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.