Well, whilst two blokes spend 2 billion dollars publicising themselves over the pond in an effort to control 50 states I've also been spending big money. Okay, maybe not 2 billion dollars, but certainly money that can’t afford to be spent.
In the past week or so I've spent hundreds and hundreds of pounds.
No, I'm not showing off.
I've spent literally hundreds. Hundreds that I don’t have.
Two weekends ago a familiar sounding grinding noise started growling up from underneath the car in transit. With little driving detective work I assumed it to be the front passenger side wheel pads, in dire need of replacement. As quickly as I could, on the Monday morning, without making the repair bill have to cover brake discs too, I took the car over the squinty bridge, sorry, the Clyde Arc road bridge, to a small, grubby looking garage on Govan Road. Within hours the little, bespectacled mechanic had called me to inform me that all four brake pads were needing replaced. The mechanic himself admitted he'd thought the noise had been coming from the front passenger side but upon investigation had discovered the noise to be coming from one of the rear wheels, and not only that but each of the car's brake pads were in need of restoration. Upon hearing me humming and hawing over the phone the mechanic must have mistook my noises for mistrust and insisted he’d keep all four of the old brake pads as proof to which I obviously insisted wasn’t necessary and sighing heavily, told him to proceed with the job.
The bad news didn't stop there though. At around 4pm that afternoon I ventured back over the squinty bridge, through the rush hour traffic. The cheery little mechanic immediately insisted on showing me the duff brake pads, (probably the oldest trick in the book – he’s probably got a drawer full of them!) and then informed me that my two front tyres were illegal.
Bald on the inside apparently. (Illegal for being bald? Surely that’s baldist?)
I had spent £130 quid on two Dunlops for the front last November and the two of them were already duff and fine worthy. So after getting back to the office I made yet another visit to tyreshopper.com, a lot sooner than I thought I'd be visiting, and sorted out another expensive pair of rubbers. On the same day, from the mild comfort of my office desk, I also paid off various bills, reminder notices and last chance saloon letters and ordered my new 6 month tax disc, successfully making it one of the most expensive days in my working history, all whilst sitting on my arse. Next up will be my car insurance, due shortly, along with the good old MOT, which, going by recent standards, will probably throw up a few surprises for me, all just in time for Christmas when you expected to spend lots of money on other people.
Days later, last Thursday, I gave a wee bloke £120 for having a large tantrum in my house.
Recently I bought new, interior doors for all the rooms leading off from the upstairs landing which all started when Dad and Colin successfully burst the bathroom door on the night of the house warming. The door was on it’s last legs, or hinges, anyway, so I don’t blame them. My Dad had went to leave the bathroom and found the door had locked him in so he ended up shouting down to Colin, who was standing out in the back garden at the time, minding his own business, smoking a cigarette. Always willing to help Colin made his way upstairs and between the two of them they managed to obliterate the bathroom door.
So while I was getting a new bathroom door I thought it’d probably be a good idea to get the rest of the doors done. Ordering them over the phone with Cornes, the local DIY store, here in EK, I asked them to book me a joiner to get them fitted. The joiner in question phoned me up a few days later and made a date to fit the doors, two and a half weeks later, at half past 8 in the morning (that was the next available date in his diary).
So, two and a half weeks later, on my way back from taking the wife to work in the morning, the joiner phoned my at 8.25am, leaving demanding messages on both my mobile, sitting alongside me in the car, and my home phone, stating he was 'supposed' to be fitting doors at my house that morning and that he had no access to the house. I dialled his number as I drove on the via the hands free speaker phone as I approached my street. Again, he informed me that he had no access to the house.
No access to the house?, I thought. I’m quite glad of that really. Is that not why they put locks in doors? A joiner of all people should know that, surely?
Immediately recognising the wee man that jumped out the van, but from where I wasn't sure, I let him into the house and he got himself set up. Through another ten minutes of conversation we eventually sussed that it was from the gym that I recognised him. I've seen him strutting about the Nuffield gym on occasion talking to folk in his loud, but not unfriendly, voice, talking to some of the bigger, muscle-bound guys on occasion who quite often are double the height of him. I wondered why this was why he spoke so loudly in normal conversation, conversation that continued as he worked at the four doors.
After an hour or so the joiner took a break to drink a protein shake, a drink which he really wanted me to know about, for whatever reason. Unfortunately I perhaps said the wrong thing by moaning something along the lines of, "you're not one of them are you?". It turns out he is (as is Andrea, my colleague in work, who models herself on Jodie Marsh) and the wee joiner has been trying to build his muscles up like some of the other guys in the gym. Refraining from stating that there probably weren't enough hours in the day, never mind the year, I got on with some paperwork and bill paying.
It wasn't until later that things really turned uncomfortable.
The joiner left the bathroom door to last. The other three doors had normal, nice silver handles bought with them, but the bathroom was slightly different in that its handle design included a lock mechanism. A perfectly normal lock mechanism which you’d find on most bathroom doors. Unfortunately it turned out to be not so normal as the wee joiner was soon swearing, shouting and jumping about in the bathroom. He's only been attempting to fit the lock handle for approximately five or ten minutes before, his face started turning a nasty shade of red and he started turning the air blue, jumping about, throwing electric screwdrivers around the bathroom whilst twisting the new handle up and down.
"F**king cheap sh**e!", he kept shouting, his voice echoing through the house. I had had no idea I was ordering cheap sh*te with my phonecall to Cornes two and a half weeks ago. At the time I'd thought £13 for a lock handle was expensive enough.
After another ten minutes of swearing and raging he disassembled the lock handle, growling furiously as he went and sped off back down to Cornes to get a second under the impression we'd been given a dodgy one.
I’ve met an awful lot of wee men who seem to have a great deal of anger built up inside them. An anger that can be quite potent and unexpected when it bursts. I’ve known a few short men in my life who’ve all had similar personalities. I’m no tall person myself but each of the guys I’m thinking off were all definitely in the shorter department and all had similar, slightly unstable characteristics. I’m certainly not saying all short people have this tendency, I’m just saying I am prone to encountering them. One minute these guys seem jovial, happy and perfectly normal in conversation until something happens. The something could be an occurrence, a statement, a joke or some kind of small, not obviously major, annoyance that makes them seem to boil up and explode.
This joiner, for instance, was highly affected by the bathroom door not working, after a mere five minutes or so of trying to fit it properly. As soon as he spent longer than five minutes working on it he just seemed to explode in a barrage of abuse and Basil Fawltyesque rage.
Needless to say, after the joiner’s return from Cornes, the second lock handle was no better and as he attempted to fit the new handle he stamped his feet, slammed his tools about some more and shouted about how he had other things to do with his time.
After some discussion with the rather irked wee joiner I decided to opt for his suggestion of replacing the lock handle with a normal handle and fitting the door with a simple sliding bolt lock. So after yet another visit to Cornes the wee, unsettled, highly flustered joiner with the anger management issues fitted the bolt and the normal handle, took his money and left.
Breathing a sigh of relief I got the hoover out and started to tidy his mess up, only to discover, upon inspecting the bathroom door, that the wee joiner had fastened the bathroom door to the wall with only one screw through each hinge rather than the usual four. As hesitant as I was to have the wee nutter back in my house, I had paid for his service and as he was too busy performing his little strops he'd obviously neglected to screw the damn door into the wall properly so I phoned him up. Huffing upon receipt of this information the wee joiner said he'd be back in ten minutes and as I waited I continued to hoover, almost managing to blow myself up in the process.
As I hoovered away, twisting and moving round the hall, trying to catch all the wood shreds and splinters, the hoover wire got sucked up the hoover's front and another highly suspicious grinding noise started from the machine’s underside. Within seconds a strange burning smell started interfering with the odour of freshly cut wood and before I knew it, the J. Edgar was firing out tiny shreds of grey and black plastic.
Flipping the power switch, I pulled the wire from under the hoover only to see a rather unhealthy looking length of bare copper wire shining up at me through a thin veil of electrical smoke.
The hoover had never done that before. I’d ran over the wire in the past and it had never been sucked up in such a plastic devouring fashion. Just as I finished tidying the hoover wire shreds up a loud knock at the door alerted to the presence of the wee joiner again and in he came once more, to finish his job.
“What happened to your hair?” the wee joiner looked up at me as he climbed the stairs. I looked in the mirror. My hair seemed to be standing a little on end.
Had I been shocked? Or was I just a little overly flustered?
At least the wee joiner had regained his composure as he quickly screwed the missing screws into the bathroom door and quickly headed off to his next poor customer. Making light of the missing screws I shrugged it off, insisting he was probably just too flustered and focused on the bathroom door lock.
“I’ll let you know after my next therapy session!” he smiled as he left the house.
I’m not even sure whether he was joking.
I certainly don’t want his therapist.
Showing posts with label East Kilbride. Show all posts
Showing posts with label East Kilbride. Show all posts
Tuesday, 6 November 2012
Saturday, 30 June 2012
Typical Scottish weather
Last Friday night, at around half past ten, in near darkness, Ka, Chris and myself jogged over the sports field in John Wrights Sports Centre. A crowd had gathered on the further side of the field at the foot of the hill which led up from the western side of the running track. A lone piper stood at the top of the hill, a silhouette against the navy blues of clouds cloaking the sky behind him as the last of the daylight faded.
We were back from Glasgow, just in time, for the Candle of Hope Ceremony, the quiet ceremonious part of the annual Relay For Life, organised for Cancer Research. Every year teams pitch their tents in the running ground of the local sports centre late on the Friday afternoon and, from seven o’clock, take part in a 24 hour walk, team members all taking turns to walk laps around the 4km running track through the entirety of the following hours, whilst various events carry on around them, keeping both team members and visitors entertained. This year was slightly different however, as the heavy rain and winds done it’s best to ruin the event.
On our way back home from Glasgow in the back of a hackney cab the rain had seemed to peter out and stop just in time for the candlelit service at 10.30pm. The candlelit event is the opportunity to remember lost relatives and friends whether through cancer or not. Candlebags are sold in aid of Cancer Research and Claire, who was taking part in the 24 hour event, alongside her family, had already taken our candle bags off us after we’d decorated them with our own little lost loved one. A picture of Lucy sat in the middle of the track before us. The gentle, flickering candlelight from within her bag, shone a pale golden light through her photograph and helped it stand bright alongside all the other candles lining the running path. Other bags were decorated with photographs, words, poems and drawings, all messages from loved ones to loved ones.
Candlebags were also placed on the slope of the hill, running up to the piper. The bags on the hill all lit in the darkness, their placement spelling out one single word. Hope.
Silence fell over the gathered crowd and the piper started to play, looking out over us from the top of the hill, his music echoing around the sports field in the silence. After a few minutes he began edging his way over the brow of the hill, his music fading, and, from somewhere close by, a girl’s voice started singing ‘Somewhere over the rainbow’. The girl’s voice was clear and haunting in the stillness, quickly drowning out the vestiges of the piper’s echoes from over the hill.
It was an emotional moment. Always ruined by someone making odd noises in their grief, snorting unpleasantly, or blowing their nose loudly in the quietness.
That was me. Seeing Lucy’s little picture and just hearing that lady’s voice singing that song brought it all back again, as it does from time to time.
Of course, there were others but my bubbling just seemed louder than anybody else at the time and made me feel like an over emotional idiot afterwards. I apologised to Ka and quickly wiped away the few tears looking up at the ‘hope’ on the hill.
I blamed the drink.
I wasn’t drunk, upon leaving Glasgow, but I had been merry.
The reason we were not able to turn up until half past ten was because we had had another prior engagement. An engagement with a certain John Barrowman.
Yes, I was once more forced along to another John Barrowman concert, this time on Glasgow Green. Colin and Jillian had bought Ka the Barrowman ticket as a birthday present and as my birthday falls three days after it, they thought it’d be a great idea to gift me with the same. I half jokingly moaned and complained for a good while afterwards but did consider it rude to refuse the gift.
Jillian’s Mum, Jean and Chris ended up being late additions to the gig getting themselves tickets, bought on the cheap after Jillian received a Groupon email. They somehow managed to pay only £15 for their tickets whilst the price on the rest of our tickets had been the princely sum of 50.
Unfortunately it had been raining near constantly for the past two days and the man himself had been on Breakfast telly the day before claiming he’d be there and be singing regardless of the Scottish weather but it didn’t stop me frequently going online, throughout the course of Friday afternoon, in the hope, sorry, to check, if Barrowman had cancelled the gig.
It wasn’t to be.
In fact, the sun came out a few times overhead and the rain stayed away for the majority of the show as we sat on the folding chairs of Glasgow Green, alongside the Peoples Palace (an ideal location for a marriage according to Jean), People hung out of windows from the surrounding tower blocks and modern flats of Greendyke Street as John sang his way through his set, taking to the stage with his sparkly lapels, shiny suit and big grin, talking to the occasional granny or mad screaming woman from the audience, whilst half the Barrowman clan watched from the front row alongside Chris and Jean. You can say a lot of things about Barrowman but he never ceases to entertain and alongside his hand jiving trumpet players and swaying guitarists.
Since having the slap up meal beforehand in Elia, George Square’s Greek Restaurant which Colin and Jillian had been highly recommending for the past two years or so, we’d had a couple of beers and I’d decided to make the best of it. Once it was clear the rain was going to hold off for a time and there was sufficient beer at the gig to keep us happy everything seemed fine. The girls got T-shirts whilst Colin and myself stocked up at the beer van, buying two drinks at a time to save the queuing.
The rain did start to fall towards the end of the show signalling home time for everyone and after a quick visit to the portaloos, during which we managed to scare the living daylights out of Ka we headed out for the taxi to take us back home to EK.
Half an hour later, Chris, Ka and myself joined Claire and her family on the sports ground and after the candle of Hope ceremony enjoyed a beer around the campfire as the hour approached midnight. Just after Ka and myself had retreated home for the night, the rain started the pour, the wind started to blow and the gazebos started to disconnect from their guy ropes and tent pegs. The determined, probably miserable, charity fund raisers were determined to carry on though and as early daylight approached Claire and cousin Scott were happily bopping away in the silent disco tent.
Unfortunately, at around 5.30 in the morning the organisers were forced to call it a day after Claire had spotted the Haunted House tent flying around the track towards her.
A great shame for all those involved, not only for the event but the fact I’d wanted a go in that Haunted House tent.
We were back from Glasgow, just in time, for the Candle of Hope Ceremony, the quiet ceremonious part of the annual Relay For Life, organised for Cancer Research. Every year teams pitch their tents in the running ground of the local sports centre late on the Friday afternoon and, from seven o’clock, take part in a 24 hour walk, team members all taking turns to walk laps around the 4km running track through the entirety of the following hours, whilst various events carry on around them, keeping both team members and visitors entertained. This year was slightly different however, as the heavy rain and winds done it’s best to ruin the event.
On our way back home from Glasgow in the back of a hackney cab the rain had seemed to peter out and stop just in time for the candlelit service at 10.30pm. The candlelit event is the opportunity to remember lost relatives and friends whether through cancer or not. Candlebags are sold in aid of Cancer Research and Claire, who was taking part in the 24 hour event, alongside her family, had already taken our candle bags off us after we’d decorated them with our own little lost loved one. A picture of Lucy sat in the middle of the track before us. The gentle, flickering candlelight from within her bag, shone a pale golden light through her photograph and helped it stand bright alongside all the other candles lining the running path. Other bags were decorated with photographs, words, poems and drawings, all messages from loved ones to loved ones.
Candlebags were also placed on the slope of the hill, running up to the piper. The bags on the hill all lit in the darkness, their placement spelling out one single word. Hope.
It was an emotional moment. Always ruined by someone making odd noises in their grief, snorting unpleasantly, or blowing their nose loudly in the quietness.
That was me. Seeing Lucy’s little picture and just hearing that lady’s voice singing that song brought it all back again, as it does from time to time.
Of course, there were others but my bubbling just seemed louder than anybody else at the time and made me feel like an over emotional idiot afterwards. I apologised to Ka and quickly wiped away the few tears looking up at the ‘hope’ on the hill.
I blamed the drink.
I wasn’t drunk, upon leaving Glasgow, but I had been merry.
The reason we were not able to turn up until half past ten was because we had had another prior engagement. An engagement with a certain John Barrowman.
Yes, I was once more forced along to another John Barrowman concert, this time on Glasgow Green. Colin and Jillian had bought Ka the Barrowman ticket as a birthday present and as my birthday falls three days after it, they thought it’d be a great idea to gift me with the same. I half jokingly moaned and complained for a good while afterwards but did consider it rude to refuse the gift.
Jillian’s Mum, Jean and Chris ended up being late additions to the gig getting themselves tickets, bought on the cheap after Jillian received a Groupon email. They somehow managed to pay only £15 for their tickets whilst the price on the rest of our tickets had been the princely sum of 50.
Unfortunately it had been raining near constantly for the past two days and the man himself had been on Breakfast telly the day before claiming he’d be there and be singing regardless of the Scottish weather but it didn’t stop me frequently going online, throughout the course of Friday afternoon, in the hope, sorry, to check, if Barrowman had cancelled the gig.
It wasn’t to be.
In fact, the sun came out a few times overhead and the rain stayed away for the majority of the show as we sat on the folding chairs of Glasgow Green, alongside the Peoples Palace (an ideal location for a marriage according to Jean), People hung out of windows from the surrounding tower blocks and modern flats of Greendyke Street as John sang his way through his set, taking to the stage with his sparkly lapels, shiny suit and big grin, talking to the occasional granny or mad screaming woman from the audience, whilst half the Barrowman clan watched from the front row alongside Chris and Jean. You can say a lot of things about Barrowman but he never ceases to entertain and alongside his hand jiving trumpet players and swaying guitarists.
Since having the slap up meal beforehand in Elia, George Square’s Greek Restaurant which Colin and Jillian had been highly recommending for the past two years or so, we’d had a couple of beers and I’d decided to make the best of it. Once it was clear the rain was going to hold off for a time and there was sufficient beer at the gig to keep us happy everything seemed fine. The girls got T-shirts whilst Colin and myself stocked up at the beer van, buying two drinks at a time to save the queuing.
The rain did start to fall towards the end of the show signalling home time for everyone and after a quick visit to the portaloos, during which we managed to scare the living daylights out of Ka we headed out for the taxi to take us back home to EK.
Half an hour later, Chris, Ka and myself joined Claire and her family on the sports ground and after the candle of Hope ceremony enjoyed a beer around the campfire as the hour approached midnight. Just after Ka and myself had retreated home for the night, the rain started the pour, the wind started to blow and the gazebos started to disconnect from their guy ropes and tent pegs. The determined, probably miserable, charity fund raisers were determined to carry on though and as early daylight approached Claire and cousin Scott were happily bopping away in the silent disco tent.
Unfortunately, at around 5.30 in the morning the organisers were forced to call it a day after Claire had spotted the Haunted House tent flying around the track towards her.
A great shame for all those involved, not only for the event but the fact I’d wanted a go in that Haunted House tent.
Thursday, 28 June 2012
Jack Russell terrors
That’s it. The training starts here!
On my return from work tonight, and finding no dinner waiting on the table, I decided to get my trainers on and head out for a quick 5k. I’m running a 10k in September in aid of Sands and have not been out on the streets for a run for months.
In fact, I’ve never run 10k in my life. The family used to run 5, 6 or 7ks when we were younger, in and around Strathclyde Park on the Motorola fun days, but I’ve never attempted 10k in one go. So, with this in mind, I thought I’d better start doing a bit of training. Okay, I know September is ages away but the longer you leave it, the harder it will be (in my measly opinion).
With grey clouds smothering the sky and the occasional droplet of water hitting off my nose, I started running, expecting the occasional droplet to turn into a raging downpour as that’s usually what happens on these 5k runs around Calderwood and St. Leonards.
Thankfully I ran the length of the lap with no rain but, thanks to my lack of jogging in recent months, struggled for the majority of the 35 minutes, passing the occasional walkers and growling or muttering dogs. Dogs who were sometimes held back by straining leases or allowed to run free, running up threateningly towards me and growling angrily at my audacity to be running with shorts on, keys jangling in my pocket. Thankfully none of the dogs were Jack Russell Terriers. If it had been I may have lost my shorts… or worse.
I have a history with Jack Russell terriers.
For some reason, this particular breed of dog seems to dislike me. For years every single one of them that has passed me in the street has took an instant dislike to me. These small, white and brown dogs may seem innocent looking upon first glance but don’t let them fool you.
Upon meeting them in the street, some of these little terriers, simply growl as they pass and others bark. Others have been known to stop dead in their tracks and glare at me threateningly or stop and then snarl and snap, some jumping about wildly on the spot, flashing their small, but not insignificant jaws, filled with sharp, straight teeth.
In Manitoba Crescent, our second family home, the permed neighbour owned one. This neighbour was a quiet, airy fairy type of woman, with a large, dark permed hairdo and one of those vaguely annoying, patronising voices. The kind of voice that, coupled with her habit of tilting her head to one side when talking to you, sounded like she was constantly being sympathetic towards your situation. As if she pitied you as she spoke.
She’s now a waitress in the local Beefeater. She served our table one night when I was out for dinner with the family. We didn’t recognise her at first as her perm is now gone but she still does the mourning voice and the head tilting, sympathetic, nodding during conversation.
Anyway, she owned a Jack Russell and was one of my paper round customers when I delivered the East Kilbride News.
Every Wednesday night I’d walk to the town centre after school and pick up a huge pile of newspapers from the office’s front desk and trudge all the way home on foot, come rain or shine. Not an easy job as the East Kilbride News wasn’t the lightest of weekly local rags. Little did I realise then that I’d end up helping putting the paper together every week.
From behind the large glass window of the neighbour’s front door the wee mutt would constantly bark, growl and snap at me as I tried to safely deliver the permed neighbour’s newspaper. As soon as I prized the letterbox open to start sliding the week’s latest East Kilbride News in through the opening, the Jack Russell’s teeth would be there, snapping and snarling at me from the other side.
I don’t mind admitting that sometimes I would aim the first end of the rolled up paper directly at the dogs snapping mouth, hoping to give it a wee smack across the jaw. Usually the paper’s end would be torn and shredded within moments on the other side of the letterbox, the crazy wee mutt attacking it with a violent, psychotic hatred.
This neighbour had a baby girl as well?! Can you imagine having such an animal with this lunatic nature around a baby? Nuts.
One afternoon, after picking up my usual pile of papers, I decided to treat myself to a paperback I’d been looking forward to reading. I dropped in at WH Smith on my way and headed on out up the road to make my deliveries. Hours later, with only the permed neighbour to go, I started making my way up her Manitoba Crescent drive when I heard the weekly snapping and barking start once more from behind the large glass front door. I seen the familiar brown and white blur of ears and teeth jumping up and down as I made my way up the drive and, just as I got around two thirds of the way up the paved path, the permed neighbour appeared out of nowhere in the small porch and, to my horror, swung the front door wide open to greet me. The crazy little mutt of a dog sprinted right for me. Barking, growling, snapping.
A blur of rabid dog hatred, galloping towards my legs, spittal spinning out from it’s black dog gums, upon which the small, sharp teeth snapped. My steps faltered but I kept walking, pulling the paper from my bag, ready to deliver, striding up the path as if undeterred by the coming white and brown onslaught of noisy, yapping teeth. Then, as if on a spring board built into the permed neighbours pathway, the dog fired straight up into the air, aiming for the face. I swerved to the side, the dog missing, barking and snapping all the way, as it landed safely on it’s four paws at my side.
Almost instantaneously, it leaped up again, snapping at my arm.
This time it hit. Biting my arm briefly but thankfully letting go just as the teeth found some grip on my arm. The jacket I was wearing at the time was some kind of canvas number so the teeth did not manage to do much damage but it was enough to make me kick out at the little runt on his way back down to ground. The permed neighbour stood in her doorway, gently chastising the little git of a Jack Russell for playing, with that pathetic, quiet voice of hers and that tilting head of pity. Undeterred, the Russell paid his master’s voice no heed and once more lept up into the air spraying me with another volley of barks and yelps and snapped onto the WH Smith carrier bag in my other hand. This time the dog bit in and wouldn’t let go. My new book was in there and the little terrier had it’s grip on it with it’s vicious jaws. I shook and swept the bag through the air between myself and the permed neighbour in an effort to separate the mutt from my newly purchased book but with a dogged determination the dog held on by the teeth. The struggle lasted for at least a couple of seconds before the permed neighbour eventually took hold of her pet’s body. The mutt released the book upon the touch of his owner and continued with his barrage of verbal abuse, but this time from the safety of his owner’s hands, snapping and growling at me as I threw the paper into the doorway and retreated back down the garden path.
On getting home I pulled my new book from the slightly shredded carrier bag to find one large set of jaw prints cut into the lower half of the book. Proper, deep, tooth marks embedded through each side of the cover and buried down, gnawed into at least 100 pages on either end of the book. Throughout the following weeks, reading that book, turning those tooth marked pages, I never shook the feeling of anger and hatred towards that little b**tard of a dog.
I remember it was only a matter of weeks until I was walking up the hill to school one day and an older gent passed me, innocently walking his dog. Of course the dog was another Jack Russell Terrier and stopped in its morning ramble to fiercely yap and bark in my general direction, jumping around madly on the spot of pavement before me.
“They’re all insane!”, I remember thinking, but inadvertently half shouting at the same time, at the rather puzzled elderly owner as he clipped the end of the dog’s lead on and pulled it under control.
There have been more than a few other similar incidents over the years, all with Jack Russells.
Even a few months ago another one of these little runts destroyed my nephew’s football the day we took him, and our niece, Morgan, over to Strathclyde Park. Joshua, Morgan, Ka and myself stood and watched helplessly as the mutt ravaged the blue football to blue, plastic smithereens, growling the guttural noises of a wild animal after running across half the park, out of nowhere and descending on the ball like a bat out of hell.
Perhaps that’s why I didn’t enjoy ‘The Artist’ as much as everyone else seemed to.
Okay, Uggie did look a little friendlier than most Jack Russells but I couldn’t help but spend the majority of my time watching that movie being highly suspicious of the supposedly wonderful little co-star. I don’t care if he could rescue someone from a burning building, play dead with an imaginary bullet or walk on two hind legs, I wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him (or even kick him). All of those skills just make him all the more dangerous for when he starts attacking people in the street, regardless of how many awards he’s got on it!
On my return from work tonight, and finding no dinner waiting on the table, I decided to get my trainers on and head out for a quick 5k. I’m running a 10k in September in aid of Sands and have not been out on the streets for a run for months.
In fact, I’ve never run 10k in my life. The family used to run 5, 6 or 7ks when we were younger, in and around Strathclyde Park on the Motorola fun days, but I’ve never attempted 10k in one go. So, with this in mind, I thought I’d better start doing a bit of training. Okay, I know September is ages away but the longer you leave it, the harder it will be (in my measly opinion).
With grey clouds smothering the sky and the occasional droplet of water hitting off my nose, I started running, expecting the occasional droplet to turn into a raging downpour as that’s usually what happens on these 5k runs around Calderwood and St. Leonards.
Thankfully I ran the length of the lap with no rain but, thanks to my lack of jogging in recent months, struggled for the majority of the 35 minutes, passing the occasional walkers and growling or muttering dogs. Dogs who were sometimes held back by straining leases or allowed to run free, running up threateningly towards me and growling angrily at my audacity to be running with shorts on, keys jangling in my pocket. Thankfully none of the dogs were Jack Russell Terriers. If it had been I may have lost my shorts… or worse.
I have a history with Jack Russell terriers.
For some reason, this particular breed of dog seems to dislike me. For years every single one of them that has passed me in the street has took an instant dislike to me. These small, white and brown dogs may seem innocent looking upon first glance but don’t let them fool you.
Upon meeting them in the street, some of these little terriers, simply growl as they pass and others bark. Others have been known to stop dead in their tracks and glare at me threateningly or stop and then snarl and snap, some jumping about wildly on the spot, flashing their small, but not insignificant jaws, filled with sharp, straight teeth.
She’s now a waitress in the local Beefeater. She served our table one night when I was out for dinner with the family. We didn’t recognise her at first as her perm is now gone but she still does the mourning voice and the head tilting, sympathetic, nodding during conversation.
Anyway, she owned a Jack Russell and was one of my paper round customers when I delivered the East Kilbride News.
Every Wednesday night I’d walk to the town centre after school and pick up a huge pile of newspapers from the office’s front desk and trudge all the way home on foot, come rain or shine. Not an easy job as the East Kilbride News wasn’t the lightest of weekly local rags. Little did I realise then that I’d end up helping putting the paper together every week.
From behind the large glass window of the neighbour’s front door the wee mutt would constantly bark, growl and snap at me as I tried to safely deliver the permed neighbour’s newspaper. As soon as I prized the letterbox open to start sliding the week’s latest East Kilbride News in through the opening, the Jack Russell’s teeth would be there, snapping and snarling at me from the other side.
I don’t mind admitting that sometimes I would aim the first end of the rolled up paper directly at the dogs snapping mouth, hoping to give it a wee smack across the jaw. Usually the paper’s end would be torn and shredded within moments on the other side of the letterbox, the crazy wee mutt attacking it with a violent, psychotic hatred.
This neighbour had a baby girl as well?! Can you imagine having such an animal with this lunatic nature around a baby? Nuts.
One afternoon, after picking up my usual pile of papers, I decided to treat myself to a paperback I’d been looking forward to reading. I dropped in at WH Smith on my way and headed on out up the road to make my deliveries. Hours later, with only the permed neighbour to go, I started making my way up her Manitoba Crescent drive when I heard the weekly snapping and barking start once more from behind the large glass front door. I seen the familiar brown and white blur of ears and teeth jumping up and down as I made my way up the drive and, just as I got around two thirds of the way up the paved path, the permed neighbour appeared out of nowhere in the small porch and, to my horror, swung the front door wide open to greet me. The crazy little mutt of a dog sprinted right for me. Barking, growling, snapping.
A blur of rabid dog hatred, galloping towards my legs, spittal spinning out from it’s black dog gums, upon which the small, sharp teeth snapped. My steps faltered but I kept walking, pulling the paper from my bag, ready to deliver, striding up the path as if undeterred by the coming white and brown onslaught of noisy, yapping teeth. Then, as if on a spring board built into the permed neighbours pathway, the dog fired straight up into the air, aiming for the face. I swerved to the side, the dog missing, barking and snapping all the way, as it landed safely on it’s four paws at my side.
Almost instantaneously, it leaped up again, snapping at my arm.
This time it hit. Biting my arm briefly but thankfully letting go just as the teeth found some grip on my arm. The jacket I was wearing at the time was some kind of canvas number so the teeth did not manage to do much damage but it was enough to make me kick out at the little runt on his way back down to ground. The permed neighbour stood in her doorway, gently chastising the little git of a Jack Russell for playing, with that pathetic, quiet voice of hers and that tilting head of pity. Undeterred, the Russell paid his master’s voice no heed and once more lept up into the air spraying me with another volley of barks and yelps and snapped onto the WH Smith carrier bag in my other hand. This time the dog bit in and wouldn’t let go. My new book was in there and the little terrier had it’s grip on it with it’s vicious jaws. I shook and swept the bag through the air between myself and the permed neighbour in an effort to separate the mutt from my newly purchased book but with a dogged determination the dog held on by the teeth. The struggle lasted for at least a couple of seconds before the permed neighbour eventually took hold of her pet’s body. The mutt released the book upon the touch of his owner and continued with his barrage of verbal abuse, but this time from the safety of his owner’s hands, snapping and growling at me as I threw the paper into the doorway and retreated back down the garden path.
On getting home I pulled my new book from the slightly shredded carrier bag to find one large set of jaw prints cut into the lower half of the book. Proper, deep, tooth marks embedded through each side of the cover and buried down, gnawed into at least 100 pages on either end of the book. Throughout the following weeks, reading that book, turning those tooth marked pages, I never shook the feeling of anger and hatred towards that little b**tard of a dog.
I remember it was only a matter of weeks until I was walking up the hill to school one day and an older gent passed me, innocently walking his dog. Of course the dog was another Jack Russell Terrier and stopped in its morning ramble to fiercely yap and bark in my general direction, jumping around madly on the spot of pavement before me.
“They’re all insane!”, I remember thinking, but inadvertently half shouting at the same time, at the rather puzzled elderly owner as he clipped the end of the dog’s lead on and pulled it under control.
There have been more than a few other similar incidents over the years, all with Jack Russells.
Even a few months ago another one of these little runts destroyed my nephew’s football the day we took him, and our niece, Morgan, over to Strathclyde Park. Joshua, Morgan, Ka and myself stood and watched helplessly as the mutt ravaged the blue football to blue, plastic smithereens, growling the guttural noises of a wild animal after running across half the park, out of nowhere and descending on the ball like a bat out of hell.
Perhaps that’s why I didn’t enjoy ‘The Artist’ as much as everyone else seemed to.
Wednesday, 28 March 2012
Good day sunshine
The sky is a brilliant blue over East Kilbride today. Who would have thought that driving around the streets of EK on my first week off could be so wonderful?
With the job still up in the air, Friday was my last shift for two weeks. I’ll have to pop by the office at some point during the next two weeks to attend an interview, but I’m free from the office during all the time in between so I finished my shift on Friday with a spring in my step.
Not only that but Ka was going out on the Saturday to her pal, Louisa’s, 30th birthday night out so I was free to do what I liked.
Watch what I liked. Eat what I liked. Drink what I liked. Go where I liked.
Until I remembered it was Mum’s birthday and something had been said about dinner on the Saturday night. So I gave up my chance at the remote control (it’s overrated anyway) and went out for dinner with Mum, Dad and sis, Lynsey Ann, to the local Steak house where we enjoyed a slap up meal and a few glasses of house red. Afterwards we enjoyed a few drinks in the lively Monty across the road where we took what looked like the last empty table, which just happened to be situated next to a table occupied by Mum and Dad’s old neighbours, from their first flat in the Greenhills, who were out with their daughter. Apparently I used to go to playgroup or nursery with their son. Memories obviously long fizzled out by alcohol abuse or age, or both. I did recognise a few faces as I sat in the bar though. Faces from school, long forgotten about, mostly deliberately.
All this while Ka was out on the town for Louisa’s cocktail filled birthday for which they’d managed to book themselves a booth in Mansion House and a couple of nice rooms in a central hotel by the name of the Alexander Thomson Hotel. There was a little uncertainty regarding the location after suspicions were aroused when some local ladies of the night were spotted in and around the hotel’s vicinity, perhaps attempting some arousing of their own. Not the kind of neighbours you wanted staying in the hotel room next to you.
I clambered out from my taxi, happy with red wine, and downed a cup of tea at around one in the morning with a slice of toast not forgetting to put the clocks forward by an hour and thus eventually begin the British summertime.
Since then it’s been blue skies all the way. Temperatures of 22 and 23 degrees. The green emerging slowly from the trees. The tops and t-shirts starting to get taken off at the first sight of the sun. Bikinis making appearances on the pavements again. The slamming on of the brakes as you turn to realise the driver infront has actually stopped.
With the car heater on ‘cold’ and the electric windows fully down to let some air circulate, it’s almost like driving around in a foreign country. The streets feel different.
Sitting in the flat with the windows open I can actually hear footsteps in the street outside.
Not rain. Not wind. Footsteps.
Neighbours walking by. The occasional conversation echoing up as they pass, their voices seeming to travel further in the warm, quiet street. Blue skies must be good for echoes too.
Bikes cycle past, their tyres whirring and ticking. The cars going up and down the road seem louder as if they’ve all souped-up their exhausts with those ridiculously stupid sized versions you see on cars roaring by with before breaking at the lights along with everyone else.
The kids are slowly emerging from the surrounding houses, out playing for the first time in months, like animals coming out of hibernation. Shouts and yelps echo around the street as they once more start to hang out, kicking balls about and hanging around the large hill of uncut grass directly opposite us which stands alongside the ruins of the old college that was demolished to make way for flats at least three years ago (needless to say the flats never turned up). This long grassed hill is particularly popular for sledging down. Not when there’s snow about though, no, that would just be silly. When the sun’s out and they slide down the grass on their hind ends, straight into the large, mangled, rusty old fence which stands at the grassy slope’s end. Hours of entertainment. Their Mum’s must have a great time with the Vanish.
The daffodils are out in force too. The front garden of our block as an abundance of green and yellow climbing up out of the usually weed filled soil.
Where did they all come from? Who planted them? It wasn’t me. Daffodils just jump up out of nowhere when spring comes around. Those pesky phantom daffodil planters must have been round again.
I’m sure the grey clouds will roll back in at some point though, casting doom and gloom over the days to come. I’d better just enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.
With the job still up in the air, Friday was my last shift for two weeks. I’ll have to pop by the office at some point during the next two weeks to attend an interview, but I’m free from the office during all the time in between so I finished my shift on Friday with a spring in my step.
Not only that but Ka was going out on the Saturday to her pal, Louisa’s, 30th birthday night out so I was free to do what I liked.
Watch what I liked. Eat what I liked. Drink what I liked. Go where I liked.
Until I remembered it was Mum’s birthday and something had been said about dinner on the Saturday night. So I gave up my chance at the remote control (it’s overrated anyway) and went out for dinner with Mum, Dad and sis, Lynsey Ann, to the local Steak house where we enjoyed a slap up meal and a few glasses of house red. Afterwards we enjoyed a few drinks in the lively Monty across the road where we took what looked like the last empty table, which just happened to be situated next to a table occupied by Mum and Dad’s old neighbours, from their first flat in the Greenhills, who were out with their daughter. Apparently I used to go to playgroup or nursery with their son. Memories obviously long fizzled out by alcohol abuse or age, or both. I did recognise a few faces as I sat in the bar though. Faces from school, long forgotten about, mostly deliberately.
All this while Ka was out on the town for Louisa’s cocktail filled birthday for which they’d managed to book themselves a booth in Mansion House and a couple of nice rooms in a central hotel by the name of the Alexander Thomson Hotel. There was a little uncertainty regarding the location after suspicions were aroused when some local ladies of the night were spotted in and around the hotel’s vicinity, perhaps attempting some arousing of their own. Not the kind of neighbours you wanted staying in the hotel room next to you.
I clambered out from my taxi, happy with red wine, and downed a cup of tea at around one in the morning with a slice of toast not forgetting to put the clocks forward by an hour and thus eventually begin the British summertime.
With the car heater on ‘cold’ and the electric windows fully down to let some air circulate, it’s almost like driving around in a foreign country. The streets feel different.
Sitting in the flat with the windows open I can actually hear footsteps in the street outside.
Not rain. Not wind. Footsteps.
Neighbours walking by. The occasional conversation echoing up as they pass, their voices seeming to travel further in the warm, quiet street. Blue skies must be good for echoes too.
Bikes cycle past, their tyres whirring and ticking. The cars going up and down the road seem louder as if they’ve all souped-up their exhausts with those ridiculously stupid sized versions you see on cars roaring by with before breaking at the lights along with everyone else.
The kids are slowly emerging from the surrounding houses, out playing for the first time in months, like animals coming out of hibernation. Shouts and yelps echo around the street as they once more start to hang out, kicking balls about and hanging around the large hill of uncut grass directly opposite us which stands alongside the ruins of the old college that was demolished to make way for flats at least three years ago (needless to say the flats never turned up). This long grassed hill is particularly popular for sledging down. Not when there’s snow about though, no, that would just be silly. When the sun’s out and they slide down the grass on their hind ends, straight into the large, mangled, rusty old fence which stands at the grassy slope’s end. Hours of entertainment. Their Mum’s must have a great time with the Vanish.
The daffodils are out in force too. The front garden of our block as an abundance of green and yellow climbing up out of the usually weed filled soil.
Where did they all come from? Who planted them? It wasn’t me. Daffodils just jump up out of nowhere when spring comes around. Those pesky phantom daffodil planters must have been round again.
I’m sure the grey clouds will roll back in at some point though, casting doom and gloom over the days to come. I’d better just enjoy the sunshine while it lasts.
Wednesday, 14 December 2011
Swinging with the women
Bow ties. Beers. Red wine. Turkey dinners with small amounts of vegetables. Christmas tree table decor. Frank Sinatra soundalikes. Slagging. Dancing. Laughing and drinking.
Last Friday night was the S&UN Chrimbo night out and nine of us gathered in EK’s The Byre for drinks and dinner. Since the depletion of our office work force we hadn't been out so it was good to have everyone out and socialising somewhere that wasn't a Hamilton newspaper office.
Dave and myself were the first to arrive with the help of a local taxi service run by his Mrs, Tracey, not forgetting his two wee boys. The two boys pestered Dave as he drove, demanding sweets and pizza, before we escaped into the warmth of the Byre, Dave immediately ordering up the first drinks while we awaited the arrival of our other work colleagues.
DVD Andy and Creamy Chicken John were next in the door, looking around the subdued golden colours on the bar for any recognisable faces, whilst me and Dave shouted repeatedly from the corner of the room, behind them.
Before Friday, Andy had been speculating as to what I was going to wear to my Chrimbo night out as, much to the amusement of my work colleagues, I always wear a tie to work. He was jesting that I'd probably turn up in my shell suit and trainers or some such. With all this in mind, and since it was a special occasion, I thought I’d roll out the barrel.
While everyone else was probably enjoying a small tipple, beer or wine to kick off their night, before leaving the house, I was struggling with a bow tie. I knew I had to raise the stakes and thought it would be good for a laugh, so had dug it out before leaving the house. Mum and Dad had bought me the red tie last year after I purchased a tuxedo for some sort of, now forgotten, event. After a year of owning it you’d have thought it would have been a little easier to fit but with the complication of resizing it to the right neck width, which, thankfully, hasn't quite started expanding yet, I was somehow standing at the hall mirror for around ten to fifteen minutes.
As John and Andy greeted us at our chosen pew I pulled my scarf down from around my neck to reveal my glorious red bow tie. Andy laughed, shook his head and walked off to the bar to sort out his first pint. Anyway, my toil and effort at the hall mirror paid off as mostly everyone had a good laugh at the tie had a good laugh with me, or at me, whichever. Christine and Lorna were next to turn up, followed by Kathleen and then, eventually, Andy Noble and Andrea who'd taxi'd it over from Hamilton.
Dinner was average. A bread crumb covered Goats cheese as starter followed by a pretty minimal Christmas dinner. A grand total of two pieces of carrot were arranged with my turkey alongside a whole 2 baby potatoes. As always with Christmas dinner there did seem to be an abundance of sprouts rolling around the thin layer of gravy over the plate. Photos were taken, wine was drank, people were slagged, handbrakes dissected and vajazzles were discussed, perhaps a little too loudly. We did get a few looks and comments from a glamorous bunch of women at the next table, out for a Christmas night out themselves, who started chatting John and Andy up as we neared the end of dinner.
After a few glasses of red, the Chrimbo pudding turned up, a small circle of brown in the centre of a large plate. There wasn't even any sign of blue flame flickering over it.
The meal was sufficient. Another overpriced Christmas meal. But it's okay. What do you expect? It's Christmas? Restaurant meals always seem to shrink with the arrival of the chrimbo period. At least on this work chrimbo night out we weren't paying for any surprise wine bills.
After dinner we all descended to the lower levels of the Byre to enjoy the Swing night. A voice had been heard earlier in the night, emanating from the downstairs area so we all took our drinks down to check it out. Unfortunately, when we walked into the darker, louder bar, we realised there wasn't much in the way of swing going on. The 'voice' was no where to be seen. We chose a table anyway and all took a seat as Dave, who'd been silently elected as kitty man, went to the bar once more to sort us all out for drinks. Moments later the bunch of women, from the adjacent table in the dining room, filtered down the stairs and took a table in the corner of the room before the singer eventually crept out from the shadows, from his place at the bar and switched on his music machine. Before long he was swinging away on the small, slightly raised stage at the front of the bar, belting out a few Rat Pack tunes mixed with a couple of Christmas songs and a smattering of more modern numbers from the likes of The Killers and Robbie Williams. As the lower bar started to liven up with our presence we all started to get overly loud, and overly happy, myself especially, it would seem, as I've ended up on camera using a table Christmas tree decoration as some kind of phallic object, DVD Andy was caught in an odd moment of pleasure and John was caught letching the women from the other table.
As we all continued to enjoy the festive spirits, John was suddenly pulled up on to the dancefloor by a couple of the desperate housewives from the corner of the bar, after he'd been asked to do the honours and take a couple of photos. DVD Andy almost spat out his drink as John accepted and swung his way up to the dancefloor surrounded by an excited gaggle of the dancing ladies.
It was then that the wife turned up.
No, not John's wife. My wife.
Ka had been out for dinner in Glasgow with friends, Lynsey and Michelle. They'd enjoyed dinner at an Italian restaurant and then some spiced mulled wine at the German market in St. Enoch's Square. Since both Ka and Lynsey were heading back to East Kilbride on the train, they decided to crash our work night out, disembarking at Hairmyres and then pulling a chair up at our table as the Byre's singer crooned away. Unable to keep the pace, or just unwilling to be manhandled on to the dancefloor, Andy Noble and Andrea escaped early into a taxi leaving the rest of us to drink, dance and shout the rest of the night away.
Lorna, Christine and Kathleen were soon enticed up for a dance and making moves along with Andy and John, and even I was pulled up by one of the dancing women in the female gang of Christmas jivers. Lynsey and Ka made themselves welcome and even got a free glass of wine from the barman for their trouble and my cousin Chris dropped by the table for a quick chat, having just finished his shift in the kitchens.
As always, time seemed to travel faster with the alcohol consumption and before we knew it the Byre's crooner had left the stage, the music had deteriorated into unidentifiable noises and everyone started making their way home, or at least, to the bar upstairs, for a night cap, until our taxis turned up. The taxis waited, waited, and then drove off, replaced shortly afterwards with a short call from Dave on the mobile.
Needless to say the next morning was non existent.
It was afternoon before I managed to open my eyes, enough to watch the first half of 'The Mummy Returns' in bed. Couldn't quite manage the whole movie.
Last Friday night was the S&UN Chrimbo night out and nine of us gathered in EK’s The Byre for drinks and dinner. Since the depletion of our office work force we hadn't been out so it was good to have everyone out and socialising somewhere that wasn't a Hamilton newspaper office.
Dave and myself were the first to arrive with the help of a local taxi service run by his Mrs, Tracey, not forgetting his two wee boys. The two boys pestered Dave as he drove, demanding sweets and pizza, before we escaped into the warmth of the Byre, Dave immediately ordering up the first drinks while we awaited the arrival of our other work colleagues.
DVD Andy and Creamy Chicken John were next in the door, looking around the subdued golden colours on the bar for any recognisable faces, whilst me and Dave shouted repeatedly from the corner of the room, behind them.
Before Friday, Andy had been speculating as to what I was going to wear to my Chrimbo night out as, much to the amusement of my work colleagues, I always wear a tie to work. He was jesting that I'd probably turn up in my shell suit and trainers or some such. With all this in mind, and since it was a special occasion, I thought I’d roll out the barrel.
While everyone else was probably enjoying a small tipple, beer or wine to kick off their night, before leaving the house, I was struggling with a bow tie. I knew I had to raise the stakes and thought it would be good for a laugh, so had dug it out before leaving the house. Mum and Dad had bought me the red tie last year after I purchased a tuxedo for some sort of, now forgotten, event. After a year of owning it you’d have thought it would have been a little easier to fit but with the complication of resizing it to the right neck width, which, thankfully, hasn't quite started expanding yet, I was somehow standing at the hall mirror for around ten to fifteen minutes.
As John and Andy greeted us at our chosen pew I pulled my scarf down from around my neck to reveal my glorious red bow tie. Andy laughed, shook his head and walked off to the bar to sort out his first pint. Anyway, my toil and effort at the hall mirror paid off as mostly everyone had a good laugh at the tie had a good laugh with me, or at me, whichever. Christine and Lorna were next to turn up, followed by Kathleen and then, eventually, Andy Noble and Andrea who'd taxi'd it over from Hamilton.
Dinner was average. A bread crumb covered Goats cheese as starter followed by a pretty minimal Christmas dinner. A grand total of two pieces of carrot were arranged with my turkey alongside a whole 2 baby potatoes. As always with Christmas dinner there did seem to be an abundance of sprouts rolling around the thin layer of gravy over the plate. Photos were taken, wine was drank, people were slagged, handbrakes dissected and vajazzles were discussed, perhaps a little too loudly. We did get a few looks and comments from a glamorous bunch of women at the next table, out for a Christmas night out themselves, who started chatting John and Andy up as we neared the end of dinner.
After a few glasses of red, the Chrimbo pudding turned up, a small circle of brown in the centre of a large plate. There wasn't even any sign of blue flame flickering over it.
The meal was sufficient. Another overpriced Christmas meal. But it's okay. What do you expect? It's Christmas? Restaurant meals always seem to shrink with the arrival of the chrimbo period. At least on this work chrimbo night out we weren't paying for any surprise wine bills.
After dinner we all descended to the lower levels of the Byre to enjoy the Swing night. A voice had been heard earlier in the night, emanating from the downstairs area so we all took our drinks down to check it out. Unfortunately, when we walked into the darker, louder bar, we realised there wasn't much in the way of swing going on. The 'voice' was no where to be seen. We chose a table anyway and all took a seat as Dave, who'd been silently elected as kitty man, went to the bar once more to sort us all out for drinks. Moments later the bunch of women, from the adjacent table in the dining room, filtered down the stairs and took a table in the corner of the room before the singer eventually crept out from the shadows, from his place at the bar and switched on his music machine. Before long he was swinging away on the small, slightly raised stage at the front of the bar, belting out a few Rat Pack tunes mixed with a couple of Christmas songs and a smattering of more modern numbers from the likes of The Killers and Robbie Williams. As the lower bar started to liven up with our presence we all started to get overly loud, and overly happy, myself especially, it would seem, as I've ended up on camera using a table Christmas tree decoration as some kind of phallic object, DVD Andy was caught in an odd moment of pleasure and John was caught letching the women from the other table.
As we all continued to enjoy the festive spirits, John was suddenly pulled up on to the dancefloor by a couple of the desperate housewives from the corner of the bar, after he'd been asked to do the honours and take a couple of photos. DVD Andy almost spat out his drink as John accepted and swung his way up to the dancefloor surrounded by an excited gaggle of the dancing ladies.
It was then that the wife turned up.
No, not John's wife. My wife.
Ka had been out for dinner in Glasgow with friends, Lynsey and Michelle. They'd enjoyed dinner at an Italian restaurant and then some spiced mulled wine at the German market in St. Enoch's Square. Since both Ka and Lynsey were heading back to East Kilbride on the train, they decided to crash our work night out, disembarking at Hairmyres and then pulling a chair up at our table as the Byre's singer crooned away. Unable to keep the pace, or just unwilling to be manhandled on to the dancefloor, Andy Noble and Andrea escaped early into a taxi leaving the rest of us to drink, dance and shout the rest of the night away.
Lorna, Christine and Kathleen were soon enticed up for a dance and making moves along with Andy and John, and even I was pulled up by one of the dancing women in the female gang of Christmas jivers. Lynsey and Ka made themselves welcome and even got a free glass of wine from the barman for their trouble and my cousin Chris dropped by the table for a quick chat, having just finished his shift in the kitchens.
As always, time seemed to travel faster with the alcohol consumption and before we knew it the Byre's crooner had left the stage, the music had deteriorated into unidentifiable noises and everyone started making their way home, or at least, to the bar upstairs, for a night cap, until our taxis turned up. The taxis waited, waited, and then drove off, replaced shortly afterwards with a short call from Dave on the mobile.
Needless to say the next morning was non existent.
It was afternoon before I managed to open my eyes, enough to watch the first half of 'The Mummy Returns' in bed. Couldn't quite manage the whole movie.
Friday, 10 December 2010
Hiking and jackknifing
The snow is finally melting. We are now driving on actual tarmac rather than spinning around on half a foot of compressed snow and ice. I've never been so happy to drive unhindered in my life. No more digging my car out of a giant layers of snow or walking home to East Kilbride on the expressway. Well, not for the moment anyway.
On Monday night, after the biggest snowfall in decades, the expressway, the main dual carriageway into and out of the East Kilbride, had become near inpassable due to the weather.
Barry, Paul and myself walked home to East Kilbride, abandoning the cars in the work car park, hiking up the dual carriageway under a ghostly mist which hung down threateningly over the faded lights standing tall overhead in the darkness over the thick snow covered road, among the abandoned cars and the fellow walkers.
The road going into East Kilbride had been clogged up not only by the weather but by a Morrisons lorry jackknifing and the remaining traffic piling up behind, slowing to a near complete standstill. Not sure what was slowing all the outgoing traffic on the other side of the road up.
It may have been another jackknifed lorry. A Sainsburys one maybe. The two drivers having it out in the middle of the road. The abandoned cars all over the expressway only parked up to watch the big fight. Harry Hill shouting from behind a temporary desk in a nearby field.
Usually this dual carriageway would be buzzing with life. Traffic of all shapes and sizes blasting up and down it on either side. Hiking home on it all seemed very surreal. It reminded me of 'The Day After Tomorrow', the rather drab, silly movie with Dennis Quaid, in which he plays a climatologist who goes out in search of his son after a giant storm which throws the world into another ice age. Or something. Storms, snow, people collapsing in the snow. The collapsed people puffing and gasping, accidentally brushing some snow aside underneath them only to discover that their lying on the glass roof of central station. At which point it starts cracking...
Either that or a snowy version of 'The Day of the Dead'. Zombie like figures stumbling about the snow covered expressway wondering what to do.
It all puzzled me a little. We're on the expressway. That town over there, which you must of been driving towards with the high rise flats, is East Kilbride. These are legs. Those things at the end are feet. Why not try that walking thing?
Okay, there may have been the slight issue of abandoning your beloved motor, but it was either that or sitting in the beloved motor for an extremely long time which, in the end, would make it extremely unbeloved.
For instance, Ka hates Gillian's poor little car now as a result of sitting on a roundabout at Hamilton's Asda car park for at least three hours on the same night. Sitting anywhere near Hamilton's Asda is horrifying at the best of times what with all the Zombies that usually shop there.
Unfortunately I often find myself parking in Hamilton Asda, thanks to Ka who works in the town, and unfortunately I think my parked car has been hit by a 'fellow' shopper at least 50% of the time. Not because of my parking, you understand, but because most drivers in Hamilton, cannot drive nevermind park. They simply put their pedal down, turn the steering wheel and hope for the best. A seven year old in a dodgem would cause less damage to another vehicle than a Hamilton Asda shopper.
Anyway, thanks to the weather and the congested traffic the threat of having to spend the night at work became all too horrible to bear and Ka and Gillian sat it out, eventually getting home four and a half hours later than planned. It's amazing what folk will do in order to not spend the night at work.
It's also amazing what folk will do when not at work. Apparently there's folk going round in Kent somewhere nicking snowmen!
On Monday night, after the biggest snowfall in decades, the expressway, the main dual carriageway into and out of the East Kilbride, had become near inpassable due to the weather.
Barry, Paul and myself walked home to East Kilbride, abandoning the cars in the work car park, hiking up the dual carriageway under a ghostly mist which hung down threateningly over the faded lights standing tall overhead in the darkness over the thick snow covered road, among the abandoned cars and the fellow walkers.
The road going into East Kilbride had been clogged up not only by the weather but by a Morrisons lorry jackknifing and the remaining traffic piling up behind, slowing to a near complete standstill. Not sure what was slowing all the outgoing traffic on the other side of the road up.
It may have been another jackknifed lorry. A Sainsburys one maybe. The two drivers having it out in the middle of the road. The abandoned cars all over the expressway only parked up to watch the big fight. Harry Hill shouting from behind a temporary desk in a nearby field.
Usually this dual carriageway would be buzzing with life. Traffic of all shapes and sizes blasting up and down it on either side. Hiking home on it all seemed very surreal. It reminded me of 'The Day After Tomorrow', the rather drab, silly movie with Dennis Quaid, in which he plays a climatologist who goes out in search of his son after a giant storm which throws the world into another ice age. Or something. Storms, snow, people collapsing in the snow. The collapsed people puffing and gasping, accidentally brushing some snow aside underneath them only to discover that their lying on the glass roof of central station. At which point it starts cracking...
Either that or a snowy version of 'The Day of the Dead'. Zombie like figures stumbling about the snow covered expressway wondering what to do.
It all puzzled me a little. We're on the expressway. That town over there, which you must of been driving towards with the high rise flats, is East Kilbride. These are legs. Those things at the end are feet. Why not try that walking thing?
Okay, there may have been the slight issue of abandoning your beloved motor, but it was either that or sitting in the beloved motor for an extremely long time which, in the end, would make it extremely unbeloved.
For instance, Ka hates Gillian's poor little car now as a result of sitting on a roundabout at Hamilton's Asda car park for at least three hours on the same night. Sitting anywhere near Hamilton's Asda is horrifying at the best of times what with all the Zombies that usually shop there.
Unfortunately I often find myself parking in Hamilton Asda, thanks to Ka who works in the town, and unfortunately I think my parked car has been hit by a 'fellow' shopper at least 50% of the time. Not because of my parking, you understand, but because most drivers in Hamilton, cannot drive nevermind park. They simply put their pedal down, turn the steering wheel and hope for the best. A seven year old in a dodgem would cause less damage to another vehicle than a Hamilton Asda shopper.
Anyway, thanks to the weather and the congested traffic the threat of having to spend the night at work became all too horrible to bear and Ka and Gillian sat it out, eventually getting home four and a half hours later than planned. It's amazing what folk will do in order to not spend the night at work.
It's also amazing what folk will do when not at work. Apparently there's folk going round in Kent somewhere nicking snowmen!
Tuesday, 21 April 2009
Auldhouse folk
Off work this week and have just finished another spot of DIY home improvement. Tim Allen would be proud. Yep, you guessed it. More painting - but not of the canvas variety.
Apart from that I've been spending most of my time suffering from a cold. Olbused to the hilt and drinking hot drinks regularly while the skin of my red nose crumbles away. Very attractive. Yesterday I very much lazed about after the weekend which included a visit to Troon on Sunday, visiting Tom and Linda with Gran and a meal out in East Kilbride on Saturday night in Chows, a great little Chinese restaurant in the old village.
We decided to roll out the barrel and go down to the Village in a cab just so we could both partake in a little glass of wine with dinner. The taxi pulled up outside and as Ka and myself clambered into the car's backseat I realised I recognised the driver. It was Raymond, or Big Raymondo, as he was sometimes known, from the Auldhouse. He is not literally from Auldhouse, he was a regular in the Auldhouse Bar, in the pub I used to work in through my student days and a little beyond. Auldhouse is a very small village just north of EK and has a pub, a school and a small assortment of cottages and houses. So little houses and cottages in fact that the only people who came to the Auldhouse for a drink were all from down the road in EK. Anyway, both pleasantly surprised to see one another, we had a quick ten minute catch up as he drove us down to the Village. You know the kind. How are you doing? Where are you working now? You'll never believe who is dead? etc. Whenever I meet these kind of people with Ka and chat away, I sometimes forget to introduce her leaving her to guess who the hell they are. She quite often gets it right and before I can say anything on departing from the meeting she'd nod and say 'Auldhouse folk'. The majority of the folk up there were all regulars and mostly a good bunch and a good laugh, making the shifts pass a little easier after days full of uni. Wallace Cameron the mandolin player with his cigars and Bunnahabhain, On eyed Alan, Wee Raymond the pipe smoker, Statler and Waldorf (can't remember their real names), Scott and his crazy wife, Nigel the mustachioed teacher from across the road and loads more. A lot of characters which I could sit and writie about till the Auldhouse cows came home.
After yet another promise to one day visit Auldhouse again and show Ka the wonders of the old pub we jumped out the taxi and into the sunny evening in the Village. I've always known it as the Village but these days there are more and more people calling it the Old Village as if there is a new one somewhere else in EK. It is the oldest part of East Kilbride, where it all started around eighty years ago. From then the Village grew and mutated, spreading out over the surrounding lands and in 1947 become one of the official 'new towns' of Scotland with the growth in Industrial development and the town's divisions into seperate residential areas (Westwood, Calderwood, etc). One of the oldest buildings in the whole town is one of my Dad's haunts. The Montgomerie Arms. We popped into it after the chinese for a wee drink on our way up the road for the bus and were pleasantly surprised by the friendly, lively atmosphere. There are three main sections in the 'Monte', the main downstairs bar, the side lounge bar and the upstairs cocktail bar. My Dad occasionally drops by on a Saturday evening, drinking in the downstairs lounge area with his mates and I made sure I had a quick scout about just incase he was around. Recognising a few of his mates I nodded in greeting but moved on upstairs. The upstairs is called a cocktail bar but I'm not sure why. The only difference I can see between the upstairs and downstairs is that it has a carpet and a few more cushioned benches. With no cushioned benches left we sat at the bar and as I stood, looking around I spotted more than a few familiar faces from who knows where. Folk I knew to see but could not remember from where. Probably folk from the Auldhouse days.
Apart from that I've been spending most of my time suffering from a cold. Olbused to the hilt and drinking hot drinks regularly while the skin of my red nose crumbles away. Very attractive. Yesterday I very much lazed about after the weekend which included a visit to Troon on Sunday, visiting Tom and Linda with Gran and a meal out in East Kilbride on Saturday night in Chows, a great little Chinese restaurant in the old village.
We decided to roll out the barrel and go down to the Village in a cab just so we could both partake in a little glass of wine with dinner. The taxi pulled up outside and as Ka and myself clambered into the car's backseat I realised I recognised the driver. It was Raymond, or Big Raymondo, as he was sometimes known, from the Auldhouse. He is not literally from Auldhouse, he was a regular in the Auldhouse Bar, in the pub I used to work in through my student days and a little beyond. Auldhouse is a very small village just north of EK and has a pub, a school and a small assortment of cottages and houses. So little houses and cottages in fact that the only people who came to the Auldhouse for a drink were all from down the road in EK. Anyway, both pleasantly surprised to see one another, we had a quick ten minute catch up as he drove us down to the Village. You know the kind. How are you doing? Where are you working now? You'll never believe who is dead? etc. Whenever I meet these kind of people with Ka and chat away, I sometimes forget to introduce her leaving her to guess who the hell they are. She quite often gets it right and before I can say anything on departing from the meeting she'd nod and say 'Auldhouse folk'. The majority of the folk up there were all regulars and mostly a good bunch and a good laugh, making the shifts pass a little easier after days full of uni. Wallace Cameron the mandolin player with his cigars and Bunnahabhain, On eyed Alan, Wee Raymond the pipe smoker, Statler and Waldorf (can't remember their real names), Scott and his crazy wife, Nigel the mustachioed teacher from across the road and loads more. A lot of characters which I could sit and writie about till the Auldhouse cows came home.
After yet another promise to one day visit Auldhouse again and show Ka the wonders of the old pub we jumped out the taxi and into the sunny evening in the Village. I've always known it as the Village but these days there are more and more people calling it the Old Village as if there is a new one somewhere else in EK. It is the oldest part of East Kilbride, where it all started around eighty years ago. From then the Village grew and mutated, spreading out over the surrounding lands and in 1947 become one of the official 'new towns' of Scotland with the growth in Industrial development and the town's divisions into seperate residential areas (Westwood, Calderwood, etc). One of the oldest buildings in the whole town is one of my Dad's haunts. The Montgomerie Arms. We popped into it after the chinese for a wee drink on our way up the road for the bus and were pleasantly surprised by the friendly, lively atmosphere. There are three main sections in the 'Monte', the main downstairs bar, the side lounge bar and the upstairs cocktail bar. My Dad occasionally drops by on a Saturday evening, drinking in the downstairs lounge area with his mates and I made sure I had a quick scout about just incase he was around. Recognising a few of his mates I nodded in greeting but moved on upstairs. The upstairs is called a cocktail bar but I'm not sure why. The only difference I can see between the upstairs and downstairs is that it has a carpet and a few more cushioned benches. With no cushioned benches left we sat at the bar and as I stood, looking around I spotted more than a few familiar faces from who knows where. Folk I knew to see but could not remember from where. Probably folk from the Auldhouse days.
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