Are we human?

I’d never been to a Humanist ceremony before. With no religious connotations, no inclusion of a religious service, at which only half the congregation know what’s going on, no prayers or strict readings from a big book and a less formal environment, it seemed a lot more relaxed and enjoyable. But maybe that’s because I wasn’t the one standing waiting at the end of the aisle.
Alan Cameron stood at the head of the hall, making nervous conversation with his two or three best men as all his guests gathered in the seats of the large hall behind him. We were in the National Piping Centre, on Hope Street in Cowcaddens, a venue Ka and myself had looked over when we had been touring the possible Wedding venues of Glasgow and it’s surrounding areas. The Piping Centre was our second choice, only just trumped by the House for an Art Lover, thanks to its gardens and Piano room.
The Piping centre was a great venue with the initial gathering of guests upon arrival on the ground floor museum and bar area, surrounded by exhibits and artefacts from throughout the long and wide reaching history of the bagpipe. A young spectacled female piper greeted us all at the old church’s entrance door before Alan greeted us upon arrival on the bright, sunny afternoon. We were immediately served a glass of golden cava and joined other guests having a wander through the small museum as we awaited our call to move upstairs and take our seats in the large decorous hall. When the waitresses all started milling around informing everyone to proceed upstairs, we downed our cava and headed up the old, spiral stone steps. We took our seats, surrounded by family from both sides, including many Finnish people from the Bride’s side who had travelled over especially for the occasion.
Malin soon arrived in her beautiful white gown, her Dad walking her down the aisle, and the camera phones started clicking, buzzing, bleeping and flashing, all held up to get a good view of the Bride and the waiting Groom, small devices all crowding the scene, seemingly one per couple, whilst one of Alan’s mates dived around the floor with his big, proper, digital SLR.
The Humanist priest, sorry, celebrant, told the story of Alan and Malin’s meeting, their lives together since their meeting and the hopes and dreams of their future lives together. Alan and Malin exchanged vows, Alan getting a little teary eyed as he did so, and they both exchanged rings with large grins on their faces. The signing of the register followed with yet more mobile phones, iPhones, cameras and SLR’s dancing around over and around peoples’ heads and after a few more words, a big kiss, and some applause we all followed the husband and wife downstairs for more Cava whilst the ceremony hall was transformed into a dining hall for dinner.
The bubbly, golden cava flowed as bottles were constantly being produced from large silver ice buckets at drinks tables whilst the guests were invited to writes well wishes on cards and tie them to a small fir tree which would follow the happy couple to their new life in Finland where they are to move next year. After tying our wish to the tree, Ka requested I get her a glass of iced water, which I was told by one of the many waitresses, was only available at the bar as the drinks tables only supplied the seemingly unending flow of cava. So off I went to the Piping Centre’s bar, next door to the museum.
Whilst I waited in the short queue at the bar I started chatting to the gentlemen getting their drinks before me after hearing them mention the lovely city of Prague and the good old Glasgow School of Art. Before long I was happily chatting away to the two of them, one of which, a friendly, bearded chap by the name of Ian Reid, turned out to be a tutor at the School of Art and knew the tutor, who still teaches there, that had started taught me in my fourth year (or a third of it anyway. He done a rather neat disappearing act a third of the way through the year). The other, Tony, was one of the best men and a former musical colleague of Alan’s and offered me a pint to which I refused politely saying how I couldn’t possibly elbow my way into someone’s round in such a fashion.
Around ten minutes later I got back to the museum, Ka glaring at me, as I sipped from my pint of Tennents. Apparently whilst I’d been away and whilst Ka had been standing, looking a little lonely awaiting her glass of iced water, she had been chatted up by the Humanist.
Now a little happier with her iced water Ka let me off the hook for abandoning her, and we went out to pose for a large group photo in the Saturday afternoon sunshine, before once more going back indoors to the museum to mingle with various friends and family of the happy couple, some of which understood me, some who didn’t and simply nodded politely.
We met Alan’s sister, Sandra and her husband David, who chatted away to us whilst Ka spoke to Alan’s Mum. Unfortunately whilst speaking to David, I may have accidentally referred to Sandra as Alan’s Auntie at some point, but once more, got away with it. David, the brother-in-law, shrugged it off and didn’t seem too bothered by my mistake and I could tell he probably wasn’t the sort to tell his wife of my little gaffe, though, come to think of it, she never did speak to me for the rest of the day.
After yet more cava, and another pint, we were back upstairs for dinner, getting the speeches out of the way first, of course, in which Malin’s Dad tried his best to speak English, Malin and her sister got a little teary and Alan was made to look like a Scottish dork by his best men, who’d obviously had a field day in Glasgow’s best pound shops.
At our dinner table sat Malin’s camper van travelling Auntie and Uncle, who again, we had to slow our Scottish burr down for a little. The Uncle was called Leaf, or Lieaf, a very nice gent with a beard and glasses who reminded me of the Tolkien artist John Howe. Along with them was Alan’s Sister (yes, Sister) Sandra and brother-in-law David, along with another couple, Vicki and Russell, who sitting right next to us, heard all Ka and my conversations (or, in most cases, arguments). Another friend sat on the other side of them, who’d apparently done the bridesmaid’s make-up, but whose name has long been shrouded in the alcohol tinged mists of time. We all got on great as a table and all continued to sit with each other, even after being chucked out the hall following dinner in order for the room to be transformed for the night party.
The Highlander Fyne Ale was the drink that made up the rest of the night, fuelling many a dance on the dancefloor, started, of course by Alan and Malin, who, by this point, was sporting a rather fine pair of green trainers under the white’s of her dress.
The DJ on stage belted out the tunes helping the dancefloor remain largely busy for the majority of the night. Ka and myself ventured up more than a few times particularly for The Killers and a bit of Bon Jovi, which I really hope nobody was filming. I danced with the Bride to Tony Christie’s (Is this the way to) Amarillo in wonderful, true Peter Kaye fashion and even pulled Alan’s old Mum up to dance. She only lasted half a song with me, before protesting and walking off.
I even got Malin’s camper van Auntie up to dance to The Proclaimers’ 5000 miles. Ka and myself had spotted the Auntie, and her husband, Lieaf, dancing on more than one occasion earlier on in the night, strutting around the dancefloor quietly, ballroom style whilst everyone else jumped around wildly around them. The two of them glided, elegantly and sanely, like two peas in a pod, poised and expressionless, with perfect body alignment, all footsteps and maneuvers.
Of course when 5000 miles started up from the DJ on the stage I turned to see the wee Aunt humming along politely and took it upon myself to show her some dancing, Proclaimers style.
Needless to say, she accepted my invitation but once we got up on stage things went a little differently than planned. After she gave me into trouble for my initial jumping about and calmed my waving arms around, she took a hold of both hands and started leading me up and down and around the dancefloor, instructing me on my footwork all the way, chin held high. Brilliant, I thought, though I’d of rather it had been Aliona Vilani teaching me (or Kristina, or Ola for that matter!).
As the last notes of Loch Lomond ended, the gathered party surrounding the Wedded couple and the crowd on Runrig’s live track faded, we said our goodbyes. Alan gave each of us his now traditional bear hug, and we made our way back to the hotel room. A journey I couldn’t quite remember making the next morning.

Conversational struggles

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.