Land Swimmers,

Spring rain,
inquisitive or insistent,
backlit descent,
stone mattress,
percolation to a soft sleep.

In the neighbourhood, in the field, I don’t mind rain at this time of year, it’s cool but never cold. The sun gives puddles a shimmer and illuminates the performance of the raindrops. Soggy starlings murmur like broke violins. The compacted earth is unforgiving to knees. The rain will calm it eventually.

I’ve decided to tackle The List’s 100 Best Scottish Books. The Bellyaches massive can expect a critique of The Bible by 2012. I will redefine the list, perhaps a sausage roll recipe book may make the new cut.

Me without hindsight, me without

When will change come, just like spring rain

The Go-Betweens

Bestowers of Versed Reverence,

Two years since the release of the monumental Wolves, Deaths and Entrances by My Latest Novel arrives into the public domain.

The ability to be inspired and build upon culturally significant works through music is the skill which My Latest Novel possess and are without parallel in exhibiting. The process relies upon first sourcing that seed that will blossom; others care for small potatoes, or Rockall.

All in All in All is All, the opening track, is the world in an envelope. Equating it with the poem, All All and All by Dylan Thomas might be a naïve move, for it is said to be inspired by some of the tales of Edgar Allan Poe. Dramatic but human and endearing, reminiscent of the classic, Pretty in a Panic, All in All in All is All grows into a huge all-instrument wave that crashes down and vanishes to leave a shore littered with the softened beauty of sea glass.

Dragonhide broods angrily, a sad violin line creeps along the underbelly of the song before taking on the eruption of threats, and just managing to survive the growing strength of its opponent in a battle with surprising outcome.

Lacklustre is a fluid composition based upon the story of L’inconnue de la Seine, an unidentified, young woman whose body was pulled from the Seine and whose face became iconic and used in the first aid mannequin, Rescue Annie.

After reading the press release, the image of Billy Pilgrim reading the work of Kilgore Trout and the flight of Captain John Yossarian seems to be catapulted into the foreground during I Declare a Ceasefire. Pilgrim digesting the shrewd visions of Trout inspire the thoughtful, helpless, slow opening, whereas the madness and the departure of Yossarian, the airman who vents his anger and shows his pain at being helplessly trapped in someone else’s war, may represent the loud chanting and uprising during the declaration of a change of heart.

The standout track is A Dear Green Place, a song that is clearly rooted in local experience, and bearing the name of a novel by Archie Hind. The streets are littered with those who have no means to express themselves meaningfully; an outsider casting an analytical eye over this may become in awe of small glints of human majesty but be crushed by the thoughtlessness of the wasters who inevitably dominate, the smart man looks outside for hope, to heroes and idols that those wasters will forever be oblivious to. The search is a lonesome, never-ending task carried out by like-minded individuals that are nightmarishly far apart. The saying goes, ‘If you can’t beat them, join them.’, but can that ever be acceptable? Does this just result in a even grander pile of small potatoes? The chorus of the year goes, unless ears are mistaken:

I don’t dream,
How can I ever dream?
When my nightmares are entrances, wholly enclosed?
Startled and angry,
Palms are cold.
He said.
She said.

Argument Against the Man and Man Against the Argument are ballast on Deaths and Entrances, as compositions and tunes, they’re good; they’d be fine for an Arcade Fire to parade as their masterpiece but here, they are surrounded by thought-provoking giants.

If The Accident Will is, of course, mentioned on page 2 of Slaughterhouse-Five by Kurt Vonnegut and again, memories of Billy Pilgrim and Yossarian are summoned as a single guitar accompanies the broken memories of our composite protagonist, then the song goes through a phase of Shuttleworth-synths, before the marching percussion and trains of guitars herald the departure for peace.

Mark & Lard used to have a trail, read by Kylie, that went, ‘Mark & Lard, hopelessly devoted to you’. ‘Hopeless’ is such a strong word, it has to be used in the proper context, Mark & Lard’s plight at Radio 1 was blatant for those who heard. The grim opening to Hopelessly, Endlessly with sparse percussion, minimal guitars and mournful words and muted violin before bursting into a repetitive but energetic, struggle that is, indeed, best described by the song’s title and the final words of ‘my fate is sealed tonight’.

Wistfulness marks the simple linking lyrics in the piano-led intro to Re-appropriation of The Meme, the gradual introduction of each vocalist intensifies the emotion of the concept.

The final track, The Greatest Shakedown, is typical of last tracks on many albums, a bit of noise, a fanfare, some repetition. The initial words, ‘Let’s fleece a few old friends, we can bleed them, we can rip them off’ is a bit scary but not unfamiliar behaviour for many.

The key to album is as ever the brilliant compositions that have been expanded to include greater synthesiser parts since Wolves, which was made up of intelligent guitars, dramatic percussion, violin, keyboards with other bits and pieces to go along with the layered vocals. The artists who inspired Deaths & Entrances have been honoured in an accomplishment no literature critic or other recording artiste could ever emulate, pragmatically, constructively and beautifully.

Performers of the Only Painless Feat,

A catastrophe arrived, it sat in my seat.
The disaster required attention,
Longed for sympthathetic words, not reconstruction,
left only a catastrophe behind.

I decided to begin building, I sat in my seat.
Panic, a restlessness to begin
laying bricks, dry stones,
upon the foundations of knowledge.

Appraising the plans, I was driven from my seat,
costing the research,
the brain's energy sent to my legs,
Cleaning the gutters of this gross heresy,
tomorrow's work.

Prostrators of the Sybarites,

I can be the most patient person in the world but I have no patience for filums, I can begin watching them and walk away. I tire of saying behind ever filum is a better book. I once devoted the energy of a lifetime to staying up to stupid o’clock to watch Catch-22 on some dire filum channel and it meant nothing.

More than 30 years after the event, I am captivated by M*A*S*H, the TV series. I decided to read the book that spawned the filum which spawned the TV series, because that’s what I do. Many people are besotted by television, that’s understandable, but the content of that viewing is what defines a person. There’s so much throwaway television, M*A*S*H carries weight and means something.

I couldn’t help but feel when reading M*A*S*H by Richard Hooker, that it was lending itself to the TV series even then despite the chronological flip in the order to which I arrived at them, and I suppose this is a compliment to the foresight of Larry Gelbart, creator of the TV series, and his writers. Of course, the characters of the novel are quite different from those in the TV series, and I believe that it is the talent of the cast because they gave Hawkeye, Henry Blake, Trapper, Radar and the others consciences.

The novel is a worthwhile read, it has humourous moments but as the books concentrates more on the off-duty activities in which these comical situations arise, the moral weight which the TV series or analogous literary works, such as Catch-22 or Slaughterhouse-Five, expound is not conveyed so strongly.

I know what scientists are like and there’s every chance that the doctors did behave as those depicted in this novel did in their free time: golf, football, poker and not enough moping about missed families or anger towards the governments who placed them there. In this factual work of fiction, it may be that the working conditions were so horrendous and the periods of intensive life-saving labour were so monotonous that the moments of release were the most memorable. I know from arguments with a colleague last week that memories are selective, the memories themselves are oxidised with time, composites of partial truths.

In this age, recollections of history, factual, fictitious or a fusion of the two, presented elegantly so as to promote benevolence in the minds of its consumers and that make its consumer appreciative of such selfless acts, such as M*A*S*H, the novel and the TV series, are precious.

Sympathisers of Visionary Anti-heroes,

I'm often to be seen with a pair of earphones in, simple, cheap and effective technology allows me to listen to My Latest Novel (I can't wait for Deaths & Entrances, I even adore the Bella Union press release), Belle & Sebastian (I can't wait for God Help the Girl), Lord Sufjan Stevens (I can't wait for something, just anything) or any of my favourite artistes without fear of reprisal from mystified and close-minded souls in my viccinity.

A person with earphones in whilst birds are in full song...

A souped-up car (lowered, with full body kit of bumpers and skirts and other things I don't care for) creeping over a speed bump at the speed of Walt Disney...

I'm a professional cynic but my heart's not in it, somebody said that I could be in love with almost everyone, I think that people are the greatest fun, but the Witchita Lineman is still on the line.

Sights and words, I wish I could sleep much better.

Reconnoiterers of an Eleemosynary Stance,

Squinting, he tried to decipher the title of the book that I was reading, ‘God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater? What’s it about?’, he asked, ‘Nothing’, I replied.

Of course, it’s not about nothing, I made the judgement that Kurt Vonnegut was not for him. God Bless You, Mr. Rosewater is the story of a sum of money as the author himself says. Eliot Rosewater has inherited his family’s ill-gotten wealth. Antagonised by his son’s expenditure on good deeds for the poor and the fact that there is no one in line to succeed Eliot to the fortunes of the Rosewater Foundation and take control of the estate from him, Senator Lister Rosewater rages.

I like to think of this book as a test, how the reader (I used to be told off by an English teacher for overuse of the term, ‘the reader’) feels about Eliot Rosewater is a reflection of the type of person they are. Are they disgusted by his physical appearance? Are they baffled by Eliot’s use of his money?

You either love him or hate him…I thought he was alright.

I was impressed by his choices and stubbornness but I thought he could do better. How do I rank?

Of all the books by Kurt Vonnegut I’ve read so far, I’ve had most respect for Kilgore Trout in this one. My favourite part is completely superfluous to the narrative and it relates to the work of Trout, “Trout’s favourite formula was to describe a perfectly hideous society, not unlike his own, and then, toward the end, to suggest ways in which it could be improved.” In Trout’s book, 2BR02B, the situation was as described; “All serious diseases had been conquered. So death was voluntary...” I love these quotes, other readers will find their own more meaningful quotes, the beauty of the book is that we will all have different favourites (there’s a cliché).

There’s one absolutely outstanding moment, and it’s up there with THE punchline in Marion & Geoff, it stands on its own brilliantly, but it is complimented by an incident in Slaughterhouse Five, the strange thing is that this book is published before Slaughterhouse Five, yet I feel that the moment I talk of carries more comic ballast, if the two are read out of order. It’s a minor point and those who have read the books or will do so on my advice, because they want to be cool, will know to what I refer.

My love of the work of Kurt Vonnegut grows, whilst I am playing catch-up to many Vonnegut fans, I still think that the Vonnegut boom will come many years from now. I have a passion for reading entertaining books that mean something and books such as Kurt Vonnegut’s are far weightier than they can ever seem.

Spent Heralds of Tremulant Certainties,

Horoscopes have no truth in them, but what they offer is a chance to evaluate our stock.

The Skinny provides this delightful missive to those of the crab massive:

If you stay focused, you’ll save on bullets. But sometimes you have to step back and think about the choices that you’re making. Even you’ll struggle to pull off an appropriately reflective shooting massacre.

Life is function and art. Science strives to improve function and understand art. The balance between function and art is crucial, measuring it well is the key to success and sanity. Function is existence. Art can be many things such as books, poetry, music, painting and scenery. A gathering of wildlife such as goosander, redshank, dunlins and other waders in a small, peaceful coastal inlet shrouded by trees can be tagged so by someone placated in its midst.

Time spared by function yet not given over to worthwhile art is time wasted.

Overweeners and the Exudate of Ungentlemanly Conduct,

My conscience is such that I have to review everything I do, sometimes, I regret the things I do immediately, stop doing them and apologise, sometimes, I’m aware of what I’m doing yet I still go on. Perhaps I was cranky from lack of sleep, perhaps I am ungrateful by nature (seeing as all my expedition was paid for) or perhaps I am entirely reasonable when I describe my latest international business trip as a misery. England is a foreign land of strange and unnecessary ways, with that in mind, I entered the week in a poor frame of mind; Reading never had the charm required to drag me from this state.

I didn’t sleep long enough the night before departure; this was largely due to the diet of my brother. I hate airport security, I always feel like I am being made to undress, and redressing quickly to catch a flight is stressful. I hate flying, there are no distractions if it’s cloudy or if seated near the aisle (this is an example of my pragmatism). People being served food when I’m not hungry is irksome (this is an example of my selfishness).

From the aeroplane, we mount the bus. The worst part of England, for me, is that the people continue to go about their ways as if that is the only way. When I state this I’m concentrating on their motorways; these always seem choked to me, I couldn’t live like this. A car is for driving, not for sitting and waiting in. If the English people want to sit and wait, they should sit and wait in a bus or train station.

From the bus, we mount taxis, this is perhaps where I seem ungrateful again, I hate taxis. This trait is bred into me and even when I’m not paying the fare, I still loathe each journey. Each journey is over-priced, that’s a given, but nothing is learned from a taxi journey; the driver takes obscure routes and visitors to their city gain no bearings.

The accommodation was basic, and despite statements such as ‘it’s only a bed’. I struggled to cope, although I don’t consider myself to be pampered, I just needed something more to bring some light relief. I wouldn’t have asked for much: perhaps a bedside lamp that was in reach of a plug such that it could still be considered ‘bedside’, perhaps a room with a less stern smell, it was the aroma of ‘clean but with no pride’. I didn’t want to queue for breakfast (elastic toast) or a shower. I felt that I spent the week queuing (this is perhaps a result of sleep-deprived crankiness).

I should be grateful to eat meals that are paid for me. I grumped the first night, I was not hungry and I did not want to walk far to find a restaurant and then wait long for a meal. I only went along with colleagues because I did not want to return to my grim cell. A buffet of sandwiches and other things was provided on the second night during the poster session where I had reverse epiphany – during these events, sufferers of the reverse epiphany are known to march off in the realisation that there’s no point - I decided that this conference wasn’t sufficiently relevant to my work. A conference dinner was provided on the third evening, there is only one choice in these affairs, whether THE dinner will be eaten or not. At least there was less queuing for the evening meals, lunch was a different matter.

The presentation of my work was completed without catastrophe; the only adversity which I had to negotiate was the tedium of unnecessary wind-ups employed by my colleagues. I was a burden to my colleagues, I’m sure of that. In my crankiness, I perhaps saw the worst in them and did not always greet them as best as I could within the limits to which I usually do. I was defensive all week; I could not help but feel offended when cashiers inspected my Scottish bank notes.

I took little part in the conference on Wednesday, I visited the town centre, my main aim was to buy some fruit and to find a book. I had an overwhelming fear of finishing the novel which I am reading and being left with no book. After acquiring these essentials, I spent the day reading and drinking lattes outside a coffee shop, this is one of my favourite things to do.

I was glad to return to Scotland, in a game of one-upmanship which only I was aware of, I made my way to Heathrow early in the day. I’m always amazed by Scottish faces at the airport, we’re never aware of the fact that we have distinctive faces in our everyday life in Scotland, it’s only ever when I’m waiting my the airport gate for a flight back to Embra or Glasgow that I notice this. Neil Coast should have investigated this on his Face of Britain documentary of a few years ago.

I arrived into Embra airport and emerged later into the rush hour traffic in my car, with the window down and the Rakes up, I rolled along for 5 minutes before I could do what those in England seem unable to do – press down on the accelerator pedal and drive.