Little talk of monsters

At ten past nine on Friday night Of Monsters and Men took to the stage, emerging from the dark shadows behind the instruments like creeping, dark woodland creatures from one of their own songs. After some uncertainty about what to expect on the night, our first night out childless after the birth of Sophie, we stood transfixed in the packed O2 Academy for the duration of the following hour and a half, bewitched by the Icelandic act’s music. The bands two lead singers Ragnar Pórhallsson and Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir held us and the rest of the crowd’s attention easily with their beautiful, soulful voices which accompanied the other five musicians on stage before the packed old cinema house. Of Monsters and Men are probably classed as something along the lines of indie folk rock but have a very distinctive sound. An earthy, melodic, exciting noise that rears from quiet ballad to epic drums, Of Monsters and Men's music is a mix of Arcade Fire, Mumford and Sons and, fellow Icelandic band, Sigur Ros. Merely comparing them to other bands however probably doesn’t do them justice and could possibly act as a distraction to anyone considering listening to them.
Whilst running on the treadmill one day last year I happened to notice the fantastic video for their first single “Little talks” on the gym’s tv screens and I’ve been enjoying the band’s music since. The animated music video tells the story of five sky sailors (the five blokes in the band) discovering a meteor and a mythical female creature, played by female lead singer, Nanna. The rest of the video follows the sailors as they decide to try and help the female creature get home and back to her people depicting the story of them on their dangerous, treacherous journey.
The animated video itself reminded me of the kind of artwork created by the likes of Dave McKean and Neil Gaiman, the basic, child like depictions of the moving figures reminded me of J.R.R. Tolkien’s own illustrations for his Middle Earth books.
The video was actually created and produced by design team We Were Monkeys, Mihai Wilson and Marcella Moser, and since the single “Little Talks” the same team have went on to create another video for the band's next single, “King and Lionheart”.
After downloading their first album “My Head is an Animal” last November, Ka bought us tickets after hearing of their live tour hitting Glasgow in February not quite comprehending the feelings of uncertainty and guilt we’d be feeling at having to leave a 13 week old baby behind when the night of the gig actually came around.
so we travelled into Glasgow on Friday night leaving the sleeping Sophie in the care of my Mum and Dad. Lynsey Ann had also invited herself round and was going to join Mum and Dad for dinner, a large fish supper bought from Emanuels around the corner, whilst Sophie's mild snoring buzzed out from the small baby monitor at the end of the couch. So, after giving Sophie one final check, as she lay sound asleep in the moses basket, we bid Mum and Dad farewell and jumped in the car to head for Gardenhall.
Ka and myself were not the only ones going to the gig. Pauline and her mate from work, Dawn, had also purchased tickets for the same concert at some point at the end of last year and I offered my services as taxi driver. Ka and myself left the house on time, and drove round to Pauline's house to pick the two work colleagues up only to find the two of them supping beers and just beginning the process of putting their dinner out. Sitting patiently with our jackets on Ka and myself watched the two of them eat, not making them feel rushed at all, whilst Pauline repeatedly told us how she loved us, before the four of us finally headed into town. Unfortunately we missed the support act and when we left the square bar nearest the large hall’s entrance after purchasing our first drink we only then realised how busy the place was.
It wasn’t just busy, it was mobbed busy. I hadn’t expected such a strong crowd for the folkie band from Iceland and had obviously completely underestimated their popularity. It didn’t stop us fighting our way down through the hall to the front of the main standing area within only a few metres from the front of the stage. It was a great gig with the band’s two singers, Pórhallsson and Hilmarsdóttir, on top form with their acoustic guitars and their vocals, working perfectly together, bouncing off one another just as they mirrored one another, standing at the front of the stage, under the lights and in the dry ice, left and right, male and female, left handed and right handed whilst the other guitarists worked around them, the trumpets and pianos played to their right and the tall, bearded drummer with the big, whacky hair yelled at the crowd from behind his kit on their left.
After giving Dawn a quick lift to the bus station to await her journey home, and getting Pauline back to Gardenhall, Ka and myself rushed home around half past eleven to find Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann chilling out before our television. They’d spent the evening watching the Coen Brothers’ patter filled classic The Big Labowski for the first time. After taking off our jackets Ka and myself individually checked Sophie who I don’t think had moved since we’d left four hours earlier. Our wee baby girl remained sound asleep in the moses basket, proving that we could in fact, contrary to paranoid feelings of guilt, leave our sleeping baby safely in someone else’s care for an evening. This proven fact will hopefully come in handy in the years to come, though we probably will need a little more practice at it.

Door locks, brake pads and hoover shocks

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.

Popcorn, treasure hunts and the furry pencil case

“Papa’s juice, papa’s juice!”
“No Joshua, this is my house, so this is Michael’s juice”
“Papa’s juice!”
My nephew, Joshua, and myself had this argument a few times over the weekend. Robinsons fruit juice apparently has a pseudonym of ‘Papa’s juice’, a name that is not known, at least not yet, in the Reid household. Joshua’s only allowed a certain amount of Robinsons juice as he follows a strict diet of as little sugary drinks as possible even though he had a more than healthy helping of the massive bag of popcorn I purchased for his sister, Morgan and myself at the cinema a few hours before.
Ka and myself picked the two terrors up at around 2 on Saturday afternoon for a trip to the cinema to see Madagascar 3 and Alex the Lion, Marty the Zebra, Gloria the Hippo, and Melman the Giraffe. We were then heading back to ours to house the niece and nephew for the night whilst Angela and Steven went out to a friend’s 40th birthday party.
As it was mid Saturday afternoon by the time we got there, the cinema was busy and crowded with families buying tickets for the latest Dreamworks animation. Ka and myself both had our cineworld unlimited cards at the ready but it somehow still managed to cost us £12? £12 for two kids to see a cartoon? Unbelievable.
It must be a flamin’ fortune to go to the cinema as a family these days.
We proceeded upstairs via the great glass elevator which moves up the corner of the building, looking out over the northern end of the city centre. Port Dundas Street stretching out ahead, leading up through the bustling crowds of buses, cars and shoppers towards the quieter streets beyond and the joys of the M8. On reaching the fourth floor, the four of us piled out into the foyer where we joined the queue for some sweet popcorn. The last time Ka and myself took Morgan to the flicks I’d tempted Morgan with a bag of Butterkist from the kitchen cupboard which she quickly rejected as her Dad apparently bought her the special cinema popcorn every time she went. So, with this in mind, I joined the queue and upon reaching the counter, asked for a bag of popcorn from the baseball capped foyer attendant.
Regular or large, I was asked. First I wondered what happened to the small. Perhaps management had rejected it as they could slap as big a price on it. I asked the becapped girl what the difference in size was.
“Well” the girl shrugged, lifting the two paperbags, holding up the small, purple paper bag and the large, A4 sized, yellow bag. “The regular is £4.45 and the large is £4.95, it’s only a difference of 50p”. I’m glad she pointed that last snippet out as I would have been there all day working that one out. Upon hearing the prices being verbalized before me, I asked her to repeat herself suspecting I had misheard.
I was wrong I hadn’t misheard her reply. £4.95 for a bag of cinema popcorn. I almost asked her to repeat herself again but then decided against it, seeing Ka, Joshua and Morgan waiting patiently for me at the side of the queue. If it’s a fiver for a bag of popcorn how much is it for one of those ludicrous looking hotdogs or those plates of Doritos and guacamole?
Why do people eat this stuff in cinemas anyway?
Doritos, okay, that’s fine, I suppose. But why guacamole? Could there be a blander condiment on the planet? And why those stinking hot dogs with the completely ridiculous amount of tomato sauce zig zagged over them? I can’t imagine anything worse than sitting through the duration of a movie having one of those giant sausages squirming about in your stomach in a pool of red sauce.
You see some people walking up the cinema aisle to their seats, hands and arms laden with hotdogs, plates of doritos, bags of popcorns and giant cokes. How can they sit and each that much stuff, never mind pay for it?
Anyway, Madagascar 3 was great. Well, for kids anyway… or if you like listening to Chris Rock for an hour and a half…

Unfortunately I don’t, but the film did have some other things going for it. Full of fantastic colour and craziness the story was like a speeding circus train, racing through it’s scenes and landscapes. Much to the kids amusement. Especially Joshua, whose favourite toys and tv shows just happen to be “choo-choos!”.
After the cinema we headed off home, to East Kilbride making a quick stop at the Fort Morrisons for pizza, another of Joshua’s favourites. We hunted the store for the freshly made variety, circling the entirety of the store before ending back up in the fruit and veg aisle, not two meters from where we started out.
Getting home we unpacked the boot, lifting the various backpacks, bags, guitars, teddy beds, Thomas the tanks and teddy bears into the house, reminding the kids of the last time they had visited when the place was a mess of chairs and relations, not to mention the giant bouncy castle in the back garden. Needless to say there wasn’t a bouncy castle this time around, although there was a treasure hunt which I put together in my last half hour of work on the Friday evening.
Before the treasure hunt, and as time was marching relentlessly on, we decided to ready Joshua’s bed and build the Dream N’Play travel cot borrowed from the McGarva household. Ka and myself worked at it for around half an hour, whilst Joshua continuously circled us, telling us how Papa could do it. After some struggle we ended up phoning Dougie, who informed us it was Steven who built it in their house. Not wanting to disturb Steven on his first night off for a long time we worked at it a little longer before I ended up on google and read of how a pregnant woman with a baby in one arm, could erect the folding cot with a heavy flick of the one free wrist. Needless to say we then found ourselves on the phone to Steven and just as he was about to leave the house in Bothwell to travel over and give us a hand, the cot seemed to suddenly coalesce, almost as if the thing had a mind of it’s own and had been having us on the whole time just like that moment when the Delorean’s engine roared to life when Marty headbutted the steering wheel. Almost collapsing back on to the spare room’s floor, like Doc at the end of Back to the Futrue 2, we all celebrated, high fives all round and we quickly called Steven back to tell him to continue to ready himself for the party.
So, the treasure hunt could begin. This hunt basically consisted of eight rhyming clues and a treasure map with which I led the kids around the house, on a hopefully exciting, but needlessly tiring, journey to find two bags of gold coins Ka had bought the previous week. Okay, it wasn’t exactly the most bountiful of treasures, but it did work in keeping them entertained, whilst the pizzas were baking in the oven.
After having run up and down the stairs a few times, visiting various rooms, getting our feet muddy in the garden, getting the bedroom carpet dirty from the garden, getting Ka to shout at us about it, and almost smashing the living room clock, the kids eventually ended up at the base of our dying yukka plant, digging down into it’s soil with their hands and pulling out a bag of gold coins each. A bag of gold coins and more than a few dollops of dry, crumbly soil which successfully exploded over the surrounding living room carpet. Fortunately Ka was in the kitchen and missed this. I quickly instructed the kids to run through to the kitchen and demand their coins to be cleaned, keeping her occupied, whilst I dived into the kitchen cupboard for our tall, trusty white plastic friend, the J. Edgar.
Following the treasure hunt we all sat down to watch the last ten minutes of Strictly Come Dancing and eat our pizza, the quietest the kids had been all day, and that included the cinema. Joshua was then put to his bed, the now fully functioning, or at least fully standing, Dream N’Play travel cot and Morgan set up the Snakes and Ladders interrupted by Ka giving the supposedly sleeping Joshua a quick check upstairs. He was awake and needing changed.
Oh my god.
I had never known such a smell existed. I called the army and warned them of a suspected toxic blast in the Calderwood area after I quickly disposed of the heavy white, padded bag given over to me. I had to put it straight into the wheelie bin outside. Regretting my actions almost instantly I then feared for my wheelie bin’s life. I’d probably go out the next morning to find a sizzling mound of melted green plastic that used to be our two wheeled, refuge collecting, green friend.
And there it would be sitting. Joshua’s nappy perched on top, still steaming.
On the past Wednesday mornings since moving in, when we’ve put the bin out for collection, it’s always been full to bursting and as a result the birds have been circling it, pecking at the bags exposed by the half open lid. Gawd helped any bird that dared to have a peck at that blighter.
What about the bin men themselves? They’d have to put that in their lorry? Do they get paid danger money?
If it gets out I could wake up one morning with the whole street in quarantine! Dustin Hoffman talking to me from behind the mask of a protective suit.

Anyway, whilst the nappy lay in the wheelie outside, the smell safely contained upstairs, unfortunately in the room where I was to spend the night in the futon alongside the travel cot, our Saturday night continued.
Pictionary with the furry pencil case followed the snakes and ladders.
Not two days before, whilst rummaging through some more boxes in my Mum and Dad’s loft, I found my trusty furry pencil case. Mum recognized it immediately after I’d brought it down. Mum had designed and created this furry pencil case when I was around seven or eight, for all my many coloured pencils, pens and other various drawing implements. Upon inspecting it’s innards I discovered it still held functioning felt pens so I brought it home for the weekend and for my niece to use for her drawings.
Unfortunately Morgan wasn’t too impressed and insisted on using her own black pen to draw her stories which we were obviously supposed to know. Ka used her illustrative skills to depict Blackpool as a steep pyramid built by the blind Egyptians with Christmas lights and I attempted the old woman that lived in the shoe.
That old woman had so many children she didn’t know what to do. We were looking after two for the night and we didn’t know what to do. We were knackered. Cinemas, treasure hunts, pizzas and snakes and ladders all seemed to work though. The old woman in the shoe obviously wasn’t that creative, she just whipped them all and put them to bed. If the old woman were around today she more than likely find herself getting reported to the RSPCC.
Still, it was all good practice.

Gorillas, gritted teeth and grannies

£155. Brilliant. That’s the total I’ve managed to raise thanks to all those that sponsored me in my Glasgow 10k on the 2nd September. 310% of my predicted sponsor target. Fantastic. Facebook, email and twitter made using the Just Giving site so much easier so no one could have missed it really and even it they did, the sponsor page is still there, so it’s never too late!
Like I said I couldn’t have done it without you guys that gave your hard earned cash to such a worthwhile cause, Glasgow Sands, so thanks very much all of you, (you know who you are!).
The whole experience wasn’t without a certain amount of pain and hardship though as I did suffer a little for around four days. It wasn’t until the following Friday that I actually started regaining my usual walking abilities and stopped moving like a hungover John Wayne who’d been up all night. Going up and down stairs turned into an exceptional challenge, lurching up and down, like a limping Robocop. I’ve only got myself to blame, of course, it was the first time I’d ran 10k in a oner and I got very little training in beforehand. I even had to put the usual thrice a week trips to the gym on hold while we flitted at the turn of the month. If training for a 10k had included loading, lifting and the unpacking of heavy boxes, not to mention the seemingly constant use of a screwdriver, I would have completed the run in no time with no unfortunate after effects. Never before had small, menial, tasks been such hard work such as getting up off the couch and walking to the kitchen to make a brew. All with gritted teeth and noises and muttered sweary words.
The after effects didn’t actually kick in until the Monday morning when I had tried to get out of bed. I thought a gorilla had came in during the night and attacked me, refraining from waking me during the assault, as I slept.
Mysterious, nocturnal, gorillas aside, immediately after the race, under Nelson’s Monument on Glasgow Green, I’d felt great.
The run had gone well.
Later the results were published on the official website I had taken 58 minutes and 1 second.
Standing there, in Glasgow Green, I knew I had done it in around 58 minutes as I had timed myself with my trusty Rotary. I had aimed for under an hour at least so I was quite pleased with myself. Unfortunately I had no one to celebrate with.
Ka and the Mums and Dad’s had travelled into Glasgow to cheer us runners, Colin, Jillian and myself, off the starting line in George Square and, presumably, had the intention of cheering us over the finishing line. As I ran up through the last leg of the route, over Victoria Bridge and up Clyde Street and Greendyke Street into the Green, hollering crowds on either side, there had been no sign of the wife or either of the couples so I had assumed that I had missed them among the colourful, cheering crowd. As I slowed to a trot beyond the finishing line I picked up my medal, the traditional bag of runners’ goodies, and avoided the giant boxes of bananas, (I don’t like bananas… not sure why?) at the foot of Glasgow Green’s needle walked out on to the green picking a spot to stand and wait for anyone who may want to run up and congratulate me.
Nobody did.
Instead I watched all the others runners coming out through the finishing gates picking up their own medals and getting their goodie bags and then being greeted by loved ones over the surrounding temporary metal fencing.
I wasn’t bothered. I had run it in under and hour. I had seen it, even if no one else had. I kept an eye out for any of the ‘support’ but none could be seen. Not even the wife. Typical.
Around ten minutes later I spotted the familiar sight of Jillian in her Sands T-shirt, making her way through the puffed out running crowd, in the expanding queues for the medal, goodie bag and banana collection, a big smile on her ever so slightly red face. The brother-in-law’s missus to be, turned thirty that day and was celebrating by crossing yet another finishing line before she headed down to Newcastle for the Great North Run later in the month. This 10k was probably a mere walk in the park.
Jillian and myself then headed further down the park to the fencing at the side of the finishing line where we eventually met Ka and the meandering Mums and Dads who’d missed me because, on the long, tiring, arduous, walk down from George Square, they had felt the need for a McFlurry. In her wisdom, Ka had refused and walked on but had still managed to miss me, by a matter of minutes we worked out. However, minutes is everything when it comes to this kind of thing (especially 2 minutes, that’s donkeys… as long as it’s under an hour).

Ka has an excuse, of course, so I let her off, the fact that she’s currently carrying another Reid lifeform in her belly, (an excuse she uses way too often to be honest), and after we cheered Colin over the line we headed off, back to George Square to celebrate Jillian’s birthday over lunch in the Italian La Vita Pizzeria. We had tried the Greek Restaurant Elie first, where we met the rest of Jillian’s family, but the staff of Elie claimed half past twelve was too early to serve 12 hungry people, on a Sunday afternoon. This was the be only the first meeting for Jillian’s birthday though as her highly anticipated Muppets and friends 30th Birthday party was to follow the next Saturday in Kirkintilloch. Unfotunately, however, this was not be be, as Jillian’s wee Gran, Helen Hodge passed away early on that week.
Helen had not been too well the previous week and had been thought to be on the road to recovery and had missed Jillian’s birthday lunch whilst recuperating. So when Saturday did come around we all sadly found ourselves attending a funeral, rather than a birthday party, remembering the little 90 year old lady, with the seemingly endless energy with which she had constantly travelled up and down the country with her family, visiting relatives and seeing the sights whilst still attending all the party’s going and even the odd clubbing night. There is no doubt Helen will be sorely missed in the Hood household, not to mention the family parties, but forever remembered.
Like all grannies. Each one a massive cog in the machine of the family.
When that cog stops turning you wonder if the rest will keep going, knowing there’ll be none, in any way, similar to take it’s place.
Somehow though, the cogs do keep turning.
It’s the remembering of loved ones lost that sometimes keeps you going.
Why else would you go to the bother of running 10k?
Certainly not for your health.
My ankle still hurts.
But it was worth it.

A quick message about a wee run!

Hello everyone!
Please sponsor me a £1, £2, anything you've got?!
It's all in aid of SANDS, Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Society and in memory of little Lucy Reid.
I'm running 10k tomorrow, Sunday 2nd September, in Glasgow and am looking for you, kind friends, family, readers, and folk out there, to sponsor me something, anything, to make it all the more worthwhile.

I've never ran 10k in a oner before, so it should be interesting...

Thanks in advance to all those that click this link: https://www.justgiving.com/Michael-ReidforLucy

Messed up

It’s all kicking off. The Olympics have started already and Danny Boyle hasn’t even had a chance to complain about the BBC yet. The Olympic football games have started ahead of the official opening ceremony this Friday night in Stratford.
Cardiff’s Millennium Stadium hosted Team GB’s win over New Zealand yesterday afternoon whilst Scotland hosted France, USA, Colombia and North Korea at Hampden Park, in Mount Florida. Let’s hope the USA weren’t expecting theme parks and Mickey Mouse.
Saying that, there must have been some kind of Mickey Mouse outfit in charge of the Hampden graphics as the North Korean Women’s football team stormed off the pitch in a huff tonight after the South Korean flag was shown alongside pictures of the team’s players on the big screens. Not a great start.
Still, what did they expect going to Glasgow for a game of football? Of course it was going to end up in a fight.
My disappearing fourth year Art School tutor suddenly reappeared on a STV news report about the whole affair claiming he didn’t have a clue what was going on. That’s not great considering the man’s a graphic designer.
On the way home the motorway yesterday signals warned of Olympic traffic and instructed which turn off to take to head for the Olympic football. I didn’t notice any Olympic traffic. In fact the traffic seemed it’s usual mundane self, quieter than usual if anything. Throughout the day there had been emails going around the work giving Olympic football tickets away. One of the guy’s in the daily record marketing department was giving a large bundle away for free. Graeme, who works opposite me in the office, had tickets and almost seemed desperate to get rid of them.
Earlier, on the company’s intranet, I found out I was one of 10 lucky winners to receive the new Rolling stones 50 book, a tome detailing the Rolling Stones’ lifetime through photographs taken by the newspaper company throughout the many long years. It was a staff only competition and one which didn’t require much effort, only the ability to type your name and address which I just about managed.
And yes, my address is still the same. We’re still waiting to hear back with regards to our mortgage for our potential new house but are not much further forward since the last time I wrote on this blog. Phonecalls have been made, emails have been sent and solicitor forms have been filled out and posted but still no news. Perhaps by the end of this week we’ll know something. Considering house buying is possibly one of the biggest decisions of your life, not to mention one of the most costly, these solicitors and mortgage companies just leave you hanging. Probably sneering at you on the other end of the phone as you sit and stress about the upcoming deadlines, cash worries and form filling.
As a short break away from it all we’re off to Leven at the weekend. Aunt Anne decided it was about time we had another family trip so this time we’re all meeting up for a family BBQ on a beach somewhere around the Crail, Fife region on Sunday. Tom and Linda are camping with Jim and James up in Crail. Laurence and Maria are also camping somewhere with Megan and Lauren. Anne and Ian are staying in a fancy hotel whilst Ka, Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann and myself are staying at a hotel in Leven throughout the Saturday before travelling up to the yet to be disclosed location on the Sunday.
All this money talk and the signing of lives away is getting a little tiring so a brief respite may revitalise us a little.
Bump is growing too. We took another trip to Hairmyres Hospital last Friday morning for another scan and Baby Reid wouldn’t sit still for two minutes. Jumping about all over the place, she was, making it more than a little difficult for the Registrar and the Consultant, Dr. Ferguson, to get proper measurements of baby’s various body parts.
Notice how I said ‘she’ there?
Yes, after we asked the question once more, the registrar looked into the shadowy depths of the computer screen before him and mumbled a reply of female. Dr. Ferguson agreed having hummed and hawed and then eventually coming to that conclusion the last time. Another little girl.
A rather energetic, crazy, non stop little girl. Much like her mother I suspect as when Lucy was still in her mummy’s tummy she’d been more like myself. Lying back, relaxing in it’s womby waters, albeit with the occasional Blockbusters hand jive spotted more than once on the scan monitors.
This new little one won’t sit at peace for two minutes.
On Sunday Ka jumped on more than one occasion whilst sitting in the cinema and it wasn’t down to the break in any tense action sequence or sudden fright.
Either the loud voices, echoing bangs or roaring engines from the surrounding cinema were disturbing baby or she was just enjoying herself in there just as much as her mother was, sitting watching Christian Bale in the leather bat outfit.
Earlier in the week Ka had awoken from a dream in which she had been having an affair with Christian Bale. Not only that, but Christian Bale was her Dad’s brother.
“Wouldn’t that make him your Uncle?” I frowned, over my orange juice that morning.
“Yes” Ka nodded. “But in my dream, it didn’t matter”.
“Sleeping with your Uncle?” I continued to frown. “That’s just messed up”.
What was even more messed up, and unfortunately far more real, was what was to follow on the Friday night at a midnight showing of the new Batman movie, over in Aurora, Colorado.
A horrendous nightmare as yet another crazy person with a couple of guns, dressed and, quite obviously, disturbed, walked into a cinema, intent on killing.
For some reason.
12 people dead and 58 injured.
And yet, what do the people of Colorado do? Go out and buy more guns. According to the BBC website, in the days following the Colorado shooting, applications for the purchase of a gun were 43% higher than the previous week.
Is this the answer? Does this make people feel better?
I’m not so sure.

Monopoly and waffles

The clouds filled the sky on Saturday morning whilst only a slight spit of rain fell through the air as Ka, Grace and myself readied ourselves to take part in another 5k Big Fun Run in Bellahouston Park. The three of us had once more donned the Sands T-shirts, complete with pinned running numbers and our pictures of Lucy. Dougie stood at the side of the track, voted bag and camera carrier as he still nursed a sore ankle from a previous misadventure in the gym. Angela was on her way into town with Morgan and Joshua but had already called to say she had once more successfully got herself lost and had had to stop at Ibrox to ask for directions. Not the best place to ask directions, I thought, considering how long it’s been since they obviously lost their way.
Ka’s sister hadn't done much better than me though. After successfully taking the turn off for Govan from the M8, instead of taking an immediate left after the first right turning at the lights, which should have taken me down Paisley Road West, I decided to carry on, past Ibrox and down Edmiston Drive. It wasn’t until we reached Southern General Hospital that I realised I was way off course and performed a swift U-turn.
After picking up our numbers and carrying out a brief warm up on the track, we were off once more, running the same route that we had done last September, except this time with a little less rain.

At around the 29 minute mark I crossed the finishing line, Dougie missing me with the camera as Angela, Morgan and Joshua had just arrived from their travels. 29 minutes was Dougie’s approximation anyway although the time it took to go around the tree lined 5k route seemed a little longer, and a little tougher, this time around which doesn’t really bode well for the 10k to be completed this September.
Ka crossed the finishing line at approximately 45 minutes followed eventually by Grace, who was walking the lap with two other girls raising money for Yorkhill Hospital. After a visit to the swing park where Joshua squatted on the spring mounted wooden animal and dropped lolly pops and a quick coffee in the Leisure Centre’s café, we headed home, Morgan hitching a ride with Ka and myself back to Kenilworth.
The pursuit of money. A game of power, greed, financial domination, property ownership, riches, taxes and possible bankruptcy. Again, nothing to do with Rangers F.C. but a minor game of Monopoly, one of Morgan’s favourites. However, if my niece was a football team I certainly know which one she’d be. She tries everything within her power in order to not have to pay her taxes, bills and other various fines imposed upon her by the board, the Chance and the Community Chest cards. I think she tried everything but the “Look Madonna!” tactic in order to avoid paying her dues. Once she realised she was playing with someone that checked the rulebook every five minutes though she got a little fed up and began to lose interest.
The two of us were crouched over the board on the open space of carpet in the living room, rolling the dice and diligently moving our pieces around the square of London locations.
As the afternoon wore on Morgan and I continued to lightheartedly argue and complain, swiping our credit cards through the banker’s calculator as Ka objected about the volume of our game busy, getting herself ready for our visit to Tommy and Tricia’s for a BBQ that night.
At first Ka shouted at us from the kitchen, her showered hair wrapped up in a towel, whilst she grilled us waffles for lunch. The waffles caused a rather confused look over Morgan’s face at first as Ka asked her if she’d like wAffles. Waffles with the double A.
With that little frown Morgan had entered into a debate that has been raging in the Reid household for some time.
“You mean waffles Auntie Ka?” she puzzled, pronounced with the ‘of’, a pronunciation I have been trying to implement into our day to day lives for years. Silently, and smugly, I nodded at Morgan and looked up at Ka’s slightly exasperated face as she struggled not to acknowledge my superior, silent, linguistic, victory.
That was before my victorious conclusion to the game as we counted up our final amounts, whilst Ka reminded me, once again, that Morgan was eight, a fact, I told Ka, that I was more than aware of.
Counting our final sums didn’t take too long as they don’t even have cash in Monopoly any more?!
In the edition we have you use credit cards and swipe them through either the plus or minus side of the calculator. I suspect I missed Morgan using the plus side of the calculator when she was paying her taxes a few times as I only narrowly won by a couple of hundred bucks when it came to the final count up just before Angela, Steven and Joshua arrived.
Our own, real life, adventures in buying property are moving a little slower than my decisions about the fate of Brick Lane.
Verbally, our offer for the house in Calderwood has been accepted. Legally, there is nothing confirmed as yet, only an official letter affirming our offer sent from our solicitor to theirs. So it looks like we’re playing the waiting game.
Claire is already looking out for tenants for us. She gave us a phone tonight to tell us that someone was on facebook that may be looking for a one bedroom flat to let. So I immediately got on the case, looking the complete stranger up and sending him a message.
We have been given a date for getting the keys to the house so we may well be in a new house by mid August. That’s one hell of a chance card.

Strawberries, T and Snow Patrol sleepiness

Last Wednesday, a week ago tonight, on July 4th, Ka and myself celebrated our third year Wedding anniversary. We didn’t celebrate with anything particularly special. A Chinese carry out from the Jasmine Inn and the exchange of a couple of small presents followed by a couple of bowl of strawberries.
For some reason we both went out and bought each other strawberries to celebrate. I’m not sure what the relevance of strawberries was, and even why we both intuitively thought they would make a great surprise present on a Wedding anniversary? Perhaps it was the Wimbledon influence?
A David Guetta album too. Ka liked the ‘Titanium’ single so I got her the French DJ and producer’s album.
Or David Ghetto as Ka calls him.
He was just one of the acts we missed at the weekend.
We had tickets to T in the Park this year but decided against it after Ka got pregnant. Now that she’s getting a little bigger, a little more uncomfortable and a lot more intolerant to the idea of camping, we thought best of it, but did manage to sell the tickets on to a couple of guys in Andy’s football team. Looking at the news reports and pictures from the festival over the weekend I am now very glad we made that decision. It would have been a nightmare putting up with Ka in those rivers of brown. Colin and Jillian were there and posting on facebook, mud up to their shins. Colin text me on Friday night, raving about how wonderful Florence and the Machine were but no matter how much he may want to go on about it I’d rather wait and see Florence in the SECC at a semi ludicrous price than in the mud of Balado.
I have wanted to see Florence for a long time though and I suppose I was secretly jealous. In fact, I’m not sure Pauline’s ever forgiven me for calling her a b*tch, at Christmas time, when she revealed she’d bought herself and a pal some tickets to see Florence and her band at the SECC when they played back in March.

No, instead of Balado, Ka and myself watched from the comfort of the couch on Friday night, occasionally getting up to dance when the mood took us, jumping about like loons to Olly Murs. He did ask us to dance with him so who were we to refuse?
Afterwards Snow Patrol took to the stage and so we swiftly fell asleep.
Nothing against Snow Patrol. I quite like Snow Patrol.
They do make you awfully sleepy though. Unless you’ve got a lighter, at least then you’d have something to do to keep you awake, keep your attention focused... but even that could be dangerous. You may inadvertently end up setting yourself on fire by falling asleep in mid lighter sway. The alcohol fuelled mud underfoot at T in the Park wouldn’t do you any favours either. A burning Snow Patrol fan stumbling through the mud, ablaze, screaming, confusing others into thinking they’d accidentally taken a wrong turn and dropped by the Wickerman festival. The screaming Snow Patrol fan being commended by passers by for his Edward Woodward tribute.
Anyway, on Saturday night we went out to dinner to Viva Pizzeria Ristorante, on Bothwell Street where we enjoyed a slap up meal involving meatballs, veal ravioli and chicken, washed down with a healthy glass of wine, or soda water and lime, in Ka’s case. Afterwards we walked up West Campbell Street, up on to Sauchiehall Street heading to the flicks to see Jason Segal and Emily Blunt in ‘The Five Year Engagement’, a film that’s been advertised and reviewed as a very strange, odd, occurrence. A half decent romcom.
Unfortunately, as we stood in the queue, a flash of red on screen alerted us to the fact that it was sold out so we ended up donning the 3D glasses again for the new Spiderman movie starring Britain’s very own Andrew Garfield.
Even though it’s barely been five years since the end of the last trilogy with timid Toby McGuire, it seemed a little strange for a new trilogy to start all over again and for that reason I wasn’t that fussed about seeing it. Even so, the new movie was surprisingly enjoyable with Garfield suitably impressing as the geeky, awkward Peter Parker with the spider bug and Rhys Ifans as the villain of the piece, a villain with heart and reason. There’s only one scene in particular towards the end which lets the film down a little, veering into American cheese, but, on the whole, a pretty good piece of escapism with a great moment involving Stan Lee in headphones.
Earlier that day, on the Saturday morning, Ka and myself took a trip along Calderwood to see a house. A house that’s been sitting on the market since the turn of the year.
The rain was peeing down and we arrived in the slightly crowded street early, barely able to see the property’s front door through the pellets of rain bouncing off the windscreen. Getting soaked in the short run to the front door we were greeted by one of the sisters leading the efforts to sell her parents’ home. My Aunt Anne knew the family and had been insisting that we go and view the property from as far back as February and we were only now getting round to it. With baby number two growing well, we thought we’d better start making a move, literally.
The short trip was worth it.
We liked it. It was a blank canvas and I like a blank canvas.
I like a blank canvas because it’s there for the taking. It’s empty and waiting for you to begin to create something wonderful with.
Ka likes a blank canvas because it is clean.
Plain and simple.
Clean, pristine and white. Perfect for the taking.
As soon as I got into work on Monday morning, whilst everyone mourned Andy Murray’s loss, I made sure I made a quick phonecall to the sellers’ solicitors and requested the Home Report.
By Tuesday morning, we’d made an offer.
Fingers crossed we may have a result by this time tomorrow.

On the bill

Last weekend I was a ladybird for the night. Ka and myself were picked up by Vicki, taxi driven by her dad, and transported into town for a work’s night out. The Ladybird room were going to the Stand Comedy Club after a bite to eat in the newly refurbished Strata cocktail bar and restaurant in Glasgow’s Queen Street. Vicki’s Dad, a friendly liverpudlian with a rather nice convertible Astra of some sort, dropped us off in sunny George Square where we met Gillian who had been hanging around street corners for around half an hour, waiting on us turning up. From there we walked down Queen Street, through the shoppers heading for their trains, buses or cars home and headed towards number 45, past what used to be the Rock Garden bar, the fat face shop and the weird shop with all the gothic necklaces, beads, pipes and bongs in the window.
The last time Ka and myself had passed the Strata bar it had been all shut up, the windows all coated with a messy layer of whitewash. At the time I’d assumed that it had fallen as another victim of this all consuming recession so I was rather surprised to hear that Strata was to be the Ladybird room’s meeting place to kick start the night.

I swung the door open for the three ladies, feeling a little uncomfortable in Amy’s place. Amy, one of the current Ladybirds, had been unable to attend, so Ka and Vicki immediately thought of me to take her place. A kind act of charity considering I’d been moaning at Ka for the past few weeks after discovering the Ladybirds’ plans to visit Glasgow’s West End Comedy Club. I’d been annoying Ka for years to go along with me and check the place out one night and due to reasons unknown, especially to myself, I’d never got around to it. It was even mooted as a possible location for a birthday night out, but again, that never happened (violins please!). So, hearing my woes Vicki agreed with Ka that it would be a good idea to allow myself to accompany them in Amy’s place.
A husband at the work night out.
Not every man’s idea for a night out but it wasn’t so bad as I wasn’t to be the only bloke. We were meeting David, the Ladybird room’s teacher, who had just finished for his summer break the week before and had been, as it turned out, on the sauce since his last day on the Wednesday. In fact, as Vicki, Gillian and Ka led myself upstairs to the tabled area in the lively, rather swanky, new look Strata, we found David sitting back, behind a table, smiling contentedly as he sipped from a colourful daiquiri, his first tipple following the night before.
So the girls started with a cocktail, Ka going non alcoholic, of course, and I settled with a pint whilst we ordered up our meals. The gathered workers started gabbing about work, which I happily found myself fully capable of following many insightful conversations at home with the Mrs. As surprising as it may seem to Ka, I do actually pay attention to the many wonderful, varied tales and goings on produced by the Early Learning Unit. Conversations then went on to David’s night outs since finishing for the summer, his latest puke, the dropping of his iPod from a second floor window, the John Barrowman gig of the previous week attended by Ka and myself and the one song of Tori Amos’ that we all actually remember (Cornflake Girl). A spectacularly cheap bill was then paid, just after David revealed that his choice of Strata for the night was no spur of the moment decision. All meals were half price for the month. This was the first time I’d met David properly and I liked the way he was thinking. Vicki I’d met on various, previous occasions, mostly when I’d been picking Ka up from nights out and Gillian I’d met before but hadn’t really got to know until sitting at dinner with her that night in Strata.
As time was getting on, and David and Vicki fretted about not wanting to end up in the front rows in the Stand, we decided to make a move and after gulping down another pint I followed the Ladybird’s downstairs and back out into the sunny, dry evening to grab a black cab bound for Woodlands Road.
As the cab pulled up David, and some of the others, panicked. A massive queue had already formed, snaking from the small, cellar like entrance of the comedy club. We may have lost our chance for a quiet, secluded, seated position at the back of the room, out of sight from the comedians and out of harms way. We followed the steadily moving queue through the small playground of the old secondary school, down the steps and into the cellar where we were greeted by a colourful, cosy atmosphere surrounded by posters advertising all kinds of crazy acts and comedians, some recognisable, some promising and others just plain bonkers. We already had our tickets sorted so simply handed them over and made our way through the double doors to the main room.
A large open bar filled the left corner of the dimly lit room, whilst the stage stood to the right, a small, raised platform around the centre of the wall upon which a single microphone stood tall, waiting. Facing chairs surrounded the small stage with a multitude of small, round, candlelit tables, most of which were still empty, surprisingly enough, considering the amount of people that had been moving through the entrance doors before us.
The girls picked our seats around a small table at the back of the crowd of tightly packed tables. A safe table, plenty of distance between us and the front of the audience, so we were not slagged off by whomever was to take the stage. Another plus point, the others pointed out, was that this table was also near the toilets. Unsure why this was relevant I was beginning to wonder who I was out with, the Ladybirds or the Old dears?
During the first hour the kitty was made and more drinks were ordered as the ticket holders piled in through the doors behind us, the latecomers struggling for seats. Some of the latecomers consisted of women, dressed for their night out, but obviously also late for their night out. These women hung around suggestively, giving lots of huffs, puffs and vocal complaints about the lack of seats whenever I happened to turn around. Eventually I ended up receiving many an evil look as it slowly sunk in that I wasn’t giving my seat up for anyone, no matter how glamorous they considered themselves or how often they flicked their hair or fiddled with their bra straps.
Eventually the excitable, but not unfunny, compere hit the stage, almost immediately picking out faces from the front rows, only gently slagging them off, and obviously sussing out who was with who for the comedians that were to follow. An entertaining Scots guy was first up, followed by a weird Irish guy that based his routine on Bible stories, a second irish guy was next, and the funniest of the night, followed by a Canadian.
You’d think that as the night went on, and the more drinks that were consumed, the laughs would get louder. The fourth act proved this wrong. Unfortunately myself and the gathered crowd had either drank too much and missed the Canadian’s funny points or just got bored. You’ll notice, of course, that I cannot now remember any of the featured comedians names which could well contribute to the theory of ‘I just drank too much’ and after another few rounds in Oran Mor’s brasserie bar and a slow, oddly stomach churning taxi journey home, I fulfilled that theory with the wrong end of my body down my bathroom’s toilet seat.
Personally I blame Strata’s cut price food myself.

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.

Are we human?

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

Go West

Colin waved up from Templeton Street, his tall, dark form looking a little bedraggled in the rain that was descending over Glasgow Green and it’s surroundings on Saturday afternoon. My Dad and I had arrived five minutes earlier, disembarking the number 18 bus round the corner on London Road just after the rain had started to pour and Colin had called to say he’d made it as far as Trongate.
It was the jolly boys outing and Colin, Dad and myself were attending a tour at the West Brewery in Glasgow’s Templeton building, a building that was formerly a carpet factory and designed by Scottish architect William Leiper, who apparently based his architectural designs on the Doges Palace on St. Mark’s Square over in Venice, a building Ka and myself visited whilst on our honeymoon in the spectacular city. Leiper apparently based his designs on the building following the Venetian design craze at the time being forced to keep in mind the City Council, and Mr Templeton himself, who had wanted the building to have an attractive exterior considering it was on the verge of one of Glasgow’s biggest parks. The whole building now houses many different companies ranging from crèches and dance studios to offices and breweries.
The brewery was the part we were interested in.
As we awaited Colin’s arrival, Dad ordered up the first pint, a crisp, cold, golden coloured mug of St. Mungo’s, the West Brewery’s only beer currently being brewed for the off-trade. Whilst the bartender served us, another, bearded, bartender introduced himself as our future tour guide. Taking my first taste of a St. Mungos pint, Dad confidently informed me that you didn’t get hangovers with this kind of beer. He’d visited only a few months back with friends and had woke up the next morning feeling unaffected by the previous night’s pint intake.
Definitely a good thing as the St. Mungos was delicious and we ordered up a second pint, this time of St. Mungo’s stronger brother, Hefeweizen. Unfortunately, as we did so, the tour guide started shouting from one end of the bar and the small gathered crowd ambled off to start the tour we had booked on.
We were still waiting on our Hefeweizen. As soon as we grabbed the tall glasses from the bar we strode off to find our tour party, finding the door at the back of the large bar that we’d spotted them crowd through and then a descending staircase in a echoing brick walled corridor on the other side. When we got to the bottom on the twisting stairs we discovered only one black door marked ‘Private’, locked.
“Er, hello?!” Colin knocked on the door and laughter was heard from the other side. We waited for an apologetic tour guide to open the door but instead found ourselves still standing waiting in the corridor. Colin knocked again. “Hello? Are you letting us in?” Colin knocked again and again, each knock echoing and being greeted with more laughter and a few indistinguishable comments for the other side.
“B*stards!” I thought to myself, before some bloke from the tour eventually opened the door for us, allowing us to join the party. The bearded tour guide himself sat perched on some silver barrels in the middle of the large fermenting room we now found ourselves in, talking away, waving his hands around enthusiastically.
So as we supped away at our hefeweizen, the tour guide took us through his well practised speeches, telling us all about the West Brewery and it’s produce. From the building’s humble beginnings as the carpet factory all the way up West’s inception within the building and the establishment of the Brewery itself. The first UK brewery to produce it’s beers in accordance with the German Beer Purity Law, or the Reinheitsgebot, which originated in Bavaria around 1516. A Bavarian Duke, of some description, decided to take it all upon himself to make an official proclamation of how beer should be made. Apparently people used to make beer out of all sorts of stuff, usually other ingredients to substitute hops. Nuts, berries, poisonous ivies, dandelions and bits of old oak. Basically anything that was lying about the garden after a good weeding session. Presumably it wasn’t until the Duke’s mates actually started falling over due to food poisoning, rather than drunkenness, that he decided to make a law.
The Reinheitsgebot states that beer should only be made by it’s four key ingredients, hops, yeast, malt and water and the West Brewery follow these guidelines in their beer production mirroring the great breweries of Europe, and Germany in particular.
After the main fermenting room the small tour crowded into the large malt cupboards where we passed round plastic cups full of the various malts, giving each a good, hard sniff and tasting the various malt grains, like some alcoholic version of a Nescafe commercial. The bearded tour guide then took us up into another open roofed room, down below the actual bar area, to the giant copper chimneys in which the malts and waters are mixed.

Using the copper chimney’s one small porthole like window in the angular top section we where allowed to stick our head in and once again give it all a good sniff. According to Colin, the dormant, pasty looking mixture lying inside the copper vault had the stench not wholly unlike that of cannabis. Of course, being unaware of such smells I shrugged. My Dad would probably recognise it better than I would as he uses cannabis air fresheners in his car. For a good while he had felt cannabis leaves hanging from his rear view mirror. Everyone else has magic trees but Dad has magic leaves.
The tour ended with a long chat in which the tour guide, on more than one occasion, slagged off a popular Scottish lager, which he refused to name, but illustrated by use of forming his hands into a blatant T shape. All of West’s true German influenced lagers and beers are all given, at the very least, months to ferment. Apparently the Scottish lager, whose ingredients were also brought into question, only allow their lager to settle for a couple of hours, at most. Perhaps a reason why hangovers and more prolific with the ales we usually partake in. The bearded guide then started defending the price of The west brews and why it was dearer than the usual lagers on the street to which I decided to pipe up and argue that some of the ‘usual’ lagers were just as dear, or dearer, than that in some places, to which the tour guide replied by refusing me my beer samples at the end of the tour?! I was sticking up for his beer and he reprimanded me? What was all that about?
Colin then piped up to defend my comment to which the tour guide insisted that he wasn’t to get any tasters either?! The guy obviously misheard us or was still in a huff for us turning up late for his wonderful talk.
As it happened he was only joking, even if he had misheard, misunderstood or just hadn’t listened, and delivered all our beers to our reserved table where we spent the following hours, chatting drinking and eating whilst the rain continued to pour outside and Wedding guests started gathering outside in the main pub hall, where an evening reception was being set up in the crowded bar.
We tried the majority of the west’s beers including the Red Munich, the caramel flavoured malt beer, the West lager and another St.Mungo before heading off for homewards.
We strolled up the dark London Road to Trongate and then onwards to Glassford Street where we decided to go for a night cap before jumping on the bus home and Colin, the last train home.
We strolled up Glassford Street heading for the Blane Valley, a quiet wee pub on a corner Dad recommended where Mum and him have been known to go for bar lunches on shopping trips. Bacchus was the next bar along the street but as that is the warm up bar for the gay club further along we thought it would be safer to opt for the Blane. Shrugging we opened the Blane Valley door to find the place heaving, a bald, cheery looking karaoke singer roaring into his mike, almost directly before us as we pulled the door open. Deciding against the Blane we headed back down the street and ended up stepping through a set of ancient black, double doors into The Steps Bar.
A small, black window, between the clean, lunch friendly Blane Valley and the opulent Mansion House, we entered the The Steps Bar through the double black doorway into a small, dingy, dusty old dive that looked like the Phoenix Club after the fire.
The few occupants all turned and eyed us suspiciously as we entered, trying to look casual. In a corner two middle aged couples eyed us up and down, a flirting older couple looked round at us from a darker, grimmer looking, corner and various other elder folk glowered at us from the bar, including the barman who looked like an older version of Gregor Fisher’s Baldy Man character, without the smile and the cigar. He spilt our pints as he delivered them to us at the bar and claimed he was ‘just learnin’.
As we sat trying to enjoy our last drinks of the day, eighties music playing on the tv up on the heavily stained wall, the two middle aged couples to my right start waving papers around in my direction, laughing and guffawing in my general direction. Turning I asked what was wrong to which they all laughed even louder asking what I’d been eating. Outraged and insulted I insisted I had not farted, in anyway, shape or form, to which the two couples argued, and continued to insist, that I had. As Colin and my Dad joined in, waving beer mats around and laughing, I eventually gave up and turned back to my drink.
Around ten minutes later a definite stench started circulating the dark little pub from the couples’ corner and this time I think the culprit was found out. The wife sitting closest to me of the two couples was distinctly quieter as a similar carry on involving papers and beermats ensued and indeed that wife soon disappeared to the loo for a good fifteen minutes during which the three remaining drinkers had to admit that they no longer reckoned it had been me that had suffered the flatulence.
Shortly after, we finished our drinks and headed back out through the black double doors, back out into Glassford Street and within ten minutes my Dad and myself were on the last 21 home. Arriving at home 12 hours after leaving we were greeted by Ka who immediately went to the kitchen and produced us a nice cup of tea and a slice of toast. Dad jumped in a taxi quite happy and Ka and myself went to bed.
The next morning I awoke to the familiar pounding head of a hangover. It must have been that last pint in the Steps bar.

The waiting game

At the moment I’m waiting to find out when the interviews will be for the one available studio position in, the now flitting, S&UN prepress.
Barry and myself took a trip into Glasgow on last Wednesday after being invited over to Central Quay to visit the Daily Record building, S&UN Prepress’ new home. It’s more than a little odd going over and being giving the guided tour before you even know if you have a job.
We overestimated the journey time and we found ourselves waiting outside the building in the warm sunshine to go into the large office block on the Central Quay, looking out over the sparkling waters of the Clyde. It was around lunchtime so there were a few people milling about. Some smokers hanging around the corner of the building and some runners enthusiastically jumping out from the office block’s revolving door, people leaving the office on their lunch break to go out for a quick jog up and down the riverside. Barry and myself watched wondering how they managed to fit it all in, in a half hour.
When the time finally reached the fifteen minutes early marker, a reasonable amount of time to be mega early we thought, we went through the revolving door and gained our visitors’ passes from the front desk before heading into the canteen to wait for Kirsty, our host and tour guide. As we sat waiting I couldn’t help but wonder what was going to happen in the coming weeks. Would I be lucky enough to continue with my employment at the newly formed Media Scotland, would I be leaving with a redundancy payment, were there other jobs out there and was the lasagne really worth £3.50? I can make great lasagne but I wouldn’t charge someone £3.50 for a bit.
A canteen in a place of work that actually sells hot food?
I’ve never worked in such a place. The last time I was served a hot meal on a weekday lunchtime by a canteen was probably in Primary school. The meal was always spooned out from the large steel containers by the line of dinner ladies on to those all in one plastic trays, sectioned off in bevelled shapes for each course.
Getting school dinners was always a rare thing for me. School dinners were only a very occasional Friday treat, if treat is the word for it. The chocolate Rice Crispie cake was about as good as it got. Chaz always reserved his piece of Chocolate Crispie cake early morning, chatting up the dinner ladies, probably giving them some sort of sales pitch, even at that age.
Whereas, I was a packed lunch man. A couple of pieces, a packet of crisps and a fun size mars bar if it was Friday. You had to make sure you ate all your pieces though. Mr Stevens, the Janitor, stood over the large bin, eyeing you, and everything you chucked away, up suspiciously, whilst maintaining a constant vigil over the goings on over the whole lunch hall. If you even attempted to chuck half a sandwich away he would launch into a barrage of abuse, his voice echoing throughout the giant room, shaming you before the whole lunch hall and sending you back to your table with your tail between your legs and your unwanted piece that your Mum had apparently spent so much time over making that morning. Nobody was sure how Mr Stevens knew it was your Mum that had made your pieces that morning, not to mention how long it took her. He was always a highly suspicious character himself, if you ask me.
Anyway, in the Glasgow canteen, after a talking with one of the sales girls, who had moved over from the Hamilton building a few weeks before, Kirsty soon turned up and after a short chat gave us the tour of the building, going from the top, second level, where Prepress would now be based, all the way down through the busy floors, to the all important basement car park. There’s even a gym for when you’re wanting to run off some executive stress or pump some iron, handy for when you’ve had too much lasagne in the canteen.
An interesting visit but all slightly uncomfortable considering I have no idea yet on whether I’ll actually be working there or not.

Just for a laugh

Eat, drink, laugh and dance. No, not another day in S&UN.
That’s what the emailed adverts promised when Ka bought my Valentines present a few weeks back. A comedy night in Jongleurs, the comedy club, which is now situated in the large basement of the Mansion House bar on Glassford Street.
Chandeliers. Comfy back couches. Candle lit tables. Velvet curtains. Large, ornately framed mirrors. Designer retro wallpapers. A large polished bar with shelves of sparkling bottles of many colours decorating the walls behind it. Smiling bar staff. Clipboards, where your name appears only eventually so so a member of staff can clarify whether you belong there.
The Mansion House has it all. Upstairs anyway.
After buying a drink at the bar the waitress with the clipboard informed us the Jongleurs Comedy club was actually in the basement.
When the curtain was drawn back at six to welcome those attending the Comedy night we descended the brightly lit staircase into the darkness below. A large black open plan floor space with many sparsely decorated tables laid out, eight to a table, before the small stage adorned with the Jongleurs logo.
I immediately recognised the hall. It was the same basement hall where S&UN had had their Christmas party night out around four years ago. The club was a Tiger Tiger back then and the basement had been advertised as a Winter Wonderland.
In the large dark open space there was one white plastic tree. Back then the room was filled with round tables for around four or five different companies and the Christmas buffet consisted of each table getting a plate of small, barely filled, sandwiches. Needless to say we made the best of it back then but it didn't bode well for our night ahead on Friday.
Ka and myself were greeted by a rather grumpy maitre’d and asked for a name after which he ran his pen down his clipboard, humming an uncheery tune, turned a page and found us half way down the second. He then led us through the floor to a table of 8 already occupied by 4 others. 4 very young, chirpy, young, loud, and young students. Since the 4 were still awaiting another 2 of their party, Ka and myself took the two seats at the end of the table and within moments were served our free glass of wine, which was part of the deal, by our irish waiter called Eoin. John in Irish, apparently (I thought it was Ian). Before we began sipping from our first, free glass of vino, Ka jumped back up to make a quick visit to the toilets. The mens’ toilets.
I’m not sure why as the womens’ was immediately adjacent.
Apparently the urinals gave it away, not to mention the bloke looking quizzically over at her from his space against the wall.
Not long after Ka made it to the ladies and back again, Eoin delivered our plate of thai curry, also part of the deal (the curry, not Eoin – though I’m sure Ka wouldn’t have objected).
The chicken curry was perfectly adequate, but could have done with a naan bread, and a wee bit longer in the microwave. Another ten seconds wouldn’t have killed them.
The remaining 2 students finally arrived and as their banter continued, the loudest of them, an excitable criminologist with thick black framed spectacles and a colourful jumper, Ka and myself quickly finished our glasses of wine and ordered a bottle.
The comedy didn’t start until half past eight and it was only quarter past six.
It was going to be a long wait.
Especially since I could barely hear what Ka was saying to me from across the table as the criminologist couldn’t believe this was his third night out in a row. It’s a pity he couldn’t have put his gifts for criminology to good use when dressing himself for the evening. His jumper looked like something Noel Edmonds would have wore to a House Party.
A tall bloke named Cole Parker, eventually lept up on to the stage as we approached half eight. Parker introduced himself as our compere for the night. A comedian from down south, Parker, who apparently recently appeared on an ITV show called ‘Show me the Funny’, started the night off telling us there would be three other comedians joining us for the evening.
First up was Philip Differ, a newspaper columnist and stand up whose previous employment included working for the BBC and producing and directing episodes of ‘Only An Excuse?’, ‘Scotch and Wry’ and ‘Chewin the Fat’ not to mention a whole shed lot of jobs on radio throughout the eighties on programmes of similar ilk.
Second up was Patrick Rolink, a big guy with a bigger personality, who is apparently big on the comedy circuit, though I suspect he’s big everywhere.
Last up was a bloke from New Zealand called Andre King, who also turned out to be pretty entertaining, being a fantastic linguist and who finished his act with a Haka, the New Zealanders’ war dance that all the Rugby players in the opposing teams try not to laugh at before they start a match.
All in all, the night was surprisingly entertaining.
Recommended to anyone who fancies a good laugh and a bit of grub.
Just don't hold your breath for a naan bread.