Fire

On the way home from the cinema tonight I saw a flickering orange light in the distance, silhouetting the distinctive towers of Donaldson's School for the Deaf over by Haymarket (where I once did a photo project back in my college days). Since Donaldson's is one of the few large buildings not lit up at night in Edinburgh it didn't take me long to realise the reason I could see the towers after nightfall must be because that glow must be from a fire behind the school. And from the size of Donaldson's I'm guessing it must be a fairly big damned fire to illuminate it light that.


(fire at or near Donaldson's School for the Deaf, Edinburgh - larger versions on the Woolamaloo Gazette Flickr set)

Too early for anything to be on the Scottish news yet and I have no idea from this distance if it was just a huge bonfire nearby (but who has a big bonfire just a few weeks before Guy Fawkes Night??) or an accidental conflagration, but I clambered up onto the wall near me, stuck the camera on the mini tripod stashed in my bag and snapped a couple of pictures - sorry, they are a bit blurred but it is impossible to focus when all the viewfinder shows is mostly black, so I had to just point it in the right direction, set the lens on night shot and let it go (I decided the subject matter outweighed the poor quality of the pics). Still, despite being a bit out of focus if there is a story here then I can say the Woolamaloo Gazette scooped it first! I do hope that it isn't something in the actual school though; it is a rare institution that helps a heck of a lot of hearing impaired kids and the day I spent doing my photo project there back at college was a great day, the kids being so friendly to this big old dumbo who couldn't even sign properly (yup, I was the odd one out there that day because I couldn't lip read or use sign language, so in effect I was the one with impaired senses).

Doors Open Day

Tomorrow (Saturday 29th) is the annual Doors Open Day for Edinburgh, when people can get into buildings and areas of buildings that aren't normally open to the public. It's pretty interesting and also free so accessible to anyone - certainly every place we tried last year proved to be pretty busy with folks making the most of the opportunity. The Cockburn Association has all the details and there is also a Flickr stream for last year's Door's Open, which, I'm rather chuffed to say, also has one of the photos I took on it after the organisers asked if they could use it to help promote the event - hopefully I can get some more pics tomorrow with the new camera this time. I'm looking forward to wandering round with some friends poking into parts of my city that I don't often get to see.

Looney Tunes Bishop - condoms are deliberately infected with HIV

There has been a huge amount of highly dangerous bullshit from the Catholic church, especially in the developing world, over the use of condoms to try and stem the high levels of HIV infections. Despite the vast numbers of people infected they continue not only to oppose the use of prophylactics but stories abound of certain church groups and even charities doing their best to stop locals using them, knowing full well that it will fuel further infection, because of fixed views on birth control laid down by a bunch of eejits in a male-only club who never have sex themselves (except sometimes with young altar boys, of course). Now Archbishop Francisco Chimoio, head of the Catholic church in Mozambique is claiming that condoms shouldn't be used because certain un-named European countries deliberately infect some condoms with the HIV virus to wipe out Africans. No, I'm not joking, that's what this crazy fuckwit actually said.

Africans are doing a pretty good job in spreading the infection without any conspiracy theory like this being used, an infection rate boosted by the retarded stance of the (supposedly) celibate male priests of the church, yet here is this hypocritical bugger claiming it is the fault of shady, un-named countries. So he gets to scare people into doing what he wants them to do, knowing full well that he is leaving them exposed to a greater likelihood of infection as a result and manages to blame someone else at the same time and pretend he's doing the Lord's Will, so it is all okay then. Almost Machiavellian in one aspect, atrocious, irresponsible and diabolically irresponsible in all other aspects. Then again if you follow rules on sexual matters from a bunch of celibate old men who are mortally terrified of women then you're a fucking idiot and probably too stupid to live, so go ahead, follow his advice and end up winning yourself a Darwin award.

Following the Biblical rules

Kevin Kelly has some of a Newsweek interview with a man who spent a year trying to follow some seven hundred rules he found in the Bible. I've made the contempt I feel for organised religion in general and those shagwits who persist in applying literal belief to scriptures in particular many times, but this was still pretty interesting stuff. (link via Boing Boing)

Blogland

I quite like these Blogland animations you can find on YouTube:

Marceau

The world's most famous mime artist (admittedly that isn't exactly a field blossoming with well-kent names) Marcel Marceau has died at the age of 84. Or has he? How can you tell with an expert mime? What if he is just miming rigor mortis? I mean, he was (or is) really good, so what if it just a gag? Admittedly my main memories of Marceau are Kenny Everett taking the piss out of him with his mime sketches and Marcel's own appearance in Mel Brook's Silent Movie (where he is the only character who speaks, just one word, 'non').

Painting on walls

I came across this very interesting animation via Meathaus - the medium of the animation is different from the great Prague alchemist of film Jan Svankmajer but the look and style of it reminds me very much of some of his early short works.

Stephen Fry blogs

UK national treasure Stephen Fry has started blogging, his first post on a subject he shared with his friend the late Douglas Adams, his love of gadgetry (link via Richard's Fictions)

Atonement

Caught a couple of extremely good movies this weekend; last night Mel and I went to see Atonement, adapted from Ian McEwan's 'unfilmable' novel, which means it arrives with the burden of being an adaptation of a highly respected work of literature. It lived up to the challenge exceedingly well, deftly moving from different character's perspectives and times, from the heavy stillness of a warm, summer day in the country to the chaos of the Dunkirk evacuation, yet rarely confusing the audience despite the multi-perspective, non-linear narrative. The use of colour, perspective, music and sound is fascinating right from the start, from the staccato of a typewriters leading into the rhythm of the music to the sound of a bee trapped by a window leading out to a scene which is seen from several viewpoints around a fountain (water motifs repeat throughout). Intriguing story, very good performances (especially Keira Knightly and James McAvoy, Kiera looking at home in those 40s fashions) and a beautifully crafted film which has obviously had a lot of attention and love paid on it.



Also caught a film I have been waiting for, 3:10 to Yuma (a remake of a movie from the Western's heyday in the 50s) with Christian Bale, Russell Crowe and Peter Fonda. I have to confess that like many wee boys who grew up to be big kids I still have a soft spot for a good Western; it's a once all dominating genre which has faded away into the sunset like many of its stars did at the climax of their movies years ago. In the last couple of decades there haven't been many, although we have had a handful from the highly enjoyable like Tombstone (silly but great, especially Kilmer's Doc Holliday) to the superb like Unforgiven (a brilliant distillation of years of Western films into a dark, brooding masterpiece) and the quirky, odd gems like Dead Man and The Proposition.



Now we have 3:10 to Yuma, with a Jesse James Western starring Brad Pitt on the way in a few months too. I may have to dust off my cowboy boots. The movie itself doesn't try to re-invent the wheel - the Civil War former soldier turned farmer trying to struggle to provide for his family, the corrupt local landowner, the outlaw gang, the contrast between honesty and crime and how they Won the West, all well worn grooves in the genre and Crowe's violent nutter who may - or may not - have a latent streak of decency and Bale playing a troubled hero aren't new either. But damn, it is a good Western. Oh, and it had Alan Tudyk from Joss Whedon's brilliant Firefly/Serenity in it too, never a bad thing.

The turning of the seasons



Some leaves are clinging to their lush greenery, aided by the bursts of almost summer-like warmth, while some have already begun to dry and turn red and gold. In Mel's garden some late bloom roses have come out after we trimmed the plants back earlier in the year and some final insects are buzzing round the flowers in the sudden warmth before winter arrives, while the berries hang on the bushes. Walking home the long, red twilight stretches long, thin shadows, skies blue, wispy clouds tinged salmon pink. The wind rustles in the branches and with each little breath more leaves fall to join their cousins in little piles on the ground or to float along the canal alongside the ducks and swans. When the autumn moon rises it is a huge, harvest moon, glowing brightly in a purple-black sky, the stars changing their tempo to their winter configuration. Each warm day now is a gift; you wonder if it will be the last one before the inevitable slide into the long, dark winter.

National motto

Should the UK have a national motto? Since this idea of Gordon Brown's was first floated the Prime Eejit has distanced himself, saying that this wasn't actually his intent. Frankly I go with the Jim Hacker rule - when a politician denies something like this it normally means it is true. It seems a curiously old-fashioned idea which belongs to times past when governments and other institutions - education, religion, the monarchy, even the arts - tried their best to create a single idea of national unity. It was cobblers then, a pure fiction and one that would be badly misused too often (such as being used as a rallying point for the slaughter of the Great War, which is, ironically, when a lot of people really started to see it for the insidious nonsense that it is). To try and forge some sort of national identity in this day of multi-cultural societies, international travel and trans-border culture and communication seems simply stupid and as archaic as John Major's famously daft speech extolling a Britain of cricket on the village green and old ladies cycling to Evensong services at the parish church.

Still, no reason we can't have a little fun with the idea, though, is it? America has 'In God We Trust', which is actually fairly recent (only brought in during the 50s) and still controversial since church and state are supposed to be strictly seperate. Not to mention the fact they have ended up with mentally defective retard monkeys like George Dubyah Bush and Ronald Reagan being in charge of the country gives you the inkling that such trust in god may be misplaced... France has 'liberty, egality, fraternity' (unless you're an immigrant from the former colonies in which case it is 'fuck off and live in squalor in a crap overspill development'). But what motto would suit a United Kingdom which has parts which would rather be the Untied Kingdom (apologies to my mate James Lovegrove for borrowing a title from one of his excellent novels, I'm sure he'll forgive me using it)? Here are a few of my ideas, feel free to make your own suggestions:

Britain - please queue here

(this emphasises on of our great national characteristics and at the same time serves to educate those damned foreigners like Italians who seem to have no concept of queueing much to the fury of Britons when they walk in front of us at a big line. Although we are too polite to tell them off for it, preferring to mumble in low tones to our queueing neighbours)

Always Look on the Bright Side of Life

(uplifting and inspiring in hard times and a reminder of one of our great cultural gifts to the world)

Nice weather for ducks

(we probably should have a motto that reflects our national obsession with weather. Others don't understand why we have this obsession, but it is simply because we have so much endlessly changing weather, sometimes having sunshine, rain, hail and snow within the same afternoon)

Full up

(one for the xenophobic Daily Mail readers to enjoy waving in front of the immigrant population)

Watch what you say or we'll invade you next

(what a lot of right wing numpties would love)

Britain - now available in HiDef

(perhaps we need one which celebrates our technological achievements)

Britain - Press red button for more information

(for our cabled up digital age)

Five a day!

(to help boost the UK's health)

I think I'll stick to our own Scottish national motto as seen above the gates to Edinburgh Castle: nemo me impune lacessit, roughly translated as no-one touches me with impunity or, as would be more the case these days, we're friendly folks but don't piss us or you're for a kickin'.

Oh, those pesky immigrants!

The chief constable of Cambridgeshire has made a very public case for lots of immigration to the area causing problems for her police force. She made special mention of foreign workers and the carrying of knives and drink driving and how they didn't meet British expectations in this regard. Hmmm, judging by the crime stats for actual citizens if immigrants are drink driving and carrying blade weapons then they are doing their best to blend into the British modern way of life... Seriously though, she may have some points (translation costs and time being an obvious one) but the way she presented this to the eager media made it like some bloody Daily Mail rant about 'damned foreigners'. Isn't this something she should be discussing with relevant authorities and not making press conferences about, especially given the continual xenophobia we have in our tabloid press and the general move to blame everything on immigrants.

I always find it funny when British people talk about immigrants, since we spent the previous two centuries taking over a full quarter of the world and running the biggest Empire in history, settling ourselves wherever we damned well pleased. And we're not the best at blending in when we go abroad today, are we? Most Brits don't even learn how to say so much as 'please' and 'thank you' in the local language when they go abroad, but we are good at shouting loudly in English to make ourselves more understood... Really, considering our history we have no real grounds to go on about other people coming over as immigrants...

Avast me proud beauties!

'Tis International Talk Like a Pirate Day, a day given over to lubbers to shiver their timbers, waggle their cutlasses and drink cheap rum while swooning some comely Caribbean wenches, yar. Mind you, with the old bandana and earing most days people assume I am a pirate anyway (especially when combined with the old pirate shirts) so it isn't that big a day for me :-) Certainly my mate's wee boys are convinced I'm a pirate and I don't like to disappoint the kids. Besides they will only be gullible enough for this for a short span of their lives so I want to make the most of it before they grow out of it and I am no longer cool Pirate Uncle Joe of the Quantum Pig's Revenge. And in honours of International Talk Like a Pirate Day here's a suitable LOLcat:



However in the interests of accuracy I should once more point out that I am more of a buccaneer than a pirate. There isn't that big a difference, it's just that buccaneers are cooler and we swashbuckle better. And I do like to give my buckle a damned good swashing; I blame those Dougie Fairbanks and Errol Flynn movies...

Secret service spied on Scottish politicians

A long standing rumour that MI5 and Special Branch spooks spied on members of the Scottish National Party in the 1950s appears not to be paranoia but fact according to documents discussed in Scotland on Sunday today. Perfectly legal political parties and democratically elected representatives of the people seem to be fair game for these shadowy bastards - and we're not talking about intelligence services keeping an eye on extreme parties such as the BNP with many potential hidden links to secret agendas or links to even less savoury (and illegal) sub groups but to a party following a publicly espoused campaign to move for encouraging Scottish independence. Given the intelligence services also spied on Labour ministers and even the prime minister in the 60s and 70s it illustrates how much of a law unto themselves such groups can often be, how little real oversight there is from parliamentary committees and just why we should oppose the present government who want to use Fear to make us agree to an ever expanding range of new powers for them 'to make us safer'.

And given the SNP recently humiliated Labour in its heartland of Scotland to take control of the Scottish parliament this must be even more humiliating for the government, especially since there are still rumours of dirty tricks and spying to this day. Of course, such rumours are rubbished as paranoid conspiracy theory nonsense by Westminster government spokespersons, but since that's what they said of the 50s dirty tricks ops against the SNP who the hell believes a word that comes out of their mouths? As they used to say in the X-Files, "trust no-one"

Colin McCrae

It seems that early reports involving a helicopter crash in Lanarkshire, Scotland, have been pretty much confirmed and it looks like rally champion Colin McRae has been killed; worse still along with a friend there were two wee boys on board, his friend's son and his own wee lad. What a shocker, like the time the legendary Mike Hailwood died in an ordinary car crash after all those dangerous motor sports competitions.

It's a Wonderful Life

Am I the only one who, while watching panicked customers trying to remove their life savings from troubled mortgage lender Northern Rock, keep flashing back to Frank Capra's It's a Wonderful Life and that scene of Jimmy Stewart pleading with investors - I can't give you your money, it isn't here, it's in Frank's house and Joe's house...

I do like the fact that the government, financial regulators, Bank of England and Northern Rock all insist there is no problem. Perhaps they are right in their assertion it is a liquidity problem and they needed some quick cash to keep things ticking over, but getting a multi-million pound handout from the Bank of England to a major mortgage supplier does mean there is a problem of some sort. Still, since the Bank of England is feeling so generous why not bung me a few grand to help me pay my mortgage, eh? After all you are the scunners who have raised rates several times in one year and made it so much harder for me and hundreds of thousands of others to try keeping up with their bills, not that the pinstripe suit-wearing, overpaid twats on the B of E board give a damn about how their decisions affect ordinary people, do they? By coincidence my annual mortgage statement came in as this news was breaking and it was so depressing to look at it and see it jump up almost every second month for the whole year - bastards and their endless rate rises fucking with people's lives, utterly unaccountable to the people for the actions they take which can have terrible effects on them all.

Sometimes I dream of torture devices linked to the financial markets and tying those scunners into it - the more rates go up the more pain is inflicted on them. Anyone want to help me develop this idea?

Moments of transitory beauty

On the way to work, a glorious, almost perfect Scottish autumn morning; the sun is lower in the horizon and its light now stretched out to deeper, warmer tones than the harsher light of summer - we've entered the Golden Time. Our location north of the edge of Europe means our weather and climate isn't always the nicest but it also means we are at the curve of the Earth to see the sun tilt further as the seasons pass us, from the height of summer to the low arc of the sun's brief appearance in winter. At this time of year, when we are lucky enough to have a clear day, it means the sunlight becomes the most glorious golden-copper hue; against the older buildings constructed of great blocks of native stone rather than mere bricks it looks magnificent.

It looks even more beautiful against our nation's natural beauty (and regardless of weather one thing Scotland has in abundance is astonishing natural beauty), the warm gold of the autumnal sun matching the colours of the season perfectly, the gold of the harvest being brought in, the leaves browning, crisping, drying, turning, falling. Yesterday morning an almost perfect autumn scene - clear, pale blue sky and the sun, low now in the sky, just above Castle Ridge, shining directly through the rich foliage of the trees in Princes Street Gardens as I passed.

The branches are still full of heavy greenery from summer, but already some leaves are turning, a mix of verdant green with touches of red, brown and gold, the trees equivalent of the man with just a touch of distinguished gray, perhaps. The low morning sun came through them from behind and lit them up, the green still vibrantly alive, the turning leaves glowing as if from inner fire, a last reminder of beauty and life before the long sleep of winter; Edinburgh Castle, her ancient stones warming in the morning sun, the backdrop to this and what a backdrop. It lasted only seconds, the juxtaposition of where I was, where the sun was in relation to me, the trees, but for a few seconds I saw pure beauty shining in a dying leaf and the play of shadows and sunbeams across the Castle. For a few seconds I had no cares in this world, lost in the ephemeral, momentary beauty of my homeland, glowing with the glorious light of an Impressionist painting but infinitely more lovely than any artist's hand could capture.

Random recent scenes

Princes Street this evening on the way home, basking in late sunshine; outside the oh-so-posh Jenners department store a bagpiper in full highland dress is jamming with two black musicians playing some sort of ethnic variation on tom-tom drums. They're clearly all enjoying themselves as are the locals and tourists who stop to listen to this mix of African and Scottish. It sounds brilliant.

On my way in and out to work I pass some spectacularly beautiful displays of bright, colourful, fresh flowers in Princes Street Gardens and the crescents at the West End; in the bright sunlight the flowers almost glow. The council mismanages a lot of things in Edinburgh but kudos to the gardners for creating such beautiful, eye-catching displays that just make your day nicer by being there.

Making the most of the sudden burst of warm, summer-like weather we head down the coast where near the beach at the Fidra Lighthouse I bump into my friend Claudia with her visiting parents. After a very long walk all the way down the beach to North Berwick we're licking our yummy ice creams when my big cousin and her husband suddenly appear.

Bus to work on Monday; as I am getting off one of my friends from the book group is getting on although I only have a chance to say hello to her as we pass. Clearly it is my week for randomly bumping into friends and family as I go about. Who will be the next Guest Star in the ongoing soap opera of life?

Walking down Middle Meadow Walk a temporary wooden wall hiding the building works in the old Royal Infirmary which has been covered with posters for Fringe shows is now peeling and torn, scraps flapping in the breeze now it is all over. The grass of the Meadows still shows the marks of the recently departed marquees and big top from shows.

Hot, sunny day, warmer than most of the summer - great. Except it is too hot and dreadfully airless at my desk at work and I'm dying for some fresh air all afternoon - a good excuse to meet a friend and sit outside a pub on the way home drinking cold beer in the fresh air and watching the sun slowly dipping towards the horizon.

Sitting in Beanscene with Mel, enjoying coffee and cake I notice they have details on how to buy the antiqued leather sofas they have in the cafe - the sign advertising this is simple but brilliant "order a sofa to go". Oh yes, please, can I have a skinny latte, triple choc muffin and a sofa to go?

The Bin Liner speaks

As another 9-11 anniversary comes round the psychotic nutters of Al Wanker wheel out the sad and pathetic figure of the Bin Liner once more, because obviously he and his murderous band of bastards haven't caused enough pain but they have to mouth off as relatives of the dead try to remember their loved ones. First time in ages this cowering coward has stuck his head out of a hole for long enough to make a message (if he is happy to send young Muslims out to die, allegedly for their faith, why is he so scared he's been hiding himself for years?) and to make sure we didn't miss it there were plenty of trailers for the last week (got digital? Press the red button to hear a murderous, incoherent rant of rage now!).

What were the chances he was setting up to go on the air and say "sorry"? Sadly the old shagwit was only on to mumble the same load of old toss about how it is the duty of the faithful to attack infidels (although clearly not his duty, he's too important and has to prove his devotion to Allah by hiding in a cave somewhere). Oh and he also had to go on TV to advertise Mohamed 9000, the new hair dye for Muslim men that seamlessly blends gray hairs to your natural hair colour.

The birds

A very disturbing story doing the rounds of the Scottish media this week - the unlawful killing of various Scottish birds of prey, from hen harriers to one of the nation's symbols, the magnificent Golden Eagle, are at a twenty year high despite legal protection. And gee, isn't it just a coincidence that the geographical distribution of the cases often matches the location of major 'sporting' estates where fat businessmen shoot flocks of tame pheasants scared into the line of their shotguns by beaters? (I put 'sporting' in commas because I don't see anything sporting in killing animals for kicks, especially when it involves practically tame creatures and almost no skill from the so-called 'hunter') Yes, I'm sure that's just coincidence and not gamekeepers and landowners poisoning, trapping and shooting raptors on the side to make sure they don't interfere with with their game birds.

Or maybe there are just a lot of scumbags out there who don't give a damn about our wildlife and environment (or law) as long as they can exploit it for money - a double irony some of the people in these sorts of jobs who are probably doing this vile act like to tell the rest of us that they are 'the guardians of the countryside' No, you're not, you condescending, tweed-clad twats, you're vicious, amoral bastards. I'm sure there are plenty of gamekeepers who do adhere to the law and try to protect species including raptors, but from the evidence there are obviously a hell of a lot of them who are only to happy to kill even endangered animals. The answer? Well these feckers all love hunting and complain we've restricted so much of that, so let's have some more hunting - open season on hunting anyone in tweeds or Barbour jackets and Deerstalker hat, anyone? Tally ho and give 'em both barrels - don't worry, its a humane way to kill 'em, you know, otherwise they ruin the environment...

Blue, green, gold

Suddenly after a depressingly bad summer (even for someone like me who is allergic to strong sunlight) we've had a sudden burst of sunny, warm weather, very summer like; the beaches by North Berwick were packed at the weekend. Ironically as we have this sudden splash of warmth and sun as we move into September and autumn - instead of light until late into the night the darkness is falling earlier each night and as soon as that sun goes down its cool, a coolness that whispers of the change of seasons and the autumn and winter knocking on the door.

Looking up from my book on the way home this evening the sky was the most beautiful shade of blue, glowing with light, the trees in Princes Street Gardens and the side of Castle Hill still a deep, lush myriad of green hues, a brilliant contrast against the blue, long, long shadows stretching out as the slow autumnal sunset drifts into golden beams. When we do get dry, sunny days at this time of year it really is a golden time in Scotland, the sun moving further round the horizon from its position of summer dominance so that now its light is stretched out to softer, more golden-copper tones. And here and there among the still-emerald foliage the odd leaf slowly turning brown; within a few weeks they will all being to turn, crisp, brown and red, fluttering to the ground and I'll go running through the piles of leaves and kick them in the air because you're never too old to enjoy that.

And just a few more weeks on from that it will be dark by the time I come home, the deep darkness of winter as the wheel of the seasons turns. My breath will mist in the frigid air and frost will sparkle on the bare branches. And again I'm not sad as some are when summer turns to autumn to winter because I love the seemingly eternal cycle of the seasons; each has its own transitory beauty and each connects us to nature and our world. When the long darkness falls it also means watching my cats contentedly sleeping in front of the fire's flickering flames, the lights of the Winter Wonderland, the wonderful warmth of a friendly pub after walking in from a cold, dark night, the simple delight of hot, homemade soup after a cold walk. Then the spring will dawn again behind that, then back to summer and Festivals once more. How quickly they seem to go past and yet how everlasting they feel. Goodybe to another summer, welcome to another autumn in its golden crown.

May the force be with you

How cool is this Family Guy Star Wars poster?

The fat lady has sung...

Although not the fat man since he's lost his breathing privileges. Or is it too soon for Pavarotti jokes?

Happy birthday to the Book Group

I just realised today that this month's meeting of the Edinburgh SF Book Group will mark the fourth birthday. My former colleague Alex and I thought it up back in the summer of 2003 and decided a good start date would be after the busy circus of the Festival left town, so we opted for September. And for our initial discussion it seemed fitting to pick a debut novel, so we opted for one of the best debuts novels of recent SF by one of our favourite writers, Glasgow-based Richard Morgan, the Philip K Dick award-winning Altered Carbon (which also introduced Richard's character Takeshi Kovacs and also made headlines when it was the subject of a large film rights deal via Joel Silver. I remember the Guardian running an article on that and unable to reach Richard who was on holiday at the time they nicely pilfered quotes from our interview on the Alien Online without asking or crediting the site).

The book group has gone on over those four years, surviving the debacle of the Bloggergate nonsense between me and my former employers at the Bookstore Who Shall Not Be Named (where it had driven sales of backlist titles and boosted the company's profile, but no more - that's their loss) and trying to find a new regular venue after that. We've got a good core of different folks who come regularly and we've had more folks join us since then. We take turn about getting to choose books for the month which means we get a good, diverse range of material.

We've taken in graphic novels like the Sandman, classic SF from Alfred Bester and HG Wells, contemporary political SF like Ken MacLeod, horror from James Herbert, fantasy like the Lies of Locke Lamora and also more mainstream material with touches of SF like David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas or Michel Faber's Under the Skin (which the literati can read, safe in the knowledge that they aren't really part of that 'SF nonsense', they're literature). Ursula le Guin has rubbed shoulders with Margaret Atwood, Charles Burns, Aldous Huxley, James Lovegrove, Kazuo Ishiguro, Jeff VanderMeer, Sheri S Tepper, Neal Stephenson and Robert Louis Stevenson among many others. Because each of us gets to take a turn picking a book we get exposed to more diverse material and so more to discuss, more to think about, more to enjoy. One of the few pleasures better than reading a good book is being able to share it with others and talk about it. And if that also means enjoying some trips to the pub too, so much the better (since there is a very welcome social aspect to the group too).

We started with an author who now lives in Glasgow and this fourth anniversary month sees us discussing a recent novel from an Edinburgh-based scribe, Charlie Stross as we discuss his novel Glasshouse. In a lovely bit of coincidence Glasshouse won the Prometheus award (given by the Libertarian SF group) last week just after it was picked for our September meeting, so congrats to Charlie. We normally meet on the last Tuesday of the month in Henderson's on Hanover Street and anyone is welcome to come along - meeting details usually go up on the Book Group blog.

Comics Britannia

Next Monday (the tenth) sees the start of a season of programmes on BBC4 about comics, with the centrepiece being three one-hour programmes on British comics, from the launch of the Dandy and Beano in the late 1930s through to the present day, with a nice array of contributors from Leo Baxendale (creator of Minnie the Minx and the Bash Street Kids among others) to Bryan Talbot and Alan Moore, with the three programmes comprising The Fun Factory (which looks at the kid's comics), Boy and Girls (which looks at - well, comics for boys and girls like the Eagle, Bunty etc) and Anarchy in the UK where comics get nastier and grittier (and often ruder!) with 2000AD, Deadline, V For Vendetta and Viz.


(a panel of Leo Baxendale's Bash Street Kids, (c) DC Thomson)

I first heard about this last year when they were looking for suggestions for comics, characters and creators to try and include and in a stoke of luck I was offered preview discs of the series by the Beeb (and obviously I wasn't going to say no!). I've been looking forward to this for a fair while and was delighted to see that it was indeed excellent - and before you think oh, I'm not really a comics fan, you might want to take a look because it has been made to be accessible and enjoyable to anyone, not just comics geeks like me and there is also a nice wave of nostalgic pleasure to be had from it; after all just about everyone over the age of 30 in the UK would have read comics at some point growing up. I've posted a review (or preview, I suppose) up on the Forbidden Planet blog, along with a Q&A with Alastair Laurence, the series producer and director about the making of the series (Alastair also worked on the brilliant Animation Nation a couple of years back).

Out with a bang

And thus Edinburgh's Festival season, the world's biggest arts festival, comes to an end for another year with mighty explosions echoing across the city like the pounding of the Castle's cannons as the traditional classical music and fireworks concert took place. I was lucky enough to be invited to my friend's workplace which has a good view out towards the front of the Castle rather than standing with the 250, 000 others in the streets and hills of the city watching it all. It was a lovely late summer evening as we walked into the city centre, the last glow of the sun washing the stones of the Castle in a copper glow before finally fading into darkness, the stars beginning to appear in the sky above the floodlit fortress. An air of expectation from thousands of people waiting in the dark... The orchestra in the Gardens begins to play and suddenly the dark night explodes in light, colour and sound, incredibly ephemeral sculptures and flowers of light in the air, lasting only seconds.













I love fireworks - there are some things you never grow out of an a huge fireworks show is one of them. But fireworks launching into the sky from an ancient fortress atop a volcanic rock is something else again. I love living here. You can view the full set at larger sizes on my Flickr stream.

Harvest time


(click for the larger image)

Driving down the east coast from Edinburgh, down past North Berwick and all the fields either full of swaying, full, ripe crops, rippling like the sea in the breeze or already harvested like this one, all stacked and ready, the farmers making hay while the sun shines. Considering I shot this almost blind because there was a tall hedgerow in the way and I had to stand on tip-toes with the camera over my head I'm pleased it came out at all.

How not to park in Edinburgh

Someone filmed some parking attendants in Edinburgh at work using some unusual tactics near the Usher Hall, sitting waiting in a large, unmarked car and as soon as someone parks where they shouldn't nipping out and booking them as soon as they are out of sight (wouldn't it make more sense just to go up to them beforehand and say you can't park there or you will be fined? Then they won't be causing an obstruction? Oh yeah, then NCP who run the scheme for the corrupt council and the council themselves don't make money from it...). Even better the parking attendant's vehicle is parked on double yellow lines causing an obstruction itself! And there are no less than three of the buggers in it.



I've got no problem with them booking people parking illegally, but I'm wondering why they need three people in a large vehicle parked on double yellow lines and why they need such a large car to swan round town in (and park in stupid places with impunity)? Since attendants can't patrol every area isn't it more important they be spread around as much as possible and not just sitting on their arse picking off lame ducks like this? And for going round town (or for sitting in a vehicle like this) why not use something smaller and more appropriate for city driving? This might explain why the buggers are never to be seen making sure idiots don't block the green lane and cycle lane on the busy main route I take in and out of town to work, where ignorant sods regularly park on the lanes so they can go into a shop because they are too lazy to park elsewhere and walk more than a few feet (some of the gits even park on the pedestrian crossings to nip in for their crappy tabloid and pack of fags of a morning) and yet since the official police traffic wardens stopped going round our part of city I've almost never seen the council's own - I imagine this might explain why, they're all sitting in a large car making their targets.