District 9

We spent a few idle hours last night watching (and squirming along to) District 9. The DVD has been innocently lying on the shelf for a few days, really it should have been in a bucket of iced water such is its incendiary (small screen for us) cinematic power. I was expecting some Sci-fi fun, action and the opportunity to make some judgements on set design and special effects. What I got was a shocking, disturbing, bombastic, stylish and emotionally charged epic that took me back to the styles of early (?) Sci-fi films such as Alien or Bladerunner or in terms of rough detail and shaky camera work, Blair Witch. It's a good feeling when you see something that is fresh and redefines a few of the normal film boundaries you've become a little bored with. Well worth £9.99 from wherever you manage to jiffy bag it from.

Meanwhile in a slightly less alien environment my bird feeding followers are steadily growing. Whilst basting some beef sausages and toasting the buns this morning I (well Ali) counted 8 Pheasants, 1 Jay, 2 Wood Pigeons and numerous Tits and Blackbirds squabbling and sharing in mixed measures our bounty of scattered seed products, those that hang from feeders and those that ricochet across the path and into the grassy wilderness. A deep sense of well being follows and rapidly after that the taste of brown sauce and late breakfast munchies.

Right now a documentary is playing on Channel 4 exploring the historical world of St Paul. I'm not really paying attention other than to glean that it's the usual C4 slightly topical, slightly controversial mix of skewed opinion and wishful speculation. Amazing how the various parts of Paul's writings have become interpreted and misunderstood over time. As for me, in part I blame Paul and his rigid scribbles for many of the things wrong in my little world and the modern world, the attitudes, contradictions, intolerance and all...but then he did write that bit in First Corinthians 13. He couldn't quite have scripted District 9 however.

Now that the Winter Olympics is over and I did watch odd sporting bits, I remain disappointed that as of yet snowball fighting and snowman building are not official sports, how long must we wait?

Boots cured

Cat studies laptop ports in an unrelated incident.

In order to test the boot squeak mentioned previously I went to a local Tesco branch; similar conditions to those on Thursday evening were simulated, the result being no discernible squeak from my footwear. The facilities management regime at Sainsburys clearly tolerates those squeak creating floor cleaners and treatments that encourage inadvertent shoe related sounds. I know where I will take my business in future.

Squeaky boots

Front elevation

Squeaky boots: If I'd wanted squeaky boots I'd have asked for them. I didn't ask for them but that's what I got from the good people at M&S in Craigleith. I discovered this phenomenon in the chiller aisle in Sainsburys as I browsed the Scotch egg selection. I also found that the more groceries I put in the basket the squeakier the brown boots got. I beat a hasty, noisy retreat, the sound of a thousand stampeding mice ringing in my ears and the ears of various shop assistants and customers. WD40 action required, urgently or my money back.

Rear elevation

David Bowie haircut

Yesterday's leap into the archives of oblivion reminded me of the time when all the girls were getting David Bowie style haircuts. It worked on some, up to a point, for others it was a complete disaster, best forgotten. Time. Then there was Grace Jones. Fashion, following it or keeping up with it - not really worth the effort at all. Stick to what suits you.

Sessions

I used to listen to the John Peel radio sessions, week nights from ten o'clock then maybe some "in concert" event Sunday at seven. Using a primitive cassette recorder and a dumb plastic microphone propped up on a coffee mug I'd record the faint and buzzing music. After a while some spilled motorcycle battery acid ruined my collection of C60s and my lyrics notebooks so I moved onto proper vinyl, I also moved away from motorcycles. It was 1971.

Meanwhile in another century whilst exploring Spotify I came across a Peel session version of "Ride a white swan" by Mr Rockin' Rollin' Bolan in 1970: a sharp and magical little recording with minimum effects and extras and a great live guitar sound, recorded some time before the world went crazy. Peter Pan never died and Neverland never closes.

My thin smile...

...exists, survives and leads a life of it's own in the horizontal plane. Interestingly enough it has generated enough speed and vector quantity to remain in orbit, indefinitely.

Great remotes of our time

The Sky+ basic models - flying in close formation.

A lost and over indulged but enjoyable weekend has passed. During this time no actual episodes of LOST were viewed, they were however thought about occasionally and then placed somewhere upon a back burner. The wedding we attended (which resulted in a significant amount of the over indulgence) was a good one. It was like attending some West Coast version of an F Scott Fitzgerald event, full of bright young things, revelling in the glitter and splendour whilst their violins sang. Then there were a selection of wannabe metro sexual artisans, comedians, writers and poets, all busy dancing, arguing and doing impersonations of Spotty Dog from the Woodentops (BBC 1955 onwards). Photos may well be out there on Feckbook or floating in the evening ether even as we speak.

Having two remotes for the one TV is not helpful, particularly when one set doesn't work quite so well. We are of course unsure which one is the duffer, despite extensive tests and trying to separate these Siamese zappers by carefully putting them in different, far away places.

A solo remote - could this one be the fully working model?

How to iron a kilt

Stage 1 - on the table (almost).

The first in what may well be a small series of helpful household and lifestyle hints for the man or woman about town or as in our case country. The Kilt ironing exercise:

Materials.

A kilt - preferably a decent tartan one that you have good reason to need to wear.
Iron - not too clean.
Ironing table - with a soft cover.
Dish cloth (non greasy).
Copious amounts of clean water and a first-aid kit.

Kilts are notoriously difficult to iron with the feared Black Watch design being the worst of the genre. It takes courage, patience and at least the consumption two BLT bagels to even consider approaching the un-ironed kilt in it's naturally wild state. So by using a handy chair as a support (lion tamer style) I managed to get the kilt half way onto the rickety table, thereafter holding it in a Half-Nelson with a dish cloth and hot iron (in the right hand). A Full-Nelson would also work if ironing a larger size of kilt. The first hot thrusts (?) took much of the sting out of the beast and I knew a corner had been turned in the project. I also knew this because I was at this point standing in the dining room and not in the lobby. As the struggle wore on I was sweating profusely and one eye was twitching in a funny way but had the marker on the wrinkled kilt and was ironing the flat bits and those wretched pleats with gusto, like a man on fire in fact. Twenty minutes later it was all over, the finished product is shown below. I followed up this traumatic exercise with a well deserved flagon of Lucozade and a full rub down with a rusty wire brush. The next challenge will be a simple one - how to remove a festive rats nest from a damp garden shed.

Stage 6 (you have to imagine stages 2 to 5) - all over bar the shouting.

Primitive Machines

If I do what I have to do, no matter how difficult will I somehow be a better person? Or am I just going through the mechanics? There are more questions than there are letter combinations in the English language...and there are no clear answers.

Late lunch was a vintage curry from the icy depths of the freezer, possibly not from this decade, possibly not from this century, possibly poisoned or at least deeply harmful but delightfully tasty. This is the way we live.

Joke

I'm talking to this sad looking guy in a pub and he says; "My wife left me, she took my Bob Marley collection and the satellite dish, no woman, no sky."

Rediscoverin'

Various things of varying degrees of quality:

What's new in country music.
The magical healing properties of Rocket WD40.
Toast, fried eggs and sausage.
Haulin' logs.
The terrific worlds of those underground people you see everyday.
Writing imaginary songs.
Heater on full blast.
Politics and the rise of the Occult Nazi Parties.
Carrying a book.
Non-scientific research.
The corruption of the media by degrees, over time and in your face.
Use of the word "splendid".

Pirate radio.
Staring into the tumble drier.
Holiday explorations and machine coffee.

Good luck

These happy cats look down upon our kitchen space and administer the good luck necessary to lubricate all our cooking and rudimentary cleaning arrangements. Our real cats look up and admire these tin and china gods, lofty and distant rulers of the pussy and scullery worlds. Shiny icons, unknowable and staring, described in hollow books and spoken of in hushed and primitive tones, as good as any other popular god these days. Also able to stop the fish pie from burning and the pasta from boiling over with a single withering stare.

"The kids think that this is all vanity, but I really need the surgery...doc". Grey's Anatomy 22.25 17/02/10.

Leftovers

Nice to see the corporate presence of Mastercard dominate the BRIT awards so serenely as if to remind us all of evenings spent drunkenly ordering pap on itunes and play.com. The event is mostly an unpleasant endurance test for the disconnected and middle-aged viewer apart from the shared experience of marveling at Lady Ga Ga's drag show and Robbie's greatest hits medley. That's him ready for his pension and a few weeks worth of work in Las Vegas followed by a summer season at Butlins whilst being poked by the tabloids. We stretched the credibility of the whole evening by violently hoovering and dusting quite religiously before sitting down to a late great supper formed from leftover Shepherd's pie and miscellaneous vegetables gathered from the bottom of the fridge as Robbie avoided the inevitable Take That reunion. Typical Tuesday.

We mean something

Cat's bored with a pedestrian and dull diet of processed and dodgy cat food products? Neither are ours however I chose to funk up catty tea-time with a nice piece of post modern, novella cuisine kitty catering, the recipe is:

Fresh Tyne salmon boned and chipped, rabbit jelly baby, scrapings of grass, Walls pork sausage and a garnish smokescreen. Bind the ingredients in a deep microwave arrangement and allow to hover. Then upturn into canned receptacle. Blanche and pirouette (carefully), hands behind the back. Slowly stun for the rest of the afternoon and then leisurely plop. Garnish with an exhausted prawn arranged into the foetal position. Cats love it. (So they tell me.)

Sunday morning found us once again lost in Glenrothes, searching for the centre and reading aloud confusing place names, the sat nav conveniently in another car. As a child, when I heard of the "new town" in central Fife I imagined some kind of space-city full of glassy buildings, paved walkways and bright, shining things - the like of which were unknown to me. Sure enough that's how it has turned out and I actually have a soft spot for the place despite my lack of Glenrothes based navigation skills.

It is strange also how some parts have become oddly overgrown and unkempt, as if the town was slowly sinking back into the Fife jungle as part of a failed great green experiment now having passed the peaks of interest and investment. The future is here but it's not the future we were led to believe in. In those days (1969) we imagined one that would unroll out smoothly before before our dazzled and expectant eyes producing a promised land of urban perfection and industry. That's not quite what we got. Meanwhile we beat the locals 6 - 2 in a fairly uneventful football match on a cold, muddy and unforgiving pitch.

The best and most profound bit of graffiti ever.

Love is a serious business

Tesco daily photo Valentine's display #2

...and a lucrative one but who can live without it?

South Queensferry daily photo

Just noticing how local businesses are picking up and really doing quite well again these days, there are many small firms that remain recession proof in West and Mid Lothian. The service sector grows stronger by the hour. So pull up your socks and be of good cheer, it's not all doom and gloom out there or wherever you are. Don't believe the lies that the SNP and BNP peddle or piddle.

Real onions that come ready chopped in packets and all for 50p, just pop them in the pan and away you go. How do they do it? I'm learning to love capitalism and the spirit of free enterprise.

Avalon

Sublime

I heard the title track of this album on the radio tonight, first time in years. This record was one I played to death back in the 80s. Funny and poignant listening to it again, powerful, scary and strangely timeless, probably the best thing Roxy ever did despite their powerhouse 70s material. I'm no purist, I just like what I like.

Ridiculous

Bishop Desmond Tutu on TV, what a complete grinning and laughing lunatic he is.

Scary

Everything Nicola Sturgeon says or does. Poor misguided woman, Wee Eck's right hand lady and ultimate fall-gal and political buffoon . "Save us from these crazy people Oh Great and Noble Pumpkin."

Hair today?

Good picture of potential, thoughtful world leader type. Take note.

So how has today been for you? Good hair day or bad hair day? For me it's been mostly a soup, hot cross bun and various bits of erratic nibbling day - my hair however remains pretty neutral and generally goes unnoticed in most respects. I am content with this.

Your mum eats straw

DAFC line up against a makeshift and under performing Celtic side in the cup, the eventual outcome was inevitable however.

Fitba

There's nothing quite like a good blood and snotters football match to keep you connected with real life and real people. Not that I feel particularly disconnected at the moment but a Sabbath Day session on the H&S sanitised concrete terraces allows you to catch up with Central Scotland's best banter and most oblique opinions. So as I watched what turned out to be an entertaining game I re-learned the numerous sharp and ingenious terms used in current racial, religious, gender and political verbal abuse. The killer guilt punch in this experience being that mischievous and ruinous feeling of inner conflict enjoyed when quietly laughing along at the various chants and one-liners that floated across my head and into my brain. Our senior politicians, social commentators and moralists should sneak into our football stadiums now and again and mix with the underclass (the one that most of us belong to) in this boiling pot of magnificent verbal colour and general wanton incorrectness - just for the fun and hell of it.

Diet

Does this count as five pieces of fruit a day? 3 Bounty bars, 1 red berry muffin and a half glass of pineapple and banana smoothie - in my re-engineered, brave and surreal new world it certainly would.

Bountyfudge

I gave the birds a nice early breakfast: Seeds, bread, bacon rind and nuts bound together with lard and various frying pan bits of run off. After a complex scientific process it's bound together in a coconut shell and strung out on the bird feeding pole. Meanwhile we humans breakfasted on bacon bagels and real Bounty bars, leftovers from a failed experiment in amateur social services and educational advancement - it would have been mostly based in Fife but died from lack of interest. Ho hum.

No junior football tomorrow, instead we've an appointment with a Stephen's Bridie and the legions of DAFC faithful at East End Park round about 12:15. I hope they've got the under soil heating switched on for a change.

Toy Town Express

72 years of continuous improvement and what do you build? Cars with sticky accelerators, eight million of them or thereabouts. It confirms everything I've ever thought about ongoing business improvement, quality circles and the power of over designing. I'm staying with Fairytale Management Theory.

Shame really, they do make really nice little cars. I had a brown one once. It's nickname was Toy Town Express and the accelerator never did jam, however the cylinder head gasket didn't quite make it.

Becoming invisible

It's an eerie feeling, I used to get it now and again but I've not had it for a while as far as I can recall. Of course it's not quite the same as actually being invisible and then going out and about. I do that from time to time, mostly just driving around, kind of freaks people out a little.

Hyphen products

Before the snow came, the cat carried out a thorough roof inspection on behalf of the estate.

As I laze upon a cat scratched leather couch and sip my Irn-Bru and munch my light weight Kit-Kat, my mind naturally wanders onto, across and into other food and drink products with hyphens in the names. Then it goes a blank. After a few moments of this I fall into a deep sleep and dream I'm catching hamsters which are then sticking to my palms. Not so keen on that idea. Clearly it's the middle of the week and the last three days at work have taken their toll. Having said that my happiest memory remains the one centering on those olives that Ali purchased in Sainsburys, they were rather good, quite unexpectedly. Simple olivey things a thousand miles away from the news and the lies and babble of the political classes..

Angeldarkangelbuffy

...and the bloke from Bones. It was so cold today we had no choice but to eat the last of the last fish pies, an Abercorn salad and copious amounts of the Vinest Vin rouge. Meanwhile a brightly coloured box in another part of the room was making a strange noise. It was either the coal fire or the television, from time to time we run down the lazy hours staring into one or the other. Oh, here comes an episode of 24 and a course of steamed pudding. All I need now is an ambient sausage roll and a hard rock rock cake.

Ambient sausage rolls

Improvised bird feeders

I am not worried about wasting time though nobody has ever accused me of doing it. It is just a deep feeling I get every so often and then deny. Then I heard, in an inspirational message about a labeling error that had resulted in the Coop selling ambient sausage rolls to innocent members of the public and miscellaneous passers by. Food fit for the gods by any standards.

I think it was the young but very wise Gary (Tank Commander- my brackets and those of no one else), who described a secret sausage roll recipe thus: a sausage wrapped up in pastry and baked. Bake that and eat that irritating, self important, TV school dinner cooks and twats Gordon Ramsay, Jamie Oliver, Gary Rhodes etc. etc.

Cat on a cold slate roof

Missie the cat scales the heights looking for opportunities. I chose to remain on the ground.

An offensive plant cut back to basics.

Today we removed two offensive house plants that were causing offence and artistic grief by blocking the staircase and carrying strange and un-named viruses. Now they are outside and will be dealt with quite harshly by the wind and frosty weather. That'll teach them a lesson.

Some time in New York City

J D Salinger: I read “Catcher in the Rye” once, sometime in the eighties and when I was a long way from suffering any kind of teenage angst. I think in fact it was mid-thirties angst and self worth problems I had at the time and I'd not been to NYC. I read about half of it in one sitting, alone on a bench on the seafront (?) at Kirkcaldy as I recall. I’m not sure why it missed reading it a secondary school in the late sixties, it never figured on the approved list of my young Socialist English teachers along with Aldous Huxley and George Orwell and it didn’t seem to strike the same chords as Kerouac or Tolkien. Salinger and Kerouac both managed the same trick, one big blockbuster book that outlived them and outran them, everything else becoming second best and they were left waiting for the next big wave, a wave that never came. Last year I did think about rereading Catcher again, possibly in some bid to either catch up with myself or relive in these silver years a stolen teenage moment I managed to deny and miss. Maybe.

Maggie: I was greatly encouraged to hear the news that at one time Margaret Thatcher ate 28 eggs a week. This is of course because I like eggs not MT. These were key items in her victory diet of 1979. I recall at that time I was on a similar but possibly less effective or successful diet: This was the chip piece and brown sauce diet. It consisted of real i. e. Mazola deep fried chips hand chipped from actual potatoes, plain bread (well buttered) and HP sauce. This dietary supplement was generally consumed 7 times a week, every day usually about 2100 hrs. I lived to tell the tale but failed in my low key bid to lead the Conservative Party. True.

Tony Blair: I’ve never been a fan of his and I disagreed with the war in Iraq and various other Nulabour pieces of work and control freakery. What I dislike however is the desperate raking over of ashes we see in the current spate of costly inquiries that are peering into things in general. In the Iraq Inquiry anyone who expected any other outcome that the one we are seeing played out is seriously deluded and bound to be disappointed, it‘s always the way. The injured families’ hurt, the political damage done and the frustration expressed in howls for signs of regret and heartfelt apologies will never be satisfied or be provided with adequate closure. Protesters can protest, that’s easy, all you need is a voice, some spare time and a bus ticket to London or an Internet connection. Families must mourn their loss and no amount of anger, pained frustration or half hearted acknowledgement brings back a lost loved one. Whatever you may think presidents and prime ministers are there to make decisions and then take action. They will be of course motivated and influenced by all sorts things and will play long and short games in the process - but awkward, unpalatable and ultimately unpopular decisions go with the job - and we put them there to act on out behalf and we have to put up with their mistakes, up to a point. So we learn a lesson and elect some other party, hope for a better set of foreign policies and settle for defending our own small island and not some barren and dusty far corner of the world. Unlikely.

All day pyjamas: Who does this in public? It doesn’t happen much around here as far as I’ve seen though I’m maybe failing to visit Tesco, the school gates or various petrol station forecourts at the proper time to witness this modern phenomenon. Presumably it’s an inner-city problem based around the last minute needs of younger and style challenged parents (mostly young mums?) with a bias for leisurewear all so desperate for their 28 eggs and an emergency copy of the Catcher in the Rye - or just a packet of fags and a can of Pepsi? Actually I think I once went to France without a jumper and with my pyjamas on under my jeans; it may have been just a bad dream.

Spells and Alliteration

There's a lady who's sure she's got the keys to Headley Grange somewhere at the bottom of her handbag.

It might get loud has now been viewed, paused and digested. The best bits were/are the languid guitar boogie outtakes. First time I've watched a DVD in which the extras are more interesting than the main feature albeit the main feature is good in a fiddly, historical and obviously documentary way. Things of note: That old gent in the black suit, James Page has a solo run through of Kashmir on that black and white Danelectro using DADBAD tuning that will have those guitar values going through the roof. Edge's Gibson Explorer looks fantastic but sounds crap despite being run through what looks like the Son of Big Blue on steroids. Jack White is interesting and enigmatic, wearing lipstick, smoking a fat cigar and driving an old Ford Thunderbird with a small version of himself imprisoned in the boot. He can also sing a decent vocal on an oddly chosen version of "The Weight". It's not a song I'd have expected these three to cover, perhaps there is some geometric explanation based on graphs of their respective careers and the tumbling of rare ivory dice that brought them to that point.

Want a quick and easy recipe for dahl and so use up your surplus lentils but afraid to ask? Here you go.

Homemade spells that use a degree of alliteration are currently being used as trial lyrics in the great lyrics trial. Guilty or not or not even proven, a verdict will be found, as we are in Scotland it may well be not proven.

Dream v Curse

A big empty room in a big empty house, walls white and floors clean and shiny. In the distance far beyond the trees there is traffic and the noise of a small town but it's easy to shut it out, easy to concentrate, easy to drift away. Somewhere else.

And there is time, time to practice, time to remember, to try things out and start over. Round here the time crawls, knows its place in the great order of creation and a hovering spirit of serendipity is in the air, brooding, a little beyond reach and questions. There is traction.

The other isn't heaven because heaven is about people, creatures creating gods and guilt and not the inner, hidden things; they pay no heed to them. Heaven is an outer realm built by persistence and determination, where necessary performances are celebrated as they occur and pass on- but this is not for me. My dream is out there beyond heaven, rising in the long curve that separates the eternal, the practical, the ideal and the imaginary. A dream and a curse forever.

Looks disgusting

Is it the finely chopped parsnip, the diced carrot, the shredded French onions, the secret recipe stock, the seasoning, the herbs or the actual cooking process? No idea.

Is it the Bird's Eye waffles, the crispy fish fingers, the three day old mixed bean salad or the bread with a thin scraping of some yellow goo from an anonymous tub or is it the HP brown sauce spattered across the plate in a style reminiscent of Jackson Pollock? No earthly idea.

Is it the microwave apple and raspberry crumble, the week old Ambrosia custard rescued from a dodgy carton or the addition of a good slurp of Tesco evaporated milk? Not a Scoobie.

Is it a three course meal fit for a hungry family? Possibly. Welcome to Scotland, existential and essential tea-time catering in January.

To another mouse

I'm truly sorry man's dominion
Has broken Nature's social union,
An' justifies that ill opinion
Which makes thee startle at me,
thy poor earth-born companion,
An' fellow-mortal!

Robert Burns' day and subsequent night, 25th January 2010. I'm not a big fan of his work but I found this expired mouse on the shower mat in the bathroom and a little while later heard the words of his poem "Tae a moose" on the car radio.

Steampunk Holmes

The slow and well scripted exchange of many a meaningful glance:
"Ella Fitzgerald my dear Watson." "Harry Belafonte my dear Holmes."

The end of a busy and fairly satisfying weekend, most of which is now a blur and some of which is actually quite clear, mainly because it's still happening. Sherlock Holmes v Hollywood is a good diversion; tongue tied in cheek, campy and action packed in that strange blurry way that modern action is currently being vacuum packed. Not a great advertisement for revisiting Victorian lifestyles or values, the joy of Steampunk or the inevitable plot device of multi layered secret societies trying to take over various parts of the world. Sir Arthur may well be spinning in his grave, that is of course assuming that the effect of all that legal opium has finally worn away. I'd give it 4 out of 5.

Twitchers please note something you already know: The George Formby breakfast run off is the perfect medium for binding birdie snacks together in order to make cheap and improvised winter treats for our chilled out feathered buddies. Square sausage works best and you need to provide a neutered coconut on string. Hang outside and stand well back whilst restraining wide-eyed cat(s).

performance feedback revision

A simple enough mantra for evolutionists everywhere, this may of course, if used repeatedly incur the wrath of God. Several times and in different ways and places - on your own head be it. Please give generously. Time is much more important than money, unless you have no money that is.

The sky but not at night

Dwang-de-dwang-daddle...

De-Dwange-diddle-dang-fang-fang...

Srceeee...de-twang-pang-scree-scree-screakkk-dwang-diddle!

Nice sky spotted overhead, even stopped a moving car to take a pic. Hardly does justice when reduced to this scale. I estimate that 14569 didn't see it at all, 6500 people saw it but only 356 looked at it, 2 took photos and 1 stuck it on an obscure blog somewhere.

Anaphylactic

There should be a law against them but they are so strangely beautiful and tasty.

These are my silver bullets, my garrote, my sugar coated pill, my car crash or my slowly hatching fatal disease. These are my Anaphylactic friends, the closers of the throat and poisoners of my weak and feeble digestive system. They hold the slack ropes that draw the final curtain and so I must run, run from them. Run and not stop or look back, run like the wind, with the wind behind and no wind in front, in quality running shoes following an extensive training regime. Scallops. Humble, Innocent, deadly scallops from Scotland.

Meanwhile: We remain a transient fragment doomed to pass - the sun dies in 5 billion years, or so. We on earth follow on shortly after. It's a fact it seems.

It might get loud anxiety

The third day of the marvelous Shepherd's pie and vintage port diet: Good in most places but some variation needed. It comes in the form of Mrs Peek's Pies. Ah, Mrs Peek, what temptation and satisfaction your deep dish, deeply discounted, dump bin apple pies provide and the addition of the sweet microwave custard makes the perfect pudding for the working man.

Ed Balls has now launched a Guide to Fatherhood from some quango charity they've formed and spent good money on. Try as I might I cannot love Labour or their "we're doing something but it's rubbish and only a token " way of working. This pamphlet is unlikely to be read and treasured by the young hoodie, ipod dads who can't read anyway and can't get out of the benefits trap they've sprung on the girls they've impregnated against all the impotent fast food odds. Balls is no shining parental example either, he and his MP wife Yvette Hooper have flipped homes three times in as many years making a few fast bucks. Their own kids could probably use a pamphlet explaining where they live and what their smug and greedy parents are really up to. The usual Labour profile, professional academics - fully funded in the good old days, then as advisers and aides, no proper career beyond serial toadying and of course believing they were somehow born to rule. It's not even style over substance, the couple look as good as two yellow cabbages in the window of a charity shop and both have been promoted in keeping with some huge mathematical factor well beyond their abilities.

The DVD has arrived, it might get loud, it might even get played, one day soon. After months (?) of eagerly waiting I'm well stressed by the prospect of serial disappointment if the hype was all hot air and the superstar axe-docu-special fails to deliver. Released on the 18th I got it today via Amazon. It's still in the cellophane...what's a bloke to do?

Haiti, the helicopter and a chocolate war

Whatever you think of the USA, their military power is often a lifesaver as they dwarf the rescue efforts of all other countries. I'm sure the people of Haiti wont be complaining about them...yet.

I don't know why but the takeover of Cadbury by Kraft makes me uneasy. Would the French or Germans allow such a thing? Of course we live in free market economy where dogs will eat dogs and the shareholders are getting a good price, so the pension plan owners and deep investors will be satisfied. I just hope that the almost perfect Dairy Milk chocolate recipe doesn't get altered, at all, ever and that the Brummie's jobs don't go East.

Townies in the sticks

Here's the big, almost horizontal stick, no sign of the townie however.

A day without work today which of course means a day spent and generally misappropriated on other kinds of things that can loosely be described as work. Some useful and stimulating, some however consist of things that happen at the lowly subsistence level: coal, laundry, bird feeding and garbage. In train and in partnership these things conspire to make life with all it's myriad of skin diseases, strange and foreign smells and speech impediments worthwhile for a few moments.

Back in the Obama lovin' ranch I was rediscovering the joys, pitfalls and inconsistencies of bottleneck, resonator guitar work. My steel strung and un-lubricated sonic ambitions know no bounds nor does my secret shepherd's pie recipe.

Clint the cat has been having the odd hissy-fit, mostly when confronting wild strays in the cold and dark. He's guarding us against those reprobate and idle cats we warned you about - in his own way. It's the kind of unscripted feline activity you tend to get round these remote and lawless parts.

Lazy Sunday

Hauf and a hauf etc. (Is that a White Russian I see there on the left?)

I'm starting to understand and appreciate the role played by glaciers in the formation of our rolling and ancient Scottish landscape. Over the past few weeks the cold and icy weather has left a great deal of mini glacial activity all around. The evidence is everywhere, flag stones have been moved and lifted, pebbles scattered across roadways and grass, road edges have collapsed and reformed and potholes and ridges have opened up and left more of a fractured mess in the already deteriorating highways and byways.

We walked up to the pub at lunch time on these messy roads and once there imbibed some strong drink using the Queen's shilling (works for me) and read a copy of the Sunday Mail and looked at the pictures - a truly awe inspiring experience. On the roads we noted the damage and change, the molehills and the roadkill. Of course it's ridiculous to describe it using any serious terms when compared to the newscasts about Haiti. We may have a had a few weeks of dodgy weather but we'll recover and as for our economic and social problems...

Somewhere through the bushes and tree branches is a still frozen pond, a deep, dark pond kept away from strong sunlight and would be skaters,folks exercising their yappy dogs and the attention of the bewildered and bobble hatted general public. Only a few locals know it's here and we have all decided to leave it to stay frozen on it's own. The fact that it's haunted by the ghost and evil spirit of a cannibalistic serial killer from the 17th century known as the "Mad Eck MacMad: Ghoul of Gallow View" has nothing to do with it's abandonment, nor has the close proximity of a Pictish burial ground or the old witch dunking pontoon left over from the Korean and Burntisland Wars.