Stupot

The Rapha Hypocrisy

2013-02-24T13:49:50Z

So the whole pre racing season chat and comment in the cycling rags was, amongst all the poker faced predictions, about how unaffordable the new Rapha / Sky kit is. Despite an appreciation of quality and considered detailing, journalists err on the side of popular opinion and subtitle a top rating with the drawback of price. If they were being truly honest they would mark it down. The reason they don't? Because they know this is the best cycling kit by a mile. I am not disputing the kit is much more expensive than anything other professional teams are wearing (brand new full set of kit for any pro team will still put you back hundreds of pounds) but here are two things that concern me about:

ILL JUDGED COMPARISONS
Punters make a direct correlation between one product and another, whilst the companies that produce these make very different Ethical choices (using a specific supplier), Design (making something more enjoyable and comfortable to use) and sales (quality control and managing returns). Comparing a burger from your local butcher to one that is frozen and processed, kind of defeats the purpose.

PRICE
People always want a good deal (myself included) and seldomly question the reasons why something retails cheaply. I went through a period 10 years ago when I bought independent brands of clothing. I could afford them because I knew the owner of the shop and he gave a discount. Cheap these were not, however some of the pieces still get used, commented on favourably and are not ready to be binned. What this insight did was make me buy less but better quality: not for fashion or vanity but because I knew the clothes were well put together and would last.

Buy cheap if you want but you'll end up with the same cost!

Apathy, not Independence, is the Worry

2013-02-06T10:46:38Z

It now appears that I am going to vote YES at the impending referendum on Sottish Independence.

I don't think of myself as Nationalist but I've always been an Independent - although not necessarily in the context of National questions (Perhaps like others, the thought has only been in my mind for 5 years - before this I had never considered it). I have no allegiance to one political party and vote differently at local and national levels. I read updates from both sides on the debate of going solo.

]]> As much as any other reason I am being an advocate of the YES group is to elicit discussion: The vast majority of people I ask are pro-Union, but with very little reason. People are scared of change, they are scared of losing Westminster (yet they complain about her all the time), scared of unknowns. Perhaps also, and here's the unfortunate bit, scared of Alex Salmond. More people though, understandably, are unsure. I worry though, that they are not trying hard enough to find out why - the political disease of the twenty first century is surely apathy. A bigger political disease is trying to run the world like we used to. Taking ships to far off lands in the 17th Century and bullying our way in is now a preposterous idea.
Or is it? We are hot on the heels of the most recent and pre Chinese Empire: The United States of America. Not only is this happening to developing countries but also, in 20 years, central Scotland has become a suburb of the Houston (Texas not Renfrew) I visited in 1993. Hanging onto colonial tatters the UK hungers so much for the days back when they ruled the world. Now we are addicted to sitting in dark rooms watching repeats of winning wars and hiding from immigrants who are confused as to why an island of explorers (and exploitation) would be so unwelcoming to others who enjoy stravaigin. Dare I say it but it almost looks like one rule for them and another for us?

Being together is surely stronger than acting alone. That is the Unionist argument and on the face of it, appears undeniable. Except when you look at most other countries in the world. They all do it for themselves - they aren't tied to other cultures. Less is more as they say. It's a bit like if you want to shop at local greengrocer and butcher or if you want an out of town retail park? I've always thought about Scots as being Gaels, Celts. Anglo has always jarred a little, culturally, but like any marriage, opposites attracted. Relationships though, change and these days most progressive rational people see marriage as antiquated and stifling. Trust is not enough if you know the other well enough? Really not? How terribly 18th century of you. The Welsh, Bretons, Irish, Basques, Scots - we're all just a bit different: Small and intrinsically separate. The world and times are changing again. In the same way a certain generation couldn't fathom Bob Dylan and his rawness, things have changed. The world is small and people interlink. Countries have found voices for themselves all over the world. The old Britain, the old UK, has gone. The economy is completely different to what it was, what we produce and sell has changed beyond belief.

FOR SCOTLAND TO BECOME INDEPENDENT WOULD BE COMPLETELY IN KEEPING WITH THE POLITICAL LANDSCAPE OF THE EARLY TWENTY FIRST CENTURY.

Oil revenue does not even come into my argument about becoming self sufficient - it's a volatile 'bonus' and one that a society, ethically, should not be based on. Scotland pays it's own way at the moment within the UK but I also understand how much of the country work in public services. The no voters are scared of tax hikes. I'm scared of society remaining the same. On a very basic level - how can you maintain a high level of public services without taxes? I wonder deep-down if we are scared of generally having to try a bit harder at it all and contributing more - financially or otherwise. I've worked on a few projects recently that were well out of my comfort zone and as hard as they were, I'm aware of having emerged a much stronger and understanding person as a result - if not necessarily financially richer. As a life experience, ultimately, I'd rather have done it than have not. I've taken on learnings and transferred these to other projects. My business is enjoying more growth as a result. If you were to die in a few years (which you will) would you want to continue on the path where so many are undervalued, poor, uneducated whilst we spend billions fighting for fossil fuels or would you rather become empowered and have a fairer society where we develop our future society for ourselves (and sell this to others!). I look about Scotland and Britain at the moment and see lethargy, obesity, apathy, negativity - and I am talking about the workforce.

I am in no doubt that it will cost to reinvent ourselves but I would sooner sell ourselves through intellectual property and technological innovation than the sad victorian theme park clad in Tartan and drowning in Buckfast. I would gladly see pictures on the walls of hotels showing wave power research and computer game stills overtaking those of highlanders and antlers (I am however not against the latter!). I want my society to thrive on the achievement and progress that runs through the people but has been subdued in so many of us for so long. Collectively work towards making a fairer system and find pride that could rid ourselves of the post industrial depression that is, in fact, starting to die. The cost would be financial too. Look at where we are in terms of public services. the capitalist agenda said sell these off and make the country rich - the reality is that everyone drive cars (become more and more segregated) and complain (and rightly so) about the unfairness of rail prices. The parallel universe would see more people using a system that works but is not necessarily as pretty - I'd rather be in that situation than now where board rooms applaud new rolling stock paid for a by few on overpriced tickets whilst the main road in Scotland (it's not quite a motorway yet) is clogged, daily.

I have recently left the big boys bank (HBOS) and joined a mutual for personal banking. My business banking has been at the COOP for a few years, my mortgage with the Nationwide and as much as possible shop at Waitrose and COOP - all of whom are employee owned. My home town voted an independent councillor in the nineties - West Kilbride (pop. 4,500) main street had been in the doledrums since car culture took root around Ayrshire with malls, megastores and retail parks killing the local shoe shop, newsagent, dairy, toy shop, pet shop... the list goes on. The local councillor, along with a band of merry men, women, re-imagined the town into one full of craft studios - populating shops and injecting energy and economy back into the street that had long gone.

So it is naive to presume that this level of reinvention cannot happen at national level? Many locals still oppose change in the village. People universally, don't ever fully unite and older generations will always be wary of the new. What Bob Dylan talked about so succinctly has and will happen forever. That was the attraction. All I know is that whilst my generation had a slow start and a lot to take in, we're now ready to take on this almighty mess and turn the ship around. And it should be our choice.

Almond Croissant - T.E.S.Co

2013-01-11T21:03:28Z

Complexion - In general, a healthy looking specimen
Almond topping - a good amount, nicely browned
Almond centre - a little meagre at the edges but a pass.
Dough - slightly under cooked at the edges

Overall - appearance better than the actual product 5/10

LONG LIVE THE BLOG

2013-01-10T19:49:17Z

My Friend Chris set up this blog when I moved to Japan in 2004. At that time it was a bold move and I still didn't quite understand how my digital character would adapt: A little like how I didn't understand a lot of the art I used to see at Art School degree shows (turns out I didn't need to understand it). Chris also mentioned new and fashionable social networking websites such as Habbo Hotel (still rocking and rolling) which I joined and wandered about the virtual world in, lurking in the corner like a pre pubescent boy unsure of making a move on a girl at the school disco. Except I didn't even know these people: it didn't matter a jot that they were in another computer in another room in another country.

]]> It was popular for people to say that 'you could be anybody on the internet', that 'you could make up a totally separate identity..... no one would know who you are'. Which, to a degree, is completely true. Unfortunately, and equating this with the real world, (which is always quite a useful grounding platform) these are the characteristics of a criminal or deviant.

Pre-facebook (in the days when I used to blog items with more sincerity, length and regularity) my main digital presence was Flickr and, largely through the Urban Sketchers network, I became friends with many many (crucially) positive and talented drawing companions around the world - the proof of which being meeting many of these face to face. Flickr is not without it's unreasonable users though and whilst a debate is probably more useful than simply saying 'nice photo' it depends on what you are debating. These forums and comment strings are often reams of indulgent or lazy posts - echoed across the web.

Whilst the internet provides an incredible source of new information otherwise difficult to source, it also allows an immediate response by anyone. This is, on one level, exemplary democracy - however, what this also does is clog up the virtual world with so much chaff that reasoned debate is, whilst not invisible, very difficult to focus in on. So as everyone has their say, the emptiest tins often still rattle the most. Recently I have subscribed to YES Scotland and Better Together groups to try and help educate myself about the question of Independence. It transpires that this is not the place for education but rather tabloid marketing from each side and comments relating to William Wallace, a flag with a cross on it and tartan paint. When I have tried to make levelled debate, the thread inevitably clogs up with radicalism and poor grammar (not that I am against radicalism or am not subject to using poor English). Frankly though, what did I expect?

The reason I enjoy writing this blog, aside draining my head of slurry, is that you have to make the decision to come here and find it (or you did pre-facebook link), I have considered my words, it is not used as a platform for any specific objective and it is social commentary dictated by my (at the time) 10 year old nephew who I was aware may be reading it. There was also originally comments allowed but there was a problem a while back and this has been disconnected. Which I'm kind of quite glad of. My client in Japan originally found me through this blog and all he had to do was email me to get in touch - which is how one would usually communicate - not shouting in groups but making discreet and individual contact.

As much as the draw of becoming someone else may be, I'm actually pretty happy as I am and I'd rather voice opinion under my real name and treat people with the same respect digitally as I would a stranger the street. Village or rural mentality, after all, dictates that you never know when you might need to call on someone for help - a thought that can would go along way on the digital platform. Karma exists on all levels.

Tiree Automatic 3 Partick Thistle 0

2013-01-02T17:05:26Z

The weather was fairly average when we left Glasgow, for the time of year. With our destination as wild and remote as Tiree there was no-one expecting calm and sunshine though; hiking boots and layers kept us overdressed for what was a quiet International airport but requiring the usual ridiculous security search (I'm tempted to let my trousers drop every time I take off my belt such is my contempt for authority), blast of perfume and hanging about in the ground floor gate which preludes most light aircraft island flights.

]]> It wasn't until we were above Tiree itself and the pilot suddenly accelerated after a cautious descent that we realised that the visibility was quite as bad as it was. When he had said he would 'give it a go' when leaving Glasgow, he really meant it. With what was apparently a ten minute gap in the mist all day, we managed to put the wee SAAB down and were ready to relax.

We spent 4 days walking, sleeping, eating, watching the fire, going to the Co-op for more chocolate and napping. The waves near the Broch at Vaul were particularly dramatic with the noise of them smacking into the, what must have been concave, lower rocks making a tremendous boom. The resultant spray was breathtaking, with the effect on us similar to that of fireworks bursting overhead.

Happy Valley, west of Hynish is another beautiful spot, hemmed in by hillocks on either side with sheep, cows and cormorants the only inhabitants - we witnessed a wonderful sunset accompanied by the soundtrack of pebbles clacking as they were dragged over one another as the tide rushed out as fast as it had rushed in.

Having had a fair share of blue skies alongside the cold, blustery weather inevitably we woke up to a mild, calm mist on our day of departure - which prevented us from seeing a few hundred yards never mind seeing a plane or boarding one. And so, our evening suddenly had Oban and the west coast mainline written all over it. Apart from our final travel disruption (which, let's face it, is part of the winter-island deal) it was an almost perfect start to the New Year, helped by the Jags match we were scheduled to go to having been postponed due to weather.

Almond Croissant - J Sainsbury

2012-10-21T12:00:56Z

Complexion - slightly sallow but a reasonable tan (automatic light correction helps the photo)
Almond topping - pleasingly adequate and nicely browned
Almond centre - a healthy amount of paste without going overboard (it is, contrary to popular belief, possible)
Dough - slightly dry and lets the side down

Overall - A decent effort but obviously mass manufactured 6/10

Laughing at Walls

2012-09-18T16:08:09Z

BRAEMAR - GRANTOWN-ON-SPEY
(the hardest) 46 miles (of my life)

So we realise after three days on the bike that we a) need to stretch before and after cycling and that b) Autumn has arrived. Which is fine as Braemar has a nice wee outdoors shop to pick up hats and gloves. We decide against the detour to Ballater to pick up cycling specific stuff as the staff at BRAEMAR MOUNTAIN SPORTS are so friendly and honest (there was also a sales bucket). They tell us how many proper ascents we have to climb and, crucially, where the best place to stop is. Firstly though we need to stop for good coffee in the village and plumb for TASTE... which is positively avant garde for the Highlands. There is no tartan and no carpet: controversial stuff. The coffee though, is not bad, and we march on our merry way.

]]> We cut off the quiet A road and climb up the first hill north making pronounced changes in landscape and elevation. Having climbed out of Angus and only descended slightly to Braemar, we now climb out again and up a level toward the Lecht. We batter through our morning, enjoying a fast descent to Corgaff and stop, somewhat aptly, at the GOODBRAND & ROSS cafe. It sells tat and looks iffy but the broth, cakes and coffee are all good so we are content. I resist stealing my 2nd espresso cup as ballast wasn't something I was keen to tow.

By this point in the tour we were getting some interested looks and not just due to the smoker - we were getting pretty high, the temperature was dropping, winds gusting and, until a few hours ago were dressed like we were out for a spin on the Costa del Sol. Some helpful customers described the coming pass - "you'll come around the corner and it's like facing a wall" said one. "which way are you going?" ..... "Oooof, well, good luck." said another. It was all quite encouraging.

We hit the wall pretty quickly and a third of the way up I could tell my standard race gearing was ill thought through. Climbing at 20% is pretty hard on a carbon fibre bike - it get harder the heavier you go. Cut to a steel frame and full panniers and it's just ridiculous (the feeling of damaging muscles was very much at the fore). I stop to try and catch my breath as Ross spins up behind me looking like I feel. We batter on and I stop for more breathe and water (it's all I care for at this point) as Ross marches on.

After a few more summits we hit the Lecht rd and we become very exposed: I'm not sure if I'd rather be in one of the high-sided Dutch camper vans that are coming the other way, or on the bike. I soon realise that that is a stupid statement as we are thrown about the road in storm force winds. The main mental note I made of the weather report on leaving was that there was to be very little rain - I knew that there would be a time of day when I'd need a positive driving me on. There turned out to be little rain but by the time we were apexing the Lecht, it was all weather and lots of. Stopping to try and tame my pack-lite jacket in the wind was almost impossible (whilst trying to balance the bike with weak legs), Ross came up behind looking like his soul had left him on the hill. There wasn't much conversation. A mile on I was glad to see the Ski Station but made the call, given conditions, to keep moving whilst we were warm.

The descent was slow but we soon hit Tomintoul and were more than ready for lunch - I stopped at an alright looking place but this time Ross made a good call on heading for an open fire across the square. We got in and proceeded to hang all our clothes on antlers and fire-guards as we sat with a chap who had Altzeimers (I'm not surprised he was confused to share a table with us), and his very friendly carer. The staff and locals at the GLEN AVON HOTEL were chirpy and accommodating - much more so than tourist information next door who wouldn't entertain sheltering our dripping bikes. We got fed and watered and hung about to dry and meet a new sitting of fishermen who had driven north from Yorkshire way: hilarious, friendly guys who knew how to have fun - their week away sounding as if it would involve a lot less purgatory than ours.

Aware we were only three of the 4 climbs down, we got on the undulating road and bobbled along happily until another wall which was so ridiculously steep (20% again) we just laughed our way onto it. Grantown eventually came and, despite the Hostel and suggested pub and restaurant being unsatisfactory, still managed to have a good laugh at our ridiculous day - recounting the internal conversations we had with ourselves on the final climb.

The Devils Elbow

2012-09-18T11:04:51Z

GLEN PROSEN - BRAEMAR
53 miles

When I planned this trip I didn't actually know that there was a significant climb north before the Lecht. Hazy, non-cycling, teenage memories of Braemar and Blairgowrie did nothing to remind me of Glenshee - all I could remember was a ski hire joint in Blairgowrie - and we didn't even go back to visit. Useless!
The snaking around the outcropping Eastern Cairngorms / Angus Glens was enough of an early morning wake up call and the gels were certainly being being broken out today. The overall height not the issue but the constant steep troughs.

]]> We trundled along very quiet roads past haunted castles, cut trees and roadkill until we almost hit the old military road. Unfortunately bridge works (we tried in vain to get through) meant a 5 mile detour but we got on with it and the road wasn't unpleasant running by the burn. The main road itself was not so busy, but this was balanced out by local delivery drivers testing the limits of their white vans (we'd seen one the previous day almost lose it on a corner at high speed). So here is a quick guide to overtaking a bike. 1) Imagine it is you on the bike. 2) give a wide berth - move your whole vehicle to the other side of the road. 3) when you are going to overtake - get on with it. 4) above all else don't try and sneak past on corners - Death guilt is apparently shit to live with.

So anyway - we're making good progress and stop in at Spittal of Glenshee. It turns out that it's an apt name - the place is a shit hole and it's raining. We stop in a living museum that appears to have just been opened after having been locked up for 40 years - I quite like it until I taste the coffee but the open fire blazes up as soon as we sit down which is a rare treat. To keep with stereotypes, the young lad on duty has never been north of here so we can't determine when Ross will get his next nicotine hit. Apparently there is a shop in Braemar - it's all quality information we're receiving.

And so to the Devils Elbow, or Cock, or all the other unsavoury names we were calling it. It's situated in a beautiful Glen is about all I can say that is nice. The inclines using my standard double chainrings were tough with panniers - always ahead of Ross but not through choice - he was back in the smoking ring somewhere - or he would have been had he cigarettes. He pounced on some unsuspecting Europeans halfway up who tried to understand the conflict of cycling and smoking. And so we headed up the mountain, hitting the Glenshee ski centre just before closing time in gale force gusts - a friendly lassie gave us a cheap hit of espresso as we searched for warm descending clothes. Being between seasons we didn't get very far but we'd done the hard work and all we had to do was put everything on we had in our panniers and drop to Braemar. Looking back on our speed though, and remembering the amount of head wind, it is hard to see that the descent was a descent - nonetheless Braemar looked alright - we got our own room after Ross enquired and headed off for scran and Orkney ales at the FIFE ARMS.

Unchartered territory

2012-09-16T18:08:04Z

PITLOCHRY - GLEN PROSEN VILLAGE
52 miles

It was a jolly, coffee and cake, start to our second day at the welcoming CAFE BIBE: the raspberry bakewell was amazing and they were cool about putting another shot in a weak coffee. Oblivious to the weather forecast for the coming few days we dragged ourselves up and over the first climb of the day. This recurring theme is obviously a side-effect of taking quiet B-roads. Like any other modern dilemma, you have to weigh up if the side-effect is worth while to make life more positive. Of course, on roads where sheep out-number motor vehicles, the decision is easy. The road to Kirkmichael was a joy and we rolled down toward the village for more coffee and cake at THE VILLAGE SHOP, eschewing energy bars for the time being.

]]> The temperature was something that had changed though and this would become the main topic of conversation over the next few days as we checked that "it wasn't just us?" Kirkmichael was looking well with its thriving classic car garage (we were to find several of these in clachans as the road led east and north) but we were back on the road and, after a slight wrong turning which only made our loop more circular we were on the back road to Kirriemuir. We dipped south a few miles to take lunch at Alyth and found our best coffee yet - at DIRLIEBANE cafe where we had a home cooked lunch and picked up fresh local sausages and mince for our tea. Remembering an onion and any veg, to accompany our rice and dry sauce would have been inspired.

We plodded on the B roads, stopping for tea by a sheltered field of horses and skirted Kirriemuir before heading north toward Glen Prosen, eventually stumbling into the Hostel at about 7 o'clock. We were met by a tall, slight man with a neckerchief and travelling alone - I mistook him for the warden and he said very little until we left the next morning, his lack of confidence and edginess took him until then to tell me where the warden lived so at least he had done his job of passing on the information. Having made a prior booking and being self propelled I had no thoughts about chasing someone to give them my money - as suspected the cleaner came early and we tried in vain to pay.

Glen Prosen Hostel is a wee cracker and I'd thoroughly recommend it - a homely split level living dining area, bedside lights (smarten up your act SYHA) and excellent showers. There are decent areas to sit outside and a rope swing. And we didn't even explore!

GOING COLD TURKEY

2012-09-16T17:17:31Z

RANNOCH STATION - PITLOCHRY
40 miles

I'd had a brief week after our holiday in Turkey with some late nights and weekend working and so was looking forward to getting away again for some physical excertion and spending some time in a part of the country I (realised last year whilst driving through) have sadly neglected from my travels.

I'd mapped and calculated the route 2 months previously, booked the accomodation and then basically gotten back to a very heavy shift of work. As with 2011, there were last minute adjustments to the bike (at Rannoch Station) and also a reminder of the route on the train up. We were only focussed on the fist day and it was to be a pretty straight forward roll to Pitlochry so we got moving along the lochside and headed toward Kinloch Rannoch past silver birch, fern, the first of many serious (victorian) civil engineering projects and toward lunch. I'd been to the village in my childhood but more recently in June to visit Mr Penman so I was confident the hotel would do alright scran.

The pub at the back was closed so we were ushered in to the Hotel proper with it's tired surroundings, tired music and tired staff. They were actually playing bagpipe laments at lunch time - "the older clientele like it". Amongst sporadic chat the visitors looked like suicide might be an agreeable alternative, the saving grace being a baby's gurgling and a stuffed, ginger badger that Ross had found an affinity with. A young Caribbean guy came in with three 50 somethings. I met him outside when we were packing up as he had come out for a macdoobie. Grenadan's certainly show up locals for friendliness and welcome. On the way out the young staff had suggested that playing popular music would be "a tragedy" so I started singing the Bee Gee's classic as we left them to their 1970's tartan take on tourism.

]]> After lunch we bumped into a friendly retiree who showed interest in the bikes. 15 minutes later we were at his garage looking at a Dawes tourer he was selling. A nice thought but extra baggage was not something we were needing - especially as we had decided to liven up the days route by heading over Schehallion. To be fair, it was the shoulder of the mountain and not particularly high but nonetheless we were happy that it wasn't too much work to get over. Things seemed promising. A lumpy 15 miles later we rode into Pitlochry - a nice old hostel - had a wash and headed out to find a pub and restaurant.

With Turkey still in my mind we went to a Greek / Turkish restaurant I'd noted in June. If you're in Pitlochry - don't bother. good mezze but salad had a acrid flavour and the staff sat around waiting for, well, I don't know - I think they were just used to sitting around woefully. A shame - the chops were not bad but atmosphere, like in Rannoch, left a lot to be desired. I was waiting for a razor blade to accompany the bill rather than dark chocolate or a mint. We solved the problem by going for an ale at the Old Mill and settled in at the bar for a few - happy to be enroute.

Less is Definitely More

2012-09-07T13:29:58Z

I love to travel but I hate airports: which is one reason I enjoy holidaying in Scotland on the bike.
I'm independent, I don't have to speak to many people and no stranger asks me to take my clothes off. If you think that's a bit harsh try watching an elderly man losing his dignity or another being marched off for travelling with a penknife (in the same queue in late 2001 I saw a young woman revealing her disposable razors and being ushered through without question).

]]> It doesn't help when you hate authority. I used to dislike being told that all my liquids need to be in 100ml vessels and must be in one bag only. I have medical complaints that make this difficult and I am definitely not clogging up the NHS by asking for a note like a school child.

Watching people wrestle around pink floral designer suitcases the same height as themselves on matchbox wheels is a ridiculous sight. When we recently travelled to Turkey everyone (Check-in, Hire-car, Hotel) asked with astonishment if that was "all we were travelling with?" I hadn't even considered it a small amount - the last time I travelled for 3 weeks I went with a bag that would fit in an overhead locker. If you are Scottish, travelling to a hot country, you basically only need sun block. And maybe some shorts.

Cycle Touring is a great way of appreciating how much luggage you actually need. In Japan, my local club do food touring. They go to decent Inns where they immediately wash, are given dressing gowns and slippers and then sit down for dinner. They don't take any luggage other than money - this is credit-card-touring proper.

Louis Theroux's documentary on Jimmy Saville stays with me for Jimmy's great insights into life. He was a remarkable man - and one I respect for his drive and confidence in his own ways. The main thing I learned from this was him taking Cruises and talking us through his one pair of pants which he would wash each night in the shower and leaving to dry overnight.

Lightening the load makes you feel less dependent and more free. It's like the opposite of watching a commercial break on Television. So I now see the logic in making people travel with only 100ml of shampoo - It's not about terrorism as such - I see it as being more about not needing.

Nothing To Fear But Fear Itself

2012-08-29T13:30:26Z

The most interesting thing about going on a package holiday to Turkey is watching some people's reaction to telling them it's a 'package holiday'. A lot of people I know go on city breaks and squirm at the thought of someone organising a trip for them by a beach. I was a bit like that until I went to Fuerteventura 10 years ago and had the most relaxing two weeks of my life. Most people who squirm have never done it or found somewhere good enough. From the beginning, it's been a case of finding a good hotel with a company that chucks in flights pretty much for free, entertaining a rep who may or may not give you some handy local hints and then doing what the fuck you want for the rest of the time. We got a hire car thrown into our deal and had a beautiful, small and quiet hotel away from Daily Mail Central that was the middle of Kalkan.

Everyone talked about how bad the driving and roads were: compared to Britain the roads aren't well marked and aren't built up at the side, and sometimes people don't indicate - but apart from that I found drivers to be courteous and relatively slow (the cost of petrol was probably the main factor).

You can be sceptical of people selling you stuff but the 75 year old fisherman who approached us as we were fresh into town, gave us a great deal and a lovely day on the water. I tipped him with a sketch of his boat.

The guys who chat you up on the street to get you into bars are salesmen, but if you give them a chance and chat to them they can be intelligent, interesting people - far more astute, witty and politically knowledgable than their British counterparts. I had a great education about Ataturk by one guy and, wanting the drawing I'd been working on, in the end let me buy my food and beer with ink and paper.

I actually grew to liking these encounters - more than many places I've been (aside Morocco) drawing was commanding great respect and even worked as a currency.

One day we pulled up to a road side eatery in a very local setting and, with no menus or conversation, ordered 'food'. Our trays of goodies, water and bag of bread came imminently and we ate a feast. The lunch service was finishing and chairs were being loaded into a van. We didn't think anything of it until when we went to pay were told there was no charge - this was a pre-wedding party and lunch was on them. Now that's hospitality.

RUM and MUCK on EIGG

2012-07-24T11:37:10Z

We'd never been over to Eigg and despite being quite at home on the Mallaig line I had no idea what awaited us on Eigg - how open or cliffy it was in reality. What mystical beasts lived there. There was a few obvious AWAY GAME friends on the train and at Arisaig more gathered from cars to stow inside the wee Sheerwater vessel that Captain Ronnie would use to take us to our new (temporary) society. Moods were good, expectant, happy to meet all these new interesting people. We nibbled sunflower seeds on the boat and the sun baked us as we drew closer to the island. The nationalities were becoming obvious - it was predominately a Celtic mix of Scots, Welsh and French - the latter being the suave ones with the good skin, cool shades and tartan blankets.

]]> It's useful to have an open view of the part of the island you will inhabit and I had mapped things out in basic form as we took the short walk to the campsite - it looking dry, controlled and with only a few sheepy friends. We got the tents up toot-sweet and dived into the sea to cleanse the week away. It was very cold. But therapeutic.

Excitement ran through everyone on the island and faces local and otherwise became well known quickly. The shore and the walk up to the ceilidh hall was a very scottish sight - silver birch, iris' ready to pop, flowering brambles, buttercups and a lot of fern. Between the ferns and An Sgurr, the big rocky nose on top of the island, it is a very prehistoric looking island. We met up with friends old and new and started to watch some bands. We heard of The Massacre Cave, the local death metal band who were playing due to their being around and also their set being pretty tight. The story of Massacre cave is one which I'm sure Mr Google can answer but I enjoyed hearing it from Mr Creosote who told me it with an appropriately solemn face.

The bonfire burned and we moved from marquee to hall and back again enjoying Pitctish trail and Kid Canaveral into the early hours. The ciders flowed and all was happy. Rum flowed the following day as we started late into an overcast sky. We kept missing the food at the food tent and rumours surrounding the approaching weather front were less than favourable. But the music continued with King Creosote and Django Django complete with matching t-shirts and coconut shells and the peice of percussion associated with half way through the countdown conundrum tune on Channel 4.

Our positive thoughts couldn't keep away the serious weather and we battened down the hatches (read 'flappy zippy bits') for a night of noise and rain. Cosy enough, I was satisfied we couldn't hear the actual wind: that's when you've got to worry proper. Sunday was wet but spirits remained high. We got our roll and coffee in the sanctuary of the tearoom and headed for more tunes. The Peas and Loaf group were magic and the weather abaited for us to have a wee social at the tents. Like refugees we herded toward the boat after a wet breakdown of the gear, bins enroute filled with dead tents.

Arisaig welcomed with warm food and cider and then the sun even came out. A splendid weekend.

Theatre and Theatre

2012-07-01T16:23:55Z

'Big Sven' is a man I have known for a few years. He serves the coffee in a shop I used to frequent and still do occasionally. A gentle giant, like many peers, he is also an artist. I knew he rented off the fishmonger-owner of the coffee shop in a space nearby but I had never really found out much more about his art. I was too slow the last time he had a gathering but I heard enough of the experience to make me hungry for a view and so with luck, I secured the last ticket for last Friday's performance.

]]> Congregating in the semi industrial setting of a back street in Finnieston, the typically Glaswegian summer weather was dripping from our hoods. We met the few fellow audience members under a street light until well after our designated time: the information supplied was very precise about entry and we would not be admitted if we were late. Already acquainted and intrigued, we were given numbers on entry before climbing up the 1940's block, the reek of fish the most memorable part.

Once inside we were welcomed, shown around, given very basic instructions about where we were welcome to roam in the large warehouse floor. There was a bar too where we picked up a drink. The rest we took in ourselves: some form of office / workshop, an old exercise bike, a slight girl up some ladders, an unorthodox band in tails comprising; cello; electric guitar; piano; dj, electrified umbrellas hanging with orange light bulbs, a few candles here and there. There was a butler as well, with what appeared to be an assistant.

It was all quite intriguing and conjured a feeling of uneasiness. Soon music started for real and the girl on the stepladders, who had been completely still, now stared to dance the space, held back by a rope running through a pulley with a few shaped object on the other end. She would occasionally try to run out of her trap but never would. Then the music stopped. The butler smashed a wall bell with an ivory headed stick and the music stopped. "Number 37" he called out. A woman went forward hesitantly and was put in a swivel feet and asked to look into an optometrists implement. The assistant nodded and the butler took her into another space. The audience all looked at one another, eyes wide, cheeky smiles, slightly worried. We had no time to regroup - a man started talking - hunched over with his back to us: a taxi driver reading notes into a small handheld microphone attached to a megaphone. He's smoking, with a reluctant tone telling his story under and other umbrella. He goes on for sometime until the butler breaks his monologue. Another number is called and then the girl starts to dance.........

I'm not going to tell you what was next door - other than it was great, inspiring, exceeded my expectations, made me relaxed, excited, happy to be there. After a while I rejoined the group, out of breath and exhilarated. Coming to the Tramway later in the year - 5 wonderful stars.

'Whatever gets you through the night' at the arches had popped up, visually, around the city for some time - posters in the underground, posters through the middle of town, leading article in the Skinny: it was what people were talking about. The Skinny even talked about rumours that the floor of the arches would be skimmed in real turf. I was looking forward to the show but as son as I walked in and noticed the artificial grass I knew there was an element of loud mouthed, overhyped bullshit about the whole production. As a basic, if you're going to tease: don't let your audience down.

We were given a glow stick on the way in but no programme (they weren't quite ready) although the set had an understated appeal - three small stages with projector screens as back drops, cushion seating for the audience or bus seats (which we opted for).

The show was various tales of Scottish cities at night - relationships, habits, highs and lows. Some were fantastic, some were pretty average. The acting, on a whole, was that overstated, over-confident type. I had to look away a lot, embarrassed. There was a male and female dancers who worked a pole (very well) and also did the whole getting-caught-up-in-a-curtain thing which I didn't see the relevance of. Some of the language was good but a lot of the projected moving imagery had been done before or was just unrefined: the train-spotting chase scene was awful (the actors running on the spot in front of a street scene behind); the old couple dancing on their own would have been much more successful taken at an actual dance.

I enjoyed the comedy in it - Eugene Kelly's chips 'n' cheese was a heroic song, with great choreography of being thrown about a taxi ride and ending in a parody of Jesus Christ Superstar. Ricky Ross sounded great (I'm not traditionally a fan) and the beat boxers were highly skilled. I just wish the other elements had been as accomplished. 2.5 stars.

Dressing up

2012-06-24T21:54:42Z

I hadn't realised that people get dressed up to go to the supermarket.

My flirt with mainstream society happens usually late on a weekday evening, every couple of weeks. I rent a car and go to a supermarket and minimise exposure to public by choosing the time of day least busy. The rest of my existence is biking to work and picking up small food stuffs and my Cycling Weekly magazine from Raj's place down the road. Occasionally, and somewhat reluctantly, I mix with strangers when I take the train to Edinburgh (the reason for travelling through is worth it though).

]]> I went to Silverburn shopping centre in the slight haze of my come down from a hard week and lie-in. I hadn't really considered the time and day as it has been so long since I made the mistake. It was busy. Just as I skirt main streets and opt for back lanes, I made my way for the top of the multi storey car park where there were just a couple of cars and more peace. I took some deep breaths as down below drivers jostled for the disabled or parent and kid parking so as to minimise exercise.

From the other side of the building you look down on a housing estate. The buildings roof is an industrial escape from the over-designed coloured metallic facades. I head for the stairs and make my way down - suddenly becoming overtaken by colours, sounds and brands in an overwhelming sensory rush. It all tires me. I also immediately feel disconnected and slightly ill. I feel people looking at me. Many wear short shirts and shorts despite the chill in the air outside - if you had woken up here, with loss of hearing, you might think it was Houston, Texas. You soon realise it is very certainly Pollok, Glasgow.

I realise I am very judgmental about people. I head to Marks and Spencers food hall and find a lot of Women dressed up with large pieces of gold jewellery and lots of make up and find this quite odd. I am annoyed that I need a pound coin to get a trolley but a friendly young staff member helps me out. I trawl through the aisles and bag a few bargains - there isn't any gluten free bakery products left so I console myself with a bottle of Rum. I speak to a few employees and shoppers who appear as bamboozled by the busy surroundings as I am which helps me keep going. I let an old woman go in front and we have a chat - the middle aged woman behind me is also chatty and we discuss anthropology in a kind of tabloid sort of way. I enjoy the slow pace of my short conversations and the brief camaraderie that is built up. I think I'll enjoy being old.