The naked neighbour

Friday night was Comic Relief night and Ka and myself were once more in the McGarva household for dinner with Colin, Ka's bro, and Morgan, our neice. We burst into the McGarva household, Ka sporting a rather fetching curly red wig and all her clothes inside out. My dressing up involved merely wearing a red nose. The red noses this year were the best designs yet, though you still had slight difficulty in actually breathing, but as Morgan discovered, they also bounced, an added bonus. The whole red nose thing was obviously new to Morgan, however, as she kept insisting on shouting 'Happy Halloween'. The charity managed to raise over £57 million, the best year yet, considering the deadly credit crunch hanging over us all.
As if things were not expensive enough, at the moment, the Government is now talking about upping the price of alcohol to a minimum of 50p per unit in order to tackle the country's alcohol abuse. What about those of us that do not abuse it and merely enjoy the odd pint now and again, an occasional bottle of wine at the weekend and the odd occasional night out? Why should we pay more for our booze just because the town centres are full of neds and buckie drinkers?
Talking of neds and buckie drinkers, our downstairs neighbour had a few friends round to watch the football yesterday. Following Celtic's victory over Rangers, a small commotion in the downstairs porch area of our block echoed up the stairs. Ka and myself were awaiting the arrival of my Mum and Dad for dinner and I was on the look out for them arriving. At the bedroom window I looked down to see if there was any sign of the loud commotion at the front porch as Mum and Dad arrived, pulling up in the Citroen. Just as I raised my hand to wave a welcome hello to my Mum our neighbour from the downstairs flat strode out on to the pavement, completely naked, except from a sock, (which unfortunately was in the usual foot area). Striding out into the street our neighbour did not realise the car directly before him had just pulled up, giving my parents the best possible view of the goings on. On noticing the two gawping people sitting in the Citroen the guy turned and immediately scrambled back for the door retreating back into his flat with his jolly crowd. My parents politely gave them some time to escape before eventually appearing at our door, a little taken aback by their welcoming committee. We came to the conclusion that it must have all been some kind of bet resulting from the football score. Why he couldn't just eat his hat like any other normal person I don't know. Dad mumbled something about Calderwood riff raff. Still, at least it makes a change from the usual beatings and riots that go on following these football games, though i can't see it catching on. Byres Road full of naked football fans, wandering around following an old firm game. Maybe we're better off with the riots and beatings? In both cases it boils down to one thing, alcohol intake. Maybe there is logic behind the hike in the price of alcohol after all.

When they were up, they were up

The nice people at Fasthosts sent me an email today. A receipt for the direct debit charge for my annual website renewal. I've just swiftly pointed out that they have actually, already charged me, approximately two weeks ago. I think I must have called their customer care department around five or six times that week. Idiots. There are warnings all over the web about Fasthosts but did I listen to them, no. Numpties. Looks like yet another phonecall to yet another customer care division is called for.
Just watched two hours of comic relief related telly with the celebrity climbers going up Mount Kilimanjaro followed by The Apprentice for Comic Relief which had a team of male celebrities up against a team of females. the girls were led by Michelle Mone, the Glaswegian lingerie entrepreneur, now based in EK, the boys by Gerlad Ratner, a jeweller... or something. Jack Dee, Jonathan Ross, Alan Carr and Gok Wan were the other members of the male team, Jack being his usual hilairious self. Jack sat on the couch and worked out the whole presentatio whilst Jonathan Ross jumped about the couch, firing water pistols and bouncing on those bouncing ball things with antlers. What are they called? Each team had to create a toy for 5-8 year old boys and girls. The boys came up with a great belt idea with which kids would have to collect figures for each of its clips. Each figure looking like something designed by a Japanese cartoonist. The girls had an idea of a suit made of velcro. The velcro suit won... Yeah, I'm sure I would have loved a velcro suit at that age... Turning up at a birthday party at that age and being told to put on a velcro suit, in order to jump about the floor and stick to both girls and boys, would have probably made me leave, sharpish.
The trek up Kilimanjaro looked far more challenging and had a far better result with all the celebrities making it up to the top. Even Chris Moyles and Cheryl Cole made it (whai aye man!). They've apparently raised well over one million by doing it too so good on 'em! I thought climbing the odd Munro was challenging. At times that climb looked like hell. Especially for poor Cotton.

Infinity is a great place to start

Have been listening to 'No Line on the Horizon', U2's latest album, and have finally come to a decision. It's pretty brilliant. On hearing the first single 'Get on your boots' over a month ago I was not so sure about their return but have found the track to be a bit of a grower, however, now I feel it to be one of the weaker tracks on the album and very unlike the rest of the accompanying songs. In fact, the whole album is a definite 'grower' taking more than a few listens to get into, which I usually find to be a good thing. Again working with Lillywhite, Lanois and the brilliant Brian Eno, U2 have produced an exciting group of songs, pushing at their own boundaries and comfort zones, mixing noise and tempo with smooth quiet and echoes resulting in a really contrasting, varied collection. Tracks such as 'White As snow' and 'Moment of Surrender' drift soothingly whilst tracks such as 'Magnificent' and 'Breathe' grab your attention and punch you across the face, making you sit up and listen. The album closes with the excellent Cedars of Lebanon written from the viewpoint of a journalist in the Middle east, a long way from the crazy, non sensical 'Get on your Boots' a mere five tracks earlier. 'Fez-Being Born' is a great track, inspired largely by Eno I suspect, taking the listener on a journey through Morocco, where the album was made. Certainly not their best album, but certainly one which proves U2 are still producing great music.

Needing time out

Times must be bad. At lunch, Gareth and myself halved in to buy a Time Out chocolate biscuit. One finger each. The machine stands up against one of the walls of the work canteen facing you as you walk in for your break, immediately tempting you with all sorts of snacking delights. Usually I can resist no problem and am quite happy to eat my sandwiches and fruit. However, today it was tough. It has been one of those Mondays for me. In for work on time, working continuously for the first three quarters of the day, gulping down tea in the hope that it stirred some life into me and still I remained drowsy. I don't think I actually reached full consiousness till around four in the afternoon today. The surrender to half a Time Out was in the hope that some chocolate would waken me up a little. It probably worked but took till around four to do so.
Trying to cut down on all the sugary delights at the moment. At the McGarvas for dinner last night I was forced to eat two desserts. Well, not forced exactly, but i would have felt bad if I had refused the second. A piece of Cadbury's Chocolate Easter cake - complete with mini eggs on top. As we drank our tea and ate our puddings after a brilliant Sunday roast the McGarvas and myself watched Dancing On Ice, the show in which celebrities compete with each other, figure skating with their own partnered professionals. Glossy, crystal clean, teeth sparkling entertainment. Not one for watching these kind of programs, worryingly I found myself transfixed by the skaters gliding round the tv screen. Whether this was because I was in the In laws household and had nowhere else to escape, because I was half sleeping, digesting the sunday meal or because I was genuinely enjoying the program, I've no idea. Perhaps it was down to the girl from Blue Peter, Zoé Salmon. Blue Peter presenters have changed a lot since the eighties that's for sure! Who did we have? Mark Curry and Anthea flamin' Turner?! Shockingly, Zoé was booted off in the final with the dire 'Loose Woman' Nolan sister still in the competition. What's that all about?! Have the voting public for these tv shows gone mad? First John Sargeant nearly wins the BBC's Strictly Come Dancing by wobbling his double chin, the next, a fumbling, overweight Nolan sister wins over a beautiful, skilled dancer like Zoé. Dispicable. The show's corrupt. Has to be!
Woke up this morning to the neighbours arguing again. A young couple, maybe slightly younger than us, live above with their small baby. Once a week the girl has a screaming fit. Not the baby, the grown up. Shouting and yelling at the other half, saying how he does nothing, he does not care for her, blah blah. All the usual stuff. At least when Ka and myself argue we come up with different, more imaginative ways to yell at each other (door slamming competitions, handstands, balancing a glass of water on our head, etc). The two upstairs just seem to go through the same thing everytime. It's always the girl you hear shouting though, never the guy. His voice only travels down as a barely audible mumble in reply to his raving partner's. No wonder I'm so flamin' tired.

I've been called a lot of things, but never funny

Ignored the miserable weather today and headed into Glasgow for a wee walk around and a few odd jobs. The picking up of a Wedding ring, the buying of a birthday present and a quick look in the camera shops. Jessops is apparently closing down, so I ventured up Sauchiehall street to see if I could grab a bargain. Jessops being Jessops, of course, I could not. Large posters advertising some kind of Spring clearance sale inside adorned the windows. On venturing inside I discovered one basket at the till filled with dusty, old discounted camera bags. That was it. The Spring Clearance Sale apparently only applying to dusty old camera bags I gave up and wandered back down to the chaotic Buchanan Galleries to meet up with Ka. After some shopping, (I say some but I mean, as little as possible), we decided to go for a bite. We opted for some cheap and cheerful pub grub.
Why is it some folk find it so difficult washing their hands after using the toilet. Especially blokes. After eating some fairly nice pub grub in The Maltman on Renfield Street I visited the loo and as I stood drying my hands at a particularly powerful drying machine after washing I could not help notice some bloke leave the wall urinal and head straight out through the door. I'd just like to make it clear I was not, in any way, watching the guy do the toilet but was merely aware of the dismal fact that he left without so much as a spray of cold water from the taps. Why is this? Do blokes find it unmanly to wash their hands after freeing themselves from a full bladder? Surely washing after pi**ing should be mandatory for blokes?! Are they in that much of a hurry to get back to their beloved pints? Is the conversation with their mates THAT good that they have to go back to a busy bar with their hands reeking? Maybe it was the chef rushing back to his kitchen? No, I don't want to even go there. The thought, not the kitchen. I'm sure the kitchen is very hygienic...
After our meal we seen the excellent Gran Torino. Fantastic. Clint Eastwood is just a genius. A true Hollywood great. He seems to be just getting better with age (he must be ancient now?!). He not only starred in Gran Torino, but directed, produced and contributed to the music. Just as the excellent Changeling before it. Eastwood basically plays a miserable old, Korean war veteran with a grudge against his life and himself who slowly, and inadvertantly, turns himself into a neighbourhood hero. Brilliant.

Springtime and music pirates

Springtime is coming! Bono shouted this during Live Aid in 1985 during Feed the World, even though it is a song about Christmas. This exclamation is made even more puzzling by the fact that Live Aid took place in the summer, July 13th to be precise. So even though Bono was completely wrong at the time, it is an accurate assessment of the weather that greeted me this morning on leaving the flat. The sun was out this morning, at least it was up there somewhere among the clouds, and there is the growing feeling of winter leaving us once more. Hopefully. This is Scotland I suppose. Our summers usually last approximately one week, or if your thinking back to 2008, probably around three days.
As I thought this getting into my car I turned on the radio to hear the one and only Irish singer once more in another repeat on Radio 1 of the latest U2 single. 'No Line on the Horizon' hit the shops yesterday and is apparently another big seller after only one day on the shelves. Unable to purchase until thursday,however, and am steadfastly refusing to download it, unlike certain other friends of mine (they shall go unnamed). One of them has even had the album for at least two weeks. This is exactly the reason why the music and movie industry is suffering at the moment. All the pirates wandering the web, illegally plundering the downloads for their treasures. I work with a few of them too, I should know. Limping into work everyday, all innocent, as if butter wouldn't melt. I'll watch them as they go about their business, working away at their desks, growling abuse down their phones through their rotten teeth and feeding their parrots perched on their monitors. Okay, they're not all that bad. Some of them do floss apparently. Not that I'd know, of course (I prefer a simple brush with Colgate and a quick rinse with Plax myself). You used to hear of these raids down the Glasgow Barrowlands every now and again where Police would swoop in on the occasional Saturday morning and seize thousands of pounds worth of pirated material. As much as I liked getting the bootlegs I used to dread buying them. You'd approach the stall hesitantly, looking round you at all times, giving the occasional peer over the shoulder. You'd then set to work, ferociously flicking through the mountains of CDs at breakneck pace until you found the one you were after. You'd throw the money at the smelly owner of the stall and quickly hide the CD under your jacket and slink off into the Glasgow market crowds. Maybe buy some doughnuts on the way. I always hated the idea of the police disturbing me as I found the rare bootleg version of Bowie's original cut of Scarey Monsters or some lost live album from Talking Heads' past. "Officer, please, this is listed as the fifth rarest bootleg of all time!". "Put it down son, your nicked". It wasn't so much the nicking it was more the fact I'd found something worth buying.
Most of the smelly stall owners in the Barras were always suspicious at the best of times anyway. One Saturday morning, during my time at Art School, I was quietly sitting drawing a book stall when all of a sudden the lady owner realised I was there and started hurling abuse as she ran at me. Apparently she 'knew my game'? I had not been aware of playing any game at the time, though I was a bit of a Games Workshop nut at the time. Still, you don't expect that kind of abuse for that do you? Maybe a bit of a slagging from your mates (if you have any) but not an attack from a female vigilante book stall owner. Almost dropping my sketch book with alarm I just managed to get away from the crazy old bird feeling a little more hesitant to sketch the market scenes afterwards. Maybe she thought I was an undercover agent for Strathclyde police or something. Which means she must have been feeling rather guilty about something. Perhaps her books were off the back of a lorry? It was a shame really as it was a bloody good book stall. There's hardly any decent second hand book shops or stalls left. Sometimes I wonder into the Oxfams and Cancer Research charity shops for a browse though. Most of the time their shelves are only filled with fifteen year old Guiness Book of Records, Maeve Binchy novels or the Daniel O'Donnell - My Story. My Great Aunt Mina used to go to that cheery, irish warbler's concerts. We used to joke that she threw her knickers at him on stage. She would join us with a smile and laugh rather uncomfortably, then go strangely quiet...

Gate crashers, kilts and christenings

A busy weekend there with some parties and a long awaited shopping trip. The weekend kicked off with a birthday party. Happy Birthday Uncle Tommy who hit the grand age of 50 on Friday (well, his party was on Friday anyway). Family and friends gathered at the Rolls Royce Club in EK to celebrate and to help raise some funds for the local hospital. A good night was had by all as we enjoyed the food and music with the credit crunch defying bar prices. There was over ten of us at the Reid tables and the drink prices were coming in at approximately 15 quid a round. Fantastic. You'd probably pay at least 15 for five drinks in Glasgow. No wonder Rolls Royce is making hundreds redundant - they should maybe think about upping their club bar prices. It was down to the women to rescue the dancefloor again. A gate crasher from Kenny's work turned up with a girl in tow, drunk and, worse than that, dancing willingly. Trust the gate crasher to put us blokes to shame. So, as we neared the end of the night a good bunch of us ended up doing the Macarena. I say "us" because embarassingly, for some Jack Daniels fuelled reason, I ended up shaking my hips to the awful spaniards, the surrounding Aunties, alonside Ka, Chris and Martin, showing me how it was done. As far as I can remember the dance moves were extremely similar to The Time Warp, in fact, it was a blatant rip off. Richard O'Brien should sue! However, it has been a while since I have done the Time Warp so don't quote me on that...Why is it you always end up getting up and doing these embarassing dances with Aunties? When you Mum asks you to dance you give her a firm and definite NO. One which may or may not come in the form of two words but when it is an Auntie you somehow struggle to give the same response. It is as if your conscience is unable to give an Auntie a negative response. There is something in the programming that conflicts and after a short mind battle, short circuits and results in a tired "okay then".
After saying our goodbyes to Tommy and Tricia we left the party to walk straight into a small crowd at the car park exit. The gate crasher was busy insulting a passing girl's diet plan and, as a result, was causing a bit of a raucous. Ka tried to calm the girl down and usher her on but unfortunately the bloke kept persisting with his idiocy. As Dad finally managed to pull Ka, Kenneth and myself from the crowd people started hitting off the temporary metal work fence, erected around the car park, like vertical trampolines. Shortly afterwards, the numbskull that started it all dived into a waiting car and sped off into the night, not before stopping at the side of the road and offering Kenny a lift. Thankfully, Kenny declined and Mum piled us into the car and drove us all home.
The next day was the long awaited kilt hunting. Sprung out of bed, with a rather surprising springiness considering the Jack Daniels from the night before, and wolved down a bacon roll, pulled on some clothes and jumped on a bus for Renfield Street. It was kilt day and time to bite the bullet. Generally not comfortable in kilts I had been kind of dreading the kilt day but, as it turned out, did not have much to worry about. Met Dougie and Colin at Slanj in St Vincent Street, a kilt hire place that, as we found out, only hires out a vast selection of 4 grey tartan kilts. Disappointing. Just as disappointing as the rubbish service we did not really get in the place. After Kenny arrived we headed out, disappointed and a little pessimistic, and headed straight for Moss Brothers on Renfield Street where Dad caught up with us, disconcertingly sneaking up behind up us as we were talking to the tailor. Unlike Slanj, the tailor in Moss Brothers went straight to work with his measuring tape and kitted us out in the full gear disappearing through a small doorway in the corner occasionally and reappearing almost instantly through the same door with kilts, jackets and shoes, hindered only by our over pondering of shoe sizes. Anyway, after the kilts were booked up Dad, Kenny and I went, yep, you guessed it, to the pub where we had a few pints and a spectacular pub lunch watching Scotland beat Italy.
The next day it was out and about again, only this time to the christening of my cousin Sarah's little boy, Christopher. It was good to catch up with some of the other family members after the service where the priest talked in detail about the light and the dark in religion and the rejection of evil drawing comparisons with the Star Wars movies. Darth Vader, of course, being the devil incarnate. Even though I had drawn similar comparisons many moons ago I did wonder if this was the first time I had heard the dreaded name Darth Vader in a chapel before. Now the priests are using the the texts of George Lucas in their sermons. I always knew Star Wars was worth watching.