Holiday snaps

Useless and unwanted headphones strewn across a bus stop roof in Barcelona.

Pan tiles and vines: Cote d' Azur.

Serious but dead fish: the fish market, Mahon, Minorca.

An image of a young Spanish god, rocks and sticks on a cliff in Ibiza.

Car parked in the shade, the Zen Gardens of Nowhere, Ibiza.

A spectral piece of Majorca viewed from the sea.

Barcelona residents protest about noisy diesel engines running amok at peak times.

The blue, blue sea, a distant Nice,  a beautiful day in the South of France.

What did you see and do on your holidays?

Some time in Terminal 5

Terminal 5 roof, detail.

Returning to the UK via Terminal 5 at Heathrow, not much evidence of the Olympic Spirit being spread around. Here in Brave New Britain nobody can be trusted, not even the British. As soon as you get off the plane you're checked and photographed, then your passport is checked, then you're searched again. OK, now you are allowed to trawl the leaden halls, mixing with fellow travellers crippled with the hostile razzmatazz, marketing  and muzac, shopping in glittering prisons and canteens, then waiting, anonymous in rows as your steel birds are prepared.

Once the flight is called you're photo is checked, then your papers and passport. If you pass you can fly, if you fail the machine stops and you are cast out...somewhere, perhaps they  put you on a bus. I asked a few of the BA operators, MITIE staff and Border Control folks why these extra checks were in force, nobody answered, nobody quite knows, they just do what they are told it seems, eyes like saucers. A glitch in the great system then halts our plane's boarding, nobody explains, they stand, we all stand, nobody says anything, we stay in line. When you ask why you get no answer, just a nod to move on. So why bother with new passports, their chips and codes and images, why bother with on-line checks and bar codes?  We think we are British and can prove it but Britain or BA or BAA, whoever they are, isn't so sure.

Thank you sir!

It's great when the shared wisdom of the internet is available to the common, perplexed and stressed man when he requires something inspirational to draw upon for his guidance in the ways of primitive arts and secrets. There is no god, no science, no law, nothing out there. In fact there is only...whatever you call it.

Arrested Development

Oops, poor lady, I hope it wasn't her first tattoo, you have to admire her for going public with this.

I lifted this (lazily) from the Daily Telegraph Pole and I'm no great fan of Starkey but I am a great fan of history and the occasional rare burst of common sense:

 There are two arguments in David Starkey’s new series The Churchills. The first is that for Winston Churchill it was the process of writingMarlborough: his Life and Times in the early Thirties, a million-word megalith about his great ancestor John Churchill, first Duke of Marlborough, that transformed Winston into the masterful statesman we know. Churchill, Starkey maintains, was immersing himself in a story which in so many ways would anticipate his own: Marlborough, in his wars against Louis XVI and then in the Wars of the Spanish Succession, was fighting a power, France, whose parallels with the growing Nazi Germany Churchill couldn’t fail to acknowledge.

“France was a profoundly militarised power which expressed itself not only by warfare and foreign expansion but also in terms of its aspirations as a hegemonic culture; and also massive internal persecution of a minority – the Huguenots. When you read Churchill’s account of this you think, ‘Is he talking about Louis XVI… or about Hitler?’”

That would be a perfectly juicy thesis, enough certainly to sustain a series. But Starkey is an intellectual unable to resist stirring the pot as much as a toddler in wellies can resist a placid puddle. And so to argument B: The Churchills is about more than just Winston and his 18th-century ancestor. “The series has a not very well concealed propagandistic role on the importance of history – and the catastrophe that no modern politician has this kind of background,” Starkey says.

His point is that it was Churchill’s absorption in history that made him great. And though he says that the timing of The Churchills is accidental, he sees worrying similarities between now and the Thirties.

“I think there is a real sense now that we genuinely don’t know where we are, or what we are or where we’re going. We’ve lost confidence in our leaders in exactly the same way as happened in the Thirties. There’s a sense of some huge indefinable threat which is both from abroad and within our societies.”

The problem, he says, is that our politicians lack the historical perspective to assess the situation and then act accordingly.

“Arguably since the Twenties, but certainly since the Second World War, we’ve tended to try to understand the world through the so-called social sciences. It seems to me, for example, that the 2008 crash was the moment at which we realised that we don’t actually understand economics any more than a bean counter. Mervyn [King] was my colleague at LSE and he’s a deeply nice man. He’s one of the world’s top two or three academic economists. And he has no idea what he’s doing.”

It isn’t just King, or economists in general, that Starkey feels have failed. “It seems to me the same is true with the management of our social policy, the health service… infinite academic resources have been devoted to the so-called social sciences. It’s obvious we have no understanding of how they work at all. I think the so-called social sciences frankly are mumbo jumbo. If you want to begin to understand the strangeness, the patterns – in so far as there are patterns – of human behaviour then there’s only one way of doing it. That’s by looking at what human beings have done before. And if you do it systematically it’s called history.”

The Great Scottish Summer

Actual Greggs steak bake and actual simulated coffee.

Baby Swifts in the coal cellar, either asleep or awake, I'm not sure.

Seen in Perthshire, nicely overgrown and possibly in the wrong place.

Today it rained so much a train derailed, the motorway closed, there were landslips and every second road was flooded. Journeys that normally took an hour took about an hour and fifteen minutes. The delay made me so hungry I ate a packet of crisps. It reminded me of the time I bit into a Gregg's steak bake and burned my tongue, at least I didn't bite my mouth, that's the worst self inflicted food related experience of all. Anyway the steak bake whilst baked doesn't really have much steak in it, it does contain bits of dead animal cooked up in a brown sauce however, yum. It's an iconic snack here in Scotia.


So after all the transport and traffic delays and strange dank, putrid water lying in pools across the roads and housing schemes I wished, for once, I wasn't here. Please tourists, explorers and aliens, don't bother coming to Scotland (stay in London and soak up the Olympics) everything is truly shite up here these days.

Perthshire Rambler

Every so often you come across a tree that has a chain wrapped around it's trunk. Why does this happen? I don't really know but that's just some of the Perthshire magic that you may or may not come across as you wander through the Perthshire wilderness. Go wild in the country if you will.

Banned by the Brand Police

Olympics organisers have warned businesses that during London 2012 their advertising should not include a list of banned words, including "gold", "silver" and "bronze", "summer", "sponsors" and "London". Publicans have been advised that blackboards advertising live TV coverage must not refer to beer brands or brewers without an Olympics deal, while caterers and restaurateurs have been told not to advertise dishes that could be construed as having an association with the event. At the 40 Olympics venues, 800 retailers have been banned from serving chips to avoid infringing fast-food rights secured by McDonald's.Watch out then all you small businesses, gangsters and ordinary people.

Sporting integrity

Here's a cat who looks like a cat (Syrus)  we lost about five long years ago. We were both pretty upset when Syrus disappeared and searched for him for months, years even. That's what cat people do. Ali spotted this fellow a few days ago and for a moment was...not sure. Today I saw him perched on a wall and looked him up and down and met his gaze. He's a nice, placid, well worn cat but he's not Syrus. You think that anyway and then you start thinking about the film Sommersby, mistaken identity, loss and almost exact replicas. No, it wasn't him.

So far 2012 has been the year of the phrase "sporting integrity". A fashionable term that's un-managed use has allowed footballing professionals, pundits and fans the opportunity to jump from scandalous quicksand to a moral high ground made of concrete - set up in their own mind's mixer. The trouble is the more you use the phrase the less it comes to mean and the more the concrete turns to quicksand. In life the truth is that you cant really trust anybody or be sure of very much...even cats are confusing these days.

Knitting the Olympics

Just back home from a week in the Perthshire hills feeding and having fun with a variety of my children and grandchildren. Some random photos may follow but right now I've just had a really good "good night's" sleep and a strong cup of lukewarm coffee. It's Sunday morning and I feel fine if a little sore in places.

In the wider world the Olympic Games in London remain difficult for the parochial and conflicted Scots to handle as the build up progresses, most of us just don't get it and dislike the corporate big boys, politicians and BBC running the whole show in a way that squeezes the joy and life completely out of it. Nice therefore to see this alternative knitted tribute...

Cabin fever

Regular rain, the unravelling of the great Scottish summer, TV on the Fritz, maybe too much chocolate or bacon, excess amounts of corn syrup, lack of sleep or space or whatever. These things spawn strange pastimes, generate new skills, boundary stretching artworks and explorations around the edge of all gravity and ability.

Abandoned petrol station

There are plenty of used up, closed down petrol stations here and there but this one is a pretty good example of a business that's just died as a result of enforced road changes and neglect. Nobody it seems has tried to convert it to a car wash or Chinese restaurant either so it's slowly rusting back into the weeds and damp landscape. It's just by the old A9 in Calvine, a few lonely miles north of Blair Atholl, Perthshire, Scotland. The rerouted (and always controversial) A9 runs past only a few yards away, close but not close enough.

Public service assistance

If your for sale sign becomes dangerously squint then there are people driving around who will quietly and carefully fix it for you by applying the universal rule of three. That means: First we spot the problem. Second we give you an unspecified but reasonable amount of time to fix it. Thirdly, we note you've done hee-haw, you're ambivalent towards stuff, maybe lazy or stupid so we intervene. We cannot tolerate a maladjusted and crooked universe,  we must fix things, it's what we do. Next on the hit list: RBS, Barclays, the Conservative Party, the music industry and Syria.

BBC Retweet

John Barclay @Johnbarclay1 @TommyReckless @BBCComedyCafe Heard the show, of course you were fab. Radio time seems twice as fast as normal time! 01:56 PM - 06 Jul 12 via web Retweeted by The Comedy Cafe @BBCComedyCafe To 1509 followers. Learn more about @BBCComedyCafe. View their profile

Friday's trousers

Friday's trousers were/are a nicely proportioned 1950s style grey selection that I imagined would almost render a man invisible should he happen to be walking in the clouds.  They currently match the gloomy, unsummery weather that hovers across the Stone Roses fans at the T in the Park site and down to the Firth of Forth where bridges are being built. In life it's often comes down to the choices you may make about blending in or standing out in the crowd; it seems that apparel is pretty important in this - you have to be careful. Anyway I went about my business, worked a bit, shopped at bit, domesticated a bit, taxied a bit, cooked a bit and listened to Tommy Mackay on the Radio Scotland Comedy Cafe. I did all these things whilst quite invisible, all thanks to my superb Friday trouser choice.

Band of Gypsies

A few deja vu moments from the Edinburgh Tuesday Night Monsoon Sessions. If you're thinking that these folks look like they can really play then you're quite right.

Frankly disturbing

Yesterday's blog pic was perhaps a little disturbing. I don't really want to represent myself as a ranting idiot, angry at the notion of god (with a small g) or organised religion in any of it's many forms. I respect other beliefs but I can't quite take them seriously - they don't make sense. So as an antidote piece I offer something that's not too cute but still pretty good, natural, small and full of the magical wonder of things that makes life good. Ladies and gentlemen I give you a bird holding onto a stalk of grass.

Meanwhile, a good jammin' and hootin' time was had in the subterranean suburbs of Edinburgh at Mr FB's birthday event last night. Some great playing, singing, tootling on the sax, percussive ace action, guitar chatter and a whole lot of cake. Nicer than nice and better than the summer weather.

Mysterious Ways

Yes indeed, God moves pretty mysteriously and also says some interesting things about himself/herself/itself.

Her Royal Highness Princess Victoria Sponge

Today's question of the day is: Is there a name for that highly tasty and pleasurable thing that happens when you bite into a tiny Victoria Sponge cake and somehow you manage to inhale a small amount of icing sugar that catches at the back of your throat and palate just as your teeth descend upon that soft spongy outer and that cream and jam luxury interior? I'm sure that the French have a word for it and possibly even the Germans.

The afternoon was nice, a famous Formula 1 driver bought me a drink, I saw a well respected author, the great and the good surrounded me, I enjoyed the rain because I ignored it, I let some hard worked young pipers ahead of me in a queue and my lovely wife looked beautiful. There also was the memorable cake experience.

Woody

From the kitchen window, near Selkirk in the beautiful Scottish Borders.

I like woodpeckers, the way they look, the way they fly and the tap tap noise they make. They also like to bully the smaller birds and shove them out of the way on the bird feeder but then that's nature for you. Did I mention that my middle name is Wood? That's really all I have to say about woodpeckers at the moment.

Buzzed by swifts

So wildlife photography, or any kind of proper photography clearly isn't my thing. Anyway here's a quivering shot of the tiny swift that's nested up and bedded down in our 19th century coal cellar (there isn't much call for coal at the moment around here, even in the current damp climate). The tiny bird stays up in there most of the day defying the cats outside on a lazy sentry duty, the puzzled toads, scurrying rodents and the army of snails - there are also a few rubber necked humans who blunder around and occasionally get neatly buzzed in a confined space on those rare moments when the bird actually leaves the nest. You'll notice the bird does have something of a glint in his/her eye, clearly a plan is forming.

Harumph!

Waiting from the rain to stop so that I can surgically probe the MX5's roof and water management systems.  I have two special tools devised and modified from curtain rods and coat hanger origins that I intend to insert and thrust into the tiny drain and so remove what appears to be a significant blockage. This blockage has resulted in a wet footwell and carpets, a problem already encountered and lived with in the old long lamented Cougar. However until the rain stops this life saving  procedure cannot be undertaken. It's tough at times like these to be both mechanical and medically minded as well as cack-handed and clumsy. Maybe it'd be for the best if it kept on raining.

Go and chill

This (otherwise very good) week has been blighted by things out there, in the wild woods, wider worlds and media that for some reason have got to me. It's mostly the Tories, they are easy to hate, Cameron and Osborne - setting up Chloe Smith with Paxo, pushing and pulling, U turns and talking bollocks, they have no idea. Barclays Bank and it's clearly criminal activities. RBS with their bungled outsourcing backfire and we'll just "blame it on the poor Indian staff" routine. Rangers Football Club, cheating for twenty years, not a shred of honesty or integrity about them, swindling fans and the game and no sign of an apology or acknowledgment of any error. Alex Salmond for being a smug and unfunny human being,  Alistair Darling for being a big wet kipper and then the never ending incessant June rain. OK, said it all - now to just sit under this here mystical tree and drift away.

Glayva

Actual photo of our actual glasses, actual ice and actual bottle.

Nice to relax with a Scottish Liqueur , watching the football, discussing life with all it's layers and complexity. No time for all this blogging nonsense really.

Five Stones of Wisdom

The Five Great Stones of Scottish Wisdom. These stones are between 3500 and 2000 years old, their meaning and use has been lost somewhere in the deep mists of time. They are the true representation of history captured in stone, ancient, rough and elemental, fashioned with primitive care by unknown hands and forces, mysterious and signifying long gone ways and wisdom. Times past, never to be recalled, never to be reenacted, from the blue flames of the occult and from the early pre-Celtic light  of new knowledge acquired. I found them at the bottom of my wardrobe next to a vinyl copy of Big Country "The Crossing".

A door in Edinburgh

What can be on the other side?

Getting the most out of life

Traditional pot (showing tear-off ragged edge)

The classic corner model

The swirling but irritating artisan

Part #1. A big part of getting the most out of life involves getting the maximum benefit from your hourly, daily, weekly, (delete as applicable) carton of lovely, creamy, fruity, nourishing yogurt. Failure to choose and partake of the most efficient spooning carton can have serious consequences and render you unable to "get the most" out of your yogurt and therefore life itself. You may be crushed and rendered as an outcast from popular society by a poor selection of outer dairy carton. Careful research into the design of  the yogurt carton and levels of spooning satisfaction are therefore essential to avoid disappointment and a low or negative score in "getting the most". The actual spoon also plays a part, make sure it's clean and not too big, a nicely shaped teaspoon works best. Then pick the carton - I don't want to damn any major brands here (for fear of litigation) so I'll just go for basic shapes, here are my findings:

Traditional cylinder pot - performs well but it's hard work to clear the (non) corners,  7 out of 10.

Swirling artisan pot - usually has good or exotic flavours but inner geometry is flawed allowing contents to stick, hard for effective spoon action also, 6 out of 10.

Corner tri-pot - excellent dump function and clean and open spoon area. Generally satisfying on a number of levels with user choice and mix ratios well indulged, 9 out of 10.

Pump action tubes - messy, awful, bad even for kids, best ignored, 1 out of 10. Not even worth posting a picture of the messy gunk either.

There you have it. Many thanks to the Scottish Government, Muller, the National Lottery and "The Fifty Shades of Grey" Specialist Barbershop South Queensferry for sponsoring my ongoing research. More news soon.

Home studio

Just spent the last seven hours in the err...home studio (or dining room filled with miscellaneous cables and boxes to be precise) playing guitar, this is how I feel, not quite how I sounded however. I'm also pretty tired and my fingers are sore. I need some cheese, some tomatoes, olives, wine and French bread.

Doing something brilliant

Starting. For all the days when you should be doing something better, something brilliant, finishing writing that song, drawing up that design, making a start on your short story, practicing those difficult chords, taking photographs and editing them, planning and scheming how you can get more publicity for your work, taking notes and making observations, working out costs, meeting and talking, doing the busy, scribbling like mad as if a demon had a hold of your hand, trying to get that musical problem straightened out, capturing an idea and developing it, starting something, finishing something. Finishing.

Zombie. Meanwhile the zombies and time bandits are there, inside and outside your head, thieves and ragamuffins, clad in the uniform of doubt, thumbs busy on phones and applications, skipping and spinning in other people's wake, eyes glazed and dim, focused on a technological horizon that's running away, lazy and idle...and all the while, with each unnoticed, undocumented moment the time just slips away as if it never existed, ever at all. Apocalypse.

Nothing is wrong. There is nothing wrong, all is well, the economists are just taking a break from thinking straight, from putting all the numbers in the right place, there's nothing really wrong. But this crisis just goes on and on and on until it's normalised and we are institutionalised, like banks. Big banks that cannot fail because they are too big to fail because failure is unthinkable because we all want stability and things like that so we can all sleep at night. Sleep in peace. Sleep.

Good morning, good afternoon, good night.

40 shades of blue

Art: The blues and greens of some undersea world, corked and captured in an artistic window sill piece that uses the sky and the northern rain as a backcloth and the warmth and fun of a family room as a context.

Football: The tribal pulling power of football is a hard magnet to resist. I get pulled in all the time, whether it's laughing at the hapless and criminal efforts of Glasgow Rangers squirming on their self inflicted hook or watching Spain, Italy or England struggle or triumph in Euro 2012. The primal need to support and feel superior, the heartless disregard for the loser or the pain and empty innards that come with loss and defeat. Concentration comes and goes, stars shine and dim, sweat gives way to a cold fear and the long walk back – from the TV to the couch to the kitchen to the couch as the second half loads up and runs. I make my own substitutes, send myself off, get fouled and kicked and then forget it all as if none of it had ever happened. Futile and pointless entertainment, skill, comedy and blind passion on display and pundits who talk like discarded newspaper back pages or angry drunks phoning in. Football in 2012, no better or worse than it ever was and no more relevant. At least nobody has to run around the country with a golden torch in a golden convoy in order to try to connect the spectacle with the common man, all you need are a coach load of young millionaires and an eager sponsor.

We're not brave we're just...

The lovely Nicola Sturgeon about to take revenge on her critics before she morphs into Rebecca Brooks thanks to the magic of CGI / PMS. Meanwhile Wee Eck looks after their fearsome offspring while the lassie from Capercaillie sings a sweet Scottish folk lament about dead kittens, the Clearances and serial poverty. A typical Scottish scene that tourists will expect to see upon alighting at Glasgow Airport. Thanks to Tommy Mackay for the pic.

Brave: Will American tourists be inspired to visit Scotland when they see a well rendered but clearly unreal cartoon version who's central character appears to be an exaggerated replica of Rebecca Brooks? Perhaps they will, in the same way I've always wanted to visit Bedrock to call upon Fred Flintstone, Springfield to share a beer and some wise cracks with Homer and of course Gotham City to attend a cocktail party hosted by Bruce Wayne. Such is the power of illusion and fantasy created by the silvery trails of cinema legend, mind bending drugs and artistic visual fantasy. People (that's you and me) can't resist the urge to explore these brave new virtual worlds presented so faithfully and convincingly via high end artists and computer generated graphics, it's all just like the real thing, only better, it's not real.

Diddley Bo

Why is it that after 44 years – for some a little more than a lifetime, the Rolling Stones “Let it Bleed” still works so well as an album? It's a curious mixture of cornball rubbish, bad playing, bad singing, poor songwriting and a ramshackle production ( Exile on Main Street is worse), yet despite this it's a great album and strangely for me and my single figure attention span I never get bored with it, I fact it gives me goosebumps. The whole thing must be proof of the existence and the success of chaos theory and that music that is pristine and polished seldom cuts as deep as the rusty blade the Stones used then.

Moving from this we have the holy grail of rough cut music, here's a Diddley Bo carefully handcrafted from 2 x 4, a whisky bottle, a spare hum-bucker and a string and some nails by my son-in-law Guy. Does it make proper music? Of course and it's also strangely satisfying and challenging to play.

No longer at your convenience

For sale in Rosyth, behind a bookies and a corner shop and near the Police Station; a fine development opportunity.

Near the beach in Aberdeen, shut and blank while hundreds of folks play on the grass or sand and use the nearby McDs for their McPees.

As pieces of social and sanitary history these public cludgie places are slowly disappearing; a good thing some may say but if you're older with prostrate troubles, have a chill, you just happen to need or out with young kids then their closure is anything but convenient. These two specimens are hardly worthy examples of the cream of public toilet design and they were no doubt built in and for different times, before rampant cuts and confusing public folklore. Now they are closed, broken and ugly reminders of how we can't quite function or relieve ourselves easily in today's so-called civilised society.

Euro 2012 prediction

So who played the right handed Fender bass?

I gaze down at my printed competitive predictions for Euro 2012, none of them looking good at the moment, most reminiscent of a used lucky dip Lottery Ticket with two correct numbers on it. That's the problem with trying to predict the future, it changes all the time and then it changes again when things actually happen. This is because people are not robots and the unexpected has to be expected and then when it arrives it's still different from what you thought. Life is best lived in the moment and with a few slugs of wine, a curry and good, loving company. I'm not complaining.

Cyclists - lighten up

A respectful toast is partaken as we take custody of an exact replica of some magical Olympic Flame or other.  Meanwhile out in the crowded streets of Scotland and on BBC TV the existence of the Emperor's New Clothes Syndrome is proven beyond any doubt.

Nothing like an unexpected cycle to remind you of your chronic and untreatable mortality, currently I'm on the couch, re-hydrating with warm beer via an intravenous drip. Actually the bike riding isn't so bad, it's the weather and the amount of gloomy cyclists I seem to encounter. I nodded a cheery hello to at least eight fellow peddlers crossing the Forth Bridge today and despite my bright IKEA hi-vis vest and curious technique was ignored by each. Perhaps they were all in some kind of physical pain or maybe their helmets or Lycra pants were taped on a little too tight or they've just had a scary encounter with a juggernaut at some narrow road junction. Anyway I'm well puggled.

Something that works

It's great when something actually works well. These guys are on the ball, ordered yesterday, arrived today and apart from an incorrect measurement on my part everything was just right - two James Bond monkey suits, two shirts, one tie and a carrier - delivered (or so I estimate) in less than 16 hours. Perhaps they have a unit manned by elves and fairies over the hedge in Broxburn. Try it here http://www.mytuxedo.co.uk/ .

Prometheus revisited

That Space Jockey moment.

It's been a source of irritation since I saw it two weeks ago. I've read reviews, had discussions, revised my opinions and tried to think through the story, the hype and the resultant media activity and make some sense of it. Firstly, this film is crap and a major disappointment but despite that it merits four stars from me. That's because it looks so good and it had the potential to be fantastic and it is by Ridley Scott. It's the old Jimi Hendrix illustration, most people playing well are not as good as he is playing badly. Secondly the film is not only crap but a perfect illustration of how producers, directors and screen writers don't really know their audiences nor do they really understand what it is that the public likes about their films. Thirdly - why bother with rip-off 3D? Nobody really likes it.

Alien is/was a case in point, low budget, grubby, a bit scary but with a good central idea and most importantly the promise and mystery of some back story that is never revealed in the film (this also applies to the Matrix, Easy Rider, True Grit and so on). The big mistake in Prometheus is that they (the guy who wrote the Lost scripts must take a load of blame) failed to understand that fans don't want a whole, bigger picture Von Daniken 70s trip shoved down their throats like a face hugger's tentacle, all they want is bit more on the back story as a tease and not so much actual full blown explanation.

Explanations in Sci-fi and horror are as useful as Penn & Teller pulling the curtain open away halfway through the trick. Cinema goers want to stay where they are, in the dark spooning ice cream and be allowed the fun and latitude to speculate on a story's outcome and to use their own imaginations - the spaces are very important. It certainly worked for God and Jesus when they left us to write the Bible's back and front story ourselves.

What else is wrong with this?

a) The basic premise - a team in space that don't know each other, are belligerent and have no regard for their own safety or understanding of the mission; how real is that?
b) A script that is stilted, laugh out loud awful, pathetic, inane and actually unhelpful in the storyline.
c) Jump cuts and badly timed edits that leave the viewer dizzy and confused as action and huge wedges of plot motion are crammed in to fit the running time.
d) A mystery central character already outed in the hype but hidden from the rest of the cast, why?
e) A supposedly intelligent back story that makes little or no proper sense because it plays on muddled myths that are too weak to sustain a plot.
f) Wild assumptions about the durability of a feeble human body - after highly intrusive surgery.
g) Unless you're Clint Eastwood or Woody Allan you should probably stop making films after the age of 70, or get some younger help.
h) I still give it as many as four stars - that's clearly wrong but the look, design and production are too good to ignore.

All very frustrating.

Three o'clock shadow

I don't mind the shape I'm in.

Every afternoon there is a three o'clock moment. Today was no exception. Out in the wide open spaces here and there in Fife, the sun peacefully on my back with no young 'uns to consider.  It was nice. As we got home I reflected on the moment and the past  and picked up on a list of random things that you might, as a new parent suddenly find yourself doing (grandparents may also do them from time to time but with a little less relish and more regret):

Here's the list.

1. Butter a piece of toast while peeing.
2. Brush someone's teeth against their will.
3. Blow on food while it's in someone else's mouth.
4. Help someone else blow on food while it's in someone else's mouth.
5. Eat food that's fallen out of someone else's mouth.
6. Eat food you found on the floor.
7. Eat food you found on the mantle.
8. Eat a sweet you found in a shoe.
9. Turn on the TV at 5am.
10. Wipe somebody's nose with your bare hand.
11. Let somebody barf in your bare hand.
12. Eat baby food.
13. Blame a fart on a child.
14. Blame a child's fart on your spouse.
15. Get someone dressed while you're in the shower.
16. Pass out from blowing up a kiddie pool/balloon.
17. Cut up a grape.
18. Almost agree to cut up a raisin.
19. Pretend to enjoy the flavour of a prune.
20. Ask someone why their hair smells like yogurt.
21. Ask someone why their hair smells like your antiperspirant.
22. Put someone else's toenail clippings in your pocket.
23. Let someone watch you crap while they stare blankly eating an iced lolly.
24. Have someone think you're amazing at frisbee/football/drawing.