Multicellular, Eukaryotic Organisms with Plentiful Nuggets,

Road deaths are due to increase exponentially. In a society where parents have no road awareness, there can be little hope for their children, and their children’s children.

It’s a simple lesson: stop at the kerb, look left, look right, look left again, once confidence that nothing is approaching, cross swiftly with all belongings, including children, that are desirable on the other side. I have had to avoid and become angry at parents who think that the world is one giant pavement and that they can stay on the road indifferently. As with no littering, road safety seems to be a social virtue that is no longer in fashion. These are traits that children copy from adults and at the root of the failure to act properly is a respect for others.

I’m not in the best position to teach safe behaviour given the events after a fire alarm at work today. No one takes fire alarms seriously unless they see flames. People are told to leave their belongings then exit quickly and safely, but in every workplace I’ve been in, people grab their coats and bags etc; principally, to stay warm, but if the alarm sounds for too long, to have all the stuff required in order to go home or away. When the alarm sounds, I usually leave swiftly; I take my jacket, and those of co-workers (because I’m nice like that), if they’re on hand and assemble at the named point. The alarm went off at 1645hrs, long enough for any delay in the fire brigade arriving to run into go-home time. The best thing to do would be to pack my stuff and go home, at the very least, take car keys - for somewhere to shelter – and swipe card – to enable access to my office on return to the building. In the panic of the alarm, I chose to take a cup of tea. It was just made, my instinct was not to waste the tea. I did imagine a tea-spilling incident on the stairs to the fire exit but I took that risk. Quarter of an hour later when the cup of tea was just a cup, I regretted my decision. I am reminded of For The Price of a Cup of Tea by Belle & Sebastian.

Deriders Wary of Unquestioning Faith,

People who dare to say how things are are a commodity in life. My forthright pessimism only constitutes a half-done job. Posturing and manoeuvring for position can go on forever. Sometimes the person who says what everyone is thinking never comes. When they do arrive, everyone might just think them an egotistic wassock. Subtlety and tact are important in the delivery of the truth.

In the literary world, Kurt Vonnegut is unrivalled as the bastion of truthful fiction. His playfulness with the convention of the novel and his observations on the non-necessities and injustices of the world set him apart. I’ve just finished Breakfast of Champions.

In short, an obscure and unappreciated author eventually crosses paths with a disillusioned car salesman. The words of the former’s novel cause the latter to run amok. There are more social comments in the book that we can learn from other than those that surround the main incident, which in itself can be considered a metaphor for taking catastrophic actions based on works of fictions – a template for many of the wars nations choose to contest.

I wonder if only those who agree with Kurt Vonnegut will ever be amused by his work, only an unintelligent and selfish soul would not. I wonder if the style of Kurt Vonnegut could ever be utilised in The Bellyaches; but I doubt insightful and philosophical musings on the grass-cutting obsessed and grunting one may be great of use to the world in the longer term.

Castigators after the Remnants of Squalor,

The keynote speech was yesterday, I don’t fear giving presentations. My limited football skills are mostly pointing and shouting. A combination of these with indifference to the audience is my usual style. Unfortunately, yesterday, I wasn’t indifferent enough; it had been so long since my last presentation (6 months) and I really believed that what I was saying was important. I was quite anxious about the whole affair until I was reminded of what I was up against.

A simple incident with one of the more unruly project contributors and the motorised blinds calmed me down. The MC was chatting to the project leader, and I stood by waiting patiently to ask the MC to load my presentation onto the computer system. The boisterous one charges in with the loudest of entrances, “Ah, this room is great, but a bit of daylight would make it perfect.” He must change every room that he enters to his specification, he makes it his stage. He was told that there were settings for the blinds to go up or down, he wanted them open halfway. The MC pressed UP, the blinds started moving, and our performer shouted, “Stop”. The MC tried to do something. The blinds continued to the top. The MC pressed DOWN, “Stop”, came the bumptious call when they reached midway, the blinds continued despite hammering of the key pad. Five minutes passed where the polite and obedient MC tried to please the haughty one, the blinds whirred, they roared, they groaned, they finished halfway up the window but that was probably where the motor konked out.

After this, I was at ease. My presentation passed without incident but I was now drained. Waiting for dinner in the evening was a chore and eating so late was painful. I dreamt through the meal and on the road home.

The final session of the project meeting was this morning. I want to be respectful but I am disheartened by the scepticism of some of the more senior collaborators to the existence of what I see as the real issues. As always, I end up believing the only way ahead is off at a tangent in a breakaway movement. I found a whole morning hard to suffer and it was a relief to head to the swimming pool.

I was delighted to hear on my way to the car, a lad singing The Poorest of Company, hit song from the Drever, McCusker and Woomble album, whilst walking through the car park. I didn’t imagine it, it really happened. It wasn’t even Kris Drever.

Grunting Machines Spilling Contagious Cereals,

Roderick Woomble is a songwriter I admire. He has never received the credit for Billy Idlewild that he deserves, however, I’m wary of the band becoming a commercial monster and the chance that I might not be able to buy a ticket. His latest work, Before the Ruin, with acclaimed folk musicians, Kris Drever and John McCusker is of a typically high standard.

Kris Drever is a brand in himself, he has a fabulous song on his Black Water album called Harvest Gypsies. John McCusker is an accomplished fiddler; he contributed to Roddy’s last album, My Secret is My Silence.

Into the Blue seems to be the lead song of the album and although this will be labelled a folk album, I this would sit pretty well on any pop radio station, they’re happy to have the likes of Coldpuke and Yellow Snow Patrol and this would surely not displease anyone. This is not faint praise, it’s merely a criticism of our country’s radio system.

Woomble brings his soft Embra indie vocals, Kris Drever has a harder, more traditional folk style that is very much Orkney and McCusker’s fiddle is like a vocal itself. The lovely voice of Heidi Talbot is also a huge part of this album.

All Along the Way is one of my favourites, it’s led by Roddy, it’s about nothing more than wandering through life, it’s not lyrically complicated, it’s just has a wonderful flow to it and a nice bobbing chorus, “we’re packing up, we’re picking up, we’re putting on our boots all along the way”, the Kris Drever solo verse is a surprise but it adds to the texture and is my favourite part alongside a marvellous violin interlude.

Kris Drever really stars in The Poorest Company, it’s one of those self-deprecating, introspective songs that I really like and I end up feeling rather sympathetic to Kris, even though he tells us they’ve stolen something (it could be anything: grapes from the supermarket - I don’t do that - time, a pen, ideas), he surely doesn’t belong in the poorest company.

He certainly isn’t in the poorest company on this album, it’s a delight to own and listen to.

Intervening, Formerly Stoic Gulls,

James Yorkston is a local man, of the Kingdom of Fife at least, and as such I should perhaps support him as fervently as I stick up for some other Scottish artists, however, his music hasn’t always found my favour.

I really enjoyed The Year of the Leopard and I am pleased to report that his form has continued with When The Haar Rolls In. Firstly, When The Haar Rolls In is a wonderful title, it’s so earthy and of its origin. There are so many people who don’t know what haar is, fog isn’t a local phenomenon but knowing the special name for the North Sea variety is an adorable way to exclude people, there’s no need to join the BNP.

A talented squad of helpers decorate James’ tales of exchanges with the varied characters of life. The songs are stories, there are few repeated lines; when a lyrical gem goes past, it’s gone and it’ll be equalled or surpassed soon enough.

Tortoise Regrets Hare is the song that is receiving airplay on BBC 6th Music with Marc Riley. Songstress Nancy Elizabeth shares the vocals on song which is about looking upon a the lamentable relationship of a close lady friend with a twerp. I like the local reference, “on the Crail road when it aligns with the North Star, she asked me to write a song about her”.

The title track is magnificent, the banjo part rules. I like the verse about the contemplative walk along the shore, James almost equals Christoper Rush’ poem Beach Debris in the imagery used, ‘the bones and pottery once native of this shoreline paying a visit to the coast hoping to be recognised by descendants of descendants and taken in and loved’.

I hope it’s not insulting or counter-intuitive to state that my favourite song on the album is a version of Lal Waterson’s Midnight Feast on which James shares vocals with The Watersons to create as grand and honest a chorus as there has been all year.

Luminaries of Electric Ditches,

Football is my main extra-curricular activity, it consumes too many days and evenings and as such when it’s not going well, it does tend to linger over the rest of affairs. Having sacked my brother, the team is crashing and burning, the manager is receiving his comeuppance. Only 9 players arrived at kick-off time for our weekend match, as a result, I made my first start of the season, it’s hardly the way I want to achieve the position I deserve and would have had already but for the ongoing political wrangling. Five people, of whom I was the only recognised player, attended training last night. Long may the team continue to crash and burn; I hope to be the one who pours the metaphorical petrol over the last remains. It'll serve them right for wasting my time.


Indeed, football may not be the way forward; it’ll only end up in a hip replacement. I’ve been swimming a few times recently over lunchtime. I was only a swimmer of a barely adequate standard; however, it’s a skill that is not easily forgotten and I can still do it, despite being the one most likely to require a lifeguard becoming wet on each visit. Swimming seems good for the muscles and bones, and it’s a relief from the pain of sitting at a desk all day.


I stick to the main pool, I don’t want to hassle the proper swimmers in the sectioned off lanes. I think breast stroke might be the best for fitness, but my Eric the Eel style is not pretty. The old people seem to stay so stable through the water, they don’t go fast, and they just glide like ghosts, whereas I drink my way up and down the pool with tidal waves bellowing out from each side. I wonder where my buoyancy has gone in the years since I last entered the pool, I seem to sink faster, but there’s no hope of me becoming wider so the lifeguards are going to have to keep their eyes peeled, however, I refuse to be saved by the one who seemed to laugh at me brushing my hair – I wasn’t going to leave it with tangled bits.