It has been a week of events and I thank Celtic connections for brightening up January in an otherwise dark part of the world. At the Roots Manuva gig last week I came across an acquaintance who had a spare ticket for Bonnie Prince BIlly at the Fruitmarket which would prove to be a much better gig - mainly judged on the energy levels of the main performer. Unfortunately Rodney gave the impression he was having a bad day - or rather, had had a good night, the night before. Domino man Wil Oldham (AKA Bonnie Prince Billy) had the venue in his hands on Sunday night with an incredible vocal performance with fantastic sound quality perhaps aided by the acoustic qualities of the largely bearded crowd.

On the Saturday between I had the enviable task of visiting Glasgow Rangers Football Club, world renowned for its friendly welcome: especially to Celtic, Aberdeen and Hibernian (the latter being the favoured team of my nephew who I escorted). Despite the drudge of Scottish Football, its' terraces are brimming with creative patter. As well as horrific tribalism and hatred. Due to Rangers' current disagreement with Her Majesty's Revenue and Custom Officers, the away fans were coming up with gems such as "Harry Redknapp does your taxes", "Revenue, Revenue... Inland Revenu-e" to the tune of 'let's get physical' and, financial mess aside, the inspired "you live in a shite hole, we live in the capital" (I started questioning my loyalty to my newly adopted team at this point). Rangers new signing Mervan Celik came on to much hilarity at the Govan West stand but the home fans had the last laugh with a 4 -0 final result. We left, glad for the prospect of a walk to warm us up, and me disguised in red, white and blue. Which was totally coincidental.

I just contacted TV licensing to let them know I don't have a TV or watch live TV in my house. And yes, ok, I feel a bit smug.

When I moved back to the flat there was an apologetic cathode ray tube which had been left by a lazy tenant which was promptly given to the charity shop. It didn't fit the decor - I'd rather have been without. There might be little character in today's TV schedule but when it was off it was distinctly characterless - depressingly black and empty - the living room looked cheerier without. I'd just OD'd during my 4 months at chez Megson and was happy to give it up for a bit in any case. I had a short stint on-the-wagon until Niall's ridiculously over-sized flat screen came to stay for 5 months while he worked abroad. It didn't take up as much depth but it took up half the wall when it made itself at home: it's shadow created a small micro-climate. It was fun to have but far too easy to collapse in front of. The TV has now gone and, for the first time in my life, I am a radio, internet and papers kind of a guy. I'm not saying it's forever but, like smoking, I can't say I miss it.

I'm writing a proposal for a series of programmes for the BBC around Independence. I have confidence that it is a worthwhile venture and I'm busy making inroads into the corporation. I am also positive it would help people understand the subject of Scottish Independence more clearly, driven by conversations on the ground, facts and, crucially, with no hidden agenda.

"Do you understand what I mean by security?" he asks after a pause. "ehm, you weren't giving much away" I venture. "Close protection services" he says. "and not locally?" I add. "Abroad". He works security for private sector in Afghanistan. "sounds dangerous," I try. "so, so." "well paid though?" it's the line he's been waiting for - "how much are you on?" I tell him and then he throws in his bounty for a days work - one thousand british pounds. Each day for Four months. "Sounds very dangerous."

He's still looking at me, head slightly to one side. I'm too tired for his intensity and for such a laboured conversation leave him to go back to the table where my colleagues await their drinks.

I met the boys in a lay-by near Gateside. We layered up with gloves and waterproofs and headed towards the quarry. Calum had phoned the day before, still fairly fresh from mineral spotting in Mozambique for the best part of the summer. Terry and Calum have been coming to the hole for 10 years but this was my first outing. I heard a lot about it and it didn't fail to deliver - even as a complete novice, the limestone deposits which had been blown out of the bedrock we littered with fossils and, eventually, with prime mineral deposits.

The weather was slightly drizzly but still, a trait well known within the world of quarry. Looking down on the space it was reminiscent of Blake seven or Doctor Who from the seventies - probably due to them being filmed in similar spots. A dormant JCB sat in the middle of an eerie silence. The guys honed in on a spot and started hammering at the layers exposed by the mining. And I sat and drew as Calum described the place as being a lagoon somewhere near the equator 200,000,000+ years ago in Pangea. That one sentence altered my complete take on the world.

St Peter's seminary lies just north of Cardross, before Helensburgh on the Dumbartonshire coast. The setting is slightly elevated, amidst woods and by a large burn which acts as the soundtrack to an otherwise lifeless space. I knew of the work of Gillespie Kidd and Coia before I knew of their name, my school in Ardrossan being close to St Peter in Chains Church on the south beach. I've since known of them via St Brides in East Kilbride and the BOAC offices in Sauchiehall street, Glasgow.

The lovely Hollie at Folio 14 has published a wee interview with me today on their site.
Many thanks Hollie!

Last week I went up to Forres with work I'm doing with the Art School's Centre for Design Innovation. It's a relatively new project and I'm still fully getting my head around it. After meeting the team and being part of a day designed to look at and understand what the Centre is, we headed to Aviemore where there is a live project on-going with a major tourist attraction. Weather continued to be outstanding, but with it came the huge gusts of winds characteristic of the country.

GLASGOW - ARROCHAR - DUNOON - GLASGOW
105 miles

Today was a lesson in eating.
We've not been on a long ride for a while and although we had stocked up on gels and had had our porridge, we still failed - on an epic scale - to eat nearly enough food. We burned 10,000 calories between us yet all we ate on the ride from Glasgow to Dunoon was 4 gels each, 2 coffees and a piece of shortbread/ fruit slice. You don't have to be the nutritionist for Team GB to work out that does not equate to the required amount.

We had a pint next door as the queue retreated - only to find another one inside, formed by committee members, to ensure a civilised experience at the bar. It was slow and odd but we managed to get out of it as the support act were finishing behind us. We viewed the great plains of Arizona, painted all around us as the main attraction came out (John Hopkins and King Creosote). It started slowly but beautifully with some great tunes from Diamond Mine before lapsing into some older pieces (accompanied by more fence collective) - occasionally sung in harmony with a loud, unstable and relentless drunk in the audience - not a lot of fun but the King was disparaging if polite which had a calming effect. This was added to by a communal shooshing which calmed things down. A seagull and seal impression were thrown in for good measure. Finishing with Sinead O'Connor's nothing compares to you was a stroke of genius which Laura was fast to guess. The next long queue - to get signed records - was well worth it. All hail the king.

I know one person in Japan called Akiyoshi Takamura. I also know he's a keen cyclist. I also know how he writes English - we communicate by email for work. I dropped him a line the next day and sure enough - It's a very small world.

They're filming a zombie blockbuster in Glasgow just now - it's good fun. 'American' Cops queue in the local bakery for their lunch and street signs have been changed to names like 'J F Kennedy Boulevard'. The traffic lights have even become yellow to mimic Philly. Reputedly, the joke in nearby Edinburgh is that there's little difference between the zombies having temporarily taken over and normal life here. There's a good vibe about 'George Square' and locals and tourists alike try to get a glimpse of Brad Pitt, the star in World War Z. I was meeting my Dad for lunch at Jamie Oliver's place so squeezed out a quick drawing of the 'Snappers' as I waited who seemed, like meerkats up their ladders, to be equally vying for his mugshot.

The TV I was in custody of has been taken away. It was really big - a real luxury - but I'm happy that it's been taken away. I'm not saying "that's it" but I'm enjoying relative tranquility and I'm reading more. The news on TV was killing me - the BBC have gone off the rails and even C4 had someone outside the family home of last weeks Shark victim. It doesn't get much more tragic than that (and I'm not talking about the shark). I read news both from a laptop and from my mobile but neither are quite the experience of a newspaper. Plus the fact you can't take a laptop into the bath (you still have to be careful you don't end up with papiér-maché from the newspaper). In the same way FaceTime and Skype are fantastic, they don't substitute for the intricacies involved in human contact.

At the moment I read a lot of the Independent which I find less like a send-up of what the Modern Parents in the Viz would read than the Guardian. I actually like the writing in the Times. Shame it's not owned by Arseholes. My parents were habitual Herald readers until, like most people, they realised it was shit. I used to browse it, none-the-less, as a teenager when I used to also do a paper round and got to know the other papers too. My round was in a pretty well-off part of town so it was mainly Times, Guardian, Herald but a few Scotsmans, Mails and even a Sun made its way in. As a teenager, and on the move, page three and sport was probably about all I had time to read in between snacking, running away from dogs and falling on my arse from black ice.

I go in and out of reading the news (it gets too depressing) but, when we look back, 2011 has had a lot of catalysts for positive change - be it the obvious Arab Spring or the less obvious London Riots. I know that whatever is happening, I'd rather absorb it through paper than perspex.

After a spot of work in Aberfeldy I drove to nearby Kenmore and, as surreptitiously as possibly, changed in the car before heading out for a few miles on the pusher. I reckon it's hard to find a bad road in Perthshire but against my usual instinct I asked a local about the best ones. The Glen Quaich road was suggested and duly sampled - I'd been aware of it signposted on the drive from Crieff so I knew two thirds of the route already. It was a peach - although with climbs not for the faint hearted. Literally. I think it could bring on a coronary if not lung collapse. The only problem I encountered was the lack of warm-up, going straight up intensely steep stretches which were so steep the front wheel was lifting if I remained seated. The plus-side was that I knew it would top-out soon and that it was relative flat or downhill left. It really drops off hard down to the glen floor with one or two extremely tight hairpins (with much rubber visible on the tarmac). There was more 'flat' than I had anticipated on the way to Aberfeldy on the A822 but it's a fun descent and bonny ride back to Kenmore. Must spend more time up there.......

I had taken the train to Edinburgh, as I always do, earlier in the week but had then decided to take the bus after flooding had reduced the Scotrail timetable. The bus is novel for me, and it has an added bonus of being a cheaper option. Obviously you get what you pay for in terms of space and promptness. With Saturday going nowhere I decided this time to take my own wheels to the capital. I had woken to the blood curdling sound of the sash and was put in a bad mood immediately. On the way through town I had to bunny hop my way around several Marches which were draining the emergency services but amusing tourists. Ross' brunch was a good start and my carbohydrate juice I glugged prior to departure set me up for the first hour.

The overcast, human-occupied, central belt of Scotland is a fairly unappealing place: the countryside is readily available and calming but the old mill, mine and lace towns, their cottages now converted to mind-numbing establishments with growling, red-faced and pot bellied males standing outside smoking do little to endear you to them. After a traditional pie and yum yum in Bathgate, I put the head down and rolled into Edinburgh in 2 hours and 16 minutes, dripping with sweat in an average speed of 20mph. Edinburgh was sunny and throbbing with smiling activity - I was glad that I had changed the outlook of my day. Two protein bars and a shower and I was back to normal.