After dinner last night I was busy carrying out my husbandly duties when there was a large crash and a horrendous scream from behind. I had to quickly abandon the pot which I had been busy scrubbing with my bubble covered hands in the sink, and turned to see what the commotion was.
The fridge door had fallen off it's hinges. Unfortunately Ka had been trying to close the large, upper door over at the time. Something had been preventing Ka from closing the door over so she looked into the fridge to make sure everything was tidied away properly and just as she moved to take her head back out from the fridge's innards, the door, complete with the weight of all it's interior shelf innards, including the milk and my Branston Pickle, collapsed into her face, banging her across the forehead.
Just as I was about to start moaning at Ka’s volume I turned to find my wife crouched over in pain, holding the fridge door up on one bottom hinge. After shoving the door temporarily back into place I got a bag of ice together from the freezer and told Ka to put it to her head as I seen the red mark now throbbing on Ka's forehead grow into a potential lump.
The washing machine has been leaking. Two of the electric cooker’s hob’s knobs have broke off (and no, they don’t taste great with a cup of tea!). A bit of the front door’s frame even fell off when I closed the door the other night. I had to superglue it back on. What else is going to fall apart? The place is turning into The Money Pit! I’m half expecting Tom Hanks to crash through the front window one night while I’m turning the hobs on with my pliers.
As Ka sat and relaxed on the couch with the bag of ice pressed to her head, giving her brain freeze, I attempted to fix the fridge door with a blob of blu-tac before deciding that the Currys website would probably be a better idea.
A quick, unexpected, credit card payment later and there is now a brand new fridge being delivered on Wednesday morning. Mum will pop by after her pilates and sit in for the delivery which I paid £15 for the pleasure of having delivered between the hours of 1 and 5 for. The one good thing about buying anything on the Currys website is you’re not hounded for guarantees and insurances when you get to the checkout.
No other time would suit unless we waited until the weekend but on returning home tonight I nonchalantly swung the fridge door forgetting all about the worn out hinge and almost suffered the same lumpy head as Ka did.
Everybody seems to be settling in to the new office in Glasgow Central Quay for the time being. Sly Bailey, the Trinity Mirror Empress herself visited Central Quay last week, moving around the various floors accompanied by her entourage. As I have my back to the always open Studio door I missed the whole procession but was informed by the ever watchful Andrea, who sits opposite me, that she had a very nice pair of shoes on. Always one to spot the important details, she said that the pair of shoes in question would be enough to make Andrea’s family go without food for a week. If Andrea’s family are anything like her that what probably be doing them a favour as all she seems to eat are protein shakes, those disgusting looking mushy substances which, apparently, you simply must base your diet on if you intend to build muscle, losing weight or keep fit in anyway, shape or form. I’m not sure what’s wrong with a good healthy diet but maybe some people just like sitting in their office theatrically shaking plastic bottles and flasks around kidding on their working at the Copacabana.
The new colleagues in our office are Graeme, Andrew, Ewan and Yvonne.
Yvonne has a liking to karaoke, singing along to most of the ditties that are played on Radio 2 in the duration of the day. Graeme dances around the office, finds nothing a problem, and occasionally picks up the phone and pretends he’s an answering machine for Andrew, beeping and even singing whilst the caller waits. The Bette Midler classic, “The Wind Beneath my Wings” was the last song a caller enjoyed whilst waiting to be passed over to Andrew, who is forever shaking his head at his colleague, as he types away frantically on his mac. Ewan is the line manager of the three who spends all his time keeping sales people at bay and a lot of his money on Peanut M&M’s which Yvonne hands out willy nilly, without his permission.
I’m enjoying the new surroundings although I do occasionally miss the rest of the S&UN gang who are out in the open plan office with the rest of the production and sales staff. Some of the sales staff I’ve known for years over the phone and only just met face to face. Some people you meet for the first time not even realising you’ve been talking to them for five years. You go out and happily start talking to someone as if you’re only just meeting them for the first time only to realise afterwards that that was the woman that shouted at you over the phone a year or so ago for not understanding her copy instructions.
Mum managed to get a wee job in the town centre last week. Mum’s been looking for a job, on and off, (mostly off) for around four years now so this is quite big news. Kenny emailed me today from Oz, rejoicing the fact (“it’s about time too”, I believe were the words he used).
Mum arrived back from a holiday abroad on Friday. She’d been away for a week with my Auntie Tricia with Aunt Ann for her 60th birthday retreat along with a bunch of pals from both Scotland and London.
Unfortunately Adventure Ted never got an invite, but did send photos of her London trip along in Auntie Ann's card which she would have opened on her birthday on the Sunday.
Mum and Tricia arrived home on Friday at the airport expecting Tommy, Tricia’s other half, to be there waiting to pick them up.
Tommy was indeed sitting waiting to pick them up. Unfortunately he was sitting in Glasgow Airport whilst Mum and Tricia had arrived home at Prestwick.
Grace and Dougie, Ka’s Mum and Dad, arrived home from their week in Turkey the same day. We popped round to see them on Saturday afternoon after seeing ‘The Cabin in the Woods’ in Glasgow.
A bunch of teenagers take a break to a holiday home beside, the river, in the middle of nowhere and unexpectedly enter a game of life and death, involving zombies, ghosts, werewolves and scarecrows. Ridiculous and crazy but surprisingly entertaining stuff if you like a good dose of the ridiculous and the crazy in your horror. By the way, this is the movie we’re talking about, not Grace and Dougie’s holiday.
No, they were living it up in 5 star accommodation, full board. All the sun, food, drink and entertainment they could possibly want. They brought us back a tea towel.
Only kidding, they also brought us back chocolates, socks and a large bag of suspicious looking white powder.
Yes, apple tea. To go with the tea towels, currently soaking up the water splashed over the floor by the misbehaving washing machine.
Showing posts with label Kenny. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Kenny. Show all posts
Monday, 30 April 2012
Sunday, 18 March 2012
Weapons of choice
Just about finished Al Pacino this weekend. Ka hit the shops yesterday with Claire and Olivia leaving me in the flat to my own devices. The devices in question being my easel, acrylics and paintbrushes in an attempt to finish the Pacino portrait I have been working on, on and off, for over three months. Thankfully, it’s just about finished now.
It’s not bad for a first attempt anyway.
Even though Mum thought it was Bob Marley.
Mum and Dad popped in for a cuppa last Saturday afternoon and after a few minutes pondering the portrait before them in quiet contemplation, they eventually started muttering some compliments, being careful not to say what was obviously on the tip of their tongues.
“Who’s that supposed to be?” being the main phrase that springs to mind. I could tell the two of them were struggling to contain the words escaping from within their mouths as I stood back before going into the kitchen to switch the kettle on. Hopefully a cup of tea would enlighten them.
Yesterday I gave the portrait it’s finishing touches – hopefully. Though I’m sure I could fuss over it for a little longer if given the chance. Like a mechanic with a prize car in the garage, I’ll probably go back to it and tinker at small niggly bits now and again.
I’ve still to give my Christopher Walken portrait it’s finishing touches also, something I also meant to get round to yesterday.
Another portrait I started more than a few months ago, long before Rowland Rivron even considered the idea of defiling the great man’s brilliant dance routine which accompanied Fatboy Slim’s fantastic ‘Weapon of Choice’ (It is for the Sport Relief charity though so I suppose we should let him off). Just as I was about to pull the portrait out from under the dust covers I was interrupted by an unexpected phonecall from Oz.
Ka picked up the phone, not long after returning from the shops, expecting the monotonous tones of a computerised female ‘Important message’ or the slightly over friendly tones of a 3 salesman, (3 have suddenly been calling trying to sell us mobile phones repeatedly for the past few weeks) but was surprised to hear the unexpected tones of my happy brother calling from the other side of the world.
It was 10 past 3 at night over there which meant it was now the 18th of March on their side of the world. Kenny had hit the grand old age of 29 and was now on his way home to his hostel after a celebratory few drinks in the pub. Tequilas being the drink of the day apparently. Kenny’s in Sydney now and once more enjoying the Australian city life after a few weeks on the quiet Gold Coast.
He sounded high spirited (in more ways than one) but keen to get on and find a job whilst in the big city although he wasn’t particularly enamoured by my own job situation.
S&UN Prepress is being moved to the Glasgow offices on the Clydeside but unfortunately for Dave and myself there is only one Studio job. We were each given the dreaded brown envelopes on Monday so it’s either apply for the one post or take the money offered. It wasn’t a great start to the week really but hey, life goes on.
Recently I’ve been helping with the organisation of a ‘Charity Hat Disco Night’, a brainchild of DJ William Rae. On the 26th May, DJ William Rae will be hosting a disco night in the upstairs lounge of The Salmon Leap at which all who attend must wear a hat, the best of which will win a prize! Raffles, rock ‘n’ roll bingo and games will all be interspersed within the music and all proceeds are going towards Sands (Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Society) and Cancer Research UK. At the moment we’re fishing around for some raffle prizes and myself, William, Ka and Jane (DJ William’s better half) are all selling tickets which are going like hot cakes so if anyone out there is interested in attending please see here or contact me at mike@reidnet.org.uk.
I’m not sure which hat to go for on the night. I have a rather battered looking trilby sun hat from Ibiza which I could wear but I don’t think that’ll win me any prizes.
Ka suggested I wear my Boba Fett helmet but I pointed out to her, as the title suggests, it is a helmet, and I’d probably find myself getting disqualified if I wore that particular piece of headgear. Still, it would be a laugh to see a shirted Boba Fett throwing some shapes in the middle of Calderwood’s Salmon Leap.
After DJ William’s best hat disco the following crazy party idea came from Jillian who hits the big 3-0 in September.
Obviously inspired by the recent trip to the flicks to see the new Muppet movie, Jillian thought it’d be a great idea for everyone who attends her birthday party to go as their favourite Muppet. Ironically enough, the party is to be held in the Kirkintilloch Rangers Supporters Club. I’m not sure if that’ll go down well with the regulars to be honest. I suppose I could always play it safe and go as the Cookie Monster.
It’s not bad for a first attempt anyway.
Even though Mum thought it was Bob Marley.
Mum and Dad popped in for a cuppa last Saturday afternoon and after a few minutes pondering the portrait before them in quiet contemplation, they eventually started muttering some compliments, being careful not to say what was obviously on the tip of their tongues.
“Who’s that supposed to be?” being the main phrase that springs to mind. I could tell the two of them were struggling to contain the words escaping from within their mouths as I stood back before going into the kitchen to switch the kettle on. Hopefully a cup of tea would enlighten them.
Yesterday I gave the portrait it’s finishing touches – hopefully. Though I’m sure I could fuss over it for a little longer if given the chance. Like a mechanic with a prize car in the garage, I’ll probably go back to it and tinker at small niggly bits now and again.
I’ve still to give my Christopher Walken portrait it’s finishing touches also, something I also meant to get round to yesterday.
Ka picked up the phone, not long after returning from the shops, expecting the monotonous tones of a computerised female ‘Important message’ or the slightly over friendly tones of a 3 salesman, (3 have suddenly been calling trying to sell us mobile phones repeatedly for the past few weeks) but was surprised to hear the unexpected tones of my happy brother calling from the other side of the world.
It was 10 past 3 at night over there which meant it was now the 18th of March on their side of the world. Kenny had hit the grand old age of 29 and was now on his way home to his hostel after a celebratory few drinks in the pub. Tequilas being the drink of the day apparently. Kenny’s in Sydney now and once more enjoying the Australian city life after a few weeks on the quiet Gold Coast.
He sounded high spirited (in more ways than one) but keen to get on and find a job whilst in the big city although he wasn’t particularly enamoured by my own job situation.
S&UN Prepress is being moved to the Glasgow offices on the Clydeside but unfortunately for Dave and myself there is only one Studio job. We were each given the dreaded brown envelopes on Monday so it’s either apply for the one post or take the money offered. It wasn’t a great start to the week really but hey, life goes on.
Recently I’ve been helping with the organisation of a ‘Charity Hat Disco Night’, a brainchild of DJ William Rae. On the 26th May, DJ William Rae will be hosting a disco night in the upstairs lounge of The Salmon Leap at which all who attend must wear a hat, the best of which will win a prize! Raffles, rock ‘n’ roll bingo and games will all be interspersed within the music and all proceeds are going towards Sands (Stillbirth and Neonatal Death Society) and Cancer Research UK. At the moment we’re fishing around for some raffle prizes and myself, William, Ka and Jane (DJ William’s better half) are all selling tickets which are going like hot cakes so if anyone out there is interested in attending please see here or contact me at mike@reidnet.org.uk.
I’m not sure which hat to go for on the night. I have a rather battered looking trilby sun hat from Ibiza which I could wear but I don’t think that’ll win me any prizes.
Ka suggested I wear my Boba Fett helmet but I pointed out to her, as the title suggests, it is a helmet, and I’d probably find myself getting disqualified if I wore that particular piece of headgear. Still, it would be a laugh to see a shirted Boba Fett throwing some shapes in the middle of Calderwood’s Salmon Leap.
After DJ William’s best hat disco the following crazy party idea came from Jillian who hits the big 3-0 in September.
Sunday, 11 March 2012
350 friends
I spent three hours on facebook the other night updating my profile page to it’s new ‘timeline’ design before it’s forced upon me on the 12th of March. Suddenly that date is suddenly almost upon us I thought I’d better get it done before the wonderful programmers at facebook take it upon themselves to mutate my profile page and pick layout to their own liking, probably slapping some tagged picture of my mug up, massive on my profile, for all to see.
I haven’t spent such a long time on facebook for ages. In fact, I’m very rarely on. I usually pop in to wish Happy Birthdays and pop back out again. It’s great for keeping in touch with people you rarely see in day to day life, such as a brother in Australia. Drinking, partying, sky diving, bungee jumping, nighty wearing.
With the exception of the occasional brief visit, I’m rarely on facebook. Especially recently. Everybody on my home page, who I haven’t hidden from view in my preferences, seems to be having babies at the moment. Either that or just talking about what their babies are doing, in minute detail.
Before you think it, it’s not jealousy, I just have no interest in what a fb friend’s wee Baby had for dinner and why he or she (or it in some cases) looked so cute eating it. Some folk on facebook struggle to talk of anything else other than the latest movement or noises their baby is making. Do they have nothing better to talk about? Politics, sport, the war in Afghanistan, art, independence, cinema, the state of the block’s wheelie bins even? None of these subjects seem worthy enough.
If Lucy were around I wouldn’t be boring everyone that’s befriended me with endless stories of how Lucy belched at the dinner table.
Why do facebook have to keep modifying things anyway? They’ve been messing with the design for a while now. Adding bars, pop up screens, new newsfeeds, new buttons, preferences, scrolling effects.
And how many times do they need told that no, I don’t know that person that somebody else does and no, I’m not interested in gaining their friendship just because someone else is.
I suspect there are people that do aim for that though. You come across folk on facebook that have 350 friends.
That’s just not possible is it? How can you have 350 friends? I’ve got about 3.
Excluding family members of course. They’re friends whether they like it or not.
But then facebook friends and Friends, real friends, are very different things. The word ‘friend’ is a very loose term of phrase online.
There must be loads of folk out there that just add and befriend folk for the sake of it, just to make their friends list look attractive and popular. The place to be, like they’re involved in some kind of game to see how many hundred facebook friends they can get?
When I get a friend request from someone I don’t know from Adam (whoever Adam is?) I send them a polite question asking them who they are exactly and how they know me, just in case I have known them in a previous life and have just managed to forget all about them (if that was the case, would you even be interested in befriending them?). This usually gets ignored and I lose out on another +1 to my friends list, a fact which I do struggle with at first, but usually manage to come to terms with over time and persevere onwards with my life.
Twitter’s a good one for that. If it’s not complete strangers, it’s scantily clad girls in provocative poses (thankfully not involving sheep), looking at me hungrily on a profile picture telling me they’re now following my tweets. Then there’s the completely crazy followers you somehow obtain. Twitter emailed me one day, informing me that Coronation Street had decided to start following my tweets for some reason. Why Coronation Street was interested in following me I’ll never know (perhaps they mistook me for Norris or something?).
After changing my facebook profile page to it’s new timeline set up, I looked over it to make sure there was nothing too embarrassing on it.
How did facebook know when I got engaged? I couldn’t even remember when I got engaged! (because it was such a blur of joy and happiness!!)
A low profile on facebook is getting all the more unlikely.
The timeline documents the birth of my brother in 1983, yet there’s no mention of Lynsey, my sister, who was born in 1980 or all the other family members that have confirmed by a simple click that, yes, to their misfortune, they are indeed related to me.
Admittedly I do quite like the new timeline profile. It allows for a little more creativity for your profile page. If you’ve got a particularly stunning picture that you’d like to show off you can now make that you’re main, cover picture. My cover picture is not particularly stunning but it is a rather nice shadow photo of Ka and myself walking over Saint Peter’s Square in Rome on our Honeymoon (I wonder what my facebook timeline remembers about that?). Of course it just looks like a couple of shadows over a stoney ground on it’s own, but at least I know what it is.
Looking back, the old profiles were pretty boring giving you only the one smaller profile pic to toy with alongside the small photos that you’d either uploaded yourself or had been tagged in by other happy snappers (Jillian!).
But even the old profiles were a struggle for some.
My Mum phoned me the other day while I was at work. She needed my help. I had been attempting to tell her over Yahoo Chat how to upload images from her phone by connecting it to the computer via USB and then navigating to her device’s memory drive on the computer and lifting the photos from there. Mum had wanted to upload a picture of herself from her phone to use as her new Facebook profile pic.
Unfortunately she must have got a little muddled on the way.
I answered the call to Mum howling over the phone. I mistook the howling for crying which immediately made me panic and think the worst. After a few moments of a rather strange, undecipherable conversation, I realised it was uncontrollable laughter and with the few words I eventually managed to piece together what had happened.
In attempting to upload a new profile picture from her mobile she had successfully uploaded something quite different from the computer.
My Dad’s letter of discharge from the hospital, following his heart scare last year, was now her profile picture.
Jillian, who had been on Facebook at the time, seen this new update and clicked the ‘Like’ button assuming it to be a happy statement of rejoice from Betty for her husband’s good health, be it six months later.
Needless to say I had to log in under Betty’s name and sort it all out for her.
This was the same day my Uncle Jim left a Happy Birthday message on my profile page. Moments after I started getting a little excited about my birthday I realised that Jim had his Michael’s mixed up. It was my cousin’s birthday, not mine, which I quickly pointed out to him, just so he had enough time to give the right Michael his many happy returns.
My ambiguous, evasive brother, currently adventuring in Oz, even found the time to comment on that. When not exploring, working, partying and dressing up in nightys, Kenny has now decided to start jumping out of planes.
Now that does make a good profile picture.
I haven’t spent such a long time on facebook for ages. In fact, I’m very rarely on. I usually pop in to wish Happy Birthdays and pop back out again. It’s great for keeping in touch with people you rarely see in day to day life, such as a brother in Australia. Drinking, partying, sky diving, bungee jumping, nighty wearing.
With the exception of the occasional brief visit, I’m rarely on facebook. Especially recently. Everybody on my home page, who I haven’t hidden from view in my preferences, seems to be having babies at the moment. Either that or just talking about what their babies are doing, in minute detail.
Before you think it, it’s not jealousy, I just have no interest in what a fb friend’s wee Baby had for dinner and why he or she (or it in some cases) looked so cute eating it. Some folk on facebook struggle to talk of anything else other than the latest movement or noises their baby is making. Do they have nothing better to talk about? Politics, sport, the war in Afghanistan, art, independence, cinema, the state of the block’s wheelie bins even? None of these subjects seem worthy enough.
If Lucy were around I wouldn’t be boring everyone that’s befriended me with endless stories of how Lucy belched at the dinner table.
Why do facebook have to keep modifying things anyway? They’ve been messing with the design for a while now. Adding bars, pop up screens, new newsfeeds, new buttons, preferences, scrolling effects.
And how many times do they need told that no, I don’t know that person that somebody else does and no, I’m not interested in gaining their friendship just because someone else is.
I suspect there are people that do aim for that though. You come across folk on facebook that have 350 friends.
That’s just not possible is it? How can you have 350 friends? I’ve got about 3.
Excluding family members of course. They’re friends whether they like it or not.
But then facebook friends and Friends, real friends, are very different things. The word ‘friend’ is a very loose term of phrase online.
There must be loads of folk out there that just add and befriend folk for the sake of it, just to make their friends list look attractive and popular. The place to be, like they’re involved in some kind of game to see how many hundred facebook friends they can get?
When I get a friend request from someone I don’t know from Adam (whoever Adam is?) I send them a polite question asking them who they are exactly and how they know me, just in case I have known them in a previous life and have just managed to forget all about them (if that was the case, would you even be interested in befriending them?). This usually gets ignored and I lose out on another +1 to my friends list, a fact which I do struggle with at first, but usually manage to come to terms with over time and persevere onwards with my life.
Twitter’s a good one for that. If it’s not complete strangers, it’s scantily clad girls in provocative poses (thankfully not involving sheep), looking at me hungrily on a profile picture telling me they’re now following my tweets. Then there’s the completely crazy followers you somehow obtain. Twitter emailed me one day, informing me that Coronation Street had decided to start following my tweets for some reason. Why Coronation Street was interested in following me I’ll never know (perhaps they mistook me for Norris or something?).
After changing my facebook profile page to it’s new timeline set up, I looked over it to make sure there was nothing too embarrassing on it.
How did facebook know when I got engaged? I couldn’t even remember when I got engaged! (because it was such a blur of joy and happiness!!)
A low profile on facebook is getting all the more unlikely.
The timeline documents the birth of my brother in 1983, yet there’s no mention of Lynsey, my sister, who was born in 1980 or all the other family members that have confirmed by a simple click that, yes, to their misfortune, they are indeed related to me.
Admittedly I do quite like the new timeline profile. It allows for a little more creativity for your profile page. If you’ve got a particularly stunning picture that you’d like to show off you can now make that you’re main, cover picture. My cover picture is not particularly stunning but it is a rather nice shadow photo of Ka and myself walking over Saint Peter’s Square in Rome on our Honeymoon (I wonder what my facebook timeline remembers about that?). Of course it just looks like a couple of shadows over a stoney ground on it’s own, but at least I know what it is.
Looking back, the old profiles were pretty boring giving you only the one smaller profile pic to toy with alongside the small photos that you’d either uploaded yourself or had been tagged in by other happy snappers (Jillian!).
But even the old profiles were a struggle for some.
My Mum phoned me the other day while I was at work. She needed my help. I had been attempting to tell her over Yahoo Chat how to upload images from her phone by connecting it to the computer via USB and then navigating to her device’s memory drive on the computer and lifting the photos from there. Mum had wanted to upload a picture of herself from her phone to use as her new Facebook profile pic.
Unfortunately she must have got a little muddled on the way.
I answered the call to Mum howling over the phone. I mistook the howling for crying which immediately made me panic and think the worst. After a few moments of a rather strange, undecipherable conversation, I realised it was uncontrollable laughter and with the few words I eventually managed to piece together what had happened.
In attempting to upload a new profile picture from her mobile she had successfully uploaded something quite different from the computer.
My Dad’s letter of discharge from the hospital, following his heart scare last year, was now her profile picture.
Jillian, who had been on Facebook at the time, seen this new update and clicked the ‘Like’ button assuming it to be a happy statement of rejoice from Betty for her husband’s good health, be it six months later.
Needless to say I had to log in under Betty’s name and sort it all out for her.
This was the same day my Uncle Jim left a Happy Birthday message on my profile page. Moments after I started getting a little excited about my birthday I realised that Jim had his Michael’s mixed up. It was my cousin’s birthday, not mine, which I quickly pointed out to him, just so he had enough time to give the right Michael his many happy returns.
My ambiguous, evasive brother, currently adventuring in Oz, even found the time to comment on that. When not exploring, working, partying and dressing up in nightys, Kenny has now decided to start jumping out of planes.
Now that does make a good profile picture.
Friday, 24 February 2012
The Pars and the Celts
Wednesday night was different. I found myself among the football hordes, in the middle of the Lisbon Lions stand at Parkhead, watching Celtic play Dunfermline.
Dad had phoned mid afternoon to ask if I fancied a trip to Parkhead as he had two season tickets temporarily in his possession. As I’m not much of a football fan I didn’t exactly jump at the chance. Dad and Kenny were always the football nuts. The odd game of footie, a weekly games of fives, and only the occasional outing to see a game, that was about it for my football dedication. The team I went to see most was probably the Westwood Rovers, and they didn't have much of a home ground.
I was tired, work was boring, I had an appointment with the gym after work and I had a nice piece of lasagne waiting for me when I got home. Humming and hawing I thought it over as my Dad spoke over the mobile.
Wednesday had been a bit of a struggle. The atmosphere in the office is rubbish at the moment as those of us in the prepress department have still not been informed on where we stand with regards to the company amalgamation with the Daily Record. I’ve been quite happy just to work on and get on with things while the managers make their minds up but the atmosphere has been worsening recently, speculation is rife and there’s always a bit of whispering and muttering going on which doesn't help the atmosphere. So being fed up I didn’t feel particularly up for any last minute trips but after a little consideration I accepted my Dad's invite.
Why not? A wee change. It had been a while since I'd went to a footie match.
Dad usually goes with his cousin and neighbour Michael Brady, as Michael’s son, the owner of the second ticket, often doesn’t get the chance to go along. So my Dad usually goes along to enjoy the games in his place. Michael was ill on Wednesday evening, however, so Dad invited me along.
It had been at least ten years since the last time I’d been in the Parkhead. Since then it’s always been Hampden for the very occasional Scotland game or music gig. 2 U2 visits, the Stones and a Chilli Peppers concert were all in Hampden. Music gigs have been the only occasions I've found myself standing, or jumping about singing, in a football stadium more recently.
Liam Gallagher was there on Wednesday night. It wasn't THE Liam Gallagher obviously. This one was eight years of age. He was the mascot of the night. Not the bloke in the big dog outfit but the home team's young visitor that led the teams on to the park as the music started blaring from the loudspeakers overhead.
Back in my teens, when I was vaguely interested in footie, I’d occasionally visit Parkhead on a Saturday afternoon with my mates.
Back when it was affordable.
Chaz, Colin, Tony and myself would stand in the temporary stands, around 1993-4, shivering in the cold, soaking in the rain, watching Van Hooijdonk and the lads. We even met Fergus McCann one day and got our photo taken with him (I’m not sure whether he was looking at the camera though). Fergus being the main man that rescued Celtic from near bankruptcy in 1994.
How times have changed.
The crowds were taking great delight in singing about Rangers current plight. Something along the lines of “We’re gonnae have a party” echoed at various points around the various stands. It won't be much of a party, I thought, with no one to compete against.
I was quite surprised by how busy the mid week game was, especially considering this was the current table leaders v the current table trailers.
Dad had parked the car around twenty minutes walk away, up beside Shawfield stadium, and just as we'd pulled over to park, cars were pulling up alongside us, passengers disembarking, most with the green and white wools. The walking crowds gathered as we made our way up towards the stadium. Families, couples, fathers and sons, pensioners, groups of kids with a single adult guardian. All were talking away as they walked, the large lights of the stadium growing larger in the dark evening sky as we approached.
We entered the stadium through the usual turnstiles flashing the season tickets, which lit up in response with a bright green 'go' light and strode into the main hall, passing some ticket sellers and the food and drinks kiosks on our way.
£4.10 for a scotch pie and bovril? Crazy prices. I'll never complain about Greggs again. You don't even get beans? You've got to have baked beans with a scotch pie for gawds sake! Especially at that price.
I was starving. I was missing my lasagne.
Most of the stands were pretty full as the match began, the gathering noise echoing up and around the stadium from various corners continuously throughout like a vocal wave machine. One stand would sing one verse and the other stand, the next in response like some sort of giant choir practice. A large crowd of fans in the corner of the Lisbon stand with flags and drums created an almighty racket, thumping away throughout the game's entirety and singing away.
The Green Brigade. The nutter fans. Fans that go to the games more for a workout than for the entertainment by the looks of things. They created a great atmosphere within the giant walls and got a lot of the other stands singing along with them in their enthusiastic chanting, belting out the simple lyrics. Some of the lyrics I could not make out through the echoes and some just seemed made up on the spot, probably by a couple of particularly loud voices, swiftly repeated by others until it became a loud chorus circling the crowd filled stadium.
As the rain intermittently poured down in white pellets through the bright lines of light from the floodlights Dunfermline struggled to make any kind of attack. The blues and yellows, or the Pars, seemed to sit back and merely defend for the most part of the game, only venturing upfield on the odd occasion during the first half, fighting Celtic off the best they could. The visitors were lucky to get away with only a 2-0 defeat thanks their goalkeeper Chris Smith (I think that was his name), who certainly earned his money on the night, saving and deflecting more than a good few shots.
At half time there was a draw for raffle tickets that had apparently been on sale in the stadium's gates and as the winning number was announced over the tannoy there was a loud cheer from the corner of the south stand and a wee couple emerged from the cheering crowd waving and jumping about.
£15,000 they won?! That would have bought them a couple of pies from the food kiosks.
If I'd known about the fifteen grand prize I would have bought myself a ticket. That has to be better odds than the Wednesday night lottery. £15,000 just for going along to the footie on a Wednesday night? Maybe this football malarky is worth it after all?
Dad had phoned mid afternoon to ask if I fancied a trip to Parkhead as he had two season tickets temporarily in his possession. As I’m not much of a football fan I didn’t exactly jump at the chance. Dad and Kenny were always the football nuts. The odd game of footie, a weekly games of fives, and only the occasional outing to see a game, that was about it for my football dedication. The team I went to see most was probably the Westwood Rovers, and they didn't have much of a home ground.
I was tired, work was boring, I had an appointment with the gym after work and I had a nice piece of lasagne waiting for me when I got home. Humming and hawing I thought it over as my Dad spoke over the mobile.
Wednesday had been a bit of a struggle. The atmosphere in the office is rubbish at the moment as those of us in the prepress department have still not been informed on where we stand with regards to the company amalgamation with the Daily Record. I’ve been quite happy just to work on and get on with things while the managers make their minds up but the atmosphere has been worsening recently, speculation is rife and there’s always a bit of whispering and muttering going on which doesn't help the atmosphere. So being fed up I didn’t feel particularly up for any last minute trips but after a little consideration I accepted my Dad's invite.
Why not? A wee change. It had been a while since I'd went to a footie match.
Dad usually goes with his cousin and neighbour Michael Brady, as Michael’s son, the owner of the second ticket, often doesn’t get the chance to go along. So my Dad usually goes along to enjoy the games in his place. Michael was ill on Wednesday evening, however, so Dad invited me along.
It had been at least ten years since the last time I’d been in the Parkhead. Since then it’s always been Hampden for the very occasional Scotland game or music gig. 2 U2 visits, the Stones and a Chilli Peppers concert were all in Hampden. Music gigs have been the only occasions I've found myself standing, or jumping about singing, in a football stadium more recently.
Liam Gallagher was there on Wednesday night. It wasn't THE Liam Gallagher obviously. This one was eight years of age. He was the mascot of the night. Not the bloke in the big dog outfit but the home team's young visitor that led the teams on to the park as the music started blaring from the loudspeakers overhead.
Back in my teens, when I was vaguely interested in footie, I’d occasionally visit Parkhead on a Saturday afternoon with my mates.
Back when it was affordable.
Chaz, Colin, Tony and myself would stand in the temporary stands, around 1993-4, shivering in the cold, soaking in the rain, watching Van Hooijdonk and the lads. We even met Fergus McCann one day and got our photo taken with him (I’m not sure whether he was looking at the camera though). Fergus being the main man that rescued Celtic from near bankruptcy in 1994.
How times have changed.
The crowds were taking great delight in singing about Rangers current plight. Something along the lines of “We’re gonnae have a party” echoed at various points around the various stands. It won't be much of a party, I thought, with no one to compete against.
I was quite surprised by how busy the mid week game was, especially considering this was the current table leaders v the current table trailers.
Dad had parked the car around twenty minutes walk away, up beside Shawfield stadium, and just as we'd pulled over to park, cars were pulling up alongside us, passengers disembarking, most with the green and white wools. The walking crowds gathered as we made our way up towards the stadium. Families, couples, fathers and sons, pensioners, groups of kids with a single adult guardian. All were talking away as they walked, the large lights of the stadium growing larger in the dark evening sky as we approached.
We entered the stadium through the usual turnstiles flashing the season tickets, which lit up in response with a bright green 'go' light and strode into the main hall, passing some ticket sellers and the food and drinks kiosks on our way.
£4.10 for a scotch pie and bovril? Crazy prices. I'll never complain about Greggs again. You don't even get beans? You've got to have baked beans with a scotch pie for gawds sake! Especially at that price.
I was starving. I was missing my lasagne.
Most of the stands were pretty full as the match began, the gathering noise echoing up and around the stadium from various corners continuously throughout like a vocal wave machine. One stand would sing one verse and the other stand, the next in response like some sort of giant choir practice. A large crowd of fans in the corner of the Lisbon stand with flags and drums created an almighty racket, thumping away throughout the game's entirety and singing away.
The Green Brigade. The nutter fans. Fans that go to the games more for a workout than for the entertainment by the looks of things. They created a great atmosphere within the giant walls and got a lot of the other stands singing along with them in their enthusiastic chanting, belting out the simple lyrics. Some of the lyrics I could not make out through the echoes and some just seemed made up on the spot, probably by a couple of particularly loud voices, swiftly repeated by others until it became a loud chorus circling the crowd filled stadium.
As the rain intermittently poured down in white pellets through the bright lines of light from the floodlights Dunfermline struggled to make any kind of attack. The blues and yellows, or the Pars, seemed to sit back and merely defend for the most part of the game, only venturing upfield on the odd occasion during the first half, fighting Celtic off the best they could. The visitors were lucky to get away with only a 2-0 defeat thanks their goalkeeper Chris Smith (I think that was his name), who certainly earned his money on the night, saving and deflecting more than a good few shots.
At half time there was a draw for raffle tickets that had apparently been on sale in the stadium's gates and as the winning number was announced over the tannoy there was a loud cheer from the corner of the south stand and a wee couple emerged from the cheering crowd waving and jumping about.
£15,000 they won?! That would have bought them a couple of pies from the food kiosks.
If I'd known about the fifteen grand prize I would have bought myself a ticket. That has to be better odds than the Wednesday night lottery. £15,000 just for going along to the footie on a Wednesday night? Maybe this football malarky is worth it after all?
Sunday, 22 January 2012
Slitting throats and pickpocketing
I said I’d never do it. It was something you done when you were younger and shouldn’t really be revisited. Something that should be left in the past. I’m married now, for goodness sake. I’m supposed to be grown up. Such things are supposed to be behind me. I considered the idea of going back to it all damaging, anti-social and near embarrassing. Unfortunately, however, it’s happened. I’ve become hooked again.
I spent my entire Saturday afternoon, shoddily dressed, staring at the television, swearing occasionally, twiddling knobs and pressing buttons on a PS3 controller.
It was a lazy day yesterday, my head aching following a mini night out on Friday, when we ate in Glasgow’s Thai Fountain, under the supervision of the wine watching waiters and waitresses, and then enjoyed a few drinks afterwards on our way to the bus home.
Ka was out on the Saturday afternoon for lunch with the girls and I was left to my own devices for a change. The device in question being Kenny’s PS3.
My brother left me in charge of his beloved shiny black box, along with a large pile of games, before he went off to Oz. I begrudgingly took the machine off him, believing that I’d maybe just watch the occasional Blu-Ray on my twelve year old tv (does Blu-Ray even work on non HD televisions? I’ve no idea).
My PS2 lies unloved on one of the bottom shelves, under the ten tonne Sony tele, and has done for some time. I bought the PS2 at some point in the far and distant past, off the back of a lorry, from one of the women in Mum’s work. I’ve no idea to this day where she got it from. As far as I am aware my Mum, and this casual sales lady, never worked with lorries, or had much to do with lorries in any way, so where the lorry, and it’s hind end, came from, I’ve no idea.
Anyway, after begrudgingly buying the PS2 I bought, or received, a grand total of five games through the following years. With the exception of that, the most I played Playstation was when Kenny would allow me to lose to him at FIFA (apparently the computer was a better competitor), or whenever Chaz had a beer and Playstation night, most of which, for some reason, he made sure I was never invited to.
For just under a year now the shiny black box has stood at the side of our living room tv and instead of looking hip and ‘with-it’, has been gathering dust (or at least it would have done, if Ka was not such a fabulous housekeeper).
Until now. Now, I’m hooked.
Whenever Ka is out, whenever she’s in the bath, whenever she’s busy in the kitchen (where she belongs) she’ll hear the familiar opening greeting tones of the PS3 machine as it’s lights turn to green and the familiar wavy, graphic curls across the screen.
So, on Saturday, as soon as Ka closed the front door behind her, the PS3 button was pressed, the welcome tones rang out and the curvy welcome graphic was back on the screen, loading the machine’s interactive menu. Before long I was darting around the streets of the Holy Land, slitting bad guys throats, climbing tall towers, rescuing women being wrongly accused of thieving, struggling to pickpocket suspicious looking characters and generally being rather wonderful. A superhero in the brutal age of the Crusades.
Just as I was racing into a new town on my stolen horse, my mobile rang. Chaz interrupted.
Chaz, being the seasoned pro, when it comes to PS3, was supposed to be coming round to help me out with ‘Creed’ as he’d completed it two or three years previously. Apparently he’s now got the third ‘Creed’ game, received two Christmases ago, still in it’s packaging. Good for you and your packaging, I thought, just tell me how to successfully pickpocket this grumpy, old git with the beard will you?
As it turned out, my attempts at pickpocketing were far superior to Chaz’s, who got slaughtered on more than one occasion. He’d perhaps lost his touch, either that, or there was a reason the third ‘Creed’ game was still in it’s packaging.
It turns out you’ve got to press the circle button, and keep it pressed, otherwise the mark, swings round, accuses you, and shouts for the city’s guards to run after you and eventually either slice you to death or chase you into the canal, where you swiftly drown, because, it turns out, the assassin can’t swim!
I couldn’t believe that part. An assassin that can’t swim?! Ridiculous!
How does this supposed assassin then come up on to the beach and remove his rubber swim suit to reveal and perfectly ironed evening suit underneath, just in time for cocktails? (Saying that, I’m not sure they drank cocktails in the Holy Land during the Crusades… probably against their religion or something… whereas slitting somebody’s throat was perfectly acceptable).
Anyway, Chaz soon got bored of watching me struggle to climb the city walls and before long we were back in ‘Motor Storm’ again, a game we discovered from Kenny’s pile a few weeks back. Once more we were racing through the ridiculously bumpy terrain and mountains of Monument Valley. Throughout the game you get to race in seven different kinds of vehicles which range from bikes and buggies to racing trucks and rigs, all with different handling and capabilities. All crazy nonsense, of course, with massive, twisting tracks, vehicle boost controls, incredibly over the top crashes which involve bits of vehicle flying everywhere and pilots, mangled in crumpled rally cars or flung over mountain ledges. Slow motion replays illustrate exactly how you’re pilot meets his glorious maker before magically coming back to life in a fully regenerated, roadworthy, vehicle at exactly the point on the lap where fate conspired against you. All the while Bobbie Gillespie, and Primal Scream, blasts through the television speakers at you along with the growling of your engine, the explosions, the squelching of the mud under your tyres and the horns that signal the end of a lap, some of them sounding suspiciously like the horrendous winds of the vuvuzelas.
Anyway, the horn was soon sounded on my PS3 fun as Ka arrived home and, after around an hour of watching the tv in the bedroom, I eventually allowed her into the living room and turned the shiny black box off.
That was it for one day. My fun was over. After that it was boring old Saturday night tv. I had been hoping that the boring Saturday night tv would be enough to send Ka off to sleepy land on the couch, and me off to the Holy Land again, but it wasn’t to be. Hopefully Kenny stays in Oz for at least another year, that way I may just get to complete my mission as disgraced Assassin, Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad (just as well, I'm writing that and not pronouncing it).
I spent my entire Saturday afternoon, shoddily dressed, staring at the television, swearing occasionally, twiddling knobs and pressing buttons on a PS3 controller.
It was a lazy day yesterday, my head aching following a mini night out on Friday, when we ate in Glasgow’s Thai Fountain, under the supervision of the wine watching waiters and waitresses, and then enjoyed a few drinks afterwards on our way to the bus home.
Ka was out on the Saturday afternoon for lunch with the girls and I was left to my own devices for a change. The device in question being Kenny’s PS3.
My brother left me in charge of his beloved shiny black box, along with a large pile of games, before he went off to Oz. I begrudgingly took the machine off him, believing that I’d maybe just watch the occasional Blu-Ray on my twelve year old tv (does Blu-Ray even work on non HD televisions? I’ve no idea).
My PS2 lies unloved on one of the bottom shelves, under the ten tonne Sony tele, and has done for some time. I bought the PS2 at some point in the far and distant past, off the back of a lorry, from one of the women in Mum’s work. I’ve no idea to this day where she got it from. As far as I am aware my Mum, and this casual sales lady, never worked with lorries, or had much to do with lorries in any way, so where the lorry, and it’s hind end, came from, I’ve no idea.
Anyway, after begrudgingly buying the PS2 I bought, or received, a grand total of five games through the following years. With the exception of that, the most I played Playstation was when Kenny would allow me to lose to him at FIFA (apparently the computer was a better competitor), or whenever Chaz had a beer and Playstation night, most of which, for some reason, he made sure I was never invited to.
For just under a year now the shiny black box has stood at the side of our living room tv and instead of looking hip and ‘with-it’, has been gathering dust (or at least it would have done, if Ka was not such a fabulous housekeeper).
Until now. Now, I’m hooked.
Whenever Ka is out, whenever she’s in the bath, whenever she’s busy in the kitchen (where she belongs) she’ll hear the familiar opening greeting tones of the PS3 machine as it’s lights turn to green and the familiar wavy, graphic curls across the screen.
So, on Saturday, as soon as Ka closed the front door behind her, the PS3 button was pressed, the welcome tones rang out and the curvy welcome graphic was back on the screen, loading the machine’s interactive menu. Before long I was darting around the streets of the Holy Land, slitting bad guys throats, climbing tall towers, rescuing women being wrongly accused of thieving, struggling to pickpocket suspicious looking characters and generally being rather wonderful. A superhero in the brutal age of the Crusades.
Just as I was racing into a new town on my stolen horse, my mobile rang. Chaz interrupted.
Chaz, being the seasoned pro, when it comes to PS3, was supposed to be coming round to help me out with ‘Creed’ as he’d completed it two or three years previously. Apparently he’s now got the third ‘Creed’ game, received two Christmases ago, still in it’s packaging. Good for you and your packaging, I thought, just tell me how to successfully pickpocket this grumpy, old git with the beard will you?
As it turned out, my attempts at pickpocketing were far superior to Chaz’s, who got slaughtered on more than one occasion. He’d perhaps lost his touch, either that, or there was a reason the third ‘Creed’ game was still in it’s packaging.
It turns out you’ve got to press the circle button, and keep it pressed, otherwise the mark, swings round, accuses you, and shouts for the city’s guards to run after you and eventually either slice you to death or chase you into the canal, where you swiftly drown, because, it turns out, the assassin can’t swim!
I couldn’t believe that part. An assassin that can’t swim?! Ridiculous!
How does this supposed assassin then come up on to the beach and remove his rubber swim suit to reveal and perfectly ironed evening suit underneath, just in time for cocktails? (Saying that, I’m not sure they drank cocktails in the Holy Land during the Crusades… probably against their religion or something… whereas slitting somebody’s throat was perfectly acceptable).
Anyway, Chaz soon got bored of watching me struggle to climb the city walls and before long we were back in ‘Motor Storm’ again, a game we discovered from Kenny’s pile a few weeks back. Once more we were racing through the ridiculously bumpy terrain and mountains of Monument Valley. Throughout the game you get to race in seven different kinds of vehicles which range from bikes and buggies to racing trucks and rigs, all with different handling and capabilities. All crazy nonsense, of course, with massive, twisting tracks, vehicle boost controls, incredibly over the top crashes which involve bits of vehicle flying everywhere and pilots, mangled in crumpled rally cars or flung over mountain ledges. Slow motion replays illustrate exactly how you’re pilot meets his glorious maker before magically coming back to life in a fully regenerated, roadworthy, vehicle at exactly the point on the lap where fate conspired against you. All the while Bobbie Gillespie, and Primal Scream, blasts through the television speakers at you along with the growling of your engine, the explosions, the squelching of the mud under your tyres and the horns that signal the end of a lap, some of them sounding suspiciously like the horrendous winds of the vuvuzelas.
Anyway, the horn was soon sounded on my PS3 fun as Ka arrived home and, after around an hour of watching the tv in the bedroom, I eventually allowed her into the living room and turned the shiny black box off.
That was it for one day. My fun was over. After that it was boring old Saturday night tv. I had been hoping that the boring Saturday night tv would be enough to send Ka off to sleepy land on the couch, and me off to the Holy Land again, but it wasn’t to be. Hopefully Kenny stays in Oz for at least another year, that way I may just get to complete my mission as disgraced Assassin, Altaïr ibn-La'Ahad (just as well, I'm writing that and not pronouncing it).
Friday, 29 July 2011
Desperate in Dundee
The sky was a brilliant blue. Any clouds a mere whisper in the vast sky over the expanse of the Firth of Tay. The strait lay shimmering, over the large valley before us, reaching over towards Newport and the north east of Fife.
Both Ka and myself had never been to Dundee before so, just for the jaunt in the summer sunshine, we thought we'd go up on Saturday and have a wee night away in a B&B followed by a day on the beach in St. Andrews on the Sunday.
With a few hours to kill before check in at our hotel we parked the car in the town centre and decided to have a wander, maybe grab some lunch on the way as we were both starving.
We walked through the shopping centre, Ka making a quick stop at Primark for a pair of work trousers whilst I kept walking, going out into the town square, taking a few pictures of Desperate Dan and a catapult weilding Minnie the Minx. The 8 foot bronze statue of the cow pie eating cartoon character stands in the middle of Dundee's city square, dragging his 'dawg' along behind him, Minnie the Minx following. Both characters appeared in two different comics, The Dandy and The Beano, both published by the same company DC Thomson, a company Ka's Dad, Dougie, is more than familiar with, and the annuals of which my brother Kenny and myself would usually receive copies of every Christmas.
On our walk around Dundee Ka and myself explored the Tayside, seeing the R.R.S. Discovery moored up at Discovery point, Captain Robert Falcon Scott's ship that conquered Antartica. Just as I was taking a quick picture of the historical ship a small couple with a strange accent approached us and asked if we'd like a photo taken. After posing under the tall ship the older couple started chatting away, some of which I understood, telling us they were over on holiday from Melbourne, first time back in Scotland in twenty five years. That explained the odd accent. A weird amalgamation of Aussie and Scots. An accent Kenny may well adopt after his continuing trip around Oz.
It does make me wonder, hearing so many stories of people emigrating to Oz in search of a better life, and finding it.
Is it really the land of opportunity? Do we need to travel so far, in order to gain this fantastic life that so many people talk of? Is Britain, and Scotland specifically, so abysmal that you have to move to the land of 'Neighbours', 'Home and Away' and 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert' to have a satisfactory life? I do like BBQs mind you... and the fact you can go next door whenever you want and help yourself to their fridge or sit on the beach all day and drink lager.
After getting back to the car we finally found somewhere to get some food. A rather shadey wee baguette shop, across the road from the carpark, on the edge of the University grounds. After successfully misunderstanding a hungry Ka I strode into the small shop and ordered a baguette, standing in the tight, white tiled take away, looking down at the bowls in the glass cabinets before us. Chicken in various sauces and in various states of decay met our eyes as the man behind the counter warmed our baguette, eyeing us suspiciously. I'd never had an inclination to run from a cafe or take away shop after placing an order before.
"Run for your life!" I screamed through my head and I imagined running out the shop, grabbing Ka as I went, escaping across the road, jumping into the car and speeding off, door slamming shut over the spinning wheels as the wee Baguette man ran out after us, shouting indian swear words whilst gesturing wildly with a tikka stained bread knife.
Upon receiving the baguette, which Ka had to pay for with her wealth of change, she dared me to eat the horrid looking thing, filling me with guilt after she was now £4 out of pocket. I couldn't back down. I had to eat it. Two day old salad hung from the sides of the bread littered over the greasy, gorey looking chicken tikka which lay inside. I gulped and bit my first bite.
"It's not bad" I shrugged at Ka, lying uncontrollably.
I managed to get halfway down the baguette before my stomach started churning.
Time to head on to the hotel, I told Ka, and the room's bathroom, I thought.
We were greeted at the Shaftsbury Hotel by Heather, the friendly and slightly flustered hotelier, with horn rimmed glasses and muddled paperwork, who showed us up to our room at the top of the large, Victorian building. The hotel had originally been home to one of Dundee's rich jute Barons, James Scott. The jute industry being one of the city's main incomes in the nineteenth century. The building structure has obviously been largely untouched since those days, a lot of the original features still in place.
Our room at the top of the house was large and airy, with a view looking out over the Tay, only slightly obscured by the few rooftops before us. As we opened the curtains wide to admire the panorama we smiled, taking in the nice view. The sun shone, the Tay sparkled, a few gulls cackled at one another and the chickens clucked.
Hold on.
Chickens?
"Bock,bock,bock,begowwwwk" echoed through the streets below from the neighbour's garden straight across the road. The chicken tikka in my belly turned oddly inside my digestive system but thankfully settled before we headed out for dinner to Papa Joe's, an American style diner along the same lines of TGI Fridays but, we discovered, with far superior burgers. I almost went for the chicken burger but thought against it, going for the cow meat instead, just like Desperate Dan.
Both Ka and myself had never been to Dundee before so, just for the jaunt in the summer sunshine, we thought we'd go up on Saturday and have a wee night away in a B&B followed by a day on the beach in St. Andrews on the Sunday.
With a few hours to kill before check in at our hotel we parked the car in the town centre and decided to have a wander, maybe grab some lunch on the way as we were both starving.
We walked through the shopping centre, Ka making a quick stop at Primark for a pair of work trousers whilst I kept walking, going out into the town square, taking a few pictures of Desperate Dan and a catapult weilding Minnie the Minx. The 8 foot bronze statue of the cow pie eating cartoon character stands in the middle of Dundee's city square, dragging his 'dawg' along behind him, Minnie the Minx following. Both characters appeared in two different comics, The Dandy and The Beano, both published by the same company DC Thomson, a company Ka's Dad, Dougie, is more than familiar with, and the annuals of which my brother Kenny and myself would usually receive copies of every Christmas.
On our walk around Dundee Ka and myself explored the Tayside, seeing the R.R.S. Discovery moored up at Discovery point, Captain Robert Falcon Scott's ship that conquered Antartica. Just as I was taking a quick picture of the historical ship a small couple with a strange accent approached us and asked if we'd like a photo taken. After posing under the tall ship the older couple started chatting away, some of which I understood, telling us they were over on holiday from Melbourne, first time back in Scotland in twenty five years. That explained the odd accent. A weird amalgamation of Aussie and Scots. An accent Kenny may well adopt after his continuing trip around Oz.
It does make me wonder, hearing so many stories of people emigrating to Oz in search of a better life, and finding it.
Is it really the land of opportunity? Do we need to travel so far, in order to gain this fantastic life that so many people talk of? Is Britain, and Scotland specifically, so abysmal that you have to move to the land of 'Neighbours', 'Home and Away' and 'Priscilla Queen of the Desert' to have a satisfactory life? I do like BBQs mind you... and the fact you can go next door whenever you want and help yourself to their fridge or sit on the beach all day and drink lager.
After getting back to the car we finally found somewhere to get some food. A rather shadey wee baguette shop, across the road from the carpark, on the edge of the University grounds. After successfully misunderstanding a hungry Ka I strode into the small shop and ordered a baguette, standing in the tight, white tiled take away, looking down at the bowls in the glass cabinets before us. Chicken in various sauces and in various states of decay met our eyes as the man behind the counter warmed our baguette, eyeing us suspiciously. I'd never had an inclination to run from a cafe or take away shop after placing an order before.
"Run for your life!" I screamed through my head and I imagined running out the shop, grabbing Ka as I went, escaping across the road, jumping into the car and speeding off, door slamming shut over the spinning wheels as the wee Baguette man ran out after us, shouting indian swear words whilst gesturing wildly with a tikka stained bread knife.
Upon receiving the baguette, which Ka had to pay for with her wealth of change, she dared me to eat the horrid looking thing, filling me with guilt after she was now £4 out of pocket. I couldn't back down. I had to eat it. Two day old salad hung from the sides of the bread littered over the greasy, gorey looking chicken tikka which lay inside. I gulped and bit my first bite.
"It's not bad" I shrugged at Ka, lying uncontrollably.
I managed to get halfway down the baguette before my stomach started churning.
Time to head on to the hotel, I told Ka, and the room's bathroom, I thought.
We were greeted at the Shaftsbury Hotel by Heather, the friendly and slightly flustered hotelier, with horn rimmed glasses and muddled paperwork, who showed us up to our room at the top of the large, Victorian building. The hotel had originally been home to one of Dundee's rich jute Barons, James Scott. The jute industry being one of the city's main incomes in the nineteenth century. The building structure has obviously been largely untouched since those days, a lot of the original features still in place.
Our room at the top of the house was large and airy, with a view looking out over the Tay, only slightly obscured by the few rooftops before us. As we opened the curtains wide to admire the panorama we smiled, taking in the nice view. The sun shone, the Tay sparkled, a few gulls cackled at one another and the chickens clucked.
Hold on.
Chickens?
"Bock,bock,bock,begowwwwk" echoed through the streets below from the neighbour's garden straight across the road. The chicken tikka in my belly turned oddly inside my digestive system but thankfully settled before we headed out for dinner to Papa Joe's, an American style diner along the same lines of TGI Fridays but, we discovered, with far superior burgers. I almost went for the chicken burger but thought against it, going for the cow meat instead, just like Desperate Dan.
Tuesday, 28 June 2011
Smiley Miley's Radio Roadshow
As Coldplay's ‘Every Teardrop’ drew to a climatic conclusion on the Pyramid stage around midnight on Saturday we all counted up our miles. Dad finished with over 2,200 miles in his possession which meant he won the game, even though I had been the first to reach London after the nationwide journey around the board of the Smiley Miley Game and thus brining an end to the game.
Lynsey Ann had brought the Radio One Smiley Miley Road Show game up with her to Mum and Dad's on Saturday night to be played after we all demolished a delicious and rather impressive Chinese carry-out which included Chow Mein, King Prawns and Sweet and Sour chicken.
The Smiley Miley board game was based on the famous Radio 1 Road shows which toured the country every summer between the late seventies and the late nineties, entertaining the nation live on Saturday afternoons from various beaches and parks across the country. The young Reid family went to around three or four of them. The likes of Bruno Brookes, Phillip Schofield and the lovely Jackie Brambles would present the show live to the gathered locals. Games with lucky contestants plucked from the crowds included pop quizzes, 'Bits and Pieces' and 'Smiley Miley's Mileage Game'.
In 'Bits and Pieces' a small sample of a tune was played and you had to guess the artist, song name, or both, a game which I ended up introducing into the family Christmas quizzes I used to put together for the Big Boxing Night bashes we used to have. Mum and Dad's vinyl collection always came in quite handy for that particular round. I'd use the linked tape recorder to make cassettes up full of five to ten second clips from records that my Mum and Dad had bought over the years and apparently forgotten the sound of after a few beers on Boxing Night. I still use the old 'Bit and Pieces' routine occasionally in homemade quizzes to this day. Instead of the old tape recorder I now use the Mac's Garageband application. It's much easier to blend the tracks and even distort them but it's strangely not as much fun.
I miss cassettes. Music in a thin plastic case on a magnetic tape played when wound between two cogs. How cool does that sound? Antiquated, but cool! They were so brilliantly temperamental too.
I spent many an afternoon trying to wind a tape smoothly back inside it's cassette casing. Hours of fun! Once successfully all wound back into place, I'd plug the tape victoriously back into the my cassette player, pressing play with a satisified grin, only to hear the music start warping and morphing, after a few minutes, into a chewed up garbling noise. A wonderful alien noise the BBC's Radiophonic workshop could not easily produce.
Anyway, the BBC finally axed the Radio 1 Roadshow in 2000 replacing it with the present day, annual, festival wannabe, Big Weekend. Probably a good move in the end up as The Big Weekend now attracts pretty big, international names such as the Foo Fighters, Lady Gaga and Madonna.
Del Amitri and Status Quo were the big crowd pullers of the Road Show. Not quite the same.
The last Road Show we went to was in Arran. Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann, Kenny and myself travelled over in the wee Nissan Micra with our tents, setting up camp on the Friday afternoon, the wee two man tent and the bigger three man dome tent, alongside each other, just in time for the imminent arrival of the Radio 1 lorries and their guest artists, Wet Wet Wet.
Mum and Dad had decided to set up camp with the rest of the Radio 1 roadshow campers and as we settled down to bed, everyone else in the makeshift campsite decided to waken up and the campsite seemed to suddenly transform into a rave. Being younger and naive at the time the Reid family spent the night cowering in our tents, surrounded by crazy, wild, drunken teenagers high on drugs and juice, falling into the sides of the tents, puking on tents, shouting, dancing and ramsacking tents. Kenny and myself were in the wee two man tent which stood before the larger where Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann’s cowered, sleep deprived and helpless. Halfway through the night Kenny and myself looked up into the darkness of our tent to find some bloke staring back at us.
“Here, there’s somebody in this tent?!”, I remember the guy blurted, before reversing back out and diving off into the noisy darkness.
A young Jackie Brambles and the rest of the roadshow, eventually arrived the next morning as promised, and as Marti Pellow started belting out the hits live on air to the gathered crowd, who seemed strangely mellow and considerably more controlled than they had been the past eight hours, even with Wet Wet Wet on stage, the band they were apparently all camping out to see.
Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann, Kenny and myself sat on the grass in the open Arran park, half dozing in the Scottish summer sun, enjoying the quiet. Even with Marti Pellow warbling in the background it seemed like bliss.
The board game proved to be more of a hit for the Reid family than that particular Road Show in Arran and at the weekend proved that, although dated, it’s still a hell of a lot more enjoyable than listening to Wet Wet Wet.
Lynsey Ann had brought the Radio One Smiley Miley Road Show game up with her to Mum and Dad's on Saturday night to be played after we all demolished a delicious and rather impressive Chinese carry-out which included Chow Mein, King Prawns and Sweet and Sour chicken.
The Smiley Miley board game was based on the famous Radio 1 Road shows which toured the country every summer between the late seventies and the late nineties, entertaining the nation live on Saturday afternoons from various beaches and parks across the country. The young Reid family went to around three or four of them. The likes of Bruno Brookes, Phillip Schofield and the lovely Jackie Brambles would present the show live to the gathered locals. Games with lucky contestants plucked from the crowds included pop quizzes, 'Bits and Pieces' and 'Smiley Miley's Mileage Game'.
In 'Bits and Pieces' a small sample of a tune was played and you had to guess the artist, song name, or both, a game which I ended up introducing into the family Christmas quizzes I used to put together for the Big Boxing Night bashes we used to have. Mum and Dad's vinyl collection always came in quite handy for that particular round. I'd use the linked tape recorder to make cassettes up full of five to ten second clips from records that my Mum and Dad had bought over the years and apparently forgotten the sound of after a few beers on Boxing Night. I still use the old 'Bit and Pieces' routine occasionally in homemade quizzes to this day. Instead of the old tape recorder I now use the Mac's Garageband application. It's much easier to blend the tracks and even distort them but it's strangely not as much fun.
I miss cassettes. Music in a thin plastic case on a magnetic tape played when wound between two cogs. How cool does that sound? Antiquated, but cool! They were so brilliantly temperamental too.
I spent many an afternoon trying to wind a tape smoothly back inside it's cassette casing. Hours of fun! Once successfully all wound back into place, I'd plug the tape victoriously back into the my cassette player, pressing play with a satisified grin, only to hear the music start warping and morphing, after a few minutes, into a chewed up garbling noise. A wonderful alien noise the BBC's Radiophonic workshop could not easily produce.
Anyway, the BBC finally axed the Radio 1 Roadshow in 2000 replacing it with the present day, annual, festival wannabe, Big Weekend. Probably a good move in the end up as The Big Weekend now attracts pretty big, international names such as the Foo Fighters, Lady Gaga and Madonna.
Del Amitri and Status Quo were the big crowd pullers of the Road Show. Not quite the same.
The last Road Show we went to was in Arran. Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann, Kenny and myself travelled over in the wee Nissan Micra with our tents, setting up camp on the Friday afternoon, the wee two man tent and the bigger three man dome tent, alongside each other, just in time for the imminent arrival of the Radio 1 lorries and their guest artists, Wet Wet Wet.
Mum and Dad had decided to set up camp with the rest of the Radio 1 roadshow campers and as we settled down to bed, everyone else in the makeshift campsite decided to waken up and the campsite seemed to suddenly transform into a rave. Being younger and naive at the time the Reid family spent the night cowering in our tents, surrounded by crazy, wild, drunken teenagers high on drugs and juice, falling into the sides of the tents, puking on tents, shouting, dancing and ramsacking tents. Kenny and myself were in the wee two man tent which stood before the larger where Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann’s cowered, sleep deprived and helpless. Halfway through the night Kenny and myself looked up into the darkness of our tent to find some bloke staring back at us.
“Here, there’s somebody in this tent?!”, I remember the guy blurted, before reversing back out and diving off into the noisy darkness.
Mum, Dad, Lynsey Ann, Kenny and myself sat on the grass in the open Arran park, half dozing in the Scottish summer sun, enjoying the quiet. Even with Marti Pellow warbling in the background it seemed like bliss.
The board game proved to be more of a hit for the Reid family than that particular Road Show in Arran and at the weekend proved that, although dated, it’s still a hell of a lot more enjoyable than listening to Wet Wet Wet.
Thursday, 16 June 2011
Guilty of a mug smashing
Woke up yesterday morning with a start (which is what mornings usually are). My mobile was blaring away, vibrating on the desk at the side of the bed, the familiar beat and twinkling background notes of ‘Once in a Lifetime’ interrupting my dream.
After a brief conversation with Ka and making sure her straighteners were off, for at least the fourth time this week, I stumbled into the shower in an effort to wake myself up. After drying and pulling on a shirt I stomped into the kitchen only to be faced with another of my own wonderful creations from the night before. Another leaning tower of dishes, left drying at the side of the sink. Ka hates me leaving the dishes drying overnight and the mighty piles of pots I balance precariously on top of one another. After a short huff I set to work and started prizing the pile of dishes, pots, mugs and cutlery apart from the intricately balanced structure they were leaning in. Unfortunately, even after my shower, I was obviously not fully awake.
An oven dish slipped.
A casserole dish toppled.
A plate fell forward.
A large glass and a mug at the side of the draining board, balanced on the edge of the sink, were hit.
I moved to rescue them but missed the escaping tumblers. They spun, fell and hit the laminate floor below, smashing into a hundred tiny glistening pieces around my bare feet. The mug broke in half and only the base of the glass remained intact, complete with a large triangular, jagged shard, pointed threateningly up at me. Rolling my eyes, I got the brush and pan out from under the sink. After what seemed like ages, sweeping the smooth laminate floor in my bare feet, dodging around the hundreds of glass pieces dotting the floor, I finally finished and put the pan away and started making a now rushed breakfast. As I moved around the kitchen, flicking switches, punching down toasters and pouring cereal, glass occasionally nipped at the soles of my feet.
I’d tried to tidy the floor of all the glass with the brush but there were still small shreds lurking over the smooth floor. You couldn’t see them, and only barely feel them if you ran your hands over the deck, but they continued to nip at my feet.
The situation seemed to express perfectly how I have been feeling mentally for at least the past few months. No matter how much you try and tidy things up, tidy away, there’s always something there to remind you, no matter how small or seemingly invisible.
It was the second glass I’d smashed in a week and the second mug in a month. Yesterday’s mug was my ‘Ring For Service’ mug, a mug I had received as a present from former work colleagues down in Solihull. Natalie and Hannah had bought me it as a joke, insinuating my glorified tea boy status at the time. At least I think that was the joke? I certainly don’t think they were alluding to any other rings…
In that job I carried out my role as glorified teaboy brilliantly, until the two girls were made ‘redundant’ and I became the company’s General Dogsbody. As it happened I also carried that role out rather brilliantly until I left in 2004 to come back up to Scotland.
The first smashed mug of the month was my Homer mug. One of my favourites which Ka had bought me on one of our first Christmases together. A picture of Homer Simpson adorned the mug’s side, his head x-rayed to see his brain split up into sections, which included, ‘Sleep’, ‘Doughnuts’, ‘Sex’, ‘TV’, ‘Sweet, sweet beer’ etc. along with the caption: “Genius at work”.
Since I am a genius (if only in my own mind) I’d taken the mug into work to use for my teabreaks. Unfortunately, using her Studio Supervisor perks, Andrea had been getting her hot water delivered to her desk to her from the kitchen boiler tap, and one day asked me to fetch her hot water. Andrea passed her mug to me making my own slip from my hand and crack off the floor. As the Homer mug lay there, in bits over the floor, I looked up at Andrea as she burst out laughing. It felt like that moment in ‘Back to the Future’ when Biff had George McFly’s hand up his back. George’s fist forming slowly, pulling back at his side to the tune of Biff’s laughing, gearing up for the expertly delivery sucker punch.
Thankfully, I let it pass.
Andrea continued to laugh and I sighed out heavily, giving an expert fake smile as I picked the mug shards up off the floor. I’ll never forgive Andrea for that.
The love of my life, Ka, has even been guilty of a mug smashing. A more ‘Karate Kid’ flavoured one. Mum and Dad bought Kenny and myself Star Wars mugs, many moons ago. One had Luke Skywalker on the side, the other Boba Fett. Needless to say I demanded the Boba Fett mug and enjoyed many a cup of tea from it, up until a few years back when Ka decided, after watching some telly, to swing her legs off the arm of the sofa and successfully kick my Boba Fett mug, which had been minding it’s own business on the coffee table, across the living room. Half a cup of tea and a mug handle suffered as a result. The handleless Boba Fett mug now holds my paint brushes. As a protest and a heavy hint for a replacement, I didn’t throw it out. I know how not throwing stuff out really annoys Ka, but, for some reason, she allows me to use it as a paintbrush holder (it would also be a great breadstick holder). It must be the guilt. She’s still not bought me a new one.
It’s only stuff at the end of the day though. Mugs, glasses. Whatever.
Why am I sitting writing about mugs? I’m not sure. Because I’m sad? Stupid? Possibly. It’s just the way this blog has flowed I suppose, like tea that’s not had enough brewing time.
The other morning I was asked what was wrong with my mug? Being only half awake at the time, I asked, “what one?”
After a brief conversation with Ka and making sure her straighteners were off, for at least the fourth time this week, I stumbled into the shower in an effort to wake myself up. After drying and pulling on a shirt I stomped into the kitchen only to be faced with another of my own wonderful creations from the night before. Another leaning tower of dishes, left drying at the side of the sink. Ka hates me leaving the dishes drying overnight and the mighty piles of pots I balance precariously on top of one another. After a short huff I set to work and started prizing the pile of dishes, pots, mugs and cutlery apart from the intricately balanced structure they were leaning in. Unfortunately, even after my shower, I was obviously not fully awake.
An oven dish slipped.
A casserole dish toppled.
A plate fell forward.
A large glass and a mug at the side of the draining board, balanced on the edge of the sink, were hit.
I moved to rescue them but missed the escaping tumblers. They spun, fell and hit the laminate floor below, smashing into a hundred tiny glistening pieces around my bare feet. The mug broke in half and only the base of the glass remained intact, complete with a large triangular, jagged shard, pointed threateningly up at me. Rolling my eyes, I got the brush and pan out from under the sink. After what seemed like ages, sweeping the smooth laminate floor in my bare feet, dodging around the hundreds of glass pieces dotting the floor, I finally finished and put the pan away and started making a now rushed breakfast. As I moved around the kitchen, flicking switches, punching down toasters and pouring cereal, glass occasionally nipped at the soles of my feet.
I’d tried to tidy the floor of all the glass with the brush but there were still small shreds lurking over the smooth floor. You couldn’t see them, and only barely feel them if you ran your hands over the deck, but they continued to nip at my feet.
The situation seemed to express perfectly how I have been feeling mentally for at least the past few months. No matter how much you try and tidy things up, tidy away, there’s always something there to remind you, no matter how small or seemingly invisible.
It was the second glass I’d smashed in a week and the second mug in a month. Yesterday’s mug was my ‘Ring For Service’ mug, a mug I had received as a present from former work colleagues down in Solihull. Natalie and Hannah had bought me it as a joke, insinuating my glorified tea boy status at the time. At least I think that was the joke? I certainly don’t think they were alluding to any other rings…
In that job I carried out my role as glorified teaboy brilliantly, until the two girls were made ‘redundant’ and I became the company’s General Dogsbody. As it happened I also carried that role out rather brilliantly until I left in 2004 to come back up to Scotland.
Since I am a genius (if only in my own mind) I’d taken the mug into work to use for my teabreaks. Unfortunately, using her Studio Supervisor perks, Andrea had been getting her hot water delivered to her desk to her from the kitchen boiler tap, and one day asked me to fetch her hot water. Andrea passed her mug to me making my own slip from my hand and crack off the floor. As the Homer mug lay there, in bits over the floor, I looked up at Andrea as she burst out laughing. It felt like that moment in ‘Back to the Future’ when Biff had George McFly’s hand up his back. George’s fist forming slowly, pulling back at his side to the tune of Biff’s laughing, gearing up for the expertly delivery sucker punch.
Thankfully, I let it pass.
Andrea continued to laugh and I sighed out heavily, giving an expert fake smile as I picked the mug shards up off the floor. I’ll never forgive Andrea for that.
The love of my life, Ka, has even been guilty of a mug smashing. A more ‘Karate Kid’ flavoured one. Mum and Dad bought Kenny and myself Star Wars mugs, many moons ago. One had Luke Skywalker on the side, the other Boba Fett. Needless to say I demanded the Boba Fett mug and enjoyed many a cup of tea from it, up until a few years back when Ka decided, after watching some telly, to swing her legs off the arm of the sofa and successfully kick my Boba Fett mug, which had been minding it’s own business on the coffee table, across the living room. Half a cup of tea and a mug handle suffered as a result. The handleless Boba Fett mug now holds my paint brushes. As a protest and a heavy hint for a replacement, I didn’t throw it out. I know how not throwing stuff out really annoys Ka, but, for some reason, she allows me to use it as a paintbrush holder (it would also be a great breadstick holder). It must be the guilt. She’s still not bought me a new one.
It’s only stuff at the end of the day though. Mugs, glasses. Whatever.
Why am I sitting writing about mugs? I’m not sure. Because I’m sad? Stupid? Possibly. It’s just the way this blog has flowed I suppose, like tea that’s not had enough brewing time.
The other morning I was asked what was wrong with my mug? Being only half awake at the time, I asked, “what one?”
Saturday, 11 June 2011
Racing at Raploch
Ka and myself are lying across our couches. Ka sipping 5.5% rose wine that I bought her in Asda the other day (obviously unaware that it was 5.5% and gaining some ear ache on my return home) and me supping some Kronenbourg lager and generally having a lazy Saturday night after the fun and shenanigans of last night’s charity race night (wonderful word, shenanigans…)
The Raploch Bowling Club sprung to life last night much to the disapproval of the regulars. The bar staff were miserable and, from the impression I got, highly suspicious of us strangers, and the drinking regulars disturbed by our presence, an old man with a walking stick particularly unhappy to see us, growling at us as he tried to get through to the bar. The gathered crowd didn’t let that get to them though.
The various staff members from Ka’s work, the Early Learning Unit, the various parents of kids at the ELU and a fairly large portion of family and friends assembled soon got the race night started as ever under the guidance of Kay (spelling?) and Fiona, the husband and wife team that make up the backbone of the ELU’s successful charity bashes. Ka and myself have been particularly touched by the support of the ELU with this charity night as the cause was inspired by our wee Lucy Reid, not to mention all the other babies that pass through Wishaw Hospital’s Neonatal ward’s doors.
Upon arrival at the bowling club, secreted away like a green batcave behind some worn out billboards, Fiona and Kay immediately volunteered me as a jockey for one of the horses. I opted immediately for the first race, believing it to be better to get it over and done with. The first few races were South Park themed making each of the ‘horses’ characters from the seemingly forever popular American cartoon, so, in memory of my brother, I went for Kenny.
Not that Kenny’s dead. He’s just in Australia. Exploring, seeing a bit of the world, travelling another continent and getting dogs impounded.
Anyway, like Kenny’s dog, I wasn’t going anywhere fast. My racing wrists failed me three quarters of the way through my lap. Ka’s bro, Colin, would have won the race if he had not decided to give his horse/character one final, illegal tug of the cord over the line. Kay immediately disqualified him thus making the dark horse of the race, George, the jockey to my right, the victor. Colin was raging, but only at himself, either for performing the illegal manoeuvre in the first place or being spotted by the adjudicator carrying it out. My guess is the second.
Even though I had even odds at the beginning of the race, I ended up third, or was it fourth? I’m not sure now but I was fairly average anyway, ensuring more than a few folk lost their money. It’s all for a good cause though so I didn’t mind.
Roslyn did, mind you. She scowled at me for around two hours afterwards. Her other half, Iain, won a race an hour or so afterwards in the night though so she lightened up later. Or maybe that was just the alcohol?
As I retreated back to our tables with shaking wrists, disappointed and a little downtrodden, the races went on. Ka continued organising the buffet in the kitchen area, the ELU girls sold out of raffle tickets, Kay continued shouting at folk and Angela and Unlce John nicked Auntie Lorna’s caramel shortcake from it’s tin foil cloaked, secret location in the backroom corridor.
With a little help from the two Mum’s, Ka cooked up a cracking buffet and after the ELU staff members all helped bring through and set up, the gathered crowd of betters and racers demolished it, sandwiches, chicken legs, pizza, sausage rolls, garlic bread, pasta, quiche, Victoria sponges and all, even the whole four pieces of caramel shortcake that had been left on their tray.
The Victoria sponges were particularly magnificent along with the fantastic white chocolate snowballs, all made by Jillian and her Mum. That will have to become a buffet tradition. Like Auntie Linda’s trifle.
After eating it was the ELU race, in which a representative of each ELU room, raced and competed for the coveted Race night trophy. Louisa impressed all the girls with her wrist action lifting the trophy and winning a bottle of red wine in the process (the wine she swapped for a bottle of white when no one was looking).
The world’s largest raffle ended the night. The amount of donated prizes was fantastic and could explain why the girls sold out of raffle tickets. Numbers and colours were read out one after the other.
Lynsey Ann won a very nice pair of crystal glasses (one cracked) and a bottle of Grants (which my Dad gained as an early Fathers Day present). Jillian won more than a few prizes for more than a few cousins. Colin won a box of chocolate biscuits. Jennifer won a bottle of plonk (one of many won by others) and Dougie won his now traditional collection of bath salts and lotions, together with the exfoliating cloth. He had had his eye on it earlier on, as he sat, before the massive pile of raffle prizes, waiting to race. The only thing being he had been swearing not to win the soapy bath box of delights this time around as he’d won bath products instead of bottles at most, if not all, of the previous charity nights.
Anyway, he accepted his prize with grace and dignity, everyone laughing as he huffed and puffed walking back to his table, almost losing his exfoliating cloth on the way.
Finally a signed Rangers football, signed by the current squad and organised by Claire and her Auntie, was auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Colin started the bidding and continued the bidding, apparently being one of few Rangers fans among the gathered crowd. His Uncle John joined in, much to Colin’s irritation.
“You don’t even support Rangers!”
At one point Colin even outbid himself and as everyone laughed, a rather flustered Colin yelled, “just gee us the baw!”
In the end an old guy, sitting quietly in the shadows in the corner of the hall, outbid everyone and won the football for around £65, donating even more wonderful money to the cause.
Fiona, Kay and the rest of the ELU had all worked very hard to make the night a success and thanks to all the generous donations, raffle ticket buyers, racers, bookies and backers, made it a fantastic success. I’m certain the Neonatal ward will be more than happy with their donation.
The Raploch Bowling Club sprung to life last night much to the disapproval of the regulars. The bar staff were miserable and, from the impression I got, highly suspicious of us strangers, and the drinking regulars disturbed by our presence, an old man with a walking stick particularly unhappy to see us, growling at us as he tried to get through to the bar. The gathered crowd didn’t let that get to them though.
The various staff members from Ka’s work, the Early Learning Unit, the various parents of kids at the ELU and a fairly large portion of family and friends assembled soon got the race night started as ever under the guidance of Kay (spelling?) and Fiona, the husband and wife team that make up the backbone of the ELU’s successful charity bashes. Ka and myself have been particularly touched by the support of the ELU with this charity night as the cause was inspired by our wee Lucy Reid, not to mention all the other babies that pass through Wishaw Hospital’s Neonatal ward’s doors.
Upon arrival at the bowling club, secreted away like a green batcave behind some worn out billboards, Fiona and Kay immediately volunteered me as a jockey for one of the horses. I opted immediately for the first race, believing it to be better to get it over and done with. The first few races were South Park themed making each of the ‘horses’ characters from the seemingly forever popular American cartoon, so, in memory of my brother, I went for Kenny.
Not that Kenny’s dead. He’s just in Australia. Exploring, seeing a bit of the world, travelling another continent and getting dogs impounded.
Anyway, like Kenny’s dog, I wasn’t going anywhere fast. My racing wrists failed me three quarters of the way through my lap. Ka’s bro, Colin, would have won the race if he had not decided to give his horse/character one final, illegal tug of the cord over the line. Kay immediately disqualified him thus making the dark horse of the race, George, the jockey to my right, the victor. Colin was raging, but only at himself, either for performing the illegal manoeuvre in the first place or being spotted by the adjudicator carrying it out. My guess is the second.
Even though I had even odds at the beginning of the race, I ended up third, or was it fourth? I’m not sure now but I was fairly average anyway, ensuring more than a few folk lost their money. It’s all for a good cause though so I didn’t mind.
Roslyn did, mind you. She scowled at me for around two hours afterwards. Her other half, Iain, won a race an hour or so afterwards in the night though so she lightened up later. Or maybe that was just the alcohol?
As I retreated back to our tables with shaking wrists, disappointed and a little downtrodden, the races went on. Ka continued organising the buffet in the kitchen area, the ELU girls sold out of raffle tickets, Kay continued shouting at folk and Angela and Unlce John nicked Auntie Lorna’s caramel shortcake from it’s tin foil cloaked, secret location in the backroom corridor.
With a little help from the two Mum’s, Ka cooked up a cracking buffet and after the ELU staff members all helped bring through and set up, the gathered crowd of betters and racers demolished it, sandwiches, chicken legs, pizza, sausage rolls, garlic bread, pasta, quiche, Victoria sponges and all, even the whole four pieces of caramel shortcake that had been left on their tray.
The Victoria sponges were particularly magnificent along with the fantastic white chocolate snowballs, all made by Jillian and her Mum. That will have to become a buffet tradition. Like Auntie Linda’s trifle.
After eating it was the ELU race, in which a representative of each ELU room, raced and competed for the coveted Race night trophy. Louisa impressed all the girls with her wrist action lifting the trophy and winning a bottle of red wine in the process (the wine she swapped for a bottle of white when no one was looking).
The world’s largest raffle ended the night. The amount of donated prizes was fantastic and could explain why the girls sold out of raffle tickets. Numbers and colours were read out one after the other.
Lynsey Ann won a very nice pair of crystal glasses (one cracked) and a bottle of Grants (which my Dad gained as an early Fathers Day present). Jillian won more than a few prizes for more than a few cousins. Colin won a box of chocolate biscuits. Jennifer won a bottle of plonk (one of many won by others) and Dougie won his now traditional collection of bath salts and lotions, together with the exfoliating cloth. He had had his eye on it earlier on, as he sat, before the massive pile of raffle prizes, waiting to race. The only thing being he had been swearing not to win the soapy bath box of delights this time around as he’d won bath products instead of bottles at most, if not all, of the previous charity nights.
Anyway, he accepted his prize with grace and dignity, everyone laughing as he huffed and puffed walking back to his table, almost losing his exfoliating cloth on the way.
Finally a signed Rangers football, signed by the current squad and organised by Claire and her Auntie, was auctioned off to the highest bidder.
Colin started the bidding and continued the bidding, apparently being one of few Rangers fans among the gathered crowd. His Uncle John joined in, much to Colin’s irritation.
“You don’t even support Rangers!”
At one point Colin even outbid himself and as everyone laughed, a rather flustered Colin yelled, “just gee us the baw!”
In the end an old guy, sitting quietly in the shadows in the corner of the hall, outbid everyone and won the football for around £65, donating even more wonderful money to the cause.
Fiona, Kay and the rest of the ELU had all worked very hard to make the night a success and thanks to all the generous donations, raffle ticket buyers, racers, bookies and backers, made it a fantastic success. I’m certain the Neonatal ward will be more than happy with their donation.
Saturday, 7 May 2011
We're packing
Ka and myself are hurriedly putting the last few things in our cases. We're leaving the country. Alex Salmond's in charge!
Alex Salmond has been all over the news and the tv for the past few days thanks to the election results so it'll make our short holiday away all the more worthwhile.
If the coalition government has done one thing for Britain so far it's help push the Scottish people over the edge. The SNPs have won a majority government in Scotland thanks to the disillusionment of Labour supporters, not to mention the removal of any support of the Lib Dems and Tories. Then again with that bloke in charge of Labour, Iain Gray, Gray with a capital GRAY, they never really stood much of a chance. I think I actually nodded off the few times I seen him speaking on the news, inadvertently dropping my biscuit in my tea.
Hate it when that happens. Soggy biscuit lying in a pile of mush at the bottom of your cup as you finish. Must be even worse for muffins. Jillian managed to drop a muffin in her tea the other day?! It was a mini muffin to be fair, not one of the mother muffins you get out of the supermarket bakeries or Starbucks shops. Jillian was not listening to Iain Gray though.
I wonder how many perfectly good cups of tea Iain Gray has ruined? Maybe that's why he's quitting? Gray had wanted 'root and branch reform'. So he was blaming the tea.
Anyway, that's reminded me. Teabags. Must remember to take some good British tea to Ibiza with us (who says I'm too old for Ibiza?!). Good British Nambarrie tea.
Whilst writing this, I have just received an email from Kenny in Oz, ordering me to visit a bar in San Antonio, named Kilty's. Apparently it sells bottles of buckie. I've only had one gulp of buckie in my whole life but hey, you never know.
I'd better go and weigh these cases again. We've borrowed a luggage weighing device from my Mum and Dad in order to ensure we come within the correct weights specified for our flights. When I say 'we' I mean of course, Ka's case. I'm fine. 10 and a half kg. Easy.
Ka is coming in at just under 15. For a moment we were almost taking her big Revlon hair dryer. Ka made me phone Ibiza to make sure the hotel rooms have hair dryers. Then, after I had come off the phone, she realised she had to know whether there were ironing facilities. Ironing facilities? Just hang your clothes up, I said. But no, we need an iron. Our clothes have to be neatly pressed. Even in Ibiza. So a second phonecall to the same hotel receptionist was made. The Spanish lady sniggered slightly on the other end of the line and politely brushed my apologies aside. She'll no doubt be a little puzzled when a balding man in a creased t-shirt turns up tonight at her reception booking in under the same name.
Alex Salmond has been all over the news and the tv for the past few days thanks to the election results so it'll make our short holiday away all the more worthwhile.
If the coalition government has done one thing for Britain so far it's help push the Scottish people over the edge. The SNPs have won a majority government in Scotland thanks to the disillusionment of Labour supporters, not to mention the removal of any support of the Lib Dems and Tories. Then again with that bloke in charge of Labour, Iain Gray, Gray with a capital GRAY, they never really stood much of a chance. I think I actually nodded off the few times I seen him speaking on the news, inadvertently dropping my biscuit in my tea.
Hate it when that happens. Soggy biscuit lying in a pile of mush at the bottom of your cup as you finish. Must be even worse for muffins. Jillian managed to drop a muffin in her tea the other day?! It was a mini muffin to be fair, not one of the mother muffins you get out of the supermarket bakeries or Starbucks shops. Jillian was not listening to Iain Gray though.
I wonder how many perfectly good cups of tea Iain Gray has ruined? Maybe that's why he's quitting? Gray had wanted 'root and branch reform'. So he was blaming the tea.
Anyway, that's reminded me. Teabags. Must remember to take some good British tea to Ibiza with us (who says I'm too old for Ibiza?!). Good British Nambarrie tea.
Whilst writing this, I have just received an email from Kenny in Oz, ordering me to visit a bar in San Antonio, named Kilty's. Apparently it sells bottles of buckie. I've only had one gulp of buckie in my whole life but hey, you never know.
I'd better go and weigh these cases again. We've borrowed a luggage weighing device from my Mum and Dad in order to ensure we come within the correct weights specified for our flights. When I say 'we' I mean of course, Ka's case. I'm fine. 10 and a half kg. Easy.
Ka is coming in at just under 15. For a moment we were almost taking her big Revlon hair dryer. Ka made me phone Ibiza to make sure the hotel rooms have hair dryers. Then, after I had come off the phone, she realised she had to know whether there were ironing facilities. Ironing facilities? Just hang your clothes up, I said. But no, we need an iron. Our clothes have to be neatly pressed. Even in Ibiza. So a second phonecall to the same hotel receptionist was made. The Spanish lady sniggered slightly on the other end of the line and politely brushed my apologies aside. She'll no doubt be a little puzzled when a balding man in a creased t-shirt turns up tonight at her reception booking in under the same name.
Sunday, 17 April 2011
Spiders, picnics and stingrays
“Don’t forget to shake your shoes before you put them on!” Mum shouted after Kenny. “The spiders..!”
Those were Mum’s last words to her youngest, as he stepped through the entrance to the Security Gate of Glasgow Airport, beginning his journey to Australia yesterday afternoon. With a smile over his shoulder, he waved goodbye and then was gone.
Ka, Mum, Dad and myself had accompanied Kenny to the airport yesterday to see him off. After checking in and obtaining some English money for the journey, as Dubai airport, Kenny’s mid journey stop off, apparently does not accept Scottish notes, we sat in the bar to have an early afternoon beer, toasting to a successful journey, trip, holiday and whatever other delights await Kenny on his adventure. With no significant ties to speak of and some redundancy money to spend, Kenny had decided to see a bit of the world, taking some time out of Scotland to explore the Aussie continent, the world’s thirteenth largest economy, seeing the wondrous sights of Canberra, Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide, perhaps visiting the mainland’s the surrounding islands in the Indian and Pacific oceans, maybe popping by Australian’s various neighbours including New Zealand or Papua New Guinea and maybe even dropping by Ramsay Street to meet Doctor Karl.
Perth is his first stop where he will meet distant relatives and cousins of my Gran Reid, Donald and Pamela, off the plane. After that, the pages are blank. The adventure starts there and it’s all down to Kenny.
Scary, exciting, nerve-wracking but brilliant. If Kenny was any of the first three he certainly never let on, being his usual laid back self, as we walked up from the bar to wave him away. The experience would most probably be nerve-wracking at first, especially travelling such a distance alone, although I’ve heard it said that travelling on your lonesome can sometimes be far a more rewarding journey. Some say that you meet and encounter a whole different variety of people, and situations, when travelling alone. Look at Michael Palin and the great times he’s had travelling the world – probably not a great example, mind you, as he did have a whole film crew and a bunch of photographers following him about. I suppose he shouldn’t really count.
I know, to some extent, about travelling around on your lonesome, having moved to, and lived, in Birmingham, a loner, for three and a half years, diving around the country from my central point in the Midlands, just for a wee jaunt in the Clio, including occasional trips down to London, but Brum land, the Midlands and the big smoke is not quite the same as heading out to the Commonwealth of Australia.
“Enjoy yourself” were my last words to Kenny. “That’s the main thing”. At dinner, the night before, I tried to talk him into starting a blog about the whole trip but unfortunately he was not up for it. I’m sure he’ll be far too busy for any of that kind of ‘writing about your experiences’ nonsense. Though it would have been a good idea for keeping us up to date with his goings on and whereabouts.
What am I talking about? He’ll be fine! He’ll have a ball!
As long as he wraps his luggage around him when he falls asleep on a train… doesn’t get mugged, run over, go swimming with any stingrays, avoids sharks, gangland wars in the criminal underworld, avoids bikers on dilapidated highways, stays away from Wolf Creek, doesn’t catch a bus called Priscilla, doesn’t eat picnics around cliffs, doesn’t get stung on the neck by a bee and watches out for snakes whilst on the toilet pan.
Around the early nineties my Gran Reid went over to Australia to visit her cousins with her sister, my Great Aunt Mina. Apparently one of them was almost caught out one night by a snake in the bathroom.
Over here in Scotland, we don’t usually have to worry about that kind of thing. Our bathrooms are generally reptile free. Though there probably is a criminal underworld… not to mention muggers, hit and runners, an abundance of hills and cliffs that you could probably end up mysteriously going missing on as you settle down for a nice picnic though I’m not sure about buses called Priscilla… the number 66 on a Saturday night is bad enough.
Spiders. Now that’s another story. Over here they’re sometimes big, but not poisonous. Funnel-Web Spiders are the biggies to look out for over there. Rapid death within an hour, apparently.
As long as Kenny remembers his Mum’s last minute advise, he’ll be fine.
Those were Mum’s last words to her youngest, as he stepped through the entrance to the Security Gate of Glasgow Airport, beginning his journey to Australia yesterday afternoon. With a smile over his shoulder, he waved goodbye and then was gone.
Ka, Mum, Dad and myself had accompanied Kenny to the airport yesterday to see him off. After checking in and obtaining some English money for the journey, as Dubai airport, Kenny’s mid journey stop off, apparently does not accept Scottish notes, we sat in the bar to have an early afternoon beer, toasting to a successful journey, trip, holiday and whatever other delights await Kenny on his adventure. With no significant ties to speak of and some redundancy money to spend, Kenny had decided to see a bit of the world, taking some time out of Scotland to explore the Aussie continent, the world’s thirteenth largest economy, seeing the wondrous sights of Canberra, Melbourne, Sydney, Brisbane, Adelaide, perhaps visiting the mainland’s the surrounding islands in the Indian and Pacific oceans, maybe popping by Australian’s various neighbours including New Zealand or Papua New Guinea and maybe even dropping by Ramsay Street to meet Doctor Karl.
Perth is his first stop where he will meet distant relatives and cousins of my Gran Reid, Donald and Pamela, off the plane. After that, the pages are blank. The adventure starts there and it’s all down to Kenny.
Scary, exciting, nerve-wracking but brilliant. If Kenny was any of the first three he certainly never let on, being his usual laid back self, as we walked up from the bar to wave him away. The experience would most probably be nerve-wracking at first, especially travelling such a distance alone, although I’ve heard it said that travelling on your lonesome can sometimes be far a more rewarding journey. Some say that you meet and encounter a whole different variety of people, and situations, when travelling alone. Look at Michael Palin and the great times he’s had travelling the world – probably not a great example, mind you, as he did have a whole film crew and a bunch of photographers following him about. I suppose he shouldn’t really count.
I know, to some extent, about travelling around on your lonesome, having moved to, and lived, in Birmingham, a loner, for three and a half years, diving around the country from my central point in the Midlands, just for a wee jaunt in the Clio, including occasional trips down to London, but Brum land, the Midlands and the big smoke is not quite the same as heading out to the Commonwealth of Australia.
“Enjoy yourself” were my last words to Kenny. “That’s the main thing”. At dinner, the night before, I tried to talk him into starting a blog about the whole trip but unfortunately he was not up for it. I’m sure he’ll be far too busy for any of that kind of ‘writing about your experiences’ nonsense. Though it would have been a good idea for keeping us up to date with his goings on and whereabouts.
What am I talking about? He’ll be fine! He’ll have a ball!
As long as he wraps his luggage around him when he falls asleep on a train… doesn’t get mugged, run over, go swimming with any stingrays, avoids sharks, gangland wars in the criminal underworld, avoids bikers on dilapidated highways, stays away from Wolf Creek, doesn’t catch a bus called Priscilla, doesn’t eat picnics around cliffs, doesn’t get stung on the neck by a bee and watches out for snakes whilst on the toilet pan.
Around the early nineties my Gran Reid went over to Australia to visit her cousins with her sister, my Great Aunt Mina. Apparently one of them was almost caught out one night by a snake in the bathroom.
Over here in Scotland, we don’t usually have to worry about that kind of thing. Our bathrooms are generally reptile free. Though there probably is a criminal underworld… not to mention muggers, hit and runners, an abundance of hills and cliffs that you could probably end up mysteriously going missing on as you settle down for a nice picnic though I’m not sure about buses called Priscilla… the number 66 on a Saturday night is bad enough.
Spiders. Now that’s another story. Over here they’re sometimes big, but not poisonous. Funnel-Web Spiders are the biggies to look out for over there. Rapid death within an hour, apparently.
As long as Kenny remembers his Mum’s last minute advise, he’ll be fine.
Monday, 11 April 2011
Mature yet mellow
33. A master number. A long player or LP. Jesus’ age when he was crucified. The amount of minutes the humans had before escaping the pursuing Cylons. The atomic number of arsenic. A mixed bag of meanings for the grand old age I turn tomorrow. After Ka’s birthday at the weekend, it’s now my turn and all I can do is remind myself it could be worse, I could be 34, which my dearest wife turned on Saturday.
Birthdays, and any celebrations of, have not exactly been on our minds of late, especially after the past months, but we forced ourselves out on Saturday after a breakfast of toasted cheese.
Not just any cheese. Birthday cheese, ‘mature yet mellow’ Cathedral cheese to be precise, two packs of which Ka received as a present from her Mum and Dad the night before, the square, cold, heavy present, Ka unwrapped with suspicion. As Ka nodded knowingly on pulling the block from inside the glittery paper, I sighed heavily, quite relieved, as I thought it was going to be a block of semtex.
Following the non explosive present unwrapping, Grace and Dougie bought in a Chinese take away with the help of Morgan, the niece, and Angela, Ka’s sister. The obligatory birthday cake followed and the even more obligatory pass the parcel with Morgan losing interest halfway through the games after realising, after the third pair won, that all the parcels were going to be colourful, stripey socks (a pair of which I won – they’ll go great with my red striped shirt!).
Anyway, following toasted cheese on Saturday we were to meet Ka’s brother, Colin, and his other half, Jillian, in town, have a wee Birthday tipple with them and then go our own way and head over to the Merchant City for a nice romantic meal for two. The nice romantic meal for two didn’t quite happen.
We met Colin and Jillian just after the Grand National had started and as a result Colin was glaring at the television, high up on the wall as we entered through the darkened doorway of one of Renfield Street’s smellier pubs, the Maltman. It may be smelly but a beer is semi affordable and there was plenty of screens for Colin to shout at as he clutched his bundle of Ladbrokes slips with a look of stubborn determination. Unfortunately ten minutes later he was ripping the slips up and Jillian was smiling as her horse had crossed the finish line in second place. She won around £2.40. So after a small drink in the Maltman and Ka being given her Hello Kitty bagged birthday goodies we headed off to find a less smelly pub to socialise in.
Ka, Colin, Jillian and myself found some seats on the, mostly unsmelly, paved square of John Street, outside Committee Room No. 9 and spent the majority of the day’s remainder there, chatting, debating, laughing and joking, trying to avoid bum cracks on display on the high stools behind us and shouting at Jackie, a lady drinking at the next table, who got up before a whole troop of tourists and groped a nearby Roman statue in his nether regions. She was under the impression that this would cure her of all her ills, or something, when in fact, according to the tourist guide, she should have grabbed the statues bag of coins, draped over his left arm. Silly woman. I thought all women went for the money first.
After some pub grub, the drinks kept being bought, birthday spirits were quite high and before long it was time to go home.
But did we? No, of course not.
The four of us jumped in a taxi and went up to Ashton Lane to meet my brother, Kenny, on his last, or one of his last, night outs with his mates before he departs the country. He’s bought a one way ticket to Oz and will be spinning off to that particular far flung destination come Saturday afternoon. The adventure of a lifetime, he, and we, hope anyway. I’ll need to get him a leaving present. Better not make it Cathedral cheese… he will be spending around two or three days in an airport.
Birthdays, and any celebrations of, have not exactly been on our minds of late, especially after the past months, but we forced ourselves out on Saturday after a breakfast of toasted cheese.
Following the non explosive present unwrapping, Grace and Dougie bought in a Chinese take away with the help of Morgan, the niece, and Angela, Ka’s sister. The obligatory birthday cake followed and the even more obligatory pass the parcel with Morgan losing interest halfway through the games after realising, after the third pair won, that all the parcels were going to be colourful, stripey socks (a pair of which I won – they’ll go great with my red striped shirt!).
Anyway, following toasted cheese on Saturday we were to meet Ka’s brother, Colin, and his other half, Jillian, in town, have a wee Birthday tipple with them and then go our own way and head over to the Merchant City for a nice romantic meal for two. The nice romantic meal for two didn’t quite happen.
We met Colin and Jillian just after the Grand National had started and as a result Colin was glaring at the television, high up on the wall as we entered through the darkened doorway of one of Renfield Street’s smellier pubs, the Maltman. It may be smelly but a beer is semi affordable and there was plenty of screens for Colin to shout at as he clutched his bundle of Ladbrokes slips with a look of stubborn determination. Unfortunately ten minutes later he was ripping the slips up and Jillian was smiling as her horse had crossed the finish line in second place. She won around £2.40. So after a small drink in the Maltman and Ka being given her Hello Kitty bagged birthday goodies we headed off to find a less smelly pub to socialise in.
Ka, Colin, Jillian and myself found some seats on the, mostly unsmelly, paved square of John Street, outside Committee Room No. 9 and spent the majority of the day’s remainder there, chatting, debating, laughing and joking, trying to avoid bum cracks on display on the high stools behind us and shouting at Jackie, a lady drinking at the next table, who got up before a whole troop of tourists and groped a nearby Roman statue in his nether regions. She was under the impression that this would cure her of all her ills, or something, when in fact, according to the tourist guide, she should have grabbed the statues bag of coins, draped over his left arm. Silly woman. I thought all women went for the money first.
After some pub grub, the drinks kept being bought, birthday spirits were quite high and before long it was time to go home.
But did we? No, of course not.
The four of us jumped in a taxi and went up to Ashton Lane to meet my brother, Kenny, on his last, or one of his last, night outs with his mates before he departs the country. He’s bought a one way ticket to Oz and will be spinning off to that particular far flung destination come Saturday afternoon. The adventure of a lifetime, he, and we, hope anyway. I’ll need to get him a leaving present. Better not make it Cathedral cheese… he will be spending around two or three days in an airport.
Thursday, 3 March 2011
Wrong turns and red cards
"I think I've taken a wrong turn", I growled as I pulled up alongside Glasgow's Royal Infirmary after leaving Colin's house in Kirkintilloch for home.
It could be the current roadworks on the A80 or it could just be my navigational skills but leaving Kirkintilloch to join the motorway proved itself too confusing for me last night. Especially being in the darkness, surrounded by traffic cones and countless 40mph signs, glaring everytime your headlights hit. For some reason I decided to take the road for Glasgow, believing that to be the best route back to EK. Of course I was wrong and if I'd stayed on the traffic cone filled road coming out of Kirkie, I'm sure I would have come across a road for Carlisle, somewhere through the plastic orange forest. These roadworks on the A80 feel like they have been a permanent fixture for years. It certainly feels like years driving up it, having to stay at 40mph the whole way. Still, nice to see the Motorway Maintenance employees are keeping their jobs.
Kenny and myself had been invited by Colin to watch the old firm game in his new pad. We had a good night. Colin was the perfect host, serving up a big footie buffet comprising of pizzas, sausage rolls, mushroom tasting scotch eggs and enough onion rings to feed a stadium along with plenty of beer, coke, bru and he even took requests for tea and mulled over the possibility of a bovril.
I'm not really into football in any big way and never have been. I always yearned to be a good footie player and enjoyed playing when I did but never could quite get the hang of it. I was always the last, or the second last, to be picked for the playground teams. I even tried to get into the school team at one point, under the watchful eye of Mr Stevens, the Janitor (a big, tall, scarey guy with a shock of grey hair who shouted at you if you tried to throw your lunch in the bin). When the other guys in school were all collecting the Football Panini stickers, desperately trying to swap for their favourite player, I was collecting the Star Wars stickers, trying to get the Millenium Falcon. I guess I was always just too much of a geek.
As a result, I've only ever had a feint interest in the sport of the masses, watching only the occasional game or getting excited about a World Cup and then watching a whole four matches. So I turned up at Colin's house not even knowing who played for what team. Bougherra? Was he not in the Jungle Book? With Baloo? (nose). It's been months and months since I last sat and watched any game of football. The World Cup final was probably the last football game I actually made a point of sitting and watching and last night reminded exactly why.
Last nights performance was more of a circus than a football game. Overpaid, over hyped egos, pouncing about a pitch for 95 minutes, doing their best to look aggressive, baring some teeth, squaring up shoulders, waving hands about whilst screaming and swearing, knowing full well most viewers back home, young and old, are more than capable of the odd lip reading session. One minute acting like cavemen, and the next rolling around the grass after being tapped on the shin.
One Rangers player spent five minutes talking to a rather embarrassed looking injury man desperately trying to make it look as if the bounce he'd suffered on the back of the head, from a passing thigh, was actually, in any way, painful.
It didn't stop with the injury time along with the red and yellow cards though. After the final whistle the managers started haranguing each other, Ally McCoist and hired ned, Neil Lennon, almost starting a boxing match in the dugout. The two, supposedly professional, bosses exchanging words and then growling at one another, spitting venom as police and trainers rush in to break them up. Or rather just before they would have had to actually hit each other which, let's be honest, was never going to happen. You wonder what they would have done if everyone had just left them to it. They would have angrily looked into each others eyes for a while longer and then looked around for suggestions on what to do next as Jim White got all excited in the commentators box.
Neil Lennon called they're little exchange 'passion' today. A wonderful statement. Scottish sports fans all over the country, watching and listening, believing it's okay to act like a complete kn*b becuase it's merely considered 'passionate'. You wouldn't appreciate the game without the 'passion'. A great example of Scottish football to set, not only the West of Scotland but, the rest of the football watching world.
34 arrests were made in and around the stadium for a variety of racial, breach of the peace and sectarian offences.
Stamping out sectarianism in Scotland, the big battle Alex Salmond is trying to win. It certainly won't be helped by those two numpties having a go in the dugouts.
Like I said though, what do I know, I was never into football.
Glad of it.
Saying that, I did win the first sweepstake based on the first player to score so the 95 minutes was not a complete waste of television time. £5 I won. Kenny, you owe me a pound.
It could be the current roadworks on the A80 or it could just be my navigational skills but leaving Kirkintilloch to join the motorway proved itself too confusing for me last night. Especially being in the darkness, surrounded by traffic cones and countless 40mph signs, glaring everytime your headlights hit. For some reason I decided to take the road for Glasgow, believing that to be the best route back to EK. Of course I was wrong and if I'd stayed on the traffic cone filled road coming out of Kirkie, I'm sure I would have come across a road for Carlisle, somewhere through the plastic orange forest. These roadworks on the A80 feel like they have been a permanent fixture for years. It certainly feels like years driving up it, having to stay at 40mph the whole way. Still, nice to see the Motorway Maintenance employees are keeping their jobs.
Kenny and myself had been invited by Colin to watch the old firm game in his new pad. We had a good night. Colin was the perfect host, serving up a big footie buffet comprising of pizzas, sausage rolls, mushroom tasting scotch eggs and enough onion rings to feed a stadium along with plenty of beer, coke, bru and he even took requests for tea and mulled over the possibility of a bovril.
I'm not really into football in any big way and never have been. I always yearned to be a good footie player and enjoyed playing when I did but never could quite get the hang of it. I was always the last, or the second last, to be picked for the playground teams. I even tried to get into the school team at one point, under the watchful eye of Mr Stevens, the Janitor (a big, tall, scarey guy with a shock of grey hair who shouted at you if you tried to throw your lunch in the bin). When the other guys in school were all collecting the Football Panini stickers, desperately trying to swap for their favourite player, I was collecting the Star Wars stickers, trying to get the Millenium Falcon. I guess I was always just too much of a geek.
As a result, I've only ever had a feint interest in the sport of the masses, watching only the occasional game or getting excited about a World Cup and then watching a whole four matches. So I turned up at Colin's house not even knowing who played for what team. Bougherra? Was he not in the Jungle Book? With Baloo? (nose). It's been months and months since I last sat and watched any game of football. The World Cup final was probably the last football game I actually made a point of sitting and watching and last night reminded exactly why.
Last nights performance was more of a circus than a football game. Overpaid, over hyped egos, pouncing about a pitch for 95 minutes, doing their best to look aggressive, baring some teeth, squaring up shoulders, waving hands about whilst screaming and swearing, knowing full well most viewers back home, young and old, are more than capable of the odd lip reading session. One minute acting like cavemen, and the next rolling around the grass after being tapped on the shin.
One Rangers player spent five minutes talking to a rather embarrassed looking injury man desperately trying to make it look as if the bounce he'd suffered on the back of the head, from a passing thigh, was actually, in any way, painful.
Neil Lennon called they're little exchange 'passion' today. A wonderful statement. Scottish sports fans all over the country, watching and listening, believing it's okay to act like a complete kn*b becuase it's merely considered 'passionate'. You wouldn't appreciate the game without the 'passion'. A great example of Scottish football to set, not only the West of Scotland but, the rest of the football watching world.
34 arrests were made in and around the stadium for a variety of racial, breach of the peace and sectarian offences.
Stamping out sectarianism in Scotland, the big battle Alex Salmond is trying to win. It certainly won't be helped by those two numpties having a go in the dugouts.
Like I said though, what do I know, I was never into football.
Glad of it.
Saying that, I did win the first sweepstake based on the first player to score so the 95 minutes was not a complete waste of television time. £5 I won. Kenny, you owe me a pound.
Sunday, 27 February 2011
We're doomed
It's been a strange week. I spent the first half of the week lying on my back, on some occasions with my legs in the air. Various positions included lying, legs in the air, clutching the head, the cradling of an arm, holding a thigh, shaking, shivering, collapsing and keeling over in various different ways, all of which required a certain amount of acting. Perhaps not Oscar worthy acting but acting all the same. This was First Aid Training for the British Red Cross. An acting class with a difference.
Based in a smelly YMCA building in Bellshill, myself, along with another ten lucky contenders, battled through the three day course involving demos and quizzes (more quizzes!) in order to gain the nod, pin badge and certificate from the British Red Cross to say we could aid in a work emergency situation involving bandaging, the recovery position, the ever reliable comfortable position and even with moments involving an overall sense of impending doom.
This sense of impending doom cropped up in more than one occasion in the three day course, the number of instances matched only perhaps by C-3PO in the Star Wars films or the googly eyed doofer from Dad's Army. In fact, as a kid I, sadly, used to quote C-3P0's "We're doomed" quite a lot, especially if there was a Maths test coming up. Heart attacks are one thing but Maths tests... they're different.
This sense of impending doom was only one of the main symptoms of a heart attack, of course, along with the more traditional clutching of the chest, grimacing and collapsing to the ground. To illustrate the heart attack we were shown a past advert by the British Heart Foundation starring Steven Berkoff which, whilst giving all the symptoms of the attack, managed to scare the bejeezus into you as a viewer. The bejeezus was especially scared out of me as I myself had woken up with chest pains, sweat on the brow and a sense of impending doom during the night a few weeks back. Thankfully Steven Berkoff had not been standing in the dark of the bedroom battering the crap out of me as I had slept. That would have been even scarier. Still at least I'd have known how to put myself in the recovery position.
For the three days I was in a team consisting of another two people. Margaret and Irene, from a bank somewhere in Motherwell, who spent their time heckling opposing teams during the quiz sessions, like a female Statler and Waldorf. They also spent considerable time complaining about aches and pains and shoving me forward whenever a volunteer was needed for all the demonstrations, overseen by Dale, the instructor. Arthritis, sore legs, dodgy elbows, low cut tops, all were excuses for these bankers. Irene also seemed to suffer from that strange condition of appearing deaf whenever I made suggestions or gave answers to the quiz questions which more often than not turned out to be the correct answer whenever her wonderful written response gained nil points. Another I would add to the list would be bone idleness, a condition not mentioned in the extensive First Aid manual we were given upon arrival, but then I'm not sure First Aid manuals should be made available for bankers.
Once that was all over with Kenny, Chaz and myself drove into town on Wednesday night to see 'True Grit', the Coen Brothers latest flick based on Charles Portis' 1968 book. The movie was brilliant with great performances from Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon and the lead female, Hailee Steinfeld. It's been broadly complimented for it's cinematography and you can see why with the sweeping, western landscapes with their varying colour, atmosphere and detail.
Even with trips to the cinema, there was still that sense of impending doom with me and it was not any heart attack. Ka and myself had our follow up appointment at the hospital on Friday, following the passing of Baby Lucy. Rather thoughtfully, the hospital thought it was a great idea for this meeting to take place in the same offices where we went for the first joyful scans of Baby Reid. Gawd knows why.
We were meeting the Head Consultant from Wishaw General and Ka's home midwife, both of whom were not involved in any way with the birth and eventual death of our baby. Thankfully they'd listened to our earlier concerns regarding this matter and asked Doctor Yelisetti, the Registrar, along too, someone who was actually present during the ordeal. Doctor Yelisetti was excellent, providing some answers to our questions and was a familiar, reassuring presence in the stressful, upsetting situation whilst the Consultant and midwife seemed generally flummoxed.
Some minor questions were answered, other larger questions remain unanswered. Lucy's passing remains somewhat of an enigma to us and to the hospital. The Consultant informed us there had been one similar instance, with similar symptoms, in an Edinburgh hospital two years ago and that a new protocol had been introduced over there to try and ensure the same events did not happen again. One question that immediately sprung to our mind was if this protocol had been introduced in Edinburgh, then why not, at the same time, in Wishaw General?
So, after a rather depressive day on Friday, we got up on Saturday morning to nothing in particular and as we got ready for the unplanned day ahead a knock on the front door disturbed us. As Ka was in the bathtub at the time, it was down to me to answer the door as I struggled with the fastening of a belt. Swinging the front door open, I found myself staring into a giant bouquet of flowers.
"Mr Reid?" the flowers said.
"Erm... yes?" my reply was more of a question, as I looked over the bouquet in the floating glass bowl before me.
"These are for you". A pair of hands finally came into view below the glass bowl and the flowers moved over into my unprepared, receiving hands. As I heard the flower delivery man take his leave behind the foliage I retreated back into the flat immediately showing Ka the new bouquet and plucked the card from the small plastic stick among the lillies and leaves. They were from Pauline. She'd known about the meeting the day before. Suddenly that sense of impending doom did not seem quite so doom-laden.
Based in a smelly YMCA building in Bellshill, myself, along with another ten lucky contenders, battled through the three day course involving demos and quizzes (more quizzes!) in order to gain the nod, pin badge and certificate from the British Red Cross to say we could aid in a work emergency situation involving bandaging, the recovery position, the ever reliable comfortable position and even with moments involving an overall sense of impending doom.
This sense of impending doom cropped up in more than one occasion in the three day course, the number of instances matched only perhaps by C-3PO in the Star Wars films or the googly eyed doofer from Dad's Army. In fact, as a kid I, sadly, used to quote C-3P0's "We're doomed" quite a lot, especially if there was a Maths test coming up. Heart attacks are one thing but Maths tests... they're different.This sense of impending doom was only one of the main symptoms of a heart attack, of course, along with the more traditional clutching of the chest, grimacing and collapsing to the ground. To illustrate the heart attack we were shown a past advert by the British Heart Foundation starring Steven Berkoff which, whilst giving all the symptoms of the attack, managed to scare the bejeezus into you as a viewer. The bejeezus was especially scared out of me as I myself had woken up with chest pains, sweat on the brow and a sense of impending doom during the night a few weeks back. Thankfully Steven Berkoff had not been standing in the dark of the bedroom battering the crap out of me as I had slept. That would have been even scarier. Still at least I'd have known how to put myself in the recovery position.
For the three days I was in a team consisting of another two people. Margaret and Irene, from a bank somewhere in Motherwell, who spent their time heckling opposing teams during the quiz sessions, like a female Statler and Waldorf. They also spent considerable time complaining about aches and pains and shoving me forward whenever a volunteer was needed for all the demonstrations, overseen by Dale, the instructor. Arthritis, sore legs, dodgy elbows, low cut tops, all were excuses for these bankers. Irene also seemed to suffer from that strange condition of appearing deaf whenever I made suggestions or gave answers to the quiz questions which more often than not turned out to be the correct answer whenever her wonderful written response gained nil points. Another I would add to the list would be bone idleness, a condition not mentioned in the extensive First Aid manual we were given upon arrival, but then I'm not sure First Aid manuals should be made available for bankers.
Once that was all over with Kenny, Chaz and myself drove into town on Wednesday night to see 'True Grit', the Coen Brothers latest flick based on Charles Portis' 1968 book. The movie was brilliant with great performances from Jeff Bridges, Matt Damon and the lead female, Hailee Steinfeld. It's been broadly complimented for it's cinematography and you can see why with the sweeping, western landscapes with their varying colour, atmosphere and detail.
Even with trips to the cinema, there was still that sense of impending doom with me and it was not any heart attack. Ka and myself had our follow up appointment at the hospital on Friday, following the passing of Baby Lucy. Rather thoughtfully, the hospital thought it was a great idea for this meeting to take place in the same offices where we went for the first joyful scans of Baby Reid. Gawd knows why.
We were meeting the Head Consultant from Wishaw General and Ka's home midwife, both of whom were not involved in any way with the birth and eventual death of our baby. Thankfully they'd listened to our earlier concerns regarding this matter and asked Doctor Yelisetti, the Registrar, along too, someone who was actually present during the ordeal. Doctor Yelisetti was excellent, providing some answers to our questions and was a familiar, reassuring presence in the stressful, upsetting situation whilst the Consultant and midwife seemed generally flummoxed.
Some minor questions were answered, other larger questions remain unanswered. Lucy's passing remains somewhat of an enigma to us and to the hospital. The Consultant informed us there had been one similar instance, with similar symptoms, in an Edinburgh hospital two years ago and that a new protocol had been introduced over there to try and ensure the same events did not happen again. One question that immediately sprung to our mind was if this protocol had been introduced in Edinburgh, then why not, at the same time, in Wishaw General?
So, after a rather depressive day on Friday, we got up on Saturday morning to nothing in particular and as we got ready for the unplanned day ahead a knock on the front door disturbed us. As Ka was in the bathtub at the time, it was down to me to answer the door as I struggled with the fastening of a belt. Swinging the front door open, I found myself staring into a giant bouquet of flowers.
"Mr Reid?" the flowers said.
"Erm... yes?" my reply was more of a question, as I looked over the bouquet in the floating glass bowl before me.
"These are for you". A pair of hands finally came into view below the glass bowl and the flowers moved over into my unprepared, receiving hands. As I heard the flower delivery man take his leave behind the foliage I retreated back into the flat immediately showing Ka the new bouquet and plucked the card from the small plastic stick among the lillies and leaves. They were from Pauline. She'd known about the meeting the day before. Suddenly that sense of impending doom did not seem quite so doom-laden.
Monday, 11 October 2010
Back to the Future and the bow and arrows
Back to the Future. Still a brilliant movie, even 25 years after it's original release. We went along to see the 25th anniversary release in a packed cinema on friday night and, although a movie I've seen more than a few times on DVD, TV and the good old VHS, it was still just as entertaining on the big screen. From the opening sequence with the guitar amplifier blasting Marty back into that book shelf, him lifting his big, mirror sunglasses from his nose to the parents first kiss and the Doc's climatic struggle at the top of the clock tower it has all aged pretty well. Unlike Lucas and other fantasy movie makers, Zemeckis has refrained from any jazzy new effects and shoddily pieced together 'extra special' sequences, which says it all really. There's not much you can do to a classic.My mate Chaz introduced me to this movie back in, what was probably, 1986 one day after school. He was always the car maniac and kept harping on about this movie with the DeLorean.
Before dinner, after getting back to his house from school, we had been firing arrows inadvertantly on to his roof and over into his neighbours garden with my new bow, the same bow Kenny, my brother, later 'borrowed' for a halloween party. Kenny was going as Robin Hood. A feather cap and green tights, and all he needed to complete the outfit was my much loved bow and arrow set. I had told him no, he wasn't borrowing it, as he would break it. But no. Mum said 'just lend your wee brother it for the day and he'll bring it back'.
Did he bring it back? No. Or maybe he did but it was in pieces, I can't remember the exact details of the remains. So I lost most of my arrows to Chaz's neighbours, and his roof in Tasman Drive, and my bow to a shoddy Robin Hood in green tights and glasses. I was gutted about that.
Anyway, on the same visit to Tasman Drive, I was also introduced to Chaz's German Sheperd, Max. Chaz swears to this day that I spent the visit cowering from his dog. Chaz will occasionally bring it up to this day, how I was so terrified of his beast of a dog. How I yelped with fear when I seen it lumbering towards me. The truth of the matter was that I perhaps was cowering to some extent, but only because, upon meeting Max, I discovered his liking for the crotch and it spent most of the first hour of Back to the Future trying to eat my groin. Very off-putting.
It never put me off the Back to the Future movies though as I became hooked as a kid and beyond. Rather disconcertingly, some of the guys in the work call me 'Doc Brown' and have been for some time, for some, strange reason. Not sure why. Gareth and DVD Andy asked if, after watching the movie on friday night, I stood outside and signed autographs? Ka frowned on hearing this and, remembering Marty's Dads dancing at the Enchantment Under the Sea Dance, said that I had more similarities with George McFly rather than the Doc.
Friday, 17 September 2010
Security guards on the buses
My brother, Kenny contacted me yesterday via the wonderful correspondence relay that is facebook. Finding himself quite bored at work he decided to become The Reidnet Journal's first 'Guest Contributor'. He even chased me up when I hadn't managed to publish it straight away. Here goes:
Thursday 8th September 2010 and I'm sitting at home when the phone rings. Its the work agency getting in touch with, no doubt, another money spinning job offer for me. Upon answering and speaking to the recruitment consultant I'm told of a week long contract available to me working as a security guard for an office block. Taking a minute to imagine myself as a sixty year old man, I then realised that the guy on the other end of the phone was serious. I had to try extremly hard to stifle any laughter as I excepted the opportunity thinking to myself, "the boys are going to love this!" Upon calling my old(er) brother and telling him of this wondeful career change I was expecting him to find it as hilarious as I did. He didn't. Not even a hint of a laugh. I had to wait til Thursday for that reaction as I told the boys at 5's.
Anyway, Friday comes, my day of intensive training into how to sit at a desk all day looking at the TV. To be honest I could of skipped Fridays traing as I'm quite good at this task having had plenty of training in the past! I was getting paid though so I wasn't complaining. Having walked in on the Friday morning I was still laughing at the fact I was a security guard. The laughter soon stopped when I recognised a girl I went to school with working on the ground floor with an accounting firm and another guy who I couldn't place working on the third floor with an engineering firm. Anyway, my old school friend was enjoying a office day out so I only had to hide a few times until she left for the day which I accomplished successfully. That would of been an awkward conversation;
"hi, working for an accountants, you must be doing well,"
"yeah, i am and look at you, a security guard, you must be............."
The front door of the building wasn't working properly. It wasn't shutting behind the person when opened. A workman was called out and had a go at fixing it before disappearing. He had made it worse. It was now slamming shut behind anyone coming in. Slamming shut quite violently. To the extent of parts starting to fall off the door. Waiting for another engineer to sort it, we decided at 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and only 30 mins til we finish, that he wasn't coming. We took it into our own hands, we put a sign on the door!
"Please ensure door is shut behind you". Problem solved!
The bus from the accountants day out pulled up and the door was slammed shut once too many times, screws flying everywhere, the door came off its hinges and fell forwards onto the stone walkway infront of the building. Lifing the door it quickly became obvious that it weighed a ton, and if anyone had been under it when it fell they would now look like Judge Doom at the end of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? After avoiding my old school mates gaze as she entered the building as soon as it hit half 5, I was offski, door or no door, it wasn't my problem til Monday.
Saturday night, and big Andrews 27th birthday night out. The hairy man himself, Graeme, Kev, Disco Dave, Weaver, Jamie and me all met in Buddha. After a few pints some dinner was suggetsed to which Jamie replied, "its Saturday, no one eats dinner on a Saturday!"
We left Buddha and went over to Nicos to get a round of Jägerbombs but decided against it, after walking in and smelling the aura of piss in the air, probably coming from the jakies who had been in all day enjoying the cheap drinks. So into O'couture we went. It was dead but they serve cold bottles of beer. A pub crawl ensued and we ended up in Vodka Wodka in Ashton Lane via a couple of pubs, most of which I can't remember their names and one which I do, The Ivy. Can't really remember much after Vodka Wodka, the first thing I remembered was waking up on a bus in the middle of, God knows where, at half 8 in the morning. Having spoke to my mates this seems to be what happened; only Andy and Kev were in a fit enough state to go dancing, don't know what happened to Weaver and Jamie but myself, Graeme and Dave walked back to Graemes via a chippy. I made it as far as the chippy before disappearing, presumably getting on a 66 and then falling asleep for 6 or 7 hours before being wakened by the driver in Mountblow. Didn't get up the road til half 9, Sunday morning. Then Michael text me to see if I fancied the gym. Not likely.
Oh, and I placed the face of the guy from the engineering firm. He was on my CIvil Engineering course at Glasgow Uni. If he keeps working hard he might, one day, make it as big as me.
Thursday 8th September 2010 and I'm sitting at home when the phone rings. Its the work agency getting in touch with, no doubt, another money spinning job offer for me. Upon answering and speaking to the recruitment consultant I'm told of a week long contract available to me working as a security guard for an office block. Taking a minute to imagine myself as a sixty year old man, I then realised that the guy on the other end of the phone was serious. I had to try extremly hard to stifle any laughter as I excepted the opportunity thinking to myself, "the boys are going to love this!" Upon calling my old(er) brother and telling him of this wondeful career change I was expecting him to find it as hilarious as I did. He didn't. Not even a hint of a laugh. I had to wait til Thursday for that reaction as I told the boys at 5's. Anyway, Friday comes, my day of intensive training into how to sit at a desk all day looking at the TV. To be honest I could of skipped Fridays traing as I'm quite good at this task having had plenty of training in the past! I was getting paid though so I wasn't complaining. Having walked in on the Friday morning I was still laughing at the fact I was a security guard. The laughter soon stopped when I recognised a girl I went to school with working on the ground floor with an accounting firm and another guy who I couldn't place working on the third floor with an engineering firm. Anyway, my old school friend was enjoying a office day out so I only had to hide a few times until she left for the day which I accomplished successfully. That would of been an awkward conversation;
"hi, working for an accountants, you must be doing well,"
"yeah, i am and look at you, a security guard, you must be............."
The front door of the building wasn't working properly. It wasn't shutting behind the person when opened. A workman was called out and had a go at fixing it before disappearing. He had made it worse. It was now slamming shut behind anyone coming in. Slamming shut quite violently. To the extent of parts starting to fall off the door. Waiting for another engineer to sort it, we decided at 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and only 30 mins til we finish, that he wasn't coming. We took it into our own hands, we put a sign on the door!
"Please ensure door is shut behind you". Problem solved!
The bus from the accountants day out pulled up and the door was slammed shut once too many times, screws flying everywhere, the door came off its hinges and fell forwards onto the stone walkway infront of the building. Lifing the door it quickly became obvious that it weighed a ton, and if anyone had been under it when it fell they would now look like Judge Doom at the end of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? After avoiding my old school mates gaze as she entered the building as soon as it hit half 5, I was offski, door or no door, it wasn't my problem til Monday.
Saturday night, and big Andrews 27th birthday night out. The hairy man himself, Graeme, Kev, Disco Dave, Weaver, Jamie and me all met in Buddha. After a few pints some dinner was suggetsed to which Jamie replied, "its Saturday, no one eats dinner on a Saturday!"
We left Buddha and went over to Nicos to get a round of Jägerbombs but decided against it, after walking in and smelling the aura of piss in the air, probably coming from the jakies who had been in all day enjoying the cheap drinks. So into O'couture we went. It was dead but they serve cold bottles of beer. A pub crawl ensued and we ended up in Vodka Wodka in Ashton Lane via a couple of pubs, most of which I can't remember their names and one which I do, The Ivy. Can't really remember much after Vodka Wodka, the first thing I remembered was waking up on a bus in the middle of, God knows where, at half 8 in the morning. Having spoke to my mates this seems to be what happened; only Andy and Kev were in a fit enough state to go dancing, don't know what happened to Weaver and Jamie but myself, Graeme and Dave walked back to Graemes via a chippy. I made it as far as the chippy before disappearing, presumably getting on a 66 and then falling asleep for 6 or 7 hours before being wakened by the driver in Mountblow. Didn't get up the road til half 9, Sunday morning. Then Michael text me to see if I fancied the gym. Not likely.
Oh, and I placed the face of the guy from the engineering firm. He was on my CIvil Engineering course at Glasgow Uni. If he keeps working hard he might, one day, make it as big as me.
Monday, 17 May 2010
Where all the jakies go
Uncle Jim was up from London for the weekend so this proved the perfect excuse for a wee get-together in Glasgow. A rare get together for the majority of the family and a good opportunity for a catch up. Twelve of us at a round table in Lakota, munching mushrooms and doritos, struggling for elbow room when the main courses arrived. Afterwards we all headed down the street following suggestions from Uncle Ian for the Scotia Bar for a bit of folk and entertainment. We ended up opting for a bar, a little closer, central and easier on the feet. Not that most of us would have minded walking all the way down to the Scotia but for the women in high heels it may have been a bit of a challenge. Ka was also a little dubious about the whole Scotia Bar idea. Upon hearing our suggestion her eyes grew wide and she blurted "the one where all the jakies go?!".
On many a trip from EK in the Number 20 bus we've seen more than a few drunken 'characters' stumble off at Stockwell Street, falling straight through the black doors, disappearing into the ancient, dishevelled looking Scotia. I've still never had a drink in the place and suspect it's perfectly respectable inside. I imagine it to be like the Monty or the Auldhouse in EK with old fashioned furnishings, ancient dusty optics and beer taps, various pieces of antique farming equipment and weaponry adorning the walls and a man playing a mandolin in the corner. Perfect for the tourists. The brave, ignorant tourists with no sense of smell that is...
We ended up in the Drum and Monkey on St. Vincent Street, with it's comfy chairs, friendly atmosphere and helpful barstaff. The comfy chairs we couldn't get any of thanks to pushy middle aged Sex and the City wannabe middleaged women pushing Craig, innocently trying to save a few for his Mum and Aunties, out of the way. The atmosphere was ruined on more than one occasion by strong farts, people diving for cover, asking who did what and the barstaff being particularly unfriendly, especially when asked for a Pinot Grigio rather than the 'automatic' Sauvignon Blanc.
As the witching hour approached we all went our seperate ways around half eleven and headed for our various buses and trains, some of us a little drunker than others. Illustrated perfectly after we met our cousin Chris on the bus and I started calling him his brothers name halfway through the conversation. Chris, being Chris, ever polite just looked at me and chuckled, his mates looking at me as if I was a complete drunken dork (as if!). After my retreat upstairs to join the others at the front of the top deck we were then entertained on the way home by a couple getting it on up on the back seat of the bus. With a groan of warning Kenny alerted us to the quiet, bouncing couple up the back. Most of us politely attempted not to watch via the reflections in the rain drop covered windows as the bus lumbered up towards EK. After a brief attempt to start up a drunken rendition of 'The Back of the Bus Cannae Sing' and being given a shut up elbow by my lovely wife I considered that that is always the great thing about the night buses, you certainly get plenty of entertainment. Not all of it welcome though - just ask Chris.
On many a trip from EK in the Number 20 bus we've seen more than a few drunken 'characters' stumble off at Stockwell Street, falling straight through the black doors, disappearing into the ancient, dishevelled looking Scotia. I've still never had a drink in the place and suspect it's perfectly respectable inside. I imagine it to be like the Monty or the Auldhouse in EK with old fashioned furnishings, ancient dusty optics and beer taps, various pieces of antique farming equipment and weaponry adorning the walls and a man playing a mandolin in the corner. Perfect for the tourists. The brave, ignorant tourists with no sense of smell that is...
We ended up in the Drum and Monkey on St. Vincent Street, with it's comfy chairs, friendly atmosphere and helpful barstaff. The comfy chairs we couldn't get any of thanks to pushy middle aged Sex and the City wannabe middleaged women pushing Craig, innocently trying to save a few for his Mum and Aunties, out of the way. The atmosphere was ruined on more than one occasion by strong farts, people diving for cover, asking who did what and the barstaff being particularly unfriendly, especially when asked for a Pinot Grigio rather than the 'automatic' Sauvignon Blanc.
As the witching hour approached we all went our seperate ways around half eleven and headed for our various buses and trains, some of us a little drunker than others. Illustrated perfectly after we met our cousin Chris on the bus and I started calling him his brothers name halfway through the conversation. Chris, being Chris, ever polite just looked at me and chuckled, his mates looking at me as if I was a complete drunken dork (as if!). After my retreat upstairs to join the others at the front of the top deck we were then entertained on the way home by a couple getting it on up on the back seat of the bus. With a groan of warning Kenny alerted us to the quiet, bouncing couple up the back. Most of us politely attempted not to watch via the reflections in the rain drop covered windows as the bus lumbered up towards EK. After a brief attempt to start up a drunken rendition of 'The Back of the Bus Cannae Sing' and being given a shut up elbow by my lovely wife I considered that that is always the great thing about the night buses, you certainly get plenty of entertainment. Not all of it welcome though - just ask Chris.
Sunday, 18 April 2010
Ongoing birthdays
Off to London tomorrow to see the Queen. Well, not really to see the Queen but hey, you never know. Ka and myself are catching an early train and heading down to Kings Cross, staying two nights on Primrose Hill and heading to the theatre on Tuesday night to see a bunch of singing Witches in the West End musical, Wicked. All part of Ka's ongoing birthday. Let's hope they're no problems with the seating on the train journey considering the continuing travel chaos caused by the clouds of volcanic ash disturbing the European skies.
The family were at Brian's 40th last night in the Crowwood Hotel just outside Stepps. The birthday boy himself almost never made his own party as when the Greenland volcano decided to erupt, Brian was in Munich on a business trip. With at least two trains, a ferry, a cab and finishing with a lift from his Dad he managed to arrive home just in time, much to the relief of his wife, and my cousin, Sarah. One things for sure he would have slept last night.
While Brian managed to stay awake the family all had a good time catching up over some drinks, talking houses, walks, photos, dating agencies and how many helium balloons it would take to make a stuffed cat fly. As it turned out, Kenny, in an effort to entertain the younger cousins, Lauren and Megan, didn't quite manage to collect enough balloons to help the cat fly but at least it still had more chance than a British Airways plane.
The family were at Brian's 40th last night in the Crowwood Hotel just outside Stepps. The birthday boy himself almost never made his own party as when the Greenland volcano decided to erupt, Brian was in Munich on a business trip. With at least two trains, a ferry, a cab and finishing with a lift from his Dad he managed to arrive home just in time, much to the relief of his wife, and my cousin, Sarah. One things for sure he would have slept last night.
While Brian managed to stay awake the family all had a good time catching up over some drinks, talking houses, walks, photos, dating agencies and how many helium balloons it would take to make a stuffed cat fly. As it turned out, Kenny, in an effort to entertain the younger cousins, Lauren and Megan, didn't quite manage to collect enough balloons to help the cat fly but at least it still had more chance than a British Airways plane.
Tuesday, 13 April 2010
Better off with coconuts
On Monday I became a 32 year old. Now well and truly in the thirties and climbing. Scarey. The unscarey thing about birthdays, of course, is the cards and pressies. Ka got me a fantastic new pair of trainers and tickets for Spamalot, the Monty Python stage show currently running in the West End. I won't be attending until the knights and their coconuts have come back home to Scotland later in the year but I'm looking forward to that. I say come back home because the original movie was all filmed in good old Scotland. Doune castle, for instance, was where the french hung out, firing abuse over the battlements, not to mention a cow and a number of farm animals. Sinister Glen Coe is where the Bridge of Death was filmed and Loch Tay where the man eating rabbits crept from their caves. I should go on a Holy Grail tour of Scotland... I wonder if I can get a few folk together for that... not sure about prancing the whole way with coconuts though.
Ka and myself had an enjoyable birthday weekend which included some quick shopping, some pitch and putt, and more than a few birthday meals. One meal in particular was in Glasgow's Malmaison on Saturday night followed by drinks and meeting up with Colin McG and Jillian in Bath Street. Apparently they'd just met some wrestler type dudes in the SECC, the stories of which left me completely unfazed and unimpressed as I've never paid, or wanted to pay, the slightest attention to wrestling. I know who Hulk Hogan is and know of some freak called the Undertaker but that about covers my knowledge of the 'sport'. As we sat drinking in... where were we... gawd, I have no idea what the place was called... some attractive enough looking place with friendly customers, chatty bar staff and decent enough music, anyway, we then found ourselves invited to Graham's flat, by my bro, Kenny. Kenny and Ka had been texting at various points and before we knew it we had crashed Kenny and Graham's party. When I say party, It was more of a night in with the computer. The two of them were lying on a giant black couch surrounded by bud bottles, staring up at the large flatscreen on the clean white wall of the minimalist living room (Minimalist except from the beer bottles that is!) whilst Michael Bolton emanated from the stereo. Graham and Kenny seemed happy enough to see us, celebrating their winnings from the grand National. A little later however, the actual owner of the flat came home whilst we were all sprawled over the luxurious black couch and introduced himself by simply mumbling 'This is my flat' (according to Kenny the next day though it's not his, it's actually his Mum's).
An uncomfortable sense of unwelcomness then filtered through our drunken minds so we took the hint and departed for home. As I spun down the tenement stairs towards a waiting taxi, Colin McG had made one final last attempt to beat Graham at Fifa on the PS3 (it's controllers have no wires?!) but failed. Ka piled me into the taxi and we were off. Racing back home. Unlike Mum's horse at the Grand National. King John's Castle refused to move. She'd have been better off betting on a pair of coconuts.
Ka and myself had an enjoyable birthday weekend which included some quick shopping, some pitch and putt, and more than a few birthday meals. One meal in particular was in Glasgow's Malmaison on Saturday night followed by drinks and meeting up with Colin McG and Jillian in Bath Street. Apparently they'd just met some wrestler type dudes in the SECC, the stories of which left me completely unfazed and unimpressed as I've never paid, or wanted to pay, the slightest attention to wrestling. I know who Hulk Hogan is and know of some freak called the Undertaker but that about covers my knowledge of the 'sport'. As we sat drinking in... where were we... gawd, I have no idea what the place was called... some attractive enough looking place with friendly customers, chatty bar staff and decent enough music, anyway, we then found ourselves invited to Graham's flat, by my bro, Kenny. Kenny and Ka had been texting at various points and before we knew it we had crashed Kenny and Graham's party. When I say party, It was more of a night in with the computer. The two of them were lying on a giant black couch surrounded by bud bottles, staring up at the large flatscreen on the clean white wall of the minimalist living room (Minimalist except from the beer bottles that is!) whilst Michael Bolton emanated from the stereo. Graham and Kenny seemed happy enough to see us, celebrating their winnings from the grand National. A little later however, the actual owner of the flat came home whilst we were all sprawled over the luxurious black couch and introduced himself by simply mumbling 'This is my flat' (according to Kenny the next day though it's not his, it's actually his Mum's).
An uncomfortable sense of unwelcomness then filtered through our drunken minds so we took the hint and departed for home. As I spun down the tenement stairs towards a waiting taxi, Colin McG had made one final last attempt to beat Graham at Fifa on the PS3 (it's controllers have no wires?!) but failed. Ka piled me into the taxi and we were off. Racing back home. Unlike Mum's horse at the Grand National. King John's Castle refused to move. She'd have been better off betting on a pair of coconuts.
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