After a fantastic weekend of blistering heat the sun is holding out over Scotland. Last years summer lasted the whole of two weeks at the most. Could this be our short summer? Fast and fleeting like the life of the little squirrel I passed over on my way to work today. Slightly adjusting the path of the car, making sure either of it's tyres did not disturb the small furry motionless body I wondered where the squirrel had been heading at his time of death. Yes, I know, I should have stopped and tried to somehow move the body to the pavement or at least the side of the road but like so many others that had presumably done so before me, I drove on. I had more important things to do, like get to work on time.
Some of these animals have a death wish anyway. We were heading home in a taxi at the weekend after a BBQ in Chapelton, speeding along, when all of a sudden the driver swerved us into the middle of the road. As the approaching headlights lit up our faces through the windscreen and our lives flashed before our eyes the driver muttered something about narrowly avoiding a passing hedgehog.
Foxes are experts are getting run over too, especially on the expressway. Most of them ending up as flattened piles of mush on the tarmac. Dogs are different though. You run over a dog and they're more than likely to get up and dart away, perhaps with half a leg missing. Not unlike Bullet from 'The Scheme'.
I had been in quite a good mood last night until Ka and myself sat and watched this horrendous programme. A documentary series following a small number of families in a Kilmarnock housing scheme. Possibly the worst advert for life in Scotland ever. Hopefully it was not being transmitted outside Scotland as anyone watching it with little knowledge of our beloved country, it's districts and its people would most probably be horrified in a way that Rab C. Nesbitt could have only hinted at. Zombie like girls hooking each other in the street, stoned, indecipherable young guys slobbering their thoughts in between getting their neighbours daughters pregnant, police visits, court visits, families going on holiday and leaving children to fend for themselves, couples knocking each other about and pet dogs (the aforementioned Bullet) getting run over and left to suffer in the streets (gawd, that squirrel is going to haunt me now!). For the past week now, since the first episode of the series went out I've been listening to folk in the work laughing about it, and the people it follows, so I started watching it under the impression I would get some sort of laugh out of it. Unfortunately I was utterly depressed by the end of it and felt like immediately emigrating. No wonder so many Scots end up leaving. To get away from the people arguing around blind relatives smashing bottles over each others heads? As the credits rolled on this programme a BBC voiceover informed us that future episodes of the series had now been cancelled due to ongoing police investigations... In other words they've all been arrested.
Saying that, my Dad calls our area a 'scheme'. He might be right. There's a neighbour who sings Take That over and over upstairs on drunken nights in with mates, a neighbour living downstairs who likes to walk around the street naked, a bunch of wheelie bin thieves who burn the plastic for the fumes, a couple of six year olds who constantly cycle up and down our lawn while their Mum sits and drinks wine at her front door, a woman who parks her car by hitting it off others and a recently discovered transvestite living further down the street. There's also a bloke who noses at all of this and drives by dead squirrel bodies. Maybe I should put a call in to BBC Scotland?
Wednesday, 26 May 2010
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.
Friday, 7 May 2010
Virtual dominoes and the giant iPad
Well, it's over. So what the hell happens now? Is Cameron going to force Brown out? Hmmm, that didn't sound right...
I haven't sat and watched so many politicians and tv political pundits since 1997 when a grinning bloke from Edinburgh victoriously took to the stage.
After making the polling station at quarter to ten I arrived home, sat and watched at least two and a half hours worth, flicking between the BBC channels, the STV channel and Channel 4's alternative election night. The BBC had the two main channels dedicated with Jackie Bird craning her neck at us as usual and on One David Dimbleby, the BBC's head teacher, and the English broadcasters on Two. A rather lovely replacement to Peter Snow, Emily Maitlis, used a fantastic, full height iPad to illustrate what was going on with the latest results, using her touch screen to zap maps, graphs and stats up in various colourful guises. Jeremy Vine jumped about a digital map of Britain like a weatherman in Tron and then played a game of virtual dominoes, each piece representing a fallen MP. What a fantastic job it must be to help liven up these programmes. How to make political elections understandable to the masses - use virtual dominoes and giant iPads! All this while Jeremy Paxman shouted at MPs around his table up in the box like balcony of the studio, like a solo Statler and Waldorf.
Some of the television panelists were also outraged and raving about how disgraceful and disorganised it all was. Crowds of disgruntled folk being turned away from polling stations as they had turned up too late in the day or obvioulsy could not have got out of bed early enough. The commentators made it sound like all hell was breaking loose, with reports of the police being called in, people tearing their hair out, polling stations forcing their doors locked, jamming complaining voters' flailing arms or toes in the process, angry mobs shouting what for (literally). The view would then switch from the studio to a gloomy looking street in Sheffield where a long line of bored looking people stood morosely wondering why they were being filmed. A bloke in the background holding up a piece of card scibbled in felt pen, 'Hello Mum'. Then switching his card to another which read, 'I decided against the libs'.
I haven't sat and watched so many politicians and tv political pundits since 1997 when a grinning bloke from Edinburgh victoriously took to the stage.
After making the polling station at quarter to ten I arrived home, sat and watched at least two and a half hours worth, flicking between the BBC channels, the STV channel and Channel 4's alternative election night. The BBC had the two main channels dedicated with Jackie Bird craning her neck at us as usual and on One David Dimbleby, the BBC's head teacher, and the English broadcasters on Two. A rather lovely replacement to Peter Snow, Emily Maitlis, used a fantastic, full height iPad to illustrate what was going on with the latest results, using her touch screen to zap maps, graphs and stats up in various colourful guises. Jeremy Vine jumped about a digital map of Britain like a weatherman in Tron and then played a game of virtual dominoes, each piece representing a fallen MP. What a fantastic job it must be to help liven up these programmes. How to make political elections understandable to the masses - use virtual dominoes and giant iPads! All this while Jeremy Paxman shouted at MPs around his table up in the box like balcony of the studio, like a solo Statler and Waldorf.
Some of the television panelists were also outraged and raving about how disgraceful and disorganised it all was. Crowds of disgruntled folk being turned away from polling stations as they had turned up too late in the day or obvioulsy could not have got out of bed early enough. The commentators made it sound like all hell was breaking loose, with reports of the police being called in, people tearing their hair out, polling stations forcing their doors locked, jamming complaining voters' flailing arms or toes in the process, angry mobs shouting what for (literally). The view would then switch from the studio to a gloomy looking street in Sheffield where a long line of bored looking people stood morosely wondering why they were being filmed. A bloke in the background holding up a piece of card scibbled in felt pen, 'Hello Mum'. Then switching his card to another which read, 'I decided against the libs'.
Thursday, 6 May 2010
The views of a DiMaggios waitress
Election Day at last, and not a moment too soon. I won't be getting to the local polling station till late tonight though. Hopefully the lingering MPs will have all gone home by that point or gone to a more central voting station. It's all well and good going along and showing your support for one of these people by scribbling an X in a box but actually standing and listening to someone explain to you why you've made that decision or why you've made the wrong one is something I can't really be bothered with. I'd rather dive into the booth, sign with an X and hurriedly make like a tree.
On Saturday night Chaz and myself sat in the Atrium, having a beer listening to a female waitress from New Jersey harp on about what she thought of the election and the voting system. The waitress had come over from a DiMaggios across the road but was under the impression she was the sole speaker at some sort of political rally. In one short break I commented some form of response, making some sort of vague comparison on American politics and the waitress simply looked at me, as if insulted.
"Are you, a scot, talking to me about American politics?".
I wondered what gave her the right to voice what she thought of our politics, in her lengthy one way conversation, and why we were not permitted to talk about the American equivalent. As I huffily returned to my drink I continued to listen to the waitress, wishing her back to America as she talked on. I'm sure there's plenty of DiMaggios over the Atlantic! Better watch what I say there, I'm verging on the immigration concerns of Gillian Duffy.
On Saturday night Chaz and myself sat in the Atrium, having a beer listening to a female waitress from New Jersey harp on about what she thought of the election and the voting system. The waitress had come over from a DiMaggios across the road but was under the impression she was the sole speaker at some sort of political rally. In one short break I commented some form of response, making some sort of vague comparison on American politics and the waitress simply looked at me, as if insulted.
"Are you, a scot, talking to me about American politics?".
I wondered what gave her the right to voice what she thought of our politics, in her lengthy one way conversation, and why we were not permitted to talk about the American equivalent. As I huffily returned to my drink I continued to listen to the waitress, wishing her back to America as she talked on. I'm sure there's plenty of DiMaggios over the Atlantic! Better watch what I say there, I'm verging on the immigration concerns of Gillian Duffy.
Friday, 30 April 2010
The notorious Mrs. Fox and Question Time
Last night I sat and watched a whole hour of Question Time for the first time in my life. With the unignorable election now in sight I must have been in a political mood and found myself unexpectedly interested in what David Dimbleby, and his panel of guest speakers, had to say about the televised debate that had just taken place between the three main party leaders. The guest speakers on the Question Time panel were Ed Balls, fighting desperately for Labour, Vince Cable doddering for the Liberals, Alex Salmond puffing shaking his jowls about huffily and a rather downtrodden looking Liam Fox for the Tories. This Liam Fox, who is the current Shadow Self Defence Secretary, recently involved in the expenses scandal by claiming over £22,000 to redecorate his house, is the son of the notorious 'Mrs Fox'.
Mrs Fox was a small woman with a temper of pure fire who lived up our street when we were kids. Mrs. Fox used to run down the street when we'd play football in the large 'Balls Games Prohibited' patch of grass directly outside the front of our house and rant at us with pointed finger. Looking back, she was probably quite right to chase us off that grass considering balls games were indeed prohibited, but it was the fact that she lived a good few blocks away and up the street and would always know when we were out kicking the ball about. She either had some king of supersonic fox sense or spies at various posts in the street looking out for us. If she did have spies or any supporters we certainly never encountered or heard of any. On the day of Kenny's Frist Communion we had the whole family round and Mrs Fox even chased all the Uncles off the grass, much to the disapproval of the female relations who started booing loudly from behind the large living room window, the booing largely led by Aunt Mina. Anyway, because of this, I always remember Mrs Fox and her rants when I see Liam Fox squirming on television.
Ed Balls, one of Labour's top Commanders and Secretary of State for Schools, was doing a fair amount of squirming at the questions from the Question Time audience too whilst Vince Cable just seemed to shrug his way through the questions in a nonchalant 'Vote for us, or don't vote for us' fashion. Cable, the Danny Glover to Clegg's Mel Gibson, inwardly sighing, "I'm too old for this sh*t". All the while Alex Salmond raged about not having been invited to take part in the televised debates like a child who hadn't been asked to someone's birthday party and went out of his way to agree with everything the audience were saying. Janet Street Porter simply seemed to moan and groan, her most common gripe being about the fact that the current leaders were all men.
The whole programme may not have helped you decide upon who your voting for but it certainly helped in getting to sleep.
Mrs Fox was a small woman with a temper of pure fire who lived up our street when we were kids. Mrs. Fox used to run down the street when we'd play football in the large 'Balls Games Prohibited' patch of grass directly outside the front of our house and rant at us with pointed finger. Looking back, she was probably quite right to chase us off that grass considering balls games were indeed prohibited, but it was the fact that she lived a good few blocks away and up the street and would always know when we were out kicking the ball about. She either had some king of supersonic fox sense or spies at various posts in the street looking out for us. If she did have spies or any supporters we certainly never encountered or heard of any. On the day of Kenny's Frist Communion we had the whole family round and Mrs Fox even chased all the Uncles off the grass, much to the disapproval of the female relations who started booing loudly from behind the large living room window, the booing largely led by Aunt Mina. Anyway, because of this, I always remember Mrs Fox and her rants when I see Liam Fox squirming on television.
Ed Balls, one of Labour's top Commanders and Secretary of State for Schools, was doing a fair amount of squirming at the questions from the Question Time audience too whilst Vince Cable just seemed to shrug his way through the questions in a nonchalant 'Vote for us, or don't vote for us' fashion. Cable, the Danny Glover to Clegg's Mel Gibson, inwardly sighing, "I'm too old for this sh*t". All the while Alex Salmond raged about not having been invited to take part in the televised debates like a child who hadn't been asked to someone's birthday party and went out of his way to agree with everything the audience were saying. Janet Street Porter simply seemed to moan and groan, her most common gripe being about the fact that the current leaders were all men.
The whole programme may not have helped you decide upon who your voting for but it certainly helped in getting to sleep.
Sunday, 25 April 2010
118 118
Desperate Housewives is blaring away in the background as I sit in the bedroom writing this. Ka has curled up on the bed to watch the programme but has, rather unsurprisingly, fallen asleep. I suspect she's had a little too much of the old vino and the soft comfort of her pillows has lulled her off to dreamland. Wherever her dreamland maybe.
It's back to work tomorrow after a pleasant week off, half of which was spent walking round London and the other half recovering. Ka and myself travelled down on an overly busy train, first thing on Monday morning, after just managing to catch the Number 20, the bus that writes its own timetable.
That morning Kenny was making his own way to work, sitting on the top deck, leafing through the ever essential Metro when he just happened to see two early morning numpties running frantically over the Calderwood footbridge, one struggling with a large silver case, which may or may not have contained a kitchen sink. At half past six in the morning Ka and myself gave Kenny something amusing to watch on his morning bus to work, wondering if we'd make it to the bus stop in time. After the disappointment of us making it he went back to his Metro.
We arrived in London around half one and immediately headed for the underground and towards our hotel on Primrose Hill, just west of Camden. The Hampstead Britannia Hotel, a rather grand name for a rather dismal hotel. When I say dismal, it wasn't ALL bad. It was mostly clean and tidy and served its city stay purposes, however, the brochure claimed it to be a three star when two would have proven more than generous. Most of the foreign staff were marginally helpful and unsmiling, the windows dotted over the whole tower were all filthy and the rooms were all in serious need of an overhaul, decor and utilities. The baths were grimey and the shower curtains at least five years old. Ka commented on the fact that we had no idea how many big hairy things had used those shower curtains. As I immediately started pondering what big hairy things Ka was referring to I quickly decided it was probably best not to dwell on it. One of the elevators also squealed alarmingly, in the best Tower of Terror like fashion, when you pressed the button for reception, which rang out through the corridor, surely waking up any late sleeping guest nursing a hangover.
Upon arrival a scary, warty, hooked nose, foreign receptionist handed over our room key, speaking with the kind of accent that sounded like she was suffering with a bad case of catarrh. As I took the key I couldn't help but stare at the woman's warts. Paranoia pinched me and I realised I may have been staring and shifted my gaze. The woman's hooked nose reared into view and I then jumped impulsively scanning the room for any flying monkeys. We were off to see Wicked the next night so perhaps my thoughts were elsewhere. As the woman eyed me with her beady eyes, and I considered asking for a bucket of water, I looked down. The key was to Room 118.
118 is perhaps what we should have called when we seen the room. Gawd awful wallpaper, bumpy mattresses, ancient television and a door in the wall to the next room, locked but still clearly linked by the voices from the other side. We did not get to sleep till around three listening to the couple next door through the card thin wall seperating our rooms. Thankfully they were not partaking in anything too cringe inducing. The english couple were only talking to each other about the television serial they had on, what seemed like full volume, wishing their home bedroom was as big as Harolds (whoever Harold was) and the all important decision of what drawer she was keeping her socks in. At two in the morning, after a pretty good but tiring day, I lay in the dark listening to a long half hour discussion of what drawer this woman was going to keep her socks in. I snapped, pulled my jeans back on and stomped down to reception demanding a new room for the next night. We got our key to the new room the next morning. Room 321. They're having a laugh, I thought. That's where Dusty Bin lived isn't it?!
It's back to work tomorrow after a pleasant week off, half of which was spent walking round London and the other half recovering. Ka and myself travelled down on an overly busy train, first thing on Monday morning, after just managing to catch the Number 20, the bus that writes its own timetable.
That morning Kenny was making his own way to work, sitting on the top deck, leafing through the ever essential Metro when he just happened to see two early morning numpties running frantically over the Calderwood footbridge, one struggling with a large silver case, which may or may not have contained a kitchen sink. At half past six in the morning Ka and myself gave Kenny something amusing to watch on his morning bus to work, wondering if we'd make it to the bus stop in time. After the disappointment of us making it he went back to his Metro.
We arrived in London around half one and immediately headed for the underground and towards our hotel on Primrose Hill, just west of Camden. The Hampstead Britannia Hotel, a rather grand name for a rather dismal hotel. When I say dismal, it wasn't ALL bad. It was mostly clean and tidy and served its city stay purposes, however, the brochure claimed it to be a three star when two would have proven more than generous. Most of the foreign staff were marginally helpful and unsmiling, the windows dotted over the whole tower were all filthy and the rooms were all in serious need of an overhaul, decor and utilities. The baths were grimey and the shower curtains at least five years old. Ka commented on the fact that we had no idea how many big hairy things had used those shower curtains. As I immediately started pondering what big hairy things Ka was referring to I quickly decided it was probably best not to dwell on it. One of the elevators also squealed alarmingly, in the best Tower of Terror like fashion, when you pressed the button for reception, which rang out through the corridor, surely waking up any late sleeping guest nursing a hangover.
Upon arrival a scary, warty, hooked nose, foreign receptionist handed over our room key, speaking with the kind of accent that sounded like she was suffering with a bad case of catarrh. As I took the key I couldn't help but stare at the woman's warts. Paranoia pinched me and I realised I may have been staring and shifted my gaze. The woman's hooked nose reared into view and I then jumped impulsively scanning the room for any flying monkeys. We were off to see Wicked the next night so perhaps my thoughts were elsewhere. As the woman eyed me with her beady eyes, and I considered asking for a bucket of water, I looked down. The key was to Room 118.
118 is perhaps what we should have called when we seen the room. Gawd awful wallpaper, bumpy mattresses, ancient television and a door in the wall to the next room, locked but still clearly linked by the voices from the other side. We did not get to sleep till around three listening to the couple next door through the card thin wall seperating our rooms. Thankfully they were not partaking in anything too cringe inducing. The english couple were only talking to each other about the television serial they had on, what seemed like full volume, wishing their home bedroom was as big as Harolds (whoever Harold was) and the all important decision of what drawer she was keeping her socks in. At two in the morning, after a pretty good but tiring day, I lay in the dark listening to a long half hour discussion of what drawer this woman was going to keep her socks in. I snapped, pulled my jeans back on and stomped down to reception demanding a new room for the next night. We got our key to the new room the next morning. Room 321. They're having a laugh, I thought. That's where Dusty Bin lived isn't it?!
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.
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