Something to smile about

Well thank goodness that’s all over. Back to normality (well, as normal as normality gets). Just as well this Jubilee malarky only happens once in a while. As nice as it was to watch all the barges and boats on the Thames on Sunday it was far more entertaining watching the Royal College of Music Chamber Choir gaining ‘hypothermia’ whilst singing Rule Britannia at the top of their voices. Apparently the girls in the company had just had their hair done especially. Certainly looked like they’d just stepped out of a salon, even though they were only halfway through the rinse.
A wee bit of rain and everybody in England thinks they’re hard because they went out in the bad weather to see their Queen. The London Ambulance Service told of how they treated around 560 people who, because of the bad weather conditions, said they were cold. Bless.
At least it was dry for the concert on Monday.
A concert which veered from the rubbish to the surreal, to the rubbish, to the half entertaining, to the actually quite good, to the, wow, lots of fireworks.
In all, pretty entertaining, if you were drinking, and that was without Rolf even getting to finish his song. Scary Grace Jones’ skills with a hula hoop were particularly impressive. I’m lucky if I can manage ten seconds nevermind the length of ‘Slave to the Rhythm’.
We had been standing at the foot of that statue, the Victoria Memorial, in the sunshine, only a few months ago with Ann holding Adventure Ted aloft in order to get a decent picture of her before Buckingham Palace (the bear that is, not Ann).
Little did we know that by that time, the next afternoon, things would be a little bit different.
It was a cloudy Saturday March morning in London. Grey, unlike the previous days, and and as the rain had slowly started to fall, Ka and myself hurriedly took shelter from the Strand and ran through the large archway entrance into Charing Cross Railway Station. Not only were we after temporary shelter from the gathering rainclouds above but we were also after a loo and since this was a railway station this would mean digging into the pockets and coming up with 10 and 20p pieces. At least I was hoping it was only 10 and 20p pieces - this was London after all. I wouldn't have been surprised if the railway stations of the capital ventured into the 50p regions. After a brief scout around we found the required restroom archway and Ka ventured forth, leaving me sitting on a plastic bench outside, before a small card and souvenir shop. Even back in March there seemed to be more Union Jacks knocking about than usual. I sat waiting whilst eyeless members of the Royal family smiled at me from the circling stand in the shop's doorway opposite me. The Queen’s eyeless mask was particularly freaky. Without eyes behind them, these masks looked like a Royal version of Village of the Damned or, with the light of the shop behind, like Nicholas Fisk’s ‘Grinny’.
“I hate that Grinny book!” Chaz shouts at the top of his voice, his shout echoing up the corridor behind the short, striding form of Mrs. Boyd.
The teacher had laughed on previous, probably quieter, occasions in the school corridors, but this time we were walking in the vicinity of the Head Master’s office and she wasn’t amused by the echoing shout that had burst out from the corner of the corridor behind her. Mrs. Boyd spun on her heels, in mid chew of what looked like a particularly chewy piece of chewing gum, and flew at Chaz with pointed finger. Mrs. Boyd had been championing Fisk’s ‘Grinny’ for the past few weeks in her English class, much to our displeasure as we slumbered and struggled to stay awake over it’s pages, listening to the unfortunate that had been chosen to read on that particular day. Chaz had took it upon himself to voice his opinions on the chosen literature on more than one occasion in the corridors of Saint brides High School. Mrs. Boyd had always replied with a smile and a warning of how he’d be the next lucky reader, but on this particular occasion she’d obviously grown weary of the joke. As Mrs. Boyd closed in, Chaz couldn’t seem to move, frozen to the spot by that twisted, pointed finger, but the rest of us managed and darted to the safety of the nearest common room, leaving him to his fate.
The Queen grinned at me the same way the Alien Granny of that book used to grin, easily dominating the adults’ minds but unable to infiltrate the kids’ which eventually led to her downfall.
A busker strummed at a guitar in the corner of the Railway Station. A cleaner was sauntering around, lazily sweeping at the odd piece of rubbish, either mumbling, grumbling or humming to himself under his cap. A couple of guys, obviously on their way out to the Saturday of some kind of drunken weekend break, ambled up the to shop and spun the mask stand as an old couple picked a birthday card from the shelves in the small shop behind them.
We were heading to the Ambassadors Theatre in the West End to see the matinee performance of Stomp that afternoon and Ka had voiced an interest in seeing Russell Grant in ‘The Wizard of Oz’, an interest I chose to not hear. We still had more than an hour or so to while away, just as well really considering the time Ka was taking in the Station’s loo.
The guys decided on a freaky Royal each, fighting over who was to be Kate. One of the guys was verbally bullied into it and took the other guys’ masks of Philip, William and Charles up to the small counter where a bored looking girl took them off him. The old couple chuckled over a card and then nodded in agreement, handing it over the counter to the lady behind the till once the guys had moved back out into the Station and immediately started unwrapping the cellophane.
Ka eventually appeared through the shadows underneath the archway leading down to the toilets. Looking a little pale, she walked over the train station waiting area towards me and produced the short white stick she had been harbouring from somewhere within her jacket.
“I’m pregnant!” Ka handed the white plastic stick to me with a shaky hand. Looking down at the small screen on the pregnancy test I seen a feint but definite indication of lines in certain positions and compared them with the details on the crumpled up instructions Ka handed to me in my other hand.
“Are you finished with that?” the Railway station cleaner suddenly interrupted us, almost moving between the two of us gesturing with his pick-up stick.
“What?” I almost blurted at him as he continued to edge forward.
“Are you finished with that?” he asked again nodding at my hands. Confounded I was about to give an answer when Ka confirmed we had indeed finished with it and told the guy to go ahead. The cleaner then moved in and just as I thought he was about to swipe the crumpled paper and test from my hands, extended his pick-up stick and lifted a rolled up McDonalds bag that had been lying behind my feet. I quickly agreed we had finished with it and then corrected myself for taking responsibility for someone’s rubbish and informed the man the McDonalds wasn’t even ours. I don’t eat in McDonalds and I never discard litter in such a fashion even if there is a distinct lack of bins in London Railway stations. When we arrived in London on the Thursday I had to trail a whole carrier bag full of rubbish from the train around Euston with me until I eventually found a bin in the Shaftesbury Paddington Hotel. Okay, bins are maybe handy for bombers but it’s not an ideal situation when you’ve got some rubbish to dispose of and there are no weird cleaners hanging about.
Anyway, Ka’s latest bombshell was enough to make my head spin, without any form of explosives, and as the Railway Station cleaner leaned in and picked up the obvious emergency situation that was his crumpled up McDonalds paperbag I couldn’t help but wonder if he’d noticed what was going on before him.
Had he realised he had disturbed a teary eyed woman revealing to her husband, after coming out of the loo, in the middle of Charing Cross Train Station, that she was pregnant? Surely the white stick, the urgent quiet discussion and the look of bewilderment, confusion and then mixed emotions on our faces was enough to illustrate the point.
He could have at least congratulated us to ease the tension. He could have grabbed us at each side and happily shouted a massive ‘Alleluia!’, turned and told the shop keeper, the blokes behind the Royal ‘Grinny’ masks and the old, chuckling couple with the funny card. They could have replied with smiles and happily waved over to us. The volume of the busker’s guitar could have suddenly became much louder. A passing brass band could have joined him with a nod, a smile and a wink. The cleaner would then start up a song and dance routine, skipping and jumping with his pick-up stick, and all the passing pedestrians, who suddenly all seemed far more brightly dressed, could have suddenly started dancing transforming Charing Cross Railway Station into a floor of colour, dancing, waving and smiles. Grace Jones could have appeared with her hula hoop, a helmeted Russell Grant could then have been shot out of a nearby steam train’s chimney in a shower of glitter and stars whilst Flavia circled underneath on the platform and the Station announcer could have made the announcement over the tannoy.
Obviously that would have been asking too much, of course. The cleaner didn’t give us any congratulations. He was far more interested in the dropped McDonalds wrappers at our feet, mumbled something under his breath and then slouched on with his slow trail around Charing Cross.
That was thirteen weeks ago and Baby Reid 2 is growing well. Obviously it is quite early and happy thoughts are always going to be tinged with sadness as we think of Baby’s big sister, Lucy but fingers crossed things work out a little better this time around.

Old dogs, not enough tricks

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...

Slitting throats and pickpocketing

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).

The season of the spirit

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.

The mice will play

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

“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.

The Ben

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

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.

Restaurants, rehearsals and running

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.

The Sainsburys entertainment aisle

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!

We're doomed

It's been a strange week. I spent the first half of the week lying on my back, on some occasions with my legs in the air. Various positions included lying, legs in the air, clutching the head, the cradling of an arm, holding a thigh, shaking, shivering, collapsing and keeling over in various different ways, all of which required a certain amount of acting. Perhaps not Oscar worthy acting but acting all the same. This was First Aid Training for the British Red Cross. An acting class with a difference.
Based in a smelly YMCA building in Bellshill, myself, along with another ten lucky contenders, battled through the three day course involving demos and quizzes (more quizzes!) in order to gain the nod, pin badge and certificate from the British Red Cross to say we could aid in a work emergency situation involving bandaging, the recovery position, the ever reliable comfortable position and even with moments involving an overall sense of impending doom. This sense of impending doom cropped up in more than one occasion in the three day course, the number of instances matched only perhaps by C-3PO in the Star Wars films or the googly eyed doofer from Dad's Army. In fact, as a kid I, sadly, used to quote C-3P0's "We're doomed" quite a lot, especially if there was a Maths test coming up. Heart attacks are one thing but Maths tests... they're different.
This sense of impending doom was only one of the main symptoms of a heart attack, of course, along with the more traditional clutching of the chest, grimacing and collapsing to the ground. To illustrate the heart attack we were shown a past advert by the British Heart Foundation starring Steven Berkoff which, whilst giving all the symptoms of the attack, managed to scare the bejeezus into you as a viewer. The bejeezus was especially scared out of me as I myself had woken up with chest pains, sweat on the brow and a sense of impending doom during the night a few weeks back. Thankfully Steven Berkoff had not been standing in the dark of the bedroom battering the crap out of me as I had slept. That would have been even scarier. Still at least I'd have known how to put myself in the recovery position.
For the three days I was in a team consisting of another two people. Margaret and Irene, from a bank somewhere in Motherwell, who spent their time heckling opposing teams during the quiz sessions, like a female Statler and Waldorf. They also spent considerable time complaining about aches and pains and shoving me forward whenever a volunteer was needed for all the demonstrations, overseen by Dale, the instructor. Arthritis, sore legs, dodgy elbows, low cut tops, all were excuses for these bankers. Irene also seemed to suffer from that strange condition of appearing deaf whenever I made suggestions or gave answers to the quiz questions which more often than not turned out to be the correct answer whenever her wonderful written response gained nil points. Another I would add to the list would be bone idleness, a condition not mentioned in the extensive First Aid manual we were given upon arrival, but then I'm not sure First Aid manuals should be made available for bankers.
Once that was all over with Kenny, Chaz and myself drove into town on Wednesday night to see 'True Grit', the Coen Brothers latest flick based on Charles Portis' 1968 book. The movie was brilliant with great performances from Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon and the lead female, Hailee Steinfeld. It's been broadly complimented for it's cinematography and you can see why with the sweeping, western landscapes with their varying colour, atmosphere and detail.
Even with trips to the cinema, there was still that sense of impending doom with me and it was not any heart attack. Ka and myself had our follow up appointment at the hospital on Friday, following the passing of Baby Lucy. Rather thoughtfully, the hospital thought it was a great idea for this meeting to take place in the same offices where we went for the first joyful scans of Baby Reid. Gawd knows why.
We were meeting the Head Consultant from Wishaw General and Ka's home midwife, both of whom were not involved in any way with the birth and eventual death of our baby. Thankfully they'd listened to our earlier concerns regarding this matter and asked Doctor Yelisetti, the Registrar, along too, someone who was actually present during the ordeal. Doctor Yelisetti was excellent, providing some answers to our questions and was a familiar, reassuring presence in the stressful, upsetting situation whilst the Consultant and midwife seemed generally flummoxed.
Some minor questions were answered, other larger questions remain unanswered. Lucy's passing remains somewhat of an enigma to us and to the hospital. The Consultant informed us there had been one similar instance, with similar symptoms, in an Edinburgh hospital two years ago and that a new protocol had been introduced over there to try and ensure the same events did not happen again. One question that immediately sprung to our mind was if this protocol had been introduced in Edinburgh, then why not, at the same time, in Wishaw General?
So, after a rather depressive day on Friday, we got up on Saturday morning to nothing in particular and as we got ready for the unplanned day ahead a knock on the front door disturbed us. As Ka was in the bathtub at the time, it was down to me to answer the door as I struggled with the fastening of a belt. Swinging the front door open, I found myself staring into a giant bouquet of flowers.
"Mr Reid?" the flowers said.
"Erm... yes?" my reply was more of a question, as I looked over the bouquet in the floating glass bowl before me.
"These are for you". A pair of hands finally came into view below the glass bowl and the flowers moved over into my unprepared, receiving hands. As I heard the flower delivery man take his leave behind the foliage I retreated back into the flat immediately showing Ka the new bouquet and plucked the card from the small plastic stick among the lillies and leaves. They were from Pauline. She'd known about the meeting the day before. Suddenly that sense of impending doom did not seem quite so doom-laden.

Elmer Fudd must have been blind

It was back to work yesterday after a quiet time of milling around the flat last week whilst the horrendous gales ceaselessly battered the windows from outside (gales being the wind, not a bunch of angry female neighbours or work colleagues named in such a way).
Having saved all my holidays up for Baby Reid's arrival, I've found I've got a certain amount of annual leave to spare. Obviously Ka is still off work and it probably helps her, to some extent, having me around annoying her. It can't be easy being off work, on maternity leave, without a baby to look after, in fact, I know it is not. It's always the quiet moments that get you, especially when you are sitting in the house, on your own. It must be even harsher for Ka.
We don't get loads of opportunities to be on our own, thankfully, due to the family and friends popping round. Ka made her famous meatballs in spaghetti, last Tuesday night, and Chaz and Pauline popped round with whom we unexpectantly drank approximately one bottle of wine each. Chaz arrived with a rather lovely bottle of Chablis and an expensive looking Italian red, of sorts.
Of sorts, because I cannot remember what it was. I've no idea.
When it comes to wine, I'm afraid I am as ignorant as I am stupid.
What kind of wine is considered 'elegant'. What makes a wine 'complex'. Three for a tenner in Asda is about as 'complex' as it gets for me. Is the wine 'full of depth', 'rich' or 'silky smooth'?
These terms all sound more like how the sexy rabbit with the purple ribbon described Caramel chocolate in those adverts.
Did I just describe a rabbit as sexy?
They do have a bit of a reputation don't they?
Looney Tunes even played with the idea when Bugs Bunny would dress up like a woman to fool Elmer Fudd... Elmer Fudd must have been blind to fall for that!
There was Jessica Rabbit, but she doesn't really count considering she was rabbit in name only. Then there's the whole Playboy bunny thing, the creation of the soon to be married Hugh Hefner. Come to think of it Hefner looks a little like Elmer Fudd, except older and probably with less ammo.
Anyway, wine. I also have no idea what a wine's 'bouquet' should be.
Should wine smell like flowers? I've never drank a bottle that smelled like an toxic abundance of tiger lilies before and I doubt I ever would. Hoegaarden is about the closest I can think of to an alcoholic beverage that tastes like flowers (and that's pretty rancid).
Chaz knows all about wine now though, after being educated in the ways of the wine world by a past girlfriend, and treats us to some fantastic wine whenever we invite him round for dinner.
Tuesday night was the first time Ka and myself had enjoyed a wine after everything that's happened. When I say 'enjoyed' I use the term loosely, of course, because there's always going to be that slight, nagging feeling of guilt running through our head when we start feeling comfortable and recently, sometimes we've mentally stopped ourselves, unintentionally, as we've almost come ridiculously close to having a nice time and a laugh when seeing family and friends.
The wine was not the reason on Tuesday night, of course, as it was all down to the company. Pauline and Chaz were great dinner guests and were probably a little more satisified with their meals this time round considering the last time they visited they were served a buffet consisting of a plate of toasted cheese, a bowl of grapes, a plate of tomatoes and a bowl of baked beans, fresh out the microwave.
We did not serve wine with that particular feast. Who knows what the bouquet would have had to have been like to suit that feast.

Back to the Future and the bow and arrows

Back to the Future. Still a brilliant movie, even 25 years after it's original release. We went along to see the 25th anniversary release in a packed cinema on friday night and, although a movie I've seen more than a few times on DVD, TV and the good old VHS, it was still just as entertaining on the big screen. From the opening sequence with the guitar amplifier blasting Marty back into that book shelf, him lifting his big, mirror sunglasses from his nose to the parents first kiss and the Doc's climatic struggle at the top of the clock tower it has all aged pretty well. Unlike Lucas and other fantasy movie makers, Zemeckis has refrained from any jazzy new effects and shoddily pieced together 'extra special' sequences, which says it all really. There's not much you can do to a classic.
My mate Chaz introduced me to this movie back in, what was probably, 1986 one day after school. He was always the car maniac and kept harping on about this movie with the DeLorean.
Before dinner, after getting back to his house from school, we had been firing arrows inadvertantly on to his roof and over into his neighbours garden with my new bow, the same bow Kenny, my brother, later 'borrowed' for a halloween party. Kenny was going as Robin Hood. A feather cap and green tights, and all he needed to complete the outfit was my much loved bow and arrow set. I had told him no, he wasn't borrowing it, as he would break it. But no. Mum said 'just lend your wee brother it for the day and he'll bring it back'.
Did he bring it back? No. Or maybe he did but it was in pieces, I can't remember the exact details of the remains. So I lost most of my arrows to Chaz's neighbours, and his roof in Tasman Drive, and my bow to a shoddy Robin Hood in green tights and glasses. I was gutted about that.
Anyway, on the same visit to Tasman Drive, I was also introduced to Chaz's German Sheperd, Max. Chaz swears to this day that I spent the visit cowering from his dog. Chaz will occasionally bring it up to this day, how I was so terrified of his beast of a dog. How I yelped with fear when I seen it lumbering towards me. The truth of the matter was that I perhaps was cowering to some extent, but only because, upon meeting Max, I discovered his liking for the crotch and it spent most of the first hour of Back to the Future trying to eat my groin. Very off-putting.
It never put me off the Back to the Future movies though as I became hooked as a kid and beyond. Rather disconcertingly, some of the guys in the work call me 'Doc Brown' and have been for some time, for some, strange reason. Not sure why. Gareth and DVD Andy asked if, after watching the movie on friday night, I stood outside and signed autographs? Ka frowned on hearing this and, remembering Marty's Dads dancing at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance, said that I had more similarities with George McFly rather than the Doc.

The views of a DiMaggios waitress

Election Day at last, and not a moment too soon. I won't be getting to the local polling station till late tonight though. Hopefully the lingering MPs will have all gone home by that point or gone to a more central voting station. It's all well and good going along and showing your support for one of these people by scribbling an X in a box but actually standing and listening to someone explain to you why you've made that decision or why you've made the wrong one is something I can't really be bothered with. I'd rather dive into the booth, sign with an X and hurriedly make like a tree.
On Saturday night Chaz and myself sat in the Atrium, having a beer listening to a female waitress from New Jersey harp on about what she thought of the election and the voting system. The waitress had come over from a DiMaggios across the road but was under the impression she was the sole speaker at some sort of political rally. In one short break I commented some form of response, making some sort of vague comparison on American politics and the waitress simply looked at me, as if insulted.
"Are you, a scot, talking to me about American politics?".
I wondered what gave her the right to voice what she thought of our politics, in her lengthy one way conversation, and why we were not permitted to talk about the American equivalent. As I huffily returned to my drink I continued to listen to the waitress, wishing her back to America as she talked on. I'm sure there's plenty of DiMaggios over the Atlantic! Better watch what I say there, I'm verging on the immigration concerns of Gillian Duffy.

LaRoux at 90

It feels like ages since I've written anything on this here blog. It's been over a week at least. The night after the last entry the neighbour upstairs was once more up all night long singing Sinead O'Conner and Chris De Burgh. No Lionel Ritchie. Ka and myself only got around three hours sleep. Ka has since discovered he is a postman and I encountered him in the close during the week and gruffly asked him if there would be any karaoke in the near future. He chuckled embarrassed and mumbled something about 'not for some time' to which I grunted in reply trying to look as unimpressed as I could possibly be. An impression of Simon Cowell, in a very bad mood, I had been practising for some time, only I was too chicken to tell the neighbour how f***ing awful his singing voice actually is.
Talking of unimpressed, Ka and myself took a trip to the flicks last week to see 'The Lovely Bones' the rather depressing tale of a depressed family dealing with the rape and murder of their child. The depressed murdered girl herself acts as narrator from a Daliesque inbetween world as she stubbornly refuses to move on to heaven and from here watches her family from afar. Though I suppose if she had agreed to mosey on up to heaven to hang out with the angels that wouldn't have made as interesting or as visual a movie. Peter Jackson really comes up trumps with the visual 'inbetween' world with some fantastic effects and landscapes and along with the brilliant performances from all the actors involved made the movie more than watchable. Like i said though, I left the movie depressed, musing over death and dying, and drove home to snowy East Kilbride, through the dark in the rain.
It was this night in question we were kept up, wishing death upon our drunken, singing neighbour upstairs and the rest of his Sinead O'Conner fan club. When Ka and myself eventually gave up at around 7am and crawled out of bed to start the rest of the decorating in the bedroom, him and his drunken mates were still at it. So, being the imbecile that I am, I turned on my stereo and cranked it up real loud. LaRoux at 90 decibels. Battle did commence with every break in the LaRoux album being interupted by the bawling voices upstairs trying to sing over my stereos bass beats. Once we finished the painting Ka and myself escaped to the gym and upon our return I smiled seeing the blinds down upstairs. They must have collapsed of exhaustion while we had been out. Silence had finally fallen. So I immediately took the opportunity and turned my stereo on and up. Needless to say on the Saturday evening the mates retreated to the relative quiet of their own houses and as I prepared to settle down to a night infront of the tv, while Ka was out at Sara's birthday party, Chaz phoned up requesting my presence at the Byre. So it was a few beers down the pub which eventually enabled me to fall into an unconscious state on the couch upon Ka's return home from her party. A party at which all the girls were seemingly crying at one point or another, taking their turns throughout the whole night to have 'a moment'. What a wonderfully depressing party that must have been. I'm glad I went to the Byre with Chaz, even though he was slightly depressed about his current work situation. We met up with Jim and David (Jim's pal... at least I think his name was David... he was a bit depressed too) and drank a few Budvar ending the night with an escape before Chaz headed off to Downtown, EK's most popular den for nightlife.
Woke up the next morning with a headache, caused, of course, by the stench of drying paint around me. The bedroom looked beautiful though and the neighbour upstairs was obviously still dead to the world after his 50 hour karaoke session. Things were looking up.

A dubious pastime

Who killed Archie Mitchell? What numbers will the Pope be doing on Glasgow Green? Is Cheryl and Ashley Cole's marriage a sham to cover their secret identities as a racist pop star and a gay footballer? What is so fascinating about Twitter? Why does Chaz hate facebook? And finally, who is the best karaoke singer out of us? All these questions and so very little definite answers came out of dinner on Friday night.
Well, with the exception of the last question. I would definately give that prize to Heather and her fabulous rendition of 'Any Dream Will Do'. Colin and Ka seemed fairly unwilling to sing anything which rules them out of the prize and my 'Eye of the Tiger' was more than likely fairly dreadful. Memories of running up the 72 steps leading up to the Museum of Art in Philadelphia back in 2003 sprang to mind as I belted out the Survivor hit (the Philadelphia Art gallery's security guards must be so bored of people jogging up those steps). Ka and Heather danced as i sang whilst Colin slouched on the couch, looking fairly embarassed - obviously not drunk enough. I've always hated karaoke which makes the whole 'singing it in your own living room' realisation even harder to deal with. Still, I could always pop upstairs and ask Sing Star neighbour what he thought of my singing. The singing upstairs neighbour and his pals got his revenge on Sunday night singing something incoherent at full volume after Ka and myself came home from dinner. Colin and Heather reckon they are a practising boyband. Ka reckons they just definately need the practise.
Before the karaoke, Chaz had escaped off home as he was up early for work the next morning. Before this he had been doing a lot of moaning about facebook users and people that like to generally chat online as if it was some sort of highly dubious pastime. Looking back i now realise he was perhaps having an, ever so subtle, dig at me for keeping an online blog. Maybe he has every right to but I wouldn't sit at his dinner party and rant about his dubious pastimes (not that I know of any of course...).
Anyway, he missed the best part of the night. Ka's Woo Woos. No, this is not slang for something. These were Ka's cocktails. A rather refreshing mix of Peach Schanpps, Vodka, cranberry juice and ice. Perfect for our dinner party.
As a result we all felt slightly dozey the next morning, some of us not even managing to finish our rolls and sausage. After an hour of eighties pop videos we went our seperate ways once more. Colin will now be back down south teaching young Basildonians how to speak proper, no doubt looking forward to his next trip north on which he'll be hoping to avoid any karaoke.

Chief coat taker

Preperations are under way in our kitchen for the arrival of our dinner guests arriving tonight. Ka is once more Little Miss Organisation, striving as always to be the hostess with the mostess. As Ka cooks, I'll sit and eat pretzels until my mostly lowlier role of coat taker, barman and then dishwasher will come into play. I've pretty much had the same role in all house parties. When Mum and Dad hosted the Boxing Night parties for the extended family, for instance, I was always chief coat taker, until later, when Kenny and Lynsey were deemed worthy enough to take on the mantle. A thoroughly complex job, that involved a lot of trust, come to think of it. An untrustworthy coat taker could have easily rifled through anyones pockets!
The coat taker greeted guests upon arrival and helped take their coats and jackets off before then ferrying them to Mum and Dad's bedroom upstairs where they would be laid out in a tidy pile over the bed (the coats that is!). Then late night would arrive and relatives would be shouting at you to deliver their coat and you'd have to use your memory skills to remember who had which jacket. If your memory failed you, it would be down to your deductive skills to sort it out as in what coat would go with whose outfit. This train of thought did not always work out as I'll always remember some of the looks of incredulity when a drunk uncle was accidentally given someone elses coat to wear for their trip home. After some complaint they'd sometimes even measure it up for size. All the while my Gran watching from the the corner in too deep an arguement with someone else to interupt and ask why her coat was being passed around.
Fortunately there is only going to be five of us tonight. Maybe six, depending if Chaz turns up with his new partner. Ka and myself thought we'd better invite her in an effort to get to know her as we've only met her twice, (once in Ka's case). It would be a chance to test the water and suss out if she's good enough for the man from the Merc. What does she do for a living? Where does she come from? What films she's seen or books she's read recently? Does she have any kids? If she's thinking of a date yet? And any other questions you ask at dinner parties to folk you've don't know. If she does not seem very forthcoming a quick rifle through her coat pockets wouldn't go amiss.

The new Leckie

The latest addition to the Leckie family arrived on Tuesday. Whilst I was running about the office on one of the busiest weeks I've ever worked in S&UN, Baby boy Leckie arrived early afternoon making Morgan a big sister. Ka and myself popped round after work to see the new Leckie with a parcel and got treated to a mug of tea and a slice of pineapple cake. He is still known as Baby Leckie as a name has not yet been decided upon, Steven and Angela going through the various possibilities as the baby slept on his Dad's lap. Various names are being hummed and hawed over, some being inspired by a certain football team's current lineup (most of which I failed to recognise being my usual ignorant self when it comes to facts of the football variety). Angela, surprisingly willingly, let me hold Baby Leckie for a time but, of course, he took an instant dislike and cried till Ka took him off me and after a few words from her quietened down into another sleep. Morgan then pulled us through to her room to see her playmobil collection which consisted of a large family house complete with various sizes of family members and a number of pet cats and dogs. We attempted to have a BBQ before we were interupted by a bunch of lassies from another toy set who liked to go swimming with dolphins. That was all before the earthquake hit and they ended up in Oz and the Prince turned to the dark side. As you can probably tell, Ka and myself got a bit carried away.
After all that excitement I left Ka in the bath and Chaz and myself took a trip to the flicks to see Michael Caine in 'Harry Brown'. A pretty good movie about an elderly guy who, after the death of his wife and the cruel killing of his old mate in a local underpass, takes it upon himself to go after the thugs that are terrorising the neighbourhood. Caine is brilliant in it and the film very believable thanks to the great pacing, characterisation and atmosphere. Embarrassingly enough the film even made me jump in my seat, twice. Thankfully a few others jumped with me. Unfortunately, from what I could tell, the others were women, so I just laughed at myself to hide the shame of it all. It brought back memories of going to see the Alien trilogy in the GFT more than a few years ago. Even though I knew the first movie like the back of my hand, I still managed to jump as the facehugger leapt from the innards of the egg on to poor John Hurt. Still, you'll only get jumps like that in the cinema, never sitting on the couch watching a movie at home. The atmosphere is never quite the same as it is in the dark under the giant projection of the cinema screen. Will hopefully go and see the new movie, 'Paranormal Activity' in the cinema at some point. Apparently it's taken 'America by storm' with it's frightening content and 'Blair With' like production techniques. Unfortunately I was never impressed by the Blair Witch Project with it's endless grainy forest views, babbling American students, trickling snotters and general lack of scares but I am curious about this flick. Unfortunately Ka refuses to accompany me and I'd rather not go with Chaz as he probably thinks I'm a big jessie as it is for jumping during Harry Brown.
Angela liked the name Harry too. What about Michael? There's a good name. Michael from the hebrew Mikha'el meaning "Who is like God?". Not a lot of people know that.