The Bellyaches

Bugs of Wizen Technologies,

2009-11-07T12:59:00.003Z

Idlewild have continually changed, they’ve explored, consolidated new areas of sound but retained their expertise in the loudness which first brought them to the public’s attention. The new album, Post Electric Blues, probably relies more on the folk/solo work of Roddy Woomble than before, of course, the involvement of Heidi Talbot and John McCusker points towards this.

My favourite song is possibly the final track, Take Me Back In Time. I like the way it spins down with a sense of fatalism. My favourite lyric is ‘when you reach the end of the road, you still need somewhere to go’, it isn’t particularly meaty from a poetic viewpoint but is striking in its context.

Idlewild played Fat Sam’s, Dundee to promote the new album. The first band on the bill were Make Love but we arrived just as they were finishing up, they did not end with a climactic flourish, perhaps in the future, they will endear themselves to me.

Sparrow and the Workshop were next up. They are a three-piece who are based on Glasgow. Singer Jill has a really captivating voice; chillingly, it rings around the room. Devil’s Song is perhaps their signature tune but not all of their songs are so jaunty and energetic.

Idlewild put on a lively performance with a setlist that plucked the more raucous tracks from each of their now extensive back catalogue. Many of those earlier songs sound so much better now that Roddy’s voice has aged and I think there is a case for re-recording songs like Little Discourage, These Wooden Ideas and, especially, When I Argue I See Shapes.

This was the setlist:

City Hall

Younger Than America

Little Discourage

I Don't Have The Map

These Wooden Ideas

Roseability

Idea Track

No Emotion

A Ghost In The Arcade

Actually, It's Darkness

When I Argue I See Shapes

Post Electric

Annihilate Now!

You Held The World In Your Arms

Blame It On The Obvious Ways

Too Long Awake

***

Readers & Writers

A Modern Way Of Letting Go

I stood next to a man who used the ‘What song is this?’ application on his iPhone on every song. No titles matched every song, so he tried to work it out based on the Idlewild songs stored on his iPhone but he only had The Remote Part album. I was perhaps too nosy, I thought that his lack of success in naming the songs would have hampered his enjoyment but the wrote an SMS later which begun, ‘Idlewild are really very good…’ The most amusing part of this man’s confusion was the fact that he was stood by the mixing desk where the setlist was clearly visible.

Idlewild are one of Scotland’s treasures; like Belle & Sebastian and Teenage Fanclub, they’re prolific, they sit just outside the mainstream public’s consciousness but they’re still adored by those who know what’s right. They never disappoint.

Grapplers Missing Picture Winters,

2009-10-26T22:53:00.001Z

Roll up your sleeves for winter!

People of words and little importance seem to have a great effect on how days unfold. The ability to be accommodating is dying out. Driving is periods of boredom when I mull over the events that piled up on me like the larch needles on the road.

I had to photocopy a form for one of the office staff, normally, she’d do it but I guess I had disturbed her from more pressing work so I headed along to the photocopier and was the victim of a paper jam. Rather than try to dismantle a photocopier, I popped into the main office next door and asked the only secretary there if she could help me, and this is what made me cranky, they huffed and puffed her way through with me to the photocopier, apologetically and in a self-deprecating way I said to my reluctant photocopy saviour, ‘And I’m meant to be the scientist…’, but she grunted, ‘Well, I’m not a scientist.’, so I stood in awkward silence whilst she tore. She was cranky but there was no need to be contagious.

I’m the king of improvisation and my protégé is learning this slowly but his brand of makeshift lacks belief. His pessimism and feeling of hopelessness makes my patience feel improper and obscene. At the opposite end of the scale, I received some good news – something for my CV – and I was expected to whoop but I disappointed the messenger by accepting the news with the pragmatism that I treat everything with.

The Friday lab class are unlucky, I seem to be in charge of them despite my junior position within the chain of responsibility. I run around trying to ensure the health and safety of the class whilst gaining good results but the staff member in charge sits and watches me. After staring at a dripping tank creating a dangerous puddle for three hours, she rose to tell me off because one of the class was wearing tights and unsuitable shoes. I’m well paid for my endeavours but there’d be less broken glass with a little more support.

Autumn seemed to happen all of a sudden for me and it depressed me, perhaps it took a windy day for me to notice the leaves had wilted and fallen. Autumn should be a slow time of wistfulness in which to indulge. If time would slow, I could concentrate on me, I’m not on a bench reading a book, enjoying a rainbow over the harbour; I’m just dealing with the consequences, and, possibly, wearing a jumper.

Circumscribers of Astringent Tendancies,

2009-10-13T20:26:00.003+01:00

Around the time I was obsessed by noctilucent clouds, I was told that the Scottish sky was beautiful and lately, I’ve come to agree. This morning, I didn’t have to look outside to understand this; it was on the BBC local news behind Scottish newsreader, Catriona Shearer, although it might have been a case of ‘red sky in the morning, shepherd’s warning’, I thought it was nice.

The autumnal mornings are here and I’ve consulted the bank of woolly jumpers. The weather has been mostly calm apart from the windstorm of a few weeks ago; having been dispatched to deepest East Lothian to take part in a football match in its midst, I had to mount the pavement to drive around a fallen tree on one route used whilst lost. Satellite navigation is a brilliant concept but useless in practice if the co-pilot decides to argue with the direction angel.

The weeks pass, they pass in the same way and despite consciously trying to do something different, the time passes too quickly and in the torrent of time, I can only react the same way I always do. I stepped out to do something culturally significant; I went to Embra to buy records, I enjoy the train ride and it’s also an ideal time to read. I wonder if the train station attendant at Kirkcaldy is playing a game with discount railcard holders, I ask for a ticket and say that I have a railcard (a Young Persons card) ergo I pay the fare with a discount of one third the price, she says the cost, it makes sense to me, I hand over the money, she gives me tickets and I put them in my pocket without caring. The ticket inspector asks to see my ticket, I hand it over and he asks, ‘Where is your child?’ and confusion ensues. The attendant must do this deliberately; it sets the inspectors up for a few good wisecracks, she must think I’ll give him any old discount – family, senior citizen, pregnant lady, meteorologist - that’ll teach him from taking disadvantage of Scotrail discount schemes. My missing child was a better problem than my lost ‘age rejuvenation pills’.

I stepped out of the rat race to do two good deeds on Sunday, one person will never know the benefits of the results, the other good deed was nearly undone by death. I saw an associate on a bridge walking home and I pulled over to pick them up, on delivering them home, I was faced with a motorcyclist, of the helmetless ned variety, illegally speeding towards me as I passed some parked cars. Thankfully, they managed to stop, I had done all I could to slow and pull towards a tiny opening at the side.

One of my first favourite songs was Wide Open Sky by Goldrush, I’m sure it was a Record of the Week on Mark and Lard’s Biggest Show. I’m reminded of it when I think of the colours.

Caressing Bolsterers Witnessing the Brandish,

2009-09-30T22:22:00.002+01:00

The arrival of students to the town fills me with dread. I’m old, cynical and beleaguered. I pity their naivety as they gather in the streets on the first day of Fresher’s Week and call to each other, ‘How are you finding it so far, dude?’ The answer this time was ‘Amazing.’, but this was not a sunny day. I had run out to purchase some Lucozade to ensure that I finished the day standing. They were bounding around with posters, no doubt of the trendiest bands of the day: Kings of Leon, Snow Patrol, Arctic Monkeys etc and this somehow saddened me because amongst the poster-wielding maniacs, a true musical talent walked, or at least someone who looked very much like them. There walked someone whose music I admire and have bought and he hasn’t attracted a second thought from this rambunctious crowd. I don’t believe in pestering famous people, I’ve never approached one. An autograph or a photo is probably not all that life-enhancing, but an enlightening discussion over a coffee is probably out of the question.

Minor appointments distort the day and I lose focus. I lost a day to spending a minute with the dentist. Such occurrences perhaps justify the hilarious entrepreneurial project that was Craig and David’s Sandwich Shop and Backstreet Dentistry. It’d save time, so too would midnight dentistry, check-ups whilst you sleep, go on Dragon’s Den.

I find myself in a position of having to replace myself and it’s not easy. The situation is awkward because I’m not an expert in what I do; I try, I improvise, I’m patient, I accept, I believe, I interpret. It’s difficult to try to force my ways upon someone else and I don’t really want to because I envisage my successor improving my techniques and results. I believe my successor will achieve but building confidence is slow; I’m limited to ‘Can you set up and I’ll be along in a while?’, hopefully, we’ll move on from this stage soon and I can return to serving in an advisory capacity.

Flippant Malcontents Regretting Expurgation,

2009-09-04T21:27:00.004+01:00

The great and the good of the music industry were once again assembled in tense anticipation of the announcement of The Bellyaches Music Prize 2009. This year’s event was held aboard the North Carr Lightship in Victoria Harbour, Dundee and, as ever, hosted by the genial Bryan Burnett.

This year’s field was very strong, 2009 has proved an exceptionally good year for music and the judges had a difficult task choosing a winner.

Secret Soundz Vol. 1 by The Pictish Trail: After years of being part of Fence Records and a member of King Creosote’s backing band, The Pictish Trail finally released an album. The album mixes two influences; beautiful Fence Collective folk and Hot Chip-inspired electronica. The album is epitomised by the wonderful track I Don't Know Where to Begin.

When the Haar Rolls In by James Yorkston: This album is dreamy, cosy and a perfect defence against the credit crunch. Isolate yourself, press play, ponder James’ anecdotes and relax with his melodies, forget that Woolworths has closed down.

My Maudlin Career by Camera Obscura: Camera Obscura are consistently brilliant, they can create poignant melancholy ballads as well as jaunty pop numbers. My Maudlin Career is wonderfully composed to provide the most fitting ambiences to Tracyanne Campbell’s lyrics and voice.

Prevention by De Rosa: Sadly, De Rosa split up a few months after the release of Prevention, a musical study in existentialism combining the folk and electronica genres to perfection.

Checkmate Savage by The Phantom Band: Heavy, powerful but catchy, Checkmate Savage is another example of Chemikal Underground’s run of form in 2009.

God Help the Girl: Stuart Murdoch gathered around a huge collective of wonderful singers and musicians to put together this soundtrack to a yet-to-be made filum. The range of talented vocalists add variety to superbly composed tracks, it’s Belle & Sebastian but with a few extra goodies tagged on.

Deaths and Entrances by My Latest Novel: The long-awaited follow-up to Wolves draws upon works of cultural and social significance to inspire its listeners to come together and understand. My Latest Novel majestically make harmonies of four vastly different vocal work, these are accompanied by their layered guitars, keys, percussion and violins to create a startlingly beautiful sound.

Until the Earth Begins to Part by Broken Records: Energetic and wistful, this mini-orchestra from Embra do it all using traditional instruments and by putting in a shift.

Reservoir by Fanfarlo: Smart orchestral indie-pop is their trade, Reservoir is their product. Fanfarlo offer a positive, pragmatic approach to life that naysayers would do well to listen to.

Waxing Gibbous by Malcolm Middleton: Music’s funniest star doesn’t disappoint with more modest brilliance; of course, he’s not going to let people down if he’s helped out by Pictish Trail, King Creosote, Jenny Reeve and other talented people. He’s this generation’s bookkeeper.

Into the Ruin by Drever, McCusker and Woomble: 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. Everyone will have their own favourite song from Into the Ruin, it’s folk, it’s pop, it’s accomplished.

Lord Cut-Glass: Alun Woodward’s first solo release under the guise of Lord Cut-Glass is playful but poignant, with the aid of a nine-piece orchestra, he charms and surprises his listeners at each corner on this journey through the streets of time.

Bryan Burnett invited stand-in weather presenter Jean Johansson onto the deck to present the prize, the Bellyaches trophy and a set of commemorative porkpie hats, as unenthusiastically as ever to My Latest Novel for Deaths and Entrances. The drummer was sent up to collect the award whilst the rest of the band browser Twitter using their cell phones back in their area. The evening was drawn to an abrupt close after a loud splash was heard, a bunch of local youths had rolled the unfortunate Bryan Burnett's Toyota Prius into the harbour. In desperate fear of being replaced by Pat Nevin, Bryan then plunged into the water to desperately retrieve his list of theme ideas for the Get It On show.

Drenching Wraiths of the East,

2009-09-04T21:18:00.002+01:00

Weather apocalypse arrived. The hook of a very wet depression positioned itself right over the the east coast of Fife and deposited its load unrelentlessly for two days. It was said the average month's rainfall fell in a day. The north east of the country experienced the worst of the weather with flooding forcing many homes to be evacuated.

In the Kingdom of Fife, many roads were closed and some were barely passable. I opted out of the main road to work, a bus route, as I suspected that the debris washed onto the road might have rendered the road tricky but in fact, the road had been closed north of Upper Largo. The route I chosed was treacherous, I found myself sliding down a hill uncontrolled at once stage. Later on, one of the many fords had caused the traffic to stand to grind to a halt, people got out to have a look. One car had taken on too much water and was broken down, a van helped to tow it of the main road and the other cars passed but the water was passed the bottom of the door. Most driving was done in the middle of the roads, and cars frequently stopped to give way to each other at every fjord except one rebellious lady who decided to drive at me in a Mr Bean-stylee with horns-a-tooting.

All this chaos unfolded as Batty ran off on holiday, it's a weather conspiracy.

Surfeiters in Jaded Cynicism,

2009-08-31T21:15:00.003+01:00

Inspired by In the Aeroplane Over the Sea by Neutral Milk Hotel, I took on Anne Frank: The Diary of a Young Girl. Behind every news headline, there are millions of personal tales – this is the greatest event of the century and perhaps its most famous individual story.

My feeling is that World War II is really only a backdrop to an examination of family life in an extremely condensed environment. Of course, the diary is a unique insight into the hardships a family in hiding would have to face, the food they had, the deterioration of their clothes, the lack of warmth, their relationship with their hiders and the precautions they had to take but it is far more. To trivialise the situation and verge upon being insensitive, modern Western comparisons could be drawn with Big Brendan-type reality shows, where people are made to live in close quarters on top of each other, with mounting frustrations, their relationships can be observed. This comparison is gross and does not take into account the grave outcome of failure or the conditions which forced the families into hiding.

I always try to compare situations in books to modern life or identify characters with those I cross. With two families and a dentist in hiding, it’s fairly easy to match up characters perhaps with another family, even if they don’t correspond entirely closely, and better understand how they might feel about those around them using Anne’s evaluations of the people in the Secret Annexe. I haven’t visited many Booboo, Bacefook or MyArse pages featuring the questionnaire entitled ‘Which hiding person in the Secret Annexe, Holland, 1945 are you?’

Initially, Anne appears as someone who is a pain, who riles everyone, who seems selfish and arrogant, but Anne is at least smart enough to know this and confess this in her writings. I admit that I didn’t find Anne entirely likeable, I aligned myself with Margot, but that possibly relates to my position in the birth order of my own family. The diary conveys feelings that might be familiar to many younger siblings in a family; Anne sometimes feels that Margot has set standards that are exceptional and that her parents should not expect her to meet, Anne feels under pressure by the comparison she believes her parents are making.

I think towards the end, and this is easier realised in hindsight, the diary serves as a record of some of the errors and lost gambles the hiders made, however, at the time of reading, the hiders seem to become invincible as these incidents (break-ins, doors left unlocked etc) and a sense of hope begins to grow as 1944 goes on. Although I knew the outcome and when the war ended, I found myself thinking that they’ve made it to 1944, they’re in reasonably good spirits to survive into 1945, which is crazy, but that is down to Anne’s optimism and perhaps distraction in Peter van Daan.

Anne Frank’s diary doesn’t give definitive facts that to educate people about all of World War II or the Holocaust, it’s a diary, a personal account of a life endured during that time. I have never read another person’s diary before but my own opinion is that the diary serves as a historical document which details the conditions of hiders, these are the facts (what they did to survive etc) but the rest of it, whilst not of use to historians, serves as a lesson on the dynamics of two families and a stranger living in very close quarters under gravely testing circumstances.

Proclaimers of Cloudy Incantations,

2009-08-28T22:30:00.002+01:00

In the wake of last evening’s unusually wicked rainstorms in the Kingdom of Fife, it’s worth considering the presentation of our television weather forecasts. The weather bulletins last around two minutes and they are shockingly bad. If our weather bulletins were more detailed, the public could be more educated and better prepared.

The question of what people want from a weather forecast needs to be asked. The best weather segments on British television are the weekly forecast on BBC1’s Countryfile or Country Tracks, these show the weekly forecast in relation to the pressure sequences and weather systems in the Atlantic are discussed in brief, or Radio 5Live’s World Weather with Philip Eden in the middle of Tuesday night, thus the most detail we are accustomed to is the odd isobar chart now and again (the values of the highs and lows aren’t even given). I say the public deserve more data and information: upper atmosphere trends, sea/ocean temperatures, international weather patterns and more. There is no need to patronise us with what is in essence just a guess as to whether it will be wet or dry tomorrow, if that is all the public want to know, they will have to keep referring to forecasts, but if they were informed of other longer-range data, they might be able to understand and make predictions for themselves.

I think there are some fantastic meteorologists in this country but they are denied the chance to educate the public and display their knowledge when reduced to role of mere presenters. For example, cult hero Sean Batty on STV, I have the impression that he is a real enthusiast of meteorology; when he first began on STV news, he’d prepare many interesting graphics, but as time has passed, he has been reduced to symbols and simply delivering a rain verdict for the next day. I miss the days of classic Sean. Another example is Des Coleman on BBC East Midlands, he started off as an actor and now he’s the morning weatherman, he’s a great character, he’s passionate and he’ll have undergone training but surely, the public deserve a time-served graduate of meteorology who might expand their horizons.

I want to know how things will turn out tomorrow, I’m away to lick my finger and hold it in the air.

Pundits Culpable of Sedentary Blunders,

2009-08-26T20:56:00.004+01:00

I doubted stand-up comedy, my Fringe schedule was to be a sole visit to see John Hegley but things change. The idea of amusement and laughter during pre-appointed times did not fit with my psyche and it probably still doesn’t. Nevertheless, when I was approached, in my capacity as a ‘barometer of quality and taste’, to help out in the arrangement of a venture to the Fringe Festival, I felt obliged to lend a hand and suggest a couple of shows to attend and, of course, I joined the party on their visit to Embra.

The trip was not planned too well, ownership of the project was ambiguous; it lacked my leadership. If I was leader, I would be organised with maps and knowledge of precise directions, but instead, in my role as event booker and party member, all I could do was try to make helpful suggestions. We arrived just in time to see Richard Herring: Hitler Moustache at the Underbelly. Negotiating our way through the crowded pavements and over busy roads, we made our way from Level 4 on the multi-storey car park to the Cowgate, where I wasted time trying to work out the sequence of the door numbers before conceding defeat and trading directions for the acceptance of a leaflet from a leaflet donor.

I know Richard Herring from his work with Andrew Collins on BBC 6music and their blogs and podcasts, his show seemed like a safe bet. The show is vehemently anti-racist and Richard tackles his subject matter through recounting his experience of sporting a Hitler/Chaplin moustache. Whilst describing the comical adventures of the moustache, Richard also touches on the mentality of racists and the public’s attitude to democracy with respect to extremists, the BNP. As the booker, I always worry how the party will receive my choices for them and I admit I did get anxious during some of the slower periods, they were not dull per se but perhaps too full of preaching for pure comedy fans. It was a professional performance, in my opinion, well-balanced between morals and laughter.

After the show, I spotted David Mitchell; he had also been watching Richard Herring. I did not want to pester him for an autograph as I’ve never been good at meeting famous people. During the Embra Fringe, famous people ought to be relieved of the public and for the most part, they are. Anyway, one of our party decided to have a cell phone photo moment with David before going on to perform the tiresome chip routine on the Royal Mile.

We padded north to York Place and the Stand Comedy Club to see Alun Cochrane: Daydreamer…at Night. Alun is a particular favourite comedian of mine, he’s been on many of the panel shows over the last few years but he is too polite to make a big impression on them, although when he does have his say, he’s prolific. The show on this particular evening was fantastic, it was non-stop hilarity in a ‘funny because it’s true’-stylee.

The evening ended with the mandatory wrong turn in the city centre and an eventual escape via Gorgie Road to the city bypass. The evening went well apart from administration blunders but I will now be returning to my belief that comedy is spontaneous and not for pre-arranged meetings and contracts with professional – perhaps that is why I won’t make a living out of my wit but I guess I’m happy for Michael McIntyre to have my slot on prime time BBC for now.

Sagacious Prevaricators Gathering Gourds,

2009-08-23T13:16:00.004+01:00

The East Fifecestershire Mail advertised a £1000 prize poetry competition; poems are to concern the Kingdom of Fife. My inspiration came from a scene I witnessed in a Gonzo-stylee on the way to the car. I think my entry will be called ‘Perils at the Garden Gate’. Once I think of some metaphors, imagery and make it arty, I will send in my entry but I have already accepted defeat, because I’m keepin’ it real, it will be written off.

Onwards to the city, I stood in the vestibule of the train alongside two goth types. As the train stopped at Haymarket, I heard a wife tell her elderly husband, after his muffled question, ‘He is heterosexual.’ The older generation shouldn’t be so judgemental or try to pigeonhole the youth of today.

My aim was to pick up some tickets for a forthcoming Fringe Festival visit and to combine it with some niceties. The first part involved queuing at the box office for a ticket to see John Hegley at lunchtime, it was horrific and I’d recommend pre-booking. Queuing to leaves buyers exposed to leaflet people, I retreated into my book but even then, tolerating them is quite a task. I understand that this work has to be done, but I become weighed down with pieces of paper. After the purchase, and then the pick-up, I went out onto the Royal Mile, I bought some guava flavour Rubicon juice and some Vimto chews, both tasted very nice.

A large crowd hard gathered to watch a street act, it was Vince Henderson and two other lads. I’ve seen the act twice by chance in recent years, they are highly amusing and, of course, skilled and courageous. Vince eats an apple while juggling it simultaneously with two knives but the climax of the show comes when one of the men rides a 15 foot high unicycle, another upon an 8 foot high unicycle and Vince, a wheelie bin as they juggle flaming torches.

To pass some more time, I walked down to the Parliament building. I love this building but it’s interesting to see it develop. The grass is allowed to grow in some areas of the gardens, some tourists moan. The stone on the building has lost its gleaming appearance; I wonder if this will be for improve or detract from the building’s character, I suspect the latter.

John Hegley was excellent but the room was half full. I think John Hegley is an ideal show to attend; if people have come to Embra specifically for the comedy, most of their schedule will be taken up my night time events, but John Hegley offers a hilarious, witty show full of poems, songs, ad hoc, off-the-cuff remarks and intelligent chat that the whole family can enjoy during what might be an empty daytime agenda. One of the peculiar things about John's shows is that he begins by rearranging the audience (bringing them nearer) and ensuring that they are not going to cause disruption (eating goat's cheese). He always divides the audience into sections for some of his quality items, before this has been A, B and C, this time it was the glasses wearers (the holy ones), the contact lens wearers (the scum) and the rest (laser gazers were allowed to define their own affinities).

Afterwards, I wandered around the shops but it wasn’t for me. I wanted to be outdoors on a rare sunny day, my shorts had ripped so I went home.

Descriers with Ecumenical Perspective,

2009-08-20T23:26:00.003+01:00

Like a star, but the only one, it glitters in the north eastern sky. Shining white, blue and red, it remains busily static. Fluctuation of emission intensity around its sphere makes it seem alive and intelligible. Oscillation is not the only trick, sporadic beams of light zap for miles in all directions. Presenting a test for the observer, it moves just left or just right – definite moves, but barely detectable. It disappears completely and fades back to view, the light show continues, a star once again.

Terminators of Patchy Oration,

2009-08-20T16:14:00.001+01:00

After yesterday’s BBC magazine article on PowerPoint, I thought I’d write a few notes.

As a speaker, I always try to provide enough information on slides to ensure that the presentation still makes sense if I crash and burn. Presentations should be seen as an opportunity to voice opinions rather than project facts, not everyone will agree with an opinion so winning over all of the audience is an unattainable goal that should not be strived for. Of course, believing in your words and data is paramount but it’s fierce out there, some audience members have their own agendas and they’re not there to fall in love with the speaker. I don’t know how much of this I believe but telling myself this prevents me from crashing and burning.

The worst thing about listening to presentation is the ‘outline’ slide; after the title slide, the speaker lists all the things that they will proceed to talk about, they say how the talk is divided up in sections and that they will end with a conclusion. I have to hold myself back from shouting ‘Get on with it’. BBC 6Music’s Gideon Coe invented a new catchphrase last week which I found amusing: ‘Get on with it…in your own time’. Avoiding this slide in future will inject an element of surprise into the presentation and high-octane drama will ensue with each click of the mouse.

Dabblers Asseverating Statistical Significance,

2009-08-19T13:58:00.003+01:00

Climate seems foremost in my mind at the moment. A top amateur meteorologist seems intent on portraying ‘global warming’ as a myth. Using the temperature statistics for North America, he predicts a trend of global cooling and he correlates this to reducing solar activity (part of solar cycles). Of course, relating the Earth’s climate to the Sun’s power output is not a revolutionary idea.

Personal experience tells me that we cannot rely on just one influencing factor to predict climate. I once chatted to a man about a position involving computational climate modelling, I was told that the job would be to try to incorporate every factor possible into a computer programme that had been developed but he followed up by telling me that the task was impossible and that an answer would never be reached by whoever took on the project. As well as studying the major atmospheric and oceanic circulations, the factors which affect them have to be analysed and combined; surface temperatures, rainfall, surface run-off, ice sheet coverage and break-up, ocean salinity (thermohaline circulation) and more.

If human disruption overcomes to the natural variability and the planet’s defence mechanisms, the Earth is scuppered. Humans might only be capable of influencing a few factors – most notably, the atmospheric composition, but they have to bear the brunt of the follow-on effects of their behaviours. Although very little around us is natural, we should strive to maintain standards that are as close to the Earth’s natural levels as possible. With respect to CO2, if people don’t believe that emissions don’t influence climate, say as much as sunspots, the fact that fuels such as oil, coal and gas are not renewable should be reason enough to limit their usage.

As news of a rapidly melting glacier made the BBC headlines, can global cooling really be expected to patch it up?

Harbingers Amongst the Shaggy Roughness,

2009-08-13T22:40:00.001+01:00

I came across a quote yesterday, I didn’t expect to, it was really irrelevant to the book I was reading in my research, however, the authors had decided to dot some quotes around the book (on various analytical instruments) for decoration.

There was the passage from a speech by Theodore Roosevelt. I wasted some time after packing up by reading about the 26th President of the United States before going home.

May it be applied to everything.

Scions of the Fabulous Ennui,

2009-08-13T22:10:00.006+01:00

In a strange way, a string of related occurrences stretched from anger to amazement over more than a month. I suppose the plot would have resulted in much the same yield because of my type of dedication to the phenomena in question.

They woke me up. I was enraged, it was the early hours of the morning and people were shouting outside. On failure to sleep, I turned to BBC Radio 5Live and it was the weather slot, it could have been the dentistry slot, the book slot, the Gabby Cabby, the world football slot or some nincompoop calling up to say that they had seen a bee that day but it was none of these. The weatherman ended his segment with a few notes about noctilucent clouds, reporting that they had been spotted frequently this summer. As a past part-time student of meteorology, I decided then that I’d like to see some post haste, and I added them to my list just below aurora borealis and Chick Young being chased by ball lightning.

The lookout took place casually, when outdoors for other pursuits, I’d be gazing upwards. The search for noctilucent clouds intensified one evening, disgusted with the lapping up of spoon-fed drivel, I left an engagement and took to the roads for a while, I knew that I’d eventually have to retrieve those who supped. On the back roads only a few miles from town, the sky was unperturbed. I can’t say if I saw noctilucent clouds or not.

With the arrival of the annual Perseids meteor shower, heralded by the BBC, the time was right to head back into the darkness, but only after the conclusion of Jurassic Park, it’s a filum about a bad wiring, a dodgy electric fence, a buffet, kitchen accidents, limping and dinosaurs. Towards Falkland Hill, we went, but, of course, stopped in the small lay-by just inside the field, past the bit where the road is bridged by branches from trees on either side – the mouse flyover.

With the cattle lowing, and a baby awake, somewhere, we adjusted our eyes to the darkness. The night sky as we saw it might have been a good compensation should we have failed to witness what was to come. I saw more stars than I ever have, it was almost perfectly clear, satellites were tracked and I’m certain a trail of lightness across the sky from the north was a thin noctilucent cloud. In the quiet, with our trained eyes, we began to see the meteors from all directions. I estimate 20-30 from 2230-2330 hrs, a halt to proceedings was called due to the temperature fall (that’s global cooling). In hindsight, with a greater degree of confidence of sightings, we could have prepared better: warm clothes, blankets, deck chairs, hot beverages, vol-au-vents, cocktail sticks with small cubes of cheese and pickled onions. The planning committee for the next cosmic event, they’re recognisable by their peaked caps and overalls, are already in action.

Undiscerning Concomitants of the Nidorous Development,

2009-08-10T21:43:00.002+01:00

The football season has only just kicked off and its defining moment has come and gone despite the fact that not every professional club has even played a match yet.

The match was East Fife versus Brechin City at New Bayview, Methil. East Fife scored the only two goals of the game in the first half, but the undisputed highlight of the 2009/10 football season occurred in the early stages of the second half.

There exists a particularly vocal group of supporters, I could call them clueless but I prefer ‘adamant’, if I knew what they looked like, I wouldn’t sit next to them, but unfortunately, I don’t and chance decides the outcome. The gift one of them bestowed upon us on Saturday compensates for many years of tolerance.

Words can’t describe the brilliance of this moment and I guess The Bellyaches massive will be mystified.

After a few untidy midfield tussles, the ball breaks on the bounce to an East Fife player just inside the Brechin City half close to the stand touchline.

He is being approached by a Brechin City player. He decides he is going to hurry.

He chops the ball up.

The ball could have gone anywhere. It looked as if it might land in the midst of a potential aerial battle between one East Fife vertically challenged player and two tall Brechin City defenders near the edge of the Brechin City box.

‘YESSSSS!!!!!’, went the shout.

There it was. I imagine the supporter rose from his seat with his fist clenched.

They didn’t care for the result of the potential aerial battle. The very notion of this high, spinning ball heading roughly towards the Brechin penalty box satisfying, delighting, pleasing the imbeciles pushed me towards a breakdown, a collapse in a fit of giggling.

If only they were so easily overjoyed after every action of every match.

The ball was headed away to safety.

Partisans of the Linguistic Junta,

2009-08-09T18:33:00.002+01:00

Poetry takes many forms and there are essentially no rules. I’ve had a few run-ins with poets over the past few days and my own tastes were at odds with those I’ve just encountered.

In once instance, the poet began storing observations of encounters on scraps of paper or a cell phone before working them into a poem later on. This would have been art if it had not been rage or forced upon its readers. When in a time of high emotions, the poems were no use to anyone but the poet.

The poet grew in confidence and in determination to enforce words and verse upon readers. Finally, the readers, more than a year later, were given no choice but to read. They were laid out on tables and unavoidable, for me, the situation, a party, was bad enough. People expect certain stuff at these occasions, they want dire music; it’s the same every time. I could have changed this aspect of the evening but I would have ruined it for everyone. When music is concerned, for many, it’s not a matter of taste; it’s a need for the familiar. If I had gone for Monochrome Set, Talking Heads, early Ultravox, Helen Love, Bis and Belle & Sebastian rather than Mika, Robbie Williams and co. (I blanked the rest out) there would have been outrage. I would have played ‘In the Country’ by Cliff Richard, now, there’s a compromise.

I read the poems, in auld (ha!) Scots tongue to the best of my ability or patience but I felt they were nothing but orders and demands, mae ye this and mae ye that, I don’t want to be dictated to by a piece of art. I want to be questioned, I want to be made to imagine a scene. The poet stressed the need to keep the ancient Scottish language alive, I had little riposte, I did not care to shout over the dire disco, I think language should be allowed to develop, the necessary words will be dragged forward. The need to document translations is imperative for translation of ancient documents but I can hardly see these words making a comeback. I recently watched Who do you Think you Are? as David Mitchell traced his ancestors back to the Highlands and Islands; he was faced first hand with the Gaelic language and was told of how its use was dying out. I’m an extremist and I wondered why the poet in question didn’t just learn Scots Gaelic, that would be quite something, but it wouldn’t mean anything. It’d be amount to the same. I admire individuals for taking a stance, I failed to on this occasion, my quest to improve the music would have been an equally unwelcome crusade as that of the poet who pressed too hard. Art is there to be admired, it’s our choice to admire it, when the element of choice is withdrawn, it is no longer art. I ponder the cultural significance of the act, but it’s too early to pass judgement.

Another poet was too literal, the documentation of facts and feelings was prioritised instead of words and clever use of language. A diary might be more suitable, because these just become notes. A Twitter account or a blog might be more appropriate than the description of being a poet. The rules of poetry allow anything and if the poet wants to write, then no one can deny that right. In direct contrast to the first poet, these works weren't shared so willingly. Art might be best shared so that its cultural significance can be discovered, learned from and allowed to inspire.

In truth, poetry has to be written for the right reasons. Structures can be defined by the writer but there should be a structure; traditional or inventive. Poetry, unlike music, can be judged upon personal taste for what it is. In knowing, who the poet is and how it came to paper, perhaps my judgement is skewed, although, it can’t be said that I’ve passed judgement or carried out detailed analysis.

Creditors in the Dislocations of Sport,

2009-08-02T19:37:00.001+01:00

Professional football in Scotland has faced many challenges this summer. Livingston FC and Clyde FC both struggled to pay bills and manage debt, in both cases, council ownership of their official stadiums is an issue. Clyde managed to avoid being placed in administration by releasing all of their players and replacing them with lower paid part-time players. The debacle at Livingston still continues as a new consortium of businessmen tries to undo the problems as series of previous owners have developed through the years. The fans of Stirling Albion FC tried to take ownership of their club as they didn’t trust the current board of directors. East Fife FC seems to be scaling down its spending after the departure of controversial chairman, William Gray.

The Premier League clubs faced a worrying time after the collapse of Setanta and the lost revenue from the sale of broadcasting rights. Sky/ESPN eventually agreed a deal to screen SPL matches but on less lucrative contract than that held with Setanta. My own feelings at the time was that the SPL should have appealed to the BBC, I think selling broadcasting rights to the BBC at a smaller cost would have been a better deal for the public. The shortfall would then have to be covered by attracting people back into stadia to watch games. This is a numbers problem.

The BBC Scotland would have treated the Scottish matches with the respect and knowledgeable comment that it deserves. BBC1, BBC2, BBC3 and Red Button services would all have been available to broadcast games on. I am a great fan of the BBC and they would have presented a television package that is superior to Sky, Setanta or ESPN. The BBC always employ the best people.

Ignoring how Scottish football will be presented on screen, the football clubs are simply looking for the most profitable deal from broadcasters. Setanta did a deplorable job of presenting Scottish football to the world, they repeatedly broadcasted games from the least attractive venues and of the least competitive nature, either Celtic or Rangers featured, a match between the third and fourth placed teams may be completely overlooked in favour of a top versus bottom match on the same weekend.

I think the main aim for clubs should be to sell tickets and fill stadiums. Fans should be the only sustainable income (in broadcasting terms, the BBC is the only sustainable interest). I had no sympathy when it appeared that armchair supporters would have no access to matches when the SPL clubs were struggling to find someone to buy broadcasting rights. I wanted the clubs to make an effort to attract them to stadiums and equally, I wanted the fans to make an effort to attend, with their families.

One aspect of attracting more fans to football matches that I have never seen or heard debated is the relation of amateur, junior and professional football. As an amateur player, I cannot attend professional football games that frequently. Amateur football players must be the people most interested in the sport in the whole country, but given the time of their matches and those of professional teams, they are isolated from each other. In my experience, amateur footballers even seem to have a greater affinity with their local professional teams than the average group of people. In Fife, amateur football matches kick off at 1400 hrs on Saturdays, there are around 50 teams and at a conservative estimate, 20 people involved with each of these teams (playing, coaching, refereeing, supporting). I’m sure East Fife FC would love an extra 1000 paying supporters, or even 250, if the total was to be split amongst the four Fife-based professional clubs. If professional matches were to be moved back to 1600 hours, amateur players would be able to attend. The problem with this is that amateur players generally retire back to pubs after their matches as a gesture to their sponsors. Without satisfying these pub owners, sponsorship would be withdrawn and there would be no amateur football, it’s a Catch-22 situation. Only concerted agreement between local business, government and all of football’s organisational bodies can solve this and many of the problems of the Scottish game.

Cogitators of Supererogatory Records,

2009-07-26T18:51:00.004+01:00

Swing Hammer Swing by Jeff Torrington is on the list and rightly so. The book follows a week in the life of Tam, Tom, Tommy or Thomas Clay as he awaits the birth of his first child during the demise of the Glasgow Gorbals.

On a sicknote, or unemployed, with his wife in maternity hospital, Tam's days are free and Torrington lets us stumble around with him from debacle to dilemma. Tam never becomes too attached to each of these situations and Torrington never attempts to debate the issues Tam observes the symptoms of but yet we are able to understand his passing conclusions through the results of the incidents. Protestant-Catholic sectarianism is witnessed and although Clay doesn't declare support for one side or the other, the extremist becomes the victim of his own behaviour in a believable turn of the plot. Clay's wife is of middle-class stock and he is constantly at the mercy of their idiosyncrasies and lofty superfluous; this is, at least, how they are seen by the humble but intelligent Clay.

The language of this book might be troublesome for non-Scot, but the use of local dialect could have been much heavier, Torrington strikes the balance just right, he makes the book accessible but applies colloqialisms in the right amount to compliment the setting of the novel. I was mightily impressed by some of the descriptions and imagery used. This is perhaps my favourite section:

Over there standing, but only just, was the Brandon Snooker Hall. Dampness had laid a green baize on its bricked-up windows. Where were they now, those gallus geometricians whose wordless lectures on the properties and projections of the moving sphere had us leaning on the smoke in awe? Cuts Colquhous, Spider Sampson, Skinner Murphy: gone - all of them - potted by Time, the fastest cue in town.

That is brilliance.

There is no plot to speak of, only themes raised by observation. Swing Hammer Swing is as good as the reader wants it to be and that is surely a writer's target.

Avoidable Diplomats Under Scrutiny,

2009-07-16T15:36:00.001+01:00

He finally knocked at the door, yesterday, and announced that he’d be leaving tomorrow. It was a lesson and the end to a strange relationship.

A couple of years ago, I was head-hunted by a guy who had challenged another guy to a football match. The teams met on a rainy, windswept November night. I was unfamiliar with my team mates and I had largely forgotten about them. Many months afterwards, I was puzzled by a chap who kept on saying ‘Hi’ to me. He moved in to the office next door and would wave at me through the window every day. I eventually remembered that he was a team mate during that distant one-off match.

The morning’s garbage men placed the couch in the crusher and were seated in their lorry before the chewing had begun. The show was a triviality to them; just a small potato blighting their schedule. It’s a sad day when people can no longer be excited by crushing things.

Of course, if I hadn’t been gawking at the demise of a couch, I’d have been a couple of further yards down the road and I wouldn’t have had the chance meeting with an ambulance and a police van at the junction. It was awkward; I had right of way so they had to wait until I passed and then pulled in, but of course, if they had had their sirens on, I’d have known it was an emergency and pulled up earlier to allow them to emerge. Small flashing lights on the grill are the only things that are visible on an ambulance emerging from a junction, thus it makes sense to approach junctions with sirens on. I am quite sensitive about people letting ambulances through, someone smashed into the back of me when I was making room for one once. Admittedly, they are tricky situations and the emergency makes some drivers panic, but at the same time, some of these blunders could cost lives.

Explorers to the Heart of Amateur Heroics,

2009-07-12T17:07:00.004+01:00

I wandered the hardware department of Rejects, Kirkcaldy. I had found two of the things on my agenda; an aerial splitter and super glue (I’d later stick my shoe to my hand); but I had trouble finding a fuse.

It’s no surprise that people base comedy sketches on these places. There’s a certain brand of people that frequent these places.

‘Oh, that’s a braw bit o’cable.’, said one man to his pal.

He meant it.

Satirists Descending from Brigantine to Street,

2009-07-12T16:51:00.001+01:00

Lord Cut-Glass is a man obsessed with clocks in Under Milk Wood, and lately, Alun Woodward, formerly of the Delgados. He has released a self-titled album on the Chemikal Underground record label with the aid of a host of musicians.

His lyrics, although quite pragmatic and gritty, take on a child-like innocence and poignancy when delivered in playful rhymes and verses. Combined with the briskness of the orchestra, his songs have punch and irresistibility.

Opener Even Jesus Couldn’t Love You is a bit of class, with a comic superiority and ambiguous lack of sympathy, Lord Cut-Glass rips into a midden of a person, ‘you are a human state’, the climatic moment is delivered in the lines, ‘Did your pony not wuv you, reject you and buck you?’, but a nice metaphor and rhyme is, ‘you are a lamb on the ocean causing commotion’ (I hope I hear it correctly).

Look After Your Wife is another fun jingle full of witty lyrics, ‘when it’s wrung, your cannot unring the bell’. The chirpy keys are reminiscent of Homer Simpson in the land of chocolate in the main part of the song, but then there is a drastic shift in the rhythm and scale that is utterly alien (from full band to acoustic guitar before the band slowly reintegrates) but brilliant.

The virtuous self-appraisal that is I’m a Great Example to the Dogs is one to listen out for, it’s quite endearing and a real gem given how gooey and pitiful such works can degenerate into. Big Time Teddy is my favourite, it’s clever. Is Teddy a toy bear? Is he an imaginary friend? Is he an idol, a genius, a life coach? The toy marching band heralding the chorus is a delight and adds to the mystery.

Lord Cut-Glass is just brilliant. I was completely amazed by it, I really didn’t expect something this good, I knew it would be good but not this good. I hope the clock doesn’t tick too long before the next album – BOOM! BOOM!

Waldo!

Incongruent Aspirants Serving the Ether,

2009-07-12T16:50:00.000+01:00

In appearing completely unapproachable, I struggle to remember that I am accommodating, kind and polite additionally, a comic genius and that sometimes others can see this too.

As my date of birth became known - inadvertently, through my willingness to do a good deed (I loaned someone my swipe card so they could go to the toilet, I trusted them to wash their hands) – at precisely the right moment to plan a surprise cake, calamity unfolded. Due to my fantastic aural capabilities, I knew that a cake would be baked and presented to me as a surprise at an afternoon coffee break the next day. In hindsight, this was the exact moment to admit what I had overheard and put the buffers on it, although I would never be so presumptuous to lose my modesty and do so.

‘If you’re thinking of baking me a cake, don’t.’
A potential response which would have crushed my spirit; ‘Why would we make a cake for you?’

I was later asked to carry out a favour. It was a job that I couldn’t refuse; it was a small token which would go a little way to redeeming all the chores these people had done for me.

‘Can you take us to this funeral tomorrow?’
‘No, it’s my birthday and they might be making me a cake.’

As the birthday progressed, I announced that I’d be going home soon to drive my devotees to a funeral. I was then completely shocked to be given a mouthful of abuse and in light of the situation, offended. I was then faced with some unusual questions about what I’d be doing tomorrow, so I suspected then that they might postpone the cake presentation.

I almost made a faux-pas right at the crematorium, as the cortege was just arriving, so too did I and I almost ended up joining the procession at the front or back. It was an unavoidable error, we weren’t to know that the cortege was round the corner that we’d have to go round to get to the car park, although people who arrived earlier knew and parked further away. Thankfully, the undertaker paused for a moment to allow us to pass inconspicuously without breaching protocol. I waited in the car park, watching foxes and reading a book whilst the service took place.

As for the cake situation, I had mixed feelings, I was offended but also appreciative of their efforts in organising some kind of surprise. The next day I would see what unfolded. As the day wore on, I lost focus in the heat and decided I would be better off working elsewhere, or I’d take the afternoon out by the lake and resume working in the evening which is what I did. Shamefully, by mid-afternoon, I forgot about the plan to retry unveiling the cake. As I was leaving town, the phone rang, I didn’t answer as I was driving and later an SMS with the picture of the cake arrived with more abuse, but this time, mercifully, more light-hearted.

This was a confusing episode and I don’t know what I learned, perhaps that people care and sometimes, in showing it, fuss is a necessary by-product. The outrage at my involuntary thwarting of the goodwill gesture by performance of a good deed for someone else is perhaps the most troublesome part. Perhaps this episode only proved that I am erratic in thought.

Incongruents Aspirants Serving the Ether,

2009-07-12T16:37:00.002+01:00

In appearing completely unapproachable, I struggle to remember that I am accommodating, kind and polite additionally, a comic genius and that sometimes others can see this too.

As my date of birth became known - inadvertently, through my willingness to do a good deed (I loaned someone my swipe card so they could go to the toilet, I trusted them to wash their hands) – at precisely the right moment to plan a surprise cake, calamity unfolded. Due to my fantastic aural capabilities, I knew that a cake would be baked and presented to me as a surprise at an afternoon coffee break the next day. In hindsight, this was the exact moment to admit what I had overheard and put the buffers on it, although I would never be so presumptuous to lose my modesty and do so.

‘If you’re thinking of baking me a cake, don’t.’
A potential response which would have crushed my spirit; ‘Why would we make a cake for you?’

I was later asked to carry out a favour. It was a job that I couldn’t refuse; it was a small token which would go a little way to redeeming all the chores these people had done for me.

‘Can you take us to this funeral tomorrow?’
‘No, it’s my birthday and they might be making me a cake.’

As the birthday progressed, I announced that I’d be going home soon to drive my devotees to a funeral. I was then completely shocked to be given a mouthful of abuse and in light of the situation, offended. I was then faced with some unusual questions about what I’d be doing tomorrow, so I suspected then that they might postpone the cake presentation.

I almost made a faux-pas right at the crematorium, as the cortege was just arriving, so too did I and I almost ended up joining the procession at the front or back. It was an unavoidable error, we weren’t to know that the cortege was round the corner that we’d have to go round to get to the car park, although people who arrived earlier knew and parked further away. Thankfully, the undertaker paused for a moment to allow us to pass inconspicuously without breaching protocol. I waited in the car park, watching foxes and reading a book whilst the service took place.

As for the cake situation, I had mixed feelings, I was offended but also appreciative of their efforts in organising some kind of surprise. The next day I would see what unfolded. As the day wore on, I lost focus in the heat and decided I would be better off working elsewhere, or I’d take the afternoon out by the lake and resume working in the evening which is what I did. Shamefully, by mid-afternoon, I forgot about the plan to retry unveiling the cake. As I was leaving town, the phone rang, I didn’t answer as I was driving and later, an SMS with the picture of the cake arrived with more abuse, but this time, mercifully, more light-hearted.

This was a confusing episode and I don’t know what I learned, perhaps that people care and sometimes, in showing it, fuss is a necessary by-product. The outrage at my involuntary thwarting of the goodwill gesture by performance of a good deed for someone else is perhaps the most troublesome part. Perhaps this episode only proved that I am erratic in thought.

Grumps Waltzing with the Cadence,

2009-06-28T18:05:00.002+01:00

Broken Records are a brilliant seven-piece band from Embra, Scotland’s capital city. After a string of teasing singles, the band finally released their debut album, Until the Earth Begins to Part. Such a title serves as an epitome of the band’s power, it suggests strength and longevity.

When this mini-orchestra is something of a beast, whether erupting in attack such as in If the News Makes You Sad, Don’t Watch it or A Good Reason, or lying ponderously in wait through Until the Earth Begins to Part, they always present an insurmountable prospect. Many of the songs are upbeat and in an age where pop by synthesisers has become popular again, it is refreshing to see a band create energetic songs, through traditional string and brass instruments.

Lyrically, the band could be better, as they dwell on basic ideas, but their musical constructions more than compensate. The two loveliest songs are Ghosts and The Slow Parade. Reminiscences lilt along with the piano, the mood veers just one shade happier than melancholic and presents a uniquely wistful sound, ‘If the choice was mine, you’d always appear in my dreams’ sums up the tone of Ghosts. The Slow Parade may be best illustrated by the Jack Vettriano painting called ‘Dance Me to the End of Love’, it’s just about forgetting the woes of the daily life for small moments of culture and beauty, which is why people visit The Bellyaches.