Oats

Politics suck as does traffic. So back to the world of dull, mundane things and my recent discovery that, once a finely sliced banana is added, instant porridge is actually ok. Not only does it fill that peculiar gnawing gap deep behind the belly button but it fuels you till at least twelve thirty and it makes you feel just a little more Scottish in some bizarre way. If I had a plate of tatties and herring for tea, hurled some coal at passing cats  and washed up in a tin bath the effect would be complete. Even an idiot can make this, just add boiling water freshly drawn from the loch, stir with a genuine Celtic spirtle, wait for a New York minute and away you go. It works; and I hereby declare the microwave oven obsolete (except for scrambled egg fixing and restoring the healing properties of a two day old Chinese carry out)... and oats build fortitude with every fibre and can prevent strokes and influenza.

Sheep shape

Taken from my car on my daily commute.

Sheep are a kind of non-human animal created by god during a trip to New Zealand when he was looking for some extra ingredients for a curry. Beef was considered but for some reason lamb sounded grander, would please food experts more and would roll from an Asian tongue quite easily. The sheep eventually escaped from New Zealand on the raft Kon-Tiki (meaning Kon-Tiki in Maori) and eventually made it to the West Coast of Scotland attracted by a seasonally based diet of midges. They've evolved to have no road sense, regularly sleeping in potholes and/or just standing there, in the way. They are unafraid of noise and rain. During the Clearances of 1746 there was little or no shagging so the population dwindled, recently things have looked up now that the Campbells have returned to the hillsides in their rusty camper vans. In spring they can be recycled into either small amounts of money, clothing (via knitting pins) or stew. Curious artists have also turned them into abstract pieces of art by simply attaching LEDs to their wool and turning a lighted wild dog on them. In time we hope they will spell out a secret word that will unlock a way for them to get back to their homeland. Just watch out for them anyway.

Keeping us hip

"This new IKEA kitchen stuff really sucks, was it your idea?".

So it's the day after the day after and we know the awful truth for sure. We're all screwed and most politicians are unspeakable idiots with little sense of self and less sense of what might be "the right thing to do". We also know that there are nearly enough SNP MPs to obscure the Forth Bridge but there's bugger all proper for them to vote for or against. Shuttle fares between Edinburgh and London will however hit a new high and you can forget travel on a Monday morning or a Friday. Human beings have huge capacity to disappoint, be careful who you associate yourself with, who you invest time in and who you follow. That's worthy of being carved into a tablet of tablet. Had Scottish Labour tried that then at least we'd all have a share of a sugary brown treat to enjoy following their well predicted demise. So the ugly, smirking Tory Boys are back in power but there's no dancing in the street, just a friendly riot here and there. In other news it appears that we have Hipster Cops out there on the same riotous streets, keeping us safe, keeping us secure and keeping us hip, whatever that means these days.

Vote Steampunk

For some reason photographs like this fascinate me.

I'm glad the election is over. I can't say I'm happy about the overall result. I can't quite see where it will take us here in Scotland (but we've made our protest heard) and I'm shocked but not surprised at the electoral engineering the Tories have carried out in England to win. Their sneaky planning and cunning redrawing of boundaries and their tactics of fear and false promises has paid off; and we'll all be worse off ultimately. They hate us. All this at the strange expense of a number of useless and bloated career politicians getting the final boot and headed for a stint in Strictly Come Dancing or the couch on the  Andrew Marr show. Ed Balls will look a treat in sequins and Danny Alexander will naturally enjoy a cameo role in some new Muppet Movie. Nick Clegg will take over from Portillo as the slow train guru on BBC whatever and George Galloway will write a book based on his own imaginary life which will be self published on Kindle with a lurid cover depicting Saddam and Rula Lenska in a mud wrestling match. Vince Cable will join the cast of the Archers and Jim Murphy will keep his head down and his nose high playing the part of the Leader of the Scottish Labour Party. It's always sad to see when somebody just doesn't get it. There is life after politics but there's no politics after life. Next time I'm voting Steampunk in the hope of getting some kind of iron chancellor.

Tedious but

The intertwerp is full of useless but amusing things, here's some Disney style makeovers of  GoT characters, there are of course loads of versions out there and you could lose your mind in their search and subsequent discovery. Why would you? Just make do with these for the time being. Enough is enough.

Alternative weather

Half way up the stairs the sun shines through the banister, half way down the stairs it shines through the blinds.

Better weather tonight.

Whatever you do tomorrow please don't allow any schisms in the weather department to deny you the fundamental (but hardly fun) democratic right of participating in the greatest democratic process that our democratically driven political system allows.  It's supposed to mean this and maybe it does:

1. democracy definition. A system of government in which power is vested in the people, who rule either directly or through freely elected representatives. Note:Democratic institutions, such as parliaments, may exist in a monarchy. 

Daily shower

Use this in your daily shower...no need to rinse.

Today's rain was spectacularly badly behaved, twisting and hammering around, refusing to stay on surfaces, bouncing like a mad thing and ricocheting here and there with no care for the damage done. Road spray blinded one and all, great sheets of water engulfed the booming traffic and made steering light and suspension shudder. There was fog and mist and mayhem. It was out of control, elemental and dangerous. At times a great grey and eerie white out, never ending and bottomless, crazy... and some people still chose to drive a little beyond their own and their vehicle's capabilities without putting their feckin' lights on!

Fourth May be with us

For those living in caves or down by the centre of the earth some where, here's what weather looks like.

I completely failed to watch the Scottish leaders debate (due to exhaustion and to some extent apathy, things that will pass) last night and also failed to hold any preliminary Star Wars marathon viewings. Instead it was a rainy, stray cat feeding, mince and tatties night followed by three fairly harrowing episodes of the violent and crazy series Vikings. We're all the way to the epic season finale of Season 2 (when did "seasons" become such a thing anyway?) now and emotionally and physically exhausted by the experience. I also quite like the theme music and title sequence, the sex, drugs and ritual beheadings are nothing to do with my staying with it. Roll on the next batch, already on Netflix someplace.

During the night, the rain, as if irritated by Scottish politics, battered on the Velux window asking to get in so it might state it's opinions. I stirred and shuffled around like Ozzie in slippers for a few minutes. The world is a strange place at 3.30 and aches and pains and muddled thoughts rule and the scrapings of dreams hang over like torn pages out of books. By 3.35 I was back to sleep and blissfully unaware of anything beyond my battered senses or the happenings in some TV studio or on Twitter. Long may I live in that peaceful place.

An early blueprint of R2D2 apparently. 

Pilgrimage to Anster

Here we are exploring our homeports before GE2015 turns us on our heads with No. 99 in an occasional series of posts relating to uncoordinated visits to the lands of my beloved fathers also known as Anstruther and Cellardyke. On this occasion we hardly set foot out of either the pub or the hotel; the weather was that usual Scottish mix of wet and dodgy and getting fresh air and drookit wasn't high on the agenda. It was about fish, beer and wine and some chill time on the East coast, snoozing in a warm hotel room, browsing black and white photos, noting changes and demolitions,  looking out of cafe windows, drifting in and out of daft conversation, watching people and over indulging. Not a bad way to fritter away the guilty use of some precious time; a thing that can't be valued properly anyway.  

Out of season Anstruther is a bit dull, seriously grey and forgotten (expect by the SNP banners and the Fence Co's well beaten tracks) but it's a kind of home for my orphan and awkward spirit. My soul is purified by chips and fish and thoughts of chilly ice creams. Yes chips are king and every pub is full whilst the local hipsters and retirees (I guess) take over. They talk in loud voices and get all the plum seats when the weekend comes around. So what the hell is it like in the summer when the lost tribes return in their camper vans and vests? 

Also it's the first proper run in the new/old Mini Coop' rattletrap - now nicely wetted in the springtime and rust enhancing rains.

Looking ahead

It's only the 2nd of May but...

Hard Labour

Well it is going to be hard for Labour in Scotland next Thursday if the non-scientific polls and pseudo experts are to be believed.  I had my own painful version tonight moving numerous heavy stores that once formed the fabric of the house.  The work made me think of the Egyptian slaves and the folks who built Blackness Castle, god they had it tough. No gloves or goggles either, just blood, spit and a slap on the back with a willow branch. Anyway I moved a few and then, aching in all the customary places supped a pint of best. Phew. By the way I passionately hate the Sun newspaper in all its UK warped forms and I'm embarrassed to hear it's Scotland's favourite read. No wonder we're regularly screwed by the rest of the world.

The end is nigh

Robotic troops defend the once peaceful border.

I presume that nigh is some vague unit of medieval time, like nearby, soon, about to happen, imminent or very very close, perhaps within a few moments. Then again nobody can claim to know the day or the hour but I guess for most god-fearing and terrorised voters way down south in the UK it must seem like some time around the 7th of May. That day will signal the beginning of the end if we, or at least enough of us, vote a certain way. Those canny Scots can't be trusted and with our thrawn and wilful behaviour we're destined to fuck up the UK so much that all will be left will be the K.  It may even become a small, lower case pathetic little k in time. That would be sad in a way but for many of us a bit of a relief. A kind of unkind  corrective surgery if you will and one that may not necessarily please all those who called for it. So this will be either the Great Election of Unexpected Consequences or the Great Election of More of the Same Pish. (Pish which has in many ways has served us well, kept us safe and healthy and given a few of us disposable incomes with which to explore parts of Europe and beyond. ) Neither will play well. We Scots will tear ourselves apart eventually, it's in those frozen, obese and damned genes we carry. All secretly hoping they'll find a purpose and outlet someday before we're stricken with self doubt and the queer desire for an imposed salvation from any posh English quarter. This may be it, but I have my doubts. It's the Devil's bargain and we're caught in it. Next up will be the summer of love.

Songs they don't play on the radio

Baby Groot might have understood.

That golden dawn picture by Peter Howson did remind me of the lyric in the David Bowie song "Quicksand" from Hunky Dory. It seemed to me that when everybody was humming Life on Mars or Changes, how odd it was that I was pretty much stuck in the quicksand of Quicksand. It probably was my first encounter with the darkness, duplicity and many unsettling conundrums presented and suggested in the fall out from the superman theory:

"I'm closer to the Golden Dawn, immersed in Crowley's uniform of imagery,

I'm living in a silent film portraying Himmler's sacred realm of dream reality."

Dwelling on that stuff for too long as a dumb and  tender16 year old couldn't have been a good idea. It shouldn't have been allowed. Here was Bowie's howling pseudo intellectual London boy take on Nietzsche's theories disguised as a pop song, more potent than Dylan and more poetic than Lennon. It perplexed me for years but I was captivated and the scar tissue and confusion remains. Now it's buried too deep in the album so the other cod pop songs can get a run out and an airing, this piece of devil worship and open ended hard to deal with questions remains sleeping, unheard and ignored and overtaken by bigger beefier matters; but those questions are still unanswered and the observations and the clumsy words and clunky robotic points cannot be blunted. Some stuff isn't designed to be dealt with in the here and now, we'll shelve it all until music and media matters mature, a bit of a catch up. Some time about the 12th of Never I guess. (Then we might also try and deal with the Bewlay Brothers at the same session). Sad that Bowie never was quite as hot ever again.

Golden Dawn

Peter Howson working on a new piece entitled "Golden Dawn". Once it's complete I'll probably not like it, such is my taste and limited tolerance.  Of course anything with golden dawn in it is bound to interest me and hold my limited span of attention in place for all of five minutes before it fades like smoke in a breeze or frost from a dry-stone dyke. That is how things are unfortunately. Nothing stays in place too long and all that is constructed must be deconstructed one day.

Vikings

Currently my favourite thing appearing on a TV or DVD player someplace near you: Vikings.

Old Dollar Bill

Featuring Fingers Farrell on bass these guys are Old Dollar Bill, famous in the Edinburgh area for blue grass and roots type music. These are screen shots from an internet gig I attended in a suitably remote and modern fashion this very April evening. A busy website (here) tells you all about them and has some useful musical download capability.

I find it interesting

Actually it's more likely to be a parasite.

I find it interesting or maybe the word is shocking that so many people really do love the royal family, with a small r and f. That strange and mostly English (sorry if that sounds racist) mentality that longs to bow, scrape and grovel to fellow human beings who by accident of birth rather than effort or intellect have somehow found a place in our society from where they appear to rule over us.  There, I feel a bit better now I've said that. Move along then, nothing to see here.

Lichtenstein in Edinburgh

Nice sunny evening spent indoors and outdoors with the backdrop of numerous Roy Lichtenstein pieces. He was a busy man until he stopped. An artist who confuses and infuriates and for some is stuck in the gaudy time warp of comic strip pop memorabilia.  That's not really how it is, the sixties didn't actually happen and nobody really captured anything of it all anyway, especially unreal things like sounds and images. They are all free as birds except for the fact that they are constrained by frames,  plinths, rooms, human minds and recording mediums. You can own reality (in small slices in small towns ) but you can't own art. I also heard the word "factory" used in conversation. Think about it.

Today a crow parked himself in my office, via the fire exit, I fed him a half eaten apple (who ate the other half?) and he nodded to me, many times. He then stretched out his wings and bowed low. I last saw him, padding around on the grass, apple core in his beak. "As proud as a crow with an apple core" which never was a popular saying around these parts or any other parts that I can think of. Will he return for more core tomorrow?

Midweek

I almost admire the endeavour and determination but not the hygiene of seagulls. They don't give up. They are like the warped Islamic State of the bird world, nothing is sacred to them but their own existence and survival, a trait that both defines them and condemns them. Maybe the Scottish Tories are similar, spouting imported rubbish and somehow standing upright while a great Westminster fist operates them from the back, promising a promised land and then delivering only a rotten half eaten left over sandwich, that's what you get when you mess with us. Great Westminster fists also operate the woeful and desolate innards of Scottish Labour. A poor and insipid offering that will be burnt as a sacrifice to the gods of the idealistic college boy and professional politician movement on 7th May. These are terrible times for those with feet of clay and big jabbering gobs and running noses. Every graveyard in Central Scotland is filled with rotating coffins as the once proud, effective and meaningful labour movement capsizes in it's own sea of blissful and avoidable ignorance. Not a cloth cap or a pint of porter in sight, no fag ends or rolled up newspapers to piss through, no solace for the boys in the white vans with three days worth of Daily Records and Gregg's bags stuffed into the dashboard. This is the end, beautiful friend, our nihilistic farewell to the Commonwealth and the corruption, we are doomed and cursed, spat upon by our shrivelled up masters, those deaf and dumb grey creatures  on the green leather benches. We will not be forgiven, the Queen will no longer wave at us from a distance, ships wont be built and we'll ask who the fuck approved those stupid wind farm builds. Then the sheep will return and the highlands will bloom, we'll discover coal and fresh vegetables, slaves will walk away and the turn coats will rotate a further 180. We will bloom again, even in Methil, Gartcosh and Invergordon. It's a long hard road when you vote SNP...but we will.

Barrels out of bond

When the hobbits, elves and dwarves flipped around in barrels some place in the Hobbit storyline it must have been a tough if completely fictional gig. Barrels are heavy and unforgiving things to work with, a person could get hurt manhandling them. The art of the cooper is an unsung art (apart from the Bonnie Wee Cooper of Fife and of course my new Mini Cooper) and one I know little off, apart from drilling drain holes in the ex-water butt so it can be born again as a planter. Anyway we have two full barrels and a few half barrels and I think that that's enough barrels for the mean time. Having said that the new barrel (seen directly above and in situ ready to gather rainwater) does still have a nice warm stale, beery / hoppy smell which I hope takes a long time to fade.