Better off with coconuts

On Monday I became a 32 year old. Now well and truly in the thirties and climbing. Scarey. The unscarey thing about birthdays, of course, is the cards and pressies. Ka got me a fantastic new pair of trainers and tickets for Spamalot, the Monty Python stage show currently running in the West End. I won't be attending until the knights and their coconuts have come back home to Scotland later in the year but I'm looking forward to that. I say come back home because the original movie was all filmed in good old Scotland. Doune castle, for instance, was where the french hung out, firing abuse over the battlements, not to mention a cow and a number of farm animals. Sinister Glen Coe is where the Bridge of Death was filmed and Loch Tay where the man eating rabbits crept from their caves. I should go on a Holy Grail tour of Scotland... I wonder if I can get a few folk together for that... not sure about prancing the whole way with coconuts though.
Ka and myself had an enjoyable birthday weekend which included some quick shopping, some pitch and putt, and more than a few birthday meals. One meal in particular was in Glasgow's Malmaison on Saturday night followed by drinks and meeting up with Colin McG and Jillian in Bath Street. Apparently they'd just met some wrestler type dudes in the SECC, the stories of which left me completely unfazed and unimpressed as I've never paid, or wanted to pay, the slightest attention to wrestling. I know who Hulk Hogan is and know of some freak called the Undertaker but that about covers my knowledge of the 'sport'. As we sat drinking in... where were we... gawd, I have no idea what the place was called... some attractive enough looking place with friendly customers, chatty bar staff and decent enough music, anyway, we then found ourselves invited to Graham's flat, by my bro, Kenny. Kenny and Ka had been texting at various points and before we knew it we had crashed Kenny and Graham's party. When I say party, It was more of a night in with the computer. The two of them were lying on a giant black couch surrounded by bud bottles, staring up at the large flatscreen on the clean white wall of the minimalist living room (Minimalist except from the beer bottles that is!) whilst Michael Bolton emanated from the stereo. Graham and Kenny seemed happy enough to see us, celebrating their winnings from the grand National. A little later however, the actual owner of the flat came home whilst we were all sprawled over the luxurious black couch and introduced himself by simply mumbling 'This is my flat' (according to Kenny the next day though it's not his, it's actually his Mum's).
An uncomfortable sense of unwelcomness then filtered through our drunken minds so we took the hint and departed for home. As I spun down the tenement stairs towards a waiting taxi, Colin McG had made one final last attempt to beat Graham at Fifa on the PS3 (it's controllers have no wires?!) but failed. Ka piled me into the taxi and we were off. Racing back home. Unlike Mum's horse at the Grand National. King John's Castle refused to move. She'd have been better off betting on a pair of coconuts.