Non specific rant

A potent mixture of soup and Puddledub chicken and haggis.

Call any vegetable: So rather than spend time grappling with travel and technology I've taken time to being with some vegetables (in a fairly honest and non sexual way). Usually I turn them into a primitive soup. I admire their dirty honesty and peculiar shapes and names, how they are mostly non poisonous and how they appear year after year from the muddy, soaking and unforgiving ground. A mysterious and dark breeding ground of dishonest minerals, creepy crawlies and dead bodies. It makes little sense but thankfully it occurs regularly. The planet like some great groaning and growing machine pushes them up from under it's skin like pimples and acne and onto the chopping board. Chefs will swoon and croon about freshness and flavour and frantically slice technicolor pieces taking precise times and salted butter and cast iron pots to fuse them into abstract constructions. Then animal muscles and flesh are added in and it goes on and on via exclusive menus and reviews into eager diners bellys, or into ladles and  industrial packages and distribution systems. Sadly the sophisticated distribution that gets a lettuce from Kenya to  here in 8 hours can't quite work in reverse with food, clean water and medicine. Feeding the world from the world is an honest (thanks to labels and packaging) but corrupted industry. I imagine there would be enough vegetables in the world right now to give everybody who needs one a decent bowl of soup. I don't quite know why but despite having over forty billionaires in the UK and many more willing cheaper hands we can't manage that yet.

The teacher who gave me a good belting

Sir Alex Ferguson was happy to be regularly beaten at school by an aggressive teacher and a Lochgelly Tawse, so he says. Well so was I and I'm pretty sure that the teachers don't regret it even now and neither do I. When I was at school I was a troublesome little shit and my regular misbehaviour asked in pretty clear language for a good hammering now and again, it was that kind of world and I kind of miss it. In the end it was the only way I could express myself however clumsily but it ultimately ended in me progressing onwards to the clear light and then towards to a happy and well balanced present day. So there. That's not to say I'd want to travel back in time etc.

I did meet an ex-teacher (who belted me a few times for not reading my George Orwell on time) the other day, he was quite right in his judgement and we locked eyes and shook hands firmly on the matter. Done and dusted.

The past makes so much more sense when rendered in black and blue and white.

All mankind are like grass

The most powerful people in the world take a selfie and in so doing bring down the evil empire, marginalise a large section of occupied Crimea and then stall Twitter. Little do they care for their near end time bids on eBay or any of that that claptrap. They just want to win prizes and so become a distorted version of their true selves. In the great scheme of things who really cares? Good photo just the same. Meanwhile an alien film company from Alpha Centauri is making a sci-fi film about life on earth. Set in the present day it may well offer a lively and new perspective on the current situation of our planet. It should be out next year just in time to win an Oscar  category or two and destabilise the global political and economic systems provided that  it can get a good distribution deal.

Ongoing Volvo Anxiety

Cars: Looking out of the window and seeing my ageing Volvo with it's broken hand brake cable and moon distance miles of the clock I wondered what kind of metaphor might be hidden deep in my dysfunctional relationship with this battered machine. How might it describe it's unreliable owner and occasional, via fuel, repairs and servicing, distant benefactor.  Me there sitting in the dirty drivers seat, never anywhere else, squinting through the mist and bird shit cracked up on the screen. Fumbling with the knobs and switches like a bad and careless lover. Forcing speed when it clearly wants to maintain it's own wilful pace, happier to just plod across the desert like a worn camel or a loose cavalry horse left over from some rout or massacre. There's me in the middle, an occupant and soldier in life's petty wars. A grey ghost in a Volvo, as unfunky as a man can become complete with wooly jumper and odd socks and Steely Dan on the stereo.

There is no credible statement I can hope to make in this flak-magnet position so I cruise the roadways and potholes, as invisible as the postman or a Liberal activist. I am here, taking up some valuable space, possibly moving forward whilst all you others fly past with more important things to do. Me, alone but happy, trapped in a Zen spaceship that orbits my own head like it's own mission control had just given up and gone home and the umbilical's been finally cut. My mission, should I choose to accept it; to boldly go and get a space quite near to the deserted main door at  Tesco but avoiding puddles and not venturing into spaces allocated to the disabled or those with young families for they are highly valued consumers within our well structured but imaginary society (but are pretty sparse in numbers at 21:30 on a Saturday night I might say).

Careful with that axe JB

Today I spent a happy afternoon, diverted from eBay, feeding wild birds, life's cares and the vague weather chopping up guitar bodies. There's at least an N4, a PRS, and two SGs in this pile and half a thin line Telecaster. What do the general public see in these things? I feel so much better and this perfect recycling model means that a fire will one day be lit, toes will be warmed, snoozes snoozed, cats slowly basted and baked and some marshmallows will be lightly toasted once the sun goes down. After that it was a spot of ironing and connecting the TV up to the Internet via the dishwasher, the door bell and the earthing system that quietly trickles lots of little pieces of earth all around the house from 13 amp plug to 13 amp plug. Electricity is wonderful and we can now enjoy a full series of Jonathan Creek episodes and Grey's Anatomy as soon as I find out what the Sky PIN is. I involves at least four numbers between 0 and 9, no problem then.

Rock and Roll Over

For no particular reason  I really like guitars and everything about them, I've been around them, handling them and intrigued by them and their strangely shaped silent mystery and materials  (until wakened) for all of my life. A pathetic puzzle really and an affliction and attraction that's unlikely to go away any day soon. These two battle damaged examples are odd and provocative and not really a part of today's epic and glossy music scene at all, well not that I'm aware of what with money being tight and everything being collectible and sustainable (what an awful term we now to use to describe just about everything and so make it sound ok). But there once was a time...

Real Buzz

A real buzz is precisely what I didn't get when I heard about Standard Life's bit of contingency planning contingency plan. As a serial non-believer in the value of most contingency plans (and the effort that goes into building them, exercising them and then forgetting about them) I had to acknowledge that I could see the sense in this one...but it comes at a price and I fear it's not the only one that will be either exposed or confessed in the next few weeks. To fail to plan etc. etc. What also irritates me are the derisory scoffs and shoulder shaking giggles that the SNP indulge in when confronted with these real events. They need to toughen up a bit and stop the sniggering and face up to these difficult and potentially vote losing issues with some positive answers or at least a sober reflection on the possible consequences. The trouble is that just as we Scots love our country, whisky, lorne sausage and anything called Loch we also love our money, our pensions and the good feeling of dodging exorbitant bank and currency exchange charges and getting a bargain or a good deal. We also quite fond of The Co-op, Poundland and Gumtree. It's not about doom and gloom of course but there's a bleak financial future that's kind of hanging in the balance...even for the more visionary souls wandering free amongst us. 

Running out of ideas

So it's that flat line fun time in the middle of the week when nothing seems to fit correctly either lyrically or in your head or in your life so you wait patiently plunking on a guitar until the washing machine has gone past it's loudest and most irritating cycle and then head down to the kitchen and stir fry some real red beef with mushrooms and rice whilst enjoying a glass of even redder wine and wondering when in the hell your Sky Sports package will rise up like Lazarus and start to work for you like they promised it would some 48 hours ago via email.

Words

Death Row and Sky Sports

Green Mile: Always good to have a plan for your last meal, just in case you ever happen to end up on Death Row and you get that blank final menu card thrust into your sweaty palm. What to choose? Coming in strongly of course is the nicely cooked steak topped with mushrooms and  a fried egg or two, a classic burger and fries or a giant pastrami and salami sandwich oozing with all the trimmings and red wine with everything. Of course if it is truly your last meal on earth what about a real treat? Something that might via anaphylactic shock and allergic reaction actually kill you and you've had to avoid for all of your murdering adult life. Now you can choose your poison. Make mine a plate of scallops then; sorted.

Free Sky: Slow on the uptake as ever, BT Broadband customers get free Sky Sports apparently, how could I not know this? Well I did but couldn't be arsed to explore the options. Turns out it's relatively pain and call centre proof, no talking to robots works for me. Unadulterated streams of warm, pub free, bigoted and hopeless Scottish League One football beckons and the odd game of tartan tennis. See you later BBC Alba.

Still life with builder's rubble.

Wildlife

Close up and almost personal with sparrows and coal tits in the Scottish borders. That statement doesn't really sound right but it was made/done through double glazing and at a safe distance via digital technology and strong coffee. Also noted: the mighty River Tweed, the inspiration for salmon fishers, literature and jackets and flat caps is currently full of fast moving dirty water, maybe too much. Time will tell but to those settled peacefully on the banks I'd say "look out!"

Unfortunate attempts at things

"Time: Your life is like a room of a certain size that you fill with things. The room's measurements are in time. Based on the lives of others we can estimate and assume, all being well, how large that room might be. Of course it is only at a certain age you appreciate this and how little of the room you have left to fill but you still fill it anyway, you may even fill it with emptiness. The good thing is that there is no pressure on you, the room will wait for all things to find their way into the room only being time itself but held in the geometry of a box. The room has no doors but it does have windows, use them, there are many other time boxes out there worthy of observation." Verne Delorean.

"Poetry for the masses: It seems like a good thing until you start holding events and either a) the masses fail to turn up rendering the thing pointless or b) they do turn but just throw things and destroy the furniture." Jules Delorean.

"Economics: What this country needs is a good 5c cigar." Groucho Marx.

Unfortunate attempts at education No1.

On the rooftops

Up on the roof/scaffold today so I took these pics and a few more.

To plan for the future you must understand the past (and be able to make some kind of sense of it), so my future; making soup, building guitars from found materials and understanding (if possible) the abstract patterns of sound and the geometry they might create so as to allow the building of some creative piece to act as both a pacifier and a stimulant. Currently I'm stuck at the soup creation level.

Dundee Daily Photo.

I don't know what qualifies something as being art, I don't know what makes something street art or even just "street", a word that seemed to imply a gritty reality, or honesty and integrity to various odd ball things at onetime. Anyway I like this piece that I spotted in Dundee yesterday, next to the Globe pub, next to the university. I also liked the big fat black and blue burger and starter I had at Ketchup, also in Dundee. You might go there one day or maybe you will never go, that's about it then.

I also go my new internet specs today, that didn't end so well. They're currently dumped, dead and discarded in a bin at B&Q.

Cat at 35'

Missie climbing up on the new and unfinished roof, proving that you can't keep a good cat down and that you can't take a decent photo through double glazing in the dark. "Like her forefathers before her she'll walk the girders of the Manhattan skyline."

Political reform and prawns

The girders have arrived*. 

Timber constructs in the rain*.

Politics are generally shit: I was listening to the SNP's John Swinney on the radio this morning, he was asked the same straight question four times. The question was "Alex Salmond said it would cost English business £500m a year to trade with Scotland if there is no shared currency, how much then will it cost Scottish business to trade with England?" He refused to answer and struggled and stammered around various related topics. He did not answer the question at all. He didn't try, he had no intention of providing a figure, he didn't even accept that there might be one. In those few moments he lost my respect and any credibility he should have had as a paid representative of the Scottish people. Of course regardless of the "party" any given politician will dodge an awkward subject any way possible and that's what's wrong. That's what they do unfortunately,  all the time and in every (so called) debate. 

If Scotland ever becomes independent then we should start again, we should have a change, the outworking of politics and political behaviour's should change. There should be truth and, if the situation allows it, collaboration and agreement if a solution is good. No more negative sniping, lies and blindly following the "lines to take" of party promptings. A brave new world of non-political and honest politics. Nice, naive and stupid perhaps but with the present set up and the greedy needy types and vested interests that still run riot in our party system I doubt it could freely happen. Maybe if Russell Brand's anarchists could find a voice, the great unheard masses, if not voting counted for something, if it was seen as a real expression of something then it just might make a difference but nobody in the "real" world of politics would ever acknowledge that idea.

Up all night to drink Buckie: I hear that the northern fishing village of Buckie will be amongst the first in the UK (?) to receive super fast broadband. How might they use this great gift and tool? The prawn industry? The porn industry? Facebook likes and cat videos?Super fast bingo and poker? Or will they just compose reflective poems, pieces of pastoral music and write novels about their happy and benign relationships with nature and technology as they live in harmony with all things modern up there on the Moray Coast? I wonder.

*As usual the photos are not at all connected with the main text.

The great grey gig in the sky

Grey trees 

Clough and Taylor with empty glasses

16 Bit Mona Lisa and Korean tourists.

Today was so dull and grey it was as if great sheets of grey fogginess were oozing out of my ears and plastering the world with their damp and dank unkindness. Normally I ignore the relentless weather and other non-comical natural effects; today (mostly spent on the west coast in those monochrome and troubled hills) it was never ending. I felt flushed with the certain, new and hidden knowledge that I stood, like some anxious Guardian reader on the edge of the precipice, looking down and into the black hole that mark the last days, the final battle, the groaning struggle and capitulation against global warming's dire effects. We all, and our 5000+ years of dumb civilisation and religious ignorance were being slowly fizzled away in some grey ooze and contaminated flood of turds, alcoholic sewage and broken wind farm components; the planet washed clean but still leaving those nasty stains you can't beat. Our feeble efforts at mitigation as disappointing in their performance as fast acting Vanish on red wine or one of those detergents you rub in with a plastic knobbly ball. The earth is now as good as dead...well all the humans are, drowned in their own filth and shit and guess what? "All they left us (that's the intelligent and conscious bacteria talking I presume) was a big skid mark." 

On the way home it stopped raining once I got over the Kincardine Bridge...we live on but maybe on another day...

Unreliable evidence

The sands on the beach, swept clean every day by the rising, relentless and soulless tidal forces care nothing for my five second stick sketch that amused my grandchildren for all of a further five seconds. Now darkness has fallen, rain, hail and winds have played across the river and high water has come and gone so ... that's about that then. I have however provided this unreliable evidence of just such an artistic and pointless event earlier this morning, there may be many others out there.

Speaking of unreliable things I give you George Osborne, Danny Alexander and Ed Balls; three men who would struggle to find a useful occupation for themselves outside of the grimy and negative world of modern politics. These people do not deserve to hold the lofty positions they inhabit, they set a poor example to all and their current common message that seeks to deny and delude not only the Scots but all of the UK population should be consigned to the Westminster landfill site wherever under the House of Commons that may be. So as alternative we now have the notion of the Ginger Bottle solution.

The nature of things

A profound image taken by the mighty Dave R and pinched by me from the CBQ website; I recall being told in the early days of digital music that CDs were pretty much indestructible (apart from fire damage and lightning strikes), well maybe they are not after all. Here we see the sad end to the music that famously never dies or maybe never even lived in the first place. How will it fare in those time capsules and space probes? Ooh, another short and gloomy post :-( what is to become of us? On a gloomier note, fast food, ideal v actual:

Here's a happier shot of my grandkid's feet covered up by happy, fluffy bunnies.

A week in photos

Girl with the raspberry claws.

Local butcher's shop where they'll slice haggis for you, fillet a steak, bag you some eggs and give you a lesson in local history, (no idea who the lady is walking by). 

Non-existent room but with a real view. 

The beginnings of a house. 

A young Donald Fagen and/or an older me apparently.