"It's in Bellahouston Park, you pagan!"

Woke up this morning after a rough dream involving grand parents passing away in the wrong order, family members being eaten by swamp monsters and houses being demolished, all seeming, in that mad, crazy, dream-like way, so tangible and real. The swamp monster was particularly horrible as part of it's murderous routine was spewing acid over it's prey before taking off large chunks from the head by pummeling it's catch with it's tremendous tentacles. A rather disturbing vision to have in your head as you wake from your slumber.
My liking for science fiction can sometimes have odd effects on my dreams...
At the moment I'm reading Adam Roberts' 'Salt'. A science fiction novel telling the story of a large human colony setting up camp on a new world which, due to it's white, arid landscape, and near uninhabitable and hostile atmosphere is christened, you guessed it, 'Salt'.
The various factions of the colony settle at different points throughout the land, each with their own philosophies, beliefs and religions. Of course, once each clan settles it all breaks into a bloody war. The two larger, main colonies, the Senaarians and the Als, are the main protagonists in the book's events which are told from the viewpoint of each of these clans' leaders . The Senaarians live with their militaristic, ordered dictatorship and the Als, with their unordered, unruly, free-living ways. Both eventually break from their strained toleration of each other and give in to battle and death.
Through it Roberts paints a pretty pessimistic vision. The basic bones of the tale being, of course, human nature. Roberts is basically saying that no matter how long the human race survives, in the end we'll always end up fighting internally with the inevitability of fear and hostility, the results of a lack of understanding and tolerance in differing cultures and beliefs.
Talking of beliefs, the Pope's in town today with his Popemobile.
After waking from my swamp monster filled dream this morning and getting ready for work, I text my Mum and told her to enjoy herself at Glasgow Green today.
Mum text back, rather abruptly, "It's in Bellahouston Park, you pagan!".
Police are swarming the city centre, motorways have been closed off and a large black stage has been erected in Bellahouston Park for Mass, taking place this afternoon led by the Pontiff himself.
Ka and myself were in the Gallowgate area of Glasgow on Saturday morning with Dougie and Grace, heading for the Pram Centre to investigate some baby mobiles for our own coming visitor. On our way we passed the Barrowlands and the Bairds bar where loud, angry anthems were belting out, echoing through the street. Stalls had been set up, framed with Celtic scarves, selling T-shirts, adorned with Benedict's mug. Slogans not unlike 'Glasgow Celtic welcomes the Pope' and such like plastered over the 'quality' prints. Unfortunately I was walking down the street with my dark blue sweater on and was certain I was getting more than a few hostile looks from the grumpy old Glaswegian men milling around the stalls. One passed me by who, I swear, was almost ready to spit on me, the look on his face. Maybe he was just upset by the fact I wasn't buying a T-shirt.
Anyway, I'm sure there'll be a few T-shirts on today. It's an unbelievably sunny afternoon after the terrential rain of earlier in the week... almost as if there has been some kind of divine intervention throughout the skies of Scotland.
Great weather for his Holiness' £20 a ticket gig.
Surely the Pope could have put on a free mass for all his followers when they number so many and when his visits number so few? This is the richest global organisation in the world after all. With Susan Boyle and Michelle McManus singing on stage surely they should be paying us to attend?

Springtime and music pirates

Springtime is coming! Bono shouted this during Live Aid in 1985 during Feed the World, even though it is a song about Christmas. This exclamation is made even more puzzling by the fact that Live Aid took place in the summer, July 13th to be precise. So even though Bono was completely wrong at the time, it is an accurate assessment of the weather that greeted me this morning on leaving the flat. The sun was out this morning, at least it was up there somewhere among the clouds, and there is the growing feeling of winter leaving us once more. Hopefully. This is Scotland I suppose. Our summers usually last approximately one week, or if your thinking back to 2008, probably around three days.
As I thought this getting into my car I turned on the radio to hear the one and only Irish singer once more in another repeat on Radio 1 of the latest U2 single. 'No Line on the Horizon' hit the shops yesterday and is apparently another big seller after only one day on the shelves. Unable to purchase until thursday,however, and am steadfastly refusing to download it, unlike certain other friends of mine (they shall go unnamed). One of them has even had the album for at least two weeks. This is exactly the reason why the music and movie industry is suffering at the moment. All the pirates wandering the web, illegally plundering the downloads for their treasures. I work with a few of them too, I should know. Limping into work everyday, all innocent, as if butter wouldn't melt. I'll watch them as they go about their business, working away at their desks, growling abuse down their phones through their rotten teeth and feeding their parrots perched on their monitors. Okay, they're not all that bad. Some of them do floss apparently. Not that I'd know, of course (I prefer a simple brush with Colgate and a quick rinse with Plax myself). You used to hear of these raids down the Glasgow Barrowlands every now and again where Police would swoop in on the occasional Saturday morning and seize thousands of pounds worth of pirated material. As much as I liked getting the bootlegs I used to dread buying them. You'd approach the stall hesitantly, looking round you at all times, giving the occasional peer over the shoulder. You'd then set to work, ferociously flicking through the mountains of CDs at breakneck pace until you found the one you were after. You'd throw the money at the smelly owner of the stall and quickly hide the CD under your jacket and slink off into the Glasgow market crowds. Maybe buy some doughnuts on the way. I always hated the idea of the police disturbing me as I found the rare bootleg version of Bowie's original cut of Scarey Monsters or some lost live album from Talking Heads' past. "Officer, please, this is listed as the fifth rarest bootleg of all time!". "Put it down son, your nicked". It wasn't so much the nicking it was more the fact I'd found something worth buying.
Most of the smelly stall owners in the Barras were always suspicious at the best of times anyway. One Saturday morning, during my time at Art School, I was quietly sitting drawing a book stall when all of a sudden the lady owner realised I was there and started hurling abuse as she ran at me. Apparently she 'knew my game'? I had not been aware of playing any game at the time, though I was a bit of a Games Workshop nut at the time. Still, you don't expect that kind of abuse for that do you? Maybe a bit of a slagging from your mates (if you have any) but not an attack from a female vigilante book stall owner. Almost dropping my sketch book with alarm I just managed to get away from the crazy old bird feeling a little more hesitant to sketch the market scenes afterwards. Maybe she thought I was an undercover agent for Strathclyde police or something. Which means she must have been feeling rather guilty about something. Perhaps her books were off the back of a lorry? It was a shame really as it was a bloody good book stall. There's hardly any decent second hand book shops or stalls left. Sometimes I wonder into the Oxfams and Cancer Research charity shops for a browse though. Most of the time their shelves are only filled with fifteen year old Guiness Book of Records, Maeve Binchy novels or the Daniel O'Donnell - My Story. My Great Aunt Mina used to go to that cheery, irish warbler's concerts. We used to joke that she threw her knickers at him on stage. She would join us with a smile and laugh rather uncomfortably, then go strangely quiet...

Let's dance to Joy Division

Another visit to the Glasgow Barrowlands on Thursday night to see The Wombats, the weird and wonderful three piece from Liverpool. They were the main attraction anyway but there were three other bands on as part of the NME tour. Unfortunately I have no idea what the other band were called, only that they consisted of a small Scottish indie band, a shouting all female band complete with hippy keyboard player and a rather dull three piece Duran Duran wannabe trio. The Wombats were worth waiting for, playing not only the favourites but also a selection of new songs which all sounded as fun and energetic and the rest of their material. As with all Barrowland crowds we jumped, danced, perspired and quaked under the flying lager and diesel. At one point I even suffered a direct hit of vodka and coke to the side of the head. The only reason I know it was vodka and coke is because I accidentally got a small mouthful as the plastic cup spun off the side of my face. My white T-shirt with the nice blue stripe left the Barras an off white colour covered in brown and purple splatters stinking of blackcurrent and coke. It does not matter where you stand in the Barras, there is no escape from the flying beverages. Even the stage was not safe as Matthew Murphy, the Wombats singer, suffered at least two direct hits with pints. He took it as a compliment though and carried on playing barely beating an eyelid. The crowd was great, as it usually is in the Barras, and gave the band as good as night as they gave us. Excellent fun!