REAL BLOG, FANTASY LIFE

And so, goodbye to January. To diets, exercise regimes and other assorted promises to self. It's rubbish, isn't it. Be honest. Goodbye to all that. If you read my New Year post, you'll know of my big plans (for January). A tad unrealistic, you say? Very understated of you, I'd say.
Here's my February blogging challenge: GET A GRIP OR EMBRACE FANTASY.  I sense my blog is going to go full on fantasy mode. Let's face it, this has been a strong undercurrent since Day 1. As long as I can maintain a firm boundary between the reality of my life and the blurry, marginal realities of my blog, I'll be fine.

MORE TRUTH THAN SPOOF

It's a relief to be back on my blog. I've been distracted by a Spoof writing website for the past few days. I say distracted. I mean signed up, committed and in cahoots with the most outrageously silly writers I've ever come across. Not one word of logic, meaning or gravity is expressed; not a single author has the slightest notion of what's going on. I like it. It feels like my spiritual home. So, like the back end of a pantomime donkey, my pointless writing pursuits are about to go *rse up. Who knows where my creative spirit will take me? I can write a "news" story for The Spoof about any famous numpty at all, knowing that the final statement will always be: This article is entirely fictitious.
Notes will continue of course, bringing you a true and accurate picture of the day-to-day catastrophic events of my life in Rural Perthshire.

WHAT DO I KNOW?

How many blogs are there on the whole damn interweb? I estimate 35 trillion or billion, or possibly even more than this. I've looked at a few recently. From this limited vantage point, I'd say that all of life (mostly humanoid) is out there in Blogland. You can find a blog on just about anything. No doubt many are informative, life-enhancing, challenging. Acknowledging this, you may think I'd measure  the deeply pointless and intellectually bankrupt nature of my blog against these worthy commentaries. Don't be ridiculous! I'd have to face the sad reality that I am a moron a of monumental proportions and I'm simply not mentally equipped to deal with that. So, my blog will rumble on with characteristically vacuous comment. It's all I know. Even though I know that you know that it reveals that I know nothing.

SPUDS, SWEDES AND SABOTAGE

Perhaps like me, you thought that allotment owners were gentle sorts. Thermos flask, ham sandwiches and The Archers in a derelict shed. But no. Allotment Wars, apparently, are raging across the U.K. As we speak, elderly women and men are devising spiteful and underhand plans to sabotage the work of their green-fingered neighbours. Decapitated tomato plants, poisoned parsnips, waterlogged onions. These are just the preliminary skirmishes. More sophisticated (deranged) attacks feature: digging up a competitor's entire potato crop then planting weeds in its place; firing dirt bombs at competitors as they haul loaded wheelbarrows up a rocky path; informing local press that cannabis plants are rampant on 80% of the plots. Attacks and counter-attacks gather momentum; the old folk break social, moral and statutory laws with audaciously bad attitude. We can't be far off a spate of torched allotment sheds and the mugshots of random grandparents in the national press.
I used to work damn hard on my allotment. I gave it up after my fourteenth disastrous year. Sometimes you have to let go.

ANIMALS IN TARTAN TREWS

What's your position on dressing up pets? Is this a socially acceptable pursuit? Is it ethically questionable? Does the ensuing hilarity for you, the human, justify the abject misery expressed through the eyes of a doggy-style Batman? I've seen quite a few pooches trotting about in Rural Perthshire and looking very comfortable in  tartan trews, cable knit sweaters and See-You Jimmy hats. Perhaps there are a number of attention-seeking critters who genuinely enjoy dressing up. So there's no harm in it, is there? I've also seen a number of dogs-with-owners sporting matching outfits. Clearly this is a completely different issue, and one which needs further scrutiny under Animal Protection and Mental Health legislation.  

 

   

Tartan trews chaps? I don't think so         

WE LOVE BEING BRITS

Apparently, the legacy of Team GB has been much weightier than we thought. Not just the impressive sporting achievements from the toned, lycra-covered people. No. Everyone in the whole world now thinks that we Brits are warm, welcoming and wonderful. This evidence - as far as I can tell - comes from two Polish women, a Spanish couple and an Armenian window-cleaner interviewed (in London) on the news tonight. I say interviewed. Some numpty of a reporter shoved a microphone up the nostrils of these individuals and said 'Are we warm and welcoming here in the U.K?' Some pointers for Mr T.V. Numpty Reporter. Try to remember that open-ended questions are more productive. Have a look at a map of the United Kingdom. See if you can find Wales. Or Up North. Or Scotland. We're all half-cut, miserable gits up here. Send your visitors up. We'll give them a holiday to remember.
Those Games Makers were brilliant though, weren't they?  Who knew we had such downright cheerful sorts walking among us? The happy pills must have worn off by now.

WILL PHOTOGRAPHS ADD VALUE?

I may be about to go visual on my blog. It'a big decision of course. For months now, this has been a purely verbal affair. Adding photographs will alter the dynamic altogether. What pictures will I use? Will I disclose too much information? What criteria will I use to judge whether the addition of a photograph will enhance the text? Being me is utterly exhausting on a day-to-day basis. Deciding whether to have tea or coffee at breakfast provokes an unacceptable level of anxiety every morning. The dilemma of should I/shouldn't I use pictures on 'Notes' - well it's challenging. It's true I do take photos on my travels around Rural Perthshire. I have images of the most unlikely things set in the most unlikely places. Most of these pictures would probably bore or bemuse you. They certainly underwhelm me. I have about as much talent with a camera as I do with basket-weaving. Don't ask. I''m curious though. I'm off to browse my pictorial collection of Scenes and Events in Rural Perthshire. I do remember catching an Outdoor Easy Grade Plank.....

SOME MEN JUST SHOULDN'T

Let's get this straight at the get-go. I'm going to run this by you from the top. From aesthetic, ethical and humanistic viewpoints, the only person, I mean the only person, who should ever wear trunks the size of a stamp is Tom Daley. This surely needs no explanation. It's just the  Law of the Universe. I do have back-up evidence, however, for this assertion, and yes, you're going to hear it. I go to the pool and the 'health suite' to relax and mind my own business. Frankly, I don't need to see middle-aged men pratting about in lycra with huge great bellies flopping out all over and (this is distasteful) builders' bottom syndrome dominating the rear view. Stop it. It's shocking, it's wrong, and it should be illegal. Get dressed. The steam room will be a more pleasant environment without you. Go down the pub for some serious training, and then hang out in your spiritual home and eat burgers. Harsh? I think not.

JUNGIAN PERSPECTIVE IS FAVOURED

Now I'm more your Jungian than your Freudian when it comes to dream analysis, so let's give it a go. Last night, I dreamt I was hitting people over the head with the slack end of a roll of Christmas wrap. Excuse me? It may sound fatuous and pointless to you, but it's my unconscious process so show some respect and let's move on.
Here are my current Jungian-based observations:
Me: embedded, unresolved anger issues about feeling marginalised and misunderstood;  ongoing incandescent rage about the price of a roll of Christmas wrap.
Other: embedded, unresolved feelings of inadequacy; passive-aggressive issues; ongoing self-flagellation for forgetting to buy Auntie Betty's Christmas present.
Dreams - as you know - can be terrifying, perplexing, meaningful. This particular one (I'm calling it Identity and Christmas Wrap Matrix) will no doubt tax me for some days yet. Jungian analysis can't possibly be rushed.

NEVER CLEAR OUT IMPULSIVELY

I've been de-cluttering again. I've cleared out an assortment of home furnishings, a shedload of kitchen items and eighty-five per cent of my summer wardrobe. All recycled; out of my life forever.Without deviation, hesitation or the merest hint of thinking through, I get consumed with a mega-burst of energy and charge about in a frenzy of chaotic activity. The consequences of this behaviour are usually problematic. You may recall my episode of going minimalist which left me without basic furniture. No, apparently I don't learn - thanks for the observation. At least this time, I inadvertently forgot to throw out a sleeping bag, a camping stove and a selection of all-season thermal underwear. There are two tins of beans and some leftover mulled wine in the cupboard. So I'll be comfortable tonight, thanks for asking.

FAT BLOKES IN LYCRA

Competitive International Beer Swilling - mark my words - will be the next big thing. I know this because it is surely only a swift half away from Darts: An Olympic sport. I'm sorry? In what distorted world is chucking a small pointy thing at a board even a viable option to combat chronic boredom? So let's think this through. Six fat blokes (be honest) make the elite team following a series of rigorous selection procedures. They get sponsored by Spud-U-Like, polish up their top of the range miniature weapons (training never stops) and - Go Team GB...er, Darts. The excitement, the tension, just thinking about the intensity of an Olympic battle for Gold....I think I might pass out. Outdoor Darts on Horseback - now there's an option.
 

PASSING BY TRAFFORD CENTRE

You should have heard me on Boxing Day (on passing that monstrocity of retail madness that is the Trafford Centre) ranting on about  "the immorality of those feckless, avaricious airheads" who, THE DAY AFTER THE MOST INTENSIVE STUFF-ACQUIRING ORGY OF THE YEAR, decide that the thing they most need to do on Boxing Day is to go out and BUY MORE STUFF. I was enraged. But here I am again.....lurching in an unsettling personality-disordered way. Confusion/clarity/irrational behaviour. Two days into the New Year and I am totally without direction. I've been pratting about in Rural Perthshire doing a spot of sales shopping. I know. Not Boxing Day, but pretty damn soon after the acquisition of much (useless) stuff. I was restrained. I picked stuff up, I put it down. I picked stuff up again, I stepped away from another retail opportunity. I'm telling you, I was having an almighty struggle with my conscience every time I handed over my credit card. I threw those bags (there were several) into the back of the car and got the hell away from the pretty sparkly things. I sat down with a cup of tea and a jaffa cake, and tried to reflect. "Think on," I said to myself. "Are you feckless? Are you avaricious?" Going to bed tonight with a heavy heart and a bad case of gut-ache. Remind me to get more jaffa cakes.

NEW YEAR: NEW ME

No New Year Resolutions for me. Get to my age and you know full well you're still going to be semi-literate and eating doughnuts for breakfast by the end of the year.
Why so negative? Why such a small-minded, short-sighted, downright half-arsed approach to life? You're right. Four months of ranting in cyberspace and I've learned frack all about myself. So, as I write, I'm forming a plan. If you've read my blog, you'll understand when I say: I've got principles, but if you don't like 'em, I can change 'em. If you're new to my blog: welcome to my world.
2013. The Year of Extraordinary Challenges. Here are January's.
1) Lose two stone
2) Read six books a week
3) Knit two jumpers
4) Walk the Fife Coastal Path
5) Learn Russian
Thirty days. Extraordinary challenges. I'm a changed person. It's all good. I'm off to learn how to knit.