Blackcurrant way

For some reason we had a chicken salad for breakfast today and then another one at tea time. Keeps things in food preperation simple I suppose, freeing us up for more manual labour in the wilderness. In between the salads I accidentally smashed two bottles of wine, moved a bonfire and rebuilt it, cut the grass, fixed the fence and generally pottered and drank beer in the sun. Meanwhile Ali tackled the hedge, many times. The hedge, a sizable beast finally capitulated and is now smaller than it was prior to the first chicken salad. The blackcurrants, featured in the photo were left untouched, their day of reckoning dawns tomorrow.

Act of God

An act of god or a quirk of nature? The image of the Virgin Mary appears on a fallen tree in a Limerick churchyard in Eire. People travel miles to queue up and spend a few moments staring into the gnarled stump to see if within the faint and curving bark rings the familiar construction of an image - an embedded cartoon icon created by man and not god, might be seen. “It gives us hope in these troubled times” says a local shopkeeper. Small frames, flowers and rosary beads are placed at the base of the wooden cairn and the faithful cross themselves and bow as they feel the touch of something they see as supernatural. It would be easy to adopt a truly mocking tone when discussing this kind of event and the almost primitive reverential behaviours that it produces. Having seen Mary suddenly appear on burnt toast, in muffins, in animal fur patterns and on the side of caves in moss and water stains it is remarkable that people never seem to get tired or cynical when yet another image appears.

It is hope, hope of a weird and unsubstantial kind (?) and one that ultimately leads only to a search for more snippets and glimpses of a similar type. No one will get into heaven or out of hell thanks to seeing these images, nobody will be healed or filled, there will be no still small voice or burning bush guidance. They just get the lottery ticket or scratch card fix that lasts a few moments perhaps at best stretching into days, that keeps a far away bright light shining in the cold, that holds the edges of your attention in place and distracts from the mundane, the dreary and the ordinary. The fragile hope of a delicate touch and the shimmering shadow of something tangible reaching back into the ordinary from the great and unknown golden age.

There are a million religions and million views, a million believers and million heretics - all at war with one another and the world either with words, the media or bullets as they proclaim and defend things that are at best vague and open to wide and ruthless interpretation. A disproportionate amount of human time and energy is spent in highlighting differences and celebrating questionable mythologies which ravage like cancer and then distort life in it‘s most secret and personal places. We struggle when we need not, we differ on trivia when we could agree over so much but if, whatever you believe, the finger of some unnamed Old Testament God, the maker of Abraham and Jacob did inscribe the hopelessly romanticized image of a misunderstood woman into an Irish tree - who in what religious place should really be surprised? Whatever gets you through your life…

Another day another barcode

I didn't really want it and I don't really need and it costs a whopping $20 but it gets you digital distribution rights across (selected areas, subject to terms and conditions) the planet and in the current climate it'll have paid for itself by 2015. I love the music business, just a little more than I love politics and religion.

The kind lady next door gave us a huge bowl of strawberries, it took me an hour clean them and it'll take Ali and I a week to eat them. I feel some smoothie recipes and cocktail variations coming on.

The homepage on Wikipedia had a bizarre little tale to tell today...some things you never knew.

Blatant product placement

We went to Transformers II last night, fun, stupid, noisy, overlong and entertaining of course and chock full of Gung Ho cliches, stereotypes and what clearly is a desperate attempt to revive the failing fortunes of GM by funking up various Chevrolets as robots in disguise. It makes you just want to rush down to your local GM dealer, do the scrappage thing and drive away in new Corsa - maybe not.

Apart from the taser gag in the Smithsonian Institute incident the best laugh is when the Jordanian Army are called in to help the beleaguered American troops pinned down in a daft firefight. The Jordanians duly arrive in two helicopters, crash right away and the Americans pinch their radios and equipment. As they are doing this whilst laying waste to a chunk of Egypt it's hard not to see it as simple reflection of recent US foreign policy, was it all intentional? Ho Hum.

The land that weedkiller forgot

A visit from the bush whackers has laid bare the remains of some pagan temple or other, probably dating back to at least the early fifties. In other words the pre-rock n' roll ages. We're still taking stock over the possible implications and value of this find and quite naturally planning to keep the horde of golden trinkets that was also discovered. As a safety measure a local priest has been called in to carry out a brief exorcism just in case there is also a Native American burial ground lurking. The police were however less forthcoming, clearly wishing to establish some facts, but there is a chance that some white caravans and a lot of yellow and black tape may be needed at some point. I'm keeping busy watering the hanging baskets, obliterating the carved runes and curses and rearranging the iron age alter into a more practical barbecue.

Potato crop detail

Despite my best efforts to strim them back the potatoes still flourish.

A busy few days have passed, no real time for this blogging nonsense or creative (or destructive) writing, the garden must be done on those days when the weather holds, we plough the fields and scatter and from time to time stagger. Over the next few days I'll post the pics of the great and unexpected archaeological discovery we've made at the foot of our garden: the base of a Roman villa? The floor of some iron Age fort? The privy of William Wallace and his good lady sad eyed Sadie MacMuck frae the lowlands? Possibly one, possibly all.

Sunday's family breakfast mostly consisted of conversations exploring the way that smoothies are labeled and how, despite the mix of fruit and the relative blend ratio used the soft and humble strawberry always rises to the top. In a straight fight between fruit it seems that the strawberry would always win, even when squaring up to hardy bananas, chiseled and firm apples and the rolling bulk of an out of control watermelon. So much for the theory of evolution and the survival of the squashiest.

Moving on swiftly tonight, new 18 track CD coming together (more German made tracks to do separately) , the maze that is the US visa system has been explored (nice touch having to download 76 pages of baloney before you fill in a single form) and I made some kind of pasta bake for the bairn's tea tomorrow. Whoosh.

Appetite suppressant

Appetite suppressants - a few useful tips and hints:

Strangely enough taking time to do things, that works.
Thinking about Micheal Jackson.
Coffee.
Rain.
A brisk walk.
Pritt sticking bits of paper to other bits of paper.
Good quality sleep.
Shredded wheat.
Daydreaming.
Facebook quizzes.
Staring into space - both near and far, not inner.
Observing the antics of cats.
Doing a spot of hand washing (not to be confused with ritualistic handwashing).
Green bananas.
Cleaning out the loo.
Think about the third world.
Removing fluff from behind radiators.
Driving long distances whilst listening to music.

Of course none of this matters, middle aged spread and a certain physical elasticity is nothing to be either afraid or ashamed about so I'll have some sausages, eventually.

Muddy puddles.

Milky Way

Another piece of weird science has led me into making a rare discovery about the powers and properties of the ubiquitous Milky Way. I now know that like real milk (as hinted in the name) in a chocolate Milky Way can actually turn sour on you and in so doing develop a rather unpleasant taste. I found this out by leaving a double version in my bag for a fortnight and unthinkingly subjecting it to extremes of heat in various cars, airports, offices and hotel rooms - not much cold has been involved due to some current glitch with the seasons. On rediscovering it today I ate it (both bits), it was awful but in the interests of pushing the boundaries of food science and fixing hunger I persisted. No noticeable after effects, just a strange urge to write more drivel about Milky Ways. The circle is squared.

To whom it may concern: "Thank you for those 11.7 minutes of your insignificant life and the 6 page views, your IP address is in the cosmos and your ignorant comments are always welcome in my dustbin."

Facebook Quiz

Sometimes you just succumb to things slowly, by osmosis you are taken over only to find yourself in some new and strange place, a different and possibly unrecognised person with a head full of trivial answers and questions. Such is the numbing power of that modern day hazard and phenomenon known as the Facebook Quiz. This in time generates it's own syndrome, Facebook Quiz Syndrome or FQS, a mind gobbling state that is hard to get out of but easy to get into.

It all starts of simply enough as you sample "How well do you know the 60s?", "Which Disney Princess are you?", "How much of an Elvis fan are you?" or "You know you're from Dunfermline when...". Then the screw turns and it all gets pointed and personal: "Which philosopher are you most like?", "How clinically depressed are you?", "What signs tell you that you're in denial about living out of a laundry basket?" and "When did you last check out the back of the freezer for something worth eating?"

The next stage is the worst (or best): "How well do you really know me?", "How good are your memories of the traumatic events of your/my childhood?", "What do you know about the things that no one else could possibly know because they are made up but I'm asking about them anyway?", "What are the many ways that I could blackmail you if I chose to?", and my favourite, "What I know about the places in Kenya I claim to have visited despite the fact that I've never been further south than Berwick upon Tweed?" You've got to embrace the progress before it embraces you with it's unforgiving stranglehold. Next quiz, "How much (if any) of your blogging is actually for real and what has that to do with my golfing handicap?"

i strim

Shakin' all over after an hours worth of garden strimming, good for all the joints and vital organs, causing loose fat to wobble, sinews to strain and the ears to retain a strange and slightly musical ringing tone. The process was stopped by a welcome downpour and regular sips of lager shandy. Looking out onto the rain soaked lawn and strimmed paths does provide an decent sense of self satisfaction which is helping to numb the pain.

No sign of a headless mouse today (from the feline delivery service), there was however a mouseless head staring blankly up from the path. It did rather remind me of the Flight of the Conchords skit about the man whose "body was cut off from his dick so that only his dick remained".

Despite it being Tuesday, Saturday's reheated pizza went down quite well if becoming a little extra oily and chewy from within the microwave. Breaking the rules of food hygiene, eating dark deserts containing raw eggs and rescuing drowning flies from an icy glass of beer is all in an evenings work around here, now I must retire. When there is no one around to cater for, impress or worry about our eating rules and regulations are relaxed and comfortably slack.

Cat diary

Excerpts from a Cat's Daily Diary...Day 103 of my captivity...

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.

In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet.I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.The dog next door receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell in the coal cellar , so he is safe. For now ..

(reproduced from Tom Morton's blog)

Weekend

Not my car thankfully but a Sunday morning incident rather close to home, just outside of Newton (or the "New Town" as described by locals), just proves that you can't take your eyes away from the road to light a fag or suck a melted Mars Bar for too long. I suspect this guy was doing the right thing by avoiding a trick cyclist or perhaps a flock of seagulls feasting on burger bag leftovers and in so doing came a cropper.

So a busy weekend is passing: Footballing trophy night on Friday in Fife in the company of Stevie Crawford and the "Swifts" management team. A good time had by all but little reward for me in the raffles despite a significant financial outlay. Saturday was a big birthday for the twins, spent at Laser Quest in Edinburgh and various other respectable locations, a big family and friends turnout made it one of the best birthdays in recent years. Thanks to all participants for a day/evening to remember. Sunday was/is mostly wet and spent in the rain at Silverknowes Golf Club watching more football in the pouring rain and appreciating the ancient Chinese art of "patience is a bloody virtue" both as a spectator and a user and victim of temporary traffic lights. TV mostly consisted of looking for my No2 son amidst the Glastonbury highlights (not too many of them and no reported sightings of a young Barclay or his entourage).

Lesson's learned: always read the label, particularly if it says "dry clean only", it may then be necessary to stretch or re cut the item according to the original template. Best avoided if any alcohol has been consumed.

Unexpected

I'm with Tom Morton on this one, MJ's death really does leave you not quite sure what to feel, it is as if some cartoon character had died, some creature that never was quite here but never away has faded out into an even more mysterious state. This made up and acute celebrity persona and performing non person co-existing together but living and dying at the same time. I see photographs of him and I'm not sure still what he even looked (looks?) like. It's only a matter of time I suppose until he's spotted in Las Vegas or Dunfermline or seen travelling on a bus heading into Nepal. Whatever happens the vast fortune he made and lost was nothing to do with me, I never purchased a single song but I guess I still know them all because of the abstract common experience soundtrack that they remain a part of. A tough one for the true fans but count me out as a mourner.

TV Wasteland

A quick glance over the TV schedules is enough to tell me that I’m now out of step with a large chunk of the rest of the British public. Unending programmes about food or fixing houses, meaningless and contrived sporting events, unfunny comedy and bleak soaps and reality shows that are increasingly unreal. I imagine other hard working people coming home, putting their feet up with a nice cuppa and then being comatosed by this peak viewing time pile of manufactured shite. Is this what we are here to do? Most TV now serve to only add more petrol to inner bonfire of unexpressed anger that any intelligent person must feel when presented with this amount of turgid and patronising material. The good news is that you don’t have to take it or watch it , you can go out and dig the garden, as soon as the rain stops. Then come back in and twiddle with the strange delights recorded on the digi box some time after the sun has set (or write a few songs, a novel or iron that pile of shirts that never gets smaller). Come back LOST and save the schedules..

My electric bath

Working away from home on the west side for a couple of days but now home and clothed and in my right mind, temporarily. My hotel contained an almost sophisticated but wholly infuriating plumbing system. Labelled as "eco" in numerous places (and anything but), the taps worked by push button and the bath and shower had a large control panel. Of course pressing buttons simply results in a timed flow of water that then stops and so you press again and again, wasting water and becoming more annoyed at the same time. The bath just fills itself but only in a choice of three temperatures, the shower veered alarmingly from cold to hot for no apparent reason. It was a bit like getting washed within some Woody Allen script set in a push button future. By the comments made by some of the other guests I'm sure the management regret splashing out a futuristic set up that's already out of date. Nice duck and lentil salad though.

What do you get if you mix 6 pints of IPA, a gin and tonic, duck salad (as above) and maple syrup ice cream? A good nights sleep, waking bright eyed and bewildered in the morning and a misplaced mobile phone.

Chasing cars

I was exploring the word squish , sadly a word without any synonyms. A cul-de-sac and a dead end, a word that takes you nowhere other into a graphic, fruity place were things have a slightly unpleasant consistence. Bluebottles fly around it, fluid oozes from it or seems to even before the squishing has taken place. It’s a shame for squish but then without it grapes could hardly be turned into wine or eggs scrambled and how would we survive on a basic diet that excluded these fine and civilised things?

Edinburgh

Edinburgh has a new queer concept of itself
Flying like some ragged saltire
Peeking through potholes and road works
Into a mirror held by tourists
And lovers of art on a budget
Holding onto our grand dreams of parliaments and trams
Wide stone avenues and horseless carriages
People behaving in ways they never did
Before fawning over royals and burning witches
Our heartless ceremony and religious ignorance.
It makes for disillusion
And the crashing of the banks
Some chronic fatigue in the search for peace
As our acted out dream is a sepia coloured thing
Because we still behave as if the Empire never ended
Or struck back.

Odd question of the day “How’s everything in that sandwich?”, overheard in the chilled environs of Birmingham Airport the other day.

Life on the M40. There is no doubt that this motorway is cursed, particularly between junctions 9 and 11, something to do with the site of an ancient Anglo Saxon burial ground being driven over by half wits.

May the Parcel Force be with you

The green face of Wabi Sabi

Chronicles of wasted time: It should all be so simple, order an item on line, have it delivered, unwrap it and use it. Sadly the mighty Parcel Force gave me the not unfamiliar run around today as I tried in vain to locate a lost and lonely package, without the advantage of the vital postcard that the man in the van should leave. After two hours of fruitless web searching, phone calls and looking in all the nooks and bins in the area I located the parcel. Naturally it was in the place I'd first looked - the Post Office. " Human error" said the apologetic clerk and I believed him.

This unexpected success (I had all but given up on the lost package) spurred me on into more random path laying, mole hill removal, potato tending and trampoline maintenance work. All good for the soul but bad for the back, the trousers and the fingernails. Is there any activity that somehow retains the fine balance between the body and the strange, misty, cloudy bit that we imagine lives in the pink goo that we call the brain? "Somewhere in there between the soul and the soft machine" as a wise man once said.

We have all been here before

The yellow face of wabi sabi.

A pleasant enough day has passed with numerous hog roast references, the decline of East Germany and pasta preparation for some future meal being fired up and laid out. I can't recall a better or more striking post thunder pre-rain evening and what with my nursing constant thoughts of the need to bolster up the potatoes with banks of mole processed earth I'm quite exhausted and unusually bewildered. A spot of washing up or feeding cats may clear the boggled mind.

It was with some relief I screwed down Mr Les Paul's silver machines to some mysterious D tuning and fiddled on said guitar using a Leslie effect and a small piece of reverb, if only I'd recorded the outcome but that tragic piece of musical denial is a vital part of the creative process we must go through as Wabi Sabi is slowly born. In the mean time I curse these long sentences and decide to get back to normal, now bored with the constant rerunning of these deja vu experiences.

Legislation v education

Today I have an angry face.

Thank you to the media and the medical profession for pointing out the mind numbingly obvious to us all, smoking in cars is bad for children and possibly any other passengers and of course the driver who gets a double dose of blue fug. The answer to solving the problem of irresponsible driving smokers is of course to make it illegal. Forget trying to simply engage with the great UK public and remind them of the plain facts and educate them, no, that would assume a certain level of maturity and responsibility existed. Just make it illegal like everything else and give the polis the problem of sorting it out and so they can add that to the long list of things you shouldn't do whilst driving:

Make a mobile phone call without using a hands free kit.
Drink a bottle of lager or anything else.
Sup a Costa Coffee latte that's been placed in one of your many handy cup holders.
Unwrap and eat a Mars bar or an Extra Strong Mint.
Offer Gillian Tailforth a lift home.
Fiddle with the radio or try to put on a CD.
Listen to an ipod.
Apply make up, deodorant or brush your hair.
Brush a passengers hair.
Argue with the Satnav.
Throw your shoes at a fox.
Play drum solos on the steering wheel.
Take your jumper or any other article of clothing off.
Wear stiletto heels.
Roll a 5 skin spliff on a CD cover.
Leer at girls and sound your horn in an aggressive manner.
Read a map or a copy of the Glasgow Herald.
Eat the roasting fish supper that is now sat in your lap.
Spit out of the window.
Get a sticky sweetie out of the glove box.
Put your arm around your adoring partner.
Admire your cool new sunglasses in the rear view mirror.
Attempt difficult crossword puzzles.
Use a she-wee.
Try to listen for the source of that annoying mystery sound.
Shout at the numerous fighting bairns in the back seat.
Try to figure out the wiper delay gadget.
Accelerate to the background music of "The Chain".
Listen to the patronising tosh that passes for news on Radio Scotland.

I accidently...

...googled myself only to find an exact replica of me sandwiched in between Count Spamborskie and Lord Davie Watson in 2006ish and can those boys play? Hell Yeah! This must have been back in the days when I oozed charisma, presence, wit and various natural oils. I have since taken the advice of counselors, many times and returned to being a wallflower and bar propper upper... I think Mr Scott Renton should be credited with the photo, albeit he was using some strange stage name or alternate alias at the time.

Sorry about the rather gloomy nature of yesterday's post but there were some compelling and unique factors and events that brought it about, we do what we do.

Loss

Every so often an experience comes along that is so acute and so poignant that it rocks you to the point where you fully remember how good and how precious it is to be alive and to be connected to family and friends. Today has been like that, tragic and precious and in the widest sense alive and responsible. We have to take responsibility, we have to speak and we have to act. It can be very difficult and it can be painful but ultimately it is rewarding. Many people make a career and lifestyle choice out of avoiding adult responsibility, they may see that as an easy route but ultimately they are the losers. Life is a wild and rough ride and you need to get on board and live it. Now if 6 turned out to be 9...

Gathering clouds

The children and grandchildren have moved on once they'd eaten us quite pleasantly out of house, home and freezer. The day today began at 6.20 and we're still nicely stuck there. Things moved on and we were keeping busy path building, mole denying and plant planting then the rush of the wind that brings the storm passed across the garden, through the shrubs, across the nettles and weeds, in between the potatoes and the thistles and over the gravel. You can't fight the weather so you find better things to do involving lager and 7-Up. Then you fry some prawns in onions and exotic garlic mushrooms, add rice and salad tossed in balsamic vinegar and drink a bottle of wine, works for me. This is followed by (amongst other things) reading the Sunday Times and then Scotland on Sunday. By now I'm happy that it's been a pleasant but exhausting day, the Bones DVD is running somewhere outside my conscious mind bringing the term "tramp stamp" into my head. Time for more wine/chocolate/on-line shopping/Bones.

Hardly one o'clock

After an unusually early start to the day I'm back from the annual sponsored walk for football team funds, feet on fire and about to do the same with the BBQ. Then again rain threatens but it always does, more cooling beer is required. It may be a long weekend, I'm on the chill out music channel and it's hardly one o'clock.

No newspaper, no TV, no lottery tickets, no rest for the wicked and no peace for the parent.

Unfortunate event v nice event

Unfortunate

It's the old story, sometimes you fall flat out on your back, other times you land flat on your face. Early this morning I devised what I considered to be a foolproof plan to prevent our cats from pestering the swifts that are currently nesting in the coal cellar. Normally the cellar door is left wide open allowing easy access to birds, cats and the occasional toad. I thought that if I partly closed the door and blocked the lower part with some timber the birds could fly into the gap left at the top and the cats would be unable to get in. I did this using bits of an old pallet and some luggage ties, the end result looked impregnable.

On coming home tonight I discovered a dead swift in the downstairs toilet (and an unrelated dead mouse on the rug), my plan had failed. Clearly the restricted door gap now gave the cats a much better advantage, as the bird now had a smaller gap to get through, how come I didn't see that one coming? Outwitted by a cat.

Nice

Short but sweet musical interlude last night at the Ark on Waterloo Place. Miss Fi did a spot in the sunlit upper room showcasing the mighty range of her song writing skills, guitar styles and voices most effectively. Mr Norman Lamont ably assisted on bass and backing vocals. We had to leave early so missed the rest of the package but it was nice to get out to (what I think was) the first OOTB thing I've been to in ages. Edinburgh chanteuse Rosie Bell shared our table and we'd a nice wee chat about things in general, politics, music and her blog: for Rosie Bell click here.

What do you get?

What do you get for £80 million?

You can hear the relief in the voices of the newscasters as they declare that the Swine Flu Pandemic is now officially here. Following the panic in the streets of Mexico City, Dunoon and Greenock the media have got their wish and will be able spread misinformation and artificial hysteria. Keep the gullible public tense and afraid with some new plague, take the spotlight away from bungling politicians, social decay and the real health and lifestyle issues that kill thousands slowly and without dignity on a regular basis.

I had to laugh at an news segment on home education, when asked what he liked about being educated at home a bright eyed and grinning 10 year old said, "freedom, I can do maths if I like or maybe not at all". Congratulations smug parents, that's some great preparation for the outside world, I can't wait to see how he'll do in a MacDonald's drive-thru or in your local Kwik-Fit branch. Maybe he'll become an airline pilot, that attitude would go down very well with Flybe or Fly Maybe Not. Most likely he'll choose a career in politics.

More than this

Who could resist a new, tall and yellow 30cc 2-stroke petrol strimmer? Not me and it arrived today despite the courier being unable to find our house or the burger van or probably the Forth Bridge. It's still in the box but at any moment, when the rain stops I'll be firing it up and doing some serious damage firstly to the garden and then possibly myself. Never drink whilst operating power tools and always wear the correct protective clothing. I wonder if it'll work on the moles?

As we've bought a lot of eggs recently due some uncoordinated shopping trips eggs are very much on the menu. Boiled, scrambled and occasionally fried. It was interesting to hear the various family theories on egg boiling techniques and what the right method may be, if there is such a thing. I favour 3.30 minutes and boiled from a standstill, it is the habit of a life time and I cannot break it. The trick is to time the soldiers toasting (and their spreading and cutting) in that small amount of time and if the phone rings during the process don't answer it.

"More than this, there's got to be", Roxy Music, from the album Savalon.

Great Inventions

I've been commissioned by a major Polish and international accountancy firm (working in the retail sector)to write a short paper on the greatest inventions of the last 2000 years. What has man achieved in this time, what is the most worthy or influential or useful thing that has changed the lives and destinies of the people on this planet. Would it be nuclear fission, the computer, the internal combustion engine, vaccinations and health care, flight, concrete or television?

Well it could be any of those and a hundred others, some folks are really good at having ideas and turning them into reality, not many of them but they are out there. Anyway tonight my vote goes for the original, non-diet, non lemon, not modified Coca-Cola. It is the best thing at the right time, at the right place on the right couch with the right person. House and Smallville are on TV however (?).

Savlon and the death of Socialism

Blatant product placement.

A red sore bit on the big toe brought about by mysterious rubbing in the shoe and sock department demands simple and effective treatment with the application of a quick pinkies' worth of cooling Savlon lotion. A strange but at these times welcome product that no bathroom cabinet should be without. The other thing of course is the simple use of nature's sweet bounty and the greatest of all the world's healers, time and open toed sandals.

There isn't much difference between the BNP and the SNP, both are led by annoying, mouthy twats and both end in NP, and are biased and clueless, how sinister is that? Now they've both contrived along with the Home Counties hamsters that follow UKIP to destroy the socialist movement in Britain. Maybe I've got that wrong, maybe I'm simply blinded by the voters apathy finding some new and articulate expression in avoiding the polls and the fact that Labour politicians either look like Ron Weasley's mum, Biffo the Bear or Robert Peston and are a sad bunch of greedy, whinging, professional failures. We get what we deserve I suppose but I don't quite know what we did to let the S/BNP in, other than create a vacuum of smugness and self righteousness - all in the name of "doing the best we can because there is still much work to be done". Poor Gordon's never going to net a best seller with that line of rhetoric.

Lucky Font size? 22 down to 11 or 14 on a good day, I blame the bugs.

More daily mole photos

"Finding the hidden mole"

Heading away into the distance but not quite out of the garden a scheme of molehills. Despite theinclement weather and the use of distorted guitars the mole wars are both hotting up and somehow cooling down. The damage is not insignificant but a useful consequence is that we now have a whole load of extra fine, clean and sifted soil with which we can bathe the young potatoes now bursting forth in the rabbit-proof compound. It may be, that for a short spell the sensible thing would be to declare some form of truce with the moles and take full advantage of the situation. Man and mole in partnership, the way that some religions see things happening in heaven I suppose with lions laying down with lambs and ferrets fiddling about with foxes and so on.

Some of the negative side of my attempts to copy the Beck bolero-ing thing.

For no good reason I'm coming around to appreciating Jeff Beck more than I ever did in the last thirty years. For ages I've dismissed him as some Spinal Tap ner' do well but recently I've changed my view and decided he really is a creeping genius. His peculiar tonal range, sporadic bursts, use of weird scales and inventive phrasing is wandering across my consciousness and creating in me a strange new and totally unrealistic set of ambitions. I want to play like Jeff but not with that haircut, it stops well before that. Of course the fact that my fingers are like a pack of Walls' best porkers and that my music brain is stuck firmly in the key of E and one big fat blues scale pattern isn't going to help much but any frog can dream (?).

Worst wish

I take no pleasure in watching the Labour party currently eating itself in a panicked and brain-dead fashion. These events mark some kind of end but not the finish, this unfortunate government will stumble on for another year because it hasn't the heart or the vision to do anything else. That's the trouble with power, once it's gained it cannot easily be let go of and so now the mediocre remnant left in place can't stomach the thought of facing up to reality and going back to the nation for refreshment and a new start.

The moles in our garden are a tough bunch, they are resisting our sonic bombardment and somewhat like the Labour Party are fighting on from their small corner. Their show of defiance is oddly admirable if irritating and I'm wondering if anyone has ever been driven from their home by moles or if there is some natural predator we should be calling upon. With the amount of wildlife that seems to thrive around here less than a few feet from where our sleepy heads lay there must be something. Unfortunately most of it is lower down the food chain than a mole. This morning we had an early start when the cat brought in a bird at 4.45am, this was followed by a mouse at 5.30am and as I ventured outside later I nearly stood on a toad. Then I looked over to see a jay perched on the now larger than ever third mole hill. Maybe the introduction of a snake would help...

Vegetables

The sunny weather is working over the vegetable patch and progress is being made. Things are growing and green is turning greener. Sometimes I feel like a French peasant shifting and sifting dry earth, pulling weeds and raking and glugging red wine but it's nice to see growth.

The molehill count is up to three and they are moving in a southerly direction, away from the house. just not quite quickly enough.

Not now

Some days I just feel like spray paining "bollocks" or some other irreverent term across a wall - but it will pass. Today has been the day of the queue: Firstly on the M40 following a tragic traffic accident - one and a half hours and a lengthy detour and then more annoyingly at Birmingham Airport. Here people are treated like idiots on a regular basis, herded and shepherded as if they lacked any human spirit or sense. Queues are stretched across vacant rooms, down stopped escalators and across the check in hall because systems and people clearly cannot cope and for what? The interception of some bottled water, after shave and bottles of perfume. Bollocks!

On the plus side I enjoyed watching the pale summer moon sit quietly under the wings of the homeward bound aircraft. Simple things in difficult times.

I know I'm small...

...but I've got my Boffered Gibson Les Paul. Now complete after some extensive renovation work, filing, fiddling, screwing up and screwing down and the custom paint job of the century (not sure which one), it plays quite well. Now I need some time alone with it and the opportunity and energy to crank it up a little. Welcome to the world.

Today we found we had two mole hills. No surprise there I'm afraid but a new deterrent is now in place. The real surprise was coming home to find the power off and that the cat(s) had some managed to bring down the dining room curtains without breaking any of the rings or eyes that support them. Supernatural stuff.

1st of June

I woke up this morning with a red and sunburnt neck and for some strange reason a notion that the time had come to shave my feet. I’ve no idea if this was based on a dream, deep hygiene issues of some sort or a need to be less of a Hobbit and more of an Elf. It did coincide with a strange plan for a pop video to accompany the track “Air Kisses”, the tune that was running on in parallel in my head. I needed to collect my thoughts but couldn’t so I collected a generous portion of rhubarb crumble and custard instead, popped them in a bag and headed of across the bridge to Fife, the plan being to put in a long, productive day at work.

During the unseasonal weather, which reminds us all of the unexpected passing of global warming before our eyes and into our homes, I’ve been sustained by two things (apart from the usual goodies delivered by families and friends): Iced Lucozade, fizzing on it’s ginger own and the refreshing long drink known as overage and chilled Tennants Lager in a 50/50 relationship with 7 Up. The effects on body chemistry are drastic but manageable, the effects of the brain, the central nervous system and middle-aged and over heated addled thought processes are less clear. A glass of red wine at the ceremonial sunset celebrations whilst observing the mating of the swifts on the telephone wires also helps create an unnatural sense of balance with nature and the cosmos. “Aurum Solis” as they say. The sad part is that we seldom have the opportunity to experiment with our fluid levels and internal coolant, the weather will change tomorrow and soon this bright blue and sunny, sparkly experience will be a distant memory. I like seeing those spots before my eyes, just for short periods of time like a Stuka pilot.

“It’s a gravy train” says the crowing and baying media over MPs excessive expenses claims. Not a pretty picture that , open trains full of Bisto chugging from constituency to constituency with their brown and lumpy cargo spilling over into garden centres, real estate agents, electrical suppliers and cleaning companies. Meanwhile Alistair Dali a man who flits four times in four years is the new surrealist chancellor, flitting steadily away from responsibility, reasonable behaviour and reality. The good thing is that we are all shocked and outraged by this, we somehow expected more from these dullards. If we lived some real dictatorship or under any other totalitarian rule it would all be considered normal behaviour from the blatantly corrupt leadership. Perhaps the thin illusion of democracy has clouded our own judgement for too long.

The molehill is bigger today.

Mole Hill Daily Photo

Going Underground.

Despite the hot weather the moles have carried on working feverishly in the cool and the dark of the West Lothian underground. The mole hill is getting bigger and we are rather perplexed as to what action to take next - maybe they'll just stop, maybe they won't, maybe the house will collapse. A major worry is that moles will form an unholy alliance with the Japanese Knotweed and that may signal the end of everything.

More from the underground.

Last night we discovered another underground empire, this one overseen by a large toad. We were moving a slab and found the toad's tunnels formed by white washed snail shells, pebbles and twigs and in the middle the grey and wriggling form of the toad. After some inspection and wonderment we recovered this chilling labyrinth with a smaller stone and peace was restored. Meanwhile in another part of the garden the potatoes have started to sprout vigorously, the plan is coming together.

Mole Wars

Not an accurate mole representation.

The growing season is upon us, great swathes of green, distorted grasses and weeds, fat flapping leaves and stringy strange flowering interlopers that all must fall before the mighty strimmer. Once it’s charged and ready and I’ve finished my coffee.

Today’s background music has been brought to me thanks to the occasional use of Spotify which today has defaulted to Jonny Winter for some reason. His frenzied slide and picking is struggling to get out of the laptops wee sound holes but I cant be bothered to set up the more elaborate speakers. I’d forgotten about JW but listening to him, particularly the rough live stuff I can see the animal appeal of it all. Very busy, feverish and lick intensive playing that pleases the crowd and the fact that he is a blind albino and by now no spring chicken also springs to mind. He deserves a listen now and then.

We have a mole, maybe two. I have seen their hill, brown and fresh just outside of the back bedroom window. I suspect that more mole hills will appear and that a similar situation will arise as was two or three years ago when the high drama that was the “Crow Wars” was played out in all it’s pride and passion. The year is 2009, the month is May, welcome to the Mole Wars.

The background music is now moving onto Jeff Beck, live at Ronnie Scotts as it inevitably does but I'm going to cut more grass and make hay etc.

Owner of a lonely heart

The strange black window that is not a window.

The rhubarb harvest is coming in, stick by stick, stalk by stalk, leaf by leaf into the compost bin. The fresh stalks will be cleaned and soaked in brandy and sugar, raisins will be added and golden syrup. Then the steady baking in the slowest and most effective heat that Scottish electricity can muster - and then we breathe deeply and wait. And so to sleep.

It's true a cat can fit into a Tesco "bag for life".

Currently listening to "Owner of a lonely heart" by Yes. Going round and round in my head. Is there no end to this madness?

Life still

"Still life with fruits from tropical sources as viewed from a toy helicopter". Number 3 in a limited series of prints that are available from Invisible Graphics Plc for a reasonable period of time and an unreasonable amount of money.

It was with some relief that today’s working day ended for me and I found myself not caught up in road works, not going to a supermarket and not making the wrong choice of petrol pump on the forecourt of a soulless filling station. Home safe if a little unsound in the mind department.

Tonight is shaping up to be a night filled with a variety of entertaining possibilities: A trip to the heartlands of Fife, the chance to view the finale of the “League of Chumps” played out in some Catholic splendour and the opportunity to purchase free software and agonise over as it slowly downloads. Before all that tea will have to be ritually unfrozen and some soft drinks removed from their containers and consumed. Life is never dull but it can be predictable.

This weekend sees the return of the Hopetoun Horse Driving Trials ( last year three were found guilty , two not proven and two acquitted: boom boom), one of my favourite and least understood local events. I’ll be hanging around with the toffs eating bambi and buffalo burgers, drinking expensive beer and looking out for a hog-roast that I can observe and possibly hire. I’ll also trip over some fallen logs, shake hands with Prince Philip (one of my heroes) and stand for a long period of time in super soft horse dung without realising it. Hope the rain goes elsewhere.

Space Fish

Space fish are caught quite easily, you can use your Sky dish or even simply by using the traditional analogue television ariel. To ensure a good catch first switch off the TV but leave the mains power on (the red light). The power drawn from the network is attractive to the fish, acting as a simple bait. Atmospheric conditions play a vital part, with wispy low cloud and mist making all the difference. Sit quietly in the lounge, preferably on a comfy chair and rub your hands together, slowly but rhythmically. The heat and friction generated combined with the electricity in the TV ariel/dish system will attract the fish. The fish are trapped when they swim low through the cloud and become entangled in the static signals and rising heat, a fatal combination. They are stunned even by the relatively low voltage and fall to the ground. This can take up to half an hour so be patient but look out the window now and then to see what may have dropped by. Then simply go out with an orange B&Q bucket and collect the fish.

Once dead and rendered unattractive the fish (usually the breed “Hokiah”) should be gutted and cleaned and then oven baked in a light cream and mushroom sauce with fresh herbs and Champagne tea leaves. Don’t forget to rustle up a few boiled potatoes, butter and broccoli to go with this, it adds a nice touch of colour which may stimulate the diners appetite and gastric juices. Serve on white dishes with warm red wine set at the temperature of a Tuscany study. Keep the dessert simple, rhubarb and banana crumble or a white chocolate Magnum. With luck more fish will cooperate and appear tomorrow and you can either repeat today’s recipe, give them to a friend who likes fish or stick them in the freezer in those nice bags you get. The season for catches and experimentation is devilishly short so make the most. The astrology pages often hint strongly as when the season may begin. it’s all a matter of taste, headgear and quick response.

Then there are the giants who steal your socks, only if you are bad of course. The degrees of “badness” and the relative levels of such punishments are as yet fully undefined. Something of a moral minefield yet to be explored.

Unsafe at any speed

One careful owner, low miles and it's outlasted the Hillman Imp.

One of my daughter's kindly reminded me of a nickname I revelled in during the early eighties (not that she was there): "Tefal Heid". This came about thanks to a series of TV adverts, my bravely swept back hair style at the time and some colleagues who watched too much TV. Every so often it returns to haunt me though it fails to hurt me unlike that curious hairstyle many "round" women seem to sport (which must hurt them and certainly hurts the innocent spectator). This when they pull back their very straight, very dark hair into a severe pony tail in order to make their head appear to be the shape of a ball.

The pin eyed "ball head" then (often) sits on a ball body, topped with ball chins all served up with a white top and black (ball) leggings. It's not an uncommon look here is the malls and fine hotels of West Lothian. Does it, could it, should it have a name? The "Tweedle-Dee", the "Stern Nazi Nursery Nurse", "Mrs Tefal"?


How safe is it to eat "Healthy-living bacon" that is two days out of date? Safe but ironic I 'd say, possibly a good lifestyle choice and combination, a little risk, a little taste. I can't say that for the beleaguered smokers who are starting to look more and more odd these days. Huddled together outside pubs, sitting on doorsteps with dogs on string, leaning against large plate glass windows or staring into space in alleys piled with refuse.

It's not a happy picture and some one needs to help them and not with chewing gum or patronising campaigns. No, they need places to go, like the opium dens of old frequented by Conan-Doyle and the like. Once there they can form groups, write novels, lobby for rights and wrongs and be safe in an otherwise unsafe world. They pay their taxes (unless they are smugglers) and need places to go. Good health is undeliverable and is an illusion propped up by state propaganda, environmental and PC fascists and big business. Some choose to disregard all advice and remain "unsafe", whilst I don't envy them I respect their suicidal and animal instinct rights.

Ready, Steady,

Another crammed weekend nearly over. Week -1 for Lost Series 6 being another way of course to describe last seven non-halcyon days. Aberdeen was visited on Friday and various children and grandchildren gleefully encountered, games played, lunches lunched and science centres explored and almost destroyed. Too many cakes may have been eaten in the marvellous process.

Today (after yet another win at the football, v the mighty Pittenweem), I came dangerously close to learning how to appreciate and play the ancient game of strategy and territory known as Go. I never will play with or take up those glistening pebbles in gaming anger but I like the idea. Thanks to Mr F and Ms K. for the tuition and the Japanese feast.

Rubber fetish revisited

£12.99 from Tesco, just a little trim needed.

A busy afternoon is rushing away from me. The new rubber mats are installed in the car, only a few easy snips and cut fingers later. That had followed an encounter with a petrol station car vacuum cleaner. A new experience and one I'm not likely to repeat. After wrestling with this great suctionless hissing snake for a few minutes I realised that it had about as much breath as Grandpa Simpson walking into a blizzard. It was not providing an ideal platform for the pristine set of mats about to go down - I try but I fail. Grump.

Then arranging an odd selection of groceries, a rigid bass guitar and three large robot Transformers (= the needs of three grandsons), sundry left over items and a large and mysterious birthday present not destined for me into the reluctant boot space of Mr Cougar who needs an oil top up. Prior to this I'd had a long conversation with a motoring expert, a bloke who runs a garage, about where and when to use mineral and synthetic oils. The handbook of course advises various things described in number form but that assumes you know what's blubbering around inside your engine anyway. I was just on the point of understanding when he hit me with the sucking in air, clenched teeth, classic remark, "of course a lot of manufacturers use semi-synthetic oils these days". Groan.

Late lunch was to be a quick Burger King Whopper enjoyed alfresco at home. After leaving the Tesco jungle I sped into the BK drive through, grabbed the big bun and headed home. Sadly that was not to prove straightforward. The pot hole menders were out in force and had managed to block the main road whilst unloading a much needed tractor, a finger tapping, burger cooling delay followed. Then I found my usual easy right turn blocked by more abandoned yellow vehicles so I took what I imagined would be a speedy detour. This time it was a white van, stopped in the middle of the lane giving directions to a family of lost cyclists. When I finally arrived home a builders pick up (with a grinning radiator face) was parked across our entrance and so I abandoned all hope of a hot snack. Happiness is of course a warm bun, but under certain circumstances you take whatever you can get. Hmmmph.

Amazonia deluxe

Naturally rich in antioxidants and just two little milk chocolate Aztec, amazonian, rain forest delights in the yummy form of orange hearts provides the thingummies needed to neutralize free radicals for a day. So I'm on the Choxi diet, for the mean time. Not sure about combating the free radicals but maybe they deserve it for thinking too highly of themselves or perhaps holding unpopular views that were never going to get them anywhere anyway. I've had four chocs today already so I'm pretty much neutralised.

Apart from finally managing to mix and fix about 17 older tracks culled from Mr Zoom most of my creative efforts have been channeled into guitar painting using large amounts of surplus nail varnish. This sticky, vapour filled task is actually quite satisfying and the end result is a unique masterpiece that defies description. You could of course call it a guitar painted with nail varnish. Scottish craft, thrift and ingenuity at it's best. Then there is lightscribe...

Impossible Pie

Much of today (47.5 minutes) has been spent listening to the Tommy Mackay produced "MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE SONGS" CD, marvellous, quirky and something everybody should have a personal version of.

Mission Impossible - The Chemical Brothers
Jonny B.Goode - Chuck Berry
Alison - Elvis Costello
Expedition Impossible - Hooverphonic
Big John - Jimmy Dean
A is for Alison Cary Aria
Impossible - Shout Out Louds
Jilted John - Jilten John
Ali, Walk with me - Ravonettes
Impossibly Germany - Wilco
Come Back Jonny - Devo
Alison, She's so Horsey - Instamatic
It's Impossible - Shirley Bassey
Ballad of Jonny Guitar - The Death of a Party
Alison - Slowdive
Nothing's Impossible - Depeche Mode
Jonny - Gilla
Ya Ali - Himesh Reshammiya, Sunidhi Chauhan
Jonny Remember Me - John Leyton
Jonny Too Bad - Slickers

English Breakfast Pie: Tonight's late night discovery on the radio phone shack noisy experience non-digital thing. A pie that contains sausage meat, beans, tomato, bacon and egg. That has to be tried and tested at some point, imagine cutting a cold slice of that bad boy for elevenses.

"Thank you, thank you for the pie."

Mirror rorrim

Being ambidextrous makes me like these people, in that one way. I can also mirror write and forward write at the same time. Not so good at ironing shirts and boiling potatoes.

Leonardo da Vinci - Renaissance artist and scientist
Albert Einstein - Scientist
Richard Feynman - Scientist
Oscar Wilde - Playwriter and poet
Nikola Tesla - Inventor
Michelangelo - Artist
Benjamin Franklin - Scientist
Mohandas Karamchand Gandhi - Religious and political leader
Ludwig van Beethoven - composer
Donovan McNabb American Football Player

Of the tomato

Sugar tomatoes

As the sun breaks through t he mists rising from the Firth of Forth and it’s steamy cauldron of toxins and goodness I discover a hidden gem of a guilty pleasure of a random set of food based metaphors re-mixed. Still struggling to emerge from some age endued mist of forgetfulness I rediscover the sugar tomato. A staple of the young Barclay diet, one formed when food was slower, less plentiful and based of a profound working class ethos constructed around eating whatever was available in whatever (almost palatable) combinations could be arrived at. Many of these were a creative mix of the seasonally available, the staples (always some in cupboard at least up until Wednesday) and the opportunistic.

Sugar tomatoes - take a tomato, cut it in half and dip it in white sugar. Brings out a whole new selection of tomato flavour believe it or not.
Tatties and butter - boil potatoes and mash them a bit, fork in butter. Served on it’s own (‘cos there is nothing else to go with it).
Tatties and milk - as above, supped with a spoon in a kind of bizarre white soup form.
Salad cream sandwich (piece) - white, plain bread and a liberal amount of salad cream (not mayonnaise) applied with a knife.
Sugar piece - as above but spread the bread with butter and then dip/lay in sugar.
Tomato Sauce piece - as above but no butter, just sauce.
Biscuit piece - bread and jam sandwich (preferably strawberry) with a digestive biscuit added between the bread slices. Something of a luxury snack due to the generous amount of ingredients.
Sugar rhubarb - as per tomatoes but the rhubarb stick needs to be repeatedly dipped into the sugar.
Neep - (turnip) generally pulled from a field, cut in half and eaten raw.
Cheesy egg - egg broken open, placed in a saucer and baked in the oven covered with cheese. No obvious reason for this at all.
Stewed tea - tea that is repeatedly boiled and then served with about three spoons of sugar and no milk.
Coffee - served with Carnation evaporated milk and sugar - usually from a very small Nescafe tin or from the infamous “Camp” coffee and chicory bottle.

Silver screen near you needs Silvo.

It’s almost been a year since I’ve visited a cinema of any description. That’s not normal behaviour for me but on reflection there are compelling reasons, well maybe one big reason, no films I‘ve really fancied. The new city centre/shopping mall or out of town, big shed cinemas have all the soul and attraction of a 1960s canteen, tawdry carpeting and fittings, ghastly and expensive food, assistants who don’t grasp the concept of assistance and a programme of films that always include puerile advertisements and tedious trailers. Strangely I don’t miss really going and neither does my wallet albeit Star Trek may draw me back, purely for reasons of inverted nostalgia of course.

More gloom and ill vented dissatisfaction in today’s Sunday papers, at least the bankers must feel like they are getting a break from being pilloried and maligned. It’s like some huge universal rotation is going on where different groups enjoy a week or so of being the pariah and whipping boy for the world (a small corner of it, and one than fails to register in China). Meanwhile the real criminals, arms brokers and fixers rummage through and feast away on the rich scraps and tender morsels that remain hidden by the other’s unfortunate self generated smoke screen. Next up will be civil servants, social workers, French fisherman/truckers or farmers and then possibly football agents and their lawyers. I’m assuming here that in the mean time things don’t escalate and none of the stupid and greedy politicians are hung from any lampposts or given a burning tyre neck tie to wear. If that happens it’ll be too late for anything and we’ll end up with Simon Cowel as the Prime Minister, Jordan as Chancellor and Joanna Lumley usurping the queen - it could work.

15th of May

Today is the day is the day, one day.