Disbelievers in Plumage,

One of the forgotten pleasures in my life is reading the local newspaper of my hometown, reading The Metro or The Skinny. They all remind me of a past that is growing more favourable in my clouding memory.

I take the time to read the local newspaper when I return. I miss the serial moaner in the letters page, he grew into his spotlight through time, he became a celebrity in his own livingroom and began to perform for his adoring readership.

Similarly, the letters to the Metro were always a delight. As I rode the morning train to the city daily, I reasoned that I must have been, on many occasions, on the same carriage as an author of one of those missives. The abstract humour was unparalleled, obviously, fair degree of censorship will always be applied, but it’s so special when compared to the conversations that take place in the comments of news websites and online messageboards. On the rare occasion, I do visit the train or bus station, the Metro letters are a rare treat.

The Skinny was always available in the Student Union, I only see it in those trendy shops like Urban Outfitters these days. Generally, when I pick up a copy, I can spend a few days reading all the reviews and articles. I like The Skinny because it lots all of Scotland’s cultural events that are ignored by the mainstream press. In August’s episode, I read about Harry Hill’s art exhibition, although this was covered elsewhere, I found out first in The Skinny.

I never watched the Harry Hill television series; from the outside, the silly collar and the puppets seemed too juvenile for me. I like TV Burp, and after watching the spoof documentary featuring a reunion and compilation of the C4 series, I think I perhaps missed a trick. When I think of my love of Mark and Lard, it’s hard to see why I couldn’t have warmed to Harry Hill’s television series.

The art exhibition was titled My Hobby, and I thought the modesty was wise. Visitors would undoubtedly begin to view the paintings more critically if they were presented seriously. I’ve never really cared for perfection in art, I like impressionism so I would never criticise Hill for being inaccurate in his depictions. I cared more about the ideas.

Hill’s artwork is based on current affairs, or what were current affairs, and our obsession with celebrities. Whilst I like the detail of Crud-Muck and the questions it asks and the zaniness of Phillip Schofield’s Dream, I can’t help but think that this collection is a little obsessed by Chris Tarrant and Bruce Forsyth. When the celebrities of the day have faded, so too will the relevance of these paintings. Ever since Judith Keppel won £1 million pound, Chris Tarrant’s fame has been shrinking so these painted comments already feel dated to me.

Phillip Schofield’s Dream means nothing to me and I like it for that, giant pets prowl the landscape as a swarm of helicopters obscure the sky. I could try to over-analyse it and look for a theme like they would do in some sort of literature analysis in an English class. Perhaps the helicopters represent flying insects, but I can’t comment further. For me, it doesn’t even matter that it is Phillip Schofield.

Whilst I complain about the anachronistic nature of some, my favourite exhibit is Britpop Coconuts. Noel, Damon, Gaz and Jarvis’s faces are seen painted on the sides of coconuts. As the heroes of a generation, they were there to be knocked over.

Satirical cartoonists have their drawings published every day. They strike an amusing blow every day. Harry Hill’s paintings have never been seen in the public domain yet they are perhaps a painted analogy to these daily doodles. Only a more frequent display of his work can prevent it seeming dated, but then, it would no longer be his hobby.

Dignitaries and Sideshows,

The best festival line-up of the year was undoubtedly at Doune the Rabbit Hole. Featuring an impressive selection of rising stars and cult artists, the festival was held this year at Carron Valley Fort. I really wished that I could’ve been there on Saturday to see Jeffrey Lewis and Withered Hand, but, I made the effort to trot along on Sunday. My tickets didn’t arrive in the post and when I called to ask how I would gain entrance, an American lady from Brown Paper Tickets advised me that I should visit a certain website on my cell phone and let them scan the online barcode that would appear at that web address to prove my purchase. I did not use any such cell phone and doubt there were any such scanners at the fort, furthermore, it turned out that the festival site was completely out of range for most networks. Armed with my confirmation emails on paper, I drove to the Carron Valley in hope.

The organisers advised against driving for two reasons; their environmentally-friendly ethics and also the lack of space. They were right to provide a warning, it seemed somewhat chaotic, I waved my papers at the first volunteer and was directed in the gate. From then, successive volunteers treated each new car as an emergency and they radioed panicking messages to the next fluorescent hero up the road, ‘I’m sending through a red van.’, ‘Blue car to be with you in five seconds.’, but after being passing through all these stages, I was then able just to dump my car at the side of a road as they had ran out of people to man the track completely. I asked one vested steward if that was okay and they agreed that if I wasn’t blocking anyone then it would do, but if anyone else asked me, I was to say that the conversation never took place. I drifted into the festival grounds and tried to gather my bearings and a sense of the timings. I thought I knew the stage time of the one act I really wanted to see.

I was attracted by a nice indie-pop sound from one of the tents and it turned out to be Easy, Tiger! They seemed to be battling some technical ghouls but their songs were pleasing enough to hold the Baino tent full of people until the end of their set. Afterwards, I had a walk around but didn’t really listen to anyone in particular, The Sunshine Social were colourfully dressed and when I wandered by, they seem to be plying some novelty calypso sound, but on listening to some of their recordings online, they were most likely just bashing their instruments for towards a final crescendo.

Elsewhere, The Magnetic Mind took over the Baino Tent. They are a four-piece band from London village. With Ellie Boden on vocals, they seem to merge aspects of 60s psychedelia with C86 indie-pop, a noble pastime in my mind. Again, they were a little hindered by the sound in the tent, I hope to hear them elsewhere. That dear Vic Galloway has played their record is a notable endorsement. I admit to hanging around the outside of the tent during this set as I wanted to keep the main Jaberwocky Stage within my view in order not to miss The Second Hand Marching Band.

I had long waited to see The Second Hand Marching Band live. I bought the Dance to Half Death EP on release about 3 years ago, and today, it’s one of the records I still play the most. The Second Hand Marching Band contain members from a large number of bands in and around Glasgow, there are a great number of quality artists just below the headlines who pop up on radio now and again, and the Second Hand Marching Band might be viewed as a kind of ‘super group’, but I think this may detract from the credence they deserve as a discrete entity.

The band suggested that they’d be on stage at 1530 hours, when I saw a large gang on stage at 1430, I began to worry that I had missed them, but, luckily, they were only setting up. They started around 1500 and played a lovely long set. I never carried out a head count but there must have been over 15 members, enough to force the brass players to be hidden from view. It’s hard to qualify the sound of The Second Hand Marching Band, they are so poignant but with scope for jolly stomping, their compositions are so delicate but with scope for frantic turbulence. Accordions are always alluring, the bold trumpet, trombone and saxophone are offset by the lilt of the clarinet and flute, the strings are measured in to perfection, with the ukulele providing a sweet subtlety; these are all supported by the smart drumming and topped off by the sparkling glockenspiel. I think the most beautiful aspect of hearing the band live was their singing, in front of a reasonably appreciative crowd, they were able to step away from the microphones for an unaltered choral sound which I found more powerful.

Afterwards, there was a large gap in the scheduling. The organisers had decided to display stage timings whilst The Second Hand Marching Band was on stage. I decided to take the opportunity to go for a wander outside the main arena. On return, I was turned away for not having a wristband. I had been in the festival for a few hours and suddenly I was being turned away. No one had asked to see my ticket to gain entry to the car park or the arena first time around and I think I know why - I kept being asked if I was one of the artists, when I went to sort out this fiasco at the volunteers shed, I was again asked if I was an artist. I really hope that they asked this of everyone. One of these artists doesn’t need me as a doppelganger, whoever they are. I dread to think.

I returned to the Baino Tent to watch a little of Olympic Swimmers, who were not bad but I found them a bit growly for my mood. I looked in on Kid Canaveral who were creating pop to their usual high standard in the Tenement TV Tent. Down on the Jaberwocky Stage were Rainbow Fishes, I listened for a while, as there was no alternative, but I found them to be an unremarkable indie band.

Next on were Three Blind Wolves. I’ve looked out for an opportunity to see them for a while. I’ve been a fan of Ross Clark since the Anthems in Clams EP, he wrote a nice note to me and included a few extra discs as I was one of the first people to buy it. They gave a really strong set to the crowd, trading in a blend of Scottish rock and classic Americana, Three Blind Wolves create a beefy sound that has long overgrown those Anthems inClams. The band even features that occasional My Latest Novel bassist.

The last act I would watch would be Laura J Martin. As an avid Marc Riley listener, I was familiar with her talents and her flute-playing. I arrived to find Laura milling around alone in the Tenement TV stage, she waited for a small crowd to arrive and then began. Although it was only a small tent and audience, it is an act of courage and guile to build up all those songs by herself. In return for the audience’s patience, Laura gradually loops her mandolin and flute to back her weird and wonderful songs of ninjas and the like (the videos link on her sight is very useful). I decided to end my festival there at a high point.

Doune the Rabbit Hole allowed me to catch a few of my target bands and artists all at once and I was grateful for this. The festival could have been better organised, although the line-up promised much, I wonder if I really would’ve had the stamina to tolerate a whole weekend, but I applaud me for attending because Scotland needs events like this and thoughtful people  to support them.

Predecessors to Colossal Fortuity,

Maybe I only exist for disasters, maybe I’m the man to call. It was once said that when everything is fine, I am unhappy, but when crisis strikes, I’m the one who stays calm. ‘Calm down’ seems to have become one of my most used phrases. I was never blessed with much common sense but I’ve grown to be a bastion of problem-solving.

Nevertheless, so much emotional energy must be expended lurching from one disaster to another than I have become drained from it all.

I sought some peace. I ventured out for a walk and upon reaching the focal point of the journey, I perched myself on a rock above the beach for a rest before returning. I considered the landscape for a few moments, I had taken a photograph of this horizon many times and I examined the differences that were now before me.

I was pondering only a few moments when a dog wandered by. The dog was not accompanied by an owner so I thought it odd. The dog seemed to lack direction, and that instinctive goal dogs seemingly expound, as it moved amongst the marram grass. It worried me that someone had lost their dog; someone would have to tell their children or partner that the family pet was gone.

Still on the rock, I surveyed the beach, the coastal path and the golf course for an equally lost owner. No one struck me as lacking a dog. At the edge of the golf course, 200 yards to my east, a man waded through the long grass; a luckless golfer who had struck a wayward drive or a man seeking a dog. I waved at him. He saw me but chose to ignore me. I waved at him again and he gave a friendly wave back before going back into the gorse and gory grass. I looked around once more and decided that there were no other candidates to take this dog home but him. The dog was now around 100 yards to my west.

I followed the dog and, surprisingly, I was able to bring it under my command. I began leading the dog towards the man in the rough. This was where I became really worried; if the man was not its owner, I think I would now be. I did not want a dog, I don’t like pets. I waved again at the man and, thankfully, he seemed to understand and began walking towards me.  I lead the dog over the bridge and through the dunes to him, I pointed and it ran towards its owner.

I was relieved but the episode left me deliberating what other people I knew would’ve done. Unfortunately, I think most of those I encounter on a daily basis would’ve let that man go home to tell his family that he had lost the family dog. I was not a hero, in fact, I’d have rather stayed on the rock; what I did was cost the man thousands of pounds more in dog food and veterinary bills; and I acknowledge that there are many more catastrophic situations than this, but on that day – coincidentally, my birthday – that was the disaster of the day.