Libyan human rights?

Keep on rockin' in free world etc. etc.

Libya's record on human rights is rather poor. Some 200 North African refugees were rounded up and tortured this month as they crossed over the border, some were killed. At least 20 Libyans were shot this month by troops from their own army. In Libya it is illegal to criticise or disagree with the government and those who do disappear... but we keep on rockin'...

Of course we here in Scotland now occupy the moral high ground, our politicians have shown compassion and mercy, marvellous and lofty examples of humanity at its best some would say. We can now be smug and self righteous and applaud the values that lead us into holding the world's moral compass, so we think. Another view may be that the UK is weak and bewildered, our sense of purpose and justice has become diluted. We huff and puff to impress with our waspish actions, hand wringing and an artificial sense of "the right thing being done". Two hundred and more dead souls cry out for justice from the green fields of Lockerbie and thousands more from the hot sand and dust of Libya. Their voices are unheard in the international clamour for political clout, power and the black, black oil.

Fish supper

After accidentally stepping into some spilled diesel at a Shell station I experienced that awful feeling of losing one's footing on the clutch, at a junction. My left foot was behaving as if it was on the Cresta Run, my car was behaving as if some incontinent lunatic was poking it's innards with a sharp stick. With 15 minutes to go before my son's football match kicked of I decided that a de-stress reward was needed and headed into the garden city of Rosyth for a fish supper needed for a late and partly forgotten tea. £3.90 and three minutes later my diesel soul was clean and I was scoffing hot chips and white fish. Next a short hop across to the legendary Civil Service Club (where as a young man I learned the fine arts of drinking and smoking) and its football pitches for a feast of rainy entertainment that ended in a friendly 3 - 1 defeat. Just can't quite get the chippy/diesel smell out of the car.

Green Mile mouse

I like animals, in fact I'm sitting on one in the left of this picture and not being bad to it all, quite the reverse, a few minutes later "Blue" decided to try to be bad to me by attempting to unseat me, another story for another day. So back to the facts, this morning the cats presented me with yet one more dead mouse. Poor thing, pathetic, spark out on the floor boards and ignored by it's furry killers. " Was it not warm?" asked Ali, "do you expect me to give it the kiss of life?" I said. Sadly I've not got the Green Mile gift but I've found another way to recycle the many miscellaneous dead creatures the cats regularly provide. An easy quick flip with a plastic dustpan over the hedge and into the potholes of our unmade roadway, untouched by human hand regardless of their body temperature. Their tiny remains smoothing the way for local traffic of all sorts.

A break in the weather gave me the rare opportunity for an excellent aerobic strimmer workout. First the fueling ceremony where you try to get a 1:50 ratio between petrol and two stroke mix without soaking your jeans. Then pulling the start chord on the mighty 30cc engine in a bid to coax it into life. With a compression setting that would shame a Harley Davidson this can take time and effort, swearing and sweat. Once it's running then you leave it to warm up (no kiss of life) and then pull the trigger, stall it and start the whole bloody agonising process again. Finally we are roaring and cutting, up to my knees in nettles and thistles, weed debris flashing in all directions as I seem to stand inside this petrol powered vegetation liquidiser (the safety goggles effect). An hour later the garden is totally devastated and I am plastered with green muck so I remove all my spattered clothes at the back door and head for the shower. Phew.

Fish pie

Not quite the table setting for tonight's feast

The oven is on at 200 and the fish pie is slowly baking, we are in rundown, worn out and full Sunday night/Monday morning mode. A busy weekend is passing , six times across the bridge and back again, busy bbqs, weather and it's many moods, football, stir fry experiments, teeming weans and waning teens and no strimming done. Now it's time to make some plans and eat the pie...

How high the moon?

Nothing is happening apart from dodging meteorite showers and observing migratory birds. The weather is playing havoc with the TV schedules and the grass cutting. Somewhere in Edinburgh a festival is taking place and tram building works are stalling while money remains in there as yet another thing to be argued over. Holidays are complete and there is a cheese mountain somewhere else close by. Meanwhile a lorry load of writer’s blocks have been dumped on the doorstep as we await a decision on planning permission.

I’ve two Les Paul type guitars, one a 1973 Antoria, heavier and more dense than a Gibson and 2008 Gibson/Baldwin Les Paul that is a little less substantial but easier to carry. The man behind those designs but not the production has died at the age of 94. His gifts to the world were multi-tracking and a solid lump of wood that has churned out the heaviest riffs and licks for the last fifty years. No mealy mouthed twang or screechy ping from these guitars, just wails and growls and some rare moments with the pots screwed down and the amp cranked up to create the legendary “woman” sound , one that many try to reach but few attain. Thanks for the dream and a possible means of getting there.

Non-Ukrainian tractor

There in some tractor garden, still rusty and in daily use. To pull the lobster pot boats from the land to the sea and back again. Fordson engineering and British steel and iron that can last for fifty salty years, in fields, on roads and in the water. That was at the weekend however...

Back to reality and Scotland are getting gubbed by Norway in a "must win" but "will lose" football match. Being Scottish is painful at times as is following all the wrong kinds of sports when played by your national teams. Painful.

Monsters of Folk. What's this about?

Pea green in Brora

On a sunny beach in Brora pea soup is ladled out, it is everyday, special day and it is far away. I'm enjoying my new appreciation for the north east, the land, the sea, the cliffs, the horses, the people, the food, the pea green soup. Then it was Monday so the weather turned back to normal, rain all the way to the airport in Wick and above the clouds in an aeroplane made by Saab.

Back home now, holiday over and the cats are back and chasing one another across the garden and up onto the arch.

Where mermaids play

The tipple known as Sloe Gin or "sloggin" or Long Island Tea or something, it's not gin, it's not mulled wine, it's something that folks imbibe on sunny afternoons when lager would be too much, Pimms too pretentious and white wine too obvious. Goes nice with a Mars bar, a scone and some black grapes.

Through the gate and onto the beach and if you stare into the sea you may just catch a glimpse of a mermaid playing a violin. The artist who designed these gates certainly did. As for me I'm relaxing after surf and turf and stumbling along cliff tops, peering into Cromwell's midden and avoiding bulls in fields, always the best line to take (and all without a Barbour jacket).

In a blue sky hole

Summering is better than wintering and the hole of blue sky that we currently inhabit remains around us and above our heads. Grey clouds roll close but seem to be held back from crossing our path by some great force, in this case the influence of the North Sea. It froths and bubbles and carries away the daylight and seaweed and returns to pound now rounder stones and to deposit some fresh driftwood. The chain and flowers in the photo above are nearby, found on an underused quayside, holding back the beach and securing a family of smelly lobster pots.

Things we know now:

It is possible to ride a horse cross country for at least two hours - without falling from it.
Green soup is good.
Sea caves are worth exploring.
The people who named lochs were a bit daft.
Landrovers are comfy up to a point and you can sleep in them.
There are many kinds of tree house.
Buying a derelict cottage to fix is a good idea, but the location must be right.
Prince Charles drives an Audi.
I've got Schuey till Massa recovers.
Macbeth was one of Scotland's best kings.
Rabbit can taste ok.

Wrong end of the scope

I don't want to be remembered as the man with the one white eyebrow hair, that wiry sticky out mutation of hair that torments my head. Nor as the man who, inadvertently whilst looking into the far distance walked into a telescope, parked in the very near distance. Perception at a high percent and the understanding of space elude me at times, I've no idea why. I don't want to be remembered as the man who couldn't quite remember. I have enough self perception however to see where some of this may be going.

Currently I'm sitting in a house with two telescopes, both far and both at times quite near.

Everglades daily photo

Possibly the end of this occasional and seasonal series - behold the wilderness and the native's accommodation.

Today I face the barren wastes of a pile of ironing buoyed up by an elaborate omelet and mushroom concoction that Ali recently created. I can do anything it seems and she can cook anything. Abercorn Yogurt has also been invented, please take a note of the date and time you read this, it may come in very useful.

Meanwhile the Community Council are pressing for changes to the proposed new road bridge road infrastructure configuration, we fully support this venture. We will fight them on the beaches, in the trees and possibly from the pub in the village if all else fails. Scottish Government? No thanks.

Back to work - the long way

Up at 6.20, little or no hangover, mild sunburn wearing out, finding the way back to work along familiar roads signaling the short end of the short holiday season. Never really as bad as you think it's going to be despite the avalanche of out of date emails, too much coffee and the incessant rain beating against the office window, it's a kind of life.

The Lib Dems want airbrushed images to be labeled "unreal" so that young girls realise that stick thin and perfect ten models are really unreal. Next step is to remind comic and sci-fi readers that these characters do not exist, movie goers that Harry Potter is fictional and doesn't have magic powers and that Coca-Cola doesn't refresh as much as you'd like. Cigarettes are apparently good for you, tomatoes make you blush, God answers prayers in mysterious ways and Kate Winslet is a size 8 most of the time. Best news of the day is of course the story that Tutti Frutti has finally been committed to DVD, some of the material may however may have been airbrushed and Big Jazza McGlone wasn't so big and didn't play the guitar parts for real and neither did Suzi Kettles.

Toast and kedgeree for tea, sailing ships upon the sea.

Key Largo daily photo

Pardon the tilt of the earth's crust and the quality of the pastry, these things happen. Just outside of Lower and Upper Largo lurks the little known place aka "Key Largo" famed for shell shops, shell suits, wooden toads and films shot in Hollywood but credited to the Fife Coast, if only. I will return one day to put Bogey right and to calm the many storms and errors in scripts and overall plotting. In the mean time I revel in their high quality rest rooms, water at a $1 a bottle and the smooth road surfaces that greet even the casual visitor. What a hot and funky place.

A full day in the garden saw us inebriated by 1400hrs and full of at least five daily fruits and some square sausage fried in rape seed oil. Yes Mr Salmond we are keeping up the healthy end of Scotland here in rural West Lothian so please do not fret or even consider cashing in your double pension(s). In fact why not stick half of it on a nice little runner at the 2.30 at Epsom on Tuesday?

Miami daily photo

Still busy with a series of random and unplanned activities in the holiday wake, laundry, visits, unforeseen events, parties and the great grey clouds of the pretty rain variety. Taking time to plan the next great blues riff and lick combination based around Wabi Sabi existential themes and non-narrative progressions.

I've also been digging potatoes in a vain attempt to entertain the grandchildren, they however know better and prefer trampolines and chutes and things less practical. The berries continue to bloom, the plums are slowly growing red and the apples are showing some promise. The more mundane side being the continual need to cut and strim the grass and pull weeds from their stubborn beds. Of immediate concern is the need to fry 24 eggs, acres of bacon and the numerous punnets of strawberries that need to be topped and tailed - champagne breakfast for all coming up.

Miami

Keeping it simple today, just returned from Miami where the weather is hot and every so often coconuts fall from trees, even in car parks. My metabolism is slowly recovering from a series of IHOP breakfasts, Welch's Grape Juice, freeway madness, smoothies and chicken give-aways and no alcohol for a week. I'm still traumatised by the sight of iguanas running across the road in front of the car and the alligator eyes staring up from the swamp water, I need another Reece's peanut butter cup and some more sleep.

40 years after

Despite being 14 at the time and not totally daft I recall being a bit unaware and unimpressed by the moon landings in 69. For some reason my little world did not stand still and I didn't stare into those grainy TV pics in wide eyed wonder. Seems I missed out on one of the biggest events in mankind's history thanks to indifference, rampant hormone activity and a spell in the Army Cadets (I was at summer camp at the exact time, learning to smoke, drink and throw up). I can't be the only one of my generation who was like this, afflicted by some virus of Scottish working class dunderheaded apathy and indifference? At least I've grown out it now (I think). Sorry Neil, Buzz and the poor bloke in the command module who had to whistle and read magazines, I finally get it.

Anything made by a firm called Pigtronix has to be good, not so keen on the $169 price tag however.

In a garden

The first crop is the deepest.

I suspect the blackcurrants took a sizable hit today, the smoothie revolution marches on. We're all so healthy and so regular. Thank you fertile soil of West Lothian.

Following a McFlurry sleigh ride a spot of slippery beach combing was attempted. The South Queensferry beach however was surprisingly clean and yielded nothing special. Meanwhile tourists stare at the bridges, eat chips, drink coffee and wine under huge umbrellas as the buses struggle to park and exit. On the High Street the Orroco Pier is growing like Swine Flu, gobbling up the shops next door as it's greedy footprint increases. Great location, good food, daft "local unfriendly" prices and no parking - the major Achilles heel in the project. You can however look out onto the bewildered over 50s staggering across the rocks and then there are beachcombers. It's a kind of life.

Unpredictable weather prevails

The Halo of the blessed ********** (you choose according to you're current belief system) has appeared on our cat blanket following a spell of quality time spent with and within Saint Ariston, creating an unlikely but compelling Turin Shroud effect. All would-be pilgrims should apply in writing (cheques or cash welcome) then form an orderly or disorderly queue if you wish to view the artifact. We don't care much about such trivial things as how you may make a line, the pilgrims can work that one out. The picture has been scrutinised by a panel of experts from the BBC (expenses pending) and the original blanket is now in special display case made from bulletproof glass. None of this is made up so bury your scepticism and unbelief. We do still respect your right to believe whatever futile twaddle you wish, it's just your equally blessed money we're after.

Perhaps not looking so attractive in this photo but none the less a landmark piece of smoothie making in the making. Home grown black currants, not home grown bananas and strawberries about to be mashed into smoothie oblivion by the kids. Turned out quite nice.

In the garden various things happened despite a weather rotation pattern that had us confused and frankly wet and muddy. We found the biggest toad so far (7* head to toe or toe'd) and a strange little red baby toad, or at least a smaller toad that was a shade of reddy pink. The first spuds were also harvested and formed a vital part of a make shift tea sourced from the garden, leftovers and the BP petrol station. Yum.

Devil's haircut

Devil’s haircut

In a desperate bid to spruce myself up I visited a barber I hadn’t visited before, one more local than usual also. Sometimes my search for a good barber takes me to the ends of the earth or Fife, whatever is easier. Today’s barber was in a strange, statistical shift male. He had a slightly worn down alcoholic look and charged twice the price for less conversation and a better cut. No holiday twittering and blethers about bairns in the nursery, no mindless patter as is the way of the glaecit girl school of haircutting. Anyway so severe and effective was his use of the electric clippers that I had to rush home to shower into every nook, non-nook and cranny, this was followed by a quick rub down with wire brush. Invigorating, scary and not what I’d planned for the day.

Devil’s spreadsheet

Prior to the haircut my day had already been shipwrecked thanks to a complete bastard of a spreadsheet that I was working on at work (where else to you do spreadsheets?). Every time I saved it, the diminutive and simple file exploded into a 10 MB monster with jaws that I couldn’t email or adjust. It seemed someone had buried some packet of Trojan data time bombs, razor blades and pocket sized anvils in there. It got so bad my teeth began to itch, I ate a banana sideways, stuffed a whole chocolate mallow in my mouth and observed the hairs on my neck sticking up like newly formed boils. That provoked an immediate downing of the tools and a visit to the barbers, not the one above but another. There was a huge queue and being an optimist I joined it and began to read the Sun and a copy of the local rag. Then after nothing had happened to said queue for 20 Martian minutes gave up, jumped back in the car and visited the bloke with the electric clippers, somewhere in another county altogether.

Devil's pussy

When I got home the cats were lying all over the bedroom assuming those sleeping positions that make them appear twice their normal size. Clint looks blank but serious, Missie on the other hand stares at you disdainfully and seems to say “you’re a feckin’ eejit!” in some bizarre Irish cat accent that makes you worry about suffering from an “all Irish cats are after me” paranoia type of syndrome. It all changes when they’re hungry and they mew like babies wanting milk and rub their little heads on your ankles. Bless them.

Last Episode

The last episode of Flight of the Conchords was aired last night, it may of course have been shown before, how would I know? I’ve grown into liking this dumb, childish and ruthlessly inventive show but it ended with a whimper rather than a bang, unlike the real Concorde. I like the way it tips into the surreal every few minutes: At a band meeting Murray is showing Brett and Germaine a script he has written for a musical based on their exploits in New York, it’s his last desperate bid for fame and fortune now they have been evicted from their apartment. The script is really just a record of what they’ve done albeit it lapses into the Star Wars story line from time to time. When Brett criticises the idea and makes a remark Murray points to the script, at the part that is now completely up to date “See, I had already written what you just said!” pointing to a scribbled line in the yellow journal. Not sure any of it made any kind of sense or made me want to visit New Zealand though.


Things that you cant get anymore:

HH 100 watt Combo Amp.
Aztec chocolate bar
BMW 316 Touring Lux
Action Comics
Rhubarb and custard
School dinner dumplings and chips
Bus tickets on a roll
Black and white film and instamatic cameras
Tom and Jerry cartoons
Embassy Regal
Piper Export
The test card
Space flights on TV
Yoghurts with a lump of chocolate at the bottom.
Spangles
Loon pants
Flexible tickets on British Airways
Sinclair Spectrums
Penny Dainties
Flight of the Conchords