I vow to thee my clunker

Could this be the greatest product the world has ever seen? Naturally not available in the UK where a conspiracy of purchasing and procurement dumbing down reigns. No, this life saving item can't be bought in the newly "just and compassionate" environs of Scotland, but you can get it for a measly $3 in any Winn-Dixie in the States. Attempt to buy it here and you'll be blanked or end up in Halfords with a smaller European Redex product that costs £10 and doesn't exactly promise the earth in terms of performance.

Anyway, enough ranting, it works a treat on power steering noises and leaks and is currently pulsing through the veins and arteries of Mr Cougar keeping it all sweet (for the time being). As for Mandelson's ridiculous and obscene scrappage scheme, how about some compassion for the ill and aging car population? Save the clunkers I say, the cars that have actually been driven and used properly and clocked 100k deserve better than a paltry £2000 signing off fee. In fact only yesterday Mr Cougar had to perform emergency surgery on a poor old MR2 with a distinct starting problem and a badly located battery (what were Toyota thinking with that design?) on a petrol station forecourt, try doing that with a new Kia Picanto or any Renault.

Big in Japan

Finally we are making a breakthrough on the mainland of that magical and far away place called Western Europe. The cultural and musical trade barriers are coming down and it's looking strangely and unexpectedly good, even in Spain and even in Spanish. This flourish of activity may of course be a total fluke, I'm carrying out a series of intensive tests to establish the full facts. Next step of course is to crack Japan, once we master the Nippon web language and translate our great swathes of material.

In the garden we now have a strain of grass that grows an inch a day. It was chopped on Monday and by this afternoon was back being a jungle. Why isn't there a chemical available? The potatoes on the other hand remain small but tasty and we are now three quarters through the crop. It was worth the dig.

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

"Everything you do...

...you do a step at a time. Some days you feel strong, fully formed and vital, you step further and you accomplish more, on other days a few small moves forward are all you can manage, occasionally you stay still and hear only heartbeat and breathing, once in while you will step backwards and a friend will come up close and to your rescue."

So says Finias T Moonbeam from the novel, part unofficial dictionary and self help masterpiece, "Shaking hands with the bear only to discover the bear actually has very sharp claws". You may not have guessed but we are working on yet another CD, which seems odd even to me when we've only just (quietly launched) "Intermittent Stimuli" onto CDBaby (the users bit of the site is down right now), we are the masters of understatement, the lowering of profiles and self-harming via the indescriminate use of garden tools but we are busy.

For tea it was left over fish pie, the fifth portion of simple salad in four days, a dressing I'm beginning to get bored with and a selection of soft fruits purchased locally and also gathered from local gardens, supplemented by creme fraiche. Yesterday's promised rain came unevenly enough to ensure the grandkids were able to riot peacefully in the garden whilst the adults drank wine, talked about serious matters and splashed water around from handy orange buckets.

The pop festival season on all channels TV related, continues to both dismay and irritate (apart from Elbow at T in the Pish), the grinning and self-serving presenters are awful and watching 80000 people jumping around in a field isn't really entertainment, particularly when most of them seem to work for the BBC.

Blackcurrant way

For some reason we had a chicken salad for breakfast today and then another one at tea time. Keeps things in food preperation simple I suppose, freeing us up for more manual labour in the wilderness. In between the salads I accidentally smashed two bottles of wine, moved a bonfire and rebuilt it, cut the grass, fixed the fence and generally pottered and drank beer in the sun. Meanwhile Ali tackled the hedge, many times. The hedge, a sizable beast finally capitulated and is now smaller than it was prior to the first chicken salad. The blackcurrants, featured in the photo were left untouched, their day of reckoning dawns tomorrow.

Act of God

An act of god or a quirk of nature? The image of the Virgin Mary appears on a fallen tree in a Limerick churchyard in Eire. People travel miles to queue up and spend a few moments staring into the gnarled stump to see if within the faint and curving bark rings the familiar construction of an image - an embedded cartoon icon created by man and not god, might be seen. “It gives us hope in these troubled times” says a local shopkeeper. Small frames, flowers and rosary beads are placed at the base of the wooden cairn and the faithful cross themselves and bow as they feel the touch of something they see as supernatural. It would be easy to adopt a truly mocking tone when discussing this kind of event and the almost primitive reverential behaviours that it produces. Having seen Mary suddenly appear on burnt toast, in muffins, in animal fur patterns and on the side of caves in moss and water stains it is remarkable that people never seem to get tired or cynical when yet another image appears.

It is hope, hope of a weird and unsubstantial kind (?) and one that ultimately leads only to a search for more snippets and glimpses of a similar type. No one will get into heaven or out of hell thanks to seeing these images, nobody will be healed or filled, there will be no still small voice or burning bush guidance. They just get the lottery ticket or scratch card fix that lasts a few moments perhaps at best stretching into days, that keeps a far away bright light shining in the cold, that holds the edges of your attention in place and distracts from the mundane, the dreary and the ordinary. The fragile hope of a delicate touch and the shimmering shadow of something tangible reaching back into the ordinary from the great and unknown golden age.

There are a million religions and million views, a million believers and million heretics - all at war with one another and the world either with words, the media or bullets as they proclaim and defend things that are at best vague and open to wide and ruthless interpretation. A disproportionate amount of human time and energy is spent in highlighting differences and celebrating questionable mythologies which ravage like cancer and then distort life in it‘s most secret and personal places. We struggle when we need not, we differ on trivia when we could agree over so much but if, whatever you believe, the finger of some unnamed Old Testament God, the maker of Abraham and Jacob did inscribe the hopelessly romanticized image of a misunderstood woman into an Irish tree - who in what religious place should really be surprised? Whatever gets you through your life…

Another day another barcode

I didn't really want it and I don't really need and it costs a whopping $20 but it gets you digital distribution rights across (selected areas, subject to terms and conditions) the planet and in the current climate it'll have paid for itself by 2015. I love the music business, just a little more than I love politics and religion.

The kind lady next door gave us a huge bowl of strawberries, it took me an hour clean them and it'll take Ali and I a week to eat them. I feel some smoothie recipes and cocktail variations coming on.

The homepage on Wikipedia had a bizarre little tale to tell today...some things you never knew.

Blatant product placement

We went to Transformers II last night, fun, stupid, noisy, overlong and entertaining of course and chock full of Gung Ho cliches, stereotypes and what clearly is a desperate attempt to revive the failing fortunes of GM by funking up various Chevrolets as robots in disguise. It makes you just want to rush down to your local GM dealer, do the scrappage thing and drive away in new Corsa - maybe not.

Apart from the taser gag in the Smithsonian Institute incident the best laugh is when the Jordanian Army are called in to help the beleaguered American troops pinned down in a daft firefight. The Jordanians duly arrive in two helicopters, crash right away and the Americans pinch their radios and equipment. As they are doing this whilst laying waste to a chunk of Egypt it's hard not to see it as simple reflection of recent US foreign policy, was it all intentional? Ho Hum.

The land that weedkiller forgot

A visit from the bush whackers has laid bare the remains of some pagan temple or other, probably dating back to at least the early fifties. In other words the pre-rock n' roll ages. We're still taking stock over the possible implications and value of this find and quite naturally planning to keep the horde of golden trinkets that was also discovered. As a safety measure a local priest has been called in to carry out a brief exorcism just in case there is also a Native American burial ground lurking. The police were however less forthcoming, clearly wishing to establish some facts, but there is a chance that some white caravans and a lot of yellow and black tape may be needed at some point. I'm keeping busy watering the hanging baskets, obliterating the carved runes and curses and rearranging the iron age alter into a more practical barbecue.

Potato crop detail

Despite my best efforts to strim them back the potatoes still flourish.

A busy few days have passed, no real time for this blogging nonsense or creative (or destructive) writing, the garden must be done on those days when the weather holds, we plough the fields and scatter and from time to time stagger. Over the next few days I'll post the pics of the great and unexpected archaeological discovery we've made at the foot of our garden: the base of a Roman villa? The floor of some iron Age fort? The privy of William Wallace and his good lady sad eyed Sadie MacMuck frae the lowlands? Possibly one, possibly all.

Sunday's family breakfast mostly consisted of conversations exploring the way that smoothies are labeled and how, despite the mix of fruit and the relative blend ratio used the soft and humble strawberry always rises to the top. In a straight fight between fruit it seems that the strawberry would always win, even when squaring up to hardy bananas, chiseled and firm apples and the rolling bulk of an out of control watermelon. So much for the theory of evolution and the survival of the squashiest.

Moving on swiftly tonight, new 18 track CD coming together (more German made tracks to do separately) , the maze that is the US visa system has been explored (nice touch having to download 76 pages of baloney before you fill in a single form) and I made some kind of pasta bake for the bairn's tea tomorrow. Whoosh.

Appetite suppressant

Appetite suppressants - a few useful tips and hints:

Strangely enough taking time to do things, that works.
Thinking about Micheal Jackson.
Coffee.
Rain.
A brisk walk.
Pritt sticking bits of paper to other bits of paper.
Good quality sleep.
Shredded wheat.
Daydreaming.
Facebook quizzes.
Staring into space - both near and far, not inner.
Observing the antics of cats.
Doing a spot of hand washing (not to be confused with ritualistic handwashing).
Green bananas.
Cleaning out the loo.
Think about the third world.
Removing fluff from behind radiators.
Driving long distances whilst listening to music.

Of course none of this matters, middle aged spread and a certain physical elasticity is nothing to be either afraid or ashamed about so I'll have some sausages, eventually.

Muddy puddles.

Milky Way

Another piece of weird science has led me into making a rare discovery about the powers and properties of the ubiquitous Milky Way. I now know that like real milk (as hinted in the name) in a chocolate Milky Way can actually turn sour on you and in so doing develop a rather unpleasant taste. I found this out by leaving a double version in my bag for a fortnight and unthinkingly subjecting it to extremes of heat in various cars, airports, offices and hotel rooms - not much cold has been involved due to some current glitch with the seasons. On rediscovering it today I ate it (both bits), it was awful but in the interests of pushing the boundaries of food science and fixing hunger I persisted. No noticeable after effects, just a strange urge to write more drivel about Milky Ways. The circle is squared.

To whom it may concern: "Thank you for those 11.7 minutes of your insignificant life and the 6 page views, your IP address is in the cosmos and your ignorant comments are always welcome in my dustbin."

Facebook Quiz

Sometimes you just succumb to things slowly, by osmosis you are taken over only to find yourself in some new and strange place, a different and possibly unrecognised person with a head full of trivial answers and questions. Such is the numbing power of that modern day hazard and phenomenon known as the Facebook Quiz. This in time generates it's own syndrome, Facebook Quiz Syndrome or FQS, a mind gobbling state that is hard to get out of but easy to get into.

It all starts of simply enough as you sample "How well do you know the 60s?", "Which Disney Princess are you?", "How much of an Elvis fan are you?" or "You know you're from Dunfermline when...". Then the screw turns and it all gets pointed and personal: "Which philosopher are you most like?", "How clinically depressed are you?", "What signs tell you that you're in denial about living out of a laundry basket?" and "When did you last check out the back of the freezer for something worth eating?"

The next stage is the worst (or best): "How well do you really know me?", "How good are your memories of the traumatic events of your/my childhood?", "What do you know about the things that no one else could possibly know because they are made up but I'm asking about them anyway?", "What are the many ways that I could blackmail you if I chose to?", and my favourite, "What I know about the places in Kenya I claim to have visited despite the fact that I've never been further south than Berwick upon Tweed?" You've got to embrace the progress before it embraces you with it's unforgiving stranglehold. Next quiz, "How much (if any) of your blogging is actually for real and what has that to do with my golfing handicap?"

i strim

Shakin' all over after an hours worth of garden strimming, good for all the joints and vital organs, causing loose fat to wobble, sinews to strain and the ears to retain a strange and slightly musical ringing tone. The process was stopped by a welcome downpour and regular sips of lager shandy. Looking out onto the rain soaked lawn and strimmed paths does provide an decent sense of self satisfaction which is helping to numb the pain.

No sign of a headless mouse today (from the feline delivery service), there was however a mouseless head staring blankly up from the path. It did rather remind me of the Flight of the Conchords skit about the man whose "body was cut off from his dick so that only his dick remained".

Despite it being Tuesday, Saturday's reheated pizza went down quite well if becoming a little extra oily and chewy from within the microwave. Breaking the rules of food hygiene, eating dark deserts containing raw eggs and rescuing drowning flies from an icy glass of beer is all in an evenings work around here, now I must retire. When there is no one around to cater for, impress or worry about our eating rules and regulations are relaxed and comfortably slack.

Cat diary

Excerpts from a Cat's Daily Diary...Day 103 of my captivity...

My captors continue to taunt me with bizarre little dangling objects.They dine lavishly on fresh meat, while the other inmates and I are fed hash or some sort of dry nuggets. Although I make my contempt for the rations perfectly clear, I nevertheless must eat something in order to keep up my strength.The only thing that keeps me going is my dream of escape.

In an attempt to disgust them, I once again vomit on the carpet.

Today I decapitated a mouse and dropped its headless body at their feet.I had hoped this would strike fear into their hearts, since it clearly demonstrates what I am capable of. However, they merely made condescending comments about what a 'good little hunter' I am. Bastards.

There was some sort of assembly of their accomplices tonight. I was placed in solitary confinement for the duration of the event. However, I could hear the noises and smell the food. I overheard that my confinement was due to the power of 'allergies.' I must learn what this means and how to use it to my advantage.

Today I was almost successful in an attempt to assassinate one of my tormentors by weaving around his feet as he was walking. I must try this again tomorrow -- but at the top of the stairs.

I am convinced that the other prisoners here are flunkies and snitches.The dog next door receives special privileges. He is regularly released - and seems to be more than willing to return. He is obviously retarded.

The bird has got to be an informant. I observe him communicating with the guards regularly. I am certain that he reports my every move. My captors have arranged protective custody for him in an elevated cell in the coal cellar , so he is safe. For now ..

(reproduced from Tom Morton's blog)

Weekend

Not my car thankfully but a Sunday morning incident rather close to home, just outside of Newton (or the "New Town" as described by locals), just proves that you can't take your eyes away from the road to light a fag or suck a melted Mars Bar for too long. I suspect this guy was doing the right thing by avoiding a trick cyclist or perhaps a flock of seagulls feasting on burger bag leftovers and in so doing came a cropper.

So a busy weekend is passing: Footballing trophy night on Friday in Fife in the company of Stevie Crawford and the "Swifts" management team. A good time had by all but little reward for me in the raffles despite a significant financial outlay. Saturday was a big birthday for the twins, spent at Laser Quest in Edinburgh and various other respectable locations, a big family and friends turnout made it one of the best birthdays in recent years. Thanks to all participants for a day/evening to remember. Sunday was/is mostly wet and spent in the rain at Silverknowes Golf Club watching more football in the pouring rain and appreciating the ancient Chinese art of "patience is a bloody virtue" both as a spectator and a user and victim of temporary traffic lights. TV mostly consisted of looking for my No2 son amidst the Glastonbury highlights (not too many of them and no reported sightings of a young Barclay or his entourage).

Lesson's learned: always read the label, particularly if it says "dry clean only", it may then be necessary to stretch or re cut the item according to the original template. Best avoided if any alcohol has been consumed.

Unexpected

I'm with Tom Morton on this one, MJ's death really does leave you not quite sure what to feel, it is as if some cartoon character had died, some creature that never was quite here but never away has faded out into an even more mysterious state. This made up and acute celebrity persona and performing non person co-existing together but living and dying at the same time. I see photographs of him and I'm not sure still what he even looked (looks?) like. It's only a matter of time I suppose until he's spotted in Las Vegas or Dunfermline or seen travelling on a bus heading into Nepal. Whatever happens the vast fortune he made and lost was nothing to do with me, I never purchased a single song but I guess I still know them all because of the abstract common experience soundtrack that they remain a part of. A tough one for the true fans but count me out as a mourner.

TV Wasteland

A quick glance over the TV schedules is enough to tell me that I’m now out of step with a large chunk of the rest of the British public. Unending programmes about food or fixing houses, meaningless and contrived sporting events, unfunny comedy and bleak soaps and reality shows that are increasingly unreal. I imagine other hard working people coming home, putting their feet up with a nice cuppa and then being comatosed by this peak viewing time pile of manufactured shite. Is this what we are here to do? Most TV now serve to only add more petrol to inner bonfire of unexpressed anger that any intelligent person must feel when presented with this amount of turgid and patronising material. The good news is that you don’t have to take it or watch it , you can go out and dig the garden, as soon as the rain stops. Then come back in and twiddle with the strange delights recorded on the digi box some time after the sun has set (or write a few songs, a novel or iron that pile of shirts that never gets smaller). Come back LOST and save the schedules..

My electric bath

Working away from home on the west side for a couple of days but now home and clothed and in my right mind, temporarily. My hotel contained an almost sophisticated but wholly infuriating plumbing system. Labelled as "eco" in numerous places (and anything but), the taps worked by push button and the bath and shower had a large control panel. Of course pressing buttons simply results in a timed flow of water that then stops and so you press again and again, wasting water and becoming more annoyed at the same time. The bath just fills itself but only in a choice of three temperatures, the shower veered alarmingly from cold to hot for no apparent reason. It was a bit like getting washed within some Woody Allen script set in a push button future. By the comments made by some of the other guests I'm sure the management regret splashing out a futuristic set up that's already out of date. Nice duck and lentil salad though.

What do you get if you mix 6 pints of IPA, a gin and tonic, duck salad (as above) and maple syrup ice cream? A good nights sleep, waking bright eyed and bewildered in the morning and a misplaced mobile phone.

Chasing cars

I was exploring the word squish , sadly a word without any synonyms. A cul-de-sac and a dead end, a word that takes you nowhere other into a graphic, fruity place were things have a slightly unpleasant consistence. Bluebottles fly around it, fluid oozes from it or seems to even before the squishing has taken place. It’s a shame for squish but then without it grapes could hardly be turned into wine or eggs scrambled and how would we survive on a basic diet that excluded these fine and civilised things?

Edinburgh

Edinburgh has a new queer concept of itself
Flying like some ragged saltire
Peeking through potholes and road works
Into a mirror held by tourists
And lovers of art on a budget
Holding onto our grand dreams of parliaments and trams
Wide stone avenues and horseless carriages
People behaving in ways they never did
Before fawning over royals and burning witches
Our heartless ceremony and religious ignorance.
It makes for disillusion
And the crashing of the banks
Some chronic fatigue in the search for peace
As our acted out dream is a sepia coloured thing
Because we still behave as if the Empire never ended
Or struck back.

Odd question of the day “How’s everything in that sandwich?”, overheard in the chilled environs of Birmingham Airport the other day.

Life on the M40. There is no doubt that this motorway is cursed, particularly between junctions 9 and 11, something to do with the site of an ancient Anglo Saxon burial ground being driven over by half wits.

May the Parcel Force be with you

The green face of Wabi Sabi

Chronicles of wasted time: It should all be so simple, order an item on line, have it delivered, unwrap it and use it. Sadly the mighty Parcel Force gave me the not unfamiliar run around today as I tried in vain to locate a lost and lonely package, without the advantage of the vital postcard that the man in the van should leave. After two hours of fruitless web searching, phone calls and looking in all the nooks and bins in the area I located the parcel. Naturally it was in the place I'd first looked - the Post Office. " Human error" said the apologetic clerk and I believed him.

This unexpected success (I had all but given up on the lost package) spurred me on into more random path laying, mole hill removal, potato tending and trampoline maintenance work. All good for the soul but bad for the back, the trousers and the fingernails. Is there any activity that somehow retains the fine balance between the body and the strange, misty, cloudy bit that we imagine lives in the pink goo that we call the brain? "Somewhere in there between the soul and the soft machine" as a wise man once said.

We have all been here before

The yellow face of wabi sabi.

A pleasant enough day has passed with numerous hog roast references, the decline of East Germany and pasta preparation for some future meal being fired up and laid out. I can't recall a better or more striking post thunder pre-rain evening and what with my nursing constant thoughts of the need to bolster up the potatoes with banks of mole processed earth I'm quite exhausted and unusually bewildered. A spot of washing up or feeding cats may clear the boggled mind.

It was with some relief I screwed down Mr Les Paul's silver machines to some mysterious D tuning and fiddled on said guitar using a Leslie effect and a small piece of reverb, if only I'd recorded the outcome but that tragic piece of musical denial is a vital part of the creative process we must go through as Wabi Sabi is slowly born. In the mean time I curse these long sentences and decide to get back to normal, now bored with the constant rerunning of these deja vu experiences.

Legislation v education

Today I have an angry face.

Thank you to the media and the medical profession for pointing out the mind numbingly obvious to us all, smoking in cars is bad for children and possibly any other passengers and of course the driver who gets a double dose of blue fug. The answer to solving the problem of irresponsible driving smokers is of course to make it illegal. Forget trying to simply engage with the great UK public and remind them of the plain facts and educate them, no, that would assume a certain level of maturity and responsibility existed. Just make it illegal like everything else and give the polis the problem of sorting it out and so they can add that to the long list of things you shouldn't do whilst driving:

Make a mobile phone call without using a hands free kit.
Drink a bottle of lager or anything else.
Sup a Costa Coffee latte that's been placed in one of your many handy cup holders.
Unwrap and eat a Mars bar or an Extra Strong Mint.
Offer Gillian Tailforth a lift home.
Fiddle with the radio or try to put on a CD.
Listen to an ipod.
Apply make up, deodorant or brush your hair.
Brush a passengers hair.
Argue with the Satnav.
Throw your shoes at a fox.
Play drum solos on the steering wheel.
Take your jumper or any other article of clothing off.
Wear stiletto heels.
Roll a 5 skin spliff on a CD cover.
Leer at girls and sound your horn in an aggressive manner.
Read a map or a copy of the Glasgow Herald.
Eat the roasting fish supper that is now sat in your lap.
Spit out of the window.
Get a sticky sweetie out of the glove box.
Put your arm around your adoring partner.
Admire your cool new sunglasses in the rear view mirror.
Attempt difficult crossword puzzles.
Use a she-wee.
Try to listen for the source of that annoying mystery sound.
Shout at the numerous fighting bairns in the back seat.
Try to figure out the wiper delay gadget.
Accelerate to the background music of "The Chain".
Listen to the patronising tosh that passes for news on Radio Scotland.

I accidently...

...googled myself only to find an exact replica of me sandwiched in between Count Spamborskie and Lord Davie Watson in 2006ish and can those boys play? Hell Yeah! This must have been back in the days when I oozed charisma, presence, wit and various natural oils. I have since taken the advice of counselors, many times and returned to being a wallflower and bar propper upper... I think Mr Scott Renton should be credited with the photo, albeit he was using some strange stage name or alternate alias at the time.

Sorry about the rather gloomy nature of yesterday's post but there were some compelling and unique factors and events that brought it about, we do what we do.

Loss

Every so often an experience comes along that is so acute and so poignant that it rocks you to the point where you fully remember how good and how precious it is to be alive and to be connected to family and friends. Today has been like that, tragic and precious and in the widest sense alive and responsible. We have to take responsibility, we have to speak and we have to act. It can be very difficult and it can be painful but ultimately it is rewarding. Many people make a career and lifestyle choice out of avoiding adult responsibility, they may see that as an easy route but ultimately they are the losers. Life is a wild and rough ride and you need to get on board and live it. Now if 6 turned out to be 9...

Gathering clouds

The children and grandchildren have moved on once they'd eaten us quite pleasantly out of house, home and freezer. The day today began at 6.20 and we're still nicely stuck there. Things moved on and we were keeping busy path building, mole denying and plant planting then the rush of the wind that brings the storm passed across the garden, through the shrubs, across the nettles and weeds, in between the potatoes and the thistles and over the gravel. You can't fight the weather so you find better things to do involving lager and 7-Up. Then you fry some prawns in onions and exotic garlic mushrooms, add rice and salad tossed in balsamic vinegar and drink a bottle of wine, works for me. This is followed by (amongst other things) reading the Sunday Times and then Scotland on Sunday. By now I'm happy that it's been a pleasant but exhausting day, the Bones DVD is running somewhere outside my conscious mind bringing the term "tramp stamp" into my head. Time for more wine/chocolate/on-line shopping/Bones.

Hardly one o'clock

After an unusually early start to the day I'm back from the annual sponsored walk for football team funds, feet on fire and about to do the same with the BBQ. Then again rain threatens but it always does, more cooling beer is required. It may be a long weekend, I'm on the chill out music channel and it's hardly one o'clock.

No newspaper, no TV, no lottery tickets, no rest for the wicked and no peace for the parent.