The Reidnet Journal

The Iron Horse, the Grey and the Hammer

2012-02-15T15:23:00.001-08:00

Dad and myself sat in The Iron Horse as West Bromwich Albion hammered Wolverhampton 5-1 on the tv's hanging from the ceiling over our heads. We had just dropped Ka and the Mums off, among the traffic, piled up outside the SECC, for the Strictly Come Dancing afternoon show and had struggled to find a space for the car in the busy Glasgow streets on Sunday afternoon. I usually park up at The Station Bar, up next to the father in law’s old work, D. C. Thomson the printers, but since we were heading into town from the other direction we ended up just of Blythswood Square, where the ladies of the night used to hang out (I believe they’re all now based further down the hill, or over it). A swanky new Hotel has just opened up there and the street prices (for parking!) have doubled but thankfully, it was Sunday. Wonderful, free, Sunday street parking.
We headed up to the cinema and bought two tickets for 'The Grey' at half three, so, finding ourselves with at least two hours to spare we decided to while away the time over a few pints and a chat in the closest drinking establishment. We didn't fancy a coffee at the Starbucks or Pret a Manger though, both of which are almost, more or less, next door to the cinema. Instead we opted for The Iron Horse on West Nile Street. I thought it'd be a good opportunity to take my Dad for a pint for a change as we very rarely get the chance. While the women were watching the likes of Nancy Dell Olio and Robbie Savage trying to dance, Dad and myself were sitting relaxing by the window of the Iron Horse, over a pint of Caledonian Best, catching up, whilst the surrounding older clientele were served large Sunday lunches brimming with chips and onion rings.
So, for the first time in many years, I went to the cinema with my Dad. We could have repeated one of my very first cinema trips, from many moons ago, of which I, unfortunately, have no memory, in which he took me to see The Muppets, but I didn't think he'd be too interested in that these days. Instead we chose 'The Grey', a survivor thriller starring the ever dependable Liam Neeson.
Neeson plays a depressed oil-rigger, working out in the Alaskan wastes, defending the camp, the factories and the workers (a ragged bunch of characters from ex-cons and thugs to disgruntled family men) from the wild wolves which prowl the surrounding desert of snow. On a trip home, not long after take off, the plane crashes in the snow covered wastelands and leaves a small bunch of survivors struggling in the low temperatures and barren lands, Neeson taking the role of leader as the wolves start closing in around them.

As the small band of survivors try to make their way through the snow to some kind of safety, the weather and the wolves attack, picking them off one by one making each of the men face not only a struggle for survival but a struggle of friendship, cooperation and faith.
There were more than a few God debates and a few desperate calls for the almighty throughout the movie, especially once things started getting more than a little tough for Neeson, a man with a dwindling faith, struggling to come to terms with recent events in his life. The circumstances were different but it was something I identified with, having revisited similar big questions quite frequently in the past year or so and still coming up with no significant answers.
'The Grey' was the second visit to the cinema this weekend. The first being on Saturday afternoon on an unexpected family outing with the McGarva clan to see 'The Woman in Black', Hammer's new adaptation of the Susan Hill novel, which Ka and myself had previously seen in the theatre last year.
After attending a birthday party in East Kilbride on Friday evening, Jillian and Colin had stayed the night and together we were to go into town to see a movie on Saturday afternoon. That was only if the chaos in Glasgow had been sorted out by then.
At around half past three on Friday afternoon a man ran into the Italian restaurant Amarone on Glasgow's Nelson Mandela Square, demanding drink. Nothing particularly unusual there but when the waiters refused to serve him the guy claimed to have a bomb under his jacket.
The Police were called. Streets were closed. The nearby underground was closed. Trained negotiators were called in with shield bearing officers. Police cars and helicopters swooped into the area. Fire engines, ambulances, the Royal Navy bomb disposal team. All were called in before the nutter was quietly taken away in the back of a van at around midnight.
During the ruckus people were either diverted or forcibly kept in surrounding streets and shops whilst others, including all members of the restaurant staff, were all evacuated. A local student complained when the police told him to remain in a nearby branch of Subway, the sandwich shop. Surely any students dream come true?
I was in Subway for the first time in years yesterday. I met Ka for a Valentines lunch and bought her the £3 lunch special, a half baguette with whatever filling she could possibly wish for(as long as it was in the glass cabinet), plus a drink for a mere £3.
Not bad at all.
I text Ka from the office, wondering when her lunch break was, and asked her when she’d be “on the street”? Apparently this made her sound like one of those Blythswood Square ladies.

Anyway, as we sat on the high stools in Subway I realised the last time I had been in a Subway restaurant had been in New York, just off Times Square, in December 2003. The quality of that baguette was nowhere near as good as Hamilton's, but then I was probably slightly hungover back then and I may have been in a better mood yesterday as it was Valentines Day.
It’s a lot of nonsense. Another commercial card factory created piece of money making tomfoolery.
Valentines Day is supposed to be the day to celebrate your love for your significant other, shower her, or him, with love, affection and appreciation.
What’s wrong with any other day then? Do we slap them about for the other 365 days of the year? (it’s a leap year!)
Ka got a bunch of flowers, a card and half a chicken tikka baguette. I know how to treat my woman (none of your Greggs sausage rolls here, thank you very much!).
Anyway, back to Saturday’s cinema trip. As it turned out, the McGarva seniors were also invited to the flicks, so Jillian drove the four of us over to Uddingston to pick up Dougie and Grace and from there we headed into town, parking in possibly the most excpensive car park in town.
Jillian was driving her Mum's car, a large Scooby van like Volkswagen, with an abnormal number of seats, which housed us all among the bags, heavily wrinkled books, wrappers, abandoned crisp packets, long empty juice bottles and an almost full bottle of Absolut Vodka that was rolling around the floor at our feet. As the journey went on that vodka became more and more attractive.
It had been a rough morning.
The cinema was packed. With a 12A certificate I didn't expect too much from this new supposed horror starring the slowly maturing Daniel Radcliffe. In fact, I suspected a lot of the younger members of the audience to be there because of the mere presence of Harry Potter.
After taking our seats, we relaxed, sitting back to watch everyone else pile in after us, people soon struggling for places together as seating became more and more limited. Upon sitting, Grace quickly produced Cadbury's Fudges, brunch bars, trebor mints and tin foil parcels full of sandwiches from her handbag. All were passed up and down our line of six as we awaited the lights going down and the usual onslaught of adverts.

This new version of 'The Woman in Black' was pretty good and a decent enough adaptation of the ghost story with plenty of freaky effects and jumpy moments. Radcliffe was even passable alongside the excellent Julius Ceasar, sorry, Ciaran Hinds.
Unfortunately some of the viewing experience was marred due to the younger elements in the crowd who apparently found it hilarious whenever they jumped with fright. Quite often they'd be laughing, giggling or talking among themselves long after their initial jump of fright, enough to put you off what was going on in the movie long after the jump.
On one occasion, moments after one of the film's jumpier moments, a voice echoed from one of the seats behind me.
"A pure shat maself there, by the way!"
The young guy's voice echoed throughout the cinema as the film's dialogue went on. As entertaining as this ned shitting himself may have been, I was rather more interested in what the following effects of the sudden blur, moving shadow or face in the window was on the big screen before me.
After the film we made our way home, getting lost in the car park across the road, unable to find the Scooby van. We got the elevator up and then back down again after realising the payment machine was at ground level. After waiting in a short queue, behind a snobby woman that sniffed in our general direction (I’m not sure who she was sniffing) we were then charged a grand total of £6.60 for the two and a half hours we’d been parked there (it may have been an NCP, robbing gits). Following this we then hit two different floors before finally arriving at the correct floor to find Jillian’s Mum’s car patiently waiting.
We should have just parked at the Station Bar.

Old dogs, not enough tricks

2012-02-10T16:05:00.000-08:00

Hot pancakes and jam. Fantastic. Mum has always been an expert.

Sitting on the couch in Chapelton on Sunday afternoon eating baguettes filled with tuna and cheese, followed by pancakes and various biscuits, helped down with a good few large mugs of tea. The perfect way to spend your Sunday afternoon. Mum’s pancakes are always great, especially when served hot with jam and ice cream. Brilliant.
There was no ice cream on Sunday though.
Too early for ice cream. Ice cream’s for pudding on a Sunday, not lunch. Unless you’re on the beach or you're watching a movie.
There can't be much call for ice cream in this weather although that doesn’t stop the ice cream van from coming down our street belting out his tunes or blowing his whistle twice every night (I presume he blows his whistle whenever it’s too late for the blaring music. A massively shrill whistle is much quieter and not disturbing or unexpected at all when your lying in bed, just about to nod off to sleep having an early night at half past ten when your suddenly jolted awake thinking the National express is pulling up in the echoy street outside).
Ice cream would have been better the night before. Although food, in any form, was not exactly what I had needed on Sunday. My stomach was still suffering from the night before after being out for a curry with Chaz.
Why is it curries always do that to you? What are in curries that fill you up so much, making you feel like you’ve just eaten a giant rubber tyre (to the tune of The flight of the Bumble Bee). Curries are a bit like like alcohol in that way. You know what you’re in for when you’re eating it, but, for some some reason, you just eat. Or I do anyway.
Upon entering the restaurant we thought we had no chance. Every table was taken. We walked into Chaz's favourite, Giffnock’s Turban Tandoori, to find it packed with curry eaters. After a cheerful hello and a few nods and a couple of winks from Chaz the restaurant's staff scurried around and managed to produce a small table to accomodate us, a few of the waiters nodding and greeting Chaz like an old friend, bowing and curtsying.
Chaz was looking forward to an audition for another small acting part in an SNP commercial on Monday and his much talked about appearance in this weeks ‘River City’, that gawd awful Scottish soap, shown on Tuesday nights. As I don’t finish work until later on a Tuesday it’s a great shame I miss the programme but I arrived home on Tuesday night to, surprisingly enough, find Ka watching. Apparently a familiar looking black leather jacket had appeared at the café shop front at some point early in the episode, the same black jacket that had been running away from zombies in George Square a few months ago, and the same which was sitting in a car alongside Scarlett Johansson in a van for over twelve hours, so, unfortunately, it looked like I may have missed Chaz’s ‘River City’ appearance although I’m sure he’ll be back. Chaz may have been infected with the acting bug now. Apparently he makes an appearance in a cell at some point alongside one of the main characters who has been arrested for murder, so look out for him if your watching. He’ll be the cellmate in the black leather jacket. Next stop, Hollywood or maybe Holyrood.
On Saturday afternoon Ka and myself seen 'The Artist'. A nice, charming, pleasant, fun watch. In my book, certainly not as fabulously fantastic as some are making out but a good, entertaining watch all the same, nicely done with it's imitation of the silent movies of old. Another movie with familiar themes of recent movies, the harking back to the birth of Hollywood and the days of old cinema long gone, just as ‘Hugo’ did a few months back.
'The Artist' centres around the character of a silent movie filmstar at the top of his game, George Valentin. Valentin is a wildly popular, charismatic (cheesy) star enjoying the limelight who inadvertently falls in love with a pretty woman, accidentally flung from the crowds outside the theatre, who kisses him before the cameras. So before the flash of the camera bulbs has even left the eyes of the lucky lady, Peppy Miller, she heads off to Hollywood to seek her fortune where she quickly hooks up with Valentin again, who, unknown to him, is on the verge of career suicide.

At a meeting with his producers Valentin rejects calls to become part of the new, revolutionary, 'talkie' movement in cinema and soon finds himself spiralling into career oblivion whilst Peppy's career rockets with popularity after she embraces her own opportunities in the new 'talkie' productions. The film then follows the two characters' intertwining lives whilst a small dog jumps around performing tricks.
I have to say the dog was the most disappointing aspect of the movie for me. What was all the fuss about? After all the build up surrounding the movie and its wonderful canine star, the mutt only really performs two tricks throughout the movie's entirety.
The tricks included being shot by a pointed finger, falling over on to it's side and pretending to be dead along with a burying of it's head down in between it's two front paws. For some reason these two tricks have suddenly made this dog the most adorable canine to have ever graced the silver screen. Martin Scorsese even made a joke about Uggie, the name of the acting dog in question, getting an Oscar nomination, something which, unsurprisingly, members of various online communities, presumably with nothing better to do, have started up campaigns around. In his defence, he did do an entertaining impression of lassie. Hardly Oscar material though. He can't even play the piano.

Unlike Rowlf the dog.
At the moment I'm trying to convince Ka to go and see the new Muppet movie with me. Insisting how much Claudia Winkleman and her pal on the couches of Film 2012 loved it isn't quite clinching the deal though...

Conversational struggles

2012-02-09T06:55:00.000-08:00

On Friday night I was at a stranger's birthday party. Strangers to me, but not Ka as it was for one of the women in Ka's hairdressers. Linda was 50 and invited us along to the Tannochside Miners Welfare Club.
The Tannochside Miners’ Club was like any other Miners’ Club. One of those small, aged buildings, no way near as busy as days gone by, probably situated in a dark, slightly dodgy street, that houses various halls and bars for various different occasions and, to make up for the stickiness of the carpets, serves cheap booze and allows self catering. Perfect for private functions.
This Miners’ Welfare Club was only a short taxi journey from Ka's Mum and Dad's in Uddingston, so we had decided to save the taxi fare and stay the night there.
In all honesty, I wasn't particularly keen on going.
An invitation to a birthday party for a woman that goes to the same hairdresser as your wife is not a fantastic prospect for any husband I’m sure. A party a which you'll know no one but the wife, who'll probably chat away endlessly to the other women, leaving you sitting looking like a lemon.
Cue the awkward conversations with fellow husbands in similar situations (if there are any!).
I wouldn’t know anyone. I had visions of being surrounded by the gaggle of women that usually inhabit ‘Nutters’, Alan, the hairdresser’s, salon in Tannochside. As the women laugh and joke together, reminiscing about many a Saturday gone by in Alan’s ‘Nutters’, I’d be left sitting with a pint in the middle of a Miner’s Welfare hall, listening to ‘Grease’ from the giant speakers in the corner of the room, watching a bunch of older women line dancing or doing the slosh, whilst vaguely attempting to mingle with husbands in similar situations.
Mingling with other husbands is sometimes a bit of a struggle. At least I’ve found it a bit of a struggle at various parties or weddings in the past when I’ve been invited along as the husband of Ka.
The conversational struggles usually evolve from football. Quite often I've met other blokes for the first time and they've instantly launched into conversations about the nation’s favourite sport. Some of the guys have either hinted at or just asked straight out, "what team do you support then?", always with a suspicious glint in their eye.
It seems to be a bit of a clincher for some folk.
In fact, some husbands look at you even more suspiciously if you admit to not really giving a sh*t about any team. Sometimes you're better off just admitting to a team, any team, as you risk the suspicious looks which silently accuse you of great unmanliness (most people have never heard of The Glipton Giants).
I love movies but I don't hit out with, "what's your favourite movie?" whenever I meet someone, sneering if I don't like their answer and they reply with something starring Adam Sandler, for instance.
Well, maybe I would sneer if it eventually came out in conversation, but I wouldn't ask straight out where their movie allegiances lay, as if trying to get into some sort of conversational gang from the outset.
But then, if you are into football, like 90% of the male population seems to be, maybe it's a good thing the whole “what team you support” question? At least the other bloke would know exactly where you stand. Perhaps he’s only making a genuine attempt to strike up a conversation himself, struggling to think of anything else to talk about, and wouldn’t necessarily lynch you if you replied, admitting your support for his bitter rivals.
Anyway, as it happened, I didn’t have anything to worry about. Ka and myself met Jean and then Alison and Ben in the Windmill pub, just five minutes walk from the Miners. All three I was meeting for the first time properly, after only greeting them in passing in ‘Nutters’ before. Jean had walked from her house round the corner. She had just buried her dog (not immediately before leaving but a few days back) so was still a little down about that.
Over our first drink, Jean started talking of the burial and how this girl had passed away after only sixteen years.
‘Gawd, that’s terrible’ I said, as a photo was being passed round. It was only when I seen the photo that I realised it was a dog we were talking about.
“Oh, it’s a dog we’re talking about! That’s alright then!”, I very nearly said with a big smile and a deep sigh of relief.
Ben and Alison were nice and down to earth. Alison, a Financial Advisor with very shiny teeth’s Assistant, was chatty and outgoing and Ben, her hubby, was quieter and laid back. Ben didn’t even mention what football team he supported.
As the night went on, our conversation moved from many subjects including work, the secrets of Morrison’s ‘freshly made’ bread, shipbuilding, holidays, potato scones, Terry Pratchett, ‘Game of Thrones’ and cameras. In fact, we had more than a few things in common, which Ka and Alison both seemed quite relieved about. Ka stopped me at more than point during the night’s proceedings to make sure I was alright and that Ben was a nice guy. I nodded with a exasperated frown. It was almost as if the two wives were trying to set us up.
At some point, Alison probably asked Ben the same question except he probably replied with something along the lines of “no, he’s a weirdo, hasn’t even mentioned footie yet!”
We walked into the Miners’ Club at half past eight, immediately getting berated by the DJ for being an hour late, which turned Ka against him for the rest of the night. Whenever the DJ would hit out with a smarmy comment from behind the mike, and Ka was on the dancefloor, she’d waste no time in shouting a curt reply back at him. Alan the hairdresser waved at us from a table and bought us all a drink before disappearing off home and leaving us to the party. He was back in ‘Nutters’ early the next morning so couldn’t stay on to enjoy the dancing or the buffet.
A round of 5 drinks for £13. Where would you get that bargain other than a Miner’s Welfare Club? We also snaffled a couple of bags of onion rings for ourselves, enjoyed a magnificent buffet, drank lots of beer, finished with a Jack Daniels and headed off back down the hill to Uddingston in a taxi with a driver who was boasting about his new cable box. With a face like an old leather cloth, an earring and a voice like a emptying skip full of gravel this taxi driver glared at me as he drove. A one off payment of £180 and he was getting every channel available.
No fuss. No bills. He’d just uninstalled his Virgin package and got the new cable box from a guy he knows. Apparently I’ll know a guy too, if I’m interested.
“Ye’ll know a guy”, he said. “All yer movies and aw yer fitbaw”.
I wasn’t sure I did know a guy.

Cholera, guinea pigs and Mel B's big... smile

2012-01-31T14:42:00.000-08:00

“Meep, meep!” I woke up at around 7am on Sunday morning, three hours after going to bed. A small ‘meeping’ noise was disturbing the dead of night (or rather morning) echoing throughout the bedroom I found myself lying in. A dull headache made it difficult to open my eyes. There was a small clink of metal and a shuffling from the bottom of the single bed I was lying in. Where the hell was I?
Moments later I remembered that I was in my brother-in-law’s house, his spare, loft bedroom and that that the noise was coming from the large cage at the foot of the single bed I was currently occupying. His pets were moving around.
Jillian and Colin’s two guinea pigs must have been having a morning stroll around the straw in the large cage. The noises were so small but because of the emptiness of the house around them, they echoed throughout the room. They echoed enough to awaken Ka, who was sleeping in the other bed against the other side of the room, and myself up at various points throughout our slumber.
Ka and myself hadn’t set eyes on them since we’d arrived in the evening the night before, for dinner and drinks. The two guinea pigs, (I think they’re called Mel and Kim), had been moved indoors and into the spare room, for the winter, and had not moved from the darkest depths of their wee hut inside their cage since Ka and myself had dumped our bags. Some of the rattles and clinks sounded as if Mel and Kim were working at freeing themselves from their metal cell, a theory that I knew would not go unthought in Ka's head, as she cowered under her duvet.
It may be a new year but there was no getting rid of him. There was a new addition to the McGarva household living room. As we made ourselves comfortable in the living room I spotted him smiling at us from the large armchair in the corner of the living room. He was back.
John Barrowman stared at us from the front of a large white cushion. And, sure enough, upon our first visit to the toilet, I discovered Jillian had gained a new John Barrowman 2012 calender to replace her old one which had stared at you from the wall at the side of the bathroom as you relieved yourself throughout any 2011 visits.
Jillian said the cushion was good to snuggle into at night to which I nodded politely moving him from the couch before I nearly sat on his face.
Another, much worthier and more beautiful face looked out from various portraits dotted about the room. Ka and myself are always touched at how many of Jillian and Colin’s family photoframes Lucy is featured in. She’s even got her very own portrait on a middle shelf in the bookcase, a shining silver frame with glittery stars, sparkling under the living room light.
Jillian cooked up a mighty three course meal, served with wine, of various standards (one was a bit too sweet apparently), which was followed by our semi traditional games night. Articulate, was the first. A game which is basically a verbal charades against the egg timer which involved lots of gesturing, shouting and animatedly describing various words for the other team player, in my case Colin, including 'cholera' (diarrhea!, I thought it was a bad cough?), 'hijack' (It's what happened in 'Under Siege!') and 'escape hatch' (Ka crawling around the floor opening imaginary doors).
Following this, the Xbox was switched on and 'Let's Dance' was loaded. It was the first time I'd taken part in any form of computer dancing game and it was certainly weird to see yourself dancing on screen, on stage, alongside a bunch of Fame students. Scary Spice was your host for the entirety, standing, smiling artificially at you from the tv in a tight black dress that helped make her, not insignificant, bosom look strangely 3D. After instructing you to stand in a particular spot on the living room floor, the small black box of the Xbox Connect at the foot of the telly, scanned your body and after a few moments of thinking about it, placed your full body on screen alongside the smiling, fit, and disconcertingly younger, dancers on the computer generated stage before you. As the music started you had to follow the other dancers' every dance move to earn your points, the machine scanning your every swaying, kicking, squatting, shaking, body, awarding you points for every correct move made. Needless to say, I didn't quite make the grade as Mel B strode on and gave me a good slagging, although I did manage to come second place to Jillian in the second round which both the McGarvas, Ka and Colin, were more than a little upset about upset about. If it had been slitting throats and pickpocketing in ‘Assassins Creed’ I would have been top of the table.
Following this endurance test we collapsed back on to the various chairs and enjoyed a few more drinks whilst vaguely competing against one another in a final tv and movie quiz, a game which came with rules, which, needless to say, we didn't bother following.
I rose from bed at around midday after being awoken by Ka putting her dressing gown on across the room (she's awfully noisy putting on dressing gowns, who would have thought a dressing gown could be so noisy?). I pulled some clothes on and lumbered downstairs with my shower stuff, determined to waken myself up with the power shower.
Slightly different to how I’d woken myself up the morning before with a 5k run around St. Leonards and Calderwood with Ka. We ran our usual route, in the bitter cold temperatures, breath steaming out of our mouths are we ran, leaping over frozen puddles and skidding on the black ice, hidden on dark, shining pavestones.
The shower of Sunday morning wasn’t quite as energetic or bracing, but it worked. As I showered under the watchful eyes of John Barrowman in the corner, Ka cradled a coffee on the couch, Jillian watched the mid hours of the tennis final between Djokovic and Nadal and Colin got to work in the kitchen cooking up a breakfast fit for kings. Once again we all collapsed back into the couch afterwards, and watched the remainder of the Aussie Open final before Ka and myself headed back to EK, popping by the cemetery on the way home with another bunch of roses.
As Ka tidied Lucy’s little grave and I carried out my rose trimming duties, I couldn’t help but wonder why… again.
Still it was a pleasant weekend.
A nice weekend, ruined by another Monday morning.

Slitting throats and pickpocketing

2012-01-22T14:07:00.000-08:00

I said I’d never do it. It was something you done when you were younger and shouldn’t really be revisited. Something that should be left in the past. I’m married now, for goodness sake. I’m supposed to be grown up. Such things are supposed to be behind me. I considered the idea of going back to it all damaging, anti-social and near embarrassing. Unfortunately, however, it’s happened. I’ve become hooked again.
I spent my entire Saturday afternoon, shoddily dressed, staring at the television, swearing occasionally, twiddling knobs and pressing buttons on a PS3 controller.
It was a lazy day yesterday, my head aching following a mini night out on Friday, when we ate in Glasgow’s Thai Fountain, under the supervision of the wine watching waiters and waitresses, and then enjoyed a few drinks afterwards on our way to the bus home.
Ka was out on the Saturday afternoon for lunch with the girls and I was left to my own devices for a change. The device in question being Kenny’s PS3.
My brother left me in charge of his beloved shiny black box, along with a large pile of games, before he went off to Oz. I begrudgingly took the machine off him, believing that I’d maybe just watch the occasional Blu-Ray on my twelve year old tv (does Blu-Ray even work on non HD televisions? I’ve no idea).
My PS2 lies unloved on one of the bottom shelves, under the ten tonne Sony tele, and has done for some time. I bought the PS2 at some point in the far and distant past, off the back of a lorry, from one of the women in Mum’s work. I’ve no idea to this day where she got it from. As far as I am aware my Mum, and this casual sales lady, never worked with lorries, or had much to do with lorries in any way, so where the lorry, and it’s hind end, came from, I’ve no idea.
Anyway, after begrudgingly buying the PS2 I bought, or received, a grand total of five games through the following years. With the exception of that, the most I played Playstation was when Kenny would allow me to lose to him at FIFA (apparently the computer was a better competitor), or whenever Chaz had a beer and Playstation night, most of which, for some reason, he made sure I was never invited to.
For just under a year now the shiny black box has stood at the side of our living room tv and instead of looking hip and ‘with-it’, has been gathering dust (or at least it would have done, if Ka was not such a fabulous housekeeper).
Until now. Now, I’m hooked.
Whenever Ka is out, whenever she’s in the bath, whenever she’s busy in the kitchen (where she belongs) she’ll hear the familiar opening greeting tones of the PS3 machine as it’s lights turn to green and the familiar wavy, graphic curls across the screen.
So, on Saturday, as soon as Ka closed the front door behind her, the PS3 button was pressed, the welcome tones rang out and the curvy welcome graphic was back on the screen, loading the machine’s interactive menu. Before long I was darting around the streets of the Holy Land, slitting bad guys throats, climbing tall towers, rescuing women being wrongly accused of thieving, struggling to pickpocket suspicious looking characters and generally being rather wonderful. A superhero in the brutal age of the Crusades.
Just as I was racing into a new town on my stolen horse, my mobile rang. Chaz interrupted.
Chaz, being the seasoned pro, when it comes to PS3, was supposed to be coming round to help me out with ‘Creed’ as he’d completed it two or three years previously. Apparently he’s now got the third ‘Creed’ game, received two Christmases ago, still in it’s packaging. Good for you and your packaging, I thought, just tell me how to successfully pickpocket this grumpy, old git with the beard will you?
As it turned out, my attempts at pickpocketing were far superior to Chaz’s, who got slaughtered on more than one occasion. He’d perhaps lost his touch, either that, or there was a reason the third ‘Creed’ game was still in it’s packaging.
It turns out you’ve got to press the circle button, and keep it pressed, otherwise the mark, swings round, accuses you, and shouts for the city’s guards to run after you and eventually either slice you to death or chase you into the canal, where you swiftly drown, because, it turns out, the assassin can’t swim!
I couldn’t believe that part. An assassin that can’t swim?! Ridiculous!
How does this supposed assassin then come up on to the beach and remove his rubber swim suit to reveal and perfectly ironed evening suit underneath, just in time for cocktails? (Saying that, I’m not sure they drank cocktails in the Holy Land during the Crusades… probably against their religion or something… whereas slitting somebody’s throat was perfectly acceptable).
Anyway, Chaz soon got bored of watching me struggle to climb the city walls and before long we were back in ‘Motor Storm’ again, a game we discovered from Kenny’s pile a few weeks back. Once more we were racing through the ridiculously bumpy terrain and mountains of Monument Valley. Throughout the game you get to race in seven different kinds of vehicles which range from bikes and buggies to racing trucks and rigs, all with different handling and capabilities. All crazy nonsense, of course, with massive, twisting tracks, vehicle boost controls, incredibly over the top crashes which involve bits of vehicle flying everywhere and pilots, mangled in crumpled rally cars or flung over mountain ledges. Slow motion replays illustrate exactly how you’re pilot meets his glorious maker before magically coming back to life in a fully regenerated, roadworthy, vehicle at exactly the point on the lap where fate conspired against you. All the while Bobbie Gillespie, and Primal Scream, blasts through the television speakers at you along with the growling of your engine, the explosions, the squelching of the mud under your tyres and the horns that signal the end of a lap, some of them sounding suspiciously like the horrendous winds of the vuvuzelas.
Anyway, the horn was soon sounded on my PS3 fun as Ka arrived home and, after around an hour of watching the tv in the bedroom, I eventually allowed her into the living room and turned the shiny black box off.
That was it for one day. My fun was over. After that it was boring old Saturday night tv. I had been hoping that the boring Saturday night tv would be enough to send Ka off to sleepy land on the couch, and me off to the Holy Land again, but it wasn’t to be. Hopefully Kenny stays in Oz for at least another year, that way I may just get to complete my mission as disgraced Assassin, Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad (just as well, I'm writing that and not pronouncing it).

Detective thrillers and the Death Star

2012-01-17T02:16:00.000-08:00

So, how are they going to explain that one?
Sorry, no, I'm not talking about how a cruise ship ran aground killing more than six people and endangering more than 4,000 people with confused and delayed evacuation procedures.
Is giving the locals of Giglio a good view of the massive ship, considered a good explanation?
I'm quite sure the cruise ship spotting locals didn't particularly want the £62 million view they got.
I was also looking forward to Labour MP Tom Harris' explanation regarding his little Hitler video. He used scenes from the german film 'Downfall', about Hitler's last days, and replaced the dictator's voice with that of Alex Salmond. Hilairious.
Also why was Ricky Gervais hired to host the Golden Globes again and then completely tame himself down after his blistering performance at last year's awards ceremony. Disappointing.
And can someone also explain to me why I should be watching 'Downton Abbey'? It seems to be winning prizes and praise everywhere but, from what I can tell, it just looks like a Sunday night mash up of 'Upstairs Downstairs' and 'Heartbeat'.
I spent Sunday night watching the brilliant last episode of the BBC's latest, ridiculously short, second series of 'Sherlock'. Thankfully, the story was far superior to last week's, rather silly, modernisation of 'The Hound of the Baskervilles' (involving factories, toxix gas, and glow in the dark rabbits) and got straight down to the nitty gritty with the re-emergence of Moriarty, Sherlock's nemesis, who, in this series, is a small skinny, psychopathic, maniacal of a man, desperate to bring the detective down in a frenzy of publicity (presumably another meaning for the 'Fall' in the title).

The episode was clever and tense with the three main players keeping you hooked all the way to the bitter, but then debatable end. The build up and the final moments were all brilliantly done and superbly acted by Cumberbatch and Freeman, the two showing just how perfect they are for the two roles. Of course, we all know how the original, 'Final Problem' ended. The question was, how were Moffat and co going to portray it, in this modern day take and how the devil are they going to explain it?
I have a theory... it's a bit far fetched, but then, any explanation Moffat comes up with will have to be.
Speaking of mysteries, Ka and myself seen David Fincher's excellent retelling of 'The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo' on Saturday. Dark, gritty, tense and thrilling with the occasional moment of awkwardness, violence and discomfort. Everything that makes Fincher, one of my favourite directors, tick.

Daniel Craig is great as the worn out, ground down journalist, Blomkvist, but it is Rooney Mara that steals the show as the awkward, introverted but fantastically intelligent Lisbeth Salander. When the 'hollywood' version of the story was announced it seemed strange and way too soon after Niels Arden Oplev’s original, which I haven't seen yet. Cinema 'purists' will probably moan, stick their nose up or complain that the original, foreign, movie should be the only version to see. Ask them if they've read the book though. Once they've read the book, they can kid on to be purists.
With Steig Larsson's book Fincher makes a pretty damn good thriller and definately one worth checking out, whether you're familiar with the story or not, though some scenes may be a bit much for the faint hearted.
As are some of the scenes in 'Celebrity Juice'.
On Sunday, Sarah and Brian had the family round for a buffet lunch and my Aunt Anne was asking why Keith Lemon, the host of the rude tv show, continually wore a bandage on his right hand. Sarah couldn't bring herself to explain and simply told her Mum and Dad to not watch it in future.
Whilst we all chatted and caught up in the living room Brian spent the majority of his time in the kitchen, making all the teas and coffees whilst keeping an eye on his samosas, pakora, pizzas and mini steak pies. A great way to hide from the in-law's and the extended family. For pudding Mum had brought, possibly, the biggest sponge cake known to man and Linda had brought her traditional trifle, both of which I had to have a portion of, though I wish I'd kept the cake until later.
When the buffet was first put out I found myself having a bit of a geek moment upon entering the front room to get my first helping.
Standing alongside the front window, on a bookcase at the end of the buffet table, stood the unmistakable forms of the Empire's Death Star. The four legged, tank like, AT-AT stood menacingly, alongside it. Both were in Lego form, intricately detailed with all the features you'd expect, or any sad Star Wars fan would expect anyway.

The Lego Death Star is built in a cross section like formation housing many sets and scenes from the original movie including the hangar bay with parked TIE fighter, the detention block, from which Princess Leia was rescued, and the tractor beam controls, where a small Lego Obi Wan Kenobi stands with his light saber. It even has the trash compactor unit, with closing walls, which adjoins the detention block by way of a small trap door. If I hadn't had to socialise yesterday I would have quite happily stood and admired the Lego set's fantastic detail, although, after a quick look online, I've discovered it is now going for the princely sum of £400.
The At-At was pretty impressive too - my Mum and Dad immeditely recognising it was one of the large toys that still sits in their loft alongside the X-Wing, Slave-1 and the Millenium Falcon.
My Mum still makes the occasional comment regarding the large amount of stuff I have which makes up a good portion of the contents of her loft. Ka occasioanlly threatens to take all the old Kenner Star Wars figures, ships and accessories off to her nursery in an attempt to wind me up.
That would just be dispicable of her though, and she knows it.
Can you imagine the carnage caused by the ravenous little three year old rogues Ka teaches in her class? There would be bashes, cracks, snaps, crushings, dismemberments, beheadings, not to mention a healthy dose of painted, bruised and crayoned faces. It makes me shudder just thinking about it. The toys would be safer getting sent to the Spice Mines of Kessel and smashed into who knows what!
Mum looks forward to the day when Ka and myself will eventually get a loft, or some form of bigger and better storage cupboard in a new, different house. One day Ka and myself will be having our first dinner in our brand new house and there'll be a knock on the front door. I'll pull open the door to find no one waiting, only a large pile of boxes with a small note attached.
"At last!", it'll read.
Brian may have all the fancy, up-to-date Star Wars Lego kits, but at least I've still got all the original toys.
If I was to sell them on ebay I may even make some money!
I wonder if I could afford the Lego Death Star then? I'm not sure I'd be able to explain why I spent £400 on a large piece of lego.
I'd give it a shot though.

Ghost trains and thrill rides

2012-01-10T13:40:00.000-08:00

7 o'clock? It's been at least a week or so since my alarm has gone off before 7 o'clock. My eyes felt glued shut. It took around five minutes to fully open them thanks to the sleep that had encrusted them. That, along with the lingering cold that's been hanging over me for the past few days, made it a slow struggle to get out of bed.
Unfortunately, after a semi failed trip to York last week and a weekend of entertaining it was time to get back to work and the great uncertainty that is the S&UN office.
Our niece, Morgan slept over on the Saturday night, once more demoting me to the living room couch to spend my Saturday night trying to get to sleep there with only my heavy cold for comfort and the clicking of the fridge, echoing from the kitchen. After an hour of Playstation 3, which I had switched on once the girls had gone off to bed, my head was buzzing with buggies and racing trucks and it took me at least an hour to fall asleep on my makeshift bed which consisted of a dusty quilt and a sleeping bag thrown over the, usually comfy, couch.
Ka, Morgan and myself had spent the afternoon at the Glasgow Irn Bru Carnival in the SECC.
We arrived early afternoon, after hearing all sorts of horror stories of hour long waiting times for the rides, and took advantage of it's quieter hours. Colin and Jillian had waited around an hour and a half to get on the ghost train the last time they were there, so we were determined to beat the crowds. We collected our entrance ticket and vouchers at the front counter after waiting only a few minutes in the short queue, half an hour after the Carnival's doors had opened. We then handed the entrance ticket over, received an inky stamp on the back of the hand and walked through the doors into the barrage of noise and colour that is the Carnival. The large, gloomy SECC hall was lit and full of life, echoing with noises, voices, and music of all descriptions as lights of all shapes, sizes and colours, whizzed, spun, beamed, circled and shot around us.
As the three of us tentatively walked out into the hall we looked around. It was all too familiar and as I remembered the last time I'd been there, many moons ago, I realised just how familiar. In fact, it had barely changed at all. I'm not sure what I'd been expecting. Most of the same rides even occupied the exact same space they had been in those ten years ago. You'd think they could at least shuffle some of the rides about, from year to year, to make it seem vaguely different. In fact, the only thing missing was the Pirate ship at the SECC's front doors, that swung you back and forth, back and forth, until you felt like puking the van chips up. It must have sunk somewhere at some point in the past ten years.
"Right, first things first" I said, or half shouted, over the noise. "The Ghost train!".
The ghost train was Morgan's number one priority and probably the main reason we were there in the first place. This was probably due to her various trips to Disneyland, and experiencing their brilliant haunted houses.
However, as we all know, the SECC is no Disney theme park. I didn't really have the heart to tell our niece that the ghost train on the back of a lorry, parked in one of the SECC's giant, grey, barn like halls, was not going to have quite the same level of effects and frights as one of Disney's fantastic eye rolling, wall moving, hologram projecting, animatronic zombified, skeleton mirrored, fireplace swivelling, Haunted Houses.
As it turned out, they didn't allow three in a car, so Ka and Morgan braved the ghost train alone. Apparently halfway through the ghost train Morgan politely requested Auntie Ka to stop screaming which was surprising to hear as Ka emerged from the other end of the Ghost train, looking thoroughly unimpressed. We then hit the dodgems, the Dragon rollercoaster and the Bingo. Yep, Morgan was keen on the bingo so we all took our positions around the bingo stall, admiring the very unfabulous prizes on offer, and got ready to mark off the numbers on our chosen machines. Just as the Bingo man began his monotone garble there was a 'hello' from behind us.
One of Morgan's school friends was in with his Mum and Dad who started chatting away. I nodded politely and turned to mark off my first number. Since both Morgan and Ka turned to chat there wasn't really a need for me to make small talk. The bingo had started. Who decides to interrupt someone just as they're about to hear their first number in a game of bingo? It's just downright rude. There were prizes at stake! That Gillette grooming set had my name on it.
I angrily stood up, off my stool, and shouted, "Leave us alone, can't you see we're playing bingo?!".
Obviously, that didn't happen and, unfortunately, I didn't win anything. As for Ka and Morgan, we'll never know if they won anything as they missed their first few numbers, thanks to the pesky, interrupting parents.
Following this we tried a few of the game stalls which are just a waste of time. You may as well just empty your wallet out on to the gypsy stall worker's lap.
Knocking over weighted bottles, hooking moving dogs with no prize token inside them and trying to catapult rubber frogs on to moving lilly pads, were all attempted and left us cheated out of vouchers. Morgan did manage to win herself a balloon at the hook a dog stall before we headed home though which she was more than happy with.
It was just before 5 and walking out into the bright light of the SECC's main hallway, we passed the massive queue at the carnival entrance. I silently wished the suckers luck with their future wait at the ghost train.
On the way home we stopped by the shops.
"Have you seen this?" I asked our wee niece, picking a copy of the colourfully, animated, 'Despicable Me' up from the sale shelf which stood alongside the checkout. A wee movie that would have been perfect to entertain our wee seven year old niece on a Saturday night, I thought. And only £4. Bargain.
Disappointingly, Morgan nodded confirming she had already seen it.
"What about this?" I asked her, seeing another attractively priced DVD. 'Hop'. Another computer generated animation, this one based around some sort of wise cracking Easter bunny.
"Yep, I went to see that with Uncle Colin" Morgan nodded again. I muttered some abuse at Colin under my breath.
"What about this?" I asked pulling another bargain from the shelf. Morgan frowned, puzzling over the dark DVD cover.
"Schindler's List?" Ka glowered at me, from further up the checkout.
"£4!" I insisted. "Bargain. Classic movie!". The woman putting her shopping through the checkout before us, lifted an eyebrow at me.
‘Schindler's List’ is a brilliant movie. In fact it's one of my Mum's favourite movies. She remembers ‘Schindler's List’ with fond memories.
One night, over dinner, she insisted that we'd all gone to see it as a family, during our two week holiday in Orlando, and everyone in the audience had stood up, cheered and clapped at the end.
I'm not sure where Mum went to see it, but we certainly weren't with her. I suspect she may have inadvertently stumbled into a BNP conference somewhere.
Surprisingly enough, as it turned out, Mum was actually getting some memories mixed up. The film we went to see, as a family, in Orlando, was, in fact, 'Jurassic Park'. Not the story of a German businessman that, through the need for employees in his factories, saved the lives of a thousand Polish Jews during the holocaust of the Second World War but the big effects-laden, Speilberg dino flick.
Taking a break from the thrill rides and ghost trains of Disneyland, back in 1993, the family took a trip to the cinema and watched that year's big Dino release with an American audience. It was the first time I'd sat in a cinema audience that actually made noise during the viewing of a movie. I'll always remember the moment the Tyrannosaurus Rex leaned down and looked through the window of the car as I nearly jumped out of my skin. Not because of the scary eyeball I was seeing before me, but because of the girl that was sitting behind us whose scream echoed over the volume of the tropical storm and the grunting dinosaur. The american audience screamed, gasped and cheered during the movie, something completely unexperienced to the Reids at that time.
As was the silence of the audience I remember seeing Schindler's List with. Indeed it is a classic movie, though perhaps not quite suitable for a seven year old looking to be entertained on a Saturday night.
We settled for Ice Age 2 instead.

Getting moving again

2012-01-03T13:59:00.000-08:00

Ka and myself are in York today, checking out the local architecture, walking the city walls, experiencing the ghost tours, taking a stroll along the Real Ale walk and checking out the view over the River Ouse.
Or at least we should be…
Thanks to the current batch of storms, spinning trampolines and transport disruption we spent the majority of our morning sitting, shivering, on the cold hard metal benches of Central Station, watching the large clock hanging from the rafters, the pigeons circulate overhead and the various Central Station Rail attendants milling about, having a good old laugh at all the waiting commuters sitting around.
After watching, supposedly, funny videos on youtube of Scottish blokes filming trampolines spinning down the street in the wind and storms before Christmas, it wasn’t particularly pleasant to wake up on one of those days finding yourself having to go somewhere, even if it a wee two night trip away to York.
On our first visit to the station, at around half past nine, there was a reasonably sized crowd of expectant passengers moving around the Station’s innards, going from shop to shop, buying coffees, taking seats on the metallic benches to await further news and queuing in the various ticket offices to try and find out more information. A looping recorded message was continually playing over the tannoy, as Ka and myself took our seats to wait.
A few hours, we thought, then everything will have calmed down and will return to normality. Like the festive season, all the fuss will be over before we know it and things will all get moving again.
The recorded voice repeated something along the lines of “all rail journeys are now suspended until further notice”, as pairs of reporters circled around arriving and leaving commuters, one reporter with a large mike and the other with a giant television camera perched on his shoulder (I’d have thought those would have shrunk a little by this day and age?).
My stomach was grumbling before I was about the trains.
We left, had a large breakfast round at The Social on Royal Exchange Square and relaxed a little before heading back to the station to catch our, now hopefully operating, train.
As it happened, the only thing operating was the 30p machine to get into the loos.
Dad had drove us in after we had stood at the bus stop for around twenty minutes in the strong winds. He had called before we had left, offering his driving services, but we had refused, underestimating the craziness of the weather that was to meet us outside, as we forced our way through the winds towards the main road. I pulled Ka’s two day supplies and my two shirts and boxer shorts in our silver case behind me.
My suspicions should have been aroused, before leaving, by the paddling pool lying vertically outside our kitchen window.
As we left the flat, it was like entering some kind of war zone. A greener Libya. Wheelie bins lay over the entirety of the street, potato peelings and lidl carrier bags ferociously circling the surrounding roads like angry animals. Things, objects, stuff that certainly wasn’t leaves, flying past your face as you walked.
As we battled through the wind we passed a large, half obliterated, giant trampoline, lying over the pavement, poles spread and shaking, netting twisted and ripped, having obviously blown from a garden somewhere in the vicinity. I briefly considered filming it but decided it had probably carried out it’s best ‘You’ve Been Framed’ moment already.
We then inadvertently stepped on to a large, jagged half sheet of glass, laid across the pavement. Moments later we came across various other debris such as blocks of wood and more shards of glass. It wasn’t until we made our way further along the street that we noticed that one of the blocks of flats had lost half of it’s close entrance porch. It looked as if it had been half demolished. One side of the close box and it’s door remained standing along with it’s security entry code box, it’s wires flapping and flailing wilding in the wind.
One of Calderwood’s biggest trees was lying sprawled over a pavement, blocking our way to the main road, it’s ripped edges still spawning shreds of splinter like a giant fresh wound.
After seeing the devastation and realising there wasn’t going to be a Number 20 along any time soon, we called Dad. He had offered, I shrugged.
Following a quiet Hogmanay with some Morgan Spice and Jools Holland, we spent New Years Day at the Leckie household for dinner, where Mum had volunteered herself as driver. Angela and Steven worked hard in the kitchen feeding the McGarvas and Reids a large dinner followed by various games and quizzes, including Pictionary Catchphrase and a 30 question 2011 quiz, cobbled together by yours truly.
Ka, Morgan and myself won the Catchphrase with two winning sketches of ‘Wearing your heart on your sleeve’ and ‘Cloak and dagger’, these whole two points fending off any competition there might have been from the other assembled teams.
The 3 Wise Men were the triumphant team in the 2011 quiz. What you may have thought to be an ironic turn of phrase for Dad, Colin and Steven’s team, turned out to be more than fair play as they beat the Christmas Belle’s, Betty, Jillian and Lynsey Ann’s team, by a whole one point. This one point may or may not have been down to the fact that the girls didn’t know that Paddington bear preferred marmalade sandwiches to Marmalade itself. An unfortunate mistake, and one that cost them dearly, causing a little dispute, a bit of an argument and a lot of noise, and any noise made in Angela and Steven’s high ceilinged living room can’t be good for the neighbours. Voices just gather in those giant, high walled rooms, accumulating at the ceiling and rebounding off the walls just like a large rubber bouncy ball of noise.
The noise was made worse by Dougie’s complaining about the handing out of bonus points for Kevin McAllister’s full name and no such point for Silvio Berlusconi’s, which he hadn’t even got right anyway.
All fun and games.
As was today, rearranging our trip to York in the Central station ticket office.
It’ll have to be a mere one night stay now, and that’s if we get there at all. We should jump on to one of those spinning trampolines! They might get us there quicker.

More cuddles this year

2011-12-31T13:11:00.000-08:00

Well, Christmas season is over with once more and the bells to bring in 2012 are almost upon us. ‘Still Game’, ‘Only An excuse?’ and all the usual Jackie Bird shenanigans will be on the telly once more to help celebrate the new year. All of which I’ll be steering way clear of.
Christmas hasn’t been too bad. Don’t get me wrong, it’s been emotional and sad at times what with Lucy’s absence and her own birthday on the 29th but we’ve managed to pull through it. That’s all you can do in such circumstances. Family and friends have all helped, of course, and we’ve had more than a few messages and cards both through the post, by phone, text, and online which have all been a great comfort to us. Cuddles from family members that could rival Gentle Bens' and a few more, harder cheek kisses from Aunties and Mums than the usual share in a year.
Christmas day dawned and Ka and myself awoke with yet more wind pummelling the windows of the flat. We flicked on the Christmas tree lights and sat with our orange juice, pausing to look over at our wee framed picture of Lucy before exchanging more presents and trying to be happy and festive. Ka bought me a rather brilliant new jacket among other things whilst Ka opened a small parcel containing a necklace with a silver tear shaped charm engraved with Lucy’s own foot and hand print. Ka had seen similar jewellery pieces throughout the year, on her many wandering online, so over various emails to a nice jewellery maker named Victoria, at mybellaboo.co.uk, in mid November, I had organised this piece as a special commemorative Christmas present for Ka. Another gift was another necklace, this one with a crystal heart shaped charm containing a single grain of rice engraved with Lucy’s name and her date of birth. The grain of rice symbolising her small, pure, fragile life.
Don’t worry though. Ka did receive some cheerful presents. I bought her and the two Mums tickets to see the Strictly Come Dancing live tour at the SECC. The finalists will all be there, including Harry Judd, Chelsee Healey and Jason Donavan, along with Robbie Savage. So that should be something for the ladies to look forward to.
The two Mum’s were delighted anyway after they opened their own individually laminated certificates, hastily made up on my last day of work before the Christmas weekend.
We hit the McGarva’s first this year, from the kitchen of Dougie and Grace we enjoyed a full English breakfast with Colin and Jillian, before visiting Angela, Steven and the kids in Bothwell after another visitation from the ever messy Santa Claus.
He always seems to leave snowy footprints all over their front room, leading out from the large fireplace. It’s a right giveaway. Surely he should try and be a bit more subtle with his entrance? Morgan will have him well sussed by now. She’ll probably be waiting in the dark front room next year, behind a couch, waiting to leap out.
Angela gifted Ka another thoughtful, commemorative present in the form of a Thomas Sabo charm bracelet. I’m afraid, as ignorant as I am, I had no idea who Thomas Sabo was. In fact I misheard what was being said and thought Angela had said Saville. Jimmy’s brother perhaps? Perhaps it was a special chunky bracelet to wear the next time we were doing a marathon or fun run?
Angela and Steven gifted me the Steve Jobs autobiography, another brick of a book but one which I shall take great interest in. It’ll be interesting to read how much of a genius/freak, he really was.
We left Bothwell, as Angela and Steven prepared for the arrival of their dinner guests, Grace and Dougie, and drove up to Chapelton to see my folks who were already entertaining some of their dinner guests.
Auntie Tricia, cousin Martin, Auntie Ann and Uncle Tommy had already arrived and after a yet another cuddle fest and happy present exchange my other Uncle Tom arrived with Aunt Linda and her Mum, Nan. Mum was feeding all ten of them, once Ka and myself had left to enjoy our own, quiet, meal for two back at the flat.
It had always been the plan to have this Christmas ourselves in our own wee flat, obviously now with an amended head count. Upon arriving home, we lit Lucy’s candle, held by a small glass angel which stands before her picture.
With a few glasses of wine, a beautiful dinner and a veritable bevy of Christmas telly we made the best of the day and spent the rest of our Christmas evening quietly relaxing together.
Now it’s New Year. The three days of work since Christmas Day are over. My time off starts here with a week away from the office. Ka and myself went into town yesterday to hit the sales, battling the crowds in the rain soaked streets, struggling to keep cheerful following the day before which would have been, or rather is, Lucy’s birthday.
The family gathered at Lucy’s graveside on the 29th followed by a small buffet lunch at our wee flat. What should have been a birthday party was a commemorative lunch.
A year ago tonight Ka and myself arrived home from the hospital, mentally scarred for life. I’ll never forget that. Tired, desolate and in extreme mental pain and anguish as fireworks exploded in the air over the streets around us and most other folk celebrated the arrival of 2011.
What fools they were…
Here’s to 2012. Let’s hope it’s happier all round.

Birthday

2011-12-29T11:25:00.000-08:00

Put your arms around her Lord,
Don't leave her on her own
For today it is Lucy's birthday,
Her first and away from home.

Thinking of you on your birthday
We talk of you still,
We haven't forgotten you
And we never will.

Tears instead of wishes,
Flowers instead of cards,
You left us brief precious memories
That will stay within our hearts.

Instead of a card
We send our love
Instead of a gift, we say a prayer
To the one we thought the world of
And miss beyond compare.

Thinking of you on your birthday Lucy
But that is nothing new
For no day dawns and no day ends
Without a thought of you.

Chrimbo joys

2011-12-24T15:26:00.000-08:00

We awoke at around nine this morning.
“Do you think we could just stay like this, go under the covers, and hibernate until the New Year?” Ka asked me. The idea was good but unfortunately, pretty unlikely, especially considering I’m back to work on Monday morning. I’ve got a week holiday in the first week of January and worked five days this week in order to get Lucy’s first birthday off so I can’t really relax properly until Wednesday night. Until then I’m just going to have to enjoy my Christmas weekend to the best of my ability. My ability, however, is not really up to much this year.
Anyway, Ka and myself couldn’t hibernate. Colin and Jillian were popping round for breakfast so we had to get up and get organised. They were visiting the cemetery so Ka and myself had invited them round for some breakfast. After throwing myself under the shower, I ran out and filled the car up with petrol for the driving around tomorrow as Ka picked up the phone to her sister and got the breakfast organised. On getting back from the garage I went straight to the kitchen and fired up the hobs, cooking up a mini fry up for the two visitors including bacon, egg, one slice of black pudding and plenty of toast and tea. The hastily made breakfast was then followed by mince pies and Ferrero Rocher and the exchanging of presents, which, of course, were not opened. To do so would be sacrilege and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve been punished enough, for a wee while at least.
Colin is working over Christmas which is why he and Jillian were doing their Christmas tour today, visiting their various households. Ka and myself followed them out and headed into Glasgow to see the new Sherlock Holmes movie – ‘A Game of Shadows’. Another excellent, entertaining effort from Guy Ritchie with the brilliant Downey Junior as the London sleuth.
It was either that or the current festive animation, ‘Arthur Christmas’ but, like the inn in Bethlehem, it was fully booked. Chaz had been raving about ‘Arthur Christmas’ at the chrimbo gathering in the flat last weekend so I had been temporarily tempted by the colourful cartoon in an effort to fill us with some Christmas cheer.
It’s all slightly odd.
Christmas, supposedly the happiest time of the year and Ka and myself are struggling to keep our faces on. The happy, be merry face, that most people seem to manage with ease at this time of year. Even Scrooge in all his various forms, be it a colourised Alastair Sim, Michael Cain talking to Kermit or Bill Murray as a tv tycoon, even cracked a smile and had a merry cheer about them on Christmas day.
Always, at the back of our minds, will be the thoughts that things could all have been very different this year. Could have been and should have been.
Instead of waking up, full of the Chrimbo joys, Ka and myself will be making our way to the cemetery to visit Lucy. After this we’ll continue in the usual routine of visiting the three family households, only this time with considerably less Christmas spirit about us.
That’s if we even make it that far.
Hibernation seems like a good idea all of a sudden. Especially after the out of date mulled wine I’ve just had half a bottle of following a Carol service and vigil mass over at the local church.
The back of the bottle claimed ‘it is recommended that you do not consume this product six months after purchase’. I purchased it three Christmases ago. It’s quite nice. I’m enjoying it anyway. It is quite pungent…
As long as I don’t mix my drinks I’ll be okay.
Merry Christmas everyone, and to all a good night.

The season of the spirit

2011-12-20T15:00:00.000-08:00

Peace and quiet. Saturday afternoon, alone in the flat. Ka was out at the hairdressers, attending the usual Christmas party at Alan’s, along with the salon’s other monthly Saturday afternoon regulars. Ka and myself were having our annual Chrimbo flat gathering in the evening, so it was very much the calm before the storm, and the perfect time to tackle some painting (as long as I hoovered up after myself, I was told).
I once more set up my easel to tackle my latest, a portrait of the great Al Pacino, which I have been trying to progress for the past three months. I've spent more than a few afternoons on this particular portrait and it's now getting more than a little frustrating. I had thought he may have been one of the easier ones with his prominent nose, heavily lined eyes, messy hair, creased chin. These features make Pacino’s face one of the most recognisable in recent cinema.
Or so you’d think. He’s turning out to be a far harder portrait than previous efforts. The quiet worked, to an extent though, and the painting did progress, just not as far as I'd hoped. The frustration got the better of me and I gave up at one point, taking some time out with a bowl of pasta, collapsing on to the couch to watch half of ‘Planes, Trains and Automobiles’ the story of another fairly frustrated fellow in the form of Steve Martin.
Eventually going back to the easel I battled on with Pacino's jawline until around half past five when the phone disturbed the quiet, and it was only then that I realised I was painting in near darkness. Ka was nearly finished, so I set off in the car to pick her up after clearing the majority of the art materials up.
Ka emerged from 'Nutters' with a new hairdo and a big smile on her face after a few glasses of wine, so I got away with the fact I hadn't yet hoovered the living room yet. Alan and the gathered women in the salon all called on me to come in to the salon as I stood awkwardly in the doorway, inviting me like the sirens on the rocks. Thankfully I resisted, insisting that I'd left the car running and escaped unhindered.
After getting home, I gave the flat a quick hoover and a tidy around, Ka lit the Christmas candles, the Christmas lights were switched on, the crisps and nuts were dispensed, the beer was made ready in the fridge and the ice stocks checked. Everything was set.
Chris, Pauline and Chaz were the first to arrive at around quarter to eight, the two girls and Ka immediately congregating in the kitchen as Chaz and myself settled down on the couches with our first beer to talk about the past week.
Chaz had been on location in Glasgow during the week, working as an extra on the latest Scarlett Johansson movie following his stint escaping zombies in George Square back in August.
Roslyn, Iain, Martin and Claire then arrived around half an hour later with some bottles, pressies and a 'Deal or No Deal' DVD game which we did eventually have a game of, halfway through the night, but unfortunately lost interest in. I think it may have had something to do with the fact we had to sit and listen to Noel Edmonds.
Ka handed out the now traditional Christmas snowballs, advocaat with lemonade, which this year was spiced up with the addition of a little Morgans rum, recommended to Ka by one of the sirens earlier. Soon after that Chaz was handing out the shots, Di Saronno Amaretto, being the weapon of choice, the midori and the Jack Daniels was getting cracked open and Iain was even giving shots of Buckfast out from his second bottle, a challenge which only a few plucked up the courage to accept.
Reality tv, hair transplants, Matt Smith as the Doctor and favourite movies were among the subjects discussed throughout the night as Ka served up pizzas and party food in the kitchen. Reminisces of movies that we watched as kids became a talking point, Chaz, the guy who watched ‘Predator’ and ‘Robcop’ when he was seven, remembering the terrors of Martin Rosen’s 'Watership Down'. With it’s haunting music, nightmarish imagery, themes of creation, death, destruction, animal pack mentality and brutality along with it’s tense, unsettling atmosphere it did seem to disturb more than a few kids who had been expecting another ‘Bambi’.
I’ll always remember the evil General Woundwort, the evil Rabbit chief with the glass eye (Was it a glass eye? Can rabbit’s get glass eyes?).
Not to mention that stupid bird with the annoying voice.
Apparently another of Chaz’s favourites was 'Chitty Chitty Gang Bang'.
I’m not sure where he was going for his videos when he was a kid?
He claimed this film title to be a slip of the tongue, of course, and went on to say how the Child Catcher had freaked him out.
But then, who didn’t that guy freak out? He was certainly a good bit freakier than any Predator or General Woundwort.
After Pauline and Chris left to prepare for their early starts the next morning, we got the obligatory Christmas tunes out and whilst having a wee dance, argued over which was better. My choice of John Lennon’s ‘War is Over’ was shouted off, and Elton John and The Waitresses were shouted for instead. Chaz got to listen to his choice of ‘A Spaceman Came Travelling’ before that was forwarded two thirds of the way through, at which point he rolled over on the couch and conked out. A first for Chaz if ever there was one. The rest of us continued until around half four in the morning until we all started to wilt.
I woke up the next morning to the sound of the bottle bin getting some serious fuel in the close outside. Ka was up and about, whirring around the flat in her pink polka dot dressing gown. Chaz blinked from the couch at around eleven as Ka gave him a shout, wanting her living room back, itching to get the hoovering done and settle down to watch Strictly Come Dancing on the iPlayer with a nice cup of coffee. I got up out of bed for long enough to see him off, the two of us looking a bit worse for wear after the Amaretto shots, and then immediately fell back into my pit, leaving Ka to watch Harry Judd’s triumph.
Chris appeared at the door a little later. Again I got up out of bed long enough to greet her and her wee grandchild, Chloe, who, after removing her wellies at the door, marched rather quickly into the living room, avoiding the smelly, dishevelled looking state lumbering out of the nearby bedroom. As the three girls sang a cute rendition of ‘Jingle Bells’ in the living room, I knew there was going to be no chance of getting any more sleep.

Christmas trees and clockwork

2011-12-15T04:11:00.000-08:00

Whilst lying watching ‘The Mummy Returns’, on Saturday afternoon, I barely made it through half a piece of toast before I had to rush to the toilet and dispose of some stomach innards. Mixing beer with wine is never a good idea and should always be steered well clear of. Unfortunately, as it was the work Christmas dinner the night before, this didn’t quite happen and I’d fallen into the same old trap.
Still, my trip to the toilet seat made me feel much better, so, afterwards, Ka and myself headed out on our annual trip to the local Homebase to buy a nice, fresh, and most importantly, real, Christmas tree.
It's always either Homebase or B&Q, the prices are much the same, though not, unfortunately, year to year.
The Christmas trees have shot up. The tree prices have risen in another year. The pricetag seems to be jumping up by a fiver every year.
Last year we forked out £30 for a 5ft - 6ft tree and this year we struggled to find a decent looking tree under £35.
What's going on? Are Christmas trees getting scarce? Is global warming killing them off, decreasing their number? Or are the Tree Growers Association just getting a bit greedy?
Inflation and recession, I’m sure that’ll be to blame.
We ended up economizing this year and bought a shorter, 4ft to 5ft, Cut Nordman Fir at £25. It seems a good deal shorter than our usual tree but still doesn't look too small in our wee flat. Once it was home, up, lit and decorated it looked great in the corner of the living room.
As much I dislike the idea of buying an artificial tree, it may have to be done at some point in the years ahead in order to save the pennies. Either that or a few years down the line Ka and myself will be finding ourselves somewhere in the middle of Whitelee Wind Farm, at the back end of East Kilbride, in the middle of the night, chopping the top six foot off one of their giant Firs. There’s plenty of trees up there and the paths are always open for a perfectly innocent Christmas walk, with my Dad’s chainsaw.
Getting the tree decorated was the next challenge.
Why is something so trivial and something that should be enjoyed, whilst bopping along to Kim Wilde or Shakin Stevens, always such a bl**dy hassle?
Somehow, during the past year, alone, in their cardboard box, the tree lights had tangled themselves up. They were now involved in some sort of twisted, spaghetti like, tightly packed mess. For half an hour I sat on the couch untying Christmas lights, huffing and puffing. The line of golden beads then had to be untangled and then I discovered Ka had wrapped all our baubles up in layers of bubblewrap, as if they were travelling to some distant destination by Royal Mail handlers or taking part in some sort of Krpton Factor like pass the parcel challenge.

One tree ornament I’d ordered for the tree this year was a special decoration in memory of Lucy. A rather nice glass heart with a gold lettered print over it. I’d found them around a month or so ago online (keepsakekreations.co.uk). Ka hung the heart on a branch alongside Lucy’s small Christmas bear.
After a good workout at the gym on Sunday morning we took a trip into town and threw ourselves into the masses for an hour or so for some Christmas shopping before seeing Martin Scorsese's new film, 'Hugo'.
‘Hugo’ is a brilliantly realised family fantasy starring the Boy in the Striped Pyjamas' Asa Butterfield, as a young orphan who survives behind the walls of Paris' largest Railway Station carrying out his missing, drunken Uncle’s jobs of keeping the station’s clocks running on time. From his vantage point, up behind the large clock faces which inhabit the station, Hugo watches life go on, seeing the film’s various secondary characters playing out their lives who include Sacha ‘Ali G’ Cohen who plays a war scarred Station Inspector, Frances de la Tour the local coffee shop owner and Christopher Lee, the owner of the second hand book shop. All live out their daily lives unaware of Hugo’s watchful eyes from behind the clocks hanging from the high girdered roof, whilst the young boy works at repairing the one thing left to him by his father, an old clockwork, automaton.
Hugo soon befriends Isabelle, a girl under the care of one of the station’s other daily inhabitants, a miserable old toy shop owner, played by Ben Kingsley, who turns out to have a whole other side to him, a film director from before the war. A past he struggles to live without.
Through the movie, and the creative genius of Ben Kingsley’s character and the young, innocent, spellbound eyes of Hugo, Scorsese illustrates his own obvious love for cinema and it’s origins, perhaps looking back on his own early inspirations in movie making. Along with hints of old director’s such as Fritz Lang and directors of our own age, such as Speilberg and Jean-Pierre Jeunet, Scorsese creates a brilliant piece of feel good Christmas cinema.
Saying that, for a family film there was quite a lot of depressing themes involved in the story. Death, loss, bereavement, aging, the effects of war, the dashing of dreams, the ongoing, ever persistent onslaught of time.
Not ideal entertainment and escapism is it?
I’m surprised the economy, the state of the euro, the latest unemployment figures, the ongoing uncertainty at S&UN and the inflating price of real Christmas trees, weren’t mentioned, just to increase the season’s spirit.

Swinging with the women

2011-12-14T09:50:00.000-08:00

Bow ties. Beers. Red wine. Turkey dinners with small amounts of vegetables. Christmas tree table decor. Frank Sinatra soundalikes. Slagging. Dancing. Laughing and drinking.
Last Friday night was the S&UN Chrimbo night out and nine of us gathered in EK’s The Byre for drinks and dinner. Since the depletion of our office work force we hadn't been out so it was good to have everyone out and socialising somewhere that wasn't a Hamilton newspaper office.
Dave and myself were the first to arrive with the help of a local taxi service run by his Mrs, Tracey, not forgetting his two wee boys. The two boys pestered Dave as he drove, demanding sweets and pizza, before we escaped into the warmth of the Byre, Dave immediately ordering up the first drinks while we awaited the arrival of our other work colleagues.
DVD Andy and Creamy Chicken John were next in the door, looking around the subdued golden colours on the bar for any recognisable faces, whilst me and Dave shouted repeatedly from the corner of the room, behind them.
Before Friday, Andy had been speculating as to what I was going to wear to my Chrimbo night out as, much to the amusement of my work colleagues, I always wear a tie to work. He was jesting that I'd probably turn up in my shell suit and trainers or some such. With all this in mind, and since it was a special occasion, I thought I’d roll out the barrel.
While everyone else was probably enjoying a small tipple, beer or wine to kick off their night, before leaving the house, I was struggling with a bow tie. I knew I had to raise the stakes and thought it would be good for a laugh, so had dug it out before leaving the house. Mum and Dad had bought me the red tie last year after I purchased a tuxedo for some sort of, now forgotten, event. After a year of owning it you’d have thought it would have been a little easier to fit but with the complication of resizing it to the right neck width, which, thankfully, hasn't quite started expanding yet, I was somehow standing at the hall mirror for around ten to fifteen minutes.
As John and Andy greeted us at our chosen pew I pulled my scarf down from around my neck to reveal my glorious red bow tie. Andy laughed, shook his head and walked off to the bar to sort out his first pint. Anyway, my toil and effort at the hall mirror paid off as mostly everyone had a good laugh at the tie had a good laugh with me, or at me, whichever. Christine and Lorna were next to turn up, followed by Kathleen and then, eventually, Andy Noble and Andrea who'd taxi'd it over from Hamilton.
Dinner was average. A bread crumb covered Goats cheese as starter followed by a pretty minimal Christmas dinner. A grand total of two pieces of carrot were arranged with my turkey alongside a whole 2 baby potatoes. As always with Christmas dinner there did seem to be an abundance of sprouts rolling around the thin layer of gravy over the plate. Photos were taken, wine was drank, people were slagged, handbrakes dissected and vajazzles were discussed, perhaps a little too loudly. We did get a few looks and comments from a glamorous bunch of women at the next table, out for a Christmas night out themselves, who started chatting John and Andy up as we neared the end of dinner.
After a few glasses of red, the Chrimbo pudding turned up, a small circle of brown in the centre of a large plate. There wasn't even any sign of blue flame flickering over it.
The meal was sufficient. Another overpriced Christmas meal. But it's okay. What do you expect? It's Christmas? Restaurant meals always seem to shrink with the arrival of the chrimbo period. At least on this work chrimbo night out we weren't paying for any surprise wine bills.
After dinner we all descended to the lower levels of the Byre to enjoy the Swing night. A voice had been heard earlier in the night, emanating from the downstairs area so we all took our drinks down to check it out. Unfortunately, when we walked into the darker, louder bar, we realised there wasn't much in the way of swing going on. The 'voice' was no where to be seen. We chose a table anyway and all took a seat as Dave, who'd been silently elected as kitty man, went to the bar once more to sort us all out for drinks. Moments later the bunch of women, from the adjacent table in the dining room, filtered down the stairs and took a table in the corner of the room before the singer eventually crept out from the shadows, from his place at the bar and switched on his music machine. Before long he was swinging away on the small, slightly raised stage at the front of the bar, belting out a few Rat Pack tunes mixed with a couple of Christmas songs and a smattering of more modern numbers from the likes of The Killers and Robbie Williams. As the lower bar started to liven up with our presence we all started to get overly loud, and overly happy, myself especially, it would seem, as I've ended up on camera using a table Christmas tree decoration as some kind of phallic object, DVD Andy was caught in an odd moment of pleasure and John was caught letching the women from the other table.
As we all continued to enjoy the festive spirits, John was suddenly pulled up on to the dancefloor by a couple of the desperate housewives from the corner of the bar, after he'd been asked to do the honours and take a couple of photos. DVD Andy almost spat out his drink as John accepted and swung his way up to the dancefloor surrounded by an excited gaggle of the dancing ladies.
It was then that the wife turned up.
No, not John's wife. My wife.
Ka had been out for dinner in Glasgow with friends, Lynsey and Michelle. They'd enjoyed dinner at an Italian restaurant and then some spiced mulled wine at the German market in St. Enoch's Square. Since both Ka and Lynsey were heading back to East Kilbride on the train, they decided to crash our work night out, disembarking at Hairmyres and then pulling a chair up at our table as the Byre's singer crooned away. Unable to keep the pace, or just unwilling to be manhandled on to the dancefloor, Andy Noble and Andrea escaped early into a taxi leaving the rest of us to drink, dance and shout the rest of the night away.
Lorna, Christine and Kathleen were soon enticed up for a dance and making moves along with Andy and John, and even I was pulled up by one of the dancing women in the female gang of Christmas jivers. Lynsey and Ka made themselves welcome and even got a free glass of wine from the barman for their trouble and my cousin Chris dropped by the table for a quick chat, having just finished his shift in the kitchens.
As always, time seemed to travel faster with the alcohol consumption and before we knew it the Byre's crooner had left the stage, the music had deteriorated into unidentifiable noises and everyone started making their way home, or at least, to the bar upstairs, for a night cap, until our taxis turned up. The taxis waited, waited, and then drove off, replaced shortly afterwards with a short call from Dave on the mobile.
Needless to say the next morning was non existent.
It was afternoon before I managed to open my eyes, enough to watch the first half of 'The Mummy Returns' in bed. Couldn't quite manage the whole movie.

An announcement

2011-12-09T04:35:00.001-08:00

As Dave and myself slipped and slid our way up the icey streets of Hamilton to work on Tuesday morning, we met one of the Sub editor’s on the way up the hill.
“Did you here there’s to be an announcement today?”, the Sub Editor asked us as we walked up the treacherous roads. I rolled my eyes.
The dreaded ‘announcement’.
A word that has filled me with great suspicion and depression, ever since I started work at Scottish & Universal newspapers.
Generally, when there was to be an ‘announcement’ in S&UN it meant one of few things. The production of titles being halted, offices closing or more than a few people losing their jobs. Unfortunately the third possibility has been the most recurring instance in my six years at the company, so I walked into the office with a heavy heart and sat down at my desk, grimly wondering what the eleven o’clock summoning was all about.
The employees, throughout the whole building, were instructed to gather in the Advertising department, so, at the specified time, we all shuffled down the corridor and into the large, high ceilinged, office to find the big boss waiting on us. We all stood in a brewing silence, awaiting this new announcement as the last few stragglers made their way into the office.
"We are delighted to announce..." the boss immediately started with a most unusual and unexpected term of phrase taking me by surprise. This must be an announcement with a difference, I thought. 'Delighted' is a pretty strong word, especially in a company announcement. Delighted is pleasant surprise. Joy. Smiling with raised eyebrows. What was such a word doing here? That wasn't supposed to happen.Where was the suspected grim announcement of doom?
The big boss explained, reading from a printed sheet. It seems Scottish & Universal Newspapers is to merge with the other divisions of Trinity Mirror in Scotland including the Daily Record and the Sunday Mail making a brand new 'Media Scotland', together making Scotland's biggest publishing business. The boss then went on to talk of the vast numbers this new company would reach, the reformation capitalising its resources to reach all corners of the market and make an audience of up to 1.5 million readers every day. The new management team was announced along with the official announcement of the departure of Bruce Waddell, who had been the Editor-in-Chief of the Daily Record for the past eight years.
The boss told us all that we should be proud to be present at the birth of a new age, a new era in Scottish publishing, the birth of a new business which well reshape the Scottish media landscape for years to come. He then told us it would be a month before he had any more, substantial news for us regarding the reformation.
A month to wait for further details... Following the heavy loss over in Glasgow's Central Quay Daily Record in the past summer and what we, in S&UN Prepress have just been through ourselves in the past year, a team of 30 odd reduced to 12, it's hard to be optimistic about all this, especially with the usual tales of gloom and doom circulating around the offices almost as soon as we left the advertising department on Tuesday morning. The content sharing move and merging of companies is a move which may well mean yet more redundancies and job losses.What will happen in a month's time? What does the New Year have in store for us?
Christmas and New Year are going to be difficult enough for myself and Ka as it is, without having to worry about my job. So I am not going to. Ka and myself have been through, and are still going though, worse. Lucy's anniversary preys heavily on our minds, ever more so with the approach of Christmas and New Year, so getting us through December has to be my personal, number one priority at the moment. I'll worry about S&UN later.

The finest tea available to humanity

2011-12-08T12:12:00.001-08:00

The rain continued to fall outside, soaking the surrounding Bothwell, whilst Ka and myself took our seats in the Silverwells restaurant for our Afternoon tea. We had planned to get a bus to our posh afternoon appointment at the swanky Bothwell restaurant but, thankfully, my Dad had come to the rescue over the phone and offered us a lift, earlier in the morning. After I'd come off the phone to him I looked out the window to see the rain sweeping through our street in sheets making travelling by bus an extremely unpleasant and unlikely prospect.
I’d never had Afternoon Tea before. Angela had bought Ka and myself it, as a gift for our Wedding Anniversary, back in July. I’d always thought Afternoon tea was for either little old ladies or snobby rich and privileged housewives. Miss Marple used to attend Afternoon tea quite a lot from what I remember. It also reminds me of that great scene in ‘Withnail and I’ where Richard E. Grant and Paul McGann stote into a small English countryside tea shop, in the middle of the afternoon, and demand “the finest wines available to humanity” from Mrs Blennerhassett, the frightened little lady who was dishing out the tea and scones to the surrounding, glaring, old ladies.
Thankfully there were no old ladies in Silverwells on Saturday afternoon. We stepped into the large elegant restaurant to find it empty, each table immaculately set for the coming Saturday night.
The Spanish Maitre D’ welcomed us and sat us down at a small table for two near the front of the dining room, where the old building’s large bay window looked out into the restaurant’s car park and surrounding Bothwell streets, still suffering under the gloom of the grey clouds rumbling overhead.
We started with a glass of prosecco, delivered to us by the small Spaniard (at least I think he was Spanish, Ka and myself had a slight debate about that over our wine) who immediately started up conversation by asking where we were from and what the occasion was. We told him where and the Maitre D’ revealed himself to be a native of East Kilbride, himself, at least for the past forty years anyway. Specifically Tasman Drive, just off Rockhampton, in the Westwood. At least I think that’s what he said, his Spanish accent (or French) was still quite thick, even after 40 years. I then told him we were celebrating our first wedding anniversary. Ka didn’t seem to bat an eyelid until halfway through the Maitre D’s following conversation, at which point she must have realised what I’d said. Once the waiter had beetled off to talk to the kitchen, (I’m not sure if it was a specific appliance), Ka was not slow in pointing my mistake out to which I frowned and slowly nodded with realisation. I almost used the old, ‘how times flies when your having fun’, phrase, but stopped myself.
Not that I haven’t enjoyed married life so far, just that it hasn’t all exactly been a barrel of laughs, a feeling which, I’m sure, most husbands would admit to at the best of times and that’s without the tragedy of a losing a child.
Shortly after, our tea and coffee was delivered with a silver, two-tier, stand full of sandwiches and cakes. Sandwiches of tuna, ham salad, cheese and pickle. Scones with jam and clotted cream. Flap jacks. Meringues. Caramel shortcake. All were mounted on the cake stand before us, making us feel overweight, just by looking at them. There was even good old Scottish Dumpling. The teas and coffees also arrived with large round piece of shortbread biscuit, sitting tilted on the edge of their porcelain saucers. There was no way we were going to get through this lot.
Soon after making our way through the sandwiches the Maitre D’ was back and talked of his work in EK’s Bruce Hotel, his experience as a sales rep in a whiskey company, his wife whom he’d immigrated for, his family, his friends and the fact he knew Mr. Kennedy, the Spanish and R.E. teacher from St. Brides High, who was now living it up in a Spanish villa, just outside Alicante.
In fact, the Head waiter told probably us a good portion of his life story.
He would talk for a short time and then say he was leaving us to our tea, before coming back another ten minutes later and starting up another conversation.
At one point he asked us if we had kids. To which we hesitantly and uncertainly shook our heads but then told him about Lucy. You’d think this would shut most folk up, but no. After a short apology he was off again, talking about his son and his family and how they were off to Spain.
He was a lovely man though, even though he made our teas and coffees go cold on more than one occasion. He may have realised this though as he organised more than one tea and coffee refill for us, each coming with yet another large shortbread biscuit, to join the previous other two, moved to the cake stand.
Halfway through the afternoon, after I’d finished my share of the sandwiches and cakes, the Maitre D’ beckoned us away from our table, just as I was biting into Ka’s flapjack, to give us a guided tour of the large old Victorian house which Silverwells now occupies. The large, colourful stained glass window, standing halfway up the large staircase in the hallway, shone in what light it could muster from the skies overhead creating a calm, ambient atmosphere in the welcoming hallway, now decorated by lines of small sparkling Christmas lights. The Maitre D’ led us up the stairs and around the large function rooms upstairs, showing us the large, private dining room and the three remaining rooms which, when connected by way of the large opening double doors in adjoining walls, made up Silverwells’ largest function suite and bar, for parties of up to 80 people.
All very interesting, I thought, but my tea was getting cold.
The Maitre D’ done a good job in selling the place anyway, and my interest in the function rooms was apparently so believable that it led Ka to become a little uncomfortable, half expecting me to bring out my debit card and book one of the function suites, there and then for something, anything. Sign the dotted line for some strange, mystical party night in the future. Any event would do.
Upon returning to our table we ordered a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio just as a few more customers started arriving for lunch and afternoon tea and we soon found ourselves thankfully being neglected by the over eager Head Waiter.
As the two of us sat chatting over a fine glass of wine, and the rain continued to pour down outside, it seemed like a long time since Ka and myself had enjoyed such a lazy, calorie filled, afternoon.
A nice way to celebrate our first Wedding anniversary. Seventeen months late.

Chutes, wine, beer and jam

2011-11-29T14:41:00.001-08:00

Joshua wasn't too impressed at first. To be fair to him he'd only just woken up not ten minutes before and had found himself surrounded by relations.
Waking up and finding yourself surrounded by grinning relations looking directly at you can't be fun, so why should we think that it would be okay for a kid?
Can you imagine waking up on your couch from an afternoon nap to find your living room filled with various Mums, Dads, Aunties and Uncles, all sitting chatting, drinking, grinning and taking photos of you? Even if your Dad did come over and try and cajole you into being sociable it would take you at least fifteen minutes to come round to any idea of putting up with it, never mind liking the sudden invasion.
Joshua remained in his Dad's arms for around fifteen minutes, taking everything in, before being lowered to the floor in the hallway. His cousins Ross and Jack were wildly running around in circles as usual, speeding through the various rooms, Morgan not far behind them. Grace and Dougie were seated in the lounge and chatting away to Steven's cousins, his brother David and his Uncle John, whilst Jillian and Colin stood chatting in the living room's doorway, Jillian a little worse for wear after a big night out, including karaoke, the previous night.
Ka and myself were late and arrived through the heavy rain of Saturday afternoon. As a birthday gift for our wee nephew we bought a big, bright, blue and green plastic slide and came up with the idea of decorating it in balloons before we arrived to give it to him. We made a brief stop at Sainsburys to buy flowers for Angela and a bag of, what turned out to be, rather disappointing, supposedly animal shaped balloons. Ka and myself sat in the car, in the middle of the rain soaked Sainsbury's car park, blowing the balloons up to stick to the plastic slide, our inanimate third passenger, stretched across the whole of the car's back seat. Unfortunately these balloons were in no way animal shaped, not to any stretch of the imagination, but refusing to go back into the shop for more rubber we begrudgingly stuck them on to the plastic slide with sellotape. They'd have to do.
After being released on to the floor Ka and myself tried to introduce him to his birthday present, now standing in the hallway, the pathetic looking balloons bobbing around pitifully at the top of it’s mighty peak, three foot up. Joshua frowned and grumpily shook his head, waddling off in another direction.
He preferred the look of his Thomas the Tank Engine, that Colin and Jillian had bought him. A push cart version of the familiar blue steam locomotive with the big, grey, grinning face and the Liverpudlian voice. Joshua ran up to the push car, taking a hold of the back, red push rail and ran off into the living room. Colin was delighted and claimed victory in buying the best birthday present. Ka and myself laughed and joked artificially, kidding on we weren't that bothered, grumbled jealously and wandered off, heads drooping despondently.
However, after around twenty minutes of waking up time, and with a little gentle encouragement from Colin, his Granpa Dougie, and myself, Joshua was soon making his way up the short ladder and sitting himself down at the top of the smooth blue plastic slide. A little unsure at first, Joshua spun a little on his first slide down and ended up banging his head as he landed at the bottom of the blue, streamlined plastic. Joshua, being Joshua, was not put off by this minor bump though and immediately got back to his feet and made his way round the side of the chute again, giving an excited wave of the arms and a squeak of approval. Before long our wee nephew was moving in circles, running round, climbing up and sliding down, avoiding any further bumps, as his chute sliding expertise improved.
He liked it.
Ka and myself could hold our heads high, even if the balloons weren't.
Over the buffet lunch I brought up the subject of the large barrel standing in the corner of the kitchen, a third full with suspicious looking liquid. A few months ago Steven had created a large batch of plum jam from the purple fruit he had collected from the tree in the back garden. He had shared the jam out among the relatives including Ka and myself (our jar is only half empty – but still sitting in the fridge if you fancy some?) and was now branching out. He was now concocting some homemade wine in the corner of the kitchen. When I asked how the wine making was coming along Steven took a glass, unscrewed the barrel's cap and lowered his hand down into the barrels innards, a look of uncertainty almost crossing his face, like that scene in 'Flash Gordon' when Timothy Dalton put his hand down the scorpion's hole. After a little movement of the wrist Steven brought the glass back up, now half full of his alcoholic potion. His cousin John was the first to taste who almost immediately grimaced, saying something about vinegar, quickly handing the glass back. After Colin took a few drinks and nodded appreciatively, I ventured a small sip and immediately tasted Steven's jam, only laced with alcohol. With the tang of Steven's plums the wine tasted a little like a foreign brandy of some sort. After only a small taste I could feel the wine travelling down my system, leaving a, not unpleasant, burning sensation at the back of the throat like the after effects from the first taste of a strong whiskey. It was certainly nicer than some of the wines I've drank in the past.
Various members of the Reids used to create beer at home, and jam for that matter. My Gran’s jam was amazing. I could never believe that my Gran could make her own jam, although usually it was rhubard, and I hated rhubarb. Granpa used to eat it straight from the ground, a large growing patch out in his back garden. Dad ate it raw with a dab of sugar.
Dad used to make beer in our bathtub. I remember he used to buy the beer making kits from Boots and have a giant plastic barrel of his own, which would sit in the bathroom for a good few months, slowly brewing it's Lindsay ale, stinking the room out with it’s weird, pungent yeasty stenches.
I'm not sure what happened when it came to bath time?
We certainly never had a beer bath.
Apparently they’re quite big over in the Czech Republic and Austria. There are more than a few beer spas now open. Spas, baths, pools and even beer flavoured treatments are offered, such as facials. Apparently, beer is good for the skin. Good for cleansing, drying and relaxing in. Good for hair rejuvenation too. I should get over there! In the tub, the combination of water, beer, hops and yeast is warmed and bubbled around you, transforming it into a kind of mild Jacuzzi. A hot tub beer machine.
Unfortunately, back in Scotland, being the driver, I couldn’t partake in any of Steven’s homemade wine, much to my extreme disappointment, as I’m sure you can imagine, but made sure I had a glass of Pinot Grigio later, on the comfort of my own couch, where, thankfully, there was a distinct lack of grinning, chatting, relations.

Through the rain

2011-11-25T16:49:00.001-08:00

Ghastly. Simply ghastly. If I was posh, that is exactly how I would describe this morning. The sky was completely smothered in threatening, thick, dark grey clouds, hanging ominously over the climb up High Common Road. It had been a rough, uneven, sleep with hail battering off the window late into the night after the stormy winds and rain from the evening had subsided briefly for a few hours. Driving into Glasgow, to drop Ka and Chris off in the late afternoon, the steering wheel was almost pulled from my grip by the horrendous gales going over the M77.
It was John Barrowman time again, and Ka and Chris were heading into town for the latest hometown gig by the singing superstar. They were meeting up with Jillian and her Mum, Jean, for dinner on Sauchiehall Street before heading down to the Armadillo.
While the girls were out on the town, I was creating a brand new website for DJ, William Rae.
William is our friend Claire's brother, just back from Puerto Rico where he, along with his wife and daughter, had been living for the past year or so. Before he had departed for sunnier shores I had designed and created his last website for his DJ'ing and, now that he was back in cloudy Scotland, fancied a redesign and a new look, especially since the last version had been very much beach party orientated.
As lovely as Ayr beach is, I can’t imagine a jostling crowd of dancers supping the cocktails and living it up down there on a balmy evening.
Just as I was making the final touches to his wondrous new website, the mobile started ringing. It was Ka insisting that they were just about to miss their last train home. They knew this even though they were standing outside the Armadillo, after a good few sherries, with at least twenty minutes before the afore said train was due. Being the gentleman, of course, I agreed to head back into town to pick them up. Thankfully the rain and storms had abated on my way in and although I got stopped by what must have been 90% of the red lights on my journey into Glasgow, I made it to the Mint Hotel, within around half an hour. As I sat parked in the bus stop immediately outside the Mint Hotel, pondering who gave the hotel this illustrious title, I spotted a shimmer of silver in my rear view mirror. A vision of silver excitedly jumping up the street. Jillian, in a silver shimmering sequins dress was running up the pavement towards the car, a massive grin on her face. The Barrowman grin. She was farting glitter with excitement, apparently.
Upon leaving my position behind the wheel Jillian gave me a big shimmery hug. Personally I think Jillian was sent out to sweeten me up as, moments later, Ka and Chris appeared at the hotel’s front entrance, looking a little meek, tired, but happy. Barrowman had worn them out with his dazzling array of sparkly suits and anthemic classics. Classics such as Manilow’s “I made it through the rain”, Gaynor’s “I am what I am” and The Village People’s “YMCA” (I think I remember dancing to that at the school formal… no wonder I didn’t get a lumber).
It wasn’t until 1am last night, after safely delivering Chris home, and leaving Ka in the living room to have a nice cup of tea, that I sent through the first draft of DJ William’s website. It was one of those jobs that I thought would take me hours but, in fact, took me days. Once again I find myself inadvertently selling myself cheap.
Not that I often sell myself cheap.
I’m sure someone would pay a hefty sum for me if I was on the market. I just wouldn’t get ‘Your Maneuver’ to sell me.
Anyway, I went to bed later as a result of the late night web building, making my sleep uneasy. My brain wouldn’t switch off and the volume of the living room telly hadn’t been turned down much.
I woke up around half two, dazed and vaguely confused. The other half of the bed was still empty and I could still hear the television from the other room. Crawling out of bed I went through to the living and found Ka curled up on the couch, fast asleep. The bright, vibrant colours of some form of late night childrens' television beamed from the box in the darkened living room around her, it's wild moving shapes flickering over her face as she slept.
Why childrens’ tv was on at that time of night, I’ll never know. Is childrens’ tv on 24 hours a day now?

I know it now has it’s own channels, and Ed the duck in the broom cupboard between half three and half five in the evenings is long gone, but do they have to continually operate? Can’t they be like some of those other digital channels and only operate at certain times?
It also begs the question of what had Ka been watching?
The last music I’d heard drifting in from the living room, before I fell asleep, had been the doleful melodiousness of Emmerdale. That gawd awful tune that informs you it’s now time to either gain control of the remote and change the channel or run for your god forsaken life to the nearest open window and paint the pavement down below your, hopefully, high rise flat a new colour of brain.
As I moved to switch the tv off, my foot stood on half a cornetto wrapping that had been discarded on the carpet. A half eaten crisp then crunched under my other foot as I then noticed Ka’s glass and plate lying empty on the coffee table.
The John Barrowman gig had obviously taken it's toll on the poor girl. Not only was she now curled up, having conked out on the couch but she had neglected to tidy up after herself and had even dropped a cornetto paper on the carpet and a single, rogue, crisp.
Once the tv was off I decided against interrupting Ka’s slumber, knowing full well of the repercussions, and wandered back off to bed.
She eventually fell on to the mattress at around half four, whilst the rain pelted down outside, the clock continuing it’s ticking around to the inevitable black, winter, Friday morning.
On the radio, in the car, on my way into work, there were people wishing each other ‘Happy Christmas’.
People calling in to give their relations festive wishes.
Okay, there’s only a month to go now but, come on!
Wait until you open the first door of your chocolate calendar at least.
After making this mental complaint, I then went into work and started some online Christmas shopping.
Well, you’ve got to start at some point.

Feeling guilty?

2011-11-19T08:08:00.001-08:00

Another night of Children In Need. Upsetting, uncomfortable and difficult to watch. Three ways to describe Alan Sugar’s attempts at humorous acting and Ian Beale in a tight pink jumper and skirt, pushing a hoover around his living room to the tune of Queen’s “I want to break free”. All this uncomfortable viewing between the many short sad films about the kids of the UK that need the help and the money.
DVD Andy has always suspected me of being guilty of spending my weekly Thursday’s off just like Freddie, with the hoover, as Thursday is usually housework day. This week, however, I was waiting on plumbers coming round to give us a quotation for the installation of Gas central heating. Unfortunately, after being given the quote, we’re not sure we’ll bother. Two and a half grand they want for putting central heating into our wee one bedroom flat. A normal house costs between three and four so I think we may just stick with what we’ve got.
The good old electric.
We’d only be installing the gas heating to help sell as it seems to be the only complaint from possible buyers who’ve come round to view. Look’s like we’ll just have to wait on a non energy biased buyer.
We barely use the electric anyway. The guys in work, asked me how we usually keep warm if we don’t use it. We never need it, though with the winter just around the corner Ka and myself could, quite soon, be finding ourselves walking around with double helpings of dressing gowns. At the moment it would seem all Ka needs is Michael Buble. The wife was up dancing around the living room in her pyjamas on Thursday night as the singer started his contribution to the Children In Need Rocks Manchester concert.
Last night we had a little heat from one large solitary candle standing lit in the middle of our coffee table. We had just finished a curry for dinner though so I suspect that was lit by Ka merely to try and get rid of the stench of Indian food which was now lingering throughout the living room and kitchen. Our second curry in a week.
The first was last Saturday when we went through to Tom and Linda’s in Barassie, Troon. As my Uncle Tom is in the middle of rebuilding his kitchen, we had hit upon the idea, a while back, at my cousin’s son’s baptism, of a curry night. So after arriving early evening on Saturday, just after the sun had set on the cold, Firth of Clyde horizon, Tom and Linda informed us that they were taking us along to their favourite curry house, the Maharani. The maharani was a small, but cosy, Indian restaurant just a short walk from the front on West Portland Street where we ate some fantastic food, mine being a giant portion of Chicken Tikka Tandoori, which arrived sizzling on a long black plate perched on a pile of hot, flavoured onions. Tom had also ordered a Tandoori, a ginger chicken, but refrained from eating all of his massive portion, instead opting to keep some for Sally and Jake, the dogs back home. For a brief few moments I also considered politely putting some of my chicken aside for the dogs’ supper but only for a brief few moments. I then thought better of it and demolished the rest of my plate. Feeling rather full afterwards, and slightly guilty about the hungry dogs back at the house, we then ambled over to the Lido bar where we joined Troon’s Saturday night elite for a few drinks.
Lido is a stylish café like bar, owned by the same bar and restaurant outfit that runs the harbour restaurant in the same town, Scott’s and Elliots in Prestwick. The brasserie sits on the quiet street, among the other, older bars and seaside shops, it’s modern face a little out of place. With polished dark wood furniture and decorated cushion seats and walls inside, circling a decorative bar and open kitchen, it’s obviously drawing inspiration from some of the swankier places in town making it a great alternative for the folks of Troon, to some of the other, more traditional settings. It was busy, lively and comfortable and just as we were leaving to head back to the house the DJ was setting up his decks on the large, rectangular table alongside us, casting some smokers’ drinks and scarves to the side. These smokers had thought it acceptable to keep their interior seats whilst they sat out at the tables in the outside front, framed by neatly trimmed hedges. As long at their scarves were still slung over their inside chairs and their glasses of water were still in place on the table they considered themselves able to come back and forth whenever they pleased. They left their inside table to head outside for a cigarette and made themselves comfortable on one of the round tables outside, safe in the knowledge their table inside was guarded by the scarves and water. For at least forty minutes, they lounged around outside, before frowning through the window as the DJ turned up with his various laptops and control panels, quickly casting their scarves aside after asking if they had belonged to us.
Why should smokers’ unattended tables be kept for them in a busy bar area? If they decide to leave their table empty, in order to feed their nicotine cravings then giving up the comfy indoors table should be a sacrafice they should be willing to take. Why should others, in a busy bar, be made to stand, by a scarf slung over the back of a chair?
Ka and myself have actually nicked smokers’ tables before. One of the last times being in the Theatre Royal Bar in Edinburgh when we innocently nabbed what we thought was an empty table, considering the one jacket left over one of the chairs to have been long abandoned, and made ourselves comfortable with a few glasses of wine before the david Byrne gig next door. After a good half an hour of sitting enjoying ourselves the smoking couple (they weren’t that good looking) turned up looking for their place. As it turned out they were actually very nice about it and pulled up another chair on the opposite side of the table and started chatting away. They were an older couple, the bearded bloke perhaps around forty odd in age, the woman looking a bit older. Before we knew it they were spitting at the ground with the sheer mention of trams, telling us where they lived, how they’d met and about when they’d last seen the Talking heads in concert. When the time came to go and take our places in the theatre next door, Ka and myself apologised once more for taking up half of their table uninvited and left them in the lively bar.
Upon entering the Playhouse, Ka and myself split up for a quick toilet visit and as I was standing at the male trough doing my business somebody ambled up and took the place next to me.
“Oh, hello again!” the bearded man smiled from my side. After another short conversation, very short, as conversation over urinals are always a bit awkward, I headed out and found Ka through the busy throng of the Edinburgh Playhouse. Upon meeting each other we decided to get a wee drink from the bar, rolling out the barrel, as it were, as it’s not every week you go to the theatre or a gig. So as I joined the bustling crowd at the ridiculously small theatre bar I slowly made my way to the front of the crowd as slowly but surely the people before me obtained their various beverages from the choice of two bottles beers at triple the usual price or three kinds of wine, white, red, or rose. Upon finally reaching the bar I planted my elbows down on to the bar and turned to find the bearded smoker standing at my side again. I think he gave me the same look I gave him. The ‘not you again’ look. The pleasant surprise and nod of the ‘how are you’ look followed by the ‘look away at something, anything, that’ll enable me to not make conversation’ look. After getting my drinks I half expected Ka and myself to get into the theatre and find the two smokers sitting in the next seats along from us.
I get the ‘look away at something, anything, that’ll enable me to not make conversation’ look quite a lot. There was a girl in high school that I used to fancy who used to find lamp posts or brick walls extraordinarily interesting to look at whenever I approached.
During the week I was wondering up Cadzow Street in the morning, on my way to work, when the Head honcho woman from our Estate Agents, (let’s call them ‘Your Maneuver’ again), seen me walking up towards her as she made her way to the ‘Your Maneuver’ office. I’d spoke to her for around an hour, not more than four or five weeks ago, and I know she recognised me, but, for whatever reason, decided to suddenly give the passing shop windows at her side and the passing pavestones under her feet, her full, uninterrupted, attention.
Guilt at having failed to sell our beautiful flat. That's what I reckon it was.
Guilt. Terrible thing.
That’s probably what makes Children in Need such uncomfortable viewing. If you don’t donate you must, and should, feel guilty.
It doesn’t take a lot to make me feel guilty.
Hopefully Sally and Jake will forgive me for eating all my Tandoori.

David and his watermelons

2011-11-11T14:53:00.001-08:00

“Michael, we’re not selling the buses!” Ka informed me, after our viewer left, her Mum and Dad in tow.
“What do you mean?” I frowned, as Ka moved to finally put dinner on. Apparently during my “flat selling” speech I started rabbiting on about how handy we were for the Number 20 and the number 66 buses, perfect for those bus trips further into East Kilbride or a day out in the city.
It’s a good selling point, I pointed out to Ka. Being close to a decent bus stop would be a great advantage to some people. The viewer may have a tight monetary situation and may not be able to afford the luxury of cars and taxis everywhere. The bus could be their one form of transport, for all we know. The bus is always handy for us when we fancy going into town for a wee pint, so why not to a potential buyer?
The rather unimpressed, bored looking viewer had brought her Mum and Dad along and left after only five minutes in our humble abode. She walked in through the hallway into the living room and commenced her long tour of the flat from there, seeing the kitchen, the living room again, back out into the hallway to the bathroom, out into the hallway before hitting the bedroom, back to the hallway where she took a quick look into the utility cupboard, the hallway again and then the living room again. On her way out she walked through the hallway again. Our home of six years overviewed within the space of five minutes.
The girl who was the main viewer was one of these girls not happy in the skin they're in.
Her big eyes stared, white in a face of browny orange. One of these strange people that, not being happy about the skin they are born with, like to artificially colour their skin by lying in plastic beds of luminous tubes or stand in those plastic portaloos that have no loos but have spray guns in their walls instead. The people that use these devices actually pay for that weird orange/brown colour with which they use to go out on a special occasions. What possesses these people to believe that a special occasion of any kind requires you to colour your almost naked self up in a strange sh**ty brown colour. I’ll never understand that.
Yes, okay, I understand a slight tan. Something to enhance the complexion or contrasts of the skin, get away, be it momentarily, from the Scottish peely wally tones. But that weird overly orange/browny colour? Why?
If it was some kind of camouflage, then yes, I would understand. If these girls, and blokes (yep, blokes do do it as well don’t they) were going paintballing or something then yes, the reasons for painting yourself browny orange would be fairly understandable. You could dive about the forest and probably have some success in hiding out in the foliage. In fact, judging by some of the spray tans I’ve seen in the past, you might be better off simply walking about a paintball site naked to get a bit of colour about you.
I just don’t get it. Why would you want to go out on the town or walk down the aisle with the skin colour of an Oompa lumpa?
The three visitors were pretty hard going. Ka and myself done our best to chat and inform, but the three of them didn’t say too much.
The Mum did seem to like it whereas the Dad looked bored, as if he’d been forced to attend by a firm look from the wife or an arm twisted up his back.
It’s always so difficult to tell whether these potential buyers like what they see. We’ve always had positive feedback from the estate agency after the viewers have reported back but it’s never been so positive that they’ve bothered to put an offer in for our wee home.
We’ve only had a grand total of four viewers the whole time we’ve been on the market. The estate agents, that seem to have only recently really started doing anything for us, (let’s call them ‘Your Maneuver’), gave us a quick phone today to tell us the viewer was taking her interest no further for the not wholly unreasonable excuse of a lack of gas central heating in our flat. Apparently somebody had told her that the underfloor heating that was built into these flats is expensive to run. Someone had also told her that a flat further down the street had sold for a slightly lower price and that that particular property had been recently refaced. All the while, I sat on the other end of the phone, listening to what the someone had told this girl, wondering who this ‘someone’ was. I bet it was her Dad.
Either him or her boss, Willy Wonka.
I thought she may have been informed of the lack of central heating before attending a viewing, by our wonderful estate agents. Ka and myself have survived without gas central heating for six years, using only the old, underfloor heating in the deepest, darkest depths of winter and we’ve comfortably survived. We’ve certainly never had to sit and watch X-Factor with frosted glasses and icicles hanging from our nostrils. Our flat’s always seemed pretty cosy in actual fact, and rarely feels cold in anyway (even in X-Factor conditions).
We’ve certainly never had any complaints from any visitors. It’s probably all the hot air.
Saying that, I did notice, the last time they were here, that some of Ka’s pals’ kept their jackets on. In fact, Ka and her pals’ teeth were also chittering in between talk (between talk is very brief, wondrous moment and you have to be very quick of the eye to notice such an instant. We once got a phonecall from David Attenborough at the BBC to film such behaviour. Women with their mouths closed. Amazing. Unfortunately Mr Attenborough couldn’t find a camera with a high enough shutter speed).
Still, at least I was allowed in the flat last night.
Everyone in work was having great delight in making me feel extremely paranoid and slightly guilty yesterday after I rushed Ka off the phone when she called on the mobile mid morning.
“I really can’t talk just now. I’m busy. I’ll call you later!” or something of the kind, I said rather urgently down the phone, before wishing her a hurried goodbye.
Apparently Ka thought she’d upset me by the tone of one of my texts five or ten minutes before when she hadn’t at all. I’d sent an abrupt text back to her in response to one of her messages which she’d sent at one of the busiest periods of the week, when all our Ayrshire property adverts were being sent to print. I had been, in fact, winding her up about the excited babble she was producing the night before about David and his watermelons.

Ka had arrived home from the theatre on Tuesday night, chatting away excitedly about this David and his watermelons. It was ten past eleven, I was tired and, as a result, couldn’t be bothered with her. The excitable chat was something to do with ‘Dirty Dancing’, the stage production she’d just been to see with Pauline at the Kings theatre. As it was late I wasn’t really in the mood for watermelon talk and left it for the morning, at which point I text her asking about David and his fruit.
As it turned out, it wasn’t David at all anyway. It was Johnny. Johnny and his watermelons. I’m still no clearer and suspect I’d have to watch ‘Dirty Dancing’ in all it’s musical glory to understand, but that’ll not happen any time soon. I’ll just have to struggle on through life in blissful ignorance regarding Johnny’s watermelons.
Anyway, as a result of Ka’s call at work, I was sure I’d upset her and everyone in the work, led by DVD Andy and Dave, were sure I was sleeping on the couch that night, if Ka allowed me into the flat at all.
Sitting in work I was pretty confident though. There was no way Ka could give the sales pitch all by herself. We done our best, for the fourth time, but to no avail. I may need to consider re-evaluating the sales pitch.
I don’t know. Perhaps try not to look nervous when the neighbours are mentioned, attempt to draw my eyes away from any inflamed skinwork and maybe even reduce the amount of the No. 20 mentions. Either that or just install some gas central heating.
That viewer obviously likes heat.
And the sun. Be it the artificial spray gun version.
There’s a professional tanning salon in the Village. You could easily jump on a No. 66 from here to get there. It’s just five minutes down the road. Hmmm, I’ll maybe write that into my next sales pitch.

Fireworks, flowers and frisbees

2011-11-08T15:41:00.000-08:00

It was half past five on a dark, breezy, autumn Saturday evening. The branches of the nearby trees on the side of the hill, shuffled and shook in the bitter, cold wind as leaves spun through the air around them. Ka and myself found ourselves running around a graveyard, dispensing flowers out between three different graves in our shorts and T-shirts like a pair of lunatic flower children spreading peace and love in a Hammer Horror setting.
We had just come out from the gym and after a quick visit up to see Mum and Dad in Chapelton, and a brief stop off at the local Morrisons, we were visiting the grave of our daughter, my Gran and Granpa and Maureen, my Aunt who had been laid to rest just over a week ago.
A year ago I would have never thought that I would be spending my Saturday evenings in such a way.
For the past ten months we have been buying bouquets and sharing them between Lucy and my Gran and Granpa. Now that my Aunt Maureen rests in the next lane along we’re going to have to start buying more flowers.
With the exception of our running around a graveyard in bitter cold winds and another trip to the cinema on Sunday to see Justin Timerlake’s latest cinematic effort, ‘In Time’, it was a pretty uneventful weekend. Ka and myself spent Saturday lying on the couch, watching The Sopranos season one, (we’ve borrowed the series 1-6 boxset off Kenny while he’s off in Oz). A movie night with a few beers, Morgan’s spiced and eating ice cream as fireworks exploded around us. As bangs, cracks and whirrs of various sizes and loudness erupted directly outside our windows for the majority of the night, it was almost as if the good people of Calderwood were aiming their fireworks directly at us. It’s a pity we can’t go out on to our roof as it would have been a fantastic fireworks display. Either that, or a terrifying version of that scene from ‘Mary Poppins’, when Admiral Boom attacked the chimney sweeps with rockets. Not that I’d be dancing at a rooftop fireworks display… not much anyway.
We’d had quite enough of fireworks by the time we went to bed. The last time Ka and myself had seen and heard fireworks was before the beginning of November was Hogmanay. The night we arrived home from the hospital.
Before Saturday’s Sopranos night, we’d been to Morgan, Angela and Steven’s annual fireworks family party on the Friday evening.
We rang the bell at the large black door of ‘Roxburgh House’ and stood back waiting. Moments later the door clicked and slowly opened. The door seemed to inch open of it’s own accord as a small figure was slowly revealed, standing in the light emanating from the hallway behind.
“Eh!” Joshua welcomed us with his usual noises and wide eyed curiosity before Steven poked his head round from behind the now fully opened door.
After five minutes of talking in the hallway Joshua took it upon himself to act as chief coat taker and after pulling at the corners of our coats for more than a few minutes as we stood chatting, the two year old took our coats from us in the hallway and cleaned Angela's laminate flooring on his way back to the porch where he dumped them over his buggy after finding he was four foot too short to reach the coat hooks.
Steven had disappeared by this point, out into the back garden where he was straining his arm muscles sawing up wood for his small bonfire. He’d lit up the BBQ and set up a buffet under the intermittent light of the backyard lamp with the dodgy motion sensor under which seemed to only activate when someone danced below it (we should have tried the Chimney Sweep dance). Candles of various sizes lit up the large buffet Steven, Angela and Morgan had prepared. Burgers, sausages and Steven’s famous Chicken tikka were all hot off the BBQ were all served up. Morgan had also prepared her own chocolate plastered marshmallows and chocolate fingers both decorated with hundreds and thousands along with a second dish of marshmallows on kebab sticks prepared for the purpose of roasting over the small blue bonfire. Ka and myself were the only ones with five marshmallows on our kebab sticks because, as Morgan explained, Ka is her favourite auntie and I’m her second favourite Uncle (and no, she doesn’t only have two uncles!).
After eating the BBQ dinner in our coats and scarves and Steven’s fireworks display of many colours, in which he still can’t get a Catherine wheel to work, it was roasting time and we gathered around the small cauldron of coloured flames in the middle of the dark garden. The small blue and purple flames, created by strange chemical colourants in among the wood, flickered and lapped at the short wooden logs as we held our marshmallows over them. My five marshmallows got slightly burnt in their proximity to the violet flames but I ate them all the same. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d ate roasted marshmallows. Perhaps some long ago and distant family camping trip.
After the marshmallows Steven and Morgan announced we were then to play Frisbee around in the front garden. As we all frowned up at the pair of them Steven flicked a switch of the back of the toy and the disc lit up with UFO like colours.
At this point I would have been quite happy to head indoors but Frisbee it was to be and before we knew it we had walked through the dark, around the house and were tossing the lit up, glowing plastic disc at one another. Some literally throwing it as one of Grace’s frisbees belted off the right side of my body, Morgan almost hit my car which was parked safely, or where I thought was safe, out on the street and Joshua got a hefty bang on the top of the head. Expecting tears, Ka and myself were surprised, as Joshua merely turned around with a frown, decided he’d had enough outdoors and waddled up to the front door, mumbling and unfastening his coat as he went. At which point I thought, I couldn’t agree more, and Ka, Angela and I followed him inside for a cuppa. The games didn’t end there thought as Morgan soon brought out more in the form of Snakes and Ladders and Guess Who? before Ka and myself finally headed home, fireworks continuing to colour the sky around us.

Team Lucy

2011-10-31T16:42:00.000-07:00

The Black Eyed Peas woke me up from my slumber, early on Saturday morning. It felt and sounded like Fergie and will.i.am were actually standing around my bed, belting down their microphones but, surprisingly enough, it only turned out to be Angela calling on Ka’s unattended mobile phone. It was half past seven and still concussed from a weird dream, I opted to leave the phone and merely shouted on the wife, telling her of her sister’s early buzz.
It was the day of our fundraising big Fun Run in Bellahouston Park, and after Ka had spoke to her sister, it was decided that Angela would come over to EK with Grace and Dougie in her car as she was unsure of the route to Bellahouston. This meant Angela having to follow us, on our twisting route through the hills of EK, as we were picking up fellow runners, Claire and Pauline, on our way to Glasgow.
After appearing at the door in her silver Vauxhall, Angela gave me a whistle from her driver’s seat, obviously liking the sight of me in my shorts, as Ka and myself jumped in our car to begin the journey on which I drove slowly and carefully ensuring my dearest sister-in-law didn’t get lost on one of the many roundabouts of East Kilbride.
We picked up Claire first, who left a teary Olivia behind with her Dad, and then headed for Gardenhall, and Pauline, who ran back into her house for a large pile of towels, unsure of the darkening clouds above us.
On our two car trip down the M77 Pauline took a rather urgent call from a slightly stressed Angela who informed us her tank was empty. So pulling off at Silverburn we made our way to the garage were we topped up our tanks whilst Grace decided to go for a wee wander around the pumps on her mobile phone. Colin was on the other end of the phone informing her that Jillian and himself had already arrived at Bellahouston Park and were successfully parked and ready to go. Ka and Claire quickly warned Grace to put her phone away in case of an explosion.
Old myths die hard and the possibility of an explosion caused by a mobile phone call in a petrol station is still, apparently, a possibility even though nobody has ever heard of it happening, anywhere.
Imagine standing innocently locking your petrol cap up when your phone goes off in your jacket pocket. Just as you huff and shake your head at the unfortunate timing of the caller, a tremendous explosion sends you, and all the gathered motorists, up into the grey clouds over Silverburn, in a rising ball of flame.
I’m pretty sure I wasn’t warned of such dangers when I bought my phone and signed the contract.
Anyway, as we left Silverburn’s Tesco station quite safely, and without any fireballs created from Grace’s mobile, we made our way out on to the first roundabout, turned left and lost Angela.
Angela had successfully navigated the streets of EK, followed us down the M77 with care on an empty tank and was now, after one left turn, nowhere to be seen. We stopped at some red lights, that were taking us back out on to the motorway, where various urgent phonecalls were made, but, by this point there was no turning back for us and before we knew it we were approaching Bellahouston, Ka shouting at me about where Colin and Jillian were park in the street from the front passenger seat. Taking my own lead and seeing one of few spaces left, I pulled the car up in the park’s Sport and Leisure Centre’s car park where we piled out to make some calls and wait on a silver Vauxhall.
Both Claire and myself were in dire needs of a loo and, finding ourselves unable to wait any longer, we left Pauline and Ka standing in the car park with the phone whilst we headed off to find the sports centre’s toilet.
There was one of each just outside the café and Claire and myself stood in the small square room between each toilet, politely waiting on the slow occupants within, Claire just missing out as a family of three entered the female toilet just as we arrived. I tried the male toilet handle only to get a huffy shout from within. Claire and myself waited politely, myself shuffling a little on my feet, but trying desperately to control myself before the eyes of one of my wife’s best friends.
After a good five minutes a toilet flushed from within the male toilet. I almost punched the air eagerly. Another toilet flushed moments later. There was a click, and a turn of a handle. But it was the wrong handle. The family of three bundled out from the female toilet and allowed Claire access, leaving me standing awaiting the male door to swing open. Five minutes passed. Suddenly the toilet flushed once more from within. More waiting. Then it flushed once more and eventually a rather tall man in glasses, a luminous yellow jacket and shorts appeared from within.
“Sorry, had a bit of trouble there!” he let me know. “I was struggling to get that clear!”. I nodded with an uneasy laugh and elbowed my way into the toilet before the question occurred to me. What was he struggling to clear? I gulped nervously as I looked at the closed over toilet seat below me.
Angela, Grace and Colin eventually arrived moments before Colin and Jillian strode over from the other side of the park and we all pinned a copy of one of Lucy’s pictures to our backs, alongside our various charities logos. Colin complimented his Dad’s athletic figure complaining about his own jelly belly as he made sure he had his iPod and cigarettes for the run whilst I struggled with the clothes pins and everyone piled their belonging into the back of the car.
Everyone was running for Sands with the exception of myself. When I booked up I thought I’d be different and try and raise money for Yorkhill Children’s Hospital, just so they didn’t feel left out. So instead of Sands’ white short sleeved T-shirts, I was wearing the Yorhill blue vest, but over a normal white T-shirt. I didn’t fancy exposing my armpits to the gathered running masses.
Approximately 600 folk were present on the day and as we all milled around awaiting the run to start we commenced a general warm up on the park path behind the sport’s centre and the Run’s Start and Finish line.
One lady asked Ka who the little girl was on all our backs. Getting a little teary mid stretch Ka she explained about our wee Lucy but held herself together well as the woman immediately apologised and then commenced to give the usual compliments referring to our beautiful wee girl.
Steven, Morgan and Joshua then turned up waving from the side of the track as ‘Walk this way’ started blasting out from the starting line’s speakers whilst the warm up girls punched the air repeatedly with their fists, photos were taken and Colin gave more of his comedy breast hooter impressions. Eventually, at around twelve to thirteen minutes past eleven, we were off. The first few minutes were slow as the crowd got going, people moving slowly apart, finding their feet and their preferred speed for the first quarter of a kilo. As I started getting into a steady pace I suddenly heard a familiar shout from behind a fence to my right.
“Yoohoo!” Mum was waving from behind the fence, Dad walking up and waving behind her, appearing at the last minute to cheer us on.
Round and up Bellahouston Park we ran, over the large, grassy but pathed flat and then up into the trees and over the steep hill which took us up and round the House for an Art Lover, past it’s back portico which leads into the large garden and the Giant foot where Ka and I spent a rather day and evening back in July 2009. After this we headed for the main road and Ibrox before turning off and moving round the perimeter of the park. I think it was around there that Jillian said she met one of her ex-boyfriends mid run. Apparently he was one of the guides, who stood at various route corners and pointed you in the right direction with some words of encouragement to spur you on.
As I neared the 3km mark I looked up to recognise one of the route guides myself. It was the tall, bespectacled man in shorts who’d had the struggle in the toilet. He seen me and looked away rather quickly, faltering on some words but then shouting encouragingly at the runner that had passed ahead of me.
Chris and her pal Sandra, who always has her camera hanging from the strap around her neck whenever I see her, were at the finish line to welcome us at the end of the race, along with a hastily arriving Mum, Dad, Steven, Morgan and Joshua who’d followed our progress from various points around our route.
Everyone finished, happy, a little tired, some a little sore, but probably a little fitter.
We all collected our goody bags and medals whilst more photos were taken, Morgan and myself got covered in mud, running back through the park and Mum met a long lost neighbour in Sandra, Chris’s photographer friend, who, it turns out, grew up in the same street as her and used to hang out with her and my Auntie Tricia. Another one of those strange, small world like incidents that take you by surprise.
27 minutes. That was my initial thinking of my time. But, due to a lack of clock at the finish line we’re all a little unclear as to what our final times were. As it turns out my time may have been a good few minutes shorter than 27, as Ka crossed the line around four to five minutes after me, and Jillian followed around a minute or so after her, and Jillian tells me her tracker tells her she took 29 minutes. So nobody knows for sure, but nobody really cared.
Pauline crossed the line moments later followed by Angela, who was last on the running track over a year ago but found it a walk in the park. Finished next were Claire and Colin and then, around ten minutes later, Grace and Dougie. We’d all ran for Lucy and the chosen charities, collecting at least a good seven hundred pounds between us, thanks to a lot of generous family, friends and colleagues.

Ka and myself have even talked of making it an annual event, making a yearly effort to raise some money for our charities in Lucy’s name. Jillian responded by text later in the day, rather optimistically, suggesting next year’s Glasgow half marathon.
We’ll see.
5km may not be a lot to some but Team Lucy did well.

Questionable deeds

2011-10-30T15:25:00.000-07:00

Walking down Sauchiehall Street on Friday night, just as we approached the corner at the top of Buchanan Street, Ka and myself were surprised to see four Ghostbusters striding up the street towards us. In full uniform, suited and booted, complete with wired up proton packs, the four strode up past us, around Donald Dewar. Ka and myself were just out from the cinema and had noticed the posters with the familiar Ghostbusters logo adorning various walls, dotted throughout the tall building, advertising the movies short rerelease on the big screen.
We’d just been to see two very different films. ‘We need to talk about Kevin’ was a serious, disturbing, drama thriller, based on the bestseller by Lionel Shriver, in which a mother struggles to comes to terms with events in recent years following on from her struggles in bringing up her first child, who grew up to have some sort of anti social, psychopathic disorder which eventually led to him carrying out some very nasty deeds.
Haunted by these events and the struggle in coming to terms with her son’s evil deeds, Tilda Swinton gives a fantastic performance as the mother, Eva.

Our second film of the day was a lighter, sillier affair. How silly is down to the views of the cinema goer. ‘Anonymous’ is a surprisingly fun, eventful and good looking affair centred around the idea that Shakespeare himself was a fraud and did not, in any way, write the plays and texts he is supposed to have and, in fact, it was all the written work of the Earl of Oxford. Rhys Ifans plays the Earl, a man happy to remain in the shadows, as far as his written work is concerned, as, in those times, fiction created through the written word and through the plays that depict them, were seen by many as the devils work, even though the Queen herself, Elizabeth I, seems to have a soft spot for them. Ifans’ Earl, and Vanessa Redgrave’s Elizabeth I, are yet more characters haunted by questionable deeds from their past which, in the end, are revealed to have disastrous consequences.
Apparently there’s been a few folk upset by this film and it’s storyline. People in Stratford have been particularly horrified, removing the Shakespeare’s name for various tourist signs, road signs and pub titles.
Shocking displays of protest, I’m sure. Just sheer vandalism.
As long as they don’t start ripping the place up, mugging Derek Jacobi and looting Stratford’s bookshops then hopefully there won’t be many arrests.
In fact, one of the best things about the movie itself, were the crowd and street scenes, bringing the old Elizabethan London streets to life, along with Shakespeare’s own Globe Theatre, with brilliant special effects.
The Glasgow streets had plenty of life anyway as Ka and myself headed back down for the bus home. Unfortunately there was very little CGI involved but you’d think there’s was some kind of mystical quality with the sheer amount of costume shops that have sprung up out of nowhere, like Mr Benn’s favourite hang out. Obviously more than a few folk, wishing to make a quick, easy buck over the Halloween period, have grabbed some of the many shop spaces, lying empty and unused on the city’s high streets, sitting waiting patiently on this economic downturn to lift.
On the Friday morning I had to take yet another visit to the registrar office after we had received, yet another letter about Lucy’s death certificate, a whole ten months after she passed. I had went along to sort it out on Thursday afternoon, was made to wait for half an hour and then told to go back at nine the next morning. So, as agreed, at nine o’clock, I was once more sitting in the Registrar’s waiting room, staring at the dull, blue walls, waiting on a Registrar assistant to show up with the documents required. Never before have I been confronted with a more boring room. With the exception of the various letters and booklets entitled ‘Have you just had a baby?’, ‘How to register your marriage’ and ‘So, whose dead?’, there was absolutely nothing to keep you entertained while you waited.
Sorry, there was one magazine. A year and a half old issue of ‘Chat’ magazine but as effective as I’m sure Kerry Katona’s most recent diet is, or was, in this case, I wasn’t particularly interested. The registrar office probably hadn’t even supplied that for their waiting room, it had probably been left by some bored housewife.
So I chose to continue staring at the walls.
After around twenty minutes I noticed a small notice opposite, above a small red plastic box. ‘Suggestions and comments’ the box was entitled by some photocopied text stuck on to it’s front by sellotape. A large yellow folder of suggestion forms sat underneath, waiting.
Now impatient and annoyed I pulled a pen from my pocket and got to work. Tearing one of the suggestion sheets from the folder I suggested the presence of some daily newspapers for their waiting room. Even some more up-to-date magazines to read, or at the least flick through, as you waited on a registrar to attend a previously arranged appointment. A magazine that was not over, say, a year old.
To be truthful, the impatience and frustration felt whilst waiting was probably more to do with the reasons of why I was there, sitting in the registrar office in the first place.
This was the reason why Ka and myself escaped once more to the cinema on the Friday afternoon.
In retrospect ‘We need to talk about Kevin’ was probably not the finest choice in order to cheer us up though. A brilliant film though it may be, it’s not exactly a bundle of laughs, never mind a wonderful advert for parenting.
‘Ghostbusters’ would have probably been a cheerier cinema trip, and that’s a movie with a central theme of ghosts and hauntings, even if it did turn out to be the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.

The mice will play

2011-10-24T15:37:00.000-07:00

Are you a man or a mouse? That’s how the saying goes, is it not?
Well, while the cat’s away, the mice will play. So for those strange, odd, hard to come by, weekends when your other half decides to go an, apparently, relaxing weekend away with her girl pals, I’m definitely quite happy to be called the latter. Friday night was spent watching movies from the comfort of the living room couch, with a bag of Jalepeno Doritos and a couple of cans of coke. Saturday was spent in the pub with two of the other ‘mice’ and Chaz followed by a night of Xbox, and Sunday, lying in bed, vaguely hungover, watching more movies with a couple of mugs of tea and a healthy dose of toast and cheese.
How often do I get an opportunity like that? I’m never lazy like that. Surely, an opportunity not to be missed. How often do I get to laze around in such a fashion?, I asked myself defensively as I lay watching the high octane thrills of Robert De Niro and Jean Reno in 'Ronin'.
Ka was over in Ayr, supposedly for a relaxing weekend away. Eight females in a caravan, with wine, a Chinese takeaway and X Factor. Good luck to them (and they needed it by the sounds of things!). Iain, Martin or myself should have perhaps considered phoning up and warning the campsite at Craig Tara what they were in for. Maybe put the local police on standby and increased Ayr’s own personal current threat level to ‘Severe’.
While they were away enjoying themselves, Iain, Martin, Chaz and myself met up in the local Shenanigans for more than a few Saturday afternoon pints, followed by pizza, chips and more beer, back in the Dunn household, where the Xbox was switched on.
Before leaving the town we made a quick trip to Sainsburys and three of us chipped in and bought a second controller for the console, paying a tenner for the mere pleasure of taking part in a game of FIFA. Still, I can’t complain, it was cheaper than staying out all night and Martin turned out to be a fantastic host, immediately firing two pizzas into the oven upon our arrival home, swiftly followed by a mass of oven chips.
By the time 1am came round though I had managed to gain a horrendous headache and the drink was no longer going down. It could have been the prolonged exposure to alcohol, which my body seems no longer used to, or it could have been the constant staring at the subbuteo sized players running around the large screen tv, without my glasses on. Which is basically what FIFA is, a modernised, souped-up, 2D version of Subbuteo (how long till it’s 3D though?).
The headache could also have been the constant losing matches I was playing through, out matched and out classed by the games console aficionados I was socialising with on the night. Chaz, Martin and Iain’s conversations would often veer away into some kind of games language, using words and titles that are not even in my vocabulary. Discussing various button combinations, new game titles or the latest realistic depiction of a Ford Escort Cosworth’s dashboard.
I’ve never understood all that raving about games graphics. No matter how realistic a game’s graphics are supposed to be, I have never considered them so realistic that I have found them ‘as if your sitting right there, in the driver’s seat’. I’ve always hesitantly lied in agreement with other players, mentally shrugging and playing on, unable to shake the fact that I am not actually sitting at the wheel of a Porsche 911 but in a living room, on a couch, with a games console controller in both hands, two wee sticks and four coloured buttons to control the movement of my supposed vehicle.
I’ve never been a gamer though. The only reason I’ve got a PS3 is because Kenny gave me his before he went off, travelling to Oz. Maybe he’s trying to convert me.
I had a PS2 before that and that was only because it was off the back of a lorry. A woman in my Mum’s work sold it to me. The whole time I’ve had it I think I only owned a grand total of five games for it.
When the the fantastic FIFA graphics became a green blur with annoying dots and the headache became unbearable, even more so than the FIFA commentators, I had to call time at around half one and head home, collapsing into a wifeless bed at around 2am on Saturday morning. I didn’t even finish my first Amaretto. Chaz and I, had thought it a good idea to chip in for a bottle of the almond flavoured liqueur before heading back to Martin’s abode and after only half a glass of the sweet, almondy goodness, Chaz has whisked it away to the McKell household. I probably owe him that though considering the Morgan’s Spiced bottles he has previously left unattended at my flat and come back a few weeks later to discover it gone, the bottle long recycled by way of the brown wheelie bin downstairs.
It certainly moves faster than that Barcelona team I was trying to control on Saturday night anyway. Kenny would be ashamed.

Boxing robots and the shunned spaghetti

2011-10-18T10:59:00.000-07:00

“Alright man, how’s it going?” Chaz stopped to shake hands with a bloke pushing a buggy of two small children, his wife looking on, sunglasses perched on her brow.
“Alright Charlie!” the man smiled back, as Chaz brought Pauline, Ka and myself to a halt outside the Holiday Inn’s front doors, on our way down to the cinema.
We were running late. We had finally managed to park the car, up outside the Station Bar, and were rushing down to the cinema to see the latest Hugh Jackman movie, a very silly affair, set in the future, involving boxing robots and a strained father/son relationship.

The charismatic Jackman is the struggling ex-boxer Dad, fighting to earn a living as a robot boxer fight promoter, who’d given his wife and son up at a younger, more foolish age, and now had to cope with a disgruntled youngster after his mother’s passing.
Good grief. Fighting robots, Hugh Jackman and father/son relationships? Sounds awful doesn’t it? And it probably was, but we didn’t care.
Silly, escapist fun. Especially for the likes of us, wishing to take a break from the real world for a couple of hours.
Chaz had text me on Friday to see if I fancied seeing the pic, just for a laugh, and had been surprised to receive a text back from me saying Ka had wanted to see it too. A few hours later he got another informing him that Pauline had also said yes, and on Sunday afternoon we were all in the Toyota, racing into town, discussing the price of toilet roll and washing powder.
What is it with women and toilet roll? We bought a large 18 or 16 pack just over two weeks ago and I thought that would do us until Christmas. Apparently not. It lasted two weeks and, before I knew it I was back in another supermarket buying more at the end of last week.
What do women do with it? Eat it? Anyway, I told Ka last week that if this trend was to continue we'd be buying the Asda's own sandpaper loo roll, a threat which quickly quietened her complaints of my moaning.
Another thing I've been moaning about is the kitchen tap. Our kitchen tap has been making a horrendous squawking noise everytime we’ve been pouring water from it’s innards for the past few months which I have now resolved to attempt to fix with my limited DIY skills. Over the weekend I replaced the tap's washers which, thankfully, seemed to solve the problem. The noise had gone and the water was running, but now bleeding a worrying, constant dribble.
Anyway, back to Glasgow, and, as Chaz chatted, not only were we late for the movie, but the ladies were in need of a loo, so I was trying to politely edge away from the unexpected reunion. The bloke with the buggy of two had obviously been a former work colleague of Chaz’s, and even though he had a couple of cute kids waving at us from their buggy, showing us their lizard and the blokes' conversation seemed like a pleasant surprise for Chaz, we were in a hurry.
Edging at first, then meandering, and then, as politely as I could, striding off determinedly, I led the girls onwards, away from Chaz’s fascinating conversation, which he eventually finished, and to the cinema queue,. Fortunately it wasn’t as busy as predicted and we just had the simple obstacle of a wee old lady and her grandson to make it to the front. With a quick bodyswerve upon entering the giant, glass building I dived around the wee old lady, ducked under the queue's cords and then turned to wait patiently for the others.
It was now ten or fifteen minutes past the showtime. We swiped our cards, took our tickets and raced back across the road to the small convenience store to buy some popcorn. We followed Chaz into the shop, only to stumble as he stopped dead before us and turned around.
“Wrong one!” he stated flatly and led us back out, leaving a shopkeeper frowning after us, and three doors up the street we entered the right one were we purchased our crisps and drinks from a smiling shopkeeper. Ka and myself, even at the age of thirty plus, are still wary of the old myth of cinema staff, when feeling particularly vigilant, swiping any shop bought goods off you, so we quickly hid our crisps in her handbag, whilst Chaz, who bought the kingsize bag of silver Butterkist and a massive litre and a half bottle of water, merely filled a blue carrier bag and shrugged something about taking his shopping home. Before we knew it we were back in the cinema, I was buying the coffee, the girls were doing the loo and Chaz was handing the tickets over, before we finally got seated and enjoyed the crazy, feelgood, family film.
The girls waited patiently and expectantly for Hugh Jackman’s bare torso, which he eventually presented at the side of a boxing ring. Chaz and myself didn’t particularly mind, however, as Kate from Lost was in the movie, acting as his stressed but highly intelligent, robot building, girl. So, everyone was happy.
At least for a time, anyway. I’d said yes to my Mum’s offer for Sunday spaghetti, which, needless to say, we did not make, so I was in trouble for that one. I phoned Mum up, half an hour before we were expected and explained that we were still in Glasgow and had a change of plan for dinner and thusly would now, not make it. Unfortunately, Mum wasn’t happy.
Dejected, disappointed, and in a huff, my Mum said her goodbyes over the phone and apparently went to bed at nine o'clock. Ravaged with guilt I drove Ka, Pauline and Chaz to dinner. With Mum's grumpy goodbye alone she made, what would have usually been a lovely piece of Salmon, taste rotten and cold. Salmon stuffed with scorn and betrayal.
As it turned out my Mum and Dad had been writing my Aunt Maureen’s eulogy and were in need of some cheering up. Thankfully Kenny phoned from Australia yesterday and sweetened them up sufficiently, just in time for me to phone after I got home from work and apologise once more for not going up for Spaghetti (Thanks for that Kenny!).
What made matters worse was that, before I plucked up the courage to phone them, I had arrived home to find the kitchen tap unable to run any form of cold water. So my limited DIY skills are even more limited than I had originally thought.
Still, that's all minor concerns, considering what's happening tomorrow.

Aunt Maureen

2011-10-14T16:02:00.000-07:00

My Aunt Maureen passed away on Monday night. She was 59. A few weeks ago we were discussing what we were going to do for her 60th and now, suddenly, we're discussing where her funeral is to take place.
It's feels like it has been one thing after another, this year.
Life just seems crazily unfair sometimes.
It's only been a few weeks since my last conversation with Maureen over the phone.
Recently Maureen had been living in Knowle, the small village on the outskirts of Solihull, in the West Midlands, where I started my first design/publishing job, all those years ago in March 2001. Early on in my four years living and working in the West Midlands, Maureen moved down south to Redditch, a new town to the south of Birmingham, through work, keen for a new start with different surroundings.
Before long, and once she was settled, Maureen and myself were meeting up for Sunday dinners, hooking up for the occasional drink and catch up, shopping trip or just a day out. Obviously, I wasn’t so keen on the shopping, but somehow I felt Maureen appreciated the trips in the car. Maureen was company for me too, as I struggled to settle in with only odd flatmates for company. I'd jump in the car and take a drive over to Redditch to take Maureen out for a jaunt around the countryside hitting the surrounding towns, exploring this fantastic section of England. Stratford-Upon-Avon, Great Malvern, Warwick, Leamington Spa and Kenilworth (that name’s vaguely familiar...) were all towns Maureen and myself visited on our various weekend meetings. My first car, that wee clio, also came in handy for when Maureen flitted. She flitted around three times whilst living in the West Midlands and on all occasions, bar the last, it was the wee clio that acted as the removal van.
During Maureen’s time in Redditch relations were soon dropping by to visit, jumping on trains, planes or into automobiles. Most of them primarily visiting Maureen but probably more than aware that there was always the risk of me turning up on the door, looking for company in my lonely West Midlands existence.
Scott, Maureen’s son and my older cousin, who was living in Dundee at the time, would visit, always busy with his job, which called for much travelling up and down the country.
Gran and Granpa, Great Aunt Mina, Mum and Dad, Anne and Ian, and even Donald from Australia, all visited the wonderful West Midlands. During their stay Maureen and I would give them a guided tour in the wee red clio, my Auntie acting as navigator, as we swerved around the countryside.
Great Malvern and Stratford-Upon-Avon were always popular with the visitors. Stratford-Upon-Avon being a favourite of mine too, with it’s Shakepearian themed streets, medieval architecture, barges, canal gates, eclectic mix of pubs and shops, pleasant parks, theatres and the Avon itself.
We had some good days out in Stratford, most of them in the summertime, when the skies were blue and the streets and parks were busier with families, tourist crowds and theatre goers, looking forward to the evening’s performance. During the summertime the town centre’s parks were always colourful, filled with plants and flowers around which street performers would entertain in the sunshine, the Avon sparkling in the summer light, it’s surface littered by the swans, geese, ducks, boats and barges which populated it’s waters, gliding up and down the river, under the arches of the various bridges which crossed over.
We took Aunt Mina out on to the Avon on a barge, we drove Gran and Granpa out for dinner with Frank Sinatra blaring out on the car stereo as we sped up the country roads and we took Donald out for dinner at which he tried to talk me into moving to Oz and courting his architect/scientist daughter.
When Maureen hit the big 5-0 Mum, Dad, Gran and Granpa invaded at the same time which called for another Stratford visit. After a few hours of walking around the bustling town we had lunch in a small tearoom and inadvertently left without paying, us all believing that someone else had paid. That same night we had a drunken night in at Maureen’s flat in Redditch, which I remember turned into a fairly entertaining night, considering I was sober and the allocated driver for Mum and Dad who had taken up residence at a small B&B in Solihull.
Maureen was a gentle, kind, relaxed, quiet, generous lady who shrugged at a difference of opinion, laughed at a good joke and enjoyed a party or two. Maureen was also a proud lady, not afraid to stand on her own two feet, but unwilling to admit troubles, or the lend of a helping hand, which, unfortunately led to her untimely death.
In my ‘wildnerness years’ down in the West Midlands, when I was occasionally feeling down or lonely, Maureen helped me with good advice and friendship, something I will never forget. An Auntie and a friend.
Maureen McNeill (Reid) 26.02.1952 – 10.10.2011

Christening, Cluedo, tablets and Jobs

2011-10-10T13:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday, the family gathered in St. Josephs church in Stepps once more where my Cousin Sarah's third child was baptized. Sarah Jane and Brian looked on happily as baby Daniel was baptized with a little help from Yvie, Daniel's older sister, who held the small pot of oil up for the priest. Christopher, his older brother, was also asked but he preferred to sit behind with his Granpa.
Once more the priest of St. Josephs church started giving us his Star Wars talk about the light side and the dark side, just as he had done at Christopher's baptism, reminding us all how easy it is to slip into the dark side like Darth Vader.
“You mean Anakin Skywalker” I muttered under my breath, correcting the priest once more.
Back at the hotel afterwards Daniel jumped about happily in his parents arms, kicking his legs up and around as gathered relations took some photos of the happy, growing, family. We all enjoyed a soft drink whilst awaiting the tea and trying to get some food from the giant buffet of which only egg sandwiches were left by the time I got to the front of the queue. Uncle Tom after complaining about the visibility of my collar button also decided to retie my tie recommending a windsor knot.
On returning home Ka and myself found ourselves a little depressed for obvious reasons. Uncle Tom had advised going out for a run. The best cure for clearing the head. Usually I'd absolutely agree but Ka and myself were not in the jogging mood yesterday.
Instead we sat, like couch potatoes, bored, watching another dreadful bunch of 'Come Dine with Me' episodes, showcasing another bunch of dreadful people, making dreadful meals in each others' dreadful homes.
The kind of dinner parties that you wish turned into a murder mystery where the diners would get knocked off one by one, leaving only the show's one redeeming character, the commentator.
As a desperate effort to cheer the two of us up, I even suggested a game of Cluedo which was quickly and unequivocally refused by Ka. Besides, Colin and Jillian were not about and we seem to only play board games when they’re about these days.
I'd been playing Cluedo (or Clue, as it's known in America) last weekend in Ka's hairdressing salon. Bored waiting on Ka who sat perched on her usual chair, Alan, Ka's hairdresser and sole employee of the 'Nutters' female hairdressing salon, gave me his iPad to toy with. He uses it as a design tool now. A portable gallery of female haircuts for all his clients to mull over. Fortunately Ka was the last client to be finished so I had the waiting area to myself and didn't have the usual array of eyeballs looking me up and down as I awaited the wife.
With the iPad on my lap, Alan snapped an unexpected picture of my mug through the Photobooth app and planted it on the shoulders of a chubby dwarf in a vest and beret, smoking a cigar. He found it hilarious. Not sure why.
Alan then proceeded to show me his gallery of customers which he'd snapped and put on to a vast assortment of bodies, creating a hideous gallery of freaks and unfortunates, all with hair in varying states of disrepair. To be honest, most of them didn't need much modifying in an effort to be scary looking.
After Alan rushed off to get on with the final stages of Ka's hairstyling, I loaded up the Cluedo game and had my first shot on the iPad, failing to get used to the touchscreen control. I only had enough time for the introductory level of the game, deducting the murderer to be Ms. Scarlett with the razor blade in the study.
Cluedo's changed since I last played it, that's for sure.

Razor blades? What happened to the lead piping and the candlestick? In stead of Ms. Scarlett giving someone a quick bang over the head, she's now waiting in a darkened study, jumping out behind the victim and running a razor blade through his throat. Reverend Green, who, incidentally, now looks like Shaft, would be shocked and disgusted.
I've fancied an iPad for some time. The sleek design, the multi-touch display with it's sliding app icons, it's ease of use, zooming in and out from screen views, the onscreen keyboard. Fantastic stuff, but I just can't justify spending that amount of money when I have a perfectly good iMac at home and an iPod hooked to my ears.
The death of Steve Jobs during the week was a great shame. He has always been a bit of a hero in my book. Here was a guy with no degree, a college drop out, and he became not only one of the world’s richest men but one of it’s most influential.
Jobs revolutionised the computer and in doing so, the world, and our everyday lives. He transformed the computer into a stylised, sleak, platform which communicates, collects, informs, reminds, entertains and has the ability to almost organise and run a life on it's own. It was his ideas and creations that inspired the countless other remakes released by other computing manufacturers. Touch screen computers, or tablets (I love tablet... Mum made great tablet...) are now part of the mass market, something I just couldn’t possibly imagine when I was sitting shooting my Sinclair ZX Spectrum’s gun at the living room tv in the late eighties. Steve Jobs put our whole record collection on a slim, pocket sized, 8cm long slip of plastic for gawds sake!
I don’t think it’s an understatement to say that Jobs, and Apple, transformed the world. Okay, Jobs didn’t single handedly create this computer revolution but he was certainly a significant driving force. Jobs was a crazy, stubborn, idea fuelled inventor who appreciated the style as well as the substance. The machine’s Apple produced only a few years back are already considered classics – a testament to how the world seems to be on fast forward all of a sudden. Technology is speeding forwards at every moment, the rest of the world struggling to keep up, and Jobs had been at the forefront.
The question is, with Jobs now gone will apple remain at the forefront?
Will there be an iPad 3?
How much further can the tablet be developed?
And will Mum ever make any more?

Nicholson's chin and the supermarket tannoy

2011-10-08T15:17:00.000-07:00

“Customer attention please. Customer attention. Could a Kelly Ann Reid please come to the checkouts please. A Kelly Ann Reid, please come to the checkouts. Thank you”.
The voice reverberated around the aisles of Stewartfield Morrisons today after I failed to find her within the bowels of the busy supermarket on this rainy Saturday afternoon. We were in search of Christening wrapping paper and stopped of at the local Morrisons. I dropped Ka off at the store’s large, pillared front doors and swerved off to the adjoining petrol station to obtain some more ridiculously expensive unleaded while she popped in for the paper. After buying the petrol I drove back to the pickup point, knowing that the paper/card buying area was at the store’s front newspaper checkout and believing that it wouldn’t have took too long for Ka to purchase the required gift wrapping while I bought the fuel.
As always with these things though, nothing is that simple.
The wife always finds a way to complicate things. Ka was nowhere to be seen. We both had no phone on our person so, the car had to be parked. After slotting the car into one of the carpark’s tight, awkward spaces, I started a whirlwind tour of the supermarket’s vast innards. Starting at the gift wrapping/birthday card/newspaper/lottery ticket checkout at trhe front of the store I then proceeded to the main checkouts where, again, Ka was nowhere to be found, so, there was nothing more that could be done, except the obvious. An exploration of the aisles. Fifteen minutes later she was still nowhere to be found.
So, I hesitantly approached what resembled a store manager at the help desk where the tannoy microphone stood waiting.
Ka eventually appeared, tottering up towards the checkout with a basket full of products, which we had not come in for, looking a little disconcerted and embarrassed. Apparently she had been at the fish when the tannoy announced her name. Needless to say a mild argument occurred where Ka voiced her disbelief and I repeatedly gave my argument for approaching the store manager and requesting an announcement for a missing wife.
It’s the end of a rather relaxing week off from work. It’s flown by even though I’ve not been up to anything particularly interesting. Just the usual. Gym, cinema, jogging and painting. Painting of the canvas kind.
I’m three quarters of the way through a Walken, just about finished a Nicholson and struggling a bit with a Pacino.
As I’m sure you’ve guessed, I’ve started painting movie stars. Walken was the first and since then Ka, Pauline and Chaz have all eagerly spurred me on to paint more, so it’s thanks to them I spent the first half of the week struggling over Jack Nicholson’s chin and the bare bones of Al Pacino’s face. I thought Pacino would actually be a little easier than Nicholson, but how wrong I was. I feel like I’ve been painting and repainting the main structure of Pacino’s face for three days now. I’m sure it’ll get there in the end. Wherever, ‘there’ is.
On Wednesday, after a day of trying to get Pacino right, Pauline, my cousin’s ex wife, who just happens to be an old friend from Primary school and is now a good friend of the Mrs, popped round for a 5k jog around the block. Or rather, jog around a few blocks. Both the St. Leonards and Calderwood areas of EK to be precise.
It’s all in preperation for the Big Fun Run taking place on the 29th October. Ka is running it for Sands in memory of our wee Lucy Reid, as are myself, Pauline, our pal Claire, the in laws, Grace and Dougie, Ka’s bro Colin and his Mrs, Jillian and Ka’s sister, Angela along with, I imagine a great number of other folk. (I’ll take this opportunity to spur folk on to please sponsor the Mrs in her 5k endeavour. Please visit this site to sponsor – any amount of pence or pounds is gratefully accepted for this great cause!)
Pauline, who apparently does not run, was keen for a practise jog and managed the 5k easily in 35 minutes and, although we thought she’d be cursing us, she did insist that she still loved us. Well, most of her did anyway.
Apparently her lungs didn’t.
They’ll get over it.
Last night I was back in the O2 Academy for another visitation from The Wombats. Having recovered from her run the two nights before, Pauline accompanied me to the gig, after Ka took a rain check, and the two of us jumped away to the tunes undeterred by the amount of kids surrounding us in the crowd. The Liverpudlian threesome put on another storming performance for Glasgow, playing a lot of their most recent album, a lot of which I wasn’t familiar with yet. I purchased the album months ago and have listened to it about thrice. Don’t spend as much time listening to music as I used to.
Too busy painting, jogging or looking for the wife in supermarkets.

Hurried and harassed

2011-09-30T15:21:00.000-07:00

Christmas. 85 days away, apparently, and it has managed to be one of the biggest conversations/debates in the office for the past few days. Other conversations in the past week have ranged from the debate of whether Creamy Chicken John is, in fact, Bible John, old television adverts, who the woman with the stockings was, whether Andrea will get hit by a bus as she crosses Cadzow Road, the vast amount of people Craig believes are w**kers and what age Lorna is.
It was her birthday today and she brought us all in a treat to celebrate. A rather tasty dumpling, and today it tasted even better, simply because it was Friday.
I’d been feeling a bit down in the dumps of late but today, even though I only managed a mere four hours sleep last night, I strode up to work feeling a little better. Maybe it was just something to do with the fact that as of this afternoon, I have a week off. Time to relax, chill out, look after Ka and perhaps even get some more painting done.
The bright sun shining down over Scotland probably helped cheer me up too.
The Indian summer has started, the news is saying. If Scotland sees much more than one day, I’m Santa Claus.
After the past few stormy weeks of wind and rain going out at lunchtime was like walking out into a foreign country. The Hamilton shops surrounding the office were busy with summer shoppers as Lorna and myself took a stroll up to the local Marks and Spencers to take advantage of their latest Meal Deal for the weekend. The Marks and Spencers Dine in for Two Meal Deal is always popular and pretty good value for a tenner. The main problem is usually getting your hands on any of it. You get a main, a side dish, a dessert and a bottle of wine, but, unfortunately, not always of your choice.
Fortunately Lorna and myself had headed up the street just a little earlier than noon, hoping to beat the lunchtime crowds, so we had a good selection of meals to choose from. It was getting to them that was the problem.
We walked in and before we could wonder where we were headed, we seen the small crowds, straight ahead, gathered at the busy shelves at the end of the middle three aisles.
Little old ladies everywhere. The majority of the crowds were anyway, the rest were rather pi**ed off looking older men, probably waiting on their wives making a decision.
Patiently, I waited on a space to open and then took my chance to weave myself into the crowd.
As I stood deliberating on what to buy for dinner, I spoke to Ka on the phone, asking if she'd prefer haddock or beef roulades. Just as I was reaching for the beef roulades, to try and work out what their green filling was, the corner of a metal hand basket was jammed into my side. Looking down towards the pain, I yelped as a grim looking old woman looked up at me aggressively from my side whilst I recovered from the sharp, sudden pain in the side of my ribs and the abrupt interruption to my conversation with Ka. Two other women were closing in to my left, elbowing my subtly and a large bloke reared up behind, reaching over my shoulder to get to one of the roulades.
I'm not sure I like being surrounded by aggressive old women and I'm definitely not sure I like large blokes rearing up from behind, especially when they're apparently in urgent need of a bit of beef.
Sensing a disturbance in the call, Ka asked me what was up to which I told her.
“I’m surrounded by housewives and mad old women!” I said, perhaps a little too loudly, into my mobile. Shocked utterances and angry comments were made around me, which spurred me on into making a hurried, and rather harassed decision. I grabbed the haddock and ran for the tills, (run for your lives!), swiping a bottle of white plonk from the Meal Deal shelf as I ran.
Never before has Marks and Spencers felt so threatening. I'd obviously caused a little upset by standing before the Meal Deal shelves, undecided on what to purchase whereas they're all allowed to meander around the shops in their slippers, with their sticks and electric wheelchairs, for as long as they like.
After getting out of Marks in, just about, one piece, my gold tie looking a little bedraggled, I popped into the Hamilton Shopping Arcade's O2 shop to ask about the strange symbols that have started appearing on my phone.
Last week I'd visited the shop to get a new Sim card as my phone had taken a liking to switching itself off and complaining about an “INACTIVE SIM”.
The guy that sat me down at his desk last week to take my phone apart, scoffed at my sim card as he plucked it from the back of my mobile. He shook his head his head and looking at me disdainfully explained I had a mere 2G Sim, which were fazed out months ago, and I should have a 3G. Shrugging, I asked him to sort it out for me and since my new 3G sim card has become active it has successfully tripled all the contacts in my address book and been flashing strange new logos at me on the phone's screen.
The same guy was there today but too busy laughing scornfully at some other ignorant mobile user at the time. Another tall, rather gloomy looking fellow strode up and asked if he could help. This rather depressing looking O2 sales character took the phone off me and looked down at it's screen. As I started explaining about the phone and how, up until last Friday, I'd had a 2G Sim card, the O2 man's eyes started welling up. He quickly rubbed his eyes, trying to act natural as he flicked pages on my phone with shaky hands. My explanation faltering a little, I continued, unsure where to look, before real tears started gathering in his eyes. Quietly, and under my breath, I asked if there was a problem. The guy seemed genuinely upset. The other guy had found it hilarious to the levels of smugness but this guy was obviously the opposite and felt nothing but pity for me. Surely having a 2G Sim card wasn't that distressing.
The guy eventually murmured something about hayfever through his tears as he continued to shake his head and rub his eyes over my phone, making me wonder how my mobile and I could have possibly caused such an outbreak of the allergic reaction. As I considered the dusty old ladies in Marks and Spencers as probable cause, the crying O2 man murmured the phone symbols away as temporary problems to do with internet connections. Hurrying the phone from his hands I quickly said my thanks and left the store before I caused the guy any more upset.
Thankfully, I didn’t upset anyone else for the rest of the day, with the exception of Linda, in Advertising, who wanted a visual done half an hour before the end of my shift.
She had no chance.
I was going home for my haddock.
Which was delicious.
Well worth upsetting the old ladies for.

Emergencies

2011-09-23T16:40:00.000-07:00

I picked up the phone on Wednesday night to noise. People were shouting. People were having rather frantic conversations. Sudden rattling noises raced past the other end of the phone. And then Mum spoke.
“Hello?” she enquired, rather than greeted.
“Hello?” I enquired back, almost shouting over the noise in the background.
“Hold on” Mum said. “Michael?”
“Yes, it’s me, Mum, where are you?” I asked as the noise around my Mum on the other end of line seemed to grow loud again and then, once more, lessen back down into various conversations in the background, phone’s ringing in the room behind her.
“Where are you Mum?” I asked, almost impatiently, before I heard the noise.
An ambulance rang out in the background. A brief, short scream of a few seconds. Enough to make me panic.
“Where are you Mum?” I almost shouted, near panic, the worst of situations running through my mind. It had only been three weeks since my Dad’s heart attack. You’d often hear of people having mild heart attacks before a big one later on, further on down the line.
“Mum?!”
“What was Archie’s second name?” Mum asked.
“What?” I frowned down the phone at her, as the frantic conversations carried on behind her.
“Archie’s second name, what was it?” Mum asked, referring to a previous boss I’d had, an ancient old fella that ran the Auldhouse Arms, an old pub where I used to work behind the bar, in my art school days.
“Where are you?”, I asked again in frustration. “Where’s Dad?”.
“He’s in the conservatory talking to one of the guys from his work” Mum replied.
The conservatory?
Once more, frowning down the phone, I asked perplexed, “what’s all that noise in the background?”
“The noise?” Mum replied and then seemed to cotton on to the noise going on around her. “Oh, I’m watching ER”
“ER?” I huffed as my shoulders relaxed around my neck.
“Yeah, it’s on Sky” she replied.
“That finished ages ago!” I sighed exasperatedly after a few moments of pulling myself together again. Has she not had enough hospital dramas recently, I thought? And even if she hasn’t surely she could be watching a little more current hospital dramas such as Greys Anatomy, House, Holby City or Casualty even?
Mum still struggles with that giant, HD, television they’ve got. One day she spent a whole morning simply trying to turn it on before giving up and phoning Kenny, interrupting him at work.
The other day I received an emergency phonecall from Ka in work. The Virgin tv service had crashed again. I’m still not sure, to this day, what I was supposed to have done to our television from my desk at work but I done my utmost best. I told Ka to phone Virgin. Only this morning I was sitting eating my weetabix, looking forward to watching some gypsies, sorry, travellers getting chucked off some illegally pilfered land, when the tv went black.
The virgin service had went capoot once more. Being at home this time, I went straight to the phone and voiced a hearty complaint to the Indian women on the 150 number. She apologised and booked a repairman for Sunday.
“Sunday?”, I said. “Sunday?” A little louder, causing Ka to wake up in the bedroom. “This is ridiculous!”. Rather than be impressed that Virgin tv repairmen did not partake in the day of rest, I was rather annoyed that we’d have to spend the majority of our weekend without television. Nothing could be done though, and I had to go to work without my morning news, although, fortunately, I didn’t miss anything on the Dale farm front thanks to another Court ruling. The Virgin lady later called and informed us it was a regional fault and our television would be back by five o’clock in the evening, so we were able to watch QI and Big Brother tonight (two different ends of the television spectrum there!).
“Young” I sigh, my ears growing accustomed to the medical babble in the background. “His name was Young” I almost hang up on Mum with a roll of the eyes, once I finally relax.
Mum obviously still doesn’t know how to operate the volume control properly as the noises of the ambulances and doctors of ER fill the living room, while she fiddles over her jigsaw on the coffee table, the handset of their phone at her ear.
“Ah, that was it, Young” she nods over the phone. “You’re Dad wanted to know as Bill’s, (or whatever his name was), Mum knew him”.
“That’s good” I say. “How are you?”. Now that she had phoned and successfully disturbed me, I thought I may as well make polite conversation.
“Fine, fine” she replied, a little distant, her attention now obviously back to watching ER which is probably where it mostly remained until the end of the conversation.
Having answered my question and fulfilling my use, I let her get back to her hospital drama and I back to The Fades, on BBC three. A little less ordinary than ER but, on some levels, not as uncomfortable.

Halle's hot and Dahl's hut

2011-09-19T15:36:00.000-07:00

So Halle Berry’s been in Glasgow over the weekend filming her latest flick. I was reading yesterday that there is someone employed on set, standing, waiting patiently behind camera who runs out as soon as the director shouts cut and rubs Halle’s hands. Her poor, wee cold hands. This same person also provides Halle with a nice hot water bottle at each scene’s break, helping her brave the freezing cold Scottish air.
It’s not even cold yet?!
Berry’s filming an adaptation of David Mitchell’s ‘Cloud Atlas’. And no, the author is not the same David Mitchell as the smarmy one with the hook nose and bulbous eyes with a penchant for making snippy comments whom I reckoned it was when I originally seen ‘Cloud Atlas’ in the book charts. This David Mitchell has been shortlisted for the booker prize and is now getting his books made into films starring big Hollywood names. The git.
I get very jealous of writers. People writing stories and getting paid for it. Especillay once they start getting made into big Hollywood movies. David Mitchell will be loaded now. Mega bucks for spending your days, sitting at home, writing, or in Edinburgh coffee shops if your J. K. ‘I was a poor, lonely, single Mum’, Rowling.
Can you sense the jealousy? (Not of being a single Mum...)
Every time I’ve tried to settle down in a coffee shop to write a book I’ve always been chucked out an hour or so after my first tea (I don’t drink coffee) or at the very least received growls from the folks behind the counter or had a wet mop flung over my shoes as a subtle hint.
How did J.K. ‘my ideas are all completely original’, Rowling get away with it? She must have spent a hell of a lot of her single parent benefits on posh coffee.
Or maybe it was a tea drinker vendetta. It was simply because she was a slurper of the coffee bean. Like I said, I’ve never drank coffee. Perhaps the coffee shops I was perched in were discriminating against me because I was a tea drinker. That would explain why tea is always p**s poor in those ridiculously overpriced coffee shops, because they simply do not cater for, and have no intention of catering for, tea drinkers. Especially ones that are trying to come up with the next multi million pound making fantasy series to envelop the whole childrens’ fiction reading market.
Roald Dahl, the genius and a favourite author of mine since I was a kid, who would have been 95 last week, made the headlines a few days ago, not only because of his birthday (even though it’s not really his birthday because he’s dead) but because his poor little garden hut is falling apart.
Yes, Dahl’s dilapidated, old hut at the bottom of his garden is apparently in imminent danger of falling apart and Dahl’s family have started a campaign to save, and move, his hut to the Roald Dahl museum in Buckinghamshire.
That’s a nice thought. Treasuring and perhaps partly restoring, what was the birthplace of so many classic and wonderful stories.
At least it was a nice thought until the family insisted they wanted half a million quid for their trouble.
Half a million quid? To save a garden hut?
Are the Dahl offspring having a laugh?
My Dad’s got two garden huts in his garden but I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t need half a million quid to give them a bit of a refurbishment, even if it did mean sticking them on the back of a lorry to shift them to a different location. He could probably even install a wee swimming pool in each of them and it wouldn’t cost him half a million quid. Perhaps a mini bar and an HD TV too?
And another thing, why the hell can’t the Dahl offspring pay for the refurbishment and transportation of their famous author patriarch’s garden hut themselves? Surely they can afford it with the royalties they’re earning off the back of his hut originated creative genius?
That Sophie Dahl could cut back on the old chocolate cake and put a few quid in the bank for a start, not to mention, lose a couple of pounds. Talk about the everlasting gobstopper…
It was a simple garden hut made out of brick and polystyrene with a mouldy old chair, a rotten old sleeping bag and a crumbling old suitcase inside. Dahl must have been freezing in the winter months. I bet he could have done with one of Halle Berry’s hot water bottles in those days.
How much would that hut cost to ship? I reckon that Dahl lot have been selling on ebay. One of these sellers that inflates their price by grossly overestimating the old postage and packaging.
‘Yes, this item is well worth a look at. This item has been previously used, and probably abused. A great little garden retreat. Brilliant for hiding yourself away in to get away from the wife or the grandweans that are screaming for chocolate. A little worn on the inside, and out. Brick crumbling. Polystyrene mouldy. Plenty of bugs and parasites. Perhaps the occasional fox.
Worth around £5. Postage? Half a million quid’.
Sophie Dahl described it as a place of ‘palpable magic and limitless imagination’.
After her grandfather’s lifetime of fantastic writings and creative genius I’m sure her bank account could be described as something similar.

Over iced and overpriced

2011-09-14T14:45:00.000-07:00

Ka and myself were back in Glasgow, late on Saturday afternoon. With the intention of dinner and drinks we headed for the Merchant Square in Candleriggs. It felt like we hadn’t been out for ages, as we’ve had a few quiet weekends recently, and now that George Square was free of zombies, crowds running amok screaming and breaking their arms and detoured Number 20 bus routes, we thought it would be a pleasant change and get us out the house.
The city’s old fruit market and surrounds, in which much of Glasgow’s old Victorian architecture still proudly stand in cobbled streets, has been a bit of a favourite for Ka and myself when it comes to going for a wee tipple at the weekend. Although a little pricey, the atmosphere is always relaxed, comfortable and enjoyable as you can sit in one of the Square’s bars inside the roofed courtyard with it’s high ceiling of curving, twinkling lights which shine down over the cobbles of the people filled square below.
On Saturday the Merchant Square’s Craft and Design Fair was taking place. It turns out that it’s more of a permanent fixture these days, and there were various traders attempting to sell the product of their various hobbies and pastimes.
Paintings, drawings, photographs and jewellery were all on sale around the various stalls in the Square along with two stalls selling fairy cakes… sorry, cup cakes.
Ridiculously overpriced and ridiculously over iced cup cakes sold by large grinning ladies in silk scarves. These small sponge creations sit there on the silver plates, innocently looking up at you with their colourful décor, probably containing enough icing on top to easily feed you double the amount of your daily sugar allowance by just eating one. Enough to send you off in a wild eyed buzz to buy a horrendously overpriced print of a photograph at one of the surrounding stalls before going off into one of the bars and ordering yourself ten Mae West cocktails.
Don’t get me wrong some of the photographs at the fair’s stalls are great. There are some really nice shots of various Glasgow locations and beyond. But selling small A5 prints straight from the computer’s inkjet computer, in small card frames bought in large packs from stationery websites and charging silly amounts of money for them, is a bit much.
The painters, illustrators and jewellery makers are the one’s that really interested Ka and myself.
The work of Glaswegian artist and designer, Adrian B. McMurchie, for instance, really grabbed my attention, with his fantastic architectural line drawings and watercolours. In fact, my own style of sketchbook and watercolour work is very much like McMurchie’s, only a lot less detailed and not half as good. His eye for catching the details, perspectives and structure of his chosen, architectural subjects is brilliant and well worth a look.
Another stall that took Ka’s eye was the jewellery of Moon on the Loch. This is the work of Scottish jewellery designer, and fellow East Kilbridian, Stephen Dickie. Dickie works with silver, gold, copper and glass to create fantastic and stylish jewellery in elegant, often simple, smooth, minimal shapes. Using nature and reflection as inspiration, Dickie creates ear rings, necklaces, bangles and cufflinks all to a beautiful, polished finish.
Ka’s eyes lit up when we looked over the jewellery laid out over the ‘Moon of the Loch’ stall but with just under 100 days to go, I simply took a business card and moved onwards to Arisaig for lunch, after which we spent the rest of the evening on the big, black, comfortable cushions of Bar Square.
Bar Square’s Vodka based Mae West cocktail was particularly good. That was our pudding. The Cup Cake stalls had closed by then.

Unexpected items

2011-09-06T14:56:00.000-07:00

Ka has been needing a bit of tlc recently. The mental trials of the last half a year have been tough on Ka, me, not to mention the rest of the family, I suppose. Dad’s heart attack last week also gave us a scare, and it’s all left me rather numb and depressed.
In a vague effort to cheer Ka up, just a little, I left work yesterday to buy her some flowers at the supermarket on my way home.
Now that the newspaper production centre is based in Hamilton we have the joys and inconvenience of being just around the corner from the local Asda. Inconvenience because I now have little excuse when it comes to popping by the shops on the way home to get some cheese or milk missing from the fridge. So nipping into Asda on the way home last night I bought Ka two bunches of flowers, a new set of pyjamas and a new clothes horse.
Okay, a clothes horse is not the most romantic of items or the first thing to go for to cheer your lady up, but, as I'm sure you can guess, I didn't specifically buy it for Ka alone to accompany her colourful bouquet. You certainly wouldn't woo many a woman by buying them a clothes horse (why do they call it a clothes horse anyway? It's nothing like a horse - where's the saddle?). Saying that, would you woo many a woman by buying them pyjamas? Cuddly, cosey pyjamas with Eeyore on the front?
Well, it's better than a clothes horse anyway.
I did suspect coming home with a bunch of flowers together with a folding concertina clothes rack was a risk and could possibly end up with me being concerina’d myself but was confident that the pyjamas would soften the blow.
A new clothes airer, or horse, is something we've been meaning to buy for at least three months now anyway and they were all reduced in the homeware sale, so it was a bargain and would successfully replace the old one, which is now a bloody nuisance.
For the past few months we have had to build the clothes horse with awkward, krypton factor like, precision, involving balancing broken parts against other broken parts and hoping that nobody accidentally hit it on their way by in the hallway, otherwise the thing would shake down into a pile of damp clothing and metal poles with jagged ends. A quick journey through our small hallway, in the past months, has often ended up like a strange version of jenga, involving metallic poles and wet pants instead of the traditional wooden blocks.
It was the ironing board that did it. The ironing board is kept in the same tight corner of the kitchen and at some point in the past year has caused a few breakages to various intersections in the airer's joinings making it the quivering wreck it is today.
Luckily for me, after making it home, the old clothes horse did not end up smashed down over me. Ka liked the flowers and pyjamas and all the hassle at the Asda self service check out was worth it.
No matter how many times I attempt to use those self service checkouts it always takes double the time it should.
After finally getting the scanners to recognise some barcodes I beeped the flowers through and placed them down into a carrier bag, just as the overly patronising animation instructed you to on the monitor, only to be told I had an 'unexpected item in the baggage area'.
I looked round for this mysterious unexpected item to see only the two bunches of flowers sitting there. That couldn't have been right, I thought, as I had scanned both over the glass panels and the machine had beeped it's approval, allowing them passage to the afore mentioned baggage area, so, to my mind, this would make them wholly expected.
Absolutely expected.
Exactly what the machine should have expected.
There was nothing remotely 'unexpected' about them!
Was the baggage area unprepared for such a hefty weight of blossoms?
Was I supposed to keep the flowers in hand as I swept the rest of my items over the scanner?
So, just as all the other times, I had to wait on a 'supervisor' to come over. A young guy, around the age of seven, in an Asda fleece, eventually sauntered over and flashed his badge at the scanner and then pressed the monitor once before giving an abrupt nod and walked off to be useful somewhere else. Perhaps to hold the giant pointing green hand that’s used to tell people which direction to head in once they reach the normal, humanly staffed, checkouts.
Something obviously had to be verified, I thought, as I tried to scan the clotheshorse’s barcode.
Perhaps buying flowers now has an age restriction?
I wondered if I had not moved my item to the baggage area with the correct degree of efficiency?
A clotheshorse through the self service monitor would have been a far worthier contender for an ‘unexpected item’.

An enraged Swedish Chef

2011-08-29T15:18:00.000-07:00

Kirkintilloch looked miserable yesterday. The sky was thick with grey. The wind that blew over the hills was bitter cold. The branches on the trees swayed fiercely in the strong breeze and the streets were empty of people. That was until the Reids and the McGarvas arrived.
Yesterday was Dougie’s birthday and Colin and Jillian held a BBQ in my Father In Law’s honour and we all made our way out to Waterside. Colin donned the Chef’s hat, that Ka had found him on Amazon during the week, (she couldn’t find a turban), and got the coals lit with a little help from Dad, an expert BBQ chef himself. Steven soon provided some help with another BBQ, firing on some Chicken Tikka he’d marinated earlier, which everyone soon started munching, raving about, whilst picking the last remaining chicken from their sticks. Colin muttered jealously and then shouted abusively, waving his knives and spatulas around like an enraged Swedish Chef, as apparently we had not praised his own cooking quite so much.
Greasy hamburgers in a buttery roll with cheese and a heavy dollop of tomato sauce. Sausages fresh from the grill. Beef kebabs that nipped at your mouth with their spicy innards as you ate. Pork steaks, pasta bakes, mustards, beers, cake and wine. As Man United scored all those goals, all of the above were happily consumed although none of which were particularly ideal ingredients for a man that’s just had a heart attack.
Dad spent three nights as a guest in Hairmyres hospital last week as a result of the pains he had been experiencing on the Monday morning whilst getting ready for work. It wasn’t until Dad got to work and he was having more than a little difficulty with the short staircase outside the factory’s front doors that he realised something must be wrong. As the pain in his chest continued and he found himself short of breath, more than a little hot under the collar and building up a bit of a sweat on the brow, he googled the symptoms in work and they all gave generally the same answer. A heart attack.
One of Dad’s colleagues flung the phone over the desk towards him and he phoned NHS 24, whose advisors, after passing Dad on a few times to various, different conversationalists, eventually came up with the idea of sending an ambulance out. Gosh, that what quick thinking. Before long Dad was whisked off to Hairmyres.
Of course, once I had got to the hospital on the Monday night I told him that he should have just phoned me. After recently graduating from a three day British Red Cross course I could have told him what the problem was in moments, quickly identifying the symptoms of a heart attack (although I’m not sure if my Dad experienced the ‘sense of impending doom’… I’ll need to ask him that). I could have told him was position to sit in and everything and I certainly wouldn’t have had to hold a committee or pass the phone round my work colleagues to get their ideas on the matter.
Saying that, I may have panicked. I may even have made matters worse. I would probably have rushed out from my work, ran straight into a lamp post, dropping my car keys down a drain and then once having finally retrieved my car keys from under the street drain with the help of a passing burglar who just happened to have a crowbar on him, I would have crashed the car into a Hamilton driver.
Makes me wonder what I’d be like in a real British Red Cross emergency situation. I’m one of three first aiders in our building. I’m also one of two fire wardens for our department?!
The place is doomed.
Yes, it’s probably just as well Dad did not phone me.
Dad has now been prescribed with four pills to take for the rest of his life and a six week recovery programme to help nurse him through the coming weeks. Dad showed the large ring bound book of recovery to Ka and myself when we visited him at home on Thursday after he was eventually released from Hairmyres and Ka immediately started going through the instructions, reading out the various pills’ allowance and side affects, skipping the bit about the possible effects on the sex life.
Dad is now on a morning diet of Aspirins, statins and beta blockers to help thin his blood and keep it flowing properly through his arteries.
As a result of all this I’m now considering my own diet. If my Dad, a generally healthy, fit guy, can have a heart attack, what chance do the rest of us have?
The rest of us being me?
Just for starters, I’ve been mulling over my cholesterol intake today. I came across one list describing the food to avoid online which included all as follows:
Butter – I eat on bread, toast, potatoes, quite a lot really. It was on the rolls I had with my greasy BBQ food yesterday.
Hard cheese – Cheese is great. Brilliant toasted with a tomato on top. In fact, I had loads on my burgers yesterday…
Fatty meat – yep, eat that too. Again, had a fair amount from Colin’s and Jillian’s table last night.
Red and processed meat – yep, again on the BBQ last night.
Biscuits – yep, last night along with…
Cake – well, it was Dougie’s birthday?!
Cream – yep, we had whipped cream with it. Although Dougie kept an eye on Morgan and myself as we squirted from the can (he doesn’t like people nicking his whipped cream).
Dripping – is this grease from your food? If so, yes, again, on the burgers and various meaty products cooked on Colin’s smoking BBQ last night.
Other items on the list included Lard, Ghee (whatever that is) and Coconut oil. These three were the only three not included on Colin and Jillian’s menu last night.
Everything else we ate is on the heart attack list?!
Colin was trying to murder us!?!
Chicken Tikka wasn’t on the Cholesterol list though...
That’s why Colin was so angry at Steven for cooking some of his own recipes.
By cooking some healthy chicken, Steven was foiling his evil plan!

Performers, pamphlets, pasta and pains

2011-08-27T15:10:00.000-07:00

“What’s this all about?”, I wondered to myself after ten minutes of standing watching a flame haired guy shout at the gathered audience around him. The flame haired man had dragged a young child out into his people framed circle in the middle of the Royal Mile. The street entertainer was now spending a hell of a long time shouting at the gathered audience standing before him, whilst the audience standing behind him, which involved Ka, Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann and myself, struggled to hear, his voice a distorted echo which bounced off the old, stone walls and buildings around us. He took a few more minutes to dress the wee guy up in a long coat, red wig and hat, cracking jokes the whole time, which only half of the audience actually heard, the rest of us, standing to the rear, having to make do with vague echoes and attempts at guessing the joke. He then started blowing up long balloons with some sort of small air pistol and as he cracked another joke my patience finally broke and I turned to Ka and my Mum and huffed loudly. Ka and Mum agreed with a nod and a shake of the head and we started moving off. We started to move reluctantly at first, moving away from the busy, crudely formed circle of tourists and Fringe goers as we suspected that as soon as we took our eyes away from the red bearded street entertainer he may actually start entertaining.
That’s always the problem with the Edinburgh Fringe, I thought as we walked, there are a hell of a lot of shows, plays, music and exhibitions on in the capital at this time of year but only some of it will actually be worth watching.
Dad had driven us all through to Edinburgh for the afternoon for a walk around the Fringe tainted streets of the capital in order to take in some of the colour, acting, music and activities.
Ka and myself usually go and see at least two or three comedians of varying standards when it comes to the Fringe time of year. This year, however, Ka and myself are running a little short of fun and laughs and we were quite happy to relax and simply stroll around with Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann, taking in the fringe atmosphere, looking out for anything interesting that may be going on in the streets whilst we looked around for a spot of lunch on the sunny Sunday afternoon.
The crowds were pretty massive, as is usual for the Edinburgh streets at the height of Fringe activity.
People danced around you as you walked. Pirates handed out pamphlets as we passed. Classical music rang out from small, secluded corners in the various squares that lead off from the Mile. Pipers played the bagpipes in animal skins and long kilts, balancing on stilts disguised as goat legs, precariously tottering around the pave stones on hooves. Small groups of artists huddled under brolleys, hunched over easels painting or sketching paying models, advertising themselves with impressive drawings of movie stars set on boards facing out into the street. Some even sat pencilling mildly insulting caricatures of paying visitors to their pavement spot, apparently oblivious to the fact they could be in for a punch on the jaw. Big, fat, burly blokes blew up stretchy, coloured balloons. TV crews ran about with big, complicated looking cameras. All the cities buskers were out in force, wearing the more colourful ties and hats from their wardrobe collection. There were more street statues than normal too. Standing still. Doing nothing. Wanting paid for the mere effort of painting themselves silver.
People stood on the street’s rails and stone pillars in deep conversation with squirrels which they had their hands and forearms hidden up inside the animals’ anal cavity. People pedalled around on unicycles, uncomfortably perched on their small saddles, making you wince, as you felt their pain, watching them travel over the cobbles underfoot. Others walked around holding picture frames around their heads and shoulders creating the illusion of being a walking, talking portraits.
There was no sign of Trevor and Simon though. Dad reminded me of a past Edinburgh moment when the family had been walking down the Royal Mile, at some point in the late eighties, and Kenny and myself spotted the Going Live comedic legends of ‘Swing Your Pants’ fame, striding up the street towards us. Unfortunately they must have been on their holidays as they were not swinging their pants at the time so, being the shy, polite person that I am, I neglected to ask for an autograph.
The celebrity average on Sunday was pretty low. We only managed to spot Four Poofs and a Piano, of Friday Night with Jonathan Ross fame, who performed a short routine in the middle of the street with a keyboard perched on the pianist’s kilted knees.
After an hour or so walking around the city streets we headed back towards the Grassmarket in search of some Sunday lunch.
The five of us ended up sitting in the middle of the old market square outside a small café bar named Made in Italy, the Castle towering above us from behind the various bars which line the northern side of the street. We enjoyed some sufficiently sized pasta dishes with some wine, and, whilst a man cracked a whip in the open space behind us, enjoyed the atmosphere and the varying degrees of sunshine, which shone down through the moving clouds overhead.
In all we had a nice, pleasant, relaxing Sunday to take us into the stressful week that was to come when my Dad woke up on Monday morning with a pain in his chest.

The Ben

2011-08-20T05:08:00.000-07:00

Monday morning. Half past nine. The sweat was pouring out of me. The unpredictable weather kept changing from hot to cold, rain to shine. Colin, Chaz and myself had started ascending the track which rose up from Achintree Farm after crossing the shaky bridge over the River Nevis. The path led us up between the fields at the foot of the mountain and it wasn’t until we were over the stile at the top of the farm that we really knew we were climbing up on to the mountainside, the peak of Ben Nevis our far off goal.
As we began hiking up the large stone path the rain started and the first group of the fellow hill climbers overtook us, all foreign and most with the hiking, walking sticks. Colin and Chaz paused to slip on their waterproof trousers, hobbling and hopping about on the spot as the rain became heavier, sweeping down from the side of the giant hill before us in sheets. With my heavy headedness and my dodgy, but now recovering, stomach, caused by the night before, I began to wonder if I was really going to be capable of climbing Britain’s highest peak. The sheer size of the Ben loomed over the long, zig zagging path before us, the road we were on disappearing round the first side of the hill a sizable hike before us.
After around ten to fifteen minutes the rain dwindled down to a smir in the air and as the wind died with it we found ourselves making good progress, looking back behind us, over the valley of Glen Nevis, our campsite and the road to Fort William beyond.
We were taking the ‘Mountain Track’ up the hill, which apparently used to be called the ‘Tourist Track’. They must of caught a hell of a lot of stupid tourists out with that title in the past. Thankfully we didn’t come across any skeletons lying sprawled over the path on the way up with ancient Hawaii style short sleeved shirts ragged and torn about their heavily pecked bones, an old cracked, grimey camera lying broken and insect infested around their emaciated, splintered necks by a ragged strap. Gulls did seem to group at various points over the side of the hill as we hiked, congregating over hidden spots over the long grass and rocks. It did make me wonder whether they were grouping around another hiker that didn’t quite make it.
The Mountain Track was the main route to the old Observatory and the main path for horses and ponies to take on their way to the peak of the hill in years gone by. It is certainly not for tourists, or any other casual walkers, wanting a quick jaunt up in order to take in some nice views of the Highlands of Scotland.
As we headed round the first side of the mountain the sun was soon shining over us once more and Colin and Chaz were disposing of the jackets. Suspecting deception on the weather’s part I kept my jacket on, stomping on up the path, the hangover from an hour ago now fading rather more quickly than any previous hangover I’ve ever experienced. Chaz had bought me a cup of tea at the campsite’s burger van before leaving as he and Colin had bought themselves rolls and sausage for breakfast. Opting out of any breakfast after my sudden loss of stomach outside the tents I had kept a safe distance from any such greasy food but the cup of tea was doing nicely and soon enough I was stealing Coco Pop bars from Colin’s backpack.
The path round the first side of the hill was hard going. The large rocks, although fixed into path formation, were often large, cumbersome and misshapen making the path difficult to navigate, forcing you to concentrate where you placed every step. One misstep or one slip could end in a topple and a crack of the head off one of the large, often jagged, rocks underfoot.
After around an hour and a half or two hours (I wasn’t really keeping an eye on the watch) we had reached the Loch Meall an t-Suidhe, a small Loch lying on a plateau between the rises of the mountain. After this point the path turned and twisted up on to the main body of the Ben taking us up by the Red Burn and as Loch Linnhe came into view behind us we started the treacherous zig zagging slopes, the green grass and vegetation giving way to the grey of rocks, scree and stones. The temperature dropped and the slopes became steeper, harder, and seemingly more deceptive, most of the rocks lying loose making it far easier to misstep, slip and slide as you made your way up the slopes.
The air got colder and breathing became slightly more difficult. The landscape transformed into some kind of lunar like surface. Mist descended down upon as as we climbed up into the clouds, clinging to us as we looked on up the hill. We narrowed our eyes in an effort to try and make out the peak of the mountain above us.
Unfortunately Chaz made the mistake of asking a descending walker how long was left to climb, one thing you should never do as, Colin pointed out, the answer will either be bad or worse. It also makes you look desperate and amateurish. Something Colin and myself were unwilling to admit to. The guy lied through his teeth anyway, telling Chaz there was approximately 10 minutes of climb remaining. It turned out to be at least 40.
After passing by the misted, and pretty scary looking, Gardyloo Gully, we eventually made it to the fog shrouded summit, 1,344 metres above sea level with it’s spectacular views... of cloud. Unfortunately the weather being the way it was, we didn’t get any inspiring landscapes and had to make do with a photo standing atop the trig point and a very cold lunch, not to mention acting as the Ben’s official peak photographer for at least two families, my fingers were so cold they almost stuck to one foreign guys camera. He looked at me a little oddly through his round spectacles as I shivered and shook the camera back into his own hands after he climbed back down off the Trig point (I’d forgotten my gloves).
It was all well and good climbing the hill and reaching the top, the only thing left to do now was get back down. After hanging around at the peak for around half an hour, admiring the fog, we set off for home, most of the path on the way back down the hill seeming more dangerous and unpredictable than it had done on the way up. As families, old folk and seven year olds swept by us, Colin, Chaz and myself slipped, slid and struggled our way down the hill and by the time we reached the Loch Meall an t-Suidhe again my legs were uncontrollably shaking and I felt like I was doing a David Byrne dance down parts of the path, whilst Chaz slid violently and steadied himself, finding himself sliding to a stop in one instance with a pointed finger in the air, like a rather over eager John Travolta on a slippery dancefloor. Colin seemed to simply take it all in his stride, not slipping or sliding, as far as I could see, and barely complaining of any pain until we were within our last hour’s descent at which point we stopped for a rest and I willingly collapsed on the rocky path, unconcerned about any jagged headed rocks behind me.
As the seven hours marker hit we stepped down on to a smooth, gravel path, our legs filled with the dull throbbing of exertion and we made our way back to the campsite, tired but more than a little pleased with ourselves. We had done it. We had managed to scale Ben Nevis in seven hours, apparently the average time for the more experienced climbers. The climb was tiring and pretty hard going at times but turned out to be a great cure for a hangover.

Camping and karaoke in Fort William

2011-08-19T10:58:00.000-07:00

My calf muscles have never been sturdier. It is now three days since my return home from a camping trip away and my legs are still sore.
On Sunday Colin, Chaz and myself took a drive up to Fort William, Stevie Wonder, along with some dodgy eighties music, blaring from Chaz’s Volkswagen Golf speakers as we made our way up the A82. Throughout the journey the car made it’s way through rain, sun and hail, over the winding roads, through Crainlarich and towering mists of Glen Coe as we discussed the many important topics of the day including work, film, music, radio stations, Steve Martin and how I, in fact, never seen ‘Father of the Bride 2’ as Chaz has so adamantly claimed in the past. Chaz had it in his head that I had apparently called something off, at a younger age, in order to see this cinematic classic with Colin upon it’s first release which I have always ferociously denied and to which Colin, as it turns out, had no knowledge.
Anyway, we arrived in Fort William at around 5pm in the evening and set up camp in the Glen Nevis Camping Park.
We had two three man tents to house us, and our accessories, which included sleeping bags, food, beer, a cooker and a gas canister which was only approximately a quarter full, which was probably just as well after Chaz gave us a horror story about a family named Gillespie who apparently blew up on their way to a camping holiday a few years back. We had brought the two tents, as my own, apparently three man, tent would have been too small for the three of us and there was no way the three of us were cramming ourselves under the one canvas.
We picked a rather pleasant, semi covered grass area under some large trees keeping in mind the large, grey clouds that were constantly threatening from above, surrounding the giant mountain towering over us from across the road.
Our own personal Mount Doom stood there watching us. It’s peak submerged in cloud. With the mountain looming over us we wasted no time in getting the tents up whilst our neighbours milled around.

There was an oddly aged family group in a large tent at the top of our hill whose group included the loudest snorer I’ve ever heard. At night his snoring roared through the area around our tent, even though we were three tents away.
There was the fifty odd year old guy that turned up in an estate with two thai mail order brides. He stood back and shouted orders as his two female companions erected their family sized tent, arguing back and shouting at one another.
There was another small family behind us, who mostly wore kilts, which consisted of a man in his late fifties with a woman of around the mid thirties and a small three year old girl. We thought it was the mum and daughter out with the Granpa until we realised their tent was exceptionally small and they had a rather flirtatious manner whilst playing tennis.
Then there was the couple in the very small tent under the trees immediately behind us. A tent we neglected to notice until we had erected our own shelters. This couple barely left their tent for the whole time we were there. It wasn’t until we’d set up camp and were sitting having our first beers that we realised their tent actually existed. We presumed they were out at first as we started our first beers, chatting away and it wasn’t until the two shapes within began shuffling around, mumbling and making the odd noise
we began to suspect that we may have interrupted a quiet, romantic, rather cramped looking getaway.
After a disappointing meal in the disappointing pub/restaurant attached to the campsite, involving a burger which I thought I enjoyed at first but which then lay in my stomach for the rest of the evening, Chaz, colin and myself ventured into Fort William. We walked the 2.5 miles into town in search of some Sunday night entertainment. As it happens, it wasn’t too hard to find. After a couple of pints of cider in the hole that was The Crofter, Chaz sussed out from the helpful barmaid where the other drinking holes were located. Once we’d finished our pints and refrained from buying any of the vending machine gifts in the toilets, which included an inflatable sheep among other rather worrying items, we lifted our jackets and headed out on to the High street again.
After a short walk we entered the depths of an underground bar across the street, a dark, stone walled, karoke playing horror show in which we opted to stand in the shadows, up against a wall. Chaz, now bored with the beer, bought some spirits which I immediately considered a bad move considering we were climbing Britain’s biggest hill the next morning.
After escaping that bar we then moved on to the Volunteer Arms. A rather fitting name I thought as it turned out to be another karaoke playing night for which Chaz was our willing volunteer. As bar brawls broke out around us, among the rougher looking locals and the bar’s one security guard shuffled around it, Colin and myself mulled over which song Chaz was to sing. Following further lovely renditions from another few locals singing their hearts out up on the makeshift stage, Chaz’s name was called. Following the calling Chaz made his way up to the mike as a good portion of the drinkers in the bar looked round at him, and us, as if they’d just realised we were there, and immediately began eyeing the tourists with suspicious disapproval. Chaz didn’t let the locals put him off though, either that or he didn’t notice, as he belted out a rather joyous rendition of the Stones’ ‘Satisfaction’. He managed to get a few girls dancing but mostly just caused a lot of cagey looks from the gathered Fort Williamers. After he’d finished Colin and myself looked at one another and hurriedly finished our drinks, and as we left, we felt the locals following us to the door with their eyeballs.
With barely any sleep and a ridiculously bad hangover, unfairly bestowed upon me from the fairly normal amount of alcohol consumed the night before, I clambered out of the tent and shuffled myself to the campsite’s toilet block.
We slowly cleaned ourselves up, pulled our jackets on, fastened our backpack clips and shoved our bottled water and sandwiches, bought at the garage the night before, into our bags. Just as we were breathing in the cool air, looking up at the mountain before us, flexing our shoulders, stretching our legs, I puked.
I believe the exact words I uttered were:
“Oah, guys, I think I’m going to - ….”
The woman with the little girl behind our tent looked on in disgust as I collapsed down on to the grass, Chaz and Colin struggling to suppress their laughter. It was the campsite restaurant burger’s fault. That coupled with Chaz’s vodka buying.
We covered the barf with the Fort William map the receptionist had given me at the desk the night before and set off, for breakfast, to the burger van.

Roddy McDowall is missing himself

2011-08-13T08:25:00.000-07:00

I’ve always loved going to the cinema. A great place to go for a bit of escapism. It's also a good place to get out of the rain on a depressing Thursday afternoon.
It’s always enjoyable, even when you end up going to see movies you wouldn’t normally watch at home. It’s like the thrill and excitement you had as a kid going to the cinema, doesn’t quite completely leave your system as you get older. There’s still a bit of a thrill there, that is until you hear the cashier tell you how much a ticket is.
“Seven quid? Whaddyamean? It’s used to be £1.50 in the UCI in EK?!”
The cinema cashier looks up at you, bored.
Now that I have a cineworld card I don’t have to worry about that so much. A monthly payment of £14 lets me see as many movies as I like. I could spend the day in the cinema if I wanted to. I could do crazy, mental things like go and see three movies in one day! (Sheesh, that’s just mind blowing… calm down Mike).
The fact that you’ve already paid for whatever you’re going to see makes it all the more enjoyable. The queuing as you decide what picture to see. The ticket collecting. The smuggling of reasonably priced food, sweets and beverages, (or if you’re Ka and myself on an afternoon viewing, a Greggs sanny from Sauchiehall Street). The smells of the highly over priced popcorn stacked up in the paper bags on the shiny counters. The not as pleasant aroma of the disgusting hotdogs that someone, somewhere still seems to buy. The picking of seats. The arguing over which seats to take and which arm of the chair you want your drink to go in. The elbow fighting. The phone silencing. The sitting, waiting on the lights going down.
In those moments as you wait, the other cinema goers pile in. As the theatre gets busy there’s always the risk that one of those lonely looking, smelly blokes sit down next to you after you’ve finally made yourself comfortable in your seat. It’s almost guaranteed he’ll have the unmistakable odour of urine about him.
Then there’s the folk that laugh out loud at only vaguely, mildly amusing adverts that are always on the telly at home. Gawd, if they thought the advert for Vodafone was good, wait till they see the movie!
There’s also the folk that come in late, and upon realising the cinema is near full, mill about the aisles, murmuring at one another, wandering what to do because they simply cannot sit apart. I usually sit smugly, wagging my finger at them with a shake of the head and tapping my watch safe in the knowledge I’m comfy in my chair, which I earned by successfully turning up for the movie on time. As long as there’s not a single, smelly bloke perched next to me, I’m happy.
Happy, until me and another four or five folk are asked to up sticks and move up one seat in order to accommodate the late coming couple who just can’t bear to be apart for the next two hours whilst watching ‘Rise of the Planet of the Apes’.
On Thursday we settled into our seats, Sainsburys sandwich in hand (we thought we’d have a change from Greggs), to see ‘Rise of the Planet of the Apes’, a sort of modern day prequel to the past movies.
Will Rodman, a scientist, played by James Franco, (the guy that played the disgruntled Green Goblin in the Spider-Man movies), has dedicated his life to finding a cure for Alzheimer’s disease and is using apes as test subjects. As always with these things, something goes wrong. During Rodman’s big meeting with the committee, just as he applies for permission to use human subjects, one of the best test apes goes mental (or in this case, apeshit). After the damage has been done, and the project is closed down, it turns out the ape had actually given birth to a wee baby in her containment unit/cell and was only trying to protect her offspring. As the order is being put through to put down all of the now ‘infected’ apes, Rodman takes the baby ape home and brings him up in the house where, it is discovered within the first few days, the young ape has symptoms of the tested drug running through his veins and is soon drinking from a baby bottle, opening cookie jars, wanting to ride the neighbours’ kids’ bikes and helping to get Rodman dates with attractive female vets via sign language. Obviously with the growing IQ the ape gets himself into trouble and before long is beginning the revolution of ape kind which will eventually lead to humanity’s supposed downfall.
I hadn’t expected much from this movie but left pleasantly surprised. It had probably been the first ‘Apes’ movie I’d actually enjoyed or watched all the way through. Back in 2001 I’d been one of the fools that went along to see Tim Burton’s reimagining of ‘Planet of the Apes’ and had been very disappointed and half bored. Not only was it disappointing but Mark Wahlberg was in it.
Growing up I tried, at various points, to sit and watch the original movies from the sixties and seventies but always tended to get bored and flick the channel. There was always too much talk, not enough action. Not enough explosions. Not enough Star Destroyers, X-Wings or lightsabers.
Even as a kid I remember being unconvinced by the old movies’ Ape make-up, and that was a kid who sat and watched Peter Davison in cricket gear, swinging about on a string, trying to look as if he was floating around in a vacuum or a Cyberman blow up in a shower of tinfoil.
I just couldn’t believe they were real apes. It was just Roddy McDowall in a rubber mask. The blonde one, which was supposed to be an orangutan, looked like on of my primary school teachers!

The masks and make-up are now long gone now though now, replaced with computer generated effects. Roddy McDowall would have been indistinguishable just as Andy Serkis is. The man that brought Gollum, and then King Kong, to life has once more donned the skin hugging grey suits and coloured joint baubles, to play the lead ape Caesar, another example of the growing advancements in technological CGI cinematic wizardry. Even since the likes of Gollum, CGI characters have come on in leaps and bounds.
There was another Gollum like creature doing the rounds in the first movie Ka and myself went to see this week.
J.J Abrams latest effort, ‘Super 8’ is a homage to the early eighties Speilberg, an obvious fan letter to the supreme bearded one, and, as a result is a strange mix of ‘E.T.’, ‘Close Encounters of the Third Kind’ and ‘The Goonies’ (Speilberg didn’t actually direct ‘The Goonies’, he only wrote it and passed it on to Richard Donner of ‘Superman’ and ‘Lethal Weapon’ fame).
It’s basically about a bunch of kids, entering their teenhood, desperately trying to finish a homemade zombie movie (on super 8 film) and while they’re out secretly filming on location one night an Air Force train crashes and something big and nasty escapes from the hidden depths of one of it’s secret carriages. The creature then begins picking of the townsfolk one by one, nicking all their televisions and scaring the dogs.
The real brilliance in this movie is the acting. The gang of kids are all brilliantly characterised with the two main players each coming to terms with the various problems going on in their family affairs (death of a parent, the leaving of a parent, first love, friends fighting over the girl, Dads acting like they know it all etc.). That makes it all sounds a bit slushy and soap like but together with the whole early eighties vibe (or 1979 vibe to be precise) and the mysterious presence lurking in the shadows, it’s all very reminiscent of those early Speilberg’s, obviously not as good though.
Unlike E.T., it didn’t have me embarrassingly blubbering at the end. There wasn’t a Jaws moment that made me jump out my skin such as Brody turning away from the water as he shovelled the bloody meat into the ocean from his bucket of slops only to have the Great White veer up from the waves behind him. Those blank, black eyes staring.
There were no melting Nazis. No giant footsteps causing ripples in the small glass of water sitting on the dashboard.
Both of the big summer movies of the year have some great moments though and as much as I enjoyed ‘Super 8’ and Abrams’ Speilbergian themes and influences, ‘Rise’ has to be the one with the edge, if only for the fantastic monkey effects. There wasn’t an old primary school teacher in sight.

Great Uncle David

2011-08-08T14:54:00.000-07:00

Saturday wasn’t a particularly good day. Ka and myself once more found ourselves standing in black in a quiet Glasgow cemetery at another funeral. Our grief from what happened at the very end of 2010 continues, although it has now been eight months, it all still feels very sad and unreal. A burden which varies in heaviness, from time to time, but is always present. We can’t seem to shake the sadness off, and we’re not sure we want to because we certainly do not want to forget. That feeling comes hand in hand with any funeral though. The sadness, coupled with the urgent need to remember.
Attending funerals certainly does not particularly help ease our troubled minds, as we still try to figure out and come to terms with what happened, but we had to attend.
Just over two years since the death of my Gran Reid, her brother, and the last Pollock of that generation, was put to rest. David Pollock, my Great Uncle, passed away a week ago on the Saturday, at the age of 78, suffering from cancer, after being diagnosed in March.
The last time Ka and myself seen old Uncle David was when he attended little Lucy’s funeral. He made us laugh that day. He was feeding Joshua Wotsits, as our nephew sat on his his Dad, Steven’s, lap. Steven hummed and hawed, unsure of what to say to the older gent who was obviously blissfully unaware of Joshua’s strict diet, as, at that point, the wee man was just over a year old. David smiled and joked with Josh, as he fed him the bright orange puffy crisps as Ka and myself looked on, unsure what to say as Joshua’s strict baby diet of healthy fruit and vegetables flew out the window.
The first time I met my Great Uncle David properly was in my Aunt Mina’s kitchen. My Great Aunt Mina had just passed away I was left work to go to her wee house in the village to see if I could help in any way. David stood in my Aunt Mina’s newly fitted kitchen, leaning against the sink, a cigarette in his left hand, his eyes, big and round behind his large spectacles, sad and thoughtful as my Gran and Granpa moved around him. My grandparents tidied, phoned and organised, carrying out all the necessary jobs that unfortunately have to be done when a close relative passes away. David introduced himself, nodding knowingly when I gave him the look of realisation when I realised who he was.
I’m sure I’d probably met David in the past, at some point in those past growing twenty eight years, but he’d always been a pretty distant relative. He had always been a bit of a mystery to me as he’d never been about when we were young.
Following my Granpa’s passing David appeared on the ‘Reid scene’ more often. Much to my Gran’s annoyance David would occasionally turn up at her door, taking her by surprise, inviting himself in to check up on his sister.
Gran, being Gran, would always act the hostess though not forgetting to complain about his unexpected arrivals later to Ka and myself when we visited. Most of the time she’d complain that David’s surprise arrival hadn’t even given her a chance to hide her whiskey before he’d sit, make himself comfortable and suggest an afternoon tipple. Not that she always had whiskey around the house in full view, I must point out, but whenever she did, it would be in the glass cabinet in the corner waiting on a Saturday night in with friends, not an afternoon drink with Uncle David.
Gran would always oblige though, and perhaps join him for a wee dram herself.
They were a typical brother and sister. Always disputing, disagreeing and jocularly shouting at one another.
From what I knew of him and what I could tell in the short time I knew him, David was a great character, always full of life, shouting, telling his stories, talking of his work, the various trades he’d worked in, his families and rolling his eyes behind his glasses at my Gran as she shouted at him, at which point he’d obediently quieten and puff on his cigarette.
Late on Saturday morning The Craigton crematorium was full, which says it all really. He will be missed.
As the supporters started to arrive up in Ibrox stadium, a few miles down the road, the curtain moved over to conceal David Pollock’s, rose covered coffin to the tune of one of his favourite songs, Rodgers and Hammerstein’s ‘You’ll never walk alone’.

My Granpa's toothbrush

2011-08-04T15:26:00.000-07:00

The other day I went to the dentist and ended up back in another hospital waiting room. As if I hadn’t sat in enough hospital waiting rooms this year already. I was sitting there, alone, in the empty waiting room, reading the posters about the ‘signs of a stroke’ or the ‘what to do if you find yourself pregnant’.
Not an hour before I had been sitting back in the dentist’s chair, relaxing, confident to expect the usual quick check up with only the slight risk of a minor clean up. The minor clean ups usually consist of the dentist chatting away, poking at my teeth with that ridiculously pointy pen like probe while the girl, the assistant or apprentice dentist, or whoever the devil she is, moves around my gums with the mouth hoover.

The dentist’s suction device is uncomfortable at the best of times. As the dentist scrapes, the small white plastic tube moves round the mouth, doing it’s best to suck up all the saliva that suddenly gathers in your open mouth as the dentist moves about in there. It’s like one of those small hoovers you get for hoovering your keyboard, sucking up all the dust and debris that gathers in-between your keys. Similar to a Henry the hoover except a lot less friendly. Instead of a smiley, happy, red, bowler hatted face, you have the apprentice dentist grimacing at you from above, sometimes from behind a mask, worn presumably for hygiene purposes. Or maybe worn just in case you suddenly take a dislike to her suction skills and decide to spit some gathering saliva into her face.
If I was my dentist and this girl was my apprentice, I’d fire her immediately. Within moments of beginning the hoovering procedure she managed to get the suction tube stuck on my tongue at least three times, hoovering up my taste buds. At one point she almost took my head with her as she moved to withdraw the hoover nozzle from my mouth, my tongue trapped in a slim tunnel of suction.
My Dad, who has also visited the dentist twice this week, was on the phone the other night talking of his second visit which was to follow the next morning. He was also complaining about the ‘suction girl’ on his first visit, hoping it would be a different girl the next morning as on his first visit she poked the stick too far into his mouth nearly causing him to gag. If one thing’s for sure, nobody likes their own Dad’s gags.
After a quick look over my teeth, which consisted of the dentist murmuring strange numbers out, to which the apprentice presumably took notes somewhere, and prodding the occasional gum, the dentist informed me that she would like me to take a trip to the hospital. Apparently there was a wisdom tooth in there of ‘extreme concern’. After having been expecting the usual, ‘fine, on you go’ routine, I immediately went into a ridiculous case of panic.
A rogue wisdom tooth was of extreme concern! What the hell was it doing in there?! Was it pushing the other teeth around? Bullying the molars? Were all my teeth going to fall out? I hadn’t felt any pain?! So abandoning any ideas of having any free time for the rest of the day I raced to the car and headed straight for the hospital.
However, within the hour, I found myself standing in an X-ray machine, the scanning plates circling my head as I grinned into a blank screen biting down into a covered plastic mouthpiece. Considering the X-ray was all very urgent and last minute I was extremely surprised to have been taken and zapped so quickly. The NHS can be wonderful sometimes.
On my return to the dental surgery the dentist looked over my X-ray and thankfully informed me that the situation was not as grave as originally thought. The wisdom tooth in my lower right gum is growing in at a horizontal angle to rest of my gnashers and as a result I had been missing a spot in my brushing for the past six months, thus causing some slight staining, decay and risk of infection. Thankfully it was treatable and as long as my wisdom tooth stops moving and forcing it’s way into the party that is my lower teeth I’ll get away with not having it pulled from my jaw. However, the spot that I was missing in brushing is still tricky to clean and as a result, thanks to the dental hygienist that seen me on my second visit, I now have a Granpa brush.
As a child I always used to wonder what kind of teeth my Granpa had. Every time I visited the bathroom, in my Gran and Granpa’s house, I would always see his big purple toothbrush standing in the toothbrush holder and always wondered what kind of teeth would have such a brush. It was the strangest tooth brush I’d ever seen.
This purple instrument not only had large black bristles but had them mounted in a small, tight circular fashion on the brush’s head. All toothbrushes everywhere had larger, rectangular shaped clusters of white bristles. Everyone knew and obeyed that well known toothbrush buying philosophy. This toothbrush was an abomination! So why on earth did Granpa get this strange looking brush for his teeth?
A little later I realised it must have been a special kind of brush for dentures as I realised he wore false teeth. He would sometimes click the false set around his jaws as he sat and watched the horse racing on the tv. I would be quietly sitting, either watching the tv, or playing with my Star wars figures on the other couch when an odd clicking would start echoing through the room. On more than one occasion I remember it took me a while to realise from where the noise came as I frowned at various corners of the living room around me.
So, with the vision of the purple brush in mind, it was with some shock that the dental hygienist told me to buy one in order to reach the rogue wisdom tooth’s pesky hidden depths. Does this mean I am now on the road to false teeth. Teeth that click or clack whenever your horse is en route to the finish line?
The dental hygienist, and the branding, call it an ‘Interspace’ brush, which makes it sound quite exciting, perhaps a toothbrush piloted by a mini Dennis Quaid. Just looking at it feels me with fear and dread. It’s a reminder that not only am I going to have to brush with a little more care from now on but I’m also heading towards the risk of noisy dentures.
Thankfully though, my ‘Interspace’ toothbrush does not have black bristles, and it is certainly not purple.

A f***ing legend

2011-07-31T15:59:00.000-07:00

Driving through Edinburgh’s Grassmarket is not the best place to be at quarter to six on a Friday evening. The roads through the maze that is the Scottish capital are busy at the best of times but rushing through the milling crowds, finishing work, heading home or retreating to the nearest bars and pubs for an after work drink is no mean feat.
The sun was once more shining down upon Scotland on Friday as Ka and myself arrived in Edinburgh, heading through the roads towards the University sector and Nicholson Street where a particularly busy Friday night at the Festival theatre lay.
Before Ka and myself eventually got parked in a cobbled back alley somewhere we found ourselves travelling too far up by the Theatre and on to Pleasance we had had to politely grab a innocent passer by for directions which is probably just as well as we were heading directly for the heart of Holyrood Forest, where we would have probably got stuck, lost and then perhaps shot by a Royal party the next morning enjoying a pre Wedding hunt.
We arrived at the Festival theatre slightly stressed and vaguely dishevelled especially after I’d just changed my shirt, bearing my naked upper half to a couple of laughing women who just happened to be passing in the back alley we’d just parked in. Ka and myself had travelled straight from work so the journey had been ever so slightly rushed.
Crowds and queues circled the entrance to the theatre as we entered the large glass doors, scanning the crowds mingling around the first, ground floor bar, for Colin, Jillian and her sister Claire, the two girls being the main organisers of the night’s event.
Reginald D. Hunter, the brilliantly dry and drawling ‘Have I Got news For You’, ‘8 out of 10 Cats’ and other such panel shows, regular was performing live on stage with guests comedians for the Dave comedy channel. Claire, Jillian’s sister and who is lucky enough to work for the Beeb, managed to get us all tickets including guest passes for the free bar. Yes, you read right. Free bar. Fantastic. If only I hadn’t been driving.
Everyone knows you can’t possibly drink and drive.
Steve Hughes, the Australian comedian who preceded Hunter on stage, talked of billboard signs back in Oz that held the simple warning statement of ‘If you drink and drive, you’re a bloody idiot’.
Hughes replied to these saying, ‘but if you manage to get home, you’re a f***ing legend’.
Considering we were in Edinburgh though, I doubted I would even attempt the title of ‘legend’.
As the show was being filmed for television, Claire had to leave us beforehand to dive back stage and view from the editor’s box, while Ka, Colin, Jillian, Vicki, a mate of Jillian’s, and myself took our seats complete with pints of beer, pints of wine and a coke.
As we talked, filling the waiting time, the older woman sitting at my side, quietly read her book, engrossed. Unfortunately she did not take too kindly to being interupted though as she tutted and growled whenever Colin and the girls had to move past to make a trip to the toilet and then growling again whenever they appeared back to move back down into their seats.
A Newcastle comedian, whose name escapes me, acted as the host and warm up act, quickly identifying the annoying hecklers in the crowd, and introduced the man himself, Reginald D. Hunter, who, after a brief intro, welcomed the first comedian on stage, a German fellow named Henning When. Unfortunately this guy pretty much put us all to sleep, the majority of his act centred on the slightly mistaken idea that us Brits all love After Eights (Who knows, what he was on about, Allo Allo is much funnier).
Next up was the man from Oz, Steve Hughes, a tall, rake like, figure with lots of hair a large moustache, under an elegant roman nose, with a liking for heavy metal and beer. Thankfully Hughes was much funnier and woke the audience up again before another of Reg’s mates from London came on stage. Again I can’t remember that particular comedian’s name either, but at least I can safely say it wasn’t the drink to blame. Reg eventually sauntered out on to the stage for his forty minute stint keeping the audience mostly entertained with the exception of a few misfires, including asking for a vote from the Scottish crowd and then an audience member to explain why they vote conservative. As we were in Edinburgh there was at least five people in the crowd, who, unsurprisingly only half volunteered their hand to the air and avoided Reg’s gaze.
Afterwards, as the theatre audience headed out towards the large front glass doors, we headed up to the VIP bar to meet Claire and enjoy a couple of drinks following the show.
Claire had watched some of the camera’s viewpoints being filmed and confirmed that we were in more than a few close up shots of the theatre audience, clapping, laughing and generally looking entertained. Which makes me slightly nervous as I wasn’t wholly entertained to a visible extent all the way through the show. In fact, I’m sure Colin had his head in his hands and Ka was actually dozing at one point during Henning’s stand up about After Eights.
The older woman with the book, who had been sitting beside me throughout the show, actually turned up in the small crowd with the VIP bands and spoke with Henning, obviously a fan of his work, enough of a fan to be dragged her away from her mystery thriller anyway.
After around half an hour in the bar, the comedians started venturing in to join the twenty or so, strong crowd taking advantage of Beeb money booze (and coke). The girls almost immediately circled Steve Hughes, who chatted back whilst Colin and myself watched suspiciously from the side. At one point I interupted a conversation the big Aussie was having with Ka to inform him that ‘he had way too much hair to be talking with my wife’. Hughes laughed, patted me on the arm and continued his conversation with Ka, who was, apparently, to be the new singer in his band.
Reginald D hunter then appeared mingling with the small crowd, relaxed and comfortable after his, well, relaxed and comfortable performance on stage. Our little team eventually encircled the main himself getting some photos and sharing some crazy chatter.
Vicki asked Reg what he preferred to be called, whether it be Reg, Regi, Reginald? Hunter shrugged and smiled back.
“Whatever, man. Call me whatever”.
To which Colin piped in “Baby cakes?”
Reg looked round at Colin with a slight frown as if considering his next answer, or giving the Scottish translator in his brain time to kick in, and then laughed with a shrug.
After seeming comfortable and relaxed in the bar for the past hour or so, after being surrounded by us, must have now been felling to need to escape from our hyper conversation and left to ‘talk with his peeps’ disappearing through a door at the side of the bar, not before telling my wife how ‘elegant’ she looked, leaving us to more of the delicious free wine, vodkas, magners… and coke.
As I drove everyone home, up the pitch black M8, at 2 in the morning, I admitted to myself that you certainly don’t need drink to have a good time, even if there is a free bar... I’ll try to leave the car at home next time though.

Desperate in Dundee

2011-07-29T07:17:00.000-07:00

The sky was a brilliant blue. Any clouds a mere whisper in the vast sky over the expanse of the Firth of Tay. The strait lay shimmering, over the large valley before us, reaching over towards Newport and the north east of Fife.
Both Ka and myself had never been to Dundee before so, just for the jaunt in the summer sunshine, we thought we'd go up on Saturday and have a wee night away in a B&B followed by a day on the beach in St. Andrews on the Sunday.
With a few hours to kill before check in at our hotel we parked the car in the town centre and decided to have a wander, maybe grab some lunch on the way as we were both starving.
We walked through the shopping centre, Ka making a quick stop at Primark for a pair of work trousers whilst I kept walking, going out into the town square, taking a few pictures of Desperate Dan and a catapult weilding Minnie the Minx. The 8 foot bronze statue of the cow pie eating cartoon character stands in the middle of Dundee's city square, dragging his 'dawg' along behind him, Minnie the Minx following. Both characters appeared in two different comics, The Dandy and The Beano, both published by the same company DC Thomson, a company Ka's Dad, Dougie, is more than familiar with, and the annuals of which my brother Kenny and myself would usually receive copies of every Christmas.
On our walk around Dundee Ka and myself explored the Tayside, seeing the R.R.S. Discovery moored up at Discovery point, Captain Robert Falcon Scott's ship that conquered Antartica. Just as I was taking a quick picture of the historical ship a small couple with a strange accent approached us and asked if we'd like a photo taken. After posing under the tall ship the older couple started chatting away, some of which I understood, telling us they were over on holiday from Melbourne, first time back in Scotland in twenty five years. That explained the odd accent. A weird amalgamation of Aussie and Scots. An accent Kenny may well adopt after his continuing trip around Oz.
It does make me wonder, hearing so many stories of people emigrating to Oz in search of a better life, and finding it.
Is it really the land of opportunity? Do we need to travel so far, in order to gain this fantastic life that so many people talk of? Is Britain, and Scotland specifically, so abysmal that you have to move to the land of 'Neighbours', 'Home and Away' and 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert' to have a satisfactory life? I do like BBQs mind you... and the fact you can go next door whenever you want and help yourself to their fridge or sit on the beach all day and drink lager.
After getting back to the car we finally found somewhere to get some food. A rather shadey wee baguette shop, across the road from the carpark, on the edge of the University grounds. After successfully misunderstanding a hungry Ka I strode into the small shop and ordered a baguette, standing in the tight, white tiled take away, looking down at the bowls in the glass cabinets before us. Chicken in various sauces and in various states of decay met our eyes as the man behind the counter warmed our baguette, eyeing us suspiciously. I'd never had an inclination to run from a cafe or take away shop after placing an order before.
"Run for your life!" I screamed through my head and I imagined running out the shop, grabbing Ka as I went, escaping across the road, jumping into the car and speeding off, door slamming shut over the spinning wheels as the wee Baguette man ran out after us, shouting indian swear words whilst gesturing wildly with a tikka stained bread knife.
Upon receiving the baguette, which Ka had to pay for with her wealth of change, she dared me to eat the horrid looking thing, filling me with guilt after she was now £4 out of pocket. I couldn't back down. I had to eat it. Two day old salad hung from the sides of the bread littered over the greasy, gorey looking chicken tikka which lay inside. I gulped and bit my first bite.
"It's not bad" I shrugged at Ka, lying uncontrollably.
I managed to get halfway down the baguette before my stomach started churning.
Time to head on to the hotel, I told Ka, and the room's bathroom, I thought.
We were greeted at the Shaftsbury Hotel by Heather, the friendly and slightly flustered hotelier, with horn rimmed glasses and muddled paperwork, who showed us up to our room at the top of the large, Victorian building. The hotel had originally been home to one of Dundee's rich jute Barons, James Scott. The jute industry being one of the city's main incomes in the nineteenth century. The building structure has obviously been largely untouched since those days, a lot of the original features still in place.
Our room at the top of the house was large and airy, with a view looking out over the Tay, only slightly obscured by the few rooftops before us. As we opened the curtains wide to admire the panorama we smiled, taking in the nice view. The sun shone, the Tay sparkled, a few gulls cackled at one another and the chickens clucked.
Hold on.
Chickens?
"Bock,bock,bock,begowwwwk" echoed through the streets below from the neighbour's garden straight across the road. The chicken tikka in my belly turned oddly inside my digestive system but thankfully settled before we headed out for dinner to Papa Joe's, an American style diner along the same lines of TGI Fridays but, we discovered, with far superior burgers. I almost went for the chicken burger but thought against it, going for the cow meat instead, just like Desperate Dan.

Of all the gin joints in all the towns

2011-07-25T14:19:00.000-07:00

You’ve got to see “Casablanca - The Gin Joint Cut”. It’ll be at the Edinburgh fringe this year so book your tickets if you occasionally pop by the capital during August time.
Ka and myself went along to the Tron on Friday night to see this, entering the buzz of the small Glasgow theatre through the bar, unsurprisingly. The atmosphere was lively and laid back as a large crowd gathered in the stylish bar half an hour before that night’s performance. There was a real buzz in the air and you could tell that more than a few folk, waiting to see the production, had been aware of the play’s good reviews that it had been enjoying in the newspapers throughout the past month.
I hadn’t been aware and wasn’t even expecting very much from the play, which I’d barely even heard of. I’ve never even seen ‘Casablanca’ (movie buffs shout “wwhhhhhaaaaatttt?!” now, if you wish).
“Casablanca - The Gin Joint Cut” was the best theatre I’ve seen in ages. In fact this probably doesn’t say a lot, considering I’ve only been around three times in the past six months. But it was great anyway. Great acting, great laughs, great story, great inspiration and a great homage.
The story begins with three Scottish actors given the job of performing the immortal (supposedly, I wouldn’t know, I’ve never seen it - “wwhhhhhaaaaatttt?!”) love story Gavin Mitchell, of ‘Still Game’ fame, playing Bogart’s role of Rick Blaine opposite Claire Waugh’s Ilsa and Jimmy Chisolm’s various other, many characters fantastically performed which he seemingly switches between with, well, perhaps not ease, but certainly with great want for trying and brilliant comic timing. Moments after the laughs die from the last joke, Waugh and Mitchell keep the love story poignant and true to the inspiration, even as they struggle to refrain from lighting up on the small budget and with the health and safety concerns in Scottish theatres.

The good, the bad and the funky

2011-07-22T10:22:00.000-07:00

“Who are they then?” Dave frowned, turning in his chair in the new workplace, the stiflingly hot office with broken down air conditioning.
“Who the hell are the Tom, Tom, Club?” Mum frowned over her spectacles, as she put her book down in the conservatory yesterday.
“Whose the Tom Tom Club then?” Colin frowned, after opening his birthday presents which included a Miles Kane album and a remote controlled Dalek. “Jillian said they something about a bunch of councillors or something?”
“Let’s go see the Tom Tom Club th’night guys” a wee ned laughed, as he passed the O2 ABC on Sauchiehall Street. “Whoever they ur!”
Nobody knows who the Tom Tom Club are. Except from the mixed, happy crowd that occupied Glasgow’s ABC2 club on Wednesday night.
Ka and myself were among them, bopping away to the good, the bad and the funky beats.
The Tom Tom Club are the band formed in 1981 by Talking Heads’ bassist Tina Weymouth and drummer husband Chris Frantz, originally formed as a side project for the two of them which, when Talking Heads split in the late eighties, then became their main project. They were and are an original, new wave, electro pop, rock outfit and very rarely make live appearances in Britain, never mind Scotland, so, being a Talking Heads fan, I bought the tickets a few weeks ago out of sheer curiosity. It was a good gig, more rock than rap.
Cheers went up in the small ABC2 as Billy Sloan walked out on to the stage bringing the DJ’s set to a close around nine, introducing the band on to stage. The band performed till late playing their hits along with their three famous cover versions and one or two surprises from the Talking Heads catalogue, including a fantastic ‘Psycho Killer’ to finish off, making a lot of the gathered fans very happy, some exceptionally so. One lassie headbanged her way through the gig, making me suspect she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and was actually supposed to be in the SECC, watching Iron Maiden and was just too drunk to realise. Her sweaty hair swung and spun around her head into surrounding members of the audience before us, one of which was a pretty tall guy in a red T-shirt. This guy was not popular either as he kept letting off the most horrendous smelling farts, ruining the following five minutes of the gig for us standing behind him with his offending gases. Gawd knows what he’d been eating.
On my way up to the ABC to get the tickets, before the gig, leaving Ka sitting outside Bar Bhudda in the dying sunshine, I passed by the Tom Tom Club as they ambled down Sauchiehall Street together, presumably for a bite to eat. As I was running I’d already past the small motley crew before I realised that it was actually them and it was with considerable excitement that I arrived back down at the bar, tickets in pockets, to hurriedly ask Ka if she’d seen them.
“Seen who?” Ka frowned.
“The Tom Tom Club!” I gesticulated urgently, people frowning, looking up from their drinks from surrounding tables. “They must have passed right by!”
“Oh, is that who they were?” Ka nodded in realisation, recognising the description I gave her. A couple from Newcastle, sitting at the table alongside us, nodded knowingly.
“We’re going too” the rather boring looking couple nodded. Following a brief conversation with the couple from Newcastle (who originated from Glasgow, according to Ka, but had been living down south for nine years) a bird sh*t on me. The second ‘sh*tty’ situation in a week and the second bird poo I have received on Sauchiehall Street.
Anyway, following the gig, some members of the Tom Tom Club came out to mingle with the crowd.
As Ka and myself left we passed Victoria Clamp, the singer who accompanies Tina on vocal duties. I interrupted the conversation she was having with two other blokes to thank her for the show which she politely nodded and thanked me for, looking a little disturbed at the same time as she seemed to have been accosted by a strange, shivery looking bloke who apparently didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night.
Before the show had started I’d also shook Frankie Boyle’s hand. Ka had been in the loo when I suddenly noticed a familiar, heavily bearded, bespectacled, face minding his own business, supping a pint with his bespectacled wife in the quiet, but steadily busying crowd before the stage. As Ka eventually emerged from the loo I led her up towards the bar but took a slight detour by the controversial, Scottish comedian. Ka sighed and rolled her eyes, again not realising, wondering who it was I’d met now. It was not until after my cheery ‘pleased to meet you’ and friendly handshake that Ka’s eyes recognised the bearded man before her.
Boyle had seemed happy enough, and polite enough, to acknowledge the recognition, shifting his pint to his other hand for the handshake which he greeted with a smile and a nod.
You hear horror stories of people meeting celebrities in the street and being given unfriendly replies to hellos or, if you’ve really got the balls, autograph requests. For instance there was more than a few stories of innocent, excited bystanders greeting Billy Connelly and being given a rude and rather severe “f**k off!” in return.
I’ll never understand that myself. Being rich and famous is surely a privilege and being recognised in the street is surely expected to come hand in hand with such a chosen career, so why be rude in such a fashion to the people that keep you in the job? Okay, you might be having a bad day, but there’s no need for bad language surely? If you were to see someone famous in the street and start slinging insults at them, their work or their latest movies, I’m sure a “f**k off!” would be justified, but if you’re simply saying hello, surely a simple nod would suffice.
Boyle obviously understands this and is quite willing to shake the hands of a passing concert goers, happy after a few pints. Either that or he is now treasuring any pleasantries he can get after the criticism he got for slagging off Jordan’s kid.

Frankie’s wife frowned as the strange, smiling bloke walked off to the bar, towing his own wife behind.
“Who was that then?”
Frankie looked round at her and shrugged.
“No f***in’ idea” he hummed with a slight shake of the head taking another sip from his pint. “Just another to**er”.
His wife sighed with a nod as she took another drink from her vodka and coke.
“So” she frowned again, as she looked round towards the stage. “What’s this band called again?”

Grace's surprise and the toilet incident

2011-07-21T15:31:00.000-07:00

The five or six cars piled up outside the Leckie/McGarva household may have given away the surprise element to Grace’s 60th birthday party on Saturday night. If it did though, Grace certainly didn’t let on, as she almost screamed with surprise upon entering Steven and Angela’s living room to find us all sitting there. We all broke in to the routine of the ‘Happy Birthday’ song, as Grace stood there, smiling over the surprise, while I darted about the floor taking some photos and Steven quietly filmed it all with his new camcorder from the corner of the room.
A good portion of Ka's family, along with Lynsey Ann, my Mum and Dad and myself gathered in the large living room to surprise my mother in law who’d come along with Dougie believing the Saturday night to be a simple dinner date with Angela, Steven, Morgan and Joshua. At least she had believed that up until five minutes before leaving her own house when Dougie had asked her to bring her new photo book, that she’d received for her 60th, in order to show Betty.
As Steven made his way up from Uddingston, after getting Grace and Dougie into the car, the rest of us had been running round the house, decorating, preparing food, nappying, fetching drinks, reintroducing ourselves to relatives not seen in months and some never met at all. As the final moments drew near the smokers were hurriedly pulled in from the front garden path, their cigarettes left spinning on the pavestones, and the kids were ordered to move into the living room, myself picking Joshua up from where her rambled around the buffet table in the second front room and planting him down in the living room, where he simply gave a slight frown of confusion at all the hustle and bustle and staggered on to the plate of cakes at the end of the room. Everyone began frantically hushing one another as Grace and Dougie’s feet were heard from behind the closed blinds which obscured the living room’s large bay windows, the small red stones of the driveway crunching underneath their feet, as Steven led them up towards the front door where Angela would meet them upon arrival.
Once the ‘Happy Birthday’ song was over and the initial surprise over with, Steven got the music on and Ka and Jillian got the food cooking whilst the rest of us started enjoying ourselves.
I had been enjoying myself up until I had to make a visit to Steven and Angela’s loo, a visit which ended up being far longer than originally planned. Unfortunately the toilet refused to flush properly and my, let’s just say, deposit, refused to be removed by this particular toilet’s flushing system. Not great in any situation, but in a house party, with a bunch of your wife’s relatives waiting patiently, not great at all.
As I stood there waiting on the cistern refilling itself for the third time the knocks at the door began. Concerned voices and questions from beyond the closed door started echoing through the hallway.
“Is somebody still in there?”
“Who is it?”
“Is the door stuck?”
“Is it the same person that’s been in there all this time?”
Various questions such as these echoed throughout the hallway until Ka’s voice finally piped up.
“Where’s Michael?” Grimacing, I gritted my teeth. “He’s not in there, and he’s not in there”. The ‘theres’ in question presumably referring the every room, other than the toilet in which I stood, swearing at a piece of excretion.
“Michael are you in there?” Ka rattled the opposite side of the door. Hesitantly I closed the lid over the toilet and allowed my dearest Judas wife entry at which I explained the situation. Ka replied by checking her make-up in the mirror and then leaving me to it. Before I got the chance to lock the door after her, Angela, the sister in law, appeared at the door, to which I again, reluctantly admitted the situation. Unfortunately Colin, Ka’s brother, overheard the situation as he walked by and almost spat out a haggis ball with laughter. Angela, determined that she would flush better, took control of the situation. She firmly grasped the toilet’s flush handle and twisted at which the usual gush of water flowed through the bowl.
“There” Angela shrugged and opened the lid of the toilet up. Unfortunately my floater was still there, bobbing around quite happily. Angela shrieked and ran from the room.
“It’s not even very big!” I yelled after her.
“It’s the size of the bowl!” Angela’s voice reverberated throughout the hall, as other passing party guests soon started mumbling about the toilet situation, the occasional laughing.
In my defense, the flush of the toilet was pretty pathetic and I cannot believe that it’s never happened to them before with such a poor plumbing system. Anyway, without going into too much detail, I eventually managed to get rid of the obstinate piece of discharge after attacking it with a good few large cups of water before Ka and Jillian had the chance to come through with a boiling kettle (a remedy Auntie Lorna bestowed upon them after, presumably, much debating in the living room with all the other family members).
Following the toilet incident I spent some time in the kitchen, plucking up the courage to face the guests in the living room again, conversing with Colin and Ryan and any of the drink seekers visiting in order to top up their glass or pull another bottle from the fridge. Uncle Bill told stories of Hawaii, Las Vegas and losing luggage at airports. Paul spoke with me about old Star Wars toys and the inability to throw any of them out. Colin talked of Torchwood, Tom Jones and T in the Park and Jean dreaded the London train at half past nine the next morning as she drank another small glass of wine from the box in the fridge.
Morgan, Sarah and Joshua played in the large rubber dinghy in the middle of the hallway, Uncle Bill occasionally jumping in to act as Captain.
Wee Joshua ate more than his usual allocation of cakes after he’d got bored of the good few pieces of Jillian’s pasta I’d fed him from my paper plate.
Grace and Dougie enjoyed a slow dance to Gerry and the Pacemakers’ ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ immediately after which Dougie demands for Tina Turner’s “Simply the Best” were largely ignored or laughed at.
It had been a successful wee night and it looked like Grace, and everyone else, pretty much enjoyed themselves. It wasn’t until half past one that people started saying their goodbyes, Ka tidying as they went, clearing most of the rubbish up and cleaning up the buffet table which, Ka and myself were pleased to see, had very little of our two lasagnes left. Must have been the Bechamel sauce…

Lasagne and inadvertant flirting

2011-07-16T10:16:00.000-07:00

This afternoon I made the perfect Bechamel sauce for one of Ka’s lasagnes. It turns out I’m a bit of a dab hand when it comes to the old Bechemel sauce, mixing the flour with the butter and then the peppered milk and bay leaf. The two of us worked perfectly together in the kitchen preparing food for a certain somebody’s birthday gathering tonight. I think we surprised even ourselves as Ka usually ends up firing me out of the kitchen when we start working together over the hobs.
It was Ka’s Mum, Grace’s 60th birthday on Wednesday and, as is traditional in the in–law McGarva household, we went to their local restaurant/pub, Angels in Uddingston for dinner. This time a few of Grace’s friends were invited along to surprise her upon entering for the usual birthday meal. Ka, Colin, Jillian and myself went on down to the restaurant early to ensure the select number of friends invited were seated at the table waiting as Grace and Dougie eventually arrived twenty minutes later. Grace had probably suspected something was afoot when we had left the house early, using the excuse of getting money out the bank, but she certainly did not let on and we all enjoyed another meal in the Uddingston restaurant.
The food was okay and the service was okay. My chicken and rice soup was way too salty and I ordered steak and got a pork chop, which didn’t go particularly well with the pepper sauce I’d ordered to share with Colin who also ordered the same steak. Colin, who had been sitting opposite me at the large corner table at which we all celebrated, and myself also ordered the meal under the mistaken impression, due to my own fault, that bubble and squeak was sausage and mash, which is usually referred to as toad in the hole. So, in effect, I thought I was ordering steak and sausage not pork and cabbage. Along with the pepper sauce we ordered we made a bit of a pigs ear of it (whatever you call a pigs ear).
Upon finishing the delicious combination one of the friendly blonde waitresses came up behind me asking if we were all content and finished with our meals. As we had all been sitting with empty plates for the past fifteen minutes we all nodded politely, myself confirming the emptiness of my plate with a firm nod and vocal ‘yes’. Just as the waitress leant over my shoulder to retrieve my plate I, moving to the side to let her over, gave another, loud, affirmative comment of ‘beautiful’. For a few seconds I carried on smiling normally, not realising at first why the waitress looked slightly taken aback at me with a smile as she meekly took my plate away. I looked up to see Colin, struggling to contain a ball of laughter behind a hand clamped over his mouth. It was then I realised that instead of complimenting the food which had just been consumed, complete with pepper sauce, to others it had possibly, just possibly, seemed that I had been complimenting the waitress, her attributes or her lovely smile, just as she leaned over my shoulder to collect the dirty dishes. Of course, for the remainder of our sitting, this particular blonde waitress was named ‘beautiful’ and Ka and Jillian, following this course of action, christened the male waiter who had been serving us, ‘handsome’, even though they were not quite as blatant as myself when it came to the flirting (which I’d just like to point out, was completely inadvertent on my part).
The night finished with a few quick games of the McGarva tradition of ridiculously unfair and fixed pass the parcel after coffees and tea in Grace and Dougie’s house. The McGarva’s own brand of ridiculously unfair and fixed pass the parcel seemed to confuse a few of Grace’s gathered friends before they even got to unwrap any of the equally confusing parcels which included the usual diverse fair such as a feather duster, an ‘Armstrong and Miller’ book, ‘Camp rock’ pencil cases and a book on Yoga, the back cover blurb describing the physical and mental discipline exactly as how Yoda would describe the Force (a far more worthwhile discipline in my opinion).
With a trip to Paris on the cards, a fantastic photo book, created by Ka and yours truly, and many other great gifts from friends, Grace done pretty well turning sixty. She’s even sorted out her bus pass already so there’s no stopping her. Happy Birthday Grace, and enjoy the lasagne!

Restaurants, rehearsals and running

2011-07-10T12:47:00.000-07:00

We’ve not heard back from Chaz yet. Both Ka and myself text him a message yesterday to ask him how he got on with his casting audition to be in the next big Brad Pitt movie being filmed in Glasgow.
Chaz and myself ordered dinner in the Crooked Lum on Thursday night, two three course meals, taking full advantage of a 25% off voucher Chaz had procured from a taxi driver. I ordered a fillet for my main but Chaz had to do better. He challenged himself by ordering the steak platter, a massive square plate of food which included a large sirloin, fillet and ribeye along with a mountain of chips, a massive mushroom and a giant half tomato that looked like it had been grown in some kind of mutant vault in a local Nuclear facility.
Over dinner Chaz informed me that he was to go along on Saturday in a suit and tie for a movie audition to be an extra in a forthcoming Brad Pitt movie production which apparently involves zombies, being zombies or being attacked by zombies. I’d always thought Glasgow was the perfect setting for a zombie movie – although I’m not sure we need more of them diving about Glasgow than there is already.
By trade, Chaz is a car salesman but I’d also always thought he’d have made a rather good actor. Chaz lamented the end of his drama days over dinner. His best part to date being the role of Lead Pharisee in the school Easter play in the late eighties. Chaz managed to turn the part of the Chief Pharisee into a sort of flamboyant Police Informant type Government spy character. His biggest scene, pivotal to the capturing of Jesus, included Chaz skidding on to the stage and informing the gathered characters that:
“It’s alright, he’ll do it, at ten o’clock tonight!”
Unfortunately his adventures in drama ended during the final rehearsals for that particular scene with the skid on to the stage not quite ending where it should have, resulting in a continuous skid off the stage and the bashing of an eye off the end of a gym bench below.
Let’s hope he gets on better with his zombie audition. I hope he’d done his homework and watched Sean of the Dead, Land of the Dead or has just simply walked up Sauchiehall Street on a Saturday night.
Or the Hamilton town centre on a weekday, for that matter, a strange, destitute place into which my work has just moved and is taking some getting used to. Ka and myself met for lunch last week, my first week in the Hamilton office, and we sat on a bench in the middle of the local shopping precinct to eat our lunch. Strange, smelly, lonely looking characters soon began to circle us like vultures, eyeing either the bench, our lunch or the very flesh which clings to our bones. I wasn’t sure which, but it was enough to put me off my ham sandwich and Irn Bru.
Thankfully, Ka and myself ate in far nicer surroundings yesterday. Once again, we found ourselves dining out, once more in a restaurant, Grace and Dougie treating us to a meal for our anniversary, which was then followed up with a few coffees and shandies at a local pub.
With all this eating in mind we woke this morning finding our usual trip to the gym a bit of a stretch, so instead opted for a run round Calderwood and St. Leonards, circling around the neighbourhood, one lap being just over 5km. It went well considering it was our first jog in months, since before Ka fell pregnant. So Ka and myself are feeling rather pleased with ourselves. Next time we’ll make it two laps. Mum, Dad and Lynsey were popping round for a cuppa though so we had an excuse today to make it a single lap. We’ve promised ourselves to go running more often, especially in the run up to Ka’s run for charity in October (details of which can be found here http://www.justgiving.com/Kelly-Ann-Reid).
There is a turn off, halfway round, where you can trim a good half a mile off the whole lap. Ka was tempted to take this route as she was knackered, struggling for breath and generally getting grumpy after fifteen minutes running and stressed that she may have to ease herself back into the running by taking a shorter route round. When I refused to go this way and told her she would be fine with various other words of encouragement she swiftly replied with a barrage of abuse, just as we passed a row of quiet houses. The occupants of these houses had probably been enjoying a quiet Sunday afternoon up until that moment when they spilt their teas, woke from their naps or jumped from behind their Sunday papers to the loud, shouting couple jogging by their front window.
No pain, no gain, they say. Although I didn’t believe it was the pain of the hurling abuse from your stressed wife as she runs around the block after you. So with little argument after this I reluctantly agreed to take the shorter route only for Ka, not more than 5 minutes later, to agree to carry on with the full lap, missing the halfway point turn off. Typical Ka. She was either fiercely determined to complete the planned route, or was simply refusing to go along with anything I agreed to.
It’s all well and good running for miles on a treadmill in a gym but when it comes to real outdoor running it’s very different. Hills appear on your route spontaneously before you, inclines that you did not even realise were inclines when you usually drive along them in the car. Midges and bugs are everywhere too. On passing various clusters of bushes and foliage various sizes of insects would instantly decide to aim for you face, particularly the eyes, nostrils, or even worse, the mouth. You’ll be chatting away to your fellow jogger, or arguing, as you tackle the latest incline when all of a sudden a passing midge that had previously been buzzing about a local bush, would take a notion for a kamikaze mission with your tongue, stopping and firing itself straight into your oral cavity.
Something a little more pleasant is the nodding to and greeting of fellow joggers. You notice this when you’re out walking on the hills too. You’re all complete strangers but you follow some sort of unspoken code with which you nod or greet passing joggers, as if acknowledging each others’ athletic prowess and sportsmanship tackling the dangerous pavements and grass verges.
A greeting of a different kind I received today was a wolf whistle. I’ve never been wolf whistled before but managed not to get too excited about it as it was from a trio of giggling 12-13 year olds who passed by me giggling. A few moments later their giggling was interrupted by the jogger they’d failed to notice behind me, elbowing them off the pavement. Ka mumbled some more abuse as she caught up, running up behind me just as the rain started to fall and a jeep carrying our former neighbour Kay, passed by. The horn tooted as the neighbour waved at us, grinning smugly over her phone from behind her windscreen in her nice, warm, dry 4x4.
With the exception of the interfering insects, the threatening rain and the teenagers, the 5km was a bit of a breeze to be honest and I was pretty surprised at how easily I managed it.
Well, when I say easily we did finish the run with faces the colour of tomatoes. I was suffering with weird blurred vision after coming to a stop outside outside our front door, wiping the dead midges from my face as the old legs began to quiver a little with exertion. The walk I performed going up the stairs to our front door wouldn’t have looked out of place in Chaz’s zombie movie.

2 year anniversary

2011-07-07T08:47:00.000-07:00

2 years ago on Monday Ka and myself were married.
Since we were both working on the day we went out for dinner, into Glasgow, on the Saturday night and had our own romantic meal for 2 in the flat on the Sunday, declining an invitation to one of Mum and Dad’s BBQ’s, successfully earning a guilt trip.
On Saturday evening we sat on the balcony of the Metropolitan, overlooking the Merchant City Square watching the various goings on below us which included the customers of the Metropolitan bar underneath, relaxing on the couches, chatting away with their friends over drinks, their echoing background noise of chatter circling up around the high roof and walls of the Merchant Square around us. The other bars within the square moved with the usual Saturday night life, O’Neills, Bar Square, the Beer Café, Arisaig along with the Spanish bar and restaurant, Mercados.
Mercados, I don’t have particularly fond memories of as the last time we were there, we ate from their tapas menu and I managed to pick up a bad case of diarrhea, suffering for at least five days afterwards with dodgy bowel movements. I’m pretty sure to this day it was the Mussels. In fact I don’t eat mussels to this day as everytime I even catch a sniff of the scent of a mussel my stomach starts gurgling strangely. I’ve hesitantly ate mussels once since that fateful Mercados night and that was in Mum and Dads, the night before Kenny departed for Australia and I could barely move for at least three hours afterwards. Difficult, especially when you’re playing charades. Jumping around the living room floor, acting out various film and song titles, sweating with the effort of trying to control your stomach movements does not make for an enjoyable night. In fact, not only have I neglected mussels since, I’ve also stayed clear of charades.
Anyway, the meal in Metropolitan was fantastic. Mackerel for Ka and haggis for my starters.
Haggis was not my first choice. In fact, like mussels, I’ve tried to stay clear of haggis too, after a rather unfortunate hangover following a sleepover in Colin and Jillian’s house. I don’t think I could actually bring myself to drive home the next day until around six o’clock in the evening and that was only because I couldn’t bear sitting watching American Pop Idol for any longer with Colin in his boxers opposite me. Earlier I’d spent more than a few hours in the early afternoon, sitting on the toilet bowl in Colin and Jillian’s bathroom, underneath the John Barrowman calender. It was more than a little disturbing to find, on looking around, mid grimace, from just over my shoulder, John Barrowman grinning down at me.
He’s back again. Once again, he’s all over the tv as, not only is Torchwood coming back with a big, glossy, American style makeover but his highly cheese infested, ‘Surprise surprise’ style, all singing, all dancing, teatime Saturday night tv show is back. Ka informed me that Claire almost had us sitting in the live studio audience as the first show was being recorded in BBC Scotland on Sunday night and Claire’s Mum was asked if she had been interested in tickets. Needless to say, Claire’s Mum probably scoffed at the offer, insulted that someone would offer her such a gift, oblivious to the fact Barrowman has a whole Appreciation Society so close at hand.
Last night in the gym, I was on the treadmill minding my own business, eyes watching the large plasmas perched on the wall at the end of the room as I toiled away in a vague effort to keep fit. Seven o’clock hit and The One Show started and who was on the couch? None other than John Barrowman. Unfortunately Ka missed it as she was in the middle of a awkward yoga position, alongside Pauline, in one of the studios but she did promise herself to watch it on replay later.
Main course… what was our main course? Oh, yes a Vegetable roulade type thing for Ka and a Rump of lamb with sage and smoked bacon, Boulangere potato, haricot vert and spring onions drizzled with a sun-dried tomato vinaigrette for myself. No complaints there, except from the fact I have no idea what a ‘Boulangere’ potato is. Some kind of French potato I presume. Doubt it was French. They probably just give it a French sounding name so they can justify the French prices. It probably wouldn’t cost as much if it was down on the menu as Lamb with peas, tatties and gravy.
Talking of prices Ka made a mistake when we were being seated at our table on the balcony.
“Would you like some water with your meal?” the waiter asked.
“Yes, that would be lovely, thanks” Ka replied, as I sat myself down not even getting a chance to shake my head urgently in her direction.
“What did you do that for?!” I stressed, attempting a lower level of stress, keeping the occasion in mind.
“It’s my anniversary!” Ka shushed me, with a disregarding wave of the hands.
“Exactly, so why are we ordering water?!” I was once again shushed.
A fiver for a bottle of water. I huffed upon seeing the bill, shaking my head sternly at the price of Strathmore. Okay, it was Strathmore, a name in the field of water production, if there is such a field, and it had a fancy engraving of Glamis castle in the glass bottle - but a fiver? You can’t even keep the bottle, no matter how many fancy engravings it may have over it. I’m sure you could if you really wanted to but it would look rather odd striding around Glasgow town with an empty glass bottle of Strathmore.
After paying a fiver for water it was just as well we didn’t have any dessert.
We did have cocktails instead though, which interestingly only cost a pound more than a bottle of water, and they came with at least three different drinks the glass, not to mention the fact they tasted a hell of a lot more exciting.
Afterwards we headed over to Frankensteins on West George Street which was celebrating it’s last night before closing it’s doors for the final time. Frankensteins had turned into a bit of a tradition for Ka and myself in only the past few months. No, not for it’s fantastic hen dos, and not even for Frankenstein himself, who descended down over the drinkers on a automated pulley when the clock struck midnight and confused more than a few drunken women in L-plates and feather boas. No it was for it’s bar meals. A few months back we discovered it served some pretty good pub grub in the afternoons. Unfortunately there will be no more Macaroni Cheese for Ka before the cinema on a quiet Saturday afternoon now.
On Sunday afternoon we went to the cinema, armed with lots of sugary drinks to fight the alcohol still in our system. We seen the excellent ‘Bridesmaids’ a surprisingly good flick and a hell of a lot better than the last movie we seen, “The Hangover Part 2” which was just a majorly disappointing retread of the first movie.
2 years of wedded bliss. It’s been 2 years already. Unbelievable. If you ask her, of course, she’ll claim it seems longer whereas I reckon it’s been a fast 2 years. A 2 years which included moments which the two of us would not have believed would ever happen. A rollercoaster of emotions.
It’s just as well we didn’t go to Strathclyde Park on Sunday night as it would have literally been a rollercoaster of emotions. A whole group of rollercoasting thrill seekers were stuck on one of the taller twists of metal in M&D’s biggest rollercoaster. Hanging there until the fire brigade eventually pulled the last person from it’s train at around quarter to one in the morning. What a fun night that would have been. I wonder what they done to keep themselves occupied? A game of charades perhaps?

Puppets and pedestals

2011-07-03T15:14:00.000-07:00

A young teacher with dreams of opening her own school. A closet homosexual accountant. A horned, porn addicted furry monster. A slutty club singer and a graduate fresh from university, wondering what to do with his newly obtained degree in English. All residents of Avenue Q, a small street, somewhere on the outskirts of New York, around Brooklyn, and all characters looking for direction and ‘purpose’ in their life.
Ka and myself went along to the Kings on Thursday night to see Avenue Q, a musical show, originally on Broadway, then produced by Cameron Mackintosh in London and now touring the country. A strange, weird, comedy musical with three human characters and a bunch of puppet characters who live and interact together just like a certain educational kids show based in a New York street. In fact, a few of the characters in Avenue Q are direct rip-offs of characters in Sesame Street and although Avenue Q makes its influence no secret, it certainly shouldn’t be viewed by the kids.
Unlike Sesame Street, the puppeteers appear on stage alongside their characters, unhidden but remaining anonymous to the storyline. Some of the puppeteers don’t even voice the characters they’re operating and some voice more than one puppet in one scene. Throughout the story the various characters deal with their varying issues which are all generally around the themes of growing up, becoming an adult, finding direction in your life and the realisation that life is what you make of it and will suck if you don’t put the right amount of effort in.
Songs in the musical included, ‘Everyone’s a little bit racist’, ‘You can be as loud as the hell you want when you're makin' love’ ‘If you were gay, but I’m not’ and ‘The internet is for porn’. Good fun but Sesame Street this was not.
On Friday we had our last day in the Blantyre office. As of Monday morning we are now based in the Hamilton office, in the middle of the town centre.
No more easy journeys, nipping down the expressway to work. No more free parking. No more colour ink for the printers – for some reason. The dust was already gathering over the large empty desks which once acted as posts for the office’s many employees. The desks now lie computerless and ownerless. Large piles of computers, monitors and keyboards lie at various corners of the open plan space, already gathering a thin layer of dust, cords wrapped up around them. Chairs sit, bunched up in groups and drawers lie with the remnants of employees belongings left behind, unwanted and abandoned. In Paula’s old pedestal drawer the biggest collection of ‘Now’, ‘Chat’ and other ‘Hello’ style magazines lie, piled up, a whole history of Jordan, her boobs and her boyfriends lying unwanted. Alison’s old George Clooney picture the only reminder of her presence. An old VHS and a half bottle of some kind of mad dog left in Davey Clyde’s pedestal drawer along with a pile of PC game magazines. The old white Christmas tree lies dishevelled on it’s side, under the old board filing shelves. My old Mac still stands obediently awaiting my return from the PC I have now been lumbered with. Along with all the other old Macs it will lie there in the Blantyre office, inactive and unused until such a time comes along when a bunch of grumpy builders or cleaners stomp into the dusty office, years down the line, when it will finally be cleared and it’s contents skipped. Their voices will echo through the large office which now lifeless and near forgotten. No more shouting from Cameron or Diane, no more Bennie Spoonhalls, no more arguing from Julie and Margaret, no more wonderful tales from Paul, no more mumbling under the breath, no more swearing, slagging, newspaper flicking, phone answering, tea slurping and typing. Not in the Blantyre Prepress office anyway.

Smiley Miley's Radio Roadshow

2011-06-28T15:05:00.000-07:00

As Coldplay's ‘Every Teardrop’ drew to a climatic conclusion on the Pyramid stage around midnight on Saturday we all counted up our miles. Dad finished with over 2,200 miles in his possession which meant he won the game, even though I had been the first to reach London after the nationwide journey around the board of the Smiley Miley Game and thus brining an end to the game.
Lynsey Ann had brought the Radio One Smiley Miley Road Show game up with her to Mum and Dad's on Saturday night to be played after we all demolished a delicious and rather impressive Chinese carry-out which included Chow Mein, King Prawns and Sweet and Sour chicken.
The Smiley Miley board game was based on the famous Radio 1 Road shows which toured the country every summer between the late seventies and the late nineties, entertaining the nation live on Saturday afternoons from various beaches and parks across the country. The young Reid family went to around three or four of them. The likes of Bruno Brookes, Phillip Schofield and the lovely Jackie Brambles would present the show live to the gathered locals. Games with lucky contestants plucked from the crowds included pop quizzes, 'Bits and Pieces' and 'Smiley Miley's Mileage Game'.
In 'Bits and Pieces' a small sample of a tune was played and you had to guess the artist, song name, or both, a game which I ended up introducing into the family Christmas quizzes I used to put together for the Big Boxing Night bashes we used to have. Mum and Dad's vinyl collection always came in quite handy for that particular round. I'd use the linked tape recorder to make cassettes up full of five to ten second clips from records that my Mum and Dad had bought over the years and apparently forgotten the sound of after a few beers on Boxing Night. I still use the old 'Bit and Pieces' routine occasionally in homemade quizzes to this day. Instead of the old tape recorder I now use the Mac's Garageband application. It's much easier to blend the tracks and even distort them but it's strangely not as much fun.
I miss cassettes. Music in a thin plastic case on a magnetic tape played when wound between two cogs. How cool does that sound? Antiquated, but cool! They were so brilliantly temperamental too.
I spent many an afternoon trying to wind a tape smoothly back inside it's cassette casing. Hours of fun! Once successfully all wound back into place, I'd plug the tape victoriously back into the my cassette player, pressing play with a satisified grin, only to hear the music start warping and morphing, after a few minutes, into a chewed up garbling noise. A wonderful alien noise the BBC's Radiophonic workshop could not easily produce.
Anyway, the BBC finally axed the Radio 1 Roadshow in 2000 replacing it with the present day, annual, festival wannabe, Big Weekend. Probably a good move in the end up as The Big Weekend now attracts pretty big, international names such as the Foo Fighters, Lady Gaga and Madonna.
Del Amitri and Status Quo were the big crowd pullers of the Road Show. Not quite the same.
The last Road Show we went to was in Arran. Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann, Kenny and myself travelled over in the wee Nissan Micra with our tents, setting up camp on the Friday afternoon, the wee two man tent and the bigger three man dome tent, alongside each other, just in time for the imminent arrival of the Radio 1 lorries and their guest artists, Wet Wet Wet.
Mum and Dad had decided to set up camp with the rest of the Radio 1 roadshow campers and as we settled down to bed, everyone else in the makeshift campsite decided to waken up and the campsite seemed to suddenly transform into a rave. Being younger and naive at the time the Reid family spent the night cowering in our tents, surrounded by crazy, wild, drunken teenagers high on drugs and juice, falling into the sides of the tents, puking on tents, shouting, dancing and ramsacking tents. Kenny and myself were in the wee two man tent which stood before the larger where Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann’s cowered, sleep deprived and helpless. Halfway through the night Kenny and myself looked up into the darkness of our tent to find some bloke staring back at us.
“Here, there’s somebody in this tent?!”, I remember the guy blurted, before reversing back out and diving off into the noisy darkness.

A young Jackie Brambles and the rest of the roadshow, eventually arrived the next morning as promised, and as Marti Pellow started belting out the hits live on air to the gathered crowd, who seemed strangely mellow and considerably more controlled than they had been the past eight hours, even with Wet Wet Wet on stage, the band they were apparently all camping out to see.
Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann, Kenny and myself sat on the grass in the open Arran park, half dozing in the Scottish summer sun, enjoying the quiet. Even with Marti Pellow warbling in the background it seemed like bliss.
The board game proved to be more of a hit for the Reid family than that particular Road Show in Arran and at the weekend proved that, although dated, it’s still a hell of a lot more enjoyable than listening to Wet Wet Wet.

Black for good

2011-06-22T16:28:00.000-07:00

Ka is soaked. Ka, along with a bunch of friends and acquaintances, have been standing in Hampden all evening, listening to, watching, and no doubt screaming passionately, at Take That who have arrived in Glasgow today, tonight being the first of three live shows they are putting on for all the Scottish fans. It’s now a sisterly tradition for Ka and Angela to go to Hampden to see “their boys” every time the Manchester group venture this far up the country. Being Ka and Angela they are not just simply going to a gig though. No. When Ka and Angela go to a gig together, they’ve got to do it with some style. So following the buying of concert tickets Angela hires a chauffeur limo to take them all to Hampden along with a few bottles of champagne and no doubt a couple of bags of nibbles for good luck. They’ll be lucky if the limo doesn’t get mobbed by confused Take That fans, believing their stretched car to be full of Manchester pop stars.
Apparently the weather has not been kind tonight and even after the delights of a few bottles of champagne, Ka moaned over the phone with the need for a cup of tea.
Ka never drinks tea? I’m the tea drinker of the house, or the Tea Jennie, as my Aunt Mina used to call me. Ka’s a coffee girl and very rarely accepts an offer of the golden Char. If, on the odd occasion, she ever does drink tea, there has to be a bar of Dairy Milk involved. She’s black coffee, all the way, without fail. I’m the opposite and never drink coffee. Though I have been tempted recently.
A few weeks back we splashed out and, with the help of some near out of date Currys vouchers we’d received at our Wedding from Colin and Jillian, bought ourselves a Tassimo machine.
It’s all very impressive. Sitting there in the kitchen, it’s sleak, polished black form standing tall at one side of the kitchen intimidating the white plastic kettle on the other side of the room. The kettle with it’s slightly stained exterior, cowers on the other side of the kitchen, it’s one sole switch wearing away with age and it’s one light no competition against the flashing greens and reds which flicker on and off with the production of the near instantaneous coffees. The tea pot stands by the kettle, like a trusted friend also aging and in need of replacement, standing firm like a stubborn General, refusing to retire or retreat.
The Tassimo produces some great smells too but, so far, even the aroma from the small pots placed inside the machine which churn out the perfect cups of coffee have not been enough to sway me to the dark side yet. However, it is surprisingly flexible for a coffee machine. It produces Hot Chocolates too. Lattes, Mochas, Espressos, Creamy Tiramisu delights and, wait for it, tea! Yes, instead of having to put a teabag in a mug or teapot, go to the efforts of swirling it about and adding milk and any of the other ritualistic rigmaroles you go through in order to make your own cup of Rosy Lee all you have to do is simply insert a Twinings Tea disc of English Breakfast, Green Tea, Earl Grey or, my favourite, Darjeeling, and it does it all for you.
Well, when I say it does it all for you, you still have to change the T disc to the Milk variety in order to get your dairy hit, which means more fiddling with the machine cap, more pressing of buttons and waiting on more lights changing colour.
In fact, it’s all way too much hassle for me. Even after I bought a pack of Darjeeling discs, in order to get some use out of the the Tassimo for myself, I’ve yet to use it.
I’ll stick with the General and the kettle, which I’ll just go and put on for Ka coming in.

Guilty of a mug smashing

2011-06-16T05:16:00.000-07:00

Woke up yesterday morning with a start (which is what mornings usually are). My mobile was blaring away, vibrating on the desk at the side of the bed, the familiar beat and twinkling background notes of ‘Once in a Lifetime’ interrupting my dream.
After a brief conversation with Ka and making sure her straighteners were off, for at least the fourth time this week, I stumbled into the shower in an effort to wake myself up. After drying and pulling on a shirt I stomped into the kitchen only to be faced with another of my own wonderful creations from the night before. Another leaning tower of dishes, left drying at the side of the sink. Ka hates me leaving the dishes drying overnight and the mighty piles of pots I balance precariously on top of one another. After a short huff I set to work and started prizing the pile of dishes, pots, mugs and cutlery apart from the intricately balanced structure they were leaning in. Unfortunately, even after my shower, I was obviously not fully awake.
An oven dish slipped.
A casserole dish toppled.
A plate fell forward.
A large glass and a mug at the side of the draining board, balanced on the edge of the sink, were hit.
I moved to rescue them but missed the escaping tumblers. They spun, fell and hit the laminate floor below, smashing into a hundred tiny glistening pieces around my bare feet. The mug broke in half and only the base of the glass remained intact, complete with a large triangular, jagged shard, pointed threateningly up at me. Rolling my eyes, I got the brush and pan out from under the sink. After what seemed like ages, sweeping the smooth laminate floor in my bare feet, dodging around the hundreds of glass pieces dotting the floor, I finally finished and put the pan away and started making a now rushed breakfast. As I moved around the kitchen, flicking switches, punching down toasters and pouring cereal, glass occasionally nipped at the soles of my feet.
I’d tried to tidy the floor of all the glass with the brush but there were still small shreds lurking over the smooth floor. You couldn’t see them, and only barely feel them if you ran your hands over the deck, but they continued to nip at my feet.
The situation seemed to express perfectly how I have been feeling mentally for at least the past few months. No matter how much you try and tidy things up, tidy away, there’s always something there to remind you, no matter how small or seemingly invisible.
It was the second glass I’d smashed in a week and the second mug in a month. Yesterday’s mug was my ‘Ring For Service’ mug, a mug I had received as a present from former work colleagues down in Solihull. Natalie and Hannah had bought me it as a joke, insinuating my glorified tea boy status at the time. At least I think that was the joke? I certainly don’t think they were alluding to any other rings…
In that job I carried out my role as glorified teaboy brilliantly, until the two girls were made ‘redundant’ and I became the company’s General Dogsbody. As it happened I also carried that role out rather brilliantly until I left in 2004 to come back up to Scotland.

The first smashed mug of the month was my Homer mug. One of my favourites which Ka had bought me on one of our first Christmases together. A picture of Homer Simpson adorned the mug’s side, his head x-rayed to see his brain split up into sections, which included, ‘Sleep’, ‘Doughnuts’, ‘Sex’, ‘TV’, ‘Sweet, sweet beer’ etc. along with the caption: “Genius at work”.
Since I am a genius (if only in my own mind) I’d taken the mug into work to use for my teabreaks. Unfortunately, using her Studio Supervisor perks, Andrea had been getting her hot water delivered to her desk to her from the kitchen boiler tap, and one day asked me to fetch her hot water. Andrea passed her mug to me making my own slip from my hand and crack off the floor. As the Homer mug lay there, in bits over the floor, I looked up at Andrea as she burst out laughing. It felt like that moment in ‘Back to the Future’ when Biff had George McFly’s hand up his back. George’s fist forming slowly, pulling back at his side to the tune of Biff’s laughing, gearing up for the expertly delivery sucker punch.
Thankfully, I let it pass.
Andrea continued to laugh and I sighed out heavily, giving an expert fake smile as I picked the mug shards up off the floor. I’ll never forgive Andrea for that.
The love of my life, Ka, has even been guilty of a mug smashing. A more ‘Karate Kid’ flavoured one. Mum and Dad bought Kenny and myself Star Wars mugs, many moons ago. One had Luke Skywalker on the side, the other Boba Fett. Needless to say I demanded the Boba Fett mug and enjoyed many a cup of tea from it, up until a few years back when Ka decided, after watching some telly, to swing her legs off the arm of the sofa and successfully kick my Boba Fett mug, which had been minding it’s own business on the coffee table, across the living room. Half a cup of tea and a mug handle suffered as a result. The handleless Boba Fett mug now holds my paint brushes. As a protest and a heavy hint for a replacement, I didn’t throw it out. I know how not throwing stuff out really annoys Ka, but, for some reason, she allows me to use it as a paintbrush holder (it would also be a great breadstick holder). It must be the guilt. She’s still not bought me a new one.
It’s only stuff at the end of the day though. Mugs, glasses. Whatever.
Why am I sitting writing about mugs? I’m not sure. Because I’m sad? Stupid? Possibly. It’s just the way this blog has flowed I suppose, like tea that’s not had enough brewing time.
The other morning I was asked what was wrong with my mug? Being only half awake at the time, I asked, “what one?”

Racing at Raploch

2011-06-11T17:27:00.000-07:00

Ka and myself are lying across our couches. Ka sipping 5.5% rose wine that I bought her in Asda the other day (obviously unaware that it was 5.5% and gaining some ear ache on my return home) and me supping some Kronenbourg lager and generally having a lazy Saturday night after the fun and shenanigans of last night’s charity race night (wonderful word, shenanigans…)
The Raploch Bowling Club sprung to life last night much to the disapproval of the regulars. The bar staff were miserable and, from the impression I got, highly suspicious of us strangers, and the drinking regulars disturbed by our presence, an old man with a walking stick particularly unhappy to see us, growling at us as he tried to get through to the bar. The gathered crowd didn’t let that get to them though.
The various staff members from Ka’s work, the Early Learning Unit, the various parents of kids at the ELU and a fairly large portion of family and friends assembled soon got the race night started as ever under the guidance of Kay (spelling?) and Fiona, the husband and wife team that make up the backbone of the ELU’s successful charity bashes. Ka and myself have been particularly touched by the support of the ELU with this charity night as the cause was inspired by our wee Lucy Reid, not to mention all the other babies that pass through Wishaw Hospital’s Neonatal ward’s doors.
Upon arrival at the bowling club, secreted away like a green batcave behind some worn out billboards, Fiona and Kay immediately volunteered me as a jockey for one of the horses. I opted immediately for the first race, believing it to be better to get it over and done with. The first few races were South Park themed making each of the ‘horses’ characters from the seemingly forever popular American cartoon, so, in memory of my brother, I went for Kenny.
Not that Kenny’s dead. He’s just in Australia. Exploring, seeing a bit of the world, travelling another continent and getting dogs impounded.
Anyway, like Kenny’s dog, I wasn’t going anywhere fast. My racing wrists failed me three quarters of the way through my lap. Ka’s bro, Colin, would have won the race if he had not decided to give his horse/character one final, illegal tug of the cord over the line. Kay immediately disqualified him thus making the dark horse of the race, George, the jockey to my right, the victor. Colin was raging, but only at himself, either for performing the illegal manoeuvre in the first place or being spotted by the adjudicator carrying it out. My guess is the second.
Even though I had even odds at the beginning of the race, I ended up third, or was it fourth? I’m not sure now but I was fairly average anyway, ensuring more than a few folk lost their money. It’s all for a good cause though so I didn’t mind.
Roslyn did, mind you. She scowled at me for around two hours afterwards. Her other half, Iain, won a race an hour or so afterwards in the night though so she lightened up later. Or maybe that was just the alcohol?
As I retreated back to our tables with shaking wrists, disappointed and a little downtrodden, the races went on. Ka continued organising the buffet in the kitchen area, the ELU girls sold out of raffle tickets, Kay continued shouting at folk and Angela and Unlce John nicked Auntie Lorna’s caramel shortcake from it’s tin foil cloaked, secret location in the backroom corridor.
With a little help from the two Mum’s, Ka cooked up a cracking buffet and after the ELU staff members all helped bring through and set up, the gathered crowd of betters and racers demolished it, sandwiches, chicken legs, pizza, sausage rolls, garlic bread, pasta, quiche, Victoria sponges and all, even the whole four pieces of caramel shortcake that had been left on their tray.
The Victoria sponges were particularly magnificent along with the fantastic white chocolate snowballs, all made by Jillian and her Mum. That will have to become a buffet tradition. Like Auntie Linda’s trifle.
After eating it was the ELU race, in which a representative of each ELU room, raced and competed for the coveted Race night trophy. Louisa impressed all the girls with her wrist action lifting the trophy and winning a bottle of red wine in the process (the wine she swapped for a bottle of white when no one was looking).
The world’s largest raffle ended the night. The amount of donated prizes was fantastic and could explain why the girls sold out of raffle tickets. Numbers and colours were read out one after the other.
Lynsey Ann won a very nice pair of crystal glasses (one cracked) and a bottle of Grants (which my Dad gained as an early Fathers Day present). Jillian won more than a few prizes for more than a few cousins. Colin won a box of chocolate biscuits. Jennifer won a bottle of plonk (one of many won by others) and Dougie won his now traditional collection of bath salts and lotions, together with the exfoliating cloth. He had had his eye on it earlier on, as he sat, before the massive pile of raffle prizes, waiting to race. The only thing being he had been swearing not to win the soapy bath box of delights this time around as he’d won bath products instead of bottles at most, if not all, of the previous charity nights.
Anyway, he accepted his prize with grace and dignity, everyone laughing as he huffed and puffed walking back to his table, almost losing his exfoliating cloth on the way.
Finally a signed Rangers football, signed by the current squad and organised by Claire and her Auntie, was auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Colin started the bidding and continued the bidding, apparently being one of few Rangers fans among the gathered crowd. His Uncle John joined in, much to Colin’s irritation.
“You don’t even support Rangers!”
At one point Colin even outbid himself and as everyone laughed, a rather flustered Colin yelled, “just gee us the baw!”
In the end an old guy, sitting quietly in the shadows in the corner of the hall, outbid everyone and won the football for around £65, donating even more wonderful money to the cause.
Fiona, Kay and the rest of the ELU had all worked very hard to make the night a success and thanks to all the generous donations, raffle ticket buyers, racers, bookies and backers, made it a fantastic success. I’m certain the Neonatal ward will be more than happy with their donation.

Say what you see with friends

2011-06-08T09:56:00.000-07:00

Quiet as a mouse. Land in jail. Frog in the throat. Scared stiff. Cool cat. The walls have ears.
Colin, Jillian, Ka and myself fought over the remote playing Catchphrase on Saturday night.
As Mr. chips illustrated catchphrases on the television before us we had to go for the remote, before anyone else got to it, as soon as we had a guess, pressing the remote button assigned to our team and yelling the answer.
Strictly speaking, we probably didn't have to yell, the volume of your voice was not really a game requirement of the completely uninteractive DVD, but, as the competition got fiercer, the voices got louder. We reckoned we were safe from upsetting any neighbours though as we'd seen the Singing Postman leave earlier in the day with a bag full of booze and food, probably off to a singing barbeque somewhere. Anyway, as we played, the fake Roy Walker continued to give us the scores, which forever see sawed between the two teams of couples.
That was the most disappointing aspect of the game for me. No Roy Walker. Instead we got some bloke, that kind of sounded like he might have had some kind of vague irish accent at some point in his life. Presumably the irish part. It wasn't even a good impersonation. I had been quite looking forward to hearing the big, irish “Riiiiigggghhht!”, or even the occasional, “It's good, but it's not the one”.
With a couple of plates full of chicken fajitas and with a good few beers, the four of us had great fun on our games flavoured Saturday night in.
Following Catchphrase, I dug the Friends Scene It out from the flat's TARDIS cupboard. The Scene It games require you to circle a board answering questions on the featured movie or tv show, the questions usually accompanied by clips on the accompanying DVD. The picture frame, Jillian, the coffee cup, Colin, the skyscraper, myself and Joey's easy chair, Ka all headed out around the board on the spin of the dice. Ka's easy chair seemed to take things a little too easy though as I'm not sure she left the starting square and, like the other two, have seen every episode of the easy watching American comedy. Jillian won in the end, just beating Colin, who showed an extreme geek knowledge of the show, naming episodes, coming up with the obscure guest star character names and even naming a season just by watching the opening sequence.
I did manage to get at least one question right.
The question was a 'which episode?' and as the other three shouted, “The one when he asked her to marry her”, “The one when he popped her the question”, “The one with the ring!” and other such ridiculous answers.
I relaxed, took my time and then shouted, “The one with the Proposal!”.
I got it right. I wasn't smug about it though. I saved my victory dance for later when I started singing Aloe Blacc.
“I need a dollar, dollar, dollar is what I need, hey hey”.
Or a quid.
That's all a strip of raffle tickets for Friday night's prizes is. A mere quid.
Any more takers? (Ah, you thought I'd forgotten didn't you?!)

Raffles, races and a great cause

2011-06-03T04:22:00.000-07:00

Raffle tickets for sale! Lot's of prizes to be won! £1 a strip! I may as well advertise it here on my blog too.
Ka's work, the Early Learning Unit Nursery in Hamilton, have organised a charity race/games night to raise funds for Wishaw Hospital's Neonatal Ward in memory of our Baby Lucy. All proceeds will go towards the care of all the sick or premature babies that pass through the Ward's doors, the general upkeep of the Ward and all that goes with it, including the many machines and operations it has to fund in order to care for and save the lives of all these very young children.
The race/games night takes place on the 10th June at the Raploch Bowling Club in Larkhall and all are welcome.
The ELU's race nights are always good fun and always a good laugh once the races get going. There's no boring old horse races on tv screens at these race nights though. It's all down to wrist action.
Taking part in these races, your sat, facing the wall, on one side of the room with a line of string tied around a stick. The line of string runs down between your legs under your chair and over the floor behind you, to the other side of the room where the other end is tied to a vertical, flat wooden horse on a small platform. Once the whistle blows, or the horn toots, or a New Zealander bellows,
the race begins, and you've got to wind the string up, around the mid section of your stick and that's when the wrist action kicks in. Winding the stick around in your hands, pulling the string up and around as speedily as you can all the while pulling the small wooden horse behind you, in towards the back of your chair. Obviously the first horse to reach and get pulled under it's pullers chair wins the race. Before each race small bets are placed on each puller and obviously if you've bet on the winner, you're in the money.
On one of the first race nights that we attended, Ka and myself brought the two sets of Mums and Dads along with us. After I successfully managed to win one of the first races, my Mum, suitably impressed, turned and asked Ka how my wrist action was. Ka, a little perplexed by the question, was not sure how to respond. Our relationship was at an earlier stage back then so it's probably understandable that she was not aware of what my wrist action was like. It's obviously deteriorated since back then anyway as I've never won a race since.
The last charity night also had a game of bingo at which I apparently got quite competitive, scanning my card, listening intently to the numbers being called, refusing to speak to anyone, merely giving the occasional grunt in response to questions or chat.
Prizes for the raffles and bingo have included signed footballs and strips from various old firm and Motherwell football players, bottles, chocolates, baskets of fruit, remote control cars, vouchers, bath salts and various other soapy delights.
As that last game of bingo drew to a close I finally stamped the last number on my card. I won a woman's umbrella and Dougie, Ka's Dad, not long afterwards, won an exfoliating glove - not great prizes from the bingo admittedly, but we were among the last to shout 'House!'.
I'm not sure this charity night will be as happy or care free as the last race nights, especially for Ka and myself, but I'm sure I'll end up pulling a horse's string at some point. I'll try and win a race for Lucy.

The Sainsburys entertainment aisle

2011-05-31T15:19:00.000-07:00

I’ve not written on here in what feels like weeks. In fact, it has been weeks. After arriving back from sunny Ibiza, Ka and myself immediately went back to work, straight back to normality with an almighty thump. The last blog I wrote was by the side of a pool, both Ka and myself lying with Carte D’Or ice cream cones. Gawd, even that phrase ‘by the pool’ seems so alien now after 2 weeks being back at work.
We were at the side of the pool last weekend, mind you, but that was in the Hamilton Water Palace with our niece, Morgan.
Morgan had stayed the night on the Friday and after a night of cocktails, bow ties, iCarly and painting (Morgan always paints at Uncle Michael’s house) she was particularly keen to try out her new tankini and bright pink goggles. During the swimming in the Water Palace I kept throwing the goggles further into the pool in an effort to get Morgan to swim out and retrieve them, an effort to try and get her to show me her advancing swimming skills.
Unfortunately she didn’t put up with this for long, only carrying out the task once, before continually shouting at me and going in a huff, accusing me of mistreating her new pink goggles. Apparently she’d only got them the day before. I was merely trying to get her to show us her fantastic swimming abilities, it had not actually occurred to me until afterwards that I was treating her like a water bound dog with a game of fetch.
Anyway, after delivering, sorry, dropping Morgan off home to her Mum and Dad, we escaped home and collapsed once more of exhaustion. Morgan staying a mere one night usually always leaves us exhausted.
Ka was off out with Pauline for yet another girls night out so Chaz and myself went for another carry out in Giffnock. For some reason we’ve got to go all the way to Giffnock for a curry. Chaz insists upon it. I’m not sure what is exactly wrong with the countless curry shops in EK but they are all apparently not good enough for Chaz’s advanced tastebuds. Anyway, we returned to the flat with a a Hot Wheels toy Delorean, a fair number of carrier bags filled with beer offers from Giffnock’s Sainsburys and a cold curry to watch a couple of movies.
Sainsburys. A supermarket not particularly known for it’s special offers but one which has gone up considerably in my estimations after walking in the other day and finding a veritable feast of special offers in the entertainment section. My Dad’s Father’s day present, my Dad’s birthday present, a couple of Cds for myself and a present for Ka were all purchased. Great for the old Nectar card.
Ka was delighted with her gift from the Sainsburys entertainment aisle.
John Barrowman’s latest album.
A whole pound, it cost me. A quid. Unbelievable value for money.
Some might claim, certainly the more cynical of you, that John Barrowman’s latest album wouldn’t be worth a pound.
Of course, I would have to argue.
After the hard week she’d had, Ka’s smile that night was more than a pound’s worth. In fact it was the best quid I’ve ever spent… well, since that Carte D’Or ice cream cone at the side of the pool anyway.
In fact, the cone was dearer than the John Barrowman album!

Birds, breakfast and beaches

2011-05-13T10:07:00.000-07:00

With justy over 24 hours to go now until Ka and myself start our journey back to good old Scotland we are back relaxing by the pool with the Cocoon elite. Although this Cocoon elite are not as lively as the movie characters. In fact, Ka and myself are worried that some of them may not be just lying sunbathing...
Captain Birdseye is here in the hotel too. He was lying with his Captain's hat on when we arrived around two hours ago. We know he was the real deal too as he had the white beard with the slightly crooked smile and the fact that all the waiters were saluting him put the nail in the coffin. The proverbial coffin, of course. He didn't actually die. He just sauntered off a while back, perhaps to wrestle a squid or something, as Ka and myself licked our carte d'or cones.
Last night Ka and myself boarded the Captain Nemo II, a large glass bottom ferry boat which took us a two hour cruise around the surrounding north west coastline of Ibiza, taking in the sights, including a smugglers cave, a large cliff where people get naked, a Batman logo shaped rock formation, a chance to feed the seagulls (which started following us after only ten minutes at sea and then commencing to try and shit on us after feeding - great idea Mr Tourist guide!) and, of course, the Ibiza sunset. Although cloudier than the first sunsets of the week, last nights was still great to watch from the bow of a boat, glass of 'champagne' in hand.
Afterwards we went to a local Dutch bar for dinner and after a thoroughly impressive meal there, went out for a few cocktails and then bed.
This morning we were once more rudely awoken. All through the week we've been rather rudely awoken by a villainous little bird that likes to perch on the head of the palm tree outside out balcony and tweet away like an unpleasant, highly shrill, alarm signal. The kind of noises R2-D2 would make, if on drugs. He, or she, (it may be a she for all I know, I've no idea when it comes to birds) sits on the palm tree and without fail, tweets away (no, it's not on twitter!), loudly, constantly and without fail every morning and even has the cheek to sit and look at you, if you venture out on to the balcony to confront it. He, or she, even turns up if Ka and myself decide to sit and relax on the balcony, late afternoon, and tweets away, blatantly in our faces.
On our way round a local touristy shop yesterday i spotted a rail of Ibiza sling shots that would be ideal for silencing our little friend. Of course, I abandoned the idea as we fly home tomorrow. If I'd been staying 2 weeks, it may have been a different story.
This morning it wasn't the bird that woke us up though, it was the maids. On a few morning the bird was almost drowned out by the hotel maids who seem to gather around our apartment door every morning with their mops and brushes and debate loudly, in their native spanish, about potatoes. Or at least that's what it sounds like to my untrained ears (I never took Spanish at school). They shout at each other like Spanish Speedy Gonzalezs (plural, Gonzalei?). Ka snapped this morning and shouted a grumpy "Shut up!" from her bed. Unfortunately I don't think they heard as they continued with thier noisy bustling.
I'll miss the breakfast in the hotel. Hot plate upon hot plate of sausage, egg, boiled and fried, bacon, tomatoes, fried bread, hash browns, croissants, pastries, cereals, jams, juices, fruit and crackers. Not to mention one of those cool toasters with the conveyer belts. All fantastic. The only niggly thing being that you're in constant competition with the other residents to get the best looking sausage or the last fried egg on the hot tray. If you miss the last fried egg or tomato you have to wait for the slightly scarey Head Waiter to replace the empty tray with a fully loaded version of breakfasty goodness while newly woken guests mill around you, huffing, puffing and generally moaning as to why you are holding up the queue.
The buffet dinner is even worse. the old folk are all circling the restaurant doors before they're even opened at half seven and if you turn up even five minutes later your waiting ages to get any dinner. Ka and myself have been amazed at the speed some of these pensioners eat. Some of them are diving into their ice cream before Ka and myself have even managed to pick up a fork.
I've missed out on a few puddings thanks to the elderly queue jumpers, the pudding hoggers and the guests who take a slice of the best pudding before they've even had a nibble on their main course. On Tuesday night I had my eye on the last two slices of chocolate cheesecake for Ka and myself and was making my way over to the dessert counter when I heard two women conversing loudly behind me.
"Oh, that cheesecake looks lovely"
"Only two bits left too. Count me in, hold on, I'll get a plate"
By this point I'd had enough of missing out and witha thought along the lines of "not on your nelly!", I raced up to the dessert counter and quickly cakesliced the two last peices on to my plate. With a smug look on my face, and a mental victory dance going on in my head, I turned to face the two hopefuls as I heard them come up behind me. My smug look melted as I looked round at their glaring looks of sad annoyance. One of them looking up grimly from her wheelchair. Her friend glowering at me with complete hatred.
Stuff it. I'm on holiday. I can eat whatever puddings I want. Even if I don't look quite as good on the beach as a result. Unlike the inhabitants of Cala Bassa, a beach, reached by ferry boat, which Ka and myself visited during the week. We were lying sunbathing, when I suddenly happened to notice we were surrounded by naked people.

Too old for Ibiza

2011-05-12T07:21:00.000-07:00

According to the digital clock display on the harbour side, it's 25 degrees celcius in San Antonio today. It seems far warmer even though there is a strong breeze flowing in from the ocean, stirring the giant palm trees which line the colourful streets of fountains, cafes and shops.
Ka and myself arrived on Saturday night, leaving behind the Scottish sunshine and looking forward to an early, sunny summer holiday. A chilled week in sunny Ibiza before it's June/July busy season begins.
The plane descended into Ibiza airport around 8 o'clock in the evening, shrouded in grey cloud and as we left the airport, the rain and thunderstorm began. Almighty, jagged lines of lightening ripped through the black skies and around the mountainous hills around us, the coach full of Scots tourists (two of which were seeing lightening for the first time), as it made it's way through Ibiza's main roads to drop us all at our various hotels.
Instead of the warm, humid, foreign conditions we had all imagined ourselves to be arriving in, Ka and myself disembarked from our coach in the rain, our driver quickly ducking down into the coach's luggage compartment and chucking our cases out at us, into the puddles as ominous palm trees swung threateningly overhead, framing the front of our hotel, its entrance looming over us through the rain and wind, like the beginnings of a scarey murder mystery rather than a holiday in the sun.
Thankfully the rain quickly petered out (thanks Peter!) and after being served some, dried up remains for that night's buffet dinner, which Ka and myself politely received and politely refused the majority of, we ventured out for a short walk to check out the area and maybe partake in a wee drink to start our holiday.
We sauntered up the Promenade, home to our hotel, at five the next morning, drunk but happy. We had walked along the Promenade directly outside the hotel, which stretches the length of the beach and the harbour and inadvertantly walked straight up into the busy, hectic main bar area of San Antonio, locally named Cami de Santa Agnes or what clubbing tourists know it as, "the westend", or "the strip". Upon entering the strip we were immediately accosted by club touts of all nationalities, shapes and sizes. We ended up perched in a supposedly Scottish bar named, The Highlander were we enjoyed a few drinks with various folk including a friendly bunch of London lads over for a 21st, boviously sozzled but still a good laugh, and a hen party from Livingston, from which the chief bridesmaid happily chatted away with us. Whilst she chatted, one of her party, a slightly older memeber of the 'mutton dressed as lamb' variety, got amorous with one of the London blokes, the two of them disappearing up an alley for half an hour after claiming they were going home and appearing a little disshevlled looking not long afterwards.
Although the whole street of bars seemed lively enough you couldn't help but feel it was all a precursor for what's to come in the June July months for the strip's nightlife and the town as touts for the varrious bars bounced around the cobbled street looking a little at a loss as they struggled for pedestrians to shout at with offers of free shots, or glasses of supposed champagne.
Needless to say, the following morning, Ka and myself missed our welcome meeting and our breakfast not opening our eyes till well past the last serving at 10.
We staying half board which gives us the luxury of breakfast and dinner in the hotel as long as we eat between certain times, sit where they want us to sit, don't ask for glasses of ice and just generally behave ourselves, avoiding any battles with any other guests, including buffet battles.
Baefore we got to this sunny climate, fellow work colleagues and friends had taken great smugness in telling me I was too old for Ibiza. Well, after the first morning in this hotel, I could quite rightly say that I'd never seen so many old people under one roof. The hotel is full of old folk! I've never seen so many hearing aids.
"Perfect for couples", the brochure said. It never mentioned anything about "your last holiday EVER".
Though it did certainly feel like that as I headed down to relax at the poolside on the Sunday morning, to try and get a plastic sunbed under the suspicious gazes the gathered pensioners who had already claimed their places there. Thankfully the thunder and rain had now dispersed revealing a blistering blue sky. Even the lizards were running for cover as I took my place alongside Ka on one of the ever so comfortable plastic beds at the poolside, beside the pool's cafe and toilet hut. So comfortable in fact that after approximately twenty seconds of lying a queer feeling did come over my body. Within moments I was rushing, as subtley as I could, into the toilet hut and puking down one of the pans. Not the greatest start to the holiday but after a small portion of a toastie from the pool's cafe we were off once more to take a long walk along the , thankfully, long pier. Sunday was our first full day in Ibiza and in the evening we were to experience our first half board dinner and that's when the battles with the hearing aids almost began, Ka and myself bought the worst bottle of wine known to man and we met Ashley (no, not him from Coronation Street!).
Minor battles also commenced with small chirping birds, the lady in the wheel chair, the Head Waiter, the Hitler Ice Waiter and the wee Ice cream nicking little old lady.
But they're all other stories for another time. I'm off to get ready for a sunset cruise.

We're packing

2011-05-07T03:31:00.000-07:00

Ka and myself are hurriedly putting the last few things in our cases. We're leaving the country. Alex Salmond's in charge!
Alex Salmond has been all over the news and the tv for the past few days thanks to the election results so it'll make our short holiday away all the more worthwhile.
If the coalition government has done one thing for Britain so far it's help push the Scottish people over the edge. The SNPs have won a majority government in Scotland thanks to the disillusionment of Labour supporters, not to mention the removal of any support of the Lib Dems and Tories. Then again with that bloke in charge of Labour, Iain Gray, Gray with a capital GRAY, they never really stood much of a chance. I think I actually nodded off the few times I seen him speaking on the news, inadvertently dropping my biscuit in my tea.
Hate it when that happens. Soggy biscuit lying in a pile of mush at the bottom of your cup as you finish. Must be even worse for muffins. Jillian managed to drop a muffin in her tea the other day?! It was a mini muffin to be fair, not one of the mother muffins you get out of the supermarket bakeries or Starbucks shops. Jillian was not listening to Iain Gray though.
I wonder how many perfectly good cups of tea Iain Gray has ruined? Maybe that's why he's quitting? Gray had wanted 'root and branch reform'. So he was blaming the tea.
Anyway, that's reminded me. Teabags. Must remember to take some good British tea to Ibiza with us (who says I'm too old for Ibiza?!). Good British Nambarrie tea.
Whilst writing this, I have just received an email from Kenny in Oz, ordering me to visit a bar in San Antonio, named Kilty's. Apparently it sells bottles of buckie. I've only had one gulp of buckie in my whole life but hey, you never know.
I'd better go and weigh these cases again. We've borrowed a luggage weighing device from my Mum and Dad in order to ensure we come within the correct weights specified for our flights. When I say 'we' I mean of course, Ka's case. I'm fine. 10 and a half kg. Easy.
Ka is coming in at just under 15. For a moment we were almost taking her big Revlon hair dryer. Ka made me phone Ibiza to make sure the hotel rooms have hair dryers. Then, after I had come off the phone, she realised she had to know whether there were ironing facilities. Ironing facilities? Just hang your clothes up, I said. But no, we need an iron. Our clothes have to be neatly pressed. Even in Ibiza. So a second phonecall to the same hotel receptionist was made. The Spanish lady sniggered slightly on the other end of the line and politely brushed my apologies aside. She'll no doubt be a little puzzled when a balding man in a creased t-shirt turns up tonight at her reception booking in under the same name.

Who would live in a house like this?

2011-05-03T15:19:00.001-07:00

So, Osama Bin Laden is dead. About time too. It's only been at least nine and a half years since he was put at the top of the World's Most Wanted list after killing thousands. Apparently he wasn't even holed up in some cave, hidden away, somewhere in the Afghan or Pakistan mountains either. He was living it up in a mansion with his four wives, his maids and a couple of buddies, getting his papers delivered everyday, probably having a great time. All the while, just around the corner, the Pakistan Military Academy stood, it's recruits and generals toiling away in their fight against terror.
Did nobody in that Academy know that they were living next door to the World's Most Wanted? Very suspicious. Even more embarrassing is the fact that a bunch of American troops were in the Academy, on a training program, as little as two years ago.
Would one of the troops or recruits not have thought to say anything, after dodging out the back for a sneaky cigarette, after spotting Bin Laden playing swing ball in his backyard or hanging his y-fronts on the washing line?
An American General probably stood out on a balcony on the back of the Military Academy late one night, munching a fat cigar, glaring out over the Pakistan town. As he looked out over the darkening desert landscape he'd be grimly muttering, "Where could he be?", failing to notice the one house surrounded by 12ft walls not 1km away from him.
No doubt there'll be a statement from the Americans saying they knew he was there all along and were simply carrying out a secret mission, of some sort, to confirm the Al Qaeda leader's whereabouts.
The 12ft walls surrounding Bin Laden's compound must have been great for keeping out the neighbours though.
But this also begs the question of, did nobody think it was suspicious that this one mansion, the biggest residence in the whole of the town, had 12ft walls surrounding it complete with a lining of silvery, glinting barbed wire, large security gates and a small collection of satellite dishes and CCTV cameras, whirring around? Was nobody even curious as to who lived there? Nobody thought to go round for a cup of sugar or with a basket of muffins?
And why are people calling it a mansion? It looks abysmal. There's not even a swimming pool and it's in serious need of a good coat of paint at the very least. Perhaps the word mansion has a different meaning over there?
Apparently it was valued at $1 million. Who the hell was the estate agent? Doctor Evil?

Did Boba Fett brush his teeth?

2011-05-01T15:47:00.000-07:00

Another Sunday night dinner at the McGarva's tonight. We all arrived. We all ate Dougie and Grace's food. We wrecked the place. And then we left.
Okay we didn't literally wreck the place, as such, but thanks to us and the kids, the place was left in a bit of a state as we all said our goodbyes. Colin and jillian were the first to escape, using that old excuse of having to catch a train, and then the rest of us followed. Morgan and Joshua were piled into the car by Angela and Ka and myself grabbed our various belongings including slippers, sunglasses and Boba Fett helmets, jumped in the car and were off home. Yep, a Boba Fett helmet. They always come in handy when you need a spot of Bounty Hunting done.

A genius birthday present from Colin and Jillian, which I only just unwrapped today. Ah, geek mode once more as I spend the next ten minutes trying to get the electronic helmet out from it's box. It's even got Boba Fett voice recordings which you can activate by pressing some disguised buttons on the helmet's side. "I am the hunter. You are the prey" is one of the quotes that emit from the helmet as it's antenna lights up. You never know, it may come in handy?
Of course, my only problem now is, where the hell do I keep it? Probably the first thing that popped into Ka's head, groaning inwardly, as I unwrapped it. I did suggest that I simply wear it all the time, thus eliminating the need to even find a place for it in our wee one bedroom flat. But that would probably not work so well. Living my day to day life with a Boba Fett helmet on would probably freak a few people out and as Jillian pointed out tonight, how would you brush your teeth with it on? I suppose Boba himself must have taken his helmet off occasionally to brush his teeth. Assuming he had teeth, of course. Perhaps the helmet he wore had a tooth brushing app installed in it's casing? Did Boba Fett even have teeth? Or hair? Or even a face to speak of? Who knows? Maybe he lived his entire life, up until the unfortunate incident with the sarlacc pit, without taking his helmet off. He was a hardened, universally feared bounty hunter after all. Surely he didn't really give a damn if his prey gave his breath a sniff before they were disintegrated or encased in carbonite?
Did Stormtroopers and Darth Vader still brush their teeth, come to think of it?
Before such questions arose in Uddingston, we were in Chapelton seeing my folks and Uncle Jim, who had travelled up from London on business, in possibly the biggest car I've ever sat in. A beautiful Bentley which, whilst sitting in, felt like travelling in some kind of supercar. A giant black beast of a car which you could only dream of tearing the roads up in. Jim also collected his DVD of his 50th Birthday weekend which I'd put together for him, a short film made up from the clips and footage I took on our trip to Banstead in March. Jim and Dad were off to play a few holes round at the local golf course after we left, enjoying the brilliant Scottish sunshine while we have it.
Later in the evening Dad, Mum and Jim sent a picture back to us in reply to a phone picture taken in the McGarva household of me, trying to look threatening in a Boba Fett helmet. Their picture, after at least ten minutes of squinting, turned out to be my mother in some kind of ice hockey mask, complete with clenched fists pointed threateningly at the camera.
The last time I seen a hockey mask that scary was watching Friday the 13th. Jason Voorhees came back from the dead with a hockey mask on, in no less than twelve movies, and slaughtered many a screaming teenager in many a wild, imaginative and gory way.
Who needs Boba Fett, the universally feared Bounty Hunter, when you've got Betty in a hockey mask? Scarier than any horror movie, surely?