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.

Security guards on the buses

My brother, Kenny contacted me yesterday via the wonderful correspondence relay that is facebook. Finding himself quite bored at work he decided to become The Reidnet Journal's first 'Guest Contributor'. He even chased me up when I hadn't managed to publish it straight away. Here goes:

Thursday 8th September 2010 and I'm sitting at home when the phone rings. Its the work agency getting in touch with, no doubt, another money spinning job offer for me. Upon answering and speaking to the recruitment consultant I'm told of a week long contract available to me working as a security guard for an office block. Taking a minute to imagine myself as a sixty year old man, I then realised that the guy on the other end of the phone was serious. I had to try extremly hard to stifle any laughter as I excepted the opportunity thinking to myself, "the boys are going to love this!" Upon calling my old(er) brother and telling him of this wondeful career change I was expecting him to find it as hilarious as I did. He didn't. Not even a hint of a laugh. I had to wait til Thursday for that reaction as I told the boys at 5's.
Anyway, Friday comes, my day of intensive training into how to sit at a desk all day looking at the TV. To be honest I could of skipped Fridays traing as I'm quite good at this task having had plenty of training in the past! I was getting paid though so I wasn't complaining. Having walked in on the Friday morning I was still laughing at the fact I was a security guard. The laughter soon stopped when I recognised a girl I went to school with working on the ground floor with an accounting firm and another guy who I couldn't place working on the third floor with an engineering firm. Anyway, my old school friend was enjoying a office day out so I only had to hide a few times until she left for the day which I accomplished successfully. That would of been an awkward conversation;
"hi, working for an accountants, you must be doing well,"
"yeah, i am and look at you, a security guard, you must be............."
The front door of the building wasn't working properly. It wasn't shutting behind the person when opened. A workman was called out and had a go at fixing it before disappearing. He had made it worse. It was now slamming shut behind anyone coming in. Slamming shut quite violently. To the extent of parts starting to fall off the door. Waiting for another engineer to sort it, we decided at 5 o'clock on a Friday afternoon, and only 30 mins til we finish, that he wasn't coming. We took it into our own hands, we put a sign on the door!
"Please ensure door is shut behind you". Problem solved!
The bus from the accountants day out pulled up and the door was slammed shut once too many times, screws flying everywhere, the door came off its hinges and fell forwards onto the stone walkway infront of the building. Lifing the door it quickly became obvious that it weighed a ton, and if anyone had been under it when it fell they would now look like Judge Doom at the end of Who Framed Roger Rabbit? After avoiding my old school mates gaze as she entered the building as soon as it hit half 5, I was offski, door or no door, it wasn't my problem til Monday.
Saturday night, and big Andrews 27th birthday night out. The hairy man himself, Graeme, Kev, Disco Dave, Weaver, Jamie and me all met in Buddha. After a few pints some dinner was suggetsed to which Jamie replied, "its Saturday, no one eats dinner on a Saturday!"
We left Buddha and went over to Nicos to get a round of Jägerbombs but decided against it, after walking in and smelling the aura of piss in the air, probably coming from the jakies who had been in all day enjoying the cheap drinks. So into O'couture we went. It was dead but they serve cold bottles of beer. A pub crawl ensued and we ended up in Vodka Wodka in Ashton Lane via a couple of pubs, most of which I can't remember their names and one which I do, The Ivy. Can't really remember much after Vodka Wodka, the first thing I remembered was waking up on a bus in the middle of, God knows where, at half 8 in the morning. Having spoke to my mates this seems to be what happened; only Andy and Kev were in a fit enough state to go dancing, don't know what happened to Weaver and Jamie but myself, Graeme and Dave walked back to Graemes via a chippy. I made it as far as the chippy before disappearing, presumably getting on a 66 and then falling asleep for 6 or 7 hours before being wakened by the driver in Mountblow. Didn't get up the road til half 9, Sunday morning. Then Michael text me to see if I fancied the gym. Not likely.
Oh, and I placed the face of the guy from the engineering firm. He was on my CIvil Engineering course at Glasgow Uni. If he keeps working hard he might, one day, make it as big as me.

Kafka, Regan and Edinburgh for a change

Why is it, whenever you find yourself requiring the speedy use of a public toilet it is always in the places you end up having to rush about looking for change?
Ka and myself were on our way to Edinburgh on Saturday to have a Fringe day, on a mission to see a couple of shows and take in some of that overcrowded Edinburgh Fringe like atmosphere.
We arrived at Buchanan Bus Station around mid morning to find enormous queues circling the station, originating from, you guessed it, the Edinburgh Bus stance. Thankfully, presumably because of the fringe, there seemed to be more buses laid on and the the many Festival goers did not have much of a wait. With a heavy shrug we joined the back of the ticket queue before realising we were both in need of a toilet. As I bought the bus tickets Ka went off to the toilets and discovered the additional need of a 20p and joined the back of the bus queue as I bought the tickets. On reaching the back of the queue I delivered a 20p to Ka, after having to buy a Daily Record, and watched her disappear back into the bus station. After Ka's return I then sped off, begrudgingly paying my 20p to the steel box before banging my thighs off the, rather hesitant to rotate, entry bars.
Our loo visits over we were soon on the coach and on our way along the M8 to the capital for some Fringe action.
Edinburgh's High Street was it's usual chaotic self during Fringe time. Crowds everywhere, tourists everywhere, actors, dancers, singers, balloon salesmen, students, musicians and leaflet distributors everywhere. Ka and myself followed the crowds towards the Fringe Box Office and booked a ticket to a dramatic production we had been sold by one of the leaflet distributors on the street.
'Kafka and Son' is a production centering around the author, Franz Kafka, and the writing of a letter intended for his father but never sent. The letter details the relationship between the father and son, the constant struggles, the fears, the frustrations and the feuds. Very deep, surreal, odd and dark, the production was lifted with a fantastic performance by the one actor on stage. Alon Nashman, helped illustrate Kafka's mentally trapped, frustrated self very well.
Ka and myself left the Bedlam Theatre feeling the need for comedy and headed up towards the large purple cow shaped tent of the Underbelly where we were stopped by a tall irishman in a red checkered, lumberjack like shirt who invited us to a show. After a few more minutes of talking, he revealed it to be a personal invitation and admitted that it was in fact his own show. Jarlath Regan, his name was. Upon meeting him in the street I vaguely recognised him from a Mock the Week or two, and since he'd asked us so nicely we decided to go along. A good move, it turned out, as he managed to cheer us up after the Kafka episode. His material included a number of funny, descriptive stories with some obvious fare too which he improved upon with his own original attitudes and perspectives. Some of the more tried and tested stuff came from marital centered situations but because it all strikes a cord with more or less everyone, nobody left the room feeling cheated out of their time.
Once again, on the way home, Ka and myself found ourselves needing the loo. The rain was pouring down as we got to St. Andrews Bus Station and we ran for the public toilets only to be stopped by some familiar looking rotational barriers. There barriers were worse though. They were Capital barriers. They wanted 30p!
We delved into our pockets once again and breathed a collective sigh of relief as we pulled out the required coinage. Ka disappeared off to her loo and I stepped up to mine, sliding three ten pences down the coin slot and walked into the barrier. Bang. My thighs slammed into the unmoving steel pole. I tried again as two other blokes walked up behind me. Bang. It wasn't moving. A primitive, digital font blinked up from a small, green screen on the steel box before me. 20p paid.
"I put 30p into that b*star* thing!" my voice echoed around the tiled walls as I backed out of the entry.
"Just jump it, mn!" the second bloke in the short queue behind me, a fellow Glaswegian, shrugged, backed up and jumped the barrier box. "Just jump it" he shrugged again as he straightened himself up on the other side.
"If you've put your money in..." the first, older guy, another Glaswegian, shrugged from under his cap behind me.
Just as I limbered and readied myself up to climb over the barrier, a small toilet attendant in a luminous yellow coat, shouted a warning from behind, rushing out from a door somewhere.
"Hold on a minute!" he shouted, plugging a key into the barrier's control box as the first bloke disappeared into the toilet.
"I put my 30p in!" I pointed out as he looked up at me sternly through thick framed glasses.
"You're on camera!"
"I put my money in!" I protested, as the toilet attendant allowed the bar to rotate as I moved through.
"You're on camera!" the attendant sighed with a shrug.
As I huffily stepped up to a urinal inside, the jumping Glaswegian turned from his urinal further round the wall.
"What's it like eh?" he laughed. "Just as well he missed me, I didnae huv any change!"