During the first fifteen minutes of our East Coast six hour journey down to Birmingham New Street on Saturday morning a couple of young Irish dancers, who were sitting in the seats across the carriage’s aisle from us, chatted, argued and passed crisps and juices back and forth to their Mum and their Gran who were sitting in the two seats ahead of Ka and myself. A large group of girls all sat further down the carriage decorated in various birthday attire, one girl draped in a 30th banner, squawking, laughing and howling.
“There’s no way she’s 30!” Ka scoffed under her breath, as the birthday gaggle started, Ka drinking her coffee that had been hastily purchased on the way for our soon to be departing train in Glasgow Central from a girl that asked us how to make a Mocha.
After having looked forward to a quiet journey down to Brum it looked like those chances were dashed as the tinny tunes of JLS started ringing out from one of the girls phones. It had taken four hours to go down to London in a Virgin train at the end of March with Adventure Ted but if the chatter between the family members around us along with the shrill, tinny versions of JLS songs emanating from the girls’ phones was going to last all the way down to Brum this was going to be one long journey.
As it turned out the journey wasn’t too bad. As the journey progressed Ka ascertained, with her uncanny knack or earywigging, that the family were on their way down to Newcastle for an Irish dancing competition. A girl lying over the two seats in front of the two kids, whilst comparing phones and exchanging dial tones, told the Irish dancing girls of her trip down south to see her husband who was currently spending time in Durham. When the kids got a little more wrapped up in their iPhones the girl started chatting with the Mum and Gran revealing that her husband was in fact presently residing in Durham at Her Majesty’s pleasure. He ‘had been naughty’ apparently. Whether ‘naughty’ means murder or drug dealing I’m not sure, unsurprisingly she didn’t go into that much detail.
A loud unpleasant, liquid like cough started gurgling out from the seats behind us after Edinburgh as the train coasted along on it’s journey. As we travelled over and through the fields of the East Coast on our way down to Berwick the bright sunshine glittered over the sea on the horizon, a sign of the great weather to follow on our week off. Just as we were about to start eating our lunch, a picnic, prepared earlier by the ever organised Ka, the gurgling cough was almost spat out from it’s corner of the carriage.
At one point one of the happy girls from the all female birthday party stopped to chat to the source of the gurgling throat which made the irish dancers suddenly suspect the cougher of being famous. The cougher was an elderly, tall man with an enormous grey beard, sitting quietly, observing. A lot like Gandalf, except with more of the catarrh problem. The irish dancers inquisition continued and they asked him if he was a singer. Not with that throat, I thought. Although I’m sure he could have had a go on X factor, belting out the old classic “While my catarrh gently weeps”.
Another guy then started harping on about independence to the Grannie and the Mum in front of us, ranting about what the British Government don’t want us to know and how independence will be a bed of roses. This rant as he travelled down to York for work.
Upon arrival in mid afternoon we met Colin and Heather outside the Upper Crust in Birmingham New Street Station and headed up the escalators into the darkness of the Pallasades Shopping centre.
When I left Birmingham, back in 2004, New Street station and the surrounding Pallasades shopping centre was being renovated and modernised.
Not much has changed. Unfortunately the place is still a state. Lighting and wires hang down from the dark tileless ceiling over the drab surrounding shops and cracked old floor tiles. We walked out into the light, just off New Street itself, to an old pop tune crackling out over an ancient tannoy system, which, Colin informed us, usually played Rolf Harris, and then made our way down Stephenson Street. A lot of the work in progress that had been going on when I left approximately eight years before, was now hidden by wall boards, each with their own wonderful, colourful illustration depicting what the station will look like in some far and distant future, perhaps when we’ll have hover trains and flying cars.
Other areas have shown some signs of improvement though. The Bullring Shopping Centre is now at least twice the size it was since I had last milled around the end of New Street. What was a temporary ramp made of cardboard and wood which stretched from the end of New Street down through the old St. Martin’s Square to the large indoor market and Upper Dean Street was now a large, open, curving, clean, town square surrounding the still standing St. Martin’s Church. Looking out from a viewpoint, high up on one of the balconied steps of the town square, at the foot of the statue of Lord Horatio Nelson, a good view of the south eastern side of Birmingham stretches out before you. The brown brick and spire of St. Martin’s Church looks a little ill at ease amongst the modern, pale tiles and brick of the new square unashamedly contrasting with the form of the weird, gleaming silver, bulbous architecture of Selfridges on it’s left.
Colin and Heather took us home to Yardley Wood where we had a good catch up over tea and chocolate cake before we freshened up and headed out once more to the Mailbox back in the city centre.
Another piece of Brum that was only really just kicking off when I left the Mailbox was a location I visited only once or twice. Considering it’s main attraction was a large Harvey Nichols store at the time I didn’t have much reason to go. The most expensive shop I could go to back in those days was Solihull Morrisons. Along with many designer shops and companies, including BBC Brimingham, the Mailbox now houses many restaurants and bars one of which, Bar Estilo, in which the four of us enjoyed some brilliant tapas and a bottle of red, annoying the waitress by ordering up seconds. We then went on to the lively bars outside on the canals of Gas Street, struggling to fit in to some of them through the crowds watching the Cup Final on the big screens. A little later we took a short walk up the canal eventually ending up in the Pitcher and Piano where we managed to get a seat (a very important factor when your on a night out and getting on a bit). There we settled for the majority of the night, enjoying cocktails, beers and southern comforts before heading out on to Broad Street to seek out a taxi, but only after meeting a friend of Heather’s from work who decided to take us on a wee mystery tour around the bar, apologise and leave us to get on our way again. He had been looking for their boss, I think, but neglected to mention the fact he was four hours late in meeting him.
Broad Street, the Sauchiehall Street of Brum, hadn’t changed a bit. Still full of hen nights, folk in whacky outfits and rows of police cars waiting for trouble. Just before midnight in the taxi home, Heather was interrupted by a call regarding work, and whilst the rest of us were hassling Heather to tell her colleague where to go she remained patient and polite as always trying to give reasonable, polite answers before a squeaky voice started emanating from somewhere. At first I thought Beaker, the Muppet, had popped up somewhere whilst Ka thought I was throwing my voice, presumably attempting to be the voice on the other end of heather’s phone. It turned out to be the taxi driver asking for directions. Directions which Colin gave and the driver ignored with another indecipherable squeak. After arriving back at the Main residence, and being charged double the fare we paid to go into town, we settled down for the night with a night cap, or two, not counting the large amaretto, which would be three. Which then turned into three in the morning.
Colin woke us up the next morning with a good dose of tea and rolls and sausage before we decided to head out to see some Hobbits in Sarehole, a place with an unfortunate name if said in a Scottish dialect.
The local park, The Shire Country Park, was holding a Middle Earth weekend in it’s Sarehole Mill, which I talked everyone into going along to, at least for a walk and to see some sights.
Sarehole Mill, along with Moseley Bog, were childhood hangouts for JRR Tolkien when he lived in Brum in the very late 19th century as a kid and provided the writer with his inspiration for Bilbo and Frodo’s home, Hobbiton.
Though I can’t recall seeing any blacked up Morris dancers in Lord of the Rings. We were met by this merry bunch of decorated dancers as we entered the park. Whilst the drums beat and the bells jangled, Colin, Heather, Ka and myself sauntered in and around the park among the milling crowd, in which a few folk wandered around in Wizard and Elf costumes along with one or two Hobbits. I was half expecting to hear a familiar catarrh shredded spluttering cough from somewhere.
A lot of the attending kids were dressed up in cloaks and hoods, awaiting the dragon parade at 2, running around whilst their parents chatted with neighbours. Tents were set up, some selling pottery, traditionally made food, wood works, crafts and jewellery. In one tent a lady was going over various attendees costumes in fine detail, asking one lady where she managed to produce her lovely elven cloak to which the lady replied the Bull Ring Indoor market. At one stall a man was selling and showing the benefits of wearing chainmail to a rather unconvinced audience. Other larger tents hosted face painting, stalls and stages for performances which, unfortunately, we did not manage to see. We had a train to catch.
So after another drive into Brum town centre and a ridiculous treat in a cake shop which successfully made the four of us feel ill for around an hour or so, we headed back through the Pallasades Shopping centre, Rolf Harris singing ‘Two Little Boys’ over the tannoy behind us, to get our train at 4. Thankfully there were no irish dancers, Gandalfs with throat infections or prisoner’s wives this time round although unfortunately there was a guy sitting across the aisle who liked to sit with his hand down the front of his shorts vigorously scratching himself. Unfortunately, again, I think we were halfway through our Sunday picnic dinner when Ka noticed this.
Friday, 25 May 2012
Tuesday, 22 May 2012
Are we human?
I’d never been to a Humanist ceremony before. With no religious connotations, no inclusion of a religious service, at which only half the congregation know what’s going on, no prayers or strict readings from a big book and a less formal environment, it seemed a lot more relaxed and enjoyable. But maybe that’s because I wasn’t the one standing waiting at the end of the aisle.
Alan Cameron stood at the head of the hall, making nervous conversation with his two or three best men as all his guests gathered in the seats of the large hall behind him. We were in the National Piping Centre, on Hope Street in Cowcaddens, a venue Ka and myself had looked over when we had been touring the possible Wedding venues of Glasgow and it’s surrounding areas. The Piping Centre was our second choice, only just trumped by the House for an Art Lover, thanks to its gardens and Piano room.
The Piping centre was a great venue with the initial gathering of guests upon arrival on the ground floor museum and bar area, surrounded by exhibits and artefacts from throughout the long and wide reaching history of the bagpipe. A young spectacled female piper greeted us all at the old church’s entrance door before Alan greeted us upon arrival on the bright, sunny afternoon. We were immediately served a glass of golden cava and joined other guests having a wander through the small museum as we awaited our call to move upstairs and take our seats in the large decorous hall. When the waitresses all started milling around informing everyone to proceed upstairs, we downed our cava and headed up the old, spiral stone steps. We took our seats, surrounded by family from both sides, including many Finnish people from the Bride’s side who had travelled over especially for the occasion.
Malin soon arrived in her beautiful white gown, her Dad walking her down the aisle, and the camera phones started clicking, buzzing, bleeping and flashing, all held up to get a good view of the Bride and the waiting Groom, small devices all crowding the scene, seemingly one per couple, whilst one of Alan’s mates dived around the floor with his big, proper, digital SLR.
The Humanist priest, sorry, celebrant, told the story of Alan and Malin’s meeting, their lives together since their meeting and the hopes and dreams of their future lives together. Alan and Malin exchanged vows, Alan getting a little teary eyed as he did so, and they both exchanged rings with large grins on their faces. The signing of the register followed with yet more mobile phones, iPhones, cameras and SLR’s dancing around over and around peoples’ heads and after a few more words, a big kiss, and some applause we all followed the husband and wife downstairs for more Cava whilst the ceremony hall was transformed into a dining hall for dinner.
The bubbly, golden cava flowed as bottles were constantly being produced from large silver ice buckets at drinks tables whilst the guests were invited to writes well wishes on cards and tie them to a small fir tree which would follow the happy couple to their new life in Finland where they are to move next year. After tying our wish to the tree, Ka requested I get her a glass of iced water, which I was told by one of the many waitresses, was only available at the bar as the drinks tables only supplied the seemingly unending flow of cava. So off I went to the Piping Centre’s bar, next door to the museum.
Whilst I waited in the short queue at the bar I started chatting to the gentlemen getting their drinks before me after hearing them mention the lovely city of Prague and the good old Glasgow School of Art. Before long I was happily chatting away to the two of them, one of which, a friendly, bearded chap by the name of Ian Reid, turned out to be a tutor at the School of Art and knew the tutor, who still teaches there, that had started taught me in my fourth year (or a third of it anyway. He done a rather neat disappearing act a third of the way through the year). The other, Tony, was one of the best men and a former musical colleague of Alan’s and offered me a pint to which I refused politely saying how I couldn’t possibly elbow my way into someone’s round in such a fashion.
Around ten minutes later I got back to the museum, Ka glaring at me, as I sipped from my pint of Tennents. Apparently whilst I’d been away and whilst Ka had been standing, looking a little lonely awaiting her glass of iced water, she had been chatted up by the Humanist.
Now a little happier with her iced water Ka let me off the hook for abandoning her, and we went out to pose for a large group photo in the Saturday afternoon sunshine, before once more going back indoors to the museum to mingle with various friends and family of the happy couple, some of which understood me, some who didn’t and simply nodded politely.
We met Alan’s sister, Sandra and her husband David, who chatted away to us whilst Ka spoke to Alan’s Mum. Unfortunately whilst speaking to David, I may have accidentally referred to Sandra as Alan’s Auntie at some point, but once more, got away with it. David, the brother-in-law, shrugged it off and didn’t seem too bothered by my mistake and I could tell he probably wasn’t the sort to tell his wife of my little gaffe, though, come to think of it, she never did speak to me for the rest of the day.
After yet more cava, and another pint, we were back upstairs for dinner, getting the speeches out of the way first, of course, in which Malin’s Dad tried his best to speak English, Malin and her sister got a little teary and Alan was made to look like a Scottish dork by his best men, who’d obviously had a field day in Glasgow’s best pound shops.
At our dinner table sat Malin’s camper van travelling Auntie and Uncle, who again, we had to slow our Scottish burr down for a little. The Uncle was called Leaf, or Lieaf, a very nice gent with a beard and glasses who reminded me of the Tolkien artist John Howe. Along with them was Alan’s Sister (yes, Sister) Sandra and brother-in-law David, along with another couple, Vicki and Russell, who sitting right next to us, heard all Ka and my conversations (or, in most cases, arguments). Another friend sat on the other side of them, who’d apparently done the bridesmaid’s make-up, but whose name has long been shrouded in the alcohol tinged mists of time. We all got on great as a table and all continued to sit with each other, even after being chucked out the hall following dinner in order for the room to be transformed for the night party.
The Highlander Fyne Ale was the drink that made up the rest of the night, fuelling many a dance on the dancefloor, started, of course by Alan and Malin, who, by this point, was sporting a rather fine pair of green trainers under the white’s of her dress.
The DJ on stage belted out the tunes helping the dancefloor remain largely busy for the majority of the night. Ka and myself ventured up more than a few times particularly for The Killers and a bit of Bon Jovi, which I really hope nobody was filming. I danced with the Bride to Tony Christie’s (Is this the way to) Amarillo in wonderful, true Peter Kaye fashion and even pulled Alan’s old Mum up to dance. She only lasted half a song with me, before protesting and walking off.
I even got Malin’s camper van Auntie up to dance to The Proclaimers’ 5000 miles. Ka and myself had spotted the Auntie, and her husband, Lieaf, dancing on more than one occasion earlier on in the night, strutting around the dancefloor quietly, ballroom style whilst everyone else jumped around wildly around them. The two of them glided, elegantly and sanely, like two peas in a pod, poised and expressionless, with perfect body alignment, all footsteps and maneuvers.
Of course when 5000 miles started up from the DJ on the stage I turned to see the wee Aunt humming along politely and took it upon myself to show her some dancing, Proclaimers style.
Needless to say, she accepted my invitation but once we got up on stage things went a little differently than planned. After she gave me into trouble for my initial jumping about and calmed my waving arms around, she took a hold of both hands and started leading me up and down and around the dancefloor, instructing me on my footwork all the way, chin held high. Brilliant, I thought, though I’d of rather it had been Aliona Vilani teaching me (or Kristina, or Ola for that matter!).
As the last notes of Loch Lomond ended, the gathered party surrounding the Wedded couple and the crowd on Runrig’s live track faded, we said our goodbyes. Alan gave each of us his now traditional bear hug, and we made our way back to the hotel room. A journey I couldn’t quite remember making the next morning.
Alan Cameron stood at the head of the hall, making nervous conversation with his two or three best men as all his guests gathered in the seats of the large hall behind him. We were in the National Piping Centre, on Hope Street in Cowcaddens, a venue Ka and myself had looked over when we had been touring the possible Wedding venues of Glasgow and it’s surrounding areas. The Piping Centre was our second choice, only just trumped by the House for an Art Lover, thanks to its gardens and Piano room.
The Piping centre was a great venue with the initial gathering of guests upon arrival on the ground floor museum and bar area, surrounded by exhibits and artefacts from throughout the long and wide reaching history of the bagpipe. A young spectacled female piper greeted us all at the old church’s entrance door before Alan greeted us upon arrival on the bright, sunny afternoon. We were immediately served a glass of golden cava and joined other guests having a wander through the small museum as we awaited our call to move upstairs and take our seats in the large decorous hall. When the waitresses all started milling around informing everyone to proceed upstairs, we downed our cava and headed up the old, spiral stone steps. We took our seats, surrounded by family from both sides, including many Finnish people from the Bride’s side who had travelled over especially for the occasion.
Malin soon arrived in her beautiful white gown, her Dad walking her down the aisle, and the camera phones started clicking, buzzing, bleeping and flashing, all held up to get a good view of the Bride and the waiting Groom, small devices all crowding the scene, seemingly one per couple, whilst one of Alan’s mates dived around the floor with his big, proper, digital SLR.
The Humanist priest, sorry, celebrant, told the story of Alan and Malin’s meeting, their lives together since their meeting and the hopes and dreams of their future lives together. Alan and Malin exchanged vows, Alan getting a little teary eyed as he did so, and they both exchanged rings with large grins on their faces. The signing of the register followed with yet more mobile phones, iPhones, cameras and SLR’s dancing around over and around peoples’ heads and after a few more words, a big kiss, and some applause we all followed the husband and wife downstairs for more Cava whilst the ceremony hall was transformed into a dining hall for dinner.
The bubbly, golden cava flowed as bottles were constantly being produced from large silver ice buckets at drinks tables whilst the guests were invited to writes well wishes on cards and tie them to a small fir tree which would follow the happy couple to their new life in Finland where they are to move next year. After tying our wish to the tree, Ka requested I get her a glass of iced water, which I was told by one of the many waitresses, was only available at the bar as the drinks tables only supplied the seemingly unending flow of cava. So off I went to the Piping Centre’s bar, next door to the museum.
Whilst I waited in the short queue at the bar I started chatting to the gentlemen getting their drinks before me after hearing them mention the lovely city of Prague and the good old Glasgow School of Art. Before long I was happily chatting away to the two of them, one of which, a friendly, bearded chap by the name of Ian Reid, turned out to be a tutor at the School of Art and knew the tutor, who still teaches there, that had started taught me in my fourth year (or a third of it anyway. He done a rather neat disappearing act a third of the way through the year). The other, Tony, was one of the best men and a former musical colleague of Alan’s and offered me a pint to which I refused politely saying how I couldn’t possibly elbow my way into someone’s round in such a fashion.
Around ten minutes later I got back to the museum, Ka glaring at me, as I sipped from my pint of Tennents. Apparently whilst I’d been away and whilst Ka had been standing, looking a little lonely awaiting her glass of iced water, she had been chatted up by the Humanist.
Now a little happier with her iced water Ka let me off the hook for abandoning her, and we went out to pose for a large group photo in the Saturday afternoon sunshine, before once more going back indoors to the museum to mingle with various friends and family of the happy couple, some of which understood me, some who didn’t and simply nodded politely.
We met Alan’s sister, Sandra and her husband David, who chatted away to us whilst Ka spoke to Alan’s Mum. Unfortunately whilst speaking to David, I may have accidentally referred to Sandra as Alan’s Auntie at some point, but once more, got away with it. David, the brother-in-law, shrugged it off and didn’t seem too bothered by my mistake and I could tell he probably wasn’t the sort to tell his wife of my little gaffe, though, come to think of it, she never did speak to me for the rest of the day.
After yet more cava, and another pint, we were back upstairs for dinner, getting the speeches out of the way first, of course, in which Malin’s Dad tried his best to speak English, Malin and her sister got a little teary and Alan was made to look like a Scottish dork by his best men, who’d obviously had a field day in Glasgow’s best pound shops.
At our dinner table sat Malin’s camper van travelling Auntie and Uncle, who again, we had to slow our Scottish burr down for a little. The Uncle was called Leaf, or Lieaf, a very nice gent with a beard and glasses who reminded me of the Tolkien artist John Howe. Along with them was Alan’s Sister (yes, Sister) Sandra and brother-in-law David, along with another couple, Vicki and Russell, who sitting right next to us, heard all Ka and my conversations (or, in most cases, arguments). Another friend sat on the other side of them, who’d apparently done the bridesmaid’s make-up, but whose name has long been shrouded in the alcohol tinged mists of time. We all got on great as a table and all continued to sit with each other, even after being chucked out the hall following dinner in order for the room to be transformed for the night party.
The Highlander Fyne Ale was the drink that made up the rest of the night, fuelling many a dance on the dancefloor, started, of course by Alan and Malin, who, by this point, was sporting a rather fine pair of green trainers under the white’s of her dress.
The DJ on stage belted out the tunes helping the dancefloor remain largely busy for the majority of the night. Ka and myself ventured up more than a few times particularly for The Killers and a bit of Bon Jovi, which I really hope nobody was filming. I danced with the Bride to Tony Christie’s (Is this the way to) Amarillo in wonderful, true Peter Kaye fashion and even pulled Alan’s old Mum up to dance. She only lasted half a song with me, before protesting and walking off.
I even got Malin’s camper van Auntie up to dance to The Proclaimers’ 5000 miles. Ka and myself had spotted the Auntie, and her husband, Lieaf, dancing on more than one occasion earlier on in the night, strutting around the dancefloor quietly, ballroom style whilst everyone else jumped around wildly around them. The two of them glided, elegantly and sanely, like two peas in a pod, poised and expressionless, with perfect body alignment, all footsteps and maneuvers.
Of course when 5000 miles started up from the DJ on the stage I turned to see the wee Aunt humming along politely and took it upon myself to show her some dancing, Proclaimers style.
Needless to say, she accepted my invitation but once we got up on stage things went a little differently than planned. After she gave me into trouble for my initial jumping about and calmed my waving arms around, she took a hold of both hands and started leading me up and down and around the dancefloor, instructing me on my footwork all the way, chin held high. Brilliant, I thought, though I’d of rather it had been Aliona Vilani teaching me (or Kristina, or Ola for that matter!).
As the last notes of Loch Lomond ended, the gathered party surrounding the Wedded couple and the crowd on Runrig’s live track faded, we said our goodbyes. Alan gave each of us his now traditional bear hug, and we made our way back to the hotel room. A journey I couldn’t quite remember making the next morning.
Friday, 18 May 2012
Asteroid field of vision
I have spent the majority of May feeling either ill, blind, or dizzy and it certainly wasn’t anything to do with any initial excitement of getting our new fridge.
After Ka’s little head on collision with a collapsing fridge door we had immediately visited the Currys website. Unfortunately we made a slight error of judgement. The fridge we ordered doesn't fit milk. Of all the fridges looked over online, we inadvertently opted for a model that doesn't fit milk.
A fridge that doesn't fit milk. What kind of idiot designed that?
What kind of idiot buys that?
We've had to remove a shelf, from halfway down the inside of the door, off it’s plastic moulded brackets, in order to fit a normal bottle of milk in the door's largest, lower shelf. The middle shelf fits snugly further up the door but has no brackets and thusly cannot hold more than the weight of two spring onions (or sibies) inside it making it very little use whatsoever.
In fact, we're struggling to fit all our usual copious amounts of food in the rest of the fridge. It all seems so much smaller. We can barely fit the salad bowl into it. It’s now a minor task getting the butter out the fridge. Before you nonchalantly reached in, pulled the tub out and flung it on the worktop, now you now have to move things to the side, take things out, balance yoghurts on tomatoes, make sure you don’t hit the door’s bracketless middle shelf and reach to the back of the refrigerator in order to pull the tub out.
Never panic buy household appliances online. Always wait until you can go along to the actual shop, the large open plan shops that make even washing machines look sexy. Up the back, behind the washers and the ovens, are the fridges, where you should open the doors, look inside, admire the cleanliness and check for a decent sized milk shelf.
Okay, there are factors which make an online purchase a little more attractive. No need to travel anywhere. No need to salivate over televisions you cannot afford. You don’t have to bother telling the usually grinning customer service folk to piss off as soon as you walk through the automatic doors and you certainly don’t have to put up with them trying to talk you into buying yearly guarantees for when ‘something goes wrong’ (that will always make me highly suspicious). Not seeing you appliance in the flesh, or it’s plastic coated, thermally insulated form, in this case, can go against you, especially when it turns out to be smaller than predicted. A bit like the opposite of what happens when you go out for a date with someone from match.com. The person you end up greeting at your table turns out to be a very different size, weight and perhaps even age, than the picture advertising themselves on their profile page. In fact, I’m sure those kind of match.comer’s could put away more food than our wee fridge can.
In the following weeks I started suffering a variety of symptoms consisting of various ailments ranging from dizzy turns and headaches to stomach problems (the polite term) and seeing things. Strange, blurry, out of focus shapes, floating around in my field of vision. My stomach was twisting and turning the whole time and at one point, during one day at work, I felt like puking one moment only to nearly collapse of dizziness the next merely sitting at my desk.
All very weird. So I paid my Doctor a visit who basically couldn’t see anything wrong with me at the time and suggested a possible allergic reaction. To me this was an unlikely reason as I usually felt worse in the office. This would make it an allergic reaction to work, something that a lot of other people seem to suffer from.
Great, I thought, what’s going to happen next? Next I’m going to be claiming benefits and appearing on Jeremy Kyle.
Still suffering with the symptoms in the following days I considered the opticians and made an appointment for Saturday morning, expecting my prescription to have changed, thus accounting for the strange, floating dots in my vision and the headaches. How it would explain the stomach pains I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t aware of anyone suddenly having an urge for a toilet pan whenever their vision changed. I suppose it can be quite scary but not to that extent surely.
So I popped down to the opticians on the Saturday morning and optometrist, a chirpy young girl in a grey cardigan, put me through the various tests in which I click buttons on seeing lights, read letters from a projected slide and get ‘pissed’ in the eyes. A rather uncomfortable device which tests your eye pressure. You rest your chin on a pad and look into the dark depths of a rounded black box through a glass lens and suddenly get air spat into your eyes. A test which I’m not afraid to admit, made me jump everytime, like watching John Hurt looking down into that egg again.
The Optometrist then had a thorough look at my eyes after dropping an eye drop, known as Tropicamide, into each eyeball and letting it settle, or sting, for around ten minutes. After administering the eye drops she advised not to drive for at least an hour which I shrugged at casually finding no particular crazy effects going on and quietly certain there’d be no problem in driving home straight after. Following a good ten minutes of looking around in each eyeball, the Optometrist informed me my prescription seemed unchanged but I did have something very interesting going on in my eyes which she’d only ever seen twice before.
Asteroid hyalosis. Asteroids? In my eyes?
“It’s quite nice to look at”, she told me. “It’s like looking into a snowglobe that’s been shaken up”. More like stars than asteroids to the optician’s viewpoint the condition is apparently like looking into a star filled night sky which shifts and circles around, glimmering in the moonlight.
Pleased that I had been able to entertain the Optometrist with my starry eyes for the morning I went to leave unconvinced but not before she insisted on putting me through the eye pressure test again, probably just to amuse herself for a little longer as I jumped and spasmed on the other end of the eye blowing machine again. I suspect she may have been filming me with her mobile phone in order to post it on YouTube for a laugh for all her Optometrist pals.
Afterwards, she insisted my eyes would be fine and I went on my way, almost banging into someone on the way out the shop and then realising I could barely see. Pretty soon I was wondering around the shops in the town centre like a confused Mr Magoo, everything around me blurred, out of focus and melting in and out of my field of vision. I couldn’t see a thing and I certainly couldn’t drive. The blurriness lasted for around an hour but before that hour was over I had to make my way home. I had a Wedding to get to and I was running late.
After Ka’s little head on collision with a collapsing fridge door we had immediately visited the Currys website. Unfortunately we made a slight error of judgement. The fridge we ordered doesn't fit milk. Of all the fridges looked over online, we inadvertently opted for a model that doesn't fit milk.
A fridge that doesn't fit milk. What kind of idiot designed that?
What kind of idiot buys that?
We've had to remove a shelf, from halfway down the inside of the door, off it’s plastic moulded brackets, in order to fit a normal bottle of milk in the door's largest, lower shelf. The middle shelf fits snugly further up the door but has no brackets and thusly cannot hold more than the weight of two spring onions (or sibies) inside it making it very little use whatsoever.
In fact, we're struggling to fit all our usual copious amounts of food in the rest of the fridge. It all seems so much smaller. We can barely fit the salad bowl into it. It’s now a minor task getting the butter out the fridge. Before you nonchalantly reached in, pulled the tub out and flung it on the worktop, now you now have to move things to the side, take things out, balance yoghurts on tomatoes, make sure you don’t hit the door’s bracketless middle shelf and reach to the back of the refrigerator in order to pull the tub out.
Never panic buy household appliances online. Always wait until you can go along to the actual shop, the large open plan shops that make even washing machines look sexy. Up the back, behind the washers and the ovens, are the fridges, where you should open the doors, look inside, admire the cleanliness and check for a decent sized milk shelf.
Okay, there are factors which make an online purchase a little more attractive. No need to travel anywhere. No need to salivate over televisions you cannot afford. You don’t have to bother telling the usually grinning customer service folk to piss off as soon as you walk through the automatic doors and you certainly don’t have to put up with them trying to talk you into buying yearly guarantees for when ‘something goes wrong’ (that will always make me highly suspicious). Not seeing you appliance in the flesh, or it’s plastic coated, thermally insulated form, in this case, can go against you, especially when it turns out to be smaller than predicted. A bit like the opposite of what happens when you go out for a date with someone from match.com. The person you end up greeting at your table turns out to be a very different size, weight and perhaps even age, than the picture advertising themselves on their profile page. In fact, I’m sure those kind of match.comer’s could put away more food than our wee fridge can.
In the following weeks I started suffering a variety of symptoms consisting of various ailments ranging from dizzy turns and headaches to stomach problems (the polite term) and seeing things. Strange, blurry, out of focus shapes, floating around in my field of vision. My stomach was twisting and turning the whole time and at one point, during one day at work, I felt like puking one moment only to nearly collapse of dizziness the next merely sitting at my desk.
All very weird. So I paid my Doctor a visit who basically couldn’t see anything wrong with me at the time and suggested a possible allergic reaction. To me this was an unlikely reason as I usually felt worse in the office. This would make it an allergic reaction to work, something that a lot of other people seem to suffer from.
Great, I thought, what’s going to happen next? Next I’m going to be claiming benefits and appearing on Jeremy Kyle.
Still suffering with the symptoms in the following days I considered the opticians and made an appointment for Saturday morning, expecting my prescription to have changed, thus accounting for the strange, floating dots in my vision and the headaches. How it would explain the stomach pains I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t aware of anyone suddenly having an urge for a toilet pan whenever their vision changed. I suppose it can be quite scary but not to that extent surely.
So I popped down to the opticians on the Saturday morning and optometrist, a chirpy young girl in a grey cardigan, put me through the various tests in which I click buttons on seeing lights, read letters from a projected slide and get ‘pissed’ in the eyes. A rather uncomfortable device which tests your eye pressure. You rest your chin on a pad and look into the dark depths of a rounded black box through a glass lens and suddenly get air spat into your eyes. A test which I’m not afraid to admit, made me jump everytime, like watching John Hurt looking down into that egg again.
The Optometrist then had a thorough look at my eyes after dropping an eye drop, known as Tropicamide, into each eyeball and letting it settle, or sting, for around ten minutes. After administering the eye drops she advised not to drive for at least an hour which I shrugged at casually finding no particular crazy effects going on and quietly certain there’d be no problem in driving home straight after. Following a good ten minutes of looking around in each eyeball, the Optometrist informed me my prescription seemed unchanged but I did have something very interesting going on in my eyes which she’d only ever seen twice before.
Asteroid hyalosis. Asteroids? In my eyes?
“It’s quite nice to look at”, she told me. “It’s like looking into a snowglobe that’s been shaken up”. More like stars than asteroids to the optician’s viewpoint the condition is apparently like looking into a star filled night sky which shifts and circles around, glimmering in the moonlight.
Pleased that I had been able to entertain the Optometrist with my starry eyes for the morning I went to leave unconvinced but not before she insisted on putting me through the eye pressure test again, probably just to amuse herself for a little longer as I jumped and spasmed on the other end of the eye blowing machine again. I suspect she may have been filming me with her mobile phone in order to post it on YouTube for a laugh for all her Optometrist pals.
Afterwards, she insisted my eyes would be fine and I went on my way, almost banging into someone on the way out the shop and then realising I could barely see. Pretty soon I was wondering around the shops in the town centre like a confused Mr Magoo, everything around me blurred, out of focus and melting in and out of my field of vision. I couldn’t see a thing and I certainly couldn’t drive. The blurriness lasted for around an hour but before that hour was over I had to make my way home. I had a Wedding to get to and I was running late.
Monday, 30 April 2012
Leaks, fridges and electric hob knobs
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.
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.
Friday, 27 April 2012
Go West
Colin waved up from Templeton Street, his tall, dark form looking a little bedraggled in the rain that was descending over Glasgow Green and it’s surroundings on Saturday afternoon. My Dad and I had arrived five minutes earlier, disembarking the number 18 bus round the corner on London Road just after the rain had started to pour and Colin had called to say he’d made it as far as Trongate.
It was the jolly boys outing and Colin, Dad and myself were attending a tour at the West Brewery in Glasgow’s Templeton building, a building that was formerly a carpet factory and designed by Scottish architect William Leiper, who apparently based his architectural designs on the Doges Palace on St. Mark’s Square over in Venice, a building Ka and myself visited whilst on our honeymoon in the spectacular city. Leiper apparently based his designs on the building following the Venetian design craze at the time being forced to keep in mind the City Council, and Mr Templeton himself, who had wanted the building to have an attractive exterior considering it was on the verge of one of Glasgow’s biggest parks. The whole building now houses many different companies ranging from crèches and dance studios to offices and breweries.
The brewery was the part we were interested in.
As we awaited Colin’s arrival, Dad ordered up the first pint, a crisp, cold, golden coloured mug of St. Mungo’s, the West Brewery’s only beer currently being brewed for the off-trade. Whilst the bartender served us, another, bearded, bartender introduced himself as our future tour guide. Taking my first taste of a St. Mungos pint, Dad confidently informed me that you didn’t get hangovers with this kind of beer. He’d visited only a few months back with friends and had woke up the next morning feeling unaffected by the previous night’s pint intake.
Definitely a good thing as the St. Mungos was delicious and we ordered up a second pint, this time of St. Mungo’s stronger brother, Hefeweizen. Unfortunately, as we did so, the tour guide started shouting from one end of the bar and the small gathered crowd ambled off to start the tour we had booked on.
We were still waiting on our Hefeweizen. As soon as we grabbed the tall glasses from the bar we strode off to find our tour party, finding the door at the back of the large bar that we’d spotted them crowd through and then a descending staircase in a echoing brick walled corridor on the other side. When we got to the bottom on the twisting stairs we discovered only one black door marked ‘Private’, locked.
“Er, hello?!” Colin knocked on the door and laughter was heard from the other side. We waited for an apologetic tour guide to open the door but instead found ourselves still standing waiting in the corridor. Colin knocked again. “Hello? Are you letting us in?” Colin knocked again and again, each knock echoing and being greeted with more laughter and a few indistinguishable comments for the other side.
“B*stards!” I thought to myself, before some bloke from the tour eventually opened the door for us, allowing us to join the party. The bearded tour guide himself sat perched on some silver barrels in the middle of the large fermenting room we now found ourselves in, talking away, waving his hands around enthusiastically.
So as we supped away at our hefeweizen, the tour guide took us through his well practised speeches, telling us all about the West Brewery and it’s produce. From the building’s humble beginnings as the carpet factory all the way up West’s inception within the building and the establishment of the Brewery itself. The first UK brewery to produce it’s beers in accordance with the German Beer Purity Law, or the Reinheitsgebot, which originated in Bavaria around 1516. A Bavarian Duke, of some description, decided to take it all upon himself to make an official proclamation of how beer should be made. Apparently people used to make beer out of all sorts of stuff, usually other ingredients to substitute hops. Nuts, berries, poisonous ivies, dandelions and bits of old oak. Basically anything that was lying about the garden after a good weeding session. Presumably it wasn’t until the Duke’s mates actually started falling over due to food poisoning, rather than drunkenness, that he decided to make a law.
The Reinheitsgebot states that beer should only be made by it’s four key ingredients, hops, yeast, malt and water and the West Brewery follow these guidelines in their beer production mirroring the great breweries of Europe, and Germany in particular.
After the main fermenting room the small tour crowded into the large malt cupboards where we passed round plastic cups full of the various malts, giving each a good, hard sniff and tasting the various malt grains, like some alcoholic version of a Nescafe commercial. The bearded tour guide then took us up into another open roofed room, down below the actual bar area, to the giant copper chimneys in which the malts and waters are mixed.
Using the copper chimney’s one small porthole like window in the angular top section we where allowed to stick our head in and once again give it all a good sniff. According to Colin, the dormant, pasty looking mixture lying inside the copper vault had the stench not wholly unlike that of cannabis. Of course, being unaware of such smells I shrugged. My Dad would probably recognise it better than I would as he uses cannabis air fresheners in his car. For a good while he had felt cannabis leaves hanging from his rear view mirror. Everyone else has magic trees but Dad has magic leaves.
The tour ended with a long chat in which the tour guide, on more than one occasion, slagged off a popular Scottish lager, which he refused to name, but illustrated by use of forming his hands into a blatant T shape. All of West’s true German influenced lagers and beers are all given, at the very least, months to ferment. Apparently the Scottish lager, whose ingredients were also brought into question, only allow their lager to settle for a couple of hours, at most. Perhaps a reason why hangovers and more prolific with the ales we usually partake in. The bearded guide then started defending the price of The west brews and why it was dearer than the usual lagers on the street to which I decided to pipe up and argue that some of the ‘usual’ lagers were just as dear, or dearer, than that in some places, to which the tour guide replied by refusing me my beer samples at the end of the tour?! I was sticking up for his beer and he reprimanded me? What was all that about?
Colin then piped up to defend my comment to which the tour guide insisted that he wasn’t to get any tasters either?! The guy obviously misheard us or was still in a huff for us turning up late for his wonderful talk.
As it happened he was only joking, even if he had misheard, misunderstood or just hadn’t listened, and delivered all our beers to our reserved table where we spent the following hours, chatting drinking and eating whilst the rain continued to pour outside and Wedding guests started gathering outside in the main pub hall, where an evening reception was being set up in the crowded bar.
We tried the majority of the west’s beers including the Red Munich, the caramel flavoured malt beer, the West lager and another St.Mungo before heading off for homewards.
We strolled up the dark London Road to Trongate and then onwards to Glassford Street where we decided to go for a night cap before jumping on the bus home and Colin, the last train home.
We strolled up Glassford Street heading for the Blane Valley, a quiet wee pub on a corner Dad recommended where Mum and him have been known to go for bar lunches on shopping trips. Bacchus was the next bar along the street but as that is the warm up bar for the gay club further along we thought it would be safer to opt for the Blane. Shrugging we opened the Blane Valley door to find the place heaving, a bald, cheery looking karaoke singer roaring into his mike, almost directly before us as we pulled the door open. Deciding against the Blane we headed back down the street and ended up stepping through a set of ancient black, double doors into The Steps Bar.
A small, black window, between the clean, lunch friendly Blane Valley and the opulent Mansion House, we entered the The Steps Bar through the double black doorway into a small, dingy, dusty old dive that looked like the Phoenix Club after the fire.
The few occupants all turned and eyed us suspiciously as we entered, trying to look casual. In a corner two middle aged couples eyed us up and down, a flirting older couple looked round at us from a darker, grimmer looking, corner and various other elder folk glowered at us from the bar, including the barman who looked like an older version of Gregor Fisher’s Baldy Man character, without the smile and the cigar. He spilt our pints as he delivered them to us at the bar and claimed he was ‘just learnin’.
As we sat trying to enjoy our last drinks of the day, eighties music playing on the tv up on the heavily stained wall, the two middle aged couples to my right start waving papers around in my direction, laughing and guffawing in my general direction. Turning I asked what was wrong to which they all laughed even louder asking what I’d been eating. Outraged and insulted I insisted I had not farted, in anyway, shape or form, to which the two couples argued, and continued to insist, that I had. As Colin and my Dad joined in, waving beer mats around and laughing, I eventually gave up and turned back to my drink.
Around ten minutes later a definite stench started circulating the dark little pub from the couples’ corner and this time I think the culprit was found out. The wife sitting closest to me of the two couples was distinctly quieter as a similar carry on involving papers and beermats ensued and indeed that wife soon disappeared to the loo for a good fifteen minutes during which the three remaining drinkers had to admit that they no longer reckoned it had been me that had suffered the flatulence.
Shortly after, we finished our drinks and headed back out through the black double doors, back out into Glassford Street and within ten minutes my Dad and myself were on the last 21 home. Arriving at home 12 hours after leaving we were greeted by Ka who immediately went to the kitchen and produced us a nice cup of tea and a slice of toast. Dad jumped in a taxi quite happy and Ka and myself went to bed.
The next morning I awoke to the familiar pounding head of a hangover. It must have been that last pint in the Steps bar.
It was the jolly boys outing and Colin, Dad and myself were attending a tour at the West Brewery in Glasgow’s Templeton building, a building that was formerly a carpet factory and designed by Scottish architect William Leiper, who apparently based his architectural designs on the Doges Palace on St. Mark’s Square over in Venice, a building Ka and myself visited whilst on our honeymoon in the spectacular city. Leiper apparently based his designs on the building following the Venetian design craze at the time being forced to keep in mind the City Council, and Mr Templeton himself, who had wanted the building to have an attractive exterior considering it was on the verge of one of Glasgow’s biggest parks. The whole building now houses many different companies ranging from crèches and dance studios to offices and breweries.
The brewery was the part we were interested in.
As we awaited Colin’s arrival, Dad ordered up the first pint, a crisp, cold, golden coloured mug of St. Mungo’s, the West Brewery’s only beer currently being brewed for the off-trade. Whilst the bartender served us, another, bearded, bartender introduced himself as our future tour guide. Taking my first taste of a St. Mungos pint, Dad confidently informed me that you didn’t get hangovers with this kind of beer. He’d visited only a few months back with friends and had woke up the next morning feeling unaffected by the previous night’s pint intake.
Definitely a good thing as the St. Mungos was delicious and we ordered up a second pint, this time of St. Mungo’s stronger brother, Hefeweizen. Unfortunately, as we did so, the tour guide started shouting from one end of the bar and the small gathered crowd ambled off to start the tour we had booked on.
We were still waiting on our Hefeweizen. As soon as we grabbed the tall glasses from the bar we strode off to find our tour party, finding the door at the back of the large bar that we’d spotted them crowd through and then a descending staircase in a echoing brick walled corridor on the other side. When we got to the bottom on the twisting stairs we discovered only one black door marked ‘Private’, locked.
“Er, hello?!” Colin knocked on the door and laughter was heard from the other side. We waited for an apologetic tour guide to open the door but instead found ourselves still standing waiting in the corridor. Colin knocked again. “Hello? Are you letting us in?” Colin knocked again and again, each knock echoing and being greeted with more laughter and a few indistinguishable comments for the other side.
“B*stards!” I thought to myself, before some bloke from the tour eventually opened the door for us, allowing us to join the party. The bearded tour guide himself sat perched on some silver barrels in the middle of the large fermenting room we now found ourselves in, talking away, waving his hands around enthusiastically.
So as we supped away at our hefeweizen, the tour guide took us through his well practised speeches, telling us all about the West Brewery and it’s produce. From the building’s humble beginnings as the carpet factory all the way up West’s inception within the building and the establishment of the Brewery itself. The first UK brewery to produce it’s beers in accordance with the German Beer Purity Law, or the Reinheitsgebot, which originated in Bavaria around 1516. A Bavarian Duke, of some description, decided to take it all upon himself to make an official proclamation of how beer should be made. Apparently people used to make beer out of all sorts of stuff, usually other ingredients to substitute hops. Nuts, berries, poisonous ivies, dandelions and bits of old oak. Basically anything that was lying about the garden after a good weeding session. Presumably it wasn’t until the Duke’s mates actually started falling over due to food poisoning, rather than drunkenness, that he decided to make a law.
The Reinheitsgebot states that beer should only be made by it’s four key ingredients, hops, yeast, malt and water and the West Brewery follow these guidelines in their beer production mirroring the great breweries of Europe, and Germany in particular.
After the main fermenting room the small tour crowded into the large malt cupboards where we passed round plastic cups full of the various malts, giving each a good, hard sniff and tasting the various malt grains, like some alcoholic version of a Nescafe commercial. The bearded tour guide then took us up into another open roofed room, down below the actual bar area, to the giant copper chimneys in which the malts and waters are mixed.
The tour ended with a long chat in which the tour guide, on more than one occasion, slagged off a popular Scottish lager, which he refused to name, but illustrated by use of forming his hands into a blatant T shape. All of West’s true German influenced lagers and beers are all given, at the very least, months to ferment. Apparently the Scottish lager, whose ingredients were also brought into question, only allow their lager to settle for a couple of hours, at most. Perhaps a reason why hangovers and more prolific with the ales we usually partake in. The bearded guide then started defending the price of The west brews and why it was dearer than the usual lagers on the street to which I decided to pipe up and argue that some of the ‘usual’ lagers were just as dear, or dearer, than that in some places, to which the tour guide replied by refusing me my beer samples at the end of the tour?! I was sticking up for his beer and he reprimanded me? What was all that about?
Colin then piped up to defend my comment to which the tour guide insisted that he wasn’t to get any tasters either?! The guy obviously misheard us or was still in a huff for us turning up late for his wonderful talk.
As it happened he was only joking, even if he had misheard, misunderstood or just hadn’t listened, and delivered all our beers to our reserved table where we spent the following hours, chatting drinking and eating whilst the rain continued to pour outside and Wedding guests started gathering outside in the main pub hall, where an evening reception was being set up in the crowded bar.
We tried the majority of the west’s beers including the Red Munich, the caramel flavoured malt beer, the West lager and another St.Mungo before heading off for homewards.
We strolled up the dark London Road to Trongate and then onwards to Glassford Street where we decided to go for a night cap before jumping on the bus home and Colin, the last train home.
We strolled up Glassford Street heading for the Blane Valley, a quiet wee pub on a corner Dad recommended where Mum and him have been known to go for bar lunches on shopping trips. Bacchus was the next bar along the street but as that is the warm up bar for the gay club further along we thought it would be safer to opt for the Blane. Shrugging we opened the Blane Valley door to find the place heaving, a bald, cheery looking karaoke singer roaring into his mike, almost directly before us as we pulled the door open. Deciding against the Blane we headed back down the street and ended up stepping through a set of ancient black, double doors into The Steps Bar.
A small, black window, between the clean, lunch friendly Blane Valley and the opulent Mansion House, we entered the The Steps Bar through the double black doorway into a small, dingy, dusty old dive that looked like the Phoenix Club after the fire.
The few occupants all turned and eyed us suspiciously as we entered, trying to look casual. In a corner two middle aged couples eyed us up and down, a flirting older couple looked round at us from a darker, grimmer looking, corner and various other elder folk glowered at us from the bar, including the barman who looked like an older version of Gregor Fisher’s Baldy Man character, without the smile and the cigar. He spilt our pints as he delivered them to us at the bar and claimed he was ‘just learnin’.
As we sat trying to enjoy our last drinks of the day, eighties music playing on the tv up on the heavily stained wall, the two middle aged couples to my right start waving papers around in my direction, laughing and guffawing in my general direction. Turning I asked what was wrong to which they all laughed even louder asking what I’d been eating. Outraged and insulted I insisted I had not farted, in anyway, shape or form, to which the two couples argued, and continued to insist, that I had. As Colin and my Dad joined in, waving beer mats around and laughing, I eventually gave up and turned back to my drink.
Around ten minutes later a definite stench started circulating the dark little pub from the couples’ corner and this time I think the culprit was found out. The wife sitting closest to me of the two couples was distinctly quieter as a similar carry on involving papers and beermats ensued and indeed that wife soon disappeared to the loo for a good fifteen minutes during which the three remaining drinkers had to admit that they no longer reckoned it had been me that had suffered the flatulence.
Shortly after, we finished our drinks and headed back out through the black double doors, back out into Glassford Street and within ten minutes my Dad and myself were on the last 21 home. Arriving at home 12 hours after leaving we were greeted by Ka who immediately went to the kitchen and produced us a nice cup of tea and a slice of toast. Dad jumped in a taxi quite happy and Ka and myself went to bed.
The next morning I awoke to the familiar pounding head of a hangover. It must have been that last pint in the Steps bar.
Saturday, 14 April 2012
Juvenile and silly
The end of my first week in Central Quay has arrived. After a week’s holiday I had to travel to Glasgow for my first day in the Daily Record building on Monday morning, unsure or what was to greet me in my new place of work. Scottish & Universal Newspapers, the regional division of Trinity Mirror, has now been merged and united, with the other Scottish Trinity divisions under one roof, a roof that is apparently newspaper shaped from the birds’ eye view. I always did wonder why the building had that strange shape about it and it was Iain, our I.T. guy, that informed us of this fact on Monday after we finally managed to get the Property computer up and running and fully functional again, or as fully functional as it can get. The Auto run Property PC computer sometimes needs a bit of a kick to get started. I sometimes wonder whether we should employ the use of an old engine hand crank to get it going.
The folk making room in their office space for us S&UN lot all seem very pleasant though I doubt I’ll be able to remember all the various names fired at me in the first week.
I found my new desk in the middle of the Design studio complete with stickered name tags. One Michael, another Mike. It’s amazing how many people assume my name preference to be Mike. Ka gives people into trouble for calling me Mike. Even Adwatch, the advert booking, tracking and management system that we work from, calls me Mike. Since when did a computer system have the audacity to become this familiar without your permission. Yes, okay, I’ve got to know Adwatch a lot better over the past twelve months since it’s introduction, got used to it’s own way of working, it’s tricks, idiosyncrasies and characteristics but I can’t remember ever giving it permission to address me as Mike. Still I suppose there must be worse names that I could be called. It’s better than TARDIS drawers anyway.
I borrowed a plate from Christine on Wednesday for my lunch. As Christine carefully unwrapped the plates that had travelled over from Hamilton, Lorna, who sits alongside Christine, informed me that if I ever required anything it was pretty much guaranteed that Christine would have it in her drawers. Christine laughed in agreement calling them her TARDIS drawers, which I suggested could be her new nickname. Obviously this took on slightly different connotations and as the other surrounding woman in the large open plan office started berating me I ran for cover, before Christine could frisbee me with another of her plates.
It was almost as bad as a time I was passing another lady in the Gillard Welch publishing office, where I used to work down south, more than a few years ago. The nice lady in question was just about to dig into a rather large, almost mutant like, item of fruit, which I quite innocently commented on as I passed.
“Gawd, that’s a big pear!” I gasped, with comic disbelief as I walked. For some reason this stopped the lady in her tracks just as she was about to bite into her fruit. By the look of her face, I’m not sure she realised I was merely being silly about the size of her mutant fruit and not at all meaning to be rude.
I don’t think she spoke to me for a week after that.
Another innocent innuendo not unlike Colin McG running down a Brussels subway train urgently shouting and offering to help a lady passenger with her melons after we’d all been at the extra strong guinness. The passenger’s melons had escaped and were rolling about, all over the carriage floor which colin, being the ever helpful gent that he is, quickly rushed to retrieve for her. Being in Brussels she probably only spoke French or Dutch so she probably wouldn’t have understood why the rest of us were laughing at Colin’s shouting as he ran after the rolling fruit whilst the other Belgian passengers looked on with furrowed brows.
All juvenile and silly, of course, but there’s nothing wrong with being juvenile and silly on the odd occasion, especially when it’s your birthday and you’re yet another year older.
Ka has now officially hit the mid thirties as it was her birthday on Monday for which I took a few hours holiday and left the office early in the blistering sunshine to be part of her family birthday carry out meal in Uddingston, this time supplied from the 4 Seasons restaurant in Hamilton to which I drove in the pelting rain. Ah, the spring weather, don’t you just love it?
It was then my turn on as Thursday as I hit 34 (thanks for all the birthday wishes by the way!). As it was my usual day off, Ka took a holiday and we had a relaxing morning, during which we popped to the shops and Ka bought her very first scratch card with which she won a tenner. Not bad for a first time. In the afternoon we headed off to the cinema to see 21 Jump Street, a very stupid film about two cops that go back to school to ensnare some drug dealers, whilst working undercover, pretending to be school kids. Silly and juvenile but a good laugh.
We then went out for dinner to the Torrance Hotel in the evening and had Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann round to the flat for a wee glass of wine and a slice of birthday caterpillar cake afterwards. Unfortunately Ka managed to put her specially bought number candles on the caterpillar the wrong way round and I ended up being 43?!
As Dad happily clicked away with my camera I refused to blow the candles out until the numerics were sorted out and we now have a couple of pictures of me burning my hands with birthday wax as I hastily swapped the two numbers around.
Friday was busy once more in the office but I did make the time to take part in the grand National lucky dip, in which you pull a horse from a paper cup for a pound. Ka had been lucky with her scratchcard so I thought I’d give it a shot. I got two horses, both of which, Andrew, my new work colleague, told me I had no chance with after reading the Daily Record’s notes on each. The horses were Arbor Supreme and Neptune Collonges.
You never know.
The folk making room in their office space for us S&UN lot all seem very pleasant though I doubt I’ll be able to remember all the various names fired at me in the first week.
I found my new desk in the middle of the Design studio complete with stickered name tags. One Michael, another Mike. It’s amazing how many people assume my name preference to be Mike. Ka gives people into trouble for calling me Mike. Even Adwatch, the advert booking, tracking and management system that we work from, calls me Mike. Since when did a computer system have the audacity to become this familiar without your permission. Yes, okay, I’ve got to know Adwatch a lot better over the past twelve months since it’s introduction, got used to it’s own way of working, it’s tricks, idiosyncrasies and characteristics but I can’t remember ever giving it permission to address me as Mike. Still I suppose there must be worse names that I could be called. It’s better than TARDIS drawers anyway.
I borrowed a plate from Christine on Wednesday for my lunch. As Christine carefully unwrapped the plates that had travelled over from Hamilton, Lorna, who sits alongside Christine, informed me that if I ever required anything it was pretty much guaranteed that Christine would have it in her drawers. Christine laughed in agreement calling them her TARDIS drawers, which I suggested could be her new nickname. Obviously this took on slightly different connotations and as the other surrounding woman in the large open plan office started berating me I ran for cover, before Christine could frisbee me with another of her plates.
It was almost as bad as a time I was passing another lady in the Gillard Welch publishing office, where I used to work down south, more than a few years ago. The nice lady in question was just about to dig into a rather large, almost mutant like, item of fruit, which I quite innocently commented on as I passed.
“Gawd, that’s a big pear!” I gasped, with comic disbelief as I walked. For some reason this stopped the lady in her tracks just as she was about to bite into her fruit. By the look of her face, I’m not sure she realised I was merely being silly about the size of her mutant fruit and not at all meaning to be rude.
I don’t think she spoke to me for a week after that.
Another innocent innuendo not unlike Colin McG running down a Brussels subway train urgently shouting and offering to help a lady passenger with her melons after we’d all been at the extra strong guinness. The passenger’s melons had escaped and were rolling about, all over the carriage floor which colin, being the ever helpful gent that he is, quickly rushed to retrieve for her. Being in Brussels she probably only spoke French or Dutch so she probably wouldn’t have understood why the rest of us were laughing at Colin’s shouting as he ran after the rolling fruit whilst the other Belgian passengers looked on with furrowed brows.
All juvenile and silly, of course, but there’s nothing wrong with being juvenile and silly on the odd occasion, especially when it’s your birthday and you’re yet another year older.
Ka has now officially hit the mid thirties as it was her birthday on Monday for which I took a few hours holiday and left the office early in the blistering sunshine to be part of her family birthday carry out meal in Uddingston, this time supplied from the 4 Seasons restaurant in Hamilton to which I drove in the pelting rain. Ah, the spring weather, don’t you just love it?
It was then my turn on as Thursday as I hit 34 (thanks for all the birthday wishes by the way!). As it was my usual day off, Ka took a holiday and we had a relaxing morning, during which we popped to the shops and Ka bought her very first scratch card with which she won a tenner. Not bad for a first time. In the afternoon we headed off to the cinema to see 21 Jump Street, a very stupid film about two cops that go back to school to ensnare some drug dealers, whilst working undercover, pretending to be school kids. Silly and juvenile but a good laugh.
We then went out for dinner to the Torrance Hotel in the evening and had Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann round to the flat for a wee glass of wine and a slice of birthday caterpillar cake afterwards. Unfortunately Ka managed to put her specially bought number candles on the caterpillar the wrong way round and I ended up being 43?!
As Dad happily clicked away with my camera I refused to blow the candles out until the numerics were sorted out and we now have a couple of pictures of me burning my hands with birthday wax as I hastily swapped the two numbers around.
Friday was busy once more in the office but I did make the time to take part in the grand National lucky dip, in which you pull a horse from a paper cup for a pound. Ka had been lucky with her scratchcard so I thought I’d give it a shot. I got two horses, both of which, Andrew, my new work colleague, told me I had no chance with after reading the Daily Record’s notes on each. The horses were Arbor Supreme and Neptune Collonges.
You never know.
Saturday, 7 April 2012
Kitchen sinks and room service
Last Saturday morning we enjoyed The Shaftesbury Premier London Paddington Hotel’s breakfast once more, the only difference being that we were sitting listening to Sally Morgan on the next table the whole time. The woman at the next couple was with another lady and her voice just seemed to ring through the dining area, the same accent and tones as Fulham born Sally Morgan, or ‘Psychic Sally’ supposedly Britain’s best loved psychic. The only difference was this woman was not pretending to be talking to dead people, only the taller, glammed up woman sitting next to her and she talked on and on about how she was content with her life, how she felt that she was quite happy without a man and how her cat had died.
“Did you not know Jeffar had died?” she asked of her friend, shocked. If she had been Sally Morgan she may not have moaned so much about her cat dying as she’d still be able to talk to him.
The breakfasts in the hotel were great though. Full English breakfasts, all laid out in big silver trays, buffet style. Sausages, eggs, hash browns, you name it. Along with the healthier options of course of fruit yoghurts, fruit juices, toast and croissants you were each given a whole pot of the caffeine preference of your choice. All fantastic. And for us still free, due to the ‘inconvenience’ of the hotel moving us.
The whole stay was pretty damn close to being the best hotel stay I’ve ever had anywhere. The only complaint I’d have would be the single glazed windows which enabled us to hear the constant drone of traffic from the busy street outside. Not that you noticed it so much after a while as you lay on the bed on top of all the quilt layers, pillows and cushions, watching all the television programmes you’d never usually watch at home, whilst drinking all the tea and coffee sitting alongside the kettle, eating all the biscuits, eating all the fruit you’d picked up from the buffet table at breakfast time, using as much toilet paper as you liked and nonchalantly throwing towels about on the bathroom floor when you were finished with them, knowing full well that everything would be back to it’s neat and tidy state by the time you got back in the evening.
Saturday afternoon was cloudier but still dry as Ka and myself made our way to the Ambassadors Theatre to see Stomp.
Stomp is a popular theatre production of dance, rhythm, noise, a little more rhythm and a lot more noise. The production is not a story but a variety of different scenes with the performers and set design all dressed giving the impression of the setting being in some sort of junkyard. The scenes all involve the participation of eight dancers who perform with no, or very little speech, using only the noises and tunes they make to create music using only various everyday objects such as bins, tubes, tins, newspapers and even kitchen sinks. Such scenes involved the clacking of a wooden brush against the ground, for example, the thumping of a trash can, the banging of a giant rubber ring or the emptying of a kitchen sink full of water, (which is not particularly good if you’re now suffering the after effects of a couple of pints).
It was a great show, admittedly not one I would have rushed to see before, but Ka had always wanted to see it, probably because it was all based around people brushing up, using dustbins and tidying rubbish away whilst making as much noise as possible. If you were to sit and close your eyes whilst in the theatre it almost reminded me to waking up on a normal morning in Kenilworth listening to Ka rattling about the kitchen. Or those moments on the couch when you’re trying to watch an episode of Spooks and Ka decides it’s a great time to clean the kitchen cupboards out.
Before hand we’d went for an afternoon tipple in The Marquis of Granby, just across the road from the big, old Palace Theatre, currently adorned in colourful, open umbrellas for the running production of Singin’ in the Rain. A cackle of older ladies sat at the window table to the side of us, all downing the wine and gabbling like geese, prime suspects for the Singin’ in the Rain show. A couple in the other corner rowed quietly. Arguing over the menu with fierce eyes and the odd comment muttered through gritted teeth.
We had had to seek out the theatre early and managed to get lost in the West End streets in the effort, after Adventure Ted made another brief appearance in Trafalger Square under Nelson, we got momentarily sidetracked in Charing Cross Station and we spotted more Faberge Easter eggs.
We eventually found the small theatre on the corner of a block in the middle of West Street just across from the Club of the Ivy, which we recognised as the restaurant that week’s winners of The Apprentice had just dined in a couple of nights before. After finding the theatre we wandered off for a stroll and got lost once more and ended up milling around the town looking for somewhere to get an afternoon drink when we eventually found the Marquis of Granby. As I ordered our drink I asked the barmaid if she had any idea where the Ambassadors Theatre was.
“Go out there and turn left” she frowned slightly at me over the taps. I quickly went back out into the narrow street outside and looked down to see the familiar white fronted theatre not sixty meters away. That was handy, I thought, considering our circular route around the West End.
If you don’t know the West End well it would be easy to get lost in, going round in circles, through the streets filled with their shops, boutiques, small galleries, coffee shops, theatres and pubs.
After the show, and a quick walk around Covent Garden, at which we seen the largest paella known to man, an abundance of silk scarves and some artwork by Bob Dylan and Billy Connelly, we enjoyed a meal in Spaghetti House, served by Sacha Baron Cohen. The tall, dark waiter with the large eyes and high forehead serving our meals grinned from ear to ear at Ka all the while gesticulating with his hands whilst shouting in his thick, almost exaggerated Italian pronunciation. He looked very much like Baron Cohen in yet another cartoon like extremist character. Ka and myself had to have a quick look around for other actors and hidden cameras but seen only the other far more stressed looking staff members, all running around the restaurant floor in the Saturday night rush all putting on the same, overly pleasant but less enthusiastic or actorly performances on for their own tables.
The next day we were back at Euston, jumping on the train back to Glasgow Central, our weekend trip coming to an end but with a whole other week off lying ahead. Unfortunately there’d be no more Shaftesbury breakfasts or room service but as I awoke on Monday morning to the sound of Ka in the kitchen and a glass of orange juice on the bedside table waiting for me I thought, there’s no place like home.
“Did you not know Jeffar had died?” she asked of her friend, shocked. If she had been Sally Morgan she may not have moaned so much about her cat dying as she’d still be able to talk to him.
The breakfasts in the hotel were great though. Full English breakfasts, all laid out in big silver trays, buffet style. Sausages, eggs, hash browns, you name it. Along with the healthier options of course of fruit yoghurts, fruit juices, toast and croissants you were each given a whole pot of the caffeine preference of your choice. All fantastic. And for us still free, due to the ‘inconvenience’ of the hotel moving us.
The whole stay was pretty damn close to being the best hotel stay I’ve ever had anywhere. The only complaint I’d have would be the single glazed windows which enabled us to hear the constant drone of traffic from the busy street outside. Not that you noticed it so much after a while as you lay on the bed on top of all the quilt layers, pillows and cushions, watching all the television programmes you’d never usually watch at home, whilst drinking all the tea and coffee sitting alongside the kettle, eating all the biscuits, eating all the fruit you’d picked up from the buffet table at breakfast time, using as much toilet paper as you liked and nonchalantly throwing towels about on the bathroom floor when you were finished with them, knowing full well that everything would be back to it’s neat and tidy state by the time you got back in the evening.
Saturday afternoon was cloudier but still dry as Ka and myself made our way to the Ambassadors Theatre to see Stomp.
Stomp is a popular theatre production of dance, rhythm, noise, a little more rhythm and a lot more noise. The production is not a story but a variety of different scenes with the performers and set design all dressed giving the impression of the setting being in some sort of junkyard. The scenes all involve the participation of eight dancers who perform with no, or very little speech, using only the noises and tunes they make to create music using only various everyday objects such as bins, tubes, tins, newspapers and even kitchen sinks. Such scenes involved the clacking of a wooden brush against the ground, for example, the thumping of a trash can, the banging of a giant rubber ring or the emptying of a kitchen sink full of water, (which is not particularly good if you’re now suffering the after effects of a couple of pints).
It was a great show, admittedly not one I would have rushed to see before, but Ka had always wanted to see it, probably because it was all based around people brushing up, using dustbins and tidying rubbish away whilst making as much noise as possible. If you were to sit and close your eyes whilst in the theatre it almost reminded me to waking up on a normal morning in Kenilworth listening to Ka rattling about the kitchen. Or those moments on the couch when you’re trying to watch an episode of Spooks and Ka decides it’s a great time to clean the kitchen cupboards out.
Before hand we’d went for an afternoon tipple in The Marquis of Granby, just across the road from the big, old Palace Theatre, currently adorned in colourful, open umbrellas for the running production of Singin’ in the Rain. A cackle of older ladies sat at the window table to the side of us, all downing the wine and gabbling like geese, prime suspects for the Singin’ in the Rain show. A couple in the other corner rowed quietly. Arguing over the menu with fierce eyes and the odd comment muttered through gritted teeth.
We had had to seek out the theatre early and managed to get lost in the West End streets in the effort, after Adventure Ted made another brief appearance in Trafalger Square under Nelson, we got momentarily sidetracked in Charing Cross Station and we spotted more Faberge Easter eggs.
We eventually found the small theatre on the corner of a block in the middle of West Street just across from the Club of the Ivy, which we recognised as the restaurant that week’s winners of The Apprentice had just dined in a couple of nights before. After finding the theatre we wandered off for a stroll and got lost once more and ended up milling around the town looking for somewhere to get an afternoon drink when we eventually found the Marquis of Granby. As I ordered our drink I asked the barmaid if she had any idea where the Ambassadors Theatre was.
“Go out there and turn left” she frowned slightly at me over the taps. I quickly went back out into the narrow street outside and looked down to see the familiar white fronted theatre not sixty meters away. That was handy, I thought, considering our circular route around the West End.
If you don’t know the West End well it would be easy to get lost in, going round in circles, through the streets filled with their shops, boutiques, small galleries, coffee shops, theatres and pubs.
After the show, and a quick walk around Covent Garden, at which we seen the largest paella known to man, an abundance of silk scarves and some artwork by Bob Dylan and Billy Connelly, we enjoyed a meal in Spaghetti House, served by Sacha Baron Cohen. The tall, dark waiter with the large eyes and high forehead serving our meals grinned from ear to ear at Ka all the while gesticulating with his hands whilst shouting in his thick, almost exaggerated Italian pronunciation. He looked very much like Baron Cohen in yet another cartoon like extremist character. Ka and myself had to have a quick look around for other actors and hidden cameras but seen only the other far more stressed looking staff members, all running around the restaurant floor in the Saturday night rush all putting on the same, overly pleasant but less enthusiastic or actorly performances on for their own tables.
The next day we were back at Euston, jumping on the train back to Glasgow Central, our weekend trip coming to an end but with a whole other week off lying ahead. Unfortunately there’d be no more Shaftesbury breakfasts or room service but as I awoke on Monday morning to the sound of Ka in the kitchen and a glass of orange juice on the bedside table waiting for me I thought, there’s no place like home.
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