through for the remains of the day.

Before that is started on it was the heavy but healthy brunch with smoothies, sausages (must be beef), eggs, hash browns, beans, toast, bacon and a pot of tea for Ali. It set us up for a hoovering and dusting marathon, experiments with light bulbs and starters and a stream of weekend laundry. Saturday is the day for utilities, kids wrestling with PC applications, Sky Soccer Saturday, dreams of the great Scottish novel, waste bins, exploring the depth of the freezer, glossing across the mail and papers and a single candle burning on the table to remind us of a little cat.

Tomorrow is Burns 250th birthday, the media and the tourist board are excited, it's their big time and they milk like it really meant something. Haggis will be stabbed and eaten and Burn's rather inaccessible works skimmed over as cliches and warm but now exhausted phrases are repeated with an acquired profundity by people trying to connect with something already dead and disconnected from most of our daily lives. The books are dry and open, the pages are staring at the ceiling but the words fail to to lift off and fly, mainly because no one really wants them to or needs them. They are like Bible passages or Dickens prose, best summed up in a few short songs, skimmed phrases or strap-lines and then put back on the shelf for the next festival of the glorious past or redundant holiday ceremony. On Monday Tesco and M&S will discount the neeps and mash and then lay out the aisle ends with Easter eggs, yellow chickens and daffodils. You know it makes no sense but you'll put your PIN number in anyway, these are your sins and you carry them with you, no matter where.

Mr Shed 2009 & America under new management

The shed fever continues, the pressure and the sweet pain of competition grow and become as addictive as some sweet drug - like a Muller strawberry fruit corner yogurt. Now, today almost nothing else matters as much. As things hot up I've taken the radical step of adding photographs taken in the searing light of a typical West Lothian January day. This natural approach will I believe reveal the best aspects and the true nature of our wonderful shed. Click on the title link or here to see the latest suite of pictures, read and enjoy the blurb or if you are brave enough post some clean and creative shed related comment.

Meanwhile the question of the day is (and isn't likely to be answered), what is the best meal for a healthy but middle aged chap like me? Diet and lifestyle choices these days provide so many quandaries and moral dilemmas.

a) A Big Mac and a medium latte (no fries, no ketchup).

b) Poor Man's noodles with a curry twist and mackerel sauteed in olive oil.

c) A banana, a pack of 50p carrot batons and a slice of birthday cake.

d) Instant coffee, a cereal bar and a chunky Kit-Kat.

e) £25.01 worth of BP unleaded at 85.9p a litre.

f) Listening quietly to the Tom Morton show, eating nothing but possibly swallowing some saliva.

e) A plastic cup filled with fizzy vitamins and chilled water from the "Middle-aged man" Tesco range of healthy stuff.

Answers on a postcard please...

America is under new management says America, fine by me. When do we get to have a go at this over here?

Shed of the year

As it's been a hectic day at work I naturally came home eager to relax and as means of reaching new competitive highs and creative peaks and calming myself down I decided to enter our shed in the "shed of the year "contest. We are up against stiff competition from a number of international shed specialists but what the hell. My entry is simply called "Small shed ensemble with barbie and barrow accessories, at night".

The unique features of our shed are a)that you can't actually get into it, b) that it once contained a wasps nest, and c) it stands on four unique house bricks. I fully expect the judges to swoon with delight and award us some handsome prize, hopefully a new shed that the average person can get into.

Projects and the rest

For some reason I didn't want to post anything over the previous Smudge post. Some kind of respectful distance needs to be placed between the memory of the wee cat and my ramblings and occasional rants. Somethings don't easily coexist in certain kinds of space but under pressure they have to, in other words life goes on and on.

Today the Obama show has taken over everything in the media and imagination and I suppose quite rightly so. Today I have parked my cynicism, my distrust and my unbelief and decided to be moved (a bit) by his address to the nation and be impressed by the crowds and their hope and (likely) baseless optimism. Hope is the greatest thing, even if unreasonable or unrealistic it forms us up and allows a forward motion and an energy release that can change worlds. Hope is also hungry and needs the fuel of recognition and tangible success in goals realised, er..Go Obama Go...

Meanwhile looking around the room and into the PC files, unfinished projects pile up like debris on the beach, ship wrecked ideas and bits of other things that I can't quite put a value on or somehow develop from some base position. I compile lists of their names, peer into them like avatars on Facebook and stepping back see only bits of a jigsaw but without the box lid. Striking a better a better note than my twisted black guitar currently can I found a short story I'd written hidden away on the (newly re-jigged) OOTB site, how on earth did that get there? The Great Gondolli or something like that...

Smudge

Our beautiful little cat Smudge died this weekend. She'd been missing since Friday and we were fearing the worst. After searching in the woods, roadways and gardens Ali found her this morning, she'd been hit by a car a few hundred yards from home. She was a smashing, cuddly wee thing, full of fun, mischief and a great mouser and we're now missing her badly, as is her big ginger brother Clint. There are somethings you just don't want to ever have to write about.

Ah! Sweet mystery of Fife

Fife is blockaded this weekend, held hostage by FETA terrorists bent on preventing the escape of millions of doe-eyed, straw sucking Fifers hoping to stretch out their credit card advances on the streets of Edinburgh, but FETA says "thou shalt not pass". The reverse is also true with central Scotland now sealed of from the bonnie southern banks of the Firth of Froth to the bonnie ex-banks of the credit crunch. I may sneak over into Fife tomorrow, early in the morning when no one is about and the border guards are occupied with the Sunday Mail crossword or queuing for a sausage and egg McMuffin breakfast at the golden arches drive-thru.

In the mean time my supposed creative weekend has hit a dip thanks to an unexpected and so far fruitless pussy cat search. Recording and mixing plans have been dropped in favour of head scratching, looking out of the window and wandering around the hedgerows. Bugger, things are looking bleak.

Toys out of the cupboard (funk 4)

A pile of equipment litters the dining room, almost joined up by imperfect leads and devices looking a bit like the inside of Neil Young's barn after it's been robbed. Pedals and power supplies are lying across the floor in tribute to the failure of the music industry to standardise connections. A guitar waits patiently in the distance eager to rush up to Gm7, D and then back to Amaj for a last hurrah.

As it's January the salmon and home recording seasons are once again open and nothing in the vicinity is safe. The drum loop known as Funk 4 has been edited, reverbed, muted and then topped and tailed, it now lasts a mere 1 minute 30 seconds but in that time it buries the wah guitar with the slight delay and the FX effect that struggles to find four notes. Well done funk 4, we salute you.

Lost in a car park

The trouble with silver cars is that a) they are common as muck and b) muck is very common, so returning to a large open car park after dark and trying to locate your ride home can be tricky. Usually at Edinburgh airport I park in the multi and manage to just about remember the level, the rest is easy. On Wednesday I chose the open air long stay in a burst of economic anguish and thanks to a quick bus pick up and little thought on my part, on my return I could not find my car.

Panic however didn't set in, I just walked around for a while, at angles, across bays, from sign to sign, from pay point to bus stop. Many cars were found, none were mine. I thought about asking for help at the office but the potential humiliation was too much so the random walking continued until after about twenty minutes we were reunited and I sped of as if nothing had happened. The last time this happened was in Disneyland when I couldn't remember the colour of the hire car only that it was in the Dopey area with a cuddly toy on the back window shelf.

Favourite old tunes of the day:

The King will come - Wishbone Ash.
White room - Cream.
Folsom Prison blues - Johnny Cash.

Soup of the (yester)day: mature vegetable.

Amplifier of the day: TEC6200 Stereo Power 100w.

Sweet of the day: Chunky Kit-Kat.

Pie of the day: Mince round.

Effect of the day: Phaser.

Gavin and Stacy chic

Sometimes it's good to get into things later than everyone else. This series is honestly funny, well acted and there still are a load of unseen (for me) episodes to come. Some little touches are perfect, the blue Saxo is great, the fat friend and the surreal Nessa, Wales and the extended family. The house in Essex is a study in contemporary life style that David Hockney would love, thank you BBC channel whatever your number is.

Art is everywhere

Art is everywhere, art is out there to be enjoyed, disliked or tolerated - in unexpected places. Art has little to do with galleries, £20 million price tags, diplomas and cocktail parties. Art doesn't need more funding or prizes, receptions or patronage by corporations. It just needs to be conceived, carried out, looked at and appreciated.

High Hopes

Why will the USA and the UK continue to support the state of Israel despite their violent and heavy handed conduct towards Gaza?

The answer is almost simple: The USA and all the other western powers that have grown into Christian based democracies cannot, for a series theological, historical, moral and philosophical reasons bring themselves to condemn Israel. In the minds of all the modern Hebrew based religions and the government systems that they co-support the position of Israel regards the “rest of the world” remains as it was first described in the Five Books of Moses (the first five books of the Old Testament). The Jewish nation remains the “apple of God’s eye”. Put simply they are God’s chosen people and their struggle to maintain Israel is fully justified by the earliest of Bible teachings and is therefore not a principal to be trifled or disagreed with.

Many contemporary church sermons, methods of teaching and pillars of thinking remain based on these early writings, available to all as the books Genesis to Deuteronomy, translated and incorporated into the Holy Bible. To unpick one part undermines all the other passages, so if Israel’s status is threatened then so is the creation story, the doctrine of original sin and the fall, the Ten Commandments, the moral absolute that is the Hebrew Jehovah and the need for a messiah to arrive to redeem fallen mankind. The rest of the Old Testament and the significance and relevance of the New would also fall apart as a piece of joined up literature and template for life. It’s a bummer of a theological trap that the USA’s political system and its church based followers cannot allow themselves to fall into, otherwise we’re (as stupid white people) all completely guilty of all the (western) colonisation and evangelical crimes of the last 2009 years and we’ve no mandate to move forward.

The violent and intolerant situation we’re now seeing is worsened by harkening back to the latitude God apparently gave to early Jewish heroes like Joshua and Caleb to go out and ethnically cleanse the tribes that were occupying the promised land of Israel when the Jews returned from captivity in Egypt. That thinking still lives on and in various forms, both practically and metaphorically and influences a great deal of modern political thinking and Christian teaching. There are Jews, there are Christians and there are the rest of us, so sending air strikes into schools and hospitals in Gaza when you view the victims as being outside of the love and care of your God is easy. The Christian religion is very good at the convenient use of exclusion, separatism and the drawing of hard, judgemental lines, often despite what the very core values of the religion may profess to be about.

As a further complication the numerous Biblical prophecies about the progress of the Jewish people, their dispersion, persecution (no joke) and their return to Palestine in 1948 all add weight and depth to their beliefs. A further problem is that the other “yet to be” stories at the far end of the Bible work backwards towards the present day. They contain a huge amount of prophetic writing that shows the end of the world, Armageddon, occurring above or around Jerusalem following a long series of violent wars and conflicts all fought out in the Middle East. What good upstanding, church going Christian or God fearing Jew can afford to deny the significance of these current events when seen in the context of a Biblical wipe-out? The whole of the Middle East has now become a huge self fulfilling prophecy that cannot be overturned because so much is a stake for the credibility of our (sic) cherished beliefs, rich, fat and obstinate churches and wayward parliaments. Never mind the oil either.

Everybody wants a little certainty and justification in their lives and that’s what the Bible, when interpreted in this fundamental way gives. Good guys, bad guys, slanted eyed Arabs or dark skinned godless tribes from the edge of the world, they are sheep or they are goats. Sadly the people of Gaza are all in the wrong place at the wrong time and because Hamas is bad (which it is) and the vengeful God has said so, we need to fix it with our tanks and aircraft regardless of where that leads (and in the minds of many because it leads to certain Armageddon).

It helps to look for constructive humour from time to time but where can you find it these days?

Untitled 574th post

This is soothing and almost fun, click here.

A busy and entertaining weekend is coming to an end, lots of food and drink, family and friends around and surviving some dodgy weather and eccentric cat behaviour.

The placebo is working

Shopping for Placebos in the sticks.

The mind is greater than the body and it is possible to live for a thousand years and overcome sickness, old age and the vapours. My daily course of tablets will see me through, each one transformed in an effervescent sparkle into a healthy gulp of water and chemicals, thereafter the darkness will fall but a bright light will surely shine and you get in Tesco for £2.99.

Tonight it was a large Rogan Josh with heavy portions for one and all while listening to the Cult, Wishbone Ash and Ted Nugent. I may watch Grey's Anatomy at some point once the cats are fed, the sun goes down and the dishwasher cleans all the bright little pieces of cutlery. It is Friday after all.

Shopping in Aldi seems like a good idea until you pack your bags and realise you have all the right things with the wrongs labels and they may turn out to be the wrong things after all and you've missed bits from the yellow sticky list. Damn.

Secret CDs and UFOs in January

My favourite news story of the day has to be that of a UFO colliding with a wind turbine, I'm more inclined to think that a big boy did it, hit it with a stone and then ran away - but then aliens will be aliens.
Edinburgh's Secret CDs night isn't as you might think a pub night out for Midlothian cross dressers but is the recurrent showcase night for local original music run by Jim Igoe. Jim tries hard to put together a varied combination of acts and in the process allows them to hawk their CDs (on the night and via the web link in the blog title) and hopefully gain a wider audience.

We attended the first session of the year last night and enjoyed the easy going efforts of William Douglas, possibly the best undiscovered talent in the city. William pushes light humour with strong observation and getting the maximum melody from the minimum chords. He also has the look and charisma of a young Neil Young, hungry and edgy. His songs and the use of 7ths and repetitive sequences ending up in unexpected places are polished, the lyrics are childlike, fresh and just a bit dark and unsettling. I've watched him now for about five years and always expected a breakthrough to occur, maybe this year, maybe these songs.

Ali enjoyed a quartet known as "Lipsync for a Lullaby", a strange mix of cello, guitar, drum, bass and a loop pedal. I'd need to hear a bit more of them to form a final opinion as their live performance was a little disjointed and the high and floating vocals were lost in the lipsync and cacophony.

At home retro cooking returns with Poor Man's Noodles back on the menu.

Wild eyed cats strike curious etc.

Our cats either leaping in a peculiar way or stuck to the wall thanks to the special Velcro suits Ali knitted for their Christmas or possibly just doing something else.

I refuse to believe that January is the most depressing month of the year, how can it be when you can get such a buzz from tearing down decorations and hurling dead trees to the foot of your garden? It should be an Olympic sport really and we'd be damn good at it.

Actually the most depressing month of the year is September when your holiday credit card bill mugs you with a mixture of cash transactions, stupid impulse buys and currency conversions. Then again that happens most months. The biting January cold is quite hard to take mind you, we're on two scuttles a night for coal and a brace of the finest sticks plus a can of de-icer every three days and that's without roasting any chestnuts or making a bed properly. Thankfully going back to work has been a joy and the roads on which I travel shine like new pennies thanks to the black ice, Mr Cougars dim lights and the mysterious West Lothian pot holes.

P.S. Instant coffee is a strange substance, ever noticed how you start to dislike it's suddenly bitter taste once you get three quarters of the way down any jar regardless of the brand or type or the size of the jar. Hmmm.

Dinosaur eh?

The people who write or broadcast about history make it their own and interpret it on their terms, often very narrowly and with only very shallow insight. Apart from my general dissatisfaction with Scottish history not being taught properly in Scottish schools I can now add to that my annoyance at Prog Rock continually being rehashed via the Beeb and summed up as "truly" represented by the efforts of Yes, ELP and bloody Genesis. It's as if ten years of music and loads of bands have to be succinctly summed up in 40 minutes - so we'll use stock film and interviews to "capture" our version on the cheap. Punk and Glam rock hardly fare better with the same old protagonists getting credit for inventing whole genres of music that in fact evolved over time in a thousand different ways. The real life development of rock music isn't lived in sound bites and vox pops nor was it exclusively summed up by the Old Grey Whistle Test, the disastrous Isle of White Festival or any Reading Festival. I was there or there abouts as I recall.

Worse than the Katzenjammer Kids

Eyeless in Gaza

The (outside) world events as portrayed in the news often leave me puzzled and ultimately cynical and pessimistic. The repeated conflict in Gaza, the aggression and ludicrous self belief of the Israelis, the belligerent Hammas forces, the impotence of the Western powers and the intransigence and posturing of the Soviet Bloc (or whatever it calls itself). Meanwhile the Arabs and sunglass wearing followers of Islam bay like tethered hounds or fiddle for quick solutions as if they were looking for the keys to their Lexus and Cadillac SUVs. It seems like every man-jack is determined to fulfil all the garish Biblical prophecies in the book of Revelation or the Qur’an and then some. Lions, beasts, whores, harlots, lakes of fire, tattooed numbers, rockets and AK47s all line up to confuse and pick out an eternal story than runs and runs and doesn’t get better. Meanwhile innocent people suffer and the arms brokers make a few million more. Where’s the bit in the Bible about wiping the planet clean and starting again?

Having said that who wants a clean planet? If we got the chance to start again we’ve all be in fig leaves and fighting over the last banana before burning down the forest to create a chill-out zone and a clearing to plant out our carrots. Then we’d snare the last of the rabbits before turning them into warm slippers and furry hats then feeding the remains to the feral cats we were trying to domesticate. That is of course unless we change track, mind sets and beliefs and adopt the “Celebration” model for community life. Celebration in Florida is a (more than most) manufactured town and a master-planned community in Osceola County near Disney World. It was developed over time by The Walt Disney Company albeit their influence has decreased over the years. Perhaps the answer is out there, not in focused religions, acute political stances or blind tribalism but in manufactured, sanitized small communities that manage themselves and build big fences and feed the residents a nice big dose of Soma on a regular basis – in the water mains, drinks machines and chip shop vinegar. The application of this may just make the likes of Cumbernauld, Glenrothes or the Middle East acceptable places to stay and would ease the practical problems of government a thousand fold. Strange that the Israelis haven’t as yet demonstrably tapped into the Gazza water supplies.

Power is fine but useless without control. Benign control only comes via healthy fear or slavish love but fear is the most effective. Love can be too strong and is prone to turning, love also spawns idealism – itself a threat and possible destabilizing agent. So whoever controls the water controls the population – you don’t need their hearts and minds when you have a grip on their plumbing systems. Barack Obama and the Presbyterian Church know this very well and this will be one of their key subliminally managed strategies in the thousand year plan.

I probably won’t watch much of Celebrity Big Brother, firstly there are no celebrities in it that I admire, many of them I don’t even know and secondly like most reality shows the banality and repetition is now becoming tedious – the format is dead. A third reason to avoid it is the hooting Davina pulling faces and shoving her hair out of her eyes. January should find me staring into the screen savoring old Coen Bros. films or hijacking Ali’s discovery of Grey’s Anatomy or her boxed set of Bones – that seems better although Ulrika Jonsson and Tommy Sheridan are a possible nightmare love match from either Heaven or Valhalla. Still thinking of films what is the cultural importance and legacy of the movie Garden State?

I picked up a random radio question, “what makes you/me proud to be British (or Scottish)?” For once I can be positive about something and can readily summon up a list of answers in a rough top 10:

Kilts, tartans, whisky and clans (but not Robbie Burns).
Hills, lochs and the Forth Bridges.
Getting to the top of the M6, seeing the gloom ahead and knowing I’m nearly home.
The selective use of bagpipes but not as WMDs.
Fife, Edinburgh Castle, the Clyde Submarine Base, Leuchars and Lossiemouth.
Boiled eggs and soldiers, beef sausage, Irn Bru, pies and bridies.
The East Neuk and the rise and decline of herring fishing.
Pubs, chip shops and Oor Wullie as they used to be.
Scottish weddings and (in a dour and respectful way) funerals.
Chick Murray and the eclectic and shambolic world of Scottish comedy.

God again

Thanks to Paul for this test of belief, logic and the amplified mechanics of the wheels and cogs all spinning in the heavenly spheres that circle our pretty little empty heads: Battleground God.

MMIX

The lucky cats at Ocean Terminal welcome MMIX

2009 started frosty, clean and sharp but has now turned back to the customary wet, dripping and muddy mud-fest that we struggle through daily. I found this out whilst transporting the Christmas tree from it's triumphant stance in the lounge to a less than triumphant and much more undignified slow death on the bonfire site. Stripped naked and neglected and due to be burned during some future drunken barbecue it would make a fine central character in some poignant allegorical tale of spiritual decline. Today and in the coming days many such trees will find themselves on death-row, behind a hedge or wall or compressed into the brown wheelie bin you can never fill in winter. I also hoovered without breaking anything and celebrated with coffee and twenty minutes of Planet Rock's heaviest heavy metal muck from the past reminding me of the brief time I spent on duty as a youth. A state of mind and dishevelled dress that was not encouraged, recognised or understood by the authorities in Central Scotland in 1969.They did play "Little Wing" by JH which sounded fab, hard to believe it's over forty years old and still fresh as an Afghan Black five skinner rolled out on a gate fold sleeve.

So all the decorations are down and organised in boxes and colours and so on but they will still manage to be in a complete mess when we next unpack them, the 2008 Christmas Gremlins will be to blame.

Determined to beat the gloom I drove into the 'Ferry to see what was on, as expected shops were shut and barricaded, people walked dogs aimlessly and a heavy dull set of clouds were set up in the sky. To cheer myself up I browsed around the M&S shop in the petrol station checking the grim newspaper headlines, the ready meals and having a useful conversation with a cash machine. Home again for ironing, fish pie and farewell to Paul who was heading back to the great industrial wasteland and Irish refugee camp that is Scallie country.

Yesterday - Science Fiction, Ghostly Tales and Fairy Stories: Well that would be Ali's journey through the mind of Arthur C Clarke via his writings, Jonathan Creek's strange and badly scripted and plotted murderous bathroom and the Brothers Grimm with Heath Ledger and Matt Damon. I watched the first half hour of this thinking "what a complete mess" then my agile mind twigged that it must be the work of Terry Gilliam otherwise how could it so creative, chaotic and unfunny. In the end it's relentless stupidity won me over and as the story ended almost happily I was hungry for cheese, wine, home made bread and cough mixture. I slept like the Sleeping Beauty albeit with a molten throat.

She walks, talks and roller skates.

Stuff of the year

2008 then:

My old mum died at the age of 85 after a short illness.

My fourth grandchild, the lovely Imogen was born.

The family grew and grew (grandchildren's birthdays are great), some lost teeth and curly hair but they all like staying with us.

We had a cracking holiday in the Algarve and ate lots of sardines.

Emma's big birthday was celebrated with the best party of the year.

Mr Cougar joined our fleet of utility vehicles.

We went to New York and did everything.

Paul became Dr Paul.

We played at Perthshire Amber.

The garden was extensively remodelled and improved.

The kittens became cats but Syrus did not return from his extended wander.

I left OOTB after five years of involvement.

The credit crunch happened and still is - thank you GB.

People split up, grew apart and some came together.

Met up with and old friend I hadn't seen since 1977.

Erin and Guy moved into the best ever flat in Aberdeen.

I kept my head above water at work and a step nearer retiral.

Built three decent bonfires and set off a few fireworks.

Supported faithfully at various large and small football matches.

I flew on 36 different flights to get here.

Ali had a whirlwind trip to Oz and the far east.

Various health scares and traumas were dealt with successfully.

The Holyrood muddle may yet get us a new Forth crossing.

Recorded and mixed a few tracks, had ideas and have plenty more on the go.

Discovered BOFFER.

Ended up with £45.50 in my TSB current account.

Stuck with Facebook (and the rest of the on-line gibberish) despite my healthy dislike of it.

Cooked a full Christmas dinner (almost).

Blogged the usual load of tosh and almost got away with it.

The Fleet Foxes: easily the best band of the year, let's hope they don't die from over exposure now that they've made the Radio 2 playlists.

Walgreens medicines

Today I am doing my best to overcome the head cold that has been dogging me for a week. The small selection of American sourced Walgreen remedies I rely upon haven't dented it so far, I may have to seek specialist advice. The trouble is I get up feeling awful then slowly recover until early evening when the pain and the splutter return, my cold is a creature of the night. It thrives and grows in the dark and warm and then scurries away, complaining bitterly when daylight finally comes round but leaving nasty traces behind. I've also carried out brief sorties into it's territory using Beecham's products and some ASDA paracetamol, it's a war of stealth, patience and attrition now. I will get the better of it before the first rays of 2009's golden dawn or die trying.

Safe pair of hands

We're in that limbo period between the big seasonal days, stupid sales are on, between the world of work and real life and feasts and leftovers. The house is full of family and the dishwasher is on overtime and AC/DC are on the radio. So what's that to do with what I know today I didn't know yesterday?

I don't like Portishead (the band not the place).
Thomas and the Magic Railroad is an awful kids movie.
Potatoes when mashed can survive much maltreatment.
Fluff and dust neither rest nor sleep.
People are strange.
Wii snowboarding is not my best sport.
Crackers get worse with every Christmas.
Digital radio is fun.
There are issues with Word in ubuntu.
Blueberries are perfect with Muller corners.
I can beat the common cold (but it takes time).
We're getting a new second in the New Year thanks to the Atomic clock.

Merry Christmas (late)

Who can be bothered blogging about what they did over Christmas time? Not me - but happy Christmas.

Turkey

Now it's downhill all the way to Christmas Day and I'm home and ready to start preparations by reading about turkey cooking times, doing some fridge unpacking and plunging my hands into cold water to rescue drowning vegetables. I also now know that there are few available chestnuts in the world, holly doesn't seem to come with red berries anymore and though the cat is trying to pick up a pen with his muddy paws and can never succeed at this. It probably wont snow either but I never did expect it to.

Last night we ventured out to China China in the heart of the metropolis and ate mock Chinese food all hot and packaged into the atmosphere of a festive factory canteen. The kids enjoyed the experimentation and the ice cream machine and I didn't over eat due to a rampant sore throat and inner conflict about the whole "all you can eat" philosophy. I came home and drank two glasses of brandy, took some non prescription drugs and watched an episode of Smallville and today I do feel a little better.

Iconic image survives and thrives

Nice to see a little reminder of past glories, bonfires and parties whilst trawling around and across the wicked web. This locally produced image is the work of Mr CBQ (link left) as featured on his latest creation and some previous material. I can only say that whilst he lit the fire with care and appropriate caution (as I recall) I built it. The shadowy images in the smoke and vapour are of course some of my beloved offspring standing on top of an ancient wall.

Older people sleeping

Over soup and sandwiches today that eternal, compelling question once again arose, "Why is it difficult for old(er) to stay over at your/our/anybodies house?" I've just returned from a night of couch hoping in Aberdeen and thankfully it doesn't seem odd for a chap of my somewhat stretched out years (cat age of 254) to spend the night on the couch. In other parts of humankind it's unthinkable, as if older people have strange and elaborate sleep needs and rituals that can only satisfied in a familiar and controlled environment. Perhaps they sleep upside down like bats, or in coffins, or they need hourly injections of milky drinks and the use of free flushing toilets - all night. Whatever way I'm not there yet, perhaps a full and frank initiation is carried out a benchmark ages like 60 or 65. Of course Charles Dickens the inventor of Christmas, class wars, misery and pre-electronics radio always had to sleep in a cast iron north/south facing bed in order to benefit from the earth's magnetic forces washing over him - there may be more to this than I realise.

My phone's not here yet despite a series of long calls to the sub-continent, refusal by a telephone company to text delivery details, befuddlement at the anomalies in the post code database and me being "in" at the time of delivery (but the delivery company say I was "out"). Was I in or out? Do I really want to have to learn to work another phone and horde another box, charger and instructions in a drawer, all "just in case"?

Mr Cougar suffered a dislocated mirror thanks to an undocumented street incident in the area of North Anderson Drive, Aberdeen. The culprit may have been stumbling junkies, weary football fans after a day of delight in Inverness, dog walkers daydreaming, old people sleep walking or aliens looking for samples, I'll never know. Ford's designers didn't quite get that part of the project right and added in "snap-off" mirrors instead of folding ones (like every other car on the planet), Duh! I only noticed the damage when leaving the fair city so a quick pit stop repair was called for, thankfully it snapped back on and none of the electrics suffered.

Replacement mirror not required: This time.

Dude! Where's my phone?

I waited in all afternoon for the delivery man who was due to bring me a new and sexy Sony Eric Idle phone. Did he show up? Did he bizzzz!!! My patience has been stretched but I did concoct a decent curry and wrapped a few presents whilst wastefully standing by. Grrrr!

Vox Wyman bass

Blue tin of biscuits.

Vox bass, similar but not the same.

A visit from Fingers Farrell prompted the opening of the blue biscuit tin, the one that has been on top of the fridge for a month patiently waiting on Christmas, visitors or some kind of domestic emergency. I only ate three, not sure how many the others ate. The purpose of the visit was to collect an ailing Vox Bill Wyman bass dating back to around 1964. It was played regularly in the 70s and 80s (by me) and then after a holiday up north spent a few years forgotten and somewhat neglected in lofts and cupboards. The lacquer is cracking, both pick ups are broken (but original) and various parts are loose, mouldy, rusted or seized. A fine project for any guitar enthusiast and I trust Mr F to do a fine fixing job on it.

Electronic drums are fab. Not the wee Dr Rhythm type I mess with or fiddly machines but the big, full size kits that can sound like anything you like. Brilliant in fact, as I discovered today watching somebody who knew a thing or two working out on such a kit. Why did they not catch on?

Hallelujah 2

Rest in peace if you can, Facebook fans want you alive again and No1 to prove a point that seems important, suddenly. Popular culture and a huge machine argue for the poison X that marks the treasured No 1 spot - but it's only a song after all and they blow in the wind and fly like flags, nag memories, tear at edges and tell people things that others don't understand (or so the special listener thinks), it's only a song after all. Rest in peace.

Hallelujah

After two nights of wrapping Christmas presents I was starting to get ragged around the edges, in the mind, with the sticky tape and to make matters worse my knees were sore. I'd also realised about 24 hours after Ali had said it that as a general rule presents should all be wrapped in the same paper according to the recipient. Some how that plain piece of packing truth and logic has eluded me all these years. Like most men I thought you used the nearest, handiest sized bit of paper and then moved on to the next pattern. The resultant uncoordinated effect somehow enhancing the Christmas experience and bringing great joy and so on. Once this festive light penetrated my brain a new and well blended school of packaging emerged - apart from the stuff I did yesterday which does have a certain chaotic charm to it.

Chaos is common at Christmas, in shops, on the road, in peoples houses, on TV, in schools and workplaces. Everybody (apart from you non-Christmas weird folks) is contaminated by this festooning madness and desperate attempts to some how gather together a never ending list of gifts, quaint and inedible foods and random shiny objects. I succumbed to the lunacy many years ago and a masochistic and truculent way enjoy the whole thing: Christ bringing chaos to the world, none of what happens ever being quite what he must have planned or hoped for. It shows how far people can deviate from some simple ideas in just a millimetre of time - and heaven on earth is as likely as peace on earth.

Hallelujah is the Christmas number one, sung soulfully by a decent young singer from X-Factor but totally ruined in the sanitizing process. Shrek and dead boy Buckley gave it a new context and now it has truly been kicked into broadcasting oblivion in the worst way possible. Can you imagine Chav families squatting around their walnut stereo-gramme or head expanders and puzzling over what those lyrics have to do with Christmas? God knows it'll turn up on all the Chrissy compilations from next year on and along with Mad World just to add another layer of theological and unthinking chaos to the mix. Mr Cohen's pension fund will however get a nice little boost in January.

Everybody's happy, everybody's laughing.

Kryptonite and stars and cowboy boots

The celebrations are well underway, our pet starfish has been candy appled (as in apple the fruit) and metal flaked into Christmas and our best piece of green Kryptonite has new sparkly neighbours to join him by his seat of wisdom and solitude. Soon chestnuts will be roasting on the open fire etc. etc.
Today I ventured out into the shops, the idea being that I would buy a series of items that I had carefully listed about five minutes before I left the house. These items were all destined to be Christmas gifts for loads of people. Sure enough when I reached the shops stuff was everywhere (apart from Woolworth's, a shadow of it's former self and now looking more like down town West Beirut did in the 70s), so I had to start choosing things to buy. This didn't really take long as most things were available, all shiny and bright today, all new and desirable, glittering prizes to be stored under the transplanted tree until we can take the suspense no more and rip them to shreds.

I was taken by a sprightly old guy at one of the check outs, joking about being under 25 as he bought his wine in Livingstone's Walmart. He was old from the top of his head to his knees. Below the knee however he was young enough to be wearing silly cowboy boots like Bono or John Wayne - good for him, I want a pair.

Bankers eh? What are they like? Back in a previous life I endured long training sessions being taught about Materials Requirement Planning (MRPII) and when it came to inventory management (and you don't really want inventory but real life tells you need some) the banks were the boys we looked up to. Normal organisations just kept losing inventory (trucks, heavy metal, spare parts, pallets), it just drifted away, but this never happened with banks. They had the best storage and inventory control systems going because nobody ever lost track of money, while the dumbo dinosaur manufacturing industry just couldn't keep track of all their washers, springs and bolts. Well that was back in the 80s, seems that things are different now, we've no manufacturing left (MRP II too late!) and now it's the turn of the hedge funds and the banks that fuel them to have trouble getting the numbers to add up. Somehow another 50 Billion just sneaked away while they were sipping on cocktails and listening to Elton John. Bugger the lot, bring back MRP II, proper compliance checks and some decent stock visibility and control.

Non domestic non goddess

I like cooking if it's leading some where, in other words not just for me. I also like the squirrelesque tactic of preparing food and hording it until a nuclear winter comes along or rampant inflation makes us have to eat nettles and thistles as in days of yore. Today I made a vat of soup (15% only) and a dumpster sized pasta bake even though I wasn't hungry or particularly bored - now I await Ali and my daughter and son in law to arrive, they'll not really fancy any of that but just have a nice cup of tea and Tesco cookie.

Turkeys at Christmas. Firstly Christmas is far too long a festival whatever it is supposed to be about, it should last a weekend but it, like an unwelcome house guest lasts a whole season. This is not a sustainable situation, soon there will be only two seasons, irrespective of weather or tides and they will consist of a short wet summer and a long cold Festive Season (where autumn, winter and spring used to be). So I ventured out to order a turkey at our local farm shop only to be told they'd just one left and it was the size of a bungalow and would cost a week's wages and it'd feed West Lothian and it wasn't quite dead yet.

On paper and in my head it all seemed so simple, perhaps a few shopaholic locals confused the barn for a rural branch of Woolworths and absconded with all the decent sized birds. Now that I think about it they may have done me a big favour, a nice slab of freshly machine gunned venison might be the perfect Christmas roast to share with the family.

Not hitting bottles

The world is clear, cold, frosty and diamond white. I am seeing clearly through the mist and star light thanks to an uncompromising diet of fruit corner yogurts, big Kit Kats, microwave foodstuff and the occasional fresh vegetable coupled with my flat on back sleeping technique and a lot of running up and down staircases.

The days leading up to what some in the west describe as the Christmas season has so far been almost healthy and pretty much alcohol free - since Sunday. Not sure I feel any better overall, probably because as you get older some body functions become odd and less efficient. Shaving cuts are generally disastrous events requiring the pressure of Desperate Dan type thumbs on the leaking chin to stem the flow. I could illustrate other related things by describing staccato piccolo playing or the uneven flow of cat food from a squeezed sachet (but I won't bother) - or the gases produced by a Greek Pizza oven left on overnight and the hissing breath of a black Prussian locomotive steaming out of Belgrade Station.

One nice side effect is that I can no longer eat three mincemeat pies in a row, drink a whole pint of milk or scoff a packet of Jacobs Fruit Clubs. In some strange way I am now at peace with (very small parts of) the world and comfortable in my own wrinkly skin.

Did you notice that the girl in the photo also has two mouths?

This is not how I am

Listening to Ross Harper from the Scottish Green Party would make anyone want to run out and buy a diesel helicopter (see Pigs from Uranus - Oz circa 1970). He spluttered and stammered through a radio interview this morning whilst watching the traffic cross the Forth Road Bridge. His comments on the plans for a new road bridge included the classic lines, "I'd spend shed loads on money on ferries from Kirkcaldy and Burntisland" and "I've been here for five minutes and I haven't seen a single bus cross the bridge". As a regular road user crossing the bridge at the same time I could see three heading south, and blue lighted ambulance stuck in traffic and a traffic jam backed up to Masterton but he doesn't think we need a new bridge. His other sage like advice was based around investing more money in the stupid, creaking and unpopular public transport systems (that have plainly failed) which he somehow expects to run across two bridges that are approaching the ends of their working lives, both will ailing infrastructure.

As for the Liberal Democrats, I've just experienced the consequences of their ill informed rantings in a very personal way. With no idea about factual validity or the consequences of their actions these loose cannons continually blow meaningless but annoying smoke up their own arses and into decent peoples faces via a media system that can't differentiate between actual news and wispy opinions. Thank you very much.

On a more constructive political note I quite like "Wee Eck" Salmond's choice of Christmas card this year, an oil painting of a pillar box red trawler parked in MacDuff harbour. Bully boy Salmond's taste is ok with me, however he may well have missed the ironic twist of displaying a sea fairing image less to do with fishing and more to do with money laundering, drug and cigarette smuggling and the passage of illegal immigrants. I suppose since the EU screwed the fishermen they've not a lot of choice. I'm ready and waiting for my card to be delivered any day.

Wooly jumper at the end of the world

Came home today to find that the cold was still as cold. After a long journey from the Midlands of England's Midlands I resorted to putting on my biggest, woolliest jumper (made by Incas and bought in NYC for $10) and going straight back out into the cold. I had an appointment.

The islands at the end of the world

It's always tricky to try to name your all time favourite place, there's always a paragraph in the Sunday papers where people talk about Dunkeld or Princess Street or some blasted heath 100 yards from a concrete time share complex. So I asked myself where mine might be and there are of course numerous contenders, all of which reflect different aspects of my 53 year penal term spent vainly getting used to bits of Scotland and it's quirky geography. So in a moment of abstraction and sausage sandwich chewing I remembered where it was and most likely always will be.

In fact it's very easy to find, get along to the east end of Cellardyke in Fife, past the old drying greens and the remains of the outdoor pool and look out towards Caplie Caves along the coast. Some where out there the sky and sea and land meet and when I first saw that spot - as a very small boy, it seemed to me like the edge of the world (and possibly the end). I knew nothing then of maps or the Fife Coastal Path or the North Sea or Norway, I just knew that over there was a magical place some how way beyond my understanding, a big world defined by a hazy grey line that was somewhere and nowhere. Strange, probably dangerous and always unknowable, if I didn't know myself a little better I'd say it's almost as close to a proper spiritual experience as I've ever come - but in a geographical way.

I still think of it that way, I ignore the fact that Crail is nearby, that Kilrenny is over the hill, that the Firth of Forth turns into the North Sea and that the world is (most likely) world shaped. When you get a bit older, a look through your own eyes, as they once were, is rather refreshing and often a lot better than the current view. I need to go back there one day and stare out to see...

Anstruther lifeboat leaving harbour 1955, my uncle Alex Keay is pulling on the rope in the bow. The original can be seen in my daughter's bathroom in Aberdeen (things get passed around a bit in this family).

Strange sweets from the edge of the world

Not easy to cover these guys adequately, even on a good day.

Some Friday afternoons have a wild and unscripted feel to them: two hours to kill before I pick up the kids from school, so much time and so little high quality activity to fit in. The musical background from 2 - 4 tends to be Tom Morton on Radio Scotland. The car parks vary between Asda, Comet and Currys and the food shopping is usually completed in 20 mins tops with a quick browse over laptops and other things not really needed. It is also possible to obtain coffee in a sweet polystyrene cup and so whittle away at the time. Anyway the mighty Tom had a covers show today (well and hour's worth) and as ever a personal list is required - the (usual) best, predictable covers ever etc. and in no particular order:

Umbrella - The Manic Street Preachers
Hurt - Johnny Cash
Time of your life - Glen Campbell
All along the Watchtower - Jimi Hendrix Experience (on all lists, always)
Ziggy Stardust - Bauhaus
Valerie - Mark Ronson
Super Trouper - Camera Obscura
Careless Whisper - Willie Nelson
Superstition - Jeff Beck
Mr Tambourine Man - The Byrds

That should do it for this week.

Strange sweets - we're still eating them now the lemon pie is over, the chocolate frogs have gone and the jelly beans are proving to be surprisingly tasty.