Scary but true

Happy Halloween everybody! Thankfully there's been no pesky kids in rubbish costumes, chapping on our front door, annoying us for sweets, enabling Ka and myself to slouch before the tv, recovering after Gillian and Craig's Wedding yesterday.
It's been a busy week off with plenty to keep us occupied. Stage shows, cinema, hotels, dinners out and plenty of catching up with friends has taken up the majority of the past week. It all started with a Wedding and ended with a Wedding.
Last Saturday Colin McG, Jillian, Ka and myself went to the capital for the day to see Spamalot in the Playhouse, Monty Python's musical stage production, 'lovingly ripped off' from The Holy Grail. Marcus Brigstocke, comedian and tv presenter, played Arthur, King of the Britons, aided by his humble servant Patsy, Mark Fowler from Eastenders. Sexy dancers, fish slapping Finnish peasants, killer rabbits, black Knights, French soldiers and, of course, the cow. The show had all the killer ingredients for a great Pythonesque tale with some very funny moments, brilliant songs and enjoyable performances from all involved, all being what looked like around twelve people or so, many of the supporting cast doubling, tripling or quadrupling up roles. After finally retrieving the Holy Grail from under seat D2 in the stalls (unfortunately neither of us were sitting on D2 so missed our chance to get up on stage, some wee embarrassed woman in a cardy being dragged up on stage instead) the show ended differently from the unorthodox way the Holy Grail movie ended.
Disgruntled at her lack of a part in the second half, the Lady of the Lake had elbowed her way into the story again by coming up with the excuse of marrying King Arthur which is how the stage play wrapped up, the Lady in question played by Amy Nuttall, and not the scary Jodie Prenger as we'd all thought was going to be the case.
However, we hadn't got off lightly. Jodie Prenger popped up later in the week, when Colin McG, Jillian, Ka and myself went along to the Clyde Auditorium to see John Barrowman. Yes, it had been a while coming but the night was finally here, when Ka and Jillian got to drag Colin and myself along to the SECC to see the tooth sparkling american, scottish born, singer himself. Beforehand, of course, we met in the pub and all had a couple of pints in The Goose, Ka drinking ginger beer as her alcohol substitute while Jillian shrieked in excitement with anticipation for the coming show. Colin and myself drank down some pints, needing some kind of dutch courage for the night which, I hesitantly admit, actually turned out to be good fun and surprisingly entertaining. Yes, the guy is cheesy and crazily camp but it was just simple fun, light entertainment. Scary but true. As was Jodie Prenger who strutted on stage half way through the set, just to make matters a little worse, to help celebrate Barrowman's 20 years in showbiz.
The second Wedding of the week did not involve Jodie Prenger, thankfully. Gillian and Craig tied the knot in Glenskirlie, Stirlingshire yesterday and we all had a great day at the ceremony, the reception and the following party, highlights including the usual speeches, the brilliant food, Craig kicking his boxers off from underneath his kilt in the middle of the dancefloor and them ending up wrapped around Cheryl's head and my rather drunken but fantastic rendition of the Time Warp back in the hotel room, Roslyn, Claire, Martin, Iain and Ka my entertained audience.
After all the scary incidents this week, however, there's nothing more scary, unsettling or uncomfortable as that of the thought of going back to work tomorrow morning...

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.