The Bellyaches

Assayers of a Lambent Break,

2012-01-05T20:45:00.005Z

I was lucky. I finished learning and I left. I didn’t discover the formula for finding employment after a PhD. The problem is that employers cannot afford to have a distracted employee. It’s a risk to hire someone who is ‘writing up’ or even someone who has ‘just submitted’. A pre-arranged appointment may be possible but no one can be certain when it can be fulfilled. Everyone has to go somewhere; graduate schemes seem to be aimed at undergraduates; positions in the open market require experience, so the PhD finisher is stuck.

I was gobbled up by a company who misguidedly decided to take advantage of the excess of PhD graduates in the market. Their policy, if followed through, would have seen them fill every position, from the top to the bottom, with a doctor – and they’d all be on temporary ongoing contracts.

There was an initial honeymoon period, I was trained, I learned and I was promised that I would be allowed to expand the current portfolio of the position – I would be allowed to study and experiment.

I started alongside another graduate, and after a few months, we were joined by another and installed in a 24 hour shift system – round-the-clock development. I was deemed most competent of the three and the first to work the nightshift. There is no sufficient preparation for the nightshift. I am ‘a morning person’. On the first night, before midnight, my body was in shock. Hot and cold, hot and cold – my body’s way of saying ‘I’m usually somewhere else.’ I experienced this at the start of every nightshift week. Unlike many nightshift workers, I could go home and sleep, however, I couldn’t eat. I only really wanted to eat cereal and ice blocks. I managed to play football of the evenings before work but I felt as if I was playing with only 75 % lung capacity. The worst part was always the re-adjustment, I couldn’t sleep on the evening of the first weekend day, and as a result, I was so tired that my second weekend day was ruined.

I knew that I was never going to stay. I wanted to think, I didn’t like completing jobs without engaging in them. I knew that I wasn’t working at full capacity, nor could I, in my upside-down world. I would be given projects whilst on dayshift and I wouldn’t be able to resume them until I was on dayshift again; any research or focus was lost in the interim blur of nightshift and backshift.

My heart was always too good. Sometimes others didn’t match my application. Most of the time, I was exploited. I didn’t mind, I liked to be busy and I enjoyed doing a good job. I always cared. I never complained. I did what I was asked to, I did it well then I went back and asked what I could do next. I thought ahead. I tidied up. I was professional despite the fact that I was never fully immersed in the work. I felt as if I was liked in every department across the site. I was genial. Management were impressed, I knew that they thought highly of me, but they it was never rewarded with the security of a contract, improved shift or a more challenging role.

I applied for jobs every day, I rarely missed a relevant advert. After 6 months in the job, I attended my first interview; it turned out that the job was outside my field, but it signalled a change in fortunes. After this, the offers of interviews started to come in. I believe that I must have crashed through some time barrier; perhaps a suitable length of time since leaving university or a reasonable number of months experience had been attained. My interview technique improved after attending a couple. I was actually offered a job, but I declined on the basis of the working conditions.

One of my 2 colleagues was offered the same position I turned down and he left, I was happy. I thought this would rattle management a bit and perhaps persuade them to improve our contract situation. I was wrong; this would only lead to more erratic shift patterns. Around this time, rumour arrived that I was to expect to be offered a contract after the Christmas holidays. This news didn’t change my resolve to leave.

I became a bit of a joke at work; a haircut and a shaved face would always indicate an interview. I built my hopes up when I had two interviews in one week, I thought I was departing. When I had three interviews in one week and still I remained, I was devastated. The phone kept ringing, agencies swarmed over me. They wanted to send me far afield, so I knew I had to do this by myself. The interviews helped me expand my knowledge, I had a boss who had others in awe – he was able to say something about any subject. I was a little sceptical, such understanding might be superficial and picked up from travels through industry – I was now collecting that type of experience; at the very least, I have become aware of the standards of others.

One of the most common interview techniques for employers seems to be to downplay the role on offer and attempt to talk the candidate into wilting and admitting that they might not want the post so much. They can be persistent to the point where they ask no other questions; the only way to combat this is to be resolute and not show weakness. This occurred during the interview for the position I eventually decided to take up; I suppose by this time, I knew nothing could ever be as bad as where I was.

On one occasion, I attended an interview for a company that worked in a similar field to the company I was trying to escape. The interview was simple, I marched through the technical questions with style and I fielded the other questions with ease. I left knowing that I had performed well but I was open-minded as to whether I’d be offered the job, I was ‘waiting to see’. Next day at work, I told my colleagues at work what had happened at the interview, they said, ‘That’s it, you’re off, the job’s yours.’ As the day wore on, I began to believe them; I had gone from nonchalant and patient to expectant. I called the company to ask if I had been successful, and I was told that, ‘Your current job seems so similar to this one that you might want to leave us too so we have offered the position to another candidate.’ I was taken aback; this was something new to consider. I was confounded; I had been laid back about the outcome until my colleagues convinced me that the job was mine; they built my hopes.

One rejection was quite lovely. I applied for a temporary role at a company where I had completed a work placement. I was greeted by a former colleague at reception and interviewed by a former manager. They had brought out some of my old reports and it seemed like an informal meeting of old pals. The manager asked what I had been doing since the end of my placement and then he held up the reports, ‘These tell me that you can do this job and you’d be good at it, but I can make no promises about what would happen at the end of the contract.’ That was when he did me a favour, I consoled myself with my interpretation of what he was saying ‘We don’t want to make you unemployed but we’d probably have to.’ and I believe that rejection was a friendly act.

Around a month before I finally left the job that had made me miserable, I said to my colleagues that I felt very close to leaving, I had no interviews on the horizon at the time but instinct told me that my departure was near. The next interview would be the one. I was positive. My daily applications went on, and then there was one where the company’s HR department personally thanked me for my application almost immediately. They then allowed me to choose my own interview time. There was no structure to the interview, there were no questions. I travelled, the job was described to me, in its gory detail, and then I went home. I felt that I’d be offered the job. A few days later, they invited me for a second interview, the same events took place, except, on this occasion, they discussed the possibility of a more senior role than the one I had applied for. I waited a few days, and then, they called me to offer me the job. I accepted in principle and I was told not to resign until I had signed the contract. After a nearly a year of misery, the time between agreeing to take up this new post and actually being able to resign seemed the longest. Contractually, I didn’t have to work a notice period so I knew that I could drop a bombshell. I handed in a letter of resignation calling the day after ‘my last day’. After just over a year, my misery ended, I wandered off to a company that really wanted to use my talents.

Augmenters of a Vascular Price,

2011-09-06T20:05:00.005+01:00

Once again, the great and the good of the music industry gathered to discover who has won the prestigious Bellyaches Music Award. This year’s ceremony was held at the Bervie Chipper and presented by Eldred Bowman.

The nominees mumbled indifferently at their tables as the albums were listed.

Diamond Mine by King Creosote & Jon Hopkins: As First Watch flows into John Taylor’s Month Away, Anderson and Hopkins have already set the World Record for Wistfulness. The recording from the chip shop featuring the reply to a request for a receipt; ‘It’s just a written one.’ is particularly quaint and it illustrates the making-do that can is symptomatic of most of our lives, whilst ‘I’d rather be me’ in reference to John Taylor’s trip to sea is humbling. The minimalistic keys towards the end of Bubble are a simple delight.

Cadenza by Dutch Uncles: Those Dutch Uncles are always building. Cadenza is what I consider prog-rock, the constant beats and changing time signatures indicate a progression and a march into the future. The magic is in its assembly, to hear the album is to want to help build and move forward too.

Man Alive by Everything Everything: Man Alive demands similar admiration to Cadenza, the use of guitars, keys and percussion, to execute very complicated rhythms is very special. Suffragette Suffragette and Photoshop Handsome are smart singles. Nasa is on Your Side is perhaps the gem of the album, it perhaps represents the essence of the album.

Losing Sleep by Edwyn Collins: Losing Sleep is a perfect slice of pop. Edwyn Collins has written some great lyrics and the range of collaborations is a treat. The album has pace but also poignancy, it’s an aural feast.

Boots Met My Face by Admiral Fallow: Boots Met My Face is charming. Delicate arrangements of flute, clarinet, double bass and all the other gubbins percolate through such honest and heartfelt lyrics. Admiral Fallow have an ear for a lyrical rhyme; they indulge and invite identification from their audience.

One Thousand Pictures by Pete & The Pirates: One Thousand Pictures features the best opening lyric of the year; ‘Something you fear has just come to town’. The album is littered with catchy lines and bouncy tunes. One Thousand Pictures is consistently fun and difficult to ignore.

Write About Love by Belle & Sebastian: Belle & Sebastian returned with Write About Love, they’re known for lovely orchestral indie pop but on Write About Love, they’ve embossed their influences more blatantly over each track and as a result, the album has a real classic feel.

Ornaments From the Silver Arcade by Young Knives: It’s only after attending a Young Knives concert that it becomes apparent, from the hits they omit, how many great pop songs they’ve written. I Love My Name is a punchy and catchy opening, it’s a theme continued throughout. ‘Call off the rest of the years, I’ve nothing to say, so I’ll say nothing here’ makes a great chorus is Vision in Rags.

Bubblegum by Clinic: Bubblegum marks a slight change for Clinic, it envelopes its listener is a warm, wondrous, wooziness. The album is endearing in its laidback electronic wistfulness.

Everything’s Getting Older by Bill Wells & Aidan Moffat: Aidan Moffat evokes such sorrow and pity for the characters he sings from by the marvellous detail he incorporates into his lyrics. Bill Wells helps to create a beautiful soundscape in which the mournful reflection is set.

The Impossible Song & Other Songs by Roddy Woomble: Roddy Woomble is one of Scotland’s finest lyricists and best voices. The Impossible Song & Other Songs is perhaps a celebration of an older way of life, but the morals and ethics of songs like ‘Work Like You Can’ are as relevant today as they ever have been.

Rolling Blackouts by The Go! Team: The Go! Team are famed for making a right racket but on Rolling Blackouts, they’ve re-wired slightly and created some lovely pop songs. Rolling Blackouts is an album that has committed the sunshine of the day and the neon lights of the night to record.

The others deposited their wrappers in the bin and taunted the seagulls as Tom from Pete & The Pirates collected the prize from special guest, Montrose FC manager, Ray Farningham.

Commissaires of Pointless Distensions,

2011-08-15T19:50:00.002+01:00

The wind blew as strong as it did all year; gusts of 100 mph were recorded. Being spring, the trees were fully leaved and a risk to those within radius. I was on a mission to receive the keys of the flat I am renting; this involved a journey from the Kingdom of Fife to the city of Aberdeen up the A90.

Sticks flew at me as I travelled and I used the window wipers to remove leaves and buds from my view. Looking to be on time for my appointment, I once again fell into ‘the hare trap’. I have a habit of doing this: because I may not know where I am going, I leave with plenty of time to spare, I seem like am well ahead of schedule so I stop for a snack or the like, then I get back on route only to become lost, panic-ridden and nearly late. I wasn’t really late on this occasion; I drove past my destination with 15 minutes to spare but found nowhere immediate to park. I ended up parking around 20 minutes away on foot, or at least it was that far after wandering further away and then becoming lost. I ran. Running was difficult in the wind, especially with paperwork. I did have a map and being lost, I approached a man, however, he seemed intent on wrestling the map and all my documents from me. I held out the map and asked him to point to our current location but he wanted to grip. I did motion to rotate the map to help him gain our bearings but he wanted to grasp. I ran after he pointed me in a rough direction. I sat hot and uncomfortable as the paperwork was completed at the estate agents and then off we went to my abode.

After completing this act, I then began my descent into madness. I was going home, only I had this ticket to the Villagers gig that evening in Embra; I had bought the ticket on the premise that I might go, having to visit Aberdeen made me less likely to attend. The news on the radio said that both the Tay and Forth bridges were closed due to the wind and callers had informed the station that both Kincardine bridges were suffering severe traffic. As it stood, I was going home and given the travel chaos, I would stay home. I veered towards Perth to cross the Tay and to refuel. On reaching Perth, the warning light was on and panic had once again beset me – the first road into the town was closed due to a weather-related accident. I pulled over to ask the policeman where I could refuel and I was told. I was none the wiser as I didn’t know where this place was and I doubted Sat-Nav would either. I call my Sat-Nav ‘Pat-Nev’ - both are outdated but I still respect them. I drove on and by chance, I found these services. I decided to have a coffee as time was wearing on and I had had no food or drink since breakfast and it was now past 1830 hrs. On returning to the car, I consulted the atlas and did some Sat-Nav sums. I worked out that I had a chance of arriving around 2000 hrs in Embra via the Kincardine Bridge. I thought that I may as well go since I was already in the car. The travel bulletin had said there were tailbacks at the bridge but one texter had said that if approached from the right direction that it was plain sailing. I decided to test it; if I could reach the bridge easily then I would attend the gig. If not, I would go home and read about it in a blog.

I rolled up to and across the bridge smoothly and I thought I was in luck. A mile along and my plans were in turmoil, traffic had come to a standstill as a lorry had overturned and three lanes of back-to-back cars funnelled into one. Once clear, Pat-Nev estimated that I could arrive at 2100 hrs, and after parking up, I entered the Liquid Room ten minutes later.

Conor arrived on stage a few minutes later by himself. He played a few songs with only his guitar for sparse accompaniment. Gradually, the band takes shape. A couple of songs follow where he is joined by a chap at the keyboard and then another three; on drums, guitar and bass. I was glad once the band was complete, the chatterboxes were drowned out. Conor was great on his own; he has such a lucid voice that he could support any story by himself, and he did some interesting versions of the songs from Becoming a Jackal, but, for me, the chatterboxes didn’t pay him any respect whilst solo.

The band played for nearly 90 minutes and I thought it a strong achievement for a band with only one album in their repertoire. The future does indeed promise much more given the number of new songs that were enjoyed by most at the Liquid Room that evening.

The gig ended and I ran back to the car. Pat-Nev was again in control and in an Embra bewildered by a potential tram system. I drove round and round, in the wrong lane most of the time, until I was eventually spun out of the city. The radio said that I could use the Forth Bridge and I arrived home just before the next day. It would be another week before I recovered from these mishaps.

Allayers of Ailing Allies,

2011-05-22T14:40:00.004+01:00

As we journeyed to King Tut’s, Glasgow, Ornaments from the Silver Arcade was not included in the large stack of CDs bulging from the compartment adjacent the gearstick. I knew it was a good album but I had been dwelling on other albums and songs lately. The situation was such that I had forgotten how great The Young Knives are and how many brilliant pop songs they have made.

The only support act we witnessed was The Neat. They gave an energetic performance and are well worth listening out for in future. I think they sound a lot like The Fall and, indeed, In Youth is Pleasure could easily be mistaken for a record from the 1970s, because it’s immediately so memorable, it sounds as though it’s been around forever. Hips will be their new single and it too has a really strong sound.

The Young Knives instantly stunned me by opening with Terra Firma; shockingly, I had forgotten all about it. As I had said a long time ago, a football team should have adopted it as an ironic, misplaced chant. I can imagine terraces full chanting ‘Fake rabbit, real snake, terra firma, terra firma.’

In the main, they played songs from the new album and despite my lack of familiarity with most of the songs, I really enjoyed it; the vocals were so clear that songs became instantly accessible. Vision in Rags was one of my favourites; its stepped chorus of ‘Call off the rest of the year, I’ve got nothing to say so I’ll say nothing here…’ emits a sentiment that I often endorse. Love my Name seems more punchy when played live; I almost ended up loving my name. Where Superabundance relied frequently on strings, Ornaments has utilised some House of Lords flash keyboard/synth action and it gives the album its own identity.

The Young Knives are often said to be quintessentially British, perhaps this is a fair comment, but that has to be digested and understood rather than just said. The theme common to most Young Knives songs is struggle and this is what makes it so easy for us to identify with them. Unless we are extremely lucky, we don’t normally enjoy our jobs and the Young Knives have helpfully incorporated our stresses and strains into songs. The Young Knives left some big songs at home that evening; Counters, being one of them, is perhaps the one song that takes this theme to its extreme. There were outings for Weekends and Bleak Days, The Decision and Turn Tail. Turn Tail was the highlight of the gig for me; I sensed that it had grown as a live entity since the last Young Knives show I attended.

King Tut's once again proved a great venue. It's usually always possible to find a spot with a good view, I was quite happy with my initial berth, it was my first choice, however, it was infringed upon. I backed off slightly and was left with an equally comfortable reception area. The night ended and we left to have another one-way conversation with sat-nav, "Speak, woman, speak".

"Woman, stay close or woman, go home!"

Magnanimously Dormant Dilettanti,

2011-02-20T19:49:00.005Z

XTC once sang ‘This is pop.’ and they were right. I have craved pop for many months; this is quite unusual for me. The Drums and Vampire Weekend have gained some mainstream success. I have enjoyed Eux Autres and Veronica Falls recently too, but I fell in love with 6 Day Riot after hearing them support Belle & Sebastian in December; so when they were in the neighbourhood recently, we listened.

Life is tumultuous at the minute, and my mind was swimming with possibilities so the night could have been a pleasant distraction or it could have been a hindrance. In the end, it was probably both, but in reverse order. The gig was at The Doghouse, Dundee. The Doghouse, as a venue, did close and move; they had to cordon off the streets and call in Bernard Cribbins. Of course, I forgot this and we were peering through the windows of the new restaurant in the vacated space.

To remedy the situation, I looked at the tickets and they told me the new address. With the aid of an ‘app’, we discovered where The Doghouse was. I don’t agree with ‘apps’ and will stay a fan of apples instead. Arriving after 9 pm, we had hoped to have missed most of the supporting acts. We did not and misery was to ensue.

Spectral Cat had been and gone. From preparatory quick research of the support bands, I thought that they were actually the band I was going to find most bearable. We were to suffer At the Swordfight first. The aim of this band was to sound like My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy and the like. Each song usually sounded like the one before, although this was dependent on the performance of their gear. They were very confident despite their lack of professionalism and identity. The glow-sticks, which they handed out to their followers, were most successful and these will have added colour to the video recording of their set. I hope they learn something from the playback. Hey Essé were next. I’m sure rap can be delightful but my knowledge of the genre is patchy. I’d say aim for Beastie Boys and avoid the Fresh Prince of Bel Air. I’d say that Mr Ivor Cutler managed a decent rap in a Scottish accent. I’ve no doubt that Hey Essé will impress a section of people.

6 Day Riot are a band who are full of confidence and it’s because they know that they’ve written a skein of great songs and they are fantastic musicians. They opened with single All I Need, of course, the opening violin heralded a change from the earlier calamities and 6 Day Riot's ten dedicated followers began tapping their feet. The combination of key and tempo changes and the vocal harmonies is quite stunning. All the hits followed. There was the dark drama of the ukulele-led Take Me Out to Sea. Singer Tamara explained that O Those Kids was about John Darwin. I like when we can understand a song and equate it with a story. For instance, I have no idea who that Day Tripper the Beatles went on about is. Of course, McCartney learned his lesson by the time of Mull of Kintyre, because everyone knows about that cheese. There was Every Third Sunday, which was been on Skins recently, with its interesting lyric; ‘Daily meals to calm your eyes.’ 6 Day Riot’s Run for Your Life is one of the best pop songs of this century; it should be taught in schools and used in the workplace. At this time, it is very apt to describe some of the current affairs. They ended with YaDaDa plus some audience participation.

The night was long but it was ended superbly by 6 Day Riot. The support bands were hard to handle but without them and their friends, the gig would have rather poorly attended. 6 Day Riot deserve more support than just that of this duffer.

Those About to Foment,

2011-02-19T20:57:00.003Z

The novelty of the new job wore off quite quickly. I know that it is possible to enjoy work, I did so throughout a year that I spent at another company and I did so just a few weeks ago, but only for a few days. My background actually suits my employer very well but they don’t utilise it and I find this frustrating. I was asked to pick up a project that had been sidelined and I had found something quite interesting, but before I could properly analyse or develop my discovery, I was re-deployed.

Nevertheless, I am learning. I am learning how to act when I am promoted. This may simply be a lesson in psychology. I have always have leadership qualities. I led for a short while the other day when I was asked to teach a colleague a test method that I had become the expert on. He tried being awkward but took the lesson. I did not lead when I was asked to rearrange the furniture in my new manager’s office and it was he who knocked over the glass vase.

There’s still hope as long as I am writing. What I am writing is written all over my face. Hope is important. I’ve seen a few examples of what can happen recently. They range from depression to settling to escaping.

The depression worries me, it happened to a friend who has struggled to find a job and move on. His problems have had a considerable effect on me. From a selfish point of view, I draw parallels between him and me to try to understand his problems but also to guard against them. I went to visit him recently and found him in good spirits but I realise these problems take time to overcome.

I can’t afford to settle, I need change. I was glad to see a colleague announce that he is moving on, although I was a little envious. ‘And the one he sent away was the only one who stayed’ could still happen. I was inspired by two lines from the song Time Trading by The Jeffrey Lewis and Peter Stampfel Folk Show:

You gotta do something that you can get nicer at, you gotta do something that you can get wiser at, you gotta do something that you can get better at.

You gotta do something that you can get smarter at, you gotta do something that you might just be a starter at, you gotta do something that you can get better at.

I think it would be a great idea to launch a radio show aimed at sending people to sleep. The best radio sends me to sleep. My brain must finally succumb to the notion that everything is okay and rest. Of course, no station wants its listeners to go to bed, but everyone must sleep so the target demographic is huge. Someone told me that humans can only live for 1 week without sleep, such a station would be saving lives.

Cherishers of Oustanding Loveliness,

2011-01-17T16:30:00.005Z

The December 24 to January 5 period of the year is downtime. I’m uneasy with the idea that there are only 52 weeks in the year and we give nearly two of them over to this vague time.

The best event of recent times happened long ago on December 20. This was when I attended Belle & Sebastian’s show at Barrowlands, Glasgow. I am ashamed to say that I used up a Ticketmaster voucher that I received last Christmas to buy the tickets. As one of the few people who like music in the country, this is a shocking state of affairs and the job that I occupy must be held accountable and dealt with in the right manner.

I may have penchants for certain bands from time to time but I think Belle & Sebastian are the band that will always be the band that introduced me to music. Only this week was I lishening to BBC 6Music and a lishener had sent an SMS saying that hearing Step Into My Office, Baby at the age of 11 introduced them to music and lured them away from other rubbish noise. I must say that I have a similar story although I was older. I worked my way back from the same song after hearing it on Mark & Lard’s Biggest Show.

That Jonathan Ross had his show on Radio Double One and every week, he’d play a song by David Bowie. I think if I was to give an artist repeated exposure in a similar fashion, it’d be Belle & Sebastian. It seems that almost every song has been my favourite at one point. At the moment, it’s probably The Loneliness of the Middle Distance Runner.

The songs all mean something to me. I was Lazy Line Painter Jane working in the village shop. I tried hard not to please anyone all the time. I had a Dog Without Wheels. I was and can still be Wrapped Up in Books. I am the ‘boy on the bike’ in Fox in the Snow. I’m always reminded that It Could Have Been a Brilliant Career. I thought of The Gate when I left my post in the way that I did. Most recently, they released Write About Love and the lyric, ‘At one o’clock, I take my lunch upon the roof’, recovered my memories of often eating my lunch at the top of a hill overlooking the town.

The show was sublime, it passed by so quickly but it each song seemed perfect despite Stuart’s having a cold. It was perfect pop music in a great venue. I enjoyed 6 Day Riot in support, they too understand pop.

Songs are words, repeated over for our benefit and enjoyment. Despite the festive period, I have been repeating words for my employment but I have now written them so many times that I take the stories they tell for granted. I don’t think those words really convey how hard a worker I am but since those stories are the weightiest I know, I’ll keep repeating them until I fit a space that feels right.

I don’t really enjoy the festive period. I find it a time of unnecessary pressure and I received an emither on Christmas Eve which troubled me. I dwelled upon its contents; I was startled by its honesty and its bleakness. I had stopped thinking about the situation therein by Boxing Day but I was reminded of it again when someone showed me a picture of their new pet.

I decided that I would try shopping but it turned out that buying stuff wasn’t going to make me happier. I was going to Edinburgh but I changed my mind and went to Glasgow. I enjoyed the train ride more than the cities. I returned to my desk for a few days, until I took my bicycle to a castle where I saw a nuthatch.

I think New Year celebrations can best be summed up in two incidents I witnessed. On New Year’s Eve, I heard louding knocking at the door and I answered. A chap and his female friend are there. He sported a baseball cap bearing a plaid pattern and a pierced eyebrow, she a football strip and hairstyle that could be described as Jozef Venglos-esque. For the sake of privacy, I will use an assumed name as I recount the exchange between myself and the boy.

‘Is Mary Bonthrone in?’
‘You have the wrong address.’
‘Who lives here like?’
‘No ‘Mary Bonthrone’ lives here.’
‘Who lives here like?’
‘You have the wrong address.’
‘Who lives here like?’
‘This is The Bellyaches’
‘Where does Mary Bonthrone live?’
‘I don’t know.’

Off they went to find out who lived in the next house. On New Year’s Day, around 1100 hrs, I witnessed a riot roving down past the bottom of my street. They made it over the terminal moraine.

Inveiglers of Elusive Charms,

2010-11-23T11:59:00.003Z

No one really understands my ambitions so it becomes difficult to explain my career aspirations, although I do cope well with the standard interview question, 'Where do you see yourself in 5 years time?' I could say 'I'd like to think about the same amount of thoughts as I do now but about different things.' One of my ambitions is to have my own desk - that would surely beat having an area that I walk or stand most frequently nearby.

I can't be in a situation where I spend all my time either at work or looking for a new job. I'm unsure that my audience sensed it at the time but I felt that I went on a rant about what I thought would or would not solve my predicament. I'm a unique case and I don't feel that anyone can see my point of view. They're not aware of how bold I am willing to be or how restricted I feel.

I've had a few flirtations with companies recently. I had two interviews in one week, nothing came of them, despite both going as well as I could have hoped for. I was disappointed because I thought that an opportunity should have arose from that week alone, I felt so close to change.

I decided to speak to a careers advisor but I left feeling that the only subject they could offer guidance on was becoming a careers advisor. They can only divulge theory, leaflets and internet links. They don't understand the mess the colleague on the previous shift might leave. They don't tell how to mop up floods. They can't advise how to survive nightshift. They can't advise builders how loud to play Rockin' Robin to scare the stewdents as they drive through town in their truck. They can't advise the bus driver on which roads are best to drink Red Bull whilst travelling down. Careers advisors don't know which people will be at which bus stops, therein lies the rub; everyone is doing something different and some are more scared than others.

I did my first assessment centre in the real world. I learned from watching a documentary on SAS recruitment that it's important not to be the 'grey man'. I wasn't sure what to wear so I ironed two shirts and chose on the morning. Ironically, I chose a grey shirt. I decided against a tie as it seemed too funereal. The first group exercise was completely outside my range of knowledge of popular behaviour. My suggestion would be to have a cup of tea. I felt swamped by the opinions of one individual, one woman was being the grey woman and two others were running off at tangents. I decided that they only way to avoid being the grey man was to be the man who would present our findings to the room. The second exercise involved building. I did okay as 'an ideas man' but I felt hampered by my lifelong refusal to bite sellotape.

Didacts on Drudgery and the Demurrage,

2010-08-25T21:36:00.009+01:00

My views on stand-up comedy have changed through the years. Coincidentally, the moral of one of the shows I saw this year was exactly what I have been trying to say – the funniest things are those which happen spontaneously. The best comedy doesn’t happen in pre-ordained timeslots. Contrary to my beliefs, I attended six shows at this years Embra Fringe. I probably only meant to see two shows but that is how life is, I fall into things.

One of those moments of comic gold occurred on the train on the way to my first show. A boy, probably 6 year old, asks his mother, ‘Why is the Forth Bridge so high?’ He pauses, ‘Because if it was lower and closer to the water, it wouldn’t be so dangerous, people wouldn’t die if they fall off.’ His mother panics. The family are clearly middle class and that added to the moment. She begins, and ends with the son being sent off to university to study a Masters course in engineering, ‘They have special engineers who calculate how many cars cross every day and how heavy those cars are. They then decide how big the bridge has to be and then they make up special drawings.’ She goes on, ‘but the bridge isn’t dangerous, not unless there is an earthquake. The engineers will have spoken with other scientists to decide if the bridge is near any fault line. Oh, look there is where they play rugby.’

I went to Embra to see John Hegley, I’ve seen him for a number of years running now, it’s sort of a pilgrimmage. The show is life-enhancing. The show opens with the mystery over the left rucksack and this becomes a running joke throughout the show; at first, John suggests an evacuation. The first song is about John’s glasses, after which, he asks the glasses wearers to wave their spectacles in the air, before the line, ‘I’m a bit disappointed with that, I didn’t see it go as well as I’d hoped.’ It’s obvious but amusing. The show contained all the usual stuff: old favourites (Luton Bungalow, It’s the Wheel That Squeaks That Gets the Oil, Poem de terre, etc, some had new verses) and stuff that was new to me. The show is warm and full of charm, there’s nothing to dislike. The show ended with the glasses wearers being invited onto stage to dance to the Ash hit, Burn Baby Burn.

The rest of the day went well, I found a copy of The Skinny, I bought a pair of trousers (they were unexpectedly reduced at the checkout), football turned out good. The low point of my day was being waved at by someone who had previously mistreated me; time heals wounds and for us, I’d say we are only at the point of neutrality; nowhere near friendly waving.

I visited Embra as part of a party of five to see Adam Hills and Alun Cochrane. Travelling was stressful; there’s always someone who isn’t willing to shoulder responsibility or who thinks that time will stand still on his count. Arriving by train, we traipsed up The Mound to see Hills at The Assembly. The show was completely unscripted and was marked by a conversation with a woman who arrived late, a phonecall to her husband, the purchase of £40 of chocolate and a self-appraisal for a reviewer. The final story is about pizza, this triggers a torrid interval between shows.

One of our party decided that we needed pizza, as this was the only idea suggested, I thought this would be our destiny, as much as pizza can ever be destiny, and we marched towards a Pizza Hut. As it turned out, only one person wanted pizza, we discovered this outside Pizza Hut. So three of the party were embroiled in some sort of feud over pizza, I was angered by one member’s attitude towards appearances and the need to continually comment. Appearances mean little to me and, in the city, where everyone is different, it grew tiresome to the point of breaking with my demeanour to make my point. Tensions were high and only one person managed to stay free from the uproar. Anyway, they decided upon chips from a restaurant that wasn’t suitable, I wandered off to listen to Polish Opera in St. Andrew Square with a hot chocolcate. A jet fighter roared past just prior to the performance. The opera singer was okay, it was the right place for me to be at that moment. I would’ve wanted to hear some violins before I had to rejoin the squabblefest.

Alun Cochrane was appearing at The Stand comedy club. The theme of the show was that chance moments in everyday life are more funny than jokes. I agree, I have never found jokes funny. The idea was born out of the moment a heckler in Sheffield shouted, ‘Tell us a joke.’ Alun admitted that he could never please this man because they both saw comedy differently. I enjoyed this show, it was wistful comedy. It was a discussion. Alun took an idea, or a belief, and talked to us about it, and I agreed, I knew that ships had to pass under those bridges and once pointed out, that child would have agreed too.

The next day, and to Embra again, to Bannermans, we saw Andrew Collins and his show Secret Dancing. Andrew Collins is a star of the modern day media, many people don’t know Andrew but he has contributed to such a variety of pursuits, it’s hard not to admire his relationship with the public. Secret Dancing is testimony to his handle on modern life and culture. It’s unsurprising, given that Andrew is a stalwart of BBC 6music, that music plays a key role in the show. We are taught how to dance to music on our ipods without anyone knowing. Highlights include investigating Reigate, Andrew’s relationship with birds, imagining his obituary and his feelings on Master Chef. I dismounted the table, feeling guilty that others had stood and left, throwing money in the bucket.

Staying in Bannermans, we stayed to watch Audi, Vide, Tace, a show by Charlotte Young. Using audio-visual aids, Charlotte tells the story of her involvement with an underworld agency and how she discovered many top secret truths. The show is amusing enough, it has some clever ideas, some wrong ideas and is, at times, let down by the poor quality of sound playback. As we watch, one thing strikes me: my associate and I, sat side-by-side, have our two idols ridiculed in consecutive sketches. We would never have predicted it.

We ventured out into the city, nearly argued over lunch, bought some lunch and then headed towards another show. Our choice was very much decided upon by the time available, I was alarmed when I heard Sean Lock discuss the title of the show we were about to see, Contains Mild Peril. Adam Mitchell and Phil O’Shea are the stars of this show. I should have been further alarmed when we had to march to obscure venue down at the Grassmarket, the Dragonfly cocktail bar. I think my words on leaving the show were, ‘That was an ordeal.’ Actually, I think the show would have been fine in front of a bigger audience, on a stage. Adam and Phil did seem to be aiming for a Morecambe and Wise/Les Dawson effect, the running joke was that they were so bad that they were funny. In front of nine people, in a lounge, they struggled miserably. I admire them for carrying on; cancelling the performance must have crossed their mind. I think they will go on to break show business.

The show ends and we head towards the train station. The Fringe was over for me. I will retire to normal life and waiting for those moments, those little moments of comic genius. If I become bored waiting for them, I’ll create them myself.

A man walks into a barrrr...

Hermetic Warriors in the Country,

2010-08-15T21:51:00.006+01:00

After the success of last year’s Perseids viewing expedition, we bounced back prepared – with jackets – but we failed to see enough.

The evening began with a banana loaf and tea, last year, we had juice. The banana loaf was courtesy of a James Martin recipe, I was most ungracious in my acceptance of a slice. I described it as having the texture of a pencil eraser and I proceeded to let the others in the room poke at it. I also questioned the tea, it tasted of oranges. The refreshments were accompanied by Law & Order. It was the one where the woman had slapped her baby and had to face a dilemma: end its suffering by switching off the life support machine and face a murder charge or keep it suffering and be convicted of child abuse. I marginally preferred Jurassic Park (last year's pre-expedition show), at least, there’s no ambiguity where tyrannosaurus rex is involved.

We headed out to our lookout point in a layby of a darkened road. Like Sean had said, the clouds were rolling in. The clouds not only obscured the sky but prevented the level of darkness needed by reflecting errant light from the surroundings. We saw around 15 meteors; given the level of cloud, they had to be really bright in order to be seen.

My performance at the meteor shower wasn’t exactly laudable. I became distracted by a light. The light was brighter than all the other stars; it didn’t seem like a satellite nor a aeroplane waiting to land. It seemed to move closer and slightly waver in its course. I decided the best action to take would be to drive closer and try to end up underneath it. Betty and I drove on but failed to come to a conclusion. We pulled over to see a few more meteors before heading back to civilisation.

Upon arriving back, I caught a spider and put it outdoors.

Vituperators of Nocturnal Celerity,

2010-08-14T19:45:00.002+01:00

This week has been one of mere existence. I did my first ever night shift. I had worked late in the yooni labs on several occasions but it doesn’t compare to a week of night shifts.

The week begins on Monday morning and I find myself at a loss. With the first shift some 13 hours ahead of me, I don’t know what to do. I hadn’t thought about what to do. I now know that it’s a weekend day. Of course, I had to sleep a little. I cycle to work in the rain; I take the hazardous route as I know that neds aren’t waterproof. I am slightly early and I chase my colleague off to his bed. It’s just me and the book. Being on my own, the book is effectively my boss. There’s no one to approve my work, and being a rookie, I found this strange. I know what is right and what is wrong but I have no sense of what is too much. I work through and only stop to have breakfast near the end. I know am making tiny errors and I feel myself slowing and I wonder.

I go home and sleep three hours before my neighbour decides his lawn is out of control. I decide to prepare for winter and buy bicycle lights. I reserve them online to ‘save’ £30. How many terrapins can I buy with that sum? The front light shines 15 lux bright and I decide to learn about the units light is measured in using Wikipeedja. I find this measurement and application ambiguous; perhaps I have to consider the area of the beam produced. I think I’d feel safer with 50 lux – a livingroom on two wheels. I go to work and find the work I didn’t complete the night before still there, two shifts later. I carry out work on five projects and I wonder.

I sleep six hours and am pleased. I wake and decide that today I will fit the bicycle lights. I read before going to work.

I sleep six hours and then have toast. I take books to the charity shop for the first time. It proves to be a painless experience. I wander past Ottakars and see an attractive book as part of a 3 for 2 deal. I am pleased to find a second book, one I have been meaning to buy for ages as part of the deal. I spend 45 minutes looking for a third. I return home and offend. I go to work. I am followed by a gang of uncouth youths on their bikes, thankfully they give up and I am no longer Morrissey. I have nothing to do for an entire shift, I am merely a nightwatchman.

I sleep for seven hours and have yet more toast. It’s three o’clock on Friday and I still have an entire shift to go. The lag and the disorientation are unbearable. I play football but in the evening but I feel as if I am carrying an extra weight. I go to work and surprise my superiors with my efficiency. It would be Monday before I am told this. I finish up as the weekend overtime workers filter in but I don’t know that the worst part of nightshift is yet to come – the readjustment to normality.

It’s Saturday night and I am ready to go to work, instead I have to go to sleep, such is the convention amongst our society. I fall asleep at 0400hrs. I wake at 0900hrs to play football and I feel the worst I ever have.

Visitors of Kevin,

2010-06-27T00:13:00.002+01:00

The many pieces of paper stuffed into my book fall to the floor again. They list things that have gone before and make the book swell. Amongst them is a ticket to King Creosote, Withered Hand and Rozi Plain at Tigerfest, Carnegie Hall, Dunfermline. It was a great evening of music.

I arrived midway through Rozi Plain’s set. Police cars lined my route, they were obviously waiting to intercept some crook. It wasn’t me. Rozi gave a lovely performance that was fitting of the beautiful venue. Her songs are quite poetic, wistful and melancholic in their narrative. The combination of her soothing voice, delicate guitar and sensitive violin was quite a treat for my beleaguered brain.

Next up was Withered Hand. I consider myself privileged to have heard what I heard at this time and in quite an intimate venue because surely he is destined for greater things where tickets are harder to come by. In one song, Withered Hand can be everything; observational, witty, topical, touching, introspective and more. His genius is in inclusiveness through openess and imagery. I ran home and bought the album, or something like that.

His first song was I am Nothing. Brilliant at the time and as I listen again, I pick up on this line. I think I’ve spent this year being examined, I’m now very conscious of it. We all make judgements of people but I’ve realised that eventually we have to come sort of understanding.

We’ve all got things that make us evil, we’ve all got things that make us cool.
Trying to see the world in your way…

King Creosote headlined the evening. I’ve seen King Creosote many times and every set is different and filled with special moments. He never disappoints. This time he was by himself, although he was later joined by an pal from the Skuobhie Dubh Orchestra on percussion. By himself, he can fill the room with his accordion alone and I was once again in awe of Leslie. It’s such a captivating song that can swing its listener round and down.

On the way home, I played the radio too loud but it was Roll Up Your Sleeves by We Were Promised Jetpacks. At such a volume, I lost my proud record of being the first car to pull over to let an ambulance past but my immaculate use of mirrors ensured that the patient was given the best chance.

Schemers and the Examplar Peace,

2010-05-19T20:51:00.006+01:00

Everything is chemical, including the faces we pull and the blows we bear. The best way to escape is go where the air is thin.

This year of uncertainty goes on. My wondering may be perceived as worrying, I just consider all the permutations. I’m not in the mood for people. They make judgements, they forget and they don’t listen. I’m all too conscious of it.

Sometimes they create situations in which they can force the judgement they want to make. For example, at football, I played a good pass to someone, they didn’t react. They then dived into a desperate challenge in an attempt to retain possession. He screamed and limped off, claiming his ankle was wrecked forever. Five minutes later, he returned and played with a higher intensity than he had before. The whole episode was an act of theatre to cast dispersion on the pass and its giver.

Then there’s giving and receiving: I give comedy and professionalism.

A trek up the Lomond Hills provided minute relief. In truth, it was torture, medically and mentally. At the summit of East Lomond, when the gusts died down, the world was okay. The silence was awesome. I could have stayed there for ages but I was dragged off. I did not care for West Lomond, I went because the alternative was walking home and a black eye. Again, I wasn’t allowed to soak up the atmosphere at that summit and I still wonder why not.

Then there’s giving and receiving: the hills gave a black grouse.

They say charity begins at home. For some, charity stays at home. Others call charity up. If I have a worthy cause and I ask someone to donate to it, at some point in the future, I would have no qualms about donating to the cause they would like to support. In the end, if everyone donated to their own pursuit, the yield might be the same, but I disagree. Charity is about more than money, it’s an opportunity to raise awareness and generate interest. The chance that someone might display extraordinary generosity makes the time worthwhile.

Then there’s giving and receiving: I gave cakes.

Words can be twisted and it’s better not to say anything at all. In an earlier episode, I suggested that I felt my departure from yooni was natural. A week after I told someone that I don’t miss the yooni life, the cool kids are grumpy. The issue remains the same; nothing ever happens. The only thing they have to discuss is what happened. I think back to Del Amitri and it reminds me of my time in the cornershop, it was one customer’s favourite song and it is a regular of Scottish commercial radio. It’s not actually so bad, its lyrics are rather good. ‘Is it Del out of Del Amitri?’, he asks.

Now the traffic lights change to stop, when there's nothing to go
And by five o'clock everything's dead
And every third car is a cab
And ignorant people sleep in their beds
Like the doped white mice in the college lab
Nothing ever happens, nothing happens at all
The needle returns to the start of the song
And we all sing along like before

Then there’s giving and receiving: I received my protégé. I gave leadership. I gave more compromise than I should have.

Back then, the world was bigger. Now, it is much smaller but harder to understand. Trusting everyone and no one is the only way. And Hawkeye Pierce said to Winchester, ‘Time wounds all heels.’

Then there’s giving and receiving: I gave crankiness.

Rounded Religious Retirees,

2010-05-07T23:16:00.005+01:00

Cycling evokes memories of my youth. Right up until I learned to drive a car and had to travel longer distances for work or study, I was always on my bike. I reverted to times of old this week and dug my faithful bike out of the shed. I’m keen on bogtrotting as The Bellyaches Massive will know but my new post is too far away for walking and definitely too close to drive to. The compromise is the bike.

I’m not a conventional cyclist. Peddling on the road is too scary and I’m not as brave as those guys. In the cycle trips of old, there was a lot of lifting: fences, walls, rivers etc. The classic example was an attempted journey to Shell Bay along the Fife Coastal Path/old railway line. There are many gates along the route – I assume to prevent motorcycle nuisance. After negotiating many stiles and gates, we entered a field. Still following the railway, there was a clear line of good, solid terrain to be riding along, until we reached some cows. The cows wouldn’t move and seemed rather aggressive. We detoured towards the shore and, inevitably, sand and, eventually, the need to traverse a wide river delta. Moisture followed. This was somewhat typical of these escapades.

Back on the bike this week, I still employ the same strategy. Lifting the bike of over this, squeezing through that, I make better time than in the car. I was thinking about bicycles in song. Quickly, I can think of three videos featuring bicycles: There is a Light That Never Goes Out by The Smiths, Motorcycle by The Rumble Strips and LDN by Lily Allen. As for lyrics, I arrive at Fox in the Snow by Belle & Sebastian.

I'm riding the novelty at the moment, things will change but for now, I'll make the most of the energy. I decided to tidy the garden around the bike shed to make the process easier. Of course, I went too far. We've been feeding the birds seed on top of the shed. These seeds have sprouted and I decided that I would remove a giant weed from the roof. I should have left it, but it ripped out the weed along with the roofing felt. I should have know better, but this weed was irresistible

I don't mind long journeys in the car; I amuse myself with albums. I've always hated short journeys; over the past week, I simply skipped to my favourite song on the album in the CD player everyday. Everyday, I listened to Song for Dan Treacy by MGMT and then I was virtually home. It's a great song but on a long journey, I'd listen to the whole album, Congratulations. MGMT seem to be combining aspects of 1980s indiepop, which I love, with prog rock and this album sounds much better than their debut, which I feel only offers up one or two singles.

A few other great sounds that I am drawn to at the minute are William Henry Miller Pt 1 by Meursault, Spin That Girl Around by Euros Childs, The Settler by The European, The Governor of Giving Up by Doyle & The Fourfathers and Natural Selection by UNKLE. I am intrigued by The Chemical Song by Citadels and can be imagined gazing into the middle distance to the Midnight Cowboy theme pondering the issue.

Moilers and the Privities of Equilibrium,

2010-05-02T20:05:00.008+01:00

I’ll just wait here, at the junction, for this car to pass. It’s gone. There’s another one, I’ll just wait for it to pass. It’s gone. There’s another, I’m in no rush, I’ll wait. Quite happily, I wait, then I become aware of time and I think I must have been there for ages, but all the while, I was content.

I’ve started a job. For me, 8 hours is just that. As a stewdent, I was used to working close to 0800 hrs to 2000 hrs then retiring to do more work at home. I once put in an 18 hour shift. The novelty of working these ‘short’ shifts may wear off and I will become as bitter as the rest of the world’s workforce. I am never quite sure of how things are going. We were told that our training schedule would be taken slowly. Sometimes I have nothing to do, at this point, I worry that I look lazy. I like to be kept busy and I like to help. They were cleaning and I offered to clean but I was told it wasn’t my mess and I was given another job to do. In doing this other job, I felt in the way of their mass clean-up.

The look on my face hardly ever says what I am thinking. People can only judge a face and I can only change that assessment by actions and words. Then there’s my humour, which should probably be kept in reserve.

Routine is a major part of being able to cope with work. Whilst I have everything prepared and am sitting watching the news with a cup of tea, others are thrashing about. Once, there were no apples left, so I substituted a toffee crisp into my lunchbox.

I saw the mobile library drive past. On the dashboard was a copy of The Sun. I’m quite certain this is an offence and the driver should be dismissed.

Friday was a warm day and this appeared to generate some fabulous storm clouds ahead of a front moving in through the evening. I captured some low-quality shots.

Candidates,

2010-04-13T15:49:00.002+01:00

The Hearty Vendor greeted me and no longer attended to the situation. The bottles were scattered, I chose two and replaced the rest. I perused the sugar and gawped at the 17p Fudge. It tasted just the same as the older 15p ones.

The non-event occurred. The sugar was of great use. It ensured that I could be useful until the end. The Donor of Arcane Ruffle was judged as I hadn’t for a while. I have grown so tolerant that it shocked me. I considered apologising but no one told me that The Donor of Arcane Ruffle was my superior.

The Governor of Disposable Facts asked. I knew nothing for I am in control of nothing. The postman knows more. The phone knows more. Emithers know more. In carrying out such indirect research, he only ever gains opinions. The Governor will ask someone else.

The Buoy of Free Trust ate comically and stupidly. I thought it tasteless. The Buoy stayed in the game, embarrassingly. He reacts with arrogance, and in these times, I accept that I might not immediately receive what I merit, he believes that he deserves. Embarrassingly, he uses it as a weapon. I refer the reader to the chorus of Giving up the Gun by Vampire Weekend.

Your sword's grown old and rusty, burnt beneath the rising sun
It's locked up like a trophy, forgetting all the things it's done
And though it's been a long time, you're right back where you started from
I see it in your eyes that now you’re giving up the gun

I wondered why Designated Death Radio chose Mirror in the Bathroom by The Beat (do you have a good memory for faces?) and not You’ll Always Find me in the Kitchen at Parties by Jona Lewie.

I completed the reading of A Song of Stone by Iain Banks. I think that the theme of the story is that materials are immaterial unless meaning is applied to it. That meaning can be used to twist our feelings and our value of the material then affects our actions. In this downtime, I also digested Just Daft – The Chic Murray Story by Robbie Grigor. I had no prior experience of Chic Murray but I think I would have liked him. From the quotes and the passages of his stage act included in the book, I can sense his influence in much of the comedy that I like.

God has called five times and so it seems the future is temporarily decided.

Wincers Presaging Ignominy,

2010-04-07T19:54:00.002+01:00

Looking for a job is a full-time job. The search is confusing as people offer conflicting advice. I started from an ambiguous position and it hasn’t helped my quest. Writing a thesis for a Ph.D lasts variable lengths of time and the stewdent may not be in control of how long they will take. The stewdent one year ahead of me was delayed by the receipt of data from a colleague. I could argue that I was delayed by the access to apparatus and then I underwent a somewhat prolonged period of verification with my supervisor. Other stewdents may be lazy and fail to write quickly. I was advised that companies would not take a risk upon someone who ‘was nearly finished’ as I was for months as I awaited my supervisor’s supervision.

There is the question of how to apply for jobs. Advice about the speculative application varies. I have not found this to be a productive route but I believe in being proactive. I have been told that 75% of jobs are not advertised. If that is the case, then for many people, 75% of companies do not exist. Part of my search has involved actually finding out about which companies are in the field. My own belief is that behind every brand is a potential vacancy.

A question I am commonly asked is about leaving university. For me, it is completely natural. The actual event was completely natural. I will discuss it some other time but it was rather symbolic in the manner it occurred. I’ve always been keen to see tasks completed well and on schedule. I did so whilst others flapped.

There was a time when I believed that I could do anything and my applications reflected that. I can do lots but now I’ve realised that other people cannot see that from a two page CV and my applications are now more focused. With the reports of unemployment, it’s easy to be swept up in the hype. I’ve consigned myself to patience and confidence in myself to eventually find my place. I’m searching for a job at the same time as mon frère and that’s an interesting contrast.

One of the major problems I’ve encountered is the slow pace of the application procedure. Sometimes it takes over 6 weeks for a reply offering an interview in a months’ time. In 10 weeks, outlooks change – that job may have become less favourable against another and the whole exchange becomes a waste of everyone’s time.

Interviews are something which do not faze me. I am not susceptible to nerves and it’s easier to see these as meetings or chats, despite the will to grasp the opportunity, rather than become stressed and erratic. Blunders will occur: in this life, I’ve had the incident when I hung up my coat whilst the employers were waiting to shake hands, the arguments and the jokes misunderstood. I’m sure there will be many more before I retire but being knowledgeable, relaxed and honest often overcomes most obstacles.

Roasters of Reconciliatory Rest,

2010-01-17T22:28:00.004Z

I have retired from the game of pool after many years of admirable safety play. To mark the occasion I wrote a piece about my career in the sport whilst listening to The Second Hand Marching Band during a lunch break.

Pool League Pilgrim

Would you pot for another?
Would you wait by and hover?
Can the drop of the ball make your day?
Will you make it okay?

The baize is no place for chameleons,
A sandwich is not a meal for lions.
To change a circumstance that suited you until today,
Choose a cue from the gallant array.

Will you be bold and smash the pack?
Will you hold your nerve to pot the black?

Forgotten maths,
Ungracious laughs,
Groaning sclaffs.
You said it was peace for our time
I said it was pool for tonight

Ethicality Rakers Aghast ,

2010-01-14T21:58:00.005Z

In a segment of Yes, Minister, I saw earlier, Sir Humphrey tries to prevent Jim Hacker making an announcement. First, he claims that the announcement would be premature, after a bit of stalling, he declares the information to be out of date. Jim Hacker seems bemused and Humphrey settles on ‘untimely’.

Grandaddy sang ‘Here comes the chaos perfectly on time again.’

That small moment of beauty is The Last of the Melting Snow by The Leisure Society but I found the landscape foggy.

Cultivators in Clods of Regeneration,

2010-01-01T22:42:00.003Z

A pheasant walks the streets. Icicles cling to trees drowning in the river and the fairground ride blasts out Everybody Hurts by REM. A dagger of ice is the perfect layered weapon to kill ideas.

Them in the corner, seemingly with their hopes pinned to the mast, their fate was always ill but popular culture was not their science.

Considering the past decade's noise in chart form is impossible. To demonstrate this, here are three compilations: Absolute Radio's, Channel 4's and the NME's.

Absolute Radio's makes me sick. If Keane had stopped at Somewhere Only We Know (ack ack ack), the world would be a better place. Seven Nation Army is a riff. There Goes the Fear by Doves is number 56 and Hey Ya by Outkast is 80.

Channel 4's is typically lame but annoys me most because I saw a segment where they described how great Chasing Cars by Snow Patrol is. Final Straw was the final straw (ack ack ack).

The NME has a lot to answer for. Just who will silence Florence and her flippin' Machine? Browsing their chart is well worthwhile just to be reminded of a few things.

Coaches of Introvertive Nursing,

2009-12-25T21:49:00.006Z

The people in the crossfire are the ones that deserve sympathy.

Arguments are so energetic and efforts of disagreement, yet they can be created by two tired parties. They could be more tolerant and patient, they could try to understand, they should not read too much into accidents. The tension was created by disappointment over a present which didn't arrive. People argue and leave an atmosphere in which the rest of us have to survive. I dived in front of my brother, who had too much Irn-Bru, and saved him from walking into it.

Christmas begun with the hangover of the previous evening. My invitation to partake arrived. Ten years ago, I would have sniped back and joined the arguments. Five years ago, I would have said, 'I'm not interested in arguing.' which was as good as arguing. Now, I left it unanswered.

Adversity can unite people, and here, the infighting ended. My brother found his car had been vandalised in what I presume was a pre-meditated and deliberate attack upon a misidentified target. Wheels stabbed, a tin of paint emptied carefully over its body - this was no random attack. I'd be devastated on a normal day, but although I don't care for Christmas, I knew he was excited and had plans, so I was as sickened as I could be. I wouldn't want such an incident to happen to me and really, he's just the same as me, I guess with innocence, naivety and kindness in place of my acidity.

I didn't help much in the clean-up. I felt like going for a walk. There are perhaps two places for a decent stroll and because the braes are near where I dropped him off at his friends, I headed there. I saw a large black animal as I parked up, had I just made another 'big cat' sighting? As I headed for the coastal path along the top of the sea braes, a huge dog appeared, it had no owner and started following me, from a distance, hiding in the bushes. The dog grew closer. I just wanted peace, I didn't want to be hunted. I went back to the car and went down to the river walk. When being followed, always think of a loop to reach the intended destination that the hunter won't understand or see.

There was little to see by the river, crunching footsteps deterred the birds. A fieldfare, a redwing, some great tits, a reed bunting, three buzzards, a couple of greenfinch and a flock of goldfinch were the ornithological delights I saw before scattering.

The day settled. The police visited later for a statement and that feeling of sickness returned as it did everytime we discussed what happened. I can't cope with Christmas in general, receiving gifts is awkward and can be shameful, but now, we have a new memory - one that has perhaps taught me that what we do is better.

Anthropoids Affable in Affright,

2009-12-24T17:17:00.008Z

By 1700 hrs, the temperature had plunged to -7 degrees Celsius, the skies were clear and I presumed it would decrease further throughout the night. I noticed that the temperature had increased to -4.5 degrees Celsius as the evening wore on and I went to bed.

Waking in the night, I heard the sound of snow. The sound of snow in the wind is quite distinctive but never commented upon. In the morning, the snow was 3 inches/8 centimetres deep in our sunny seaside town. A freak storm had arrived and deposited its worth.

This is in St. Andrews before the freak dump.This is snow on Kirkcaldy beach.

This is Kirkcaldy under a sky that promised further snow and delivered prolonged showers of snow, hail and rain the next morning.

Melting snow beside a river only he will know

That whisper of cold air through the face and hair is hers

Through mythical measures they come together and understand

That the place for them is kicking leaves in the cobbled lanes

Hurdlers of the Iconoclastic Clarification,

2009-12-22T22:37:00.006Z

With temperature at -7 degree Celsius, I departed for my own safety. My car windows were frozen on both sides of the glass. As I waited for my car to defrost, I cleared the windows of my colleague's car, but I knew those would probably freeze over again before they gave up on work. The lovely thing about snowy weather is that it concentrates the eye and it's possible to see rarer birds as they search for sustenance. Of course, I don't rejoice in their plight. I'm just remarking upon the large flocks of blackbirds, fieldfares, redwings and thrushes that I see notice on these winter mornings.

The modest me was depressed by the bookstore. The modest me was depressed by the post office. I wonder if a generation of brains will be lost. One man sang, 'I stopped and waited for progress but I can't accept it all.'

A kettle was stolen/removed. I couldn't believe it. I can't handle the concept and I'd prefer the idea of a ghost.

Bacon discussed capital punishment. He was right, the only way to avoid mistakes is to continue its proscription. I wondered if there was a middle ground deterrent, but I doubt it. Putting someone in the stocks and lobbing moulding lettuces at them is medieval and hardly fitting of the crimes discussed.

The televised leadership debate is not a franchise that should have been agreed to. I think politicians should have been given more exposure before now. Continued communication with our representative and potential replacements rather than ignorance before a televised showpiece would inform the public better and allow them to make smarter choices. Celebrity culture has forced politics into a seedy background where they can't be seen so they can't be trusted. Celebrity culture has killed transparency by cloaking politics in a veil of ignorance.

Alan Johnson said that the force with which home owners fend off burglars has to be proportional. I wonder what 'proportional' is. A home owner surely wouldn't want to engage in unarmed combat, if they lost, they lose everything and endanger themselves. If they fought hand-to-hand and won, the burglar might run and they would preserve their possessions. If they fought hand to hand and only left the burglar stunned or injured in their house, that is surely a dangerous situation - the police would have to arrive before a recovery, it's a risk people might not take, finishing them off in a Streets of Rage-stylee would legally be 'excessive force'. The house owner is apparently protected by the current laws and making a false issue of this is a waste of our time and attention. I'm sure many people have imagined what they'd do in this situation, I guess I'd instinctively arm myself with a deskchair, a table lamp or a racquet.

I am always struck by Zorbing by Stornoway. When it begins, I immediately anticipate One Horse Town by The Thrills, a good record but nowhere near as pure as Zorbing.

Sanguine, Sardonic and Separable Servants,

2009-12-20T15:38:00.003Z

With the snow on the ground and the emptying car park, a foreboding hollowness of finality was felt. I arrived at yooni on noon, having chosen to work at home whilst other cars paved my way through the snow during the morning. The snow lay an inch deep at home and I knew from my journey home the previous evening that crossing Largo Law was treacherous.

I spent some time in the office before my final shift as a demonstrator in the teaching labs. The task is one that I’ve enjoyed doing throughout the years, it’s a period of respite from everyday work that allows me to do something different, to keep in touch with some areas of chemistry that I don’t get to visit much more and to learn at the same time as the stewdents. I think I’d have done the job if it wasn’t paid, although in recent years, having marking added to my workload has arguably made the wage more deserved.

Although I’ve had a good bunch of stewdents, this term was a little difficult at first, it turned out that I was not really a demonstrator, I was in charge but once I came to terms with this and the class’ independence and confidence grew, we managed splendidly. Some people are naturally more confident, some have more experience than others depending on the schools they came from. Some have to be supervised carefully at first and some will ask all manners of non-question. The most rewarding part is to see people progress week by week; during the last afternoon, the stewdents barely required my aid, I suppose the afternoon was characterised by light-hearted chatter and everyone finishing up well before the end of the session.

I had an uncertain view of demonstrators as a stewdent. I would want them to be there immediately if I was in doubt but out of sight otherwise. I thought some were lazy, some were meddlesome, some were incompetent and some were unclear so I always had that in my mind and I think I was the kind of demonstrator that I would have liked to have; relaxed, helpful, approachable and most importantly, patient. I think my patience surpassed what was expected by some. The toughest part of the job was marking reports and explaining to the stewdents why certain things were wrong. In general, they acted upon my advice. Being sympathetic helps but it is difficult when a stewdent is disappointed with a mark such as 14/20 and in extreme cases, 19/20.

Hopefully, the teaching experience helps in the future. I have more people skills than I care to admit, my highlight of the experience came during a session off. I agreed to swap a shift with a colleague but I had to visit the lab in order to give the class their reports. On this visit, members of the class greeted me and also complained about my replacement and called them ‘grumpy and unwilling to help’, knowing this person quite well, I was surprised but only too happy to take this as a feather in the cap.

The picture is from Your Pictures, there is some wonderful photographs in there that I like to gaze wistfully upon from time to time.

Quiescents Forced to Tamper,

2009-12-17T22:52:00.003Z

Time and temperature are the only weapons. I chose time but, by the end, I had lost all sense of it. For three weeks, I was committed to another period of intensive work, maximising the work carried out in the limited time allowed with the apparatus. I was working alongside my successor but after a while, cabin fever set in. I think I’d have become agitated alongside anyone.

I’m pretty good at filtering out noise and voices but it was music that caused the greatest discomfort. As I tended to arrive first or be present most, I’d sometimes choose to put some music on. If my colleague came in, sometimes I’d pause the music in order to talk to him or perhaps I’d pause it if I thought we should concentrate, but whenever I did so, he took this as a prompt to slap on his radio station of choice. In three weeks, I heard 5 songs I approved of (Grandaddy, Badly Drawn Boy, two Talking Heads numbers and one which the DJ failed to inform me off). I have reached my quota of Stereophonics for this century and I don't think Florence and the Machine should be getting off lightly either - I preferred Bertha. I didn’t comment as tensions were already high. Results weren’t forthcoming and we were already two people with opposing styles. In a time of success and joy, I am on guard. In a time of crisis, I remain positive. That was all I had, if I was to let his sigh grind such hope and optimism, there’d be nothing. I chose time, he chose temperature. In the end, we arrived at some minor successes but they were perhaps half of what we might have achieved as individuals.

This incarceration has caused me to lose all sense of time and in a way, I am still decompressing. I make decisions on a day-by-day basis.

The Gemenids meteor shower reminded me of how things are. I just seem to value different things from those around me.

The song that seems to resonate at the minute is A Dance to Half Death by The Second Hand Marching Band. The choir end with a haunting verse

I watch you smile at the camera,
Your lips, your eyes, your sweet smile,
and all the while, and all the while,
I am bound to forget you.

I watch you walk down the corridor,
Your finger trails along the wall,
and all I can think of is why
I won’t forget you

The paradox is something which hooks my attention. If I have misheard the lyrics (it’s ‘will or won’t in the last line), I prefer the paradox and I’m stuck on it. It’s a catastrophe yet to happen.

Tarriers of Sweet Nobility,

2009-11-11T22:37:00.004Z

Tomorrow sees the Glasgow North East by-election, it's all pots, pans and pieces. With an upcoming general elections, the winner of the by-election might only be in the seat for a short while. Candidates might see it as a short holiday in London. They're quite a bunch. SNP and Conservatives have put forward former TV news reporters as candidates, media presentation rather than substance seems to be key to their decision. Labour have selected a teacher. The Liberal Democrat campaign has been hindered by blunders. There are a bunch of smaller parties (Go Greens!), then the two former Big Brother housemates (Mikey Hughes and Tommy Sheridan) and John Smeaton. Tommy Sheridan doesn't seem to have been allowed much airtime on TV or radio, it might be nice to send him to London to ruffle a few feathers. The Sun newspaper seems to have been throwing its weight around on the national scale recently but I haven't noticed their opinion on this contest, mostly because I don't read (sometimes, its impossible to avoid what their headlines). They've declared support for Conservatives at the next election but in Scotland, where the Conservatives are weaker, they've had to remain quiet. Furthermore, John Smeaton, who appears less than competent in his campaigning, is a Sun columnist. It seems in this case that The Sun might just have to wait for the news to occur and then report it, what a novel idea!

Of course, The Sun have gone to town over Gordon Brown's error-strewn letter to a war widow. Poor Gordy tries to do what is right, and I agree more care should have been taken, but whatever he does it's never enough for people; once he leaves office, I think he ought to get his own TV programme so that people could warm to him and perhaps realise their misjudgement over a cup of tea on the sofa.

I visited the local supermarket to top up the office tea-making supplies. I found myself dawdling behind a woman and her young son; to amuse him, she would send him up each aisle for the required item on her list. 'Go get a loaf, backwards, forwards, there, just there, bring it to me.', she coaxed. I avoided them but we were to converge again, at the sugar, where I found the child lying flat on his belly atop the pile, the mother came scooting along to scold the child, 'Come on, Theodore, stop licking the sugar.' Sugar really is the answer to most of life's problems, except for when it's frosty, most people use salt then.

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,

2009-08-13T22:40:00.002+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,

2009-07-12T16:50:00.001+01:00

In appearing completely unapproachable, I struggle to remember that I am accommodating, kind, polite, and 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. 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.

Espousers of the Contrived,

2009-06-28T14:00:00.002+01:00

At Kirkcaldy station, I noticed a fairly large crowd dismount and head down towards the town centre. As I waited for a train to the city, I forgot about this abnormality.

As I’ve documented before in The Bellyaches, I love the train journey to Embra. Musing over a book, I could ride the Fife Circle for hours on end. Today, I was reading Swing Hammer Swing by Jeff Torrington and what turned out to be a particularly relevant portion of it.

I amassed some materials from the city: God Help the Girl, Lord Cut-Glass and Ohbijou walbums, a couple of pairs of trousers and some polo shirts - standard fare. The weather was dismal and at the height of eastern Scotland summer, I was at risk of trench foot on Princes Street.

Arriving back in Kirkcaldy, from the train, I spotted more groups of people walking down the streets and police officers at regular vigilant over the hideousness. I still did not know what this hideousness was until it confronted me, the train doors opened, there stood Mr and Mrs Orange with their glum, put upon children bedecked in scarves, of a useless proportion (I anticipate a bout of pneumonia round at the Oranges' this winter, nevertheless when they remember buying their little orange tickets for this fun train journey, their hearts will be warmed), brandishing slogans relating to Ulster waiting to go home from their religious pilgrimage to the Mecca that is Kirkcaldy.

The idea of blaming parents is something I find is contentious. I can think independently from my parents, I’ve always had different views, but maybe that is because they have allowed me freedom of thought. In the case of the Oranges in their ridiculous garb, the parents are accountable; they have warped the delicate minds of their offspring, who in turn could bear another generation of Oranges, unless they emancipate themselves soon, should they be allowed to grow smart enough to understand their parents, their idols, are wrong.

People have always had to believe in something. I don’t have a problem with religion but in Scotland, the Orange walk is the only instance where lives are intruded upon and ‘religion’ is forced upon people and their activities infringe upon the lives of others. When religious people come to knock, doors can be shut upon them. Parents can choose to have their children exempt from religious lessons or assemblies in schools, the children themselves can choose not to pay attention (like I and most people did). People don’t need to watch Songs of Praise on television, they can choose to watch Come Dine With Me. Marches don’t give those along its route any choice, but then the same could be said of Colin Fox and the Scottish Socialist Party who were on their soapboxes with megaphones on Princes Street urging up rise against plans to privatise Royal Mail – life is a paradox, the socialists try to maintain the existence of a business with ‘royal’ in its title. I'm struggling to decide if such noisy and intrusive methods used by the Orange folk and these political campaigners are the same thing, but at least, the socialists hadn't brought their children with them - they could have dressed them up as post boxes and axes or made them act out an episode of everyone's favourite high-octane drama set in Greendale whereby Postman Pat is made redundant and becomes so skint that he has no choice but to send Jess to a home.

The mystery surrounding the existence of free will might never be solved. Kurt Vonnegut battled with it throughout his work and I’m just contrary.

Variegating Dredgers Eliciting Majesty,

2009-06-23T20:04:00.006+01:00

The vague drizzle failed to moisten the floppy fringes (should there have been any) or dampen the seditious air as we emerged from the Doghouse, Dundee, its only effect may have been to shorten the longest day by a few minutes.

My Latest Novel had just finished their set and I had just torn down a poster from the wall. The resolution of the poster printing isn’t good but it’s the principle of bagging them that counts and I have now doubled my number of successes.

Arriving at the Doghouse too early, the first support act was Elliot from the West, declared as a local man on his MyArse site, the opportunities to sit on a couch, play the Bullseye video game and to stand by walls outside were taken. I don’t wish to be too disparaging about Elliot, his songs and his guitar because I never granted him my attention like I maybe should have. I will never know if he is to be the new Bill Callahan or Andrew Bird, I’d perhaps settle for the new Samamidon.

Popolo were on next, my main task after entering into the arena was tilting my head in a way such that my eardrums would not explode. Their brand of strident, progressive three-piece rock was not expressed persuasively enough for me to ever wish to endure such pain again. Perhaps I should see a doctor about these ears, perhaps Popolo should think about the cultural significance of their ways.

My Latest Novel are a wonder. I am very familiar with all of their songs now but I never tire of hearing them. The vocal layering, ‘harmonies’ is perhaps not the right term, is perhaps the most striking feat; such different voices combine so well. I love the ideas behind their songs, whether they are inspired by an event, a legend or literature, and I think they are unparalleled in their scope. Their Doghouse performance was perhaps the most energetic that I have witnessed, and amazingly, despite such force, they still maintain accuracy of composition. They played seven songs from the new album, Deaths & Entrances, and Sister Sneaker Sister Soul and Learning Lego from Wolves. I think the highlight of this gig was perhaps Re-Appropriation of the Meme, as led by Gary Deveney, it’s today’s ohrwurm.

Sadly, the show could have sold more tickets, I estimate an attendance of 50 or so, and some of them clapped before songs were finished. Maybe the Scottish meedja needs to give My Latest Novel more backing, perhaps they will take more notice when My Latest Novel win the Mercury Music Prize, or the Halon Menswear Music Prize or failing that, something else.

Cloud Consorts and their Staid Fusillades,

2009-06-13T19:56:00.004+01:00

The sun transmitted warmth to those who were wise enough to make the early morning effort. The east wind belied the oncoming front from the west and a dramatic battle ensued in the sky above. The energy bequeathed by the sun bolstered the front by providing an arsenal of storms. I gazed wistfully upon the torrential rain feeding the ground.

The showers continued into the afternoon, across the firth from Kirkcaldy, the city of Embra was occasionally cloaked by cascade of rains, but these came and went to give startling views of the city with its spires and towers resolute. Over to the east, the wind farm churned on the hills to the south of the mysterious Berwick Law.

Obligators to the Ravishing Quagmire,

2009-06-13T13:43:00.003+01:00

Lanark: A Life in Four Books by Alasdair Gray is awesome. The novel is a work of art that I almost feel unworthy to comment upon. After finishing, I really just want to start over, I want to make connections, analyse and understand.

The novel, consisting of four books that are not ordered numerically, follows two characters that are ambiguously one and the same, Lanark and Duncan Thaw. The novel opens with Book Three where we meet Lanark, a man in his twenties in the city of Unthank, a futuristic urban hell. As an outsider who spends his days longing for sunlight in an ever-darkening world, he is somehow awkwardly integrated into a trendy crowd who visit the same coffee shop. In a world where people disappear and contract outlandish but symbolic diseases, Lanark develops ‘dragonhide’ and enters the institute.

Books One and Two begin in pre-war Glasgow and follow Duncan Thaw as he grows up. These books document his schooling, his evacuation from the city during the war and his student life as he eventually becomes an artist. There are many parallels between Thaw and Lanark.

The main theme of the book is the supposed ongoing need to love, yet failure to do so. The protagonist seems incapable of offering or accepting love or forming any sort of relationship with people, and the inability to ‘connect’. The character’s mystique and independency often begs the question of why he needs to love and perhaps proposes the possibility of a happier life without such complications in light of his artistic passions.

I am drawn to the opening stages of Book Three where Lanark remains outside, away from the main group in The Elite, the coffee shop, where he watches for glimpses of sunlight. It’s almost as if Lanark knows there’s something greater in life than just being another member of the group of people pandering to their figurehead, Sludden. I compare this to my attraction to outdoor beauties and pleasures whilst living in a world of hermits.

There are many threads to this life but Lanark: A Life in Four Books really needs begin to grasp the scale of this achievement. For this is not just a story, it’s a social statement, it’s a study of literature and importantly, it’s analysis of self.

Avengers of Frowns Listlessly Cast,

2009-06-10T21:41:00.001+01:00

Released in February 2009, the Dutch Uncles’ debut album should have received a commendation from The Bellyaches long before now.

On the surface, the Manchester five-piece make pop records. The keys and the guitars each contribute their own rhythm, whilst many reviews do Dutch Uncles a disservice by making comparisons to ‘math-rock’ group, the awful Foals, the scientific process that is most apparent is the formation of constructive and destructive interference by the combination of waves. As these rhythms, come in and out of synchronisation, constructive and progressive climaxes and formed amongst warm, languid, soothing aural pools.

The most impressive thing about Dutch Uncles is their ability to remain credibly wistful whilst playing such a brand of pop. Face In is the main single, it’s quite lively, a bit aggressive, written from the viewpoint of a weary woman, it’s sure to be remembered long into the future. I owe Someone for Everything (an undeniable truth) and Wild St are perfect examples of melancholy pop, the existentialism of the former is particularly remarkable.

Winnowers and Catastrophic Benignities,

2009-06-10T21:26:00.003+01:00

I have pondered the issue of charity shops over the last while and the BBC series, Mary, Queen of Charity Shops sheds new light on the issue. I tend to rummage (the favoured verb) through the books in these stores, of course, I’m usually unsuccessful as I always look with favourite authors or specific titles in mind. This doesn’t surprise me; currently, my own books pile up on over-filled shelves, and whilst I do re-read some, I wonder why I keep them all. The need to have all these possession is perplexing.

I guess they exist as a history of what I deem important, they exist as books to be shared and to help someone else understand. I’ve never pondered paint colours for the walls, for in the next refurbishment move, the walls will be lined with books, as I make my home into a library. The books will help to soundproof my environment. Of course, my CDs compete with the books for space, but luckily, I’m quite good at discarding older clothes, despite being prone to buying things that I don’t wear for months after purchase.

The TV programme reminds us that charity shops face many problems. Mary seems quite incensed by the poor quality of donations, and she is right to some extent because it costs charity shops money to arrange special refuse uplifts for items that not fit for sale. The stinginess of the public in the affluent neighbourhood near Mary’s shop is also highlighted as they are shown to be unprepared to donate quality goods despite the fact that they might not use or need them any more. I wonder if there is some sort of repost in their local meedja, I would imagine someone might claim that the programme paints them in bad light.

The mentality of the charity shop volunteer comes under examination; some of these people feel that as they are volunteers, they do not really have to work hard, they lose sight of the fact of the need to generate cash for the charity, for their time is not enough to pay the running costs of the store. Mary is particularly harsh on them. I agree that the business has to be the priority, however, Mary forgets the important social aspect that these shops offer, many of these volunteers revel in meeting each other in store and keeping busy, but as always, I suppose effective and understanding management is the key, because space is at a premium and there’s no room for fudging or fighting.

This other article raises some valid points.

Poltroons of the Parliament of Opprobrium,

2009-06-08T21:12:00.002+01:00

‘If the News Makes you sad, Don’t Watch’ it is a title attributed by Broken Records to one of their songs. Lately, I feel this is appropriate. Every headline concerns Gordon Brown and the bad job he is apparently doing. It’s saddening; I feel he must be inhibited in trying to implement policy if his immediate concerns are dealing with incessant questions regarding his position.

It is a cowardly act to call for Gordon to resign without putting yourself forward to replace him. No good can come of such dissent. Gordon’s strength in face of such criticism has to be commended but I suppose he will eventually have to yield in what would be no more than a PR move.

What Labour MPs ought to be doing is defining themselves. They have to convey the core values of the Labour party. They have to mark clear boundaries between their policies and how they aim to achieve them and those of the Conservatives. They have to go back to their roots; they have to tell us about their history and their successes. It’s not too late, but it would rely upon every MP and potential candidate to pull in the same direction. In the Alternative Land Use Party, all the candidates will stand for what they believe in - the party’s ideals. The cult of celebrity, and the notion of leadership will be obsolete. The Labour party should adopt a similar tactic.

Schismatics of Transgressive Scheduling,

2009-06-07T20:08:00.008+01:00

Sunlight is a commodity in Scotland that, sometimes, only I appreciate. On our last day of sunshine, I departed for the park during my lunchtime; paradoxically, I chose to take the car, as my book was inside, it was a necessary stopping off point. In attempting to move the car 300 metres closer to the park, between car parks, I cut out too in manner that was a little too close for comfort on another car, then in accelerating away from danger (there are two lines spoken by my first driving instructor that I will always remember, although I was not on the end of the latter: ‘Always accelerate from danger.’ and ‘Do you want to cause a road accident or kill a pigeon? Drive!’), I heard a rattle. It was more than a rattle, it was a metallic onslaught. Not only had I held up the driver behind after emerging from a junction, I now had to suffer the modern indignity of dragging an exhaust along the road and pulling over, before turning round and extending the shame as I returned the car back to car park at my work. I took the book to the park and forgot about the car for a while in the sun.

The next day, I was kindly indulged by the chance of car pool, a special type of car pool, I am the pool to the car of a local champion. In order not to prove too much of a burden, I walked to his usual departure point, his home; this is in the neighbouring town. Despite the supposed inconvenience of not having the use of a car, the 20 minute shortcut over woodland scrub in the early morning was a rare delight in this age of rushing around the clock. The cooing of a woodpigeon is something I will insist on when I look for a place to live.

I can’t visit the bank without being offered all sorts of accounts and credit cards. It’s little wonder customers queue for so long, once the ordeal of the queue is over, a lengthy debate results in being given an appointment to meet their financial advisor, all I wanted was to deposit a cheque.

On my return to the bank, I was confronted by two day-trippers. I believe that I am approached more than the average citizen by people looking for directions, perhaps indicates selfishness on my part. These weren’t two ordinary day-trippers, they greeted me with what I take to be an insult, “You look like you shop in charity shops. Can you tell us where the best ones are?” I was flabbergasted. I don’t look down on those who buy second-hand things; I wish I was fortunate enough to find things I like in these shops. I was shocked at the brazen way that two strangers would address me. I regularly visit the charity shops of the town to find books thus I pointed them in the direction of some and arrived early for my appointment. My meeting finished before it was due to start, I didn’t want or believe in change and the advisor was angry that I had been forced into being given an appointment. Apparently, the bank workers on the shop floor often book people in for financial reviews when there is no great need – this is wastage.

The sport of badminton has made a comeback, it is a simple game that need not be so physically demanding as the shuttlecock does most of the work. Badminton has been kind to us in the past, it has gifted us great entertainment. The mental challenge beats that offered in other pastimes; it surpasses Connect 4, draughts, sudoku, FIFA and riddles.

As the working week closed, I was granted some promising results in an experiment, this gives me renewed hope for the coming week. In just three minutes, a week’s efforts paid off and fortunately, before lunchtime. After venturing onto court for the second time in the week during the lunch break, I tried to emulate the results of the morning for a short while but the draw of the record shop was too great. I heard a couple of great live performances on BBC 6music’s evening show this week by Malcolm Middleton and Withered Hand, and with the realisation that Broken Records’ album was also released this week, I had to buy. The demise of Fopp means that to be able find exactly what I want in store, I have to visit Embra. Coupled with an in-store appearance by My Latest Novel in Avalanche Records, it was difficult to remain in the Kingdom of Fife for the last few hours of the working week. I love Embra and the train journey to its core.

I’ve contributed to small businesses twice this week, it meant paying a few more pounds but I can feel proud of myself. Prior to buying some new racquet grip from the new sports store in town, I bought Until the Earth Begins to Part by Broken Records, Religious Songs EP by Withered Hand, Hazards of Love by The Decemberists and Sometimes I Wish We Were an Eagle by Bill Callahan. My Latest Novel wandered into Avalanche Records and played to a dedicated crowd of around 12, whilst the flux of customers took the audience sometimes closer to 20 in number, I don’t want to analyse the behaviour of those who passed through but, on the whole, I found it ungracious. The dynamics of the in-store appearance were something I had never witnessed before. With little or no ceremony, four of the band performed All in All in All is All, A Dear Green Place, Dragonhide, Learning Lego and I Declare a Ceasefire; hearing these songs in an improvised environment is a privilege, it's always interesting to hear the different ways in which established songs can sound. Although I am highly familiar with both albums, the different voices emerging from the harmonies always surprise and the arrangements are always beautiful, despite, on this occasion, being two members short. During the time, I read the first quarter of the diary of Anne Frank. I'm at the stage where small potatoes (arguments and materials) seem of greater importance than survival, I'm sure this will develop in an interesting way.

Slakers of Pother on Foot,

2009-06-04T22:51:00.003+01:00

‘Kerry loves her 32D boobs’

He must have caught this on his glance round the carriage. His own reading material was of interest to someone else, tired of reading for now, the book was held between his legs, with part of the naked lady on the cover just visible above his thigh; the teenagers opposite stared, before drawling, ‘What’s the next stop?’

The talkative woman chatted though her audience changed, starting with a man returning home from a house viewing and a man visiting his daughter, ‘Sit down, sit down, they’re not a bad crowd’, the ticket inspector beckoned, and she was joined by a commuter whose shift had just finished.

The masses were hesitant to sit, but soon they felt maltreated if they were left standing.

The man of lists was the self-appointed voice of the coach, a director of stage, apparently, with lists, numbers with names and notes besides them, these instructions on envelopes were for later, once retrieved from the floor. ‘If you have reservations, sit on your seat. Ignore the digital displays, they’re not working.’, he ordered. He wanted them seated as quickly as I did. People respected his working space, with two seats, he worked through movements, until no longer possible, ‘warmed it for you, I’m afraid.’

Phones beeped, everyone checked their own and then felt embarrassed by unpopularity, the girl with three in front of her was never to blame, these beeps were mostly for the man who only existed as long legs in the aisle.

The man descended at the town of his daughter to be replaced by a man wearing headphones, he was a misfit within the chatting strangers. Relief came when he and the commuter were displaced by two men working for an agency that provided environmentally-friendly solutions to businesses. The headphone man returned to the vestibule between carriages gazing longingly at the seats, waiting for a seat, an opportunity.

Big Al, the train manager, announced, ‘those not travelling should now leave the train as we are about to leave the station, it’s your loss.’, this remarked achieved a smile in everyone even those so cold to force the elderly to their feet and into the vestibule.

Stuffing his ears with headphones, the lad with the book tried to shut out some of the noise.
With each stop, the fear of being in a reserved seat caused unease, potential victims of rude eviction planned their coping strategies.

The trolley hostess grumped. The social table jovially asked her why and heard her denial. The environmentalists defended the implementation of new waste disposal charges, recycling rules and the defeat of the plastic bag, the chatty woman argued for the right of the public to do what they want.

Big Al, at Dunbar, warned ‘mind the dodgy step down to the platform, we’ve don’t want to lose people down the gap’, before, ‘Hello Dunbar people, I hope you’ve emptied the sand from your shoes’.

Over the tannoy, one stark warning from the trolley hostess followed, ‘this will be the last time that I come through, clear all arms and legs to let me pass’.

And everyone sings, ‘ba ba ba da ba da ba’

Malcontents Holding Out Against Sensation,

2009-06-03T22:27:00.003+01:00

North Korea as a concept. I am listening to hear where you are.

A parody in a childish filum, stories of rockets launched and nuclear weapons tested, fuzzy footage of grand parades in massive courtyards – this is what North Korea is to the masses.

As rockets are launched and nuclear weapons tested, North Korea must seem like a volcano about to erupt but the problem is far more complex. Interpreting what these activities mean is the task that its neighbours’ leaders must worry about. At the political level, policies in these countries are constantly developing and attitudes forever changing. At the human level, the behaviour of North Korea infringes upon the lives of its neighbours, for instance, clashes often arise as North Korean boats invade the fishing grounds of its neighbours

If reports are to be believed, events occur by the leader’s whims. Abduction, torture, execution and slave labour occurs to meet needs. Opinions and actions are controlled.

North Korea as a concept. Regimented.

We must be thankful for our freedoms; in this age, our government grants us human rights, our government won’t physically torture us or order our execution, we can opt out of North Korea as a reality, it’s a big leap.

Rigid in time, mundanely employed, strict in leisure.

Compliance to stay alive.

North Korea as a concept.

North Korea is a reality.

Simpletons Revelling in Specious Consolation,

2009-05-25T22:49:00.002+01:00

With illness, self-pity comes. In self-pity, reluctance broods. I decided to call the doctor but only on the premise that I’d be told nothing was seriously wrong.

‘It’s most likely viral so there’s nothing we can do’, that’s what I wanted to hear. Later I felt cheated by this; I bet he says that to everyone. Broken leg, slipped disc, shin splints, cataracts.

With victimised ears and throat, communication hurts, thought and hope are the only resort, a dead weight to be dragged around and reacted to internationally.

Should I choose to leave a short message in stone, I’d choose something by someone else, ‘Hope is important’ or ‘Through mythical measures they come together and understand’.

In hope, they gathered, but they didn’t understand, and that’s where I became lost. Sometimes it takes a departure to trigger an appreciation.

The air begins to thicken.

Rhetoricians and The Approaching Pastiche,

2009-05-16T15:34:00.002+01:00

A cough that wants to remove a roaring throat, I nearly decided to stay at home. I began with Neutral Milk Hotel, In The Aeroplane Over the Sea, the opening line to Holland, 1945: ‘The only girl I’ve ever loved was born with roses in her eyes, but then they buried her alive, one evening, 1945’ and so it goes. If the coast round to Largo was lined with palm trees, this morning, it would have resembled one of those clips that feature on documentaries about extreme weather; the kind where a presenter is blown about in front of flapping palm trees in Florida, the Gulf of Mexico or wherever. Only a few droplets had appeared on my windscreen by the time I had changed to My Maudlin Career by Camera Obscura.

As I sat at roadworks, the cows ran to the corner of the field. I wondered why. I looked around and could see no reason for such expectancy at the gate, yet they waited. The lights turned green and I drove off, but those cows still meant something. Which cow had caused the rush? Which cow did the others trust?

I stayed mobile at work, I did not want to create a squalid zone of concentrated germs around my desk; I would’ve ended up passing on my illness to my neighbours only for them to give me it back. With Wolves by My Latest Novel on the ipod, Pretty in A Panic is my favourite song ever but my affection for some of the others still grows. As the noise grew, my little ipod failed to battle using Wolves, and I changed to The Decline of British Sea Power. Slow progress continued throughout the day and as is often the case, I left with the hope that things would have sorted themselves out for my return, atoms are wonderful like that; they always will always do what’s right, even if it’s not what we want.

Prevention by De Rosa accompanied me as I headed to the pits. Refuelled I headed to Carnegie Hall for the third evening of Tigerfest. Saint Jude’s Infirmary were first on stage. Happy Healthy Lucky Month, their album on SL Records, is a fantastic piece of art. I think they deserve more from the public, they have the credentials but I fear that they are victims of geography. I was happy just to hear Good-bye Jack Vettriano, however, they have more to their arsenal and it was a good 45 minutes. I love The Rosie Taylor Project, I first heard them on Marc Riley’s BBC 6th Music show, night after night, he has great artists on the show but I still think these are the best group he has brought from obscurity to me. Words are important, the way they wrap the music around them rather than bury them is beautiful. They only played one song from This City Draws Maps, which was the wonderful single, Good Café on George Street, so it seems another album is just around the corner – I can only hope.

Audrey sings Nico and Ballboy followed, I meant no disrespect but I left, Treasure Library Canada by Woodpigeon went into the CD player, this was the right way to end my day of music.

Cerebral Subduers of Industrial Quantities

2009-05-09T18:35:00.003+01:00

Galapagos is the vehicle by which Kurt Vonnegut relates evolution to the activities of modern day activities of the developed world. Spread over a million years, Kurt Vonnegut charts how a small band upon the ‘nature cruise of the century’ to the Galapagos become the standard bearers for the human race as their ship, the Bahia de Darwin, becomes a badly-stocked Noah’s Ark. As a financial crisis, world hunger, war and then, disease end human civilization elsewhere, the ship lands upon Santa Rosalia and survivors adapt to their new surroundings.

The master of time, Vonnegut, describes the events of greed, selfishness, misfortune and misjudgment which bring these particular humans together. Our big brains are blamed for the chaos and by the end of the novel, humans have become animal-like as their range of functions have become streamlined to perform only fundamental acts of survival.

The theme of the book is undoubtedly the use of our big brains and the perspective of Vonnegut is priceless. I’ve been influenced greatly by this book over the past few weeks. Assessment of actions, weighting of the importance of events, accepting decisions and discarding small potatoes seems to alleviate stress. A lot of work has gone into this article on Galapagos by a fellow writer. After our big brains have made room for the knowledge of how to survive, there is plenty of space left over, Vonnegut says, and that is where mischief and misdeeds are. Of course, reducing the human life and anatomy to rudimentary tasks and tools is undesirable, as I said before, life is function and art. The goal is to ensure neither are crimes.

Seismologists Predicting the Placid Eruption,

2009-05-07T20:42:00.001+01:00

Proverbs are lazy but wonderful, their basis is in truth. Two come to my mind as I attempt to understand the sporting life: ‘never judge a book by its cover’ and ‘the straw that broke the camel’s back’. I was that book, I was that straw. I have been rather calm since I chose not to become agitated by or waste time on small potatoes. The power of calm was too much for one man. A quiet demeanour can’t always be assumed as that of a weak character. Some people can’t cope with politeness and respect, but a level head can’t be beaten. If one remains measured, they should keep their dignity.

The only stupid question is the one that is never asked.

Fomenters of the Bifurcation of Spirit,

2009-05-04T12:52:00.006+01:00

Dalgety Bay is a commuter town for the wealthy. The Fife Coastal Path may tease some as it weaves inland here and there past some of the largest, most functionalised houses in the Kingdom of Fife. The only thing I envy is the location; the coastal view, the walks, the wildlife in the bay, the woodland and fields.

Two shelducks picked over the mire that was the drained bay, out in the more appealing firth, yachtists less than 100 yards out saw what we could see from the bench on the shore; I did not envy their wind management travails.

St Bridget’s Kirk has stood from the 12th century, when it served the past village of Dalgety, its ruins are at least a notable landmark along the coastal path if not of significance to the masses. The kirk is very small and I imagine a compact band of religion fans glued together strongly and squeezed inside, perhaps that is a cliché. The detail has been washed and worn from the gravestones, I pondered the corallaries of this, raised tombs seem to act as benches for stopping walkers.

The themes of death and community spirit seemed to become more foremost in my mind as the day wore on. I had began the day passive and calm but tales of the paranormal then the two TV programmes I took in of that evening made an impression.

Martin Clunes’ Islands of Britain was amusing but it was mostly an hour of scenery with little depth, he didn’t really investigate island life all that much, apart from telling us all about how he admired the community spirit and the way people helped each other more than on the mainland, this is a given. The most interesting conversation was that Martin held with Stuart Hill, guardian of Forvik, the island, he proclaims now independent from the UK government but still under the subject of the UK monarchy. I find why he would make such a definition between the two baffling. Of course, he is campaigning for the rights of Shetland, and he has chosen to highlight this declaring his own island independent.

Life, Love and Death in a Day was on More 4:

In this Cutting Edge documentary, Sue Bourne tells the story of an ordinary day in modern Britain through the births, marriages and funerals that take place in one city over twenty-four hours.

The pain of the family, and particularly the older brother, who lost a son of only 26 years of age was difficult to watch. The programme doesn’t fill me with the urge to jump up and live every moment to its fullest, it just reminds me of the knowledge that we have to make the best decisions, treat people exactly right at every opportunity and value those who do so.

Quellers of Ruddy Gerontophobia,

2009-05-03T20:28:00.005+01:00

Tigerfest is a collection of May gigs that have been organised over the past few years in Dunfermline, although other appointments are scheduled in Aberdeen and Embra.

The centrepiece of the Dunfermline event is a run of four concerts in Carnegie Hall and limited concession prices of £10 for all four, the musicologist can receive good value if they care for such small potatoes as currency. The great thing about these concerts is that they have quality throughout their billing and I’d like to see some of the acts that are second or third on the bill headline concerts in the Kingdom of Fife. The problem the Kingdom and music have always faced is that they have no place to come together and meet the people, and that they have nobody willing to gamble upon them. I’ve said before that strategic education of the public to whose these great bands are, focussed marketing through internet and radio and effort of the bands themselves to attract a travelling to crowd to bolster the locals who at first will be weary.

Top Fencester, James Yorkston leads the Carnegie Hall dates. What emphasises the quality of the Tigerfest bill is that Saint Jude’s Infirmary (masters of mood, Goodbye Jack Vettriano is a monster) and Rosie Taylor Project (creators of the best Belle & Sebastian song since Belle & Sebastian last sang, Good Café on George Street) are only 4th and 3rd on the Friday night bill. Saturday seems to be a Chemikal Underground special with De Rosa supporting Lord Cut-Glass, with Angil and the Hiddentracks also on the bill.

Hippo are not part of the line-up but Carl Barat is bound for Dunfermline, it’s important that musicologists of the Kingdom attend what they can to demonstrate that we’re worth visiting.

Romancers of Re-arranged Spaces,

2009-05-02T20:31:00.003+01:00

Like a musical study of existentialism, Prevention by De Rosa points in metaphors at the angst of re-assessment.

For their second album on the Chemikal Underground, De Rosa have expanded from three to five members with splendid results. As Scottish rock is tempered with folk and electronica, themes of acting against one’s better judgment are conveyed in poetic lyrics. Martin John Henry’s voice can carry a wonderful range of emotions and supports a range of musical moods; mostly, wistfulness, regret, anger on Prevention.

Nocturne for an Absentee is the song that seems to receive the radio play, a depiction of the difference between day and night for our protagonist, ‘daylight saving me from myself’ suggests a grim life away from the working existence, and sets the mind to ponder the use of time, what fills it and how others may misuse it or struggle to survive it.

In Stillness, a reminder that time is the shadow of our existence, any wise man knows to keep his distance is always timely. The opening verse starts:

I compose
Every centre, every perspective
Any partisan knows
I propose a way of looking
Or a way of looking past this

Thoughtlessness plagues our society and those who can do something, those able-bodied, those healthy enough, focus upon small potatoes with detail that defies sense.

Comparisons with that cheeky scampateer, Malcolm Middleton might be made here and there, particularly on Under the Stairs, an uplifting song that mentions winter and graves, but the subtleties of the percussion and keys plus the quivering vocals set De Rosa apart upon a niche that should be wallowed in by those fed up of small potatoes.

Land Swimmers,

2009-04-30T12:57:00.002+01:00

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,

2009-04-29T17:35:00.007+01:00

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,

2009-04-26T20:15:00.004+01:00

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,

2009-04-26T19:57:00.004+01:00

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,

2009-04-20T21:20:00.002+01:00

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,

2009-04-20T21:05:00.006+01:00

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,

2009-04-12T17:19:00.001+01:00

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,

2009-04-05T21:43:00.004+01:00

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.

Inexorable Tester's of the Marinets Bailiwick,

2009-03-20T21:36:00.003Z

Waste Aware Scotland have bought some airtime during the ad breaks on STV; it features an elephant, urges people to reuse plastic bags and features one of my favourite tunes. This tune is mega, it's perfect for never-ending whistling, it's the theme to The Burbles from Vision On.

As a top East Fife FC neutral, it is interesting to note the growing clamour amongst the fans for the introduction of green technologies at New Bayview stadium.

Fife Council apparently recycles Tetra Pak cartons as part of their blue bin paper recycling collections. I never knew this, I always thought Tetra Pak was too complicated, but who knows what Fife Council do with the stuff we submit to be recycled?

Savants Aware of the Unattainable Probity,

2009-03-18T21:30:00.005Z

In the second instalment of the new series of slipshod biographies, The Bellyaches will be highlighting Linda Smith.

Linda Smith (1958-2006)

Linda Smith was a superb comedian who sadly died of ovarian cancer three years ago. Although Linda was a regular guest panellist on Radio 4 shows, and did appear on television panel shows such as QI, Have I Got News for You and Mock the Week, I always felt her television appearances were too few. I suppose I don’t really need to feature Linda in The Bellyaches because she would have been known to millions through her stand-up shows and her appearances on TV and radio; many articles, lamentably obituaries, can be found easily by using an internet search engine; however, it’s worth taking time to discuss the genre of comedy and someone who excelled within my lifetime.

The comedy does not necessarily need to be made into a performance to be funny; I’ve always valued natural wit, knowledge and respectable opinions, anyone can have these, but comedians who have these are a class apart, Linda did. Being funny with genuine opinions can be classed as satire but I feel that that is quite an overused word and it’s often applied to some very poor comedy. I think I also her understated profile is probably quite endearing too, she never seemed to dominate the panel shows she appeared on but she her words always carried worth.

I gave up on attending stand-up comedy gigs sometime ago, I believed that I no longer turn up at an appointed time and be made to laugh. Comedy is at its best when it is spontaneous, I’m not really interested in someone running though a routine of memorised jokes with punch lines, (there are exceptions to this, for instance, the complexity of some of Stewart Lee’s material, the ‘Joe Pasquale joke’ seems to be the most famous, incidentally, Stewart Lee’s Comedy Vehicle on BBC2 Monday was highly amusing). The best comedians will be amusing in normal conversation, because they have natural wit and opinions, those people suit the panel shows that are the only outlets for comedians on TV and radio today. It seems in modern times, there have been those who have gained success by using observational humour, by appealing to nostalgias, by using surrealist ideas, by being whimsical, by playing with the platform of the medium in which they appear, Linda Smith could do all of these and that was why she appealed to the Radio 4 massive and I.

Linda was also president of the British Humanist Association, humanism seems a bizarre concept to me. The ways of the humanist seem to be right, but I find it sad that society has deteriorated and the behaviour of people has degraded to an extent that a group of people, the humanists, had to club together, take a stance and define a proper set of morals. I admire these humanists but from my uninformed position, I feel that there should never have been the need. I note that I am once again lead back to Vonnegut.

Circuiting Cows of Transition,

2009-03-18T21:14:00.003Z

On a beautiful day like today, falling in love with St. Andrews is easy, I did that once before but today, whilst I enjoyed its façade, I knew that it possessed a cold heart and that admiring tourists were none the wiser.

I enjoyed lunch from a vantage point above the harbour, I could have stayed there all day with a good book, but I was not dressed for the occasion. The temperature was around 288 K and too warm for my woolly jumper and shirt combo.

Every now and again, I do something that I later regret or feel stupid about. Last week, I went for a haircut, not that anyone could tell, I didn’t really want one so I didn’t have much of one. I’m always charged a different price by the same hairdressers so I’ve decided just to pay a standard fee and any excess could be considered ‘a tip’. The price I was charged this time was very small thus ‘the tip’ part ended up being mammoth and I ended up feeling like an arrogant ‘Loadsamoney’ character for a few hours such is my usually shrewd and modest demeanour. Today, I marched into my boss’s office and started babbling, I have always done this from time to time. I don’t know why, I sometimes think that I reach a stage where I burst with the need for someone to help cultivate ideas. My bosses, whoever they may be, have never been in the mood or shared my urgency during these unannounced arrivals and splurges of thoughts. I’m always sent away with an appointment to come back. I wish I didn’t do it, but I guess it is in keeping with my extreme ways.

Competitive Seeders of Cerebral Cedar Forests,

2009-03-13T22:34:00.002Z

As a music lover whose collection begins in the 21st century, it’s perhaps unusual that I take delight when C86-type tunes are played on the radio. I can only give my opinion based on the myth I choose to believe without really knowing if I’m right, however, I think indie music was really indie music in the mid-1980s’. The indie pop of this time has a distinctive sound that I really love. People will always remember The Beatles and The Rolling Stones, but who will remember Felt or The June Brides? Most of my knowledge of the era is based on CD compilations.

There’s nothing like Penelope Tree by Felt on today’s radio. Felt were a huge influence on Belle & Sebastian. I guess Voxtrot are the closest sound to Felt, I based this remark on a comment I found on YouTube, I include it so that I can commend Voxtrot by association.

I was once told directly by a BBC DJ that Wild Beasts were today’s equivalent of The Monochrome Set, but replacing one set of idiosyncrasies with another isn’t enough, now the shine grows dim, change tradition for whim.

In many ways, it’s good that these bands are no longer with us, they’ve left something preserved in time and they haven’t stayed around to ruin the memory unlike Primal Scream. Everyone knows that they peaked in the mid-1980s, all they’ve done since is annoy us with Rolling Stones rip-offs and if there’s any band worth emulating, it’s not Rolling flamin’ Stones (they, of two decent songs: Paint it Black and Get Off of my Cloud (only because Mark and Lard used it on a sketch)).

I recently purchased Way Better Now by Speedmarket Avenue, I was quite taken by the similarities in their music to The Popguns of the mid-1980s indie pop/C86 generation. There is a review in Incendiary Magazine of the album, I disagree with many points.

The lad says that Sirens, the opening song is the best moment, I say let him believe this, it’s a great song, he writes “stirring slow-burner, heavily backed by synthesisers and excellent drumming. The band creates a haunting, fragile sound on this song, and there is an atmosphere about it that brings to mind a lonely walk on a winter’s day.” I think the review is written by someone with a taste for lo-fi music, and whilst I do like lo-fi, I think the mix of songs on this album is its strength and it was a wise choice to build from the sounds of Sirens.

The lad doesn’t like Accidents, the second track because of the ‘nasal whine’ of the second vocalist, I like it but mostly for the brass parts, these put me in mind of The June Brides, although the song may not be as upbeat as anything they’d deliver. He’s not a fan of the single, Way Better Now, but the song grabs attention because it’s a rocker and I like the lyrics, all questions, especially, ‘Is that the moral code you still care about?’, for no reason in particular other than I’m me. Don’t Fall in Love has a bit of the John Shuttleworths about it, although it does have a vocal hook in the line, ‘You’re so sick, you’re soon to die’ that catches me, it’s not that a good song and it fades lazily.

The song I play over and over is Enchanted and Left-wing Indeed, it’s a song about a domineering boyfriend who eventually ends the relationship. I suppose the lyrics could just about be applied to a terrible boss at work or an awful football coach, but things haven’t got that bad for me yet. The Popguns-like style vocals and the retro keyboard intro are the simple but charming features that appeal to me.

The delicate balance of the styles on Speedmarket Avenue's album rekindles the true spirit of indie and keeps me amused and after all, I’m one of the those barometers of quality and taste. I have just remembered Goldrush and their song, Wide Open Sky.

Proles Pouting Their Paranormal Potential,

2009-03-12T21:50:00.003Z

One member of The Bellyaches massive questioned the motivation or the use of the new feature (the conceived biographies), apparently, I am pulling together information that already exists, however, the very fact that I have chosen to should be seen as a commendation of the person in question. We are nothing without people, but people are bandits and intolerable, thus we turn to science and the arts, but they are nothing without people, remarkable people.

If Andrew Collins had never written about Kurt Vonnegut, my life would be less rich. I am enjoying the new Fanfarlo album, Reservoir, they, too, have been enlightened by Vonnegut and that’s more reason to like them. Fanfarlo have written a wonderful song called Harold T. Wilkins or How to Wait for a Very Long Time. I looked up Harold T. Wilkins on this basis; I can only hope to entice people to learn more by composing my new series.

Fanfarlo are fantastic, it’s simple to compare the vocals to those of Talking David Byrne Head or Clap Your Alec Say Ounsworth Yeah or the mini-orchestra compositions to the likes of The Arcade Fire but none of these are as special, Fanfarlo are what pop should be. The musicianship and the ability to arrange numerous instruments (violins, trumpet, mandolin and many more) in these pop symphonies are what should earn acclaim from the mainstream. I’m sure many people have written articles about Fanfarlo but it won’t be enough to crack the thick skulls of those who are routinely served drivel and routinely lap it up.

Marc Riley on 6th Music has lauded the band for a few years now and his favourite tune on Reservoir seems to be Fire Escape, one of the singles, but for me, the standout tune is the other single, the aforementioned Harold T. Wilkins....The Vonnegut-style title is another endearing touch. If Marc Riley did one thing wrong when he had Fanfarlo in session, it was his failure to conduct an show-length discussion of Kurt Vonnegut, they could have continued over onto Radio 5Live to let Gideon Coe have the 6th Music airwaves whilst doing the world a favour by ousting the Twitter twit Bacon. I love the story or what might be the myth of Harold T. Wilkins, he seems a fascinating person. If I were to let that sighting of a weather balloon affect me in such a way, I could be the Kingdom of Fife’s Harold T.

Superintendents of the Esoteric Cabinet,

2009-03-12T12:26:00.011Z

I found a quite exceptional piece in last week's East Fifecestershire Mail and I thought that it was important to share with The Bellyaches readership. Consider the rail link question if so desired but do lament the microcosm recounted by CT, for those buses are microcosms for society. The newspaper deserves praise for publishing this letter in this form, as does CT for its structure and wit, I apologise for the formatting I have adopted at the behest of my host. In our politically correct world, only a member of the public would be allowed to say this, if a politician was to use these words, they'd be pilloried.

Villagers Vaunting the Versifier,

2009-03-08T19:00:00.004Z

In order to compete with Wikipedia in the hit count, I have decided to launch a new series, based on fact, opinions, tall tales, cliques and whispers, biographies of some folk will be offered up in exchange for nothing more than a sloth could offer me. The honour of first member of this exclusive series falls upon Marjory Fleming.

Marjory Fleming (1803-1811)

Marjory Fleming was one the greatest child writers there has ever been. She was born on the 15th of January, 1803 in a house on Kirkcaldy’s High Street, and in her short life of almost 9 years, she wrote diaries and poems which made her something of a legend.

Her diaries, which are now preserved in the National Library of Scotland, were originally an exercise to improve her handwriting and to let her parents in Kirkcaldy know how she was doing whilst she lived in Edinburgh with her cousin, Isabella.

She died in hospital in 1811 suffering from meningitis. She is buried in Abbotshall Kirkyard, Kirkcaldy. Her plain stone of 1811 was replaced by a memorial statue in 1930, the statue reads “the youngest immortal in the world of words”.

Trivia Library provides a 2 page biography, Kirkcaldy Civic Society provides another (close the Adam Smith biography to access the 'Famous Folk' menu). Some further information can be gained from Ray and my rival, Wikipedia. Most crucially, some of her work is available at The Fife Post.

Architects of Pernicious Loopholes,

2009-03-08T17:35:00.003Z

Living in the rarefied surroundings of academia, I can be protected from the world’s ills for a large proportion of the time but the symptoms of the recession are creeping closer to home as a family member stands to lose their job.

A friend who moved away years ago visited me recently, he said that he’ll always be drawn back to the Kingdom of Fife. If such a feeling exists within me, it is for rivers, the sea and the city of Embra. I may never have lived there but I was educated there and even if it is only for a shopping trip, the city sequesters me. The city itself may not be wholly responsible; the train journey probably holds its own pleasures. Unseated MSP Christine May was on the train, hopefully, we will put her back in Holyrood.

To cleanse myself of the long shifts I had been working and also to buy some new footwear, I decided to go back to what I know, that group, Embarrass, suggested such a move. Corporal Jones also suggested that I didn’t panic, so I didn’t.

There, on Princes Street, the extent of the recession and the public’s fears struck me. There was no one else to strike, except the usual plague of chuggers. I am as generous as the next person to fundraisers but I, like most people are, am uncomfortable with signing my life away so I ran, as I was chased. The shops were empty, of course, it was a week day but that’s when I usually go shopping thus I make the comparison with other week days. The shops appeared over-staffed which surprised me too. I wondered what would happen to all these clothes if they were not bought, I wondered what would happen to fashion if the lack of sales caused it to never change. The only store that seemed busy was Marks & Spencers, it was filled with the more elderly sort and perhaps those, like myself, who just could not find the way out.

I would’ve liked to have bought a few jerseys as it is still cold but Spring/Summer 09 is what the shops are selling. There’s a speciality shop for tall people just off Princes Street, I may have to open my own speciality shop – for people of zero per cent body fat who are always cold. My own fashion tastes have changed dramatically over the last few years and the major change is in size, I’ve gone from being a Large to being a Medium and I feel out of sorts when I try to wear one of my archive jumpers. No jerseys were found and my clothes haul read a pair of slim trousers, two t-shirts, a pair of canvas plimsoll-type shoes and two pairs of socks.

I’ve taken to looking in charity shops for books recently, as an extension of this trait, I visited an independent bookstore. Unfortunately, I did not enjoy my visit to this bookstore. The sitcom, Black Books, is quite realistic as I found out. I was only just in the door when I was set upon by the owner, I was not allowed to browse, I was to state my intentions immediately such that I could be processed and dispatched swiftly. I told him what I wanted, he said he showed me the two Kurt Vonnegut books, I said that I’d take one of them. I think then I really angered him by asking if debit cards were accepted, I said I’d go to a cashpoint and return then he charged me more than I would expect to pay for a book in its condition. I should have haggled but I didn’t and I kept the economy moving.

There are many CDs that I’d like to buy but the chance of an early train home kept me from visiting Fopp and I travelled back to Kirkcaldy in carriage devoid of normal life, there was only myself and another, a rotund humanoid that boasted plugs, from which techno music emanated, in its barren head, golden spectacles which suggested a conceited superiority and a foreboding growl which hinted that at any moment I could be eaten and the world would be better for it.

Underworld Sitters Bearing the Brunt of Patience,

2009-03-02T23:40:00.000Z

On and on and on it goes, the world, it just keeps spinning, ‘til I’m dizzy, time to breathe, so close my eyes and start again anew

I don’t know where Willy Mason is but this chorus may forever be his finest moment to my ears. The human body can achieve wonderful things when pushed to its limits, I wonder if I will really ever have to do so; if I want to win the marathon at the London Village 2012 Olympic Games, I would have to: the running part would be simple, enduring England would be harder, I’d have to leave half way through this article to acclimatise.

I may have just gone through the hardest type of work I can in my role, my life was reduced to work and sleep on a 2:1 ratio. I was excommunicated from the calendar. The graveyard shifts went on until my eyes began to fail.

Other people will have life much tougher and work harder than I did, but in some way, it’s reassuring to know that I can bear such workloads. I used to be irked by oranges (satsumas or minneolas) that yielded too many seeds, now I’m just grateful that they can and I enjoy them regardless.

Innocents Belatedly Crunching Peppermints,

2009-03-02T22:54:00.004Z

There will certainly be some fantastic Scottish albums released over 2009. Leading them is Checkmate Savage by The Phantom Band, a fantastic album on the Chemikal Underground label.

I’ve known of The Phantom Band since Throwing Bones was released as a single more than a year ago and I eagerly awaited follow-up work. The album doesn’t disappoint, in a world of over-egged synths and effects, the Phantom Band pitch their sound and incidence just right and blend them perfectly with the rest of your bog-standard stuff (guitars, bass, drums, etc). My stance on the bog-standard instruments is contentious, most probably to those who play them, and most fragile to those who use them well. I’m not a musician, those who learn classical instruments were always blatant to me at school, they’d be whisked away to a musical lesson whilst the rest of us had to endure the remainder of Home Economics or Modern Studies, but in many ways, I should respect the bog-standard instrument wielders more than I do because they quite discretely to me, not to their neighbours, had to learn by themselves at home.

The big songs on this album are The Howling and Folk Song Oblivion. The Howling opens the album, it’s a song that asks, “What’s it all about, Geoff? Is this it, Mary? Is this enough, Hilda?”, and comes to the conclusion that it’s probably up to somebody else to decide, and ultimately, that person can’t be trusted, not even someone called ‘Harold’ or even his Scandinavian friend, ‘Harald’. There’ll be a ghost on the day I die and it’ll probably ask the other members of the synthetic spectre choir in this song to keep things low-key. The song caters for everyone, it has the beats, the lyrics and the scary ghosts are quality.

I’ve often heard musicians interviewed who try to claim that their music is a kind of folk music, I’ve heard them say that punk music was folk music. The Strange Death of Liberal England have a song called ‘Modern Folk Song’, this begins gently before an explosion of towering guitars. I presume that Folk Song Oblivion is The Phantom Band’s view on the notion that folk music is a meaningless tag, in many ways, it does resemble the aforementioned song. I’m not a huge fan of heavy guitars but I do enjoy the bellowing riffs during the chanting verses of this song, the chants themselves could be seen as sending up the tales of travelling in many of the traditional folk songs, ‘I can’t see for the mountain silhouette’ and ‘I left home for an empty space’. The gentler verses exhibit a happy, undulating keyboard rhythm that carries one over grassy hill at the behest of a butterfly giving hot pursuit, on a summer day.

There are a few instrumental songs on the album; Crocodile is easily as good as modern work by Holy Fuck, David Holmes or Explosions in the Sky, however, I would have named it something else because it fails to teach, through rhythm and noise, the ways of the croc.

Island provides a stark contrast to the rest of the album, stripped of most of the keyboards and synths, The Phantom Band almost had to send out for some stools and matching suits to perform this near-ballad number, having said this, it sits well with the rest of the album and demonstrates the band’s ability to diversify and still sound rather good.

If I were to complain, I don’t remember Throwing Bones, the single, having the silly a capella segment in the middle. I’m thankful for the inclusion of Throwing Bones on the album, and grateful that normal service carries on either side of these inane voices.

The Phantom Band won’t thank me for this review. I enjoyed Checkmate Savage, I hope it’s not forgotten, such is the risk taken with a January/February release, when industry idiots compile end of year lists of best releases.

Sustainers of Scoundrels Agog for Meaning,

2009-02-01T17:29:00.004Z

The mind of another is a land that can never be conquered. Intelligent or peace-loving minds will always struggle to comprehend those who make bizarre choices or commit strange crimes.

I’d like to address one such example. The following takes place in a sports hall of a local community school between 1930 and 2030 hrs on a Friday evening. Twelve people are playing an enjoyable game of football when three teenage girls (perhaps aged 14-16 years old) run into the hall and throw an unknown pair of shoes randomly into the hall. Sometime after being told to leave, they return via a fire exit, run towards one of the goals, where the players’ belonging are lying, grab an arbitrary bag but drop it when one of the players makes to retrieve the item and chase them out. Some 5 minutes later, a brick is thrown onto the field. The girls are chased off and then reported to the community school’s staff.

If circumstances were right, this brick could have connected with a player in the right place to kill them. Despite not having to deal with a murder, this incident still poses a serious question. What circumstances could have caused the minds of these three girls to ever think that these actions were ever suitable for the situation they faced?

The argument that youngsters never have anything to do has been put forward many times, this may certainly be the case in many backwater towns, but never, in times of boredom, has hurling a brick into a local sports hall, a facility to provide pastimes, been suggested as a solution. This behaviour suggests illness, or at least it does to a respectable, pacifistic member of society, because no reasonable explanation can ever be given by those who took the destructive course of action to create such an incident.

Jockeys of the Glacial Thoroughfares,

2009-01-30T22:53:00.000Z

The minority SNP government are having trouble in passing their budget through parliament and rather than debating properly and making concessions as a minority government should expect to, they’ve gone public with their strop. The public will never hear the full story or know the extent of the negotiations but using my experience of watching The West Wing, I can draw a frivolous comparison and say that the politicians really have to work hard to achieve a compromise that is the best for the people, Josh Lyman and the cranky old senators always seem to manage it.

Of course, I’m in an unusual position within society so I don’t really experience some of the changes governments make. One clear change I have noticed this winter in the Kingdom of Fife is the lack of attention the SNP council have paid to treating icy roads. I don’t think it should be too difficult to read weather forecasts then incorporate a cautious margin for error in their gritting schedule. The roads this winter have been absolutely atrocious and I believe the change in attitude coincides with the new SNP regime in Fife Council. A few years ago, the council used to treat roads and pavements, these days, we are lucky if they treat a few of the roads. Quite often pedestrians have had to abandon the slippery pavement and walk on the roads because they are marginally less icy, I don’t blame the public for doing so but this introduces further dangers to the roads for drivers.

With the highly publicised prediction of a cold snap, there will be no excuses for poorly treated roads in the coming weeks.

Scraping Spurners Assuaging Ciphers,

2009-01-25T21:52:00.003Z

Everyone is looking for a way to criticise the BBC. As I’ve said before, the BBC has all the best people; from Dick Strawbridge to Janice Long - they are worth paying a license fee for. I think the rest of the media realises this, they’re eager to knock the BBC’s reputation at every opportunity.

The furore over the decision not to broadcast the charity appeal on behalf of the Disasters Emergency Committee to benefit the victims of the conflict in Gaza is another example of the rest of the media attempting to discredit the BBC. Political opinions on the morality of Israel’s behaviour over the past month or so should be ignored when forming an opinion on whether the BBC’s refusal to broadcast any advert. I can not remember any similar broadcast on the BBC for aid to victims of war or natural disasters – the BBC has always stuck rigidly to its programme schedule with no adverts; exceptions are only made for the likes of party political broadcasts. The BBC could have handled the situation better by reminding people of this in their official statement, all this rubbish about impartiality fuelled the debate. The BBC run charity appeals like Comic Relief and spokespeople for charities often appear on news programmes, perhaps the DEC can send a spokesperson onto Breakfast with Bill and Sian, I think the BBC would agree to this, although I guess Tony Benn’s rant on News 24, where he gave out the charity’s address, has already pre-empted this step.

Secondly, would the broadcast of the tape result in any more money being raised and forwarded to civilian victims? Are the people who are currently aggravating and claiming to be upset by the BBC’s decision willing to donate to the charity appeal?

The media should now move on, the DEC have generated more publicity for this appeal than any advert on the television ever could, I wouldn’t be surprised if their PR department deliberately organised this controversy, the media’s contempt for the BBC would have been an easily usable tool.

Passive Agressive Butterflies Shelving Problems,

2009-01-23T22:43:00.003Z

Despite having a list of new CDs literally as long as my arm, I'm always delighted to be recaptured by a song that already exists in my collection. That song is In Other Words by Ben Kweller.

He'll realise the only thing that's real is the kids who kid themselves and the demise of the beautiful.

Vitiating Briefers Dishonouring Mavens,

2009-01-23T22:33:00.002Z

The heady thrust of the new working year catapulted me south. England is a foreign land of strange ways; for me, and most of Scotland, it exists only on the television and we never realise how lucky we are that this is the case.

As part of my project, I have to attend meetings of collaborators every few months, this usually involves presenting my most recent work. I have never feared oral presentations, in fact, this time, I wish I was required to give one; it would have made my time seem more worthwhile. I was only asked to present a poster summarising all past work. I did stress over the poster, printing an A0 size poster is surprisingly expensive; content, size of font, positioning of text and pictures – I deliberated over these for about a week, then I finally sent it to the printers and hoped they’d do a professional job.

We usually fly down to England, but this time, I was given a choice. I chose to take the train; the security checks at the airport are just too stressful when trying to catch a flight. Sometimes shoes have to be removed, sometimes they don’t. Sometimes a belt makes it through the metal screening apparatus, sometimes it doesn’t. I don’t even know what I have to do with a laptop, so I just leave it at home. Then once through, re-packing bags, re-filling pockets and, literally, re-dressing in under minutes is a task too difficult for the Krypton Factor, never mind an airport. Whereas on the train, a kitchen sink is not a problem. Wielding two bags and a poster, I left the wonderful Kingdom of Fife.

The journey to Nottingham was uneventful, all connections, at Embra and Sheffield, were made with time to spare. Leaving in the afternoon, I found the train to be quite empty until Leeds when we collected some teatime commuters, in this particular Virgin train, I was squashed, despite the fact that a normal sized person had chose to sit beside me. We both changed trains at Sheffield and were rid of each other. The final leg was on a desolate local service, it seemed such a waste to run the train at all. Having experienced the roads of this England place, I can’t understand why they leave their trains empty. The railroads seem a bit rickety between Embra and Newcastle but apart from this gripe, I can’t find a reason not to choose rail.

The hotel was reasonably pleasant, a coat hook fell out of the wall under the weight of my jacket, but I can’t be blamed for this brand of workmanship. For unknown reasons, I had a twin room, choosing which of the two beds to sleep could have posed a threat to my sanity had my state of mind not been soothed by the woodland-themed décor. From small acorns, squirrels gain homes.

The meeting didn’t provide a great deal of new insight, I’ve always thought that we have our own niche within the collaboration that doesn’t interfere with the rest and that can’t be interfered with the rest. Only the bolshie nature of one of the collaborations most notorious partners livened the affair, mercifully, one of the collaboration’s most productive partners showed the gumption required to scorn him.

Dinner that evening was held in a hotel bar in a village on the outskirts of the city. The meal was not to my taste, it could only be described as traditional English (pub) food, there was no safe chicken or pasta choice. Eating at such a later hour never suits me and I’ve never believed in cooked vegetables, I’m a man for fresh salad. A carrot cooked is a carrot wasted. We left dinner earlier than the bulk of the party, because we had travelled there by taxi, I had no idea where it actually was, I assumed it was in the city centre and that we could easily find a taxi rank a few hundred yards or so outside. It was soon apparent that we were lost but it then took a while for me to realise that we were actually in a neighbouring village and probably unlikely to find a taxi rank. I’m not particularly comfortable walking about at night, I’m more confident in city centres but I find smaller towns a bit distressing, this is perhaps the opposite of how it should be. I decided that I should go into another hotel bar and ask for directions, the waiter of the empty dining room said that he wasn’t from the area and it was left to a stereotypical barfly to offer some vague pointers towards a bus station. At the bus station, two taxis sat, one sped off but the driver of the other extinguished his recently lit cigarette to take us to the hotel. I asked him about the football on the radio before scampering quickly away after finishing the journey and paying the fare to watch the end of the match. Burnley couldn’t fend off Spurs, their performance was to their credit but their eventual defeat will likely lead to a more competitive final.

The next morning, I planned to walk to the train station. I knew this would take about an hour, but I also knew I would need what Sean Batty would call ‘a weather window’ ( I missed Sean and all the Scottish TV news people, the East Midlands weatherman is too disconnected from meteorology). I thought I had that window but if I did it soon closed; the poster tube began to disintegrate in the rain and decorate my jacket and bags which rubbed against it My thigh began to twinge and ache and I really began to regret my disdain for the practice of taking taxis. I made the train with 1 minute to spare and my hair didn’t go curly as it tends to do when soaked by the rain.

The train journey in daylight is more pleasant than the uneventful journey outward journey. I chose to make three changes, the chance of walk around might have come in useful, however, the walk to the first train station of the days means that such chances now became necessities rather than small pleasures. In daylight, it was possible to see some of the things that England has – swollen rivers ripe for flooding, animals traipsing around waterlogged fields, power stations and quarries. Of course, there are a few other things: the crooked spire of Chesterfield and the bridges across the Tyne. The change at Sheffield station gave me an opportunity to admire their fountains and visit Marks & Spencer; the nimrod at the checkout decided to serve me despite having no change in his till, after a bill of £5.33, I gave him £10 note, so in his haste to speed along the queue, he started dishing out random amounts of change, I received £5.21. I am now 54p happier.

Embra station is coming up shortly, there, I’ll be surrounded by people who sound just like me and I won’t seem so self-conscious anymore. I’ve been gone for two days but it seems like a week. The poster was up for 40 minutes but it feels as if it cost me 2 weeks.

Crushers of the Opinions of the Pusillanimous,

2009-01-01T23:02:00.004Z

Taking in some sunlight and moving the legs around a bit have been the main aims of the last few days. Ever since the policy of only living to the age stipulated in the Belle & Sebastian song was wiped out, I’ve decided to try living for as long as possible.

Yesterday, I escaped along the coastal path from Kirkcaldy to Kinghorn, the house was plagued with zany, misguided adventurers, and more than claustrophobic (this is an accepted if incorrect use of the adjective). The sun was high in the sky, but the walk was not so pleasant. Recent housing developments have increased the apparent height of the cliff and shrouded the path in darkness, particularly as the path is enclosed on one side by an old harbour wall, a harbour that was built in the 1880s but was never used, its appearance gives few clues to its history. I’d like to think that the path could be improved aesthetically, in a vaguely natural manner, in this area, as currently, remaining damp and dingy, the lives of small children are likely to be lost to the muddy puddles.

I always think that New Year’s Day leaves people void of activities, it’s not the same as Christmas, where outlets also closed, but people visit each other throughout the day, or Boxing Day, where people can shop, or New Year’s Day where people live normally until the evening. They resort to nature and as such, the queue to the Lomond Hills was overwhelming. Battalions of people surged up to the summits. East Lomond, the smaller of the two, was the hillock I conquered easily. Geese provided a memorable soundtrack.

Vigilantes Cudgelling Frozen Rockpools,

2008-12-31T21:04:00.003Z

A whole year has passed since I was standing in the street bawling at my neighbours to turn down the noise during New Year’s Day dinner, which for some reason is more important to me than Christmas dinner. New Year’s Eve is for other people, I only like the fireworks. It’s a sad time of year, it’s more about reflection.

This was the year in which we lost my granddad and I attended my first funeral. When we think about who we are and our characteristics, we can attribute most of them to our upbringing. I can thank my granddad for some of my best ones, patience, politeness and measured approach to situations and conversations. On an everyday basis, he’s responsible for my language which cuts a stark contrast to the uncouth nonsense spouted by those all around the town from similar backgrounds. I wonder if subconsciously, he even was responsible for the way, I play football.

Since summer time, I’ve been without an amateur football team, I left one club due to corruption and politics, I did make an audible stance and try to rally support for a moral overhaul but those who stood most to gain from the change I proposed lacked the backbone to act and they’ve been made to suffer. I find myself on the periphery of another team but their training regime is less frequent and less intense, I’m finding it hard to cope with working out physically less.

Academically, I probably answered the question to my project too early, or maybe at the right time, the answer was negative. I was given a side project to prevent me from twiddling my thumbs, I’ve enjoyed this work more than anything so far and I hope that I can develop it into my main project over the final months of my spell. Flux in the research group has seen me try to replace one mentor with another – with chaotic outcomes, but I must say I’m grateful for the liveliness (most of the time). I published a paper too but the process of writing and submitting journal articles left me feeling underwhelmed and disillusioned. I have another article ready to be sent off but it’s out of my hands as to when we simulate launch sequence. The coming year will see me attempt a quick discharge from academia and enter the hunt for employment vacancies

I’ve not become a better person in 2008, I’ve only become a more robust version of the person I was, and this is a result that we might just have to settle for.

Virtuosos Above Ignominious Condemnation,

2008-12-31T18:59:00.006Z

As a year for great walbums, 2008 left me waiting, the problem was not a shortage of good albums but a delay in the arrival of new material from the bands I love.

My favourite singles were as follows:

Desolate Icicle by The Travelling Band: a wonderfully gentle song with beautiful harmonies and percussion that perfects the imagery.

Harold T Wilkins by Fanfarlo: Musically brilliant and about a TV and UFO guru; seems about right for The Bellyaches. Clap Your Hands Say Yeah ploughed this Talking Heads-esque vocal furrow a few years back but they didn’t have the mini-orchestra or subtlety to back it properly. I can’t wait for the album.

What is Not But Could be if by Silver Jews: doleful Americana of the highest quality with a superb, jangly, hillbilly flourish at the chorus.

Turn Tail by Young Knives: leaders of the Twits’n’Guitars genre, the string quartet might just be on hire and House of Lords might actually be a terrible singer but it all fits together well. The stomp and the distortion on the shouting at the end is classic. I could have chosen any of the other Young Knives singles, but one had to make the definitive set.

Slow Parade by Broken Records: I love when a song slows down or stops and then starts back up again, it’s a crafty trick to emphasise the lyrics. It’s a wonderful composition by gifted musicians, like My Latest Novel, they play live note for note perfectly on cue.

I Don’t Know Where to Begin by The Pictish Trail: for so long, he’s been a vital part to the King Creosote machine for ages, it’s nice for him finally to put his work on record and his name on the cover although he’s obviously backed by some of his talented Fence buddies. The fragility and the honesty of his voice is the key to this exceptional song, I can imagine him sitting by the window peering down the garden path and then out to the sea.

Good albums were released by Silver Jews, Pictish Trail, Rosie Taylor Project, Drever, McCusker and Woomble, James Yorkston, Young Knives, Devotchka, Fleet Foxes, Neil Halstead and Colin MacIntyre.

Placid Gurglers on the Doorstep of the Crows,

2008-12-30T20:45:00.002Z

Too much stuff: Christmas and spending in the subsequent days forces an unwanted purge. Rooting through it all makes me realise how lucky I am to own stuff at all.

It’s all so unnecessary; I own loads of clothes yet live in only a small rotation of them. I think I will try to wear more of them. Many people would say “try and wear more of them” but not me, I use the verb ‘to try’ properly.

I split off some of the old clothes for rags. Some, I have packed into backs to take to the Clothes Bank. I will save a few garments to take onto the Antique’s Road Show when it visits the Kingdom of Fife; of course, by then, it might be called ‘Fiona Bruce’s Antiques Road Show’. These days, there’s more of Fiona than there is of the antiques, soon, there will be no antiques at all and it’ll just be ‘The Fiona Show’. Then what will people shout prices at on Sunday evenings?

I shouldn’t know much about 'The Roadshow', as we veterans call it, but I do, and to save my somewhat limited credibility, I’ll say that it’s on whilst I do my marking. Luckily none of my flock have complained about receiving £80 out of 20 on their reports.

Peripatetics of the Ubiquitous Era,

2008-12-29T23:41:00.003Z

Glasgow is the shopping capital of Scotland, I had never been; it’s just too far away (therefore expensive) and I obviously have a slight connection with Embra so I’m always drawn there.

I decided to do Boxing Day sales in Dundee but I never bought any sale items. I don’t buy sales, it’s just the leftover rubbish but I think the need to get in amongst the shops is a relief. The pressure of finding the perfect gift for others is lifted and people are free to waste money on themselves again, hence, chaos ensues, but perhaps I’m being cynical again.

After a day of drudgery, I decided that I would head out into the world again, and to Glasgow on the chance that they might supply me with the clothes of the misshapen giant that I’ve come to think of myself as; no one seems to have my size anywhere else.

I chose to take the train and this would require a change at Haymarket, the online journey planner never alluded to it being so tight. The Fife circle from Kirkcaldy to Edinburgh must be a favourite for the most scenic route in the country; it’s nearly always a pleasure to ride. The queue at the ticket booth stretched onto the street and as the train threatened to depart, the queue all ran at once, with the purchasing of a ticket on board their only hope of departing with this train. Artists had taken the opportunity to set up their canvas on Kinghorn beach, it was a beautiful morning for them, I guess it wasn’t too cold or else they would have just used a camera and went back home for a cuppa.

The connecting train was waiting in Haymarket, I boarded as the doors closed and had to stand all the way to Glasgow Queen’s Street. My first port of call was the tourist information centre where I found a leaflet with a map that was next to no use, I have, however, retained it in the vain hope that it might prove useful the next time I want to climb a munro.

I raided the shops for the usual suspects; cheap, plain things, with no superfluous buttons and zips. The theme was trousers: to replace those that have been lost over the last few months to chemical accidents. By accidents, I mean that my favourite lab partner has spread his corrosive chemicals onto most of the seats in our office, which then go onto react with the backsides of my trousers when I put them in the washing machine. I did try to discuss this with him but he was taking no blame despite his garments having gone a similar way. I bought three new pairs of trousers, a shirt and tie set (not through choice) and a T-shirt.

Buchanan Galleries was quite something for someone from out in the sticks. People float around on criss-crossing escalators – it’s the future. Outside, a crowd gathered to watch some break dancing; such bravery in face of pigeons has to be commended. I finally had to put an end to my spending, I put the foot down, on myself, and headed back to the train station, I had acquired the map just in case I couldn’t find my way back.

After a cup of hot chocolate at Costa, possibly by those demons, Cadbury’s, I was on my way home on the dreary cross-country line. Calamity arose on the connecting train which I joined at Haymarket, it was advertised as the Perth train but it was actually bound for Dundee. I miss these classic Scotrail blunders by using the car to work. The people who actually wanted to go to Perth were due to be lumped onto a bus at Ladybank (two “station stops” after Kirkcaldy), whilst I can only assume that an empty train then headed to Dundee since no one knew the train was for the City of Discovery.

Glasgow may be the place to find things to buy but I need more time in the city to discover its better side. I didn’t exactly feel comfortable in Glasgow, I truly was an alien; my east coast accent was like a fog horn amongst the shoppers, and the place is huge, even for a misshapen giant.

Reporters of Self-conscious Phonetic Experiments,

2008-12-28T21:33:00.003Z

Identification with a book for the purpose of a review can be perceived as shallow or fake however, that’s what could happen unless reviewing no books or several books simultaneously. I chose to read Mother Night by Kurt Vonnegut.

The book is about an American playwright, author and poet, Howard J. Campbell, who was living in Germany during World War II. Hired by the Nazis to broadcast propaganda over the radio, he was then contracted by the Americans as a spy. His messages to the allies were broadcast in codes that took the form of more propaganda. Only a few people ever knew of the work undertaken for the forces of good, whilst nations of millions still harboured hatred for our protagonist.

There are several themes that could be derived from the book but the one that strikes me is the enforced indifference, and subsequent isolation, our protagonist is left with. Campbell has to develop immunity to and enthusiasm for the obscenities broadcasts against the Jews and the West. His attitude to the codes he sends to the Americans is never quite revealed, he perhaps perceives this role as a mundanity, for no obvious pride is felt by Campbell. The ambiguity in his feelings never endears him to one side or the other.

He carries out his chores without passion, as I did towards the end of the working year, I was so run down, I simply went through the motions of working without engaging in it or enjoying the fruits of my labour. When the war was over, Campbell was left listless, his wife had been killed, he was left without a home, he had money, he had lost his will to write and he had no inclination of what his desire should be. He drifted for many years, he did not spend extravagantly, he retreated to a dreary New York flat and he clung desperately to what meagre possessions he had or what came his way, no matter what these possessions were; false friendships or questionable appearances (uniforms, clothing) - for they were something, and in a way, they were small symbols of hope that he could finally care about things, make choices or have wishes.

One of the best songs of the year, I Don’t Know Where to Begin by The Pictish Trail contains the lyric, “My saddest moments are when I feel nothing at all”, and these words somehow parallel the feelings of Howard J. Campbell for me. Was it this novel where the title for a Fanfarlo song came from: You Are One of the Few Outsiders Who Really Understands us? I revelled in the fact that a band I love had bothered to read a book by an author I love - that completes a wonderful cultural threesome.

I have been plagued by indifference this December and I know that I have to write well in the coming months but I won’t meet the same fate as Howard J. Campbell, yet, worryingly, those unidentifiably close, have tried.

Generations of Skilled Cowards,

2008-12-25T23:05:00.000Z

I feel sorry for the employees of Woolworths, Zavvi and other companies about to disappear from our high streets, but in many cases, they are simply the helpless pawns of their superiors’ lack of foresight. The chain stores that meet their demise first will be those that deserve to: I can’t think of a reason why I would visit Woolworths, they just don’t better any other store at the areas in which they believe they specialise – as a general store, supermarkets can now beat them, as a audio/visual stockist, they are limited, as a hardware store, they can be bettered by DIY superstores; they are left to win the pick & mix competition and even this is extortionate.

My hope is independent specialist retailers make a return to the high streets, small stores that can live within their means might be more stable than the national chains that dominate but fail to truly satisfy the customer because they never truly specialise, they never offer a real choice and their salespeople do not really have a passion for the product.

I have no enthusiasm for Christmas, I just don’t know what it means. We all have a day off work at the same time. We spend it together, I try not to complain. I’ve not had much to complain about but at this time, more than at other times of year, there seems to be a rivalry between my parents over whose side of the family is most hospitable. They’re actually remarkably similar, I don’t get drawn but it’s difficult as we head into the second day, Boxing Day, of the conflict.

Poisoned Wives Sanctioning Enunciation,

2008-12-24T22:22:00.004Z

The heron had the docks to itself, with a buoy to perch upon it was the ruler of all it surveyed, when it dared to look.

Herons are one of my favourite types of bird, their regal crests and flexible neck mark them out as special. I was glad to see some sort of bird because the skies of Methil are becoming barren. In order to avoid becoming a couch potato, I embarked on a follow-up walk to Saturday’s sortie in Kirkcaldy; the town perimeter walk. I used to walk the dog around the town regularly, but since he left us, the town has become foreign. In many ways, most of the deterioration I saw incrementally has continued and that’s no shock – it’s the improvements that surprise me. They’re not always improvements, they’re efforts. It’s never complimentary when ‘effort’ is used as a noun.

The new houses encroach upon the River Leven to an extent that nearly all wildlife has disappeared, I saw a buzzard, a long-tailed tit and a woodpigeon. Further downstream, the council are building one of their viewpoints; this will be the most dismal viewpoint I can imagine – under a slowly corroding bridge, across a river that might occasionally be blessed with a swan, a mallard, an eider or a goldeneye, towards the back of a Sainsbury’s.

The town perimeter route that I was acquainted has been altered by East Fife FC’s new training pitch, they’ve turned some of the wasteland next to their stadium into a full size training pitch and it has been fenced off, blocking the route. The improvement to the grass should serve the team well, however, I did wonder if the club would ever develop an all-weather facility that it could rent to the public to increase their income and community involvement.

New building are springing up all around Methil docklands, the future for the area looks brighter than it has but if I was employed in one of the new quayside office blocks today, I wouldn’t have done any work. I’d have stared at the heron.

Adminstrative Managers of Supervisory Cranes,

2008-12-16T22:51:00.003Z

Winter kept me in bed too long again today but I hauled myself into the office for 0900 hrs, shortly after I made a significant breakthrough in my understanding of my recent results, however, now that I can interpret them quite well, it’s too easy and I become bored with the actual application of my theory. These are the pitfalls of nanopot research.

I was not hungry so I passed up on lunch but I eventually succumbed to the need for a break from those nanopots thus I visited Dundee. There were three CDs that I wished to buy, between the ogres of HMV and Zavvi, I managed to buy one of them, Birds by North Sea Radio Orchestra. I have quite a longing for some orchestral music at the minute and rather than dwelling on the recordings of the John Barry Orchestra (and I hate James Bond), I opted for NSRO after enjoying what Gideon Coe has played and their recordings on MyArse. Zavvi was hopeless, HMV was a nightmare – it was so loud, I was blasted with Illers, Stereoffoniks and Leona Louse. The man at the counter was actually interested in my choice, but it was too loud and busy to indulge in a discussion about the North Sea Radio Orchestra, such was my rush to leave, I left him with the impression that I was a man who bought random CDs.

On return to the office, I was confronted with my favourite shouting colleague. Although he is trying to help me, I’d rather have no assistance than assistance at volume. Sometimes, I think that once I’ve nothing else to eat, it’s time to go home and some days, I just don’t feel comfortable there. This was one of those days and I left for the home office at 1630 hrs.

I broke for toast, bacon and MASH. Marc Riley has 65daysofstatic in the studio and they played Radio Protector, one of my favourite records, I’d even go as far as saying it was the Single of the Year in whatever year it was released.

I played football in the late evening. I was super-fit a few months ago and it is difficult to cope with not being as fit now so it always heartens me when I feel that I’m close to what I used to be. Tonight was not the type of game that would ever help me return to full fitness. I was slightly hoping to be asked to play an extra game earlier in the day but I was left on the sidelines, I’ve probably been excommunicated from that squad for 'commanding the game'. I’ll have to think of something else to aid health and fitness, it’s been so long since I’ve needed a bottle of Lucozade.

Facilitators of Vitreous Hips,

2008-12-15T21:30:00.006Z

The day began hesitantly, winter depression meant that I rose 30 minutes after the alarm sounded. Efficiency over Cheerios and tea meant that it was not long before I was scraping ice from my windscreen. It was my least favourite type of windscreen ice – small, hard beads. The temperature wasn’t as low as it has been in previous weeks but even so, the dampness made it feel worse.

A few weeks ago on a Saturday night, I stood outside at -3oC whilst the fire brigade dealt with an explosion caused by my bold colleague in the laboratory. I was putting in some extra hours of a Saturday afternoon doing paperwork and menial maintenance tasks on our vacuum chamber. I was surprised to be joined by anyone on a Saturday, let alone someone who was keen to do some experiments. He went to the lab next door supposedly to recrystallise (purify) some of his new chemical, he even asked me which solvent I would recommend. A while later, I heard a bang, I thought I’d pop next door and see if all was okay; I was confronted with a yellow cloud and billowing black smoke. My colleague declared an evacuation, apparently recrystallisation was impossible and sublimation in a furnace was the fateful method of purification chosen, and although we knew the fire alarm would sound, we tried our best, via a telephone plea, to prevent them paying us a visit. They cordoned off the area, my car keys and jacket were trapped inside the building and I was deployed on point. The fire brigade didn’t know how to deal with the situation in the lab, it was an unknown and new chemical that my colleague had made and as such they had no knowledge of how to neutralise the threat (this was not the acid or alkali they were hoping for). As far as I was concerned, once the yellow cloud and smoke had dispersed, there might have been some powder on surfaces that would have needed wiping up. Eventually, the fire brigade agreed, my bold colleague was then followed to the epicentre by a fireman in a chemical protection suit – he was there to drag my colleague out if any poisonous gas was still present to floor him. The rest of the firemen and I watched from the window to see if he collapsed. It was quite surreal, I can only imagine how I would feel if we were to watch them suffer any ill fate from the other side of a pane of glass. Thankfully, it passed without incident and all that was left over was an investigation by the department.

After the windscreen was clear, I joined what I think of as the ‘Trulli train’. A procession of commuters head to town for 0900hrs, they arrive on time every day, but they drive slowly and frustrate. I’ve named this phenomenon after Jarno Trulli, the one-stopping, heavy full load-carrying F1 driver who holds everyone up. Empirical evidence suggests 5 cars need to be overtaken in order to drive at one’s own pace.

I was a little worried by the prospect of a meeting with my group leader in the afternoon and it weighed on my mind as I ploughed through the mass of analysis that needs to be carried out on my computer. I needn’t have worried; his enthusiasm for our projects is infectious.

Later, I made the mistake of rousing my afore-mentioned colleague to ask him a question about a computer programme. Talking quietly in our studious office is acceptable, shouting is not and I was quite embarrassed as he barracked back obvious information, I began to regret asking and it was plain to see and hear for those around, I lost count of the amount of times I started, ‘Yes, I accept that, but…’ and I wandered off without my question ever being answered, if I did not want to regain the lost peace in the office, I would have adopted more Jeremy Paxman-like tactics. When he left the room, I apologised to everyone else. An hour later, he returned and in the interim, he had been put in his place over the issue I tried to raise with him, it only remained for me to add the final blow by making a cutting remark over his shouting. I was reminded of an excellent song by Grafiti called What is the Problem, this was a Mark & Lard Record of the Week, it features the words, ‘I can’t win ‘cause you shout louder.’

We settled back to equilibrium and parted company for the evening.