Porous with travel fever

Taken from the street

Taken from a tall building

Taken from a helicopter

Sweating away in the muddy laptop archives looking at old (three years maybe?) photos and wondering about the best method of filing and holding and referring to all the wonderful and overlooked jpegs sitting undisturbed in their rows. A short lifetime of images and mistakes crumpled together, travel and wonderfully sunny and rare days, grimaces, smiles and holding drinks up to the camera as if they were sporting cups or represented the height of personal achievement. It's good to have the means to look back, all I need to do now is maintain it. For some reason I was reminded of an old Joni Mitchell lyric that really has nothing to do with New York but a lot to do with travel and memory:


I'm porous with travel fever
But you know I'm so glad to be on my own
Still somehow the slightest touch of a stranger
Can set up trembling in my bones
I know - no one's going to show me everything
We all come and go unknown
Each so deep and superficial
Between the forceps and the stone 

Unanswered questions

There are many unanswered questions out there, floating, drifting, up there high in the sky dodging clouds and answers. They remain the great and universal secret.

"What does TPF stand for?"

"I understand what the graph shows but it strikes me that it would be better if it was set in a context that included an element that reflected the state of the infrastructure, is that possible?'

"Are we going this way because of the time of day?"

"Are they really buying a fleet of bendy-buses?"

"Where is the barbecue sauce then?"

"What makes Easy-Jet customers queue up like that when the plane's not even here?"

Almost Spring

Actual tiny daffs.

As the evenings lighten up then so do we, all that extra daylight, thin cloud and potential sunshine act like a mild intoxicant, like a Buckfast and caffeine sandwich and life, with all it's cares and carelessness seems suddenly good.  Traffic is strangely visible, people go out for walks, cyclists are not irritating or quite so wobbly, you can even imagine yourself being one. Bulbs appear on road verges, birds sart to learn summer songs and rabbits attempt to cross wild tarmac when they really shouldn't bother. Of course the real test of Spring comes with the ritual discarding of the under shirt winter T shirt, a garment first drawn into service late in the November gloom now due to be abandoned and plunged into the deep darkness of the laundry tub.

I still carry the scars of three futile attempts at cleaning a cat's bottom over the weekend.  It turned out to be a two person task, one holding the cat upside down trying hard not to stress the poor beast whilst the other attempts to remove whatever the foreign material is  that is bunging up it's rear and fouling it's fur. Of course fur actually flies and blood (of the human kind is spilt). The cat eventually wriggles away and escapes like the proverbial scalded/anally probed cat. Strangely enough the cat bears no grudges and returns home for attention and the heaps of food that usually follow. The human target remains on edge eyeing the cat, left with no other option than to simply nurse his wounds whist trying to calm the ongoing nervous spasms.

Boneyard Project

More photos here.

I'll keep on doing what I do for as long as I can

but when I can't do it anymore I'll make a new plan.

Bolt repaired but horses escape

As usual it's a DIY lash up of a mix up of a piece of thinking on the hoof and making it up as you go along brainstorm thing; repairs to the rotten/rotting gate that is. It remains our first line of defence against escaping horses and the turmoil of the outside world, sadly badly damaged by the January storms and years of neglect and indifference. Now all is well, at least for a few weeks or until the next storm or stampede. I painted it black because that's the way I see things in March, April promises to be completely different.

Cat hygiene: This weekend I've been reminded that the exercise of cleaning a cat's bottom can result in physical injury to the human participants and emotional trauma to the cat concerned.  The cat's now outside, sitting on a stone wall, eyeing us up somewhat warily, we may need to do more research.

Power to the steering: When it comes to power steering I'm feeling smug. It seems to be the only troublesome part of any car that can be fixed by pouring a magical liquid into the reservoir. I first did this some 50k miles ago and was cheered by the instant and fully satisfactory repair. It's held on up until this month so time to start again and administer the juicy cocktail of leak stoppers and fluid topper up. Dare I believe that I can be successful in this twice in a lifetime?

Football: A pretty bad tempered match this morning in the Fife resort and desperate sun spot known as Burntisland. The fur was flying, the wind was against us and the ref lost control as we got beat  3 - 2 in the shadow of the famous Great Bin. A draw would've been a fair result. Barclay Junior whacked in our two goals, one with the left foot and then one with the right, that was a first. He then headed a possible late equaliser just over the bar. Following an early morning radiator incident when a football boot insole became lost forever behind our kitchen radiator he opted for one of Ali's insoles as a replacement, I think it perhaps brought good luck though not quite enough. It's made me think seriously about taking up some of the good old fashioned top 100 superstitions and testing them out. It would be more fun that adopting some dreary religion and might yield unexpected results - so I started this afternoon by knocking on wood many times when fixing the gate (as above). The gate's fixed but I rendered myself nearly unconscious by hitting my head on a dangling lamp, that's one superstition down, 99 to go.

Two buckets

Two buckets: one old and frankly dirty, one new and pristine. Of course I can't  bring myself to ditch the dirty old bucket and I don't want to foul up the nice and shiny new one. So nothing happens, no progress is made, the ascent of man has temporarily stopped as I learn to deal with this unwieldy and Pantheistic  behaviour of mine, loving two different buckets equally - almost. 

Big & Stupid. I drove over to the glass and concrete nightmare that is Edinburgh's Gyle district (just outside of the famous 2010 to 20?? Tram Battlefield ), a place with no obvious heart, style or warmth. People go there to work, shop, walk around aimlessly eating huge sandwiches and smoke pirated fags whilst exiled from the bosom of their bland, modern buildings. Anyway as it turned out it wasn't at all bad at the DVLA's offices where I was buying road tax and swapping a personal plate. No big queues and very pleasant and efficient staff, all at home and cosy in bright and clean premises. Not a Patty or Selma stereotype to be seen. Then the clerk told me that they were closing down next year, it'll all be done on-line via the DVLA HQ deep in Wales and in the process £30m or so will be saved. Of course everybody knows that this is a complete crock and yet another supposed saving based in providing a poorer service by cutting out  real people - and what do I get? Road pothole tax charged at £250 a year to run a feckin' Volvo that's so tame and benign that would look at home in any Church of Scotland/Salmond Minister's driveway and £80 to put my own number plate back onto it while these poor Public Sector guys are getting dumped. It's big, stupid society all right.

Freeze on day of purchase

Frozen Fresh Food. I don't really understand the thinking behind this piece of advice and at what point, once purchased the clock starts ticking on the actual day. Is it by date or by 24 hour period? Is there also an issue over the speed at which it freezes, what if your freezer is a bit on the slow side and the freezing process overruns into the next day?

Guitars. The ten most expensive guitars in the world, ever. Sounds like a KTel album or some other trashy unmusical thing. Mr EC's various purchases seem to dominate the chart - funnily not many of the guitars are all that attractive.

Beer. Finally an article that supports something I've always believed but never been able to prove. Ok it's pretty pathetic and it's my taste and probably not yours.

Football. It's very hard for me to feel sorry for the current plight of Glasgow Rangers. Over the years the club,  to most neutral Scottish supporters, has defined itself with an odd mixture of arrogance and ignorance. Those two rather unpleasant traits have been displayed time and time again and the noses of most provincial clubs and their support have duly been rubbed in it. Now, thanks to the exposure of a corrupt regime based around cheating, bad business and trickery they are on the verge of complete failure. No doubt many good and decent people have fallen victim to the red white and blue machine and must be wondering quite what to think...well I know what I think.

Maths and Art. They shouldn't really go together but of course they do, like baked potatoes and mackerel or Tiger toast and Stilton. Strange and unwieldy bedfellows at war with one another but complimenting one another simultaneously, some kind of twisted arranged marriage I suppose.

That's all my links used up.

M74 Daily Photo

Headed south into a forest of windmills.

Headed north away from those threatening windmills.

I enjoyed the blue patches of occasionally visible sky and the drab undulating hills on this 2 hour drive, the traffic's light, I can daydream and the radio provides my daily background dose of education and topical nonsense. Today's big story: It seems that the people of Bruntsfield are up in arms because Sainsbury's have slotted in a convenience store where gloomy Edinburgh wine institution Peckhams once stood. Now gleaming counters and orange dabbed plastic bags replace the dark wood, step-ladders and leather of the former off-licence and winery. None of the locals can quite understand it and want order restored, but these days the customer (whom no one owns to actually being) is king, sadly Peckhams has failed as a business and the big boys will find it easy to muscle in. Nothing succeeds like capitalistic success and cheap donuts and chicken wings in this trading vacuum. For some a return to Victorian values is required with steam, dirt, poverty and the ruling classes spitting on those tow- rags in the gutter shoveling coal dust. Hmm...I can see the local's point of view but nothing should be too big or sadly too small to fail  - but maybe Tesco and Sainsbury's are missing a trick here. They should redesign these ugly and unfriendly metro stores under a banner like "Tesco Classic", bring back wooden shelves and counters, dim the lights a bit, disguise the CCTV and the auto tills and try to blend in with the area's own ambiance. Reinvent broken biscuits in tins, spices in tubs, brown paper bags, loose fruit and veg and charge slightly higher prices - the punters would love it (we are all gullible enough and all like a good con). They could even rebrand like the auto industry did when marques lost their sheen and loyalty value (Lexus for Toyota etc.)...Peckham & Sons for Sainsburys, Cohen & Co. for Tesco. It just might win this tiny PR war for them...

By Odin's beard

Vince Cable, the wise old turnip of the coalition has via a top secret Tweet and also by Facebook posts called upon the Great Norse God Odin to split up the Royal Band of Scotland by means of a mighty thunderbolt. Vince hopes that an accurate strike by the supernatural deity and comic strip hero (but only in a back story manner) will enable RBS to be turned into a “new business bank”. Each lightning hewed third will function in a new and revolutionary way that will herald a brave new world of both banking, idolatry and heathenism. The three sections will operate as follows:

Domestic and local – this part will operate local banks and cash machines and do pretty normal banking type things for ordinary punters and the elderly. There will be no scripted sales patter, stupid TV commercials, baseball caps and useless community schemes or branded flying boats and buses chuntering about the countryside. People with a passion for sheep, flat caps and the sporting of smug grins will neither be employed nor allowed to be customers any more. A “no patronising zone” will be created in each branch along with a special area exclusively annexed for occasional human sacrifice and business presentations. Bank premises set in romantic looking, tree lined locations will be sold off as Youth Hostels to Polish investors and speculators. Thor, God of Thunder will be the General Manager.

Investment and speculation – this will be the (much reduced) money making part of the bank and will invest cautiously and wisely in nano-technology, emerging indie bands, healthy fast foods, time-travel and gold mines. No one under the age of 50 will be employed and bonus payments will consist of interesting used cars and classic movies on DVD. Formula 1 will still be sponsored but only at a Scalextric level. Loki, God of Mischief and Mayhem will spearhead this operation.

Virtual – this area of the bank will invent madcap money making schemes (at zero cost) and will sell them on to eager Nigerian and Kenyan businessmen and Chinese and Brazilian gamblers. The remit will we to recoup the squillions of pounds and stuff that's spread out across the developing world and the Internet that RBS either gave away or stupidly lost. The maxim being “if matter cannot be destroyed then the cash must be out there somewhere so let's just get it back.” Tyr, God of War and Vali, God of Revenge will run this as leverage partnership with technical support from Snotra, Goddess of Prudence and Nasal Congestion.

It is hoped that 82% of the 82% that is owned by 82% of British taxpayers will be repaid at 82% interest after 82% of the transformation is completed in 82 years. In a separate “rewards” scheme customers with the most creative name or signature emblazoned on their bankcard will receive a digestive biscuit dipped in a carton of mango yogurt. Yum.

Mr Cable also said that the government had only responded to crises after they happened and should really start a few themselves and give themselves a good shake in order to better keep up with what the hell was going on, the reorganisation of the mighty RBS would help in this venture. Downing Street has however said that it does not comment on leaks, comic strip heroes, Jack Kirby artwork or correspondence between Ministers and those inhabiting anti-matter areas outside of mapped space beyond the known universe or the Eurozone.

Cult series #1

Serenity (aka Firefly) : Nine people looking into the blackness of space and seeing nine different things.

Zappa on failure

"I would say that my whole life has been one massive failure.  I live with failure every day because I can't do the things I really want to do. I enjoy being here, alone, in the studio, siting at my Synclavier. I can do twelve hours and love it and I know that ultimately it doesn't mean anything, but I love it. That's OK, it makes me feel good." Francis Vincent Zappa.

Crayons melting

Self explanatory really.

Rockie Road & Coffee

Of course they were, that's the way it is in all action movie screen plays or the plot line just wouldn't move forward.

Gardens in the City: Today the sun shone and temperature shaded 14 so we explored the inner-city ramshackle environs of Gorgie Farm. Big fat pigs, weird goats, stranded ducks and the usual old MacDonald hit-list along with struggling vegetables and various attempts at fruit cultivation - all works in progress and a reminder that though the hippies have all cut their hair the basic ideals still live on. Parking's not easy around there, I ended up in the shadows of Tynecastle Stadium, not a place I'd normally abandon a car. As the sun shone down the cafe was frantic, overpriced and crumbly but the play park was serene and small enough to be relaxing. Kids and grand kids sucked juice boxes and ate brownies, I enjoyed the coffee and a slice of Rockie Road, then along came the rain.

The Flaming Korans

Young mums and the followers of various prophets.

Scuffles broke out today at a top level forum set up by the Scottish Government designed to explore the topic of why it is people can never really agree about anything. A think tank of academics, politicians, bankers, religious  and business leaders was marred by the throwing of empty Evian bottles and the thwacking of rolled up copies of the Guardian. Police intervened when two digestive biscuits were crushed over the head of Mr Hilary Devey CEO of the pallet crushing and Amazon item movement company “Palletcrush”. A spokesman for the group described his fellow members conduct as “juvenile but necessary due to the way those awkward bastards were trying to argue over another group’s virtual position on moral absolutes”.  Monsignor Micah Paris from the Glasgow Kelvingrove diocese also complained of being lightly pussy whipped in the gazebo just after the ritual luncheon scene. The day ended with a stormy discussion about the use of paper aeroplanes as poetic euphemisms in ancient Chinese poetry. Danny Alexander later said, "the jury is definitely out on this one but I favour whatever it is the big boys say." A special task force will take the matter on with a precise remit to report back in the same decade that the new Forth Bridge opens.


Meanwhile the townspeople of Dagenham were outraged when a party of young denim clad Islamic Fundamentalists from Eton burned copies of Hello and Ok magazines in a nearly public space festooned with Banksy type murals and litter. The scene of devastation and blasphemy was just  outside of a popular "Essex has the word sex in it" type shopping mall modeled on the famous TV show with a similar name. One young mother said “they did it right in front of our kids, I couldn’t believe it, some were this week's and still had the TV guide in middle.” Another young mother, near to tears stated, “I was so shocked I dropped my fag and my meatball Sub, that’s £2.99, you owe me one Allah!" Peace was eventually restored when the kindly staff at a nearby Iceland branch handed out complementary bottles of Tizer and jumbo portions of Brains deep frozen tripe to both groups.  A blow by blow account has been forwarded to the Daily Mail and the UN.

Non-Raspberry Beret

Raspberry Pi

Raspberry Pie

It's the idealistic inventor's dream to put one of these naked and unprotected mini computers in every classroom and teenager's bedroom by the end of the year. The hope is that the little Tweeters and MP3 addicts will learn the codes and build time machines, virtual porn sites, mind boggling fighting games and recreate all the things that used to work on the old Spectrum ZX. Well maybe but I think that they should've added an extra quid on the £21 price tag and built a protective case for the poor machine. Imagine the research that'll be carried out: Can it float in lager? Will it work strapped to a mouse? Is it resistant to mayonnaise, cigarette ash and body fluids? Can it work in the freezer? What happens when you stick two of them down your pants or those of a close friend? Is it possible to wire one up to a) a Mars Bar, b) a cash machine, c) a small dog? Anyway, you can register for one of the little cosmic fruit pies here. All in the name of science.

Jon Anderson is a Hobbit

Saw him on the telly, he's a Hobbit alright.

Olympics: David Macaroon has announced that anybody caught saying anything nasty or at all negative about the up and coming 2012 Olympics will be guilty of high treason. In a surprise move the dark leader of the catastrophic coalition suggested that Olympic critics were just "narrow minded goons with no sense of fun, fair play or business acumen, exactly the kind of people we don't want moaning about costs, sculptures, daft new buildings and all that sort of thing. The very thought of these un-British people having the damn cheek to go on strike or in any way disrupt the profiteering and marvellous games ethos with their petty pension, human rights and other undemocratic and stupid complaints makes them jolly well worse than a box of bald Bolsheviks on crack."

The leader of the opposition, a pasty faced chap was stunned to something approaching silence when he heard that up to £300 a year enters his party's  coffers as a result of collections made amongst the poor, the needy, trade unionists and other Olympic Games deniers. "As a committed Socialist I'm bound to disagree with everything the other bloke says except when it comes to wildcat industrial action, frankly I've never understood the point of it and I object to seeing lots of ugly people out on the streets shouting and looking like they've just walked out of the pages of a Banksy sketchbook." Harriet Harman was also unavailable for comment mainly because she married some union bloke a few years ago and still resents his penchant for bottles of brown ale at breakfast, indiscriminate farting and the copies of Marx's diaries he arranges  on the Ikea pillows at bedtime into the shape of the battleship Potemkin.

The Lib-Dems when asked suggested that any strikers could be counselled by pullover wearing college lecturers trained in sociology and cookery and then tarred and feathered by junior party volunteers. "It'll teach them two things a) the meaning of pain and b) that feathers can stick to tar and your Mothercare dungarees." Danny Alexander agreed and suggested that Unite members be placed on a programme of forced cabbage picking in his Moray constituency. "That'll show them practical economics, how to spot and sell diseased vegetables and provide a sense of fair play as they experience the hard action of the outdoor Eastern European farming exploitative methods." he chortled.

The BBC said the whole thing was very annoying and that they might now need a few extra cameras to capture the trouble(s) and the sporting highlights if they should ever coincide. Boris Johnston agreed to provide the necessary funding, some random on screen buffoonery and as many racing bicycles as are needed.

Busy doing something

And so Noel Fielding heads off into the night.

Nothing: I'm not sure what really counts as something as opposed to things that are truly nothing; sorting, laundry, car washing and investigating car type noises, creating edible food out of drab raw materials, fiddling about without any violin, finding photographs and then forgetting about them. All in a days work when I'm not working. The cats of course just look on disdainfully caring little about what I do unless it in any way approaches them, then they panic. Just as well humans don't quite behave that way.

Fourth: If you are already (like me) wary of all things Olympic then have no fear you're probably not alone. Here's a tribute to all those up and coming ringed shaped endeavours (inches away from the bronze!) part produced by the effervescent and unstoppable Tommy Mackay and written by Mr Dave Cohen.

Tommy Mackay ‏ @TommyReckless

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Olympic Rings everywhere, even in this Olympics Song by @cohendaveyoutube.com/watch?v=8B44ai…

Shore Poets

Following Noel Fielding back from Edinburgh late last night, not following in any kind of weird or obsessive way however. Here he is headed for Bo'ness.

Earlier in the evening we attended the monthly reading at the Shore Poets get together in St John's Cellar Cafe, Henderson's in Edinburgh's west end. It was a low-key, quirky and atmospheric affair, the venue being cold and dark and in other circumstances it would have been a perfect Gothic evening. Some of the material recited was very strong but some was trite and sounded like it had been lifted from the Sunday Post or the People's Friend, you get what you get I guess.  I'd expected more of an intellectual powerhouse with debate or political stuff being thrown around and less kitchen sink drama; wrong again - it's civilised. The main themes were dead grandparents, dead parents and family events, so nostalgia for the war years and our lost industrial past was hanging heavily in the air. With the poets and their band of followers the average age profile is also pretty high, I was of course within the overall metric so at least I felt at home, grey hair and wrinkles abound. A nice couple from Dunbar sang a few songs, sweet tunes and lovely harmonies and there's always a bizarre lemon cake (never chocolate cake) raffle going on - I hope to maybe win it one day. 

Their Satanic Majesties

SAY WHAT?

""It's completely a spiritual thing. This is God's will...A mission to make the culture a better culture, more pleasing to God.""
—Karen Santorum on her husband pursuing the presidency



From the Daily Slate.

Out on a Saturday night

Just to prove we are not total sofa potatoes, TV junkies and that family, work, life and other balances can be brought into balance we ventured out into the soft underbelly of the Live Music scene to see what was what. Turned there was a lot at Montague's Bar and gorilla up the toon in gloomy but French themed Edinburgh. CBQ, Norman and James were of course excellent and entertaining. Other noteworthy performers; John Wotton - mind blowingly good guitar player with a blistering technique, truly awesome, his son Tom, no mean player himself and Nicole Strachan, an American songwriter, not strong live but who has at least one pretty decent song in her catalogue and might be worth watching judging by the CD she passed on to us.

Mr CBQ with added and unwanted publicity background, not likely to be used as an album title. Where is George Michael these days?

One man quartet complete with those, meaty, beaty and complex backing tracks

These boys have loads of exotic and incredible stringed instruments and can play them skillfully, often seated but occasionally standing up for the sake of variety. Their witty banter is also pretty good and you can sing along if you wish, or just thump the table.

Live music viewed through the very clear but tiny lens of an iPad. You could almost be in the same room but sitting on a couch drinking beer and fiddling with other random devices or pieces of your own or a friends clothing.