Door locks, brake pads and hoover shocks

Well, whilst two blokes spend 2 billion dollars publicising themselves over the pond in an effort to control 50 states I've also been spending big money. Okay, maybe not 2 billion dollars, but certainly money that can’t afford to be spent.
In the past week or so I've spent hundreds and hundreds of pounds.
No, I'm not showing off.
I've spent literally hundreds. Hundreds that I don’t have.
Two weekends ago a familiar sounding grinding noise started growling up from underneath the car in transit. With little driving detective work I assumed it to be the front passenger side wheel pads, in dire need of replacement. As quickly as I could, on the Monday morning, without making the repair bill have to cover brake discs too, I took the car over the squinty bridge, sorry, the Clyde Arc road bridge, to a small, grubby looking garage on Govan Road. Within hours the little, bespectacled mechanic had called me to inform me that all four brake pads were needing replaced. The mechanic himself admitted he'd thought the noise had been coming from the front passenger side but upon investigation had discovered the noise to be coming from one of the rear wheels, and not only that but each of the car's brake pads were in need of restoration. Upon hearing me humming and hawing over the phone the mechanic must have mistook my noises for mistrust and insisted he’d keep all four of the old brake pads as proof to which I obviously insisted wasn’t necessary and sighing heavily, told him to proceed with the job.
The bad news didn't stop there though. At around 4pm that afternoon I ventured back over the squinty bridge, through the rush hour traffic. The cheery little mechanic immediately insisted on showing me the duff brake pads, (probably the oldest trick in the book – he’s probably got a drawer full of them!) and then informed me that my two front tyres were illegal.
Bald on the inside apparently. (Illegal for being bald? Surely that’s baldist?)
I had spent £130 quid on two Dunlops for the front last November and the two of them were already duff and fine worthy. So after getting back to the office I made yet another visit to tyreshopper.com, a lot sooner than I thought I'd be visiting, and sorted out another expensive pair of rubbers. On the same day, from the mild comfort of my office desk, I also paid off various bills, reminder notices and last chance saloon letters and ordered my new 6 month tax disc, successfully making it one of the most expensive days in my working history, all whilst sitting on my arse. Next up will be my car insurance, due shortly, along with the good old MOT, which, going by recent standards, will probably throw up a few surprises for me, all just in time for Christmas when you expected to spend lots of money on other people.
Days later, last Thursday, I gave a wee bloke £120 for having a large tantrum in my house.
Recently I bought new, interior doors for all the rooms leading off from the upstairs landing which all started when Dad and Colin successfully burst the bathroom door on the night of the house warming. The door was on it’s last legs, or hinges, anyway, so I don’t blame them. My Dad had went to leave the bathroom and found the door had locked him in so he ended up shouting down to Colin, who was standing out in the back garden at the time, minding his own business, smoking a cigarette. Always willing to help Colin made his way upstairs and between the two of them they managed to obliterate the bathroom door.
So while I was getting a new bathroom door I thought it’d probably be a good idea to get the rest of the doors done. Ordering them over the phone with Cornes, the local DIY store, here in EK, I asked them to book me a joiner to get them fitted. The joiner in question phoned me up a few days later and made a date to fit the doors, two and a half weeks later, at half past 8 in the morning (that was the next available date in his diary).
So, two and a half weeks later, on my way back from taking the wife to work in the morning, the joiner phoned my at 8.25am, leaving demanding messages on both my mobile, sitting alongside me in the car, and my home phone, stating he was 'supposed' to be fitting doors at my house that morning and that he had no access to the house. I dialled his number as I drove on the via the hands free speaker phone as I approached my street. Again, he informed me that he had no access to the house.
No access to the house?, I thought. I’m quite glad of that really. Is that not why they put locks in doors? A joiner of all people should know that, surely?
Immediately recognising the wee man that jumped out the van, but from where I wasn't sure, I let him into the house and he got himself set up. Through another ten minutes of conversation we eventually sussed that it was from the gym that I recognised him. I've seen him strutting about the Nuffield gym on occasion talking to folk in his loud, but not unfriendly, voice, talking to some of the bigger, muscle-bound guys on occasion who quite often are double the height of him. I wondered why this was why he spoke so loudly in normal conversation, conversation that continued as he worked at the four doors.
After an hour or so the joiner took a break to drink a protein shake, a drink which he really wanted me to know about, for whatever reason. Unfortunately I perhaps said the wrong thing by moaning something along the lines of, "you're not one of them are you?". It turns out he is (as is Andrea, my colleague in work, who models herself on Jodie Marsh) and the wee joiner has been trying to build his muscles up like some of the other guys in the gym. Refraining from stating that there probably weren't enough hours in the day, never mind the year, I got on with some paperwork and bill paying.
It wasn't until later that things really turned uncomfortable.
The joiner left the bathroom door to last. The other three doors had normal, nice silver handles bought with them, but the bathroom was slightly different in that its handle design included a lock mechanism. A perfectly normal lock mechanism which you’d find on most bathroom doors. Unfortunately it turned out to be not so normal as the wee joiner was soon swearing, shouting and jumping about in the bathroom. He's only been attempting to fit the lock handle for approximately five or ten minutes before, his face started turning a nasty shade of red and he started turning the air blue, jumping about, throwing electric screwdrivers around the bathroom whilst twisting the new handle up and down.
"F**king cheap sh**e!", he kept shouting, his voice echoing through the house. I had had no idea I was ordering cheap sh*te with my phonecall to Cornes two and a half weeks ago. At the time I'd thought £13 for a lock handle was expensive enough.
After another ten minutes of swearing and raging he disassembled the lock handle, growling furiously as he went and sped off back down to Cornes to get a second under the impression we'd been given a dodgy one.
I’ve met an awful lot of wee men who seem to have a great deal of anger built up inside them. An anger that can be quite potent and unexpected when it bursts. I’ve known a few short men in my life who’ve all had similar personalities. I’m no tall person myself but each of the guys I’m thinking off were all definitely in the shorter department and all had similar, slightly unstable characteristics. I’m certainly not saying all short people have this tendency, I’m just saying I am prone to encountering them. One minute these guys seem jovial, happy and perfectly normal in conversation until something happens. The something could be an occurrence, a statement, a joke or some kind of small, not obviously major, annoyance that makes them seem to boil up and explode.
This joiner, for instance, was highly affected by the bathroom door not working, after a mere five minutes or so of trying to fit it properly. As soon as he spent longer than five minutes working on it he just seemed to explode in a barrage of abuse and Basil Fawltyesque rage.
Needless to say, after the joiner’s return from Cornes, the second lock handle was no better and as he attempted to fit the new handle he stamped his feet, slammed his tools about some more and shouted about how he had other things to do with his time.
After some discussion with the rather irked wee joiner I decided to opt for his suggestion of replacing the lock handle with a normal handle and fitting the door with a simple sliding bolt lock. So after yet another visit to Cornes the wee, unsettled, highly flustered joiner with the anger management issues fitted the bolt and the normal handle, took his money and left.
Breathing a sigh of relief I got the hoover out and started to tidy his mess up, only to discover, upon inspecting the bathroom door, that the wee joiner had fastened the bathroom door to the wall with only one screw through each hinge rather than the usual four. As hesitant as I was to have the wee nutter back in my house, I had paid for his service and as he was too busy performing his little strops he'd obviously neglected to screw the damn door into the wall properly so I phoned him up. Huffing upon receipt of this information the wee joiner said he'd be back in ten minutes and as I waited I continued to hoover, almost managing to blow myself up in the process.
As I hoovered away, twisting and moving round the hall, trying to catch all the wood shreds and splinters, the hoover wire got sucked up the hoover's front and another highly suspicious grinding noise started from the machine’s underside. Within seconds a strange burning smell started interfering with the odour of freshly cut wood and before I knew it, the J. Edgar was firing out tiny shreds of grey and black plastic.
Flipping the power switch, I pulled the wire from under the hoover only to see a rather unhealthy looking length of bare copper wire shining up at me through a thin veil of electrical smoke.
The hoover had never done that before. I’d ran over the wire in the past and it had never been sucked up in such a plastic devouring fashion. Just as I finished tidying the hoover wire shreds up a loud knock at the door alerted to the presence of the wee joiner again and in he came once more, to finish his job.
“What happened to your hair?” the wee joiner looked up at me as he climbed the stairs. I looked in the mirror. My hair seemed to be standing a little on end.
Had I been shocked? Or was I just a little overly flustered?
At least the wee joiner had regained his composure as he quickly screwed the missing screws into the bathroom door and quickly headed off to his next poor customer. Making light of the missing screws I shrugged it off, insisting he was probably just too flustered and focused on the bathroom door lock.
“I’ll let you know after my next therapy session!” he smiled as he left the house.
I’m not even sure whether he was joking.
I certainly don’t want his therapist.

The Iron Horse, the Grey and the Hammer

Dad and myself sat in The Iron Horse as West Bromwich Albion hammered Wolverhampton 5-1 on the tv's hanging from the ceiling over our heads. We had just dropped Ka and the Mums off, among the traffic, piled up outside the SECC, for the Strictly Come Dancing afternoon show and had struggled to find a space for the car in the busy Glasgow streets on Sunday afternoon. I usually park up at The Station Bar, up next to the father in law’s old work, D. C. Thomson the printers, but since we were heading into town from the other direction we ended up just of Blythswood Square, where the ladies of the night used to hang out (I believe they’re all now based further down the hill, or over it). A swanky new Hotel has just opened up there and the street prices (for parking!) have doubled but thankfully, it was Sunday. Wonderful, free, Sunday street parking.
We headed up to the cinema and bought two tickets for 'The Grey' at half three, so, finding ourselves with at least two hours to spare we decided to while away the time over a few pints and a chat in the closest drinking establishment. We didn't fancy a coffee at the Starbucks or Pret a Manger though, both of which are almost, more or less, next door to the cinema. Instead we opted for The Iron Horse on West Nile Street. I thought it'd be a good opportunity to take my Dad for a pint for a change as we very rarely get the chance. While the women were watching the likes of Nancy Dell Olio and Robbie Savage trying to dance, Dad and myself were sitting relaxing by the window of the Iron Horse, over a pint of Caledonian Best, catching up, whilst the surrounding older clientele were served large Sunday lunches brimming with chips and onion rings.
So, for the first time in many years, I went to the cinema with my Dad. We could have repeated one of my very first cinema trips, from many moons ago, of which I, unfortunately, have no memory, in which he took me to see The Muppets, but I didn't think he'd be too interested in that these days. Instead we chose 'The Grey', a survivor thriller starring the ever dependable Liam Neeson.
Neeson plays a depressed oil-rigger, working out in the Alaskan wastes, defending the camp, the factories and the workers (a ragged bunch of characters from ex-cons and thugs to disgruntled family men) from the wild wolves which prowl the surrounding desert of snow. On a trip home, not long after take off, the plane crashes in the snow covered wastelands and leaves a small bunch of survivors struggling in the low temperatures and barren lands, Neeson taking the role of leader as the wolves start closing in around them.

As the small band of survivors try to make their way through the snow to some kind of safety, the weather and the wolves attack, picking them off one by one making each of the men face not only a struggle for survival but a struggle of friendship, cooperation and faith.
There were more than a few God debates and a few desperate calls for the almighty throughout the movie, especially once things started getting more than a little tough for Neeson, a man with a dwindling faith, struggling to come to terms with recent events in his life. The circumstances were different but it was something I identified with, having revisited similar big questions quite frequently in the past year or so and still coming up with no significant answers.
'The Grey' was the second visit to the cinema this weekend. The first being on Saturday afternoon on an unexpected family outing with the McGarva clan to see 'The Woman in Black', Hammer's new adaptation of the Susan Hill novel, which Ka and myself had previously seen in the theatre last year.
After attending a birthday party in East Kilbride on Friday evening, Jillian and Colin had stayed the night and together we were to go into town to see a movie on Saturday afternoon. That was only if the chaos in Glasgow had been sorted out by then.
At around half past three on Friday afternoon a man ran into the Italian restaurant Amarone on Glasgow's Nelson Mandela Square, demanding drink. Nothing particularly unusual there but when the waiters refused to serve him the guy claimed to have a bomb under his jacket.
The Police were called. Streets were closed. The nearby underground was closed. Trained negotiators were called in with shield bearing officers. Police cars and helicopters swooped into the area. Fire engines, ambulances, the Royal Navy bomb disposal team. All were called in before the nutter was quietly taken away in the back of a van at around midnight.
During the ruckus people were either diverted or forcibly kept in surrounding streets and shops whilst others, including all members of the restaurant staff, were all evacuated. A local student complained when the police told him to remain in a nearby branch of Subway, the sandwich shop. Surely any students dream come true?
I was in Subway for the first time in years yesterday. I met Ka for a Valentines lunch and bought her the £3 lunch special, a half baguette with whatever filling she could possibly wish for(as long as it was in the glass cabinet), plus a drink for a mere £3.
Not bad at all.
I text Ka from the office, wondering when her lunch break was, and asked her when she’d be “on the street”? Apparently this made her sound like one of those Blythswood Square ladies.

Anyway, as we sat on the high stools in Subway I realised the last time I had been in a Subway restaurant had been in New York, just off Times Square, in December 2003. The quality of that baguette was nowhere near as good as Hamilton's, but then I was probably slightly hungover back then and I may have been in a better mood yesterday as it was Valentines Day.
It’s a lot of nonsense. Another commercial card factory created piece of money making tomfoolery.
Valentines Day is supposed to be the day to celebrate your love for your significant other, shower her, or him, with love, affection and appreciation.
What’s wrong with any other day then? Do we slap them about for the other 365 days of the year? (it’s a leap year!)
Ka got a bunch of flowers, a card and half a chicken tikka baguette. I know how to treat my woman (none of your Greggs sausage rolls here, thank you very much!).
Anyway, back to Saturday’s cinema trip. As it turned out, the McGarva seniors were also invited to the flicks, so Jillian drove the four of us over to Uddingston to pick up Dougie and Grace and from there we headed into town, parking in possibly the most excpensive car park in town.
Jillian was driving her Mum's car, a large Scooby van like Volkswagen, with an abnormal number of seats, which housed us all among the bags, heavily wrinkled books, wrappers, abandoned crisp packets, long empty juice bottles and an almost full bottle of Absolut Vodka that was rolling around the floor at our feet. As the journey went on that vodka became more and more attractive.
It had been a rough morning.
The cinema was packed. With a 12A certificate I didn't expect too much from this new supposed horror starring the slowly maturing Daniel Radcliffe. In fact, I suspected a lot of the younger members of the audience to be there because of the mere presence of Harry Potter.
After taking our seats, we relaxed, sitting back to watch everyone else pile in after us, people soon struggling for places together as seating became more and more limited. Upon sitting, Grace quickly produced Cadbury's Fudges, brunch bars, trebor mints and tin foil parcels full of sandwiches from her handbag. All were passed up and down our line of six as we awaited the lights going down and the usual onslaught of adverts.

This new version of 'The Woman in Black' was pretty good and a decent enough adaptation of the ghost story with plenty of freaky effects and jumpy moments. Radcliffe was even passable alongside the excellent Julius Ceasar, sorry, Ciaran Hinds.
Unfortunately some of the viewing experience was marred due to the younger elements in the crowd who apparently found it hilarious whenever they jumped with fright. Quite often they'd be laughing, giggling or talking among themselves long after their initial jump of fright, enough to put you off what was going on in the movie long after the jump.
On one occasion, moments after one of the film's jumpier moments, a voice echoed from one of the seats behind me.
"A pure shat maself there, by the way!"
The young guy's voice echoed throughout the cinema as the film's dialogue went on. As entertaining as this ned shitting himself may have been, I was rather more interested in what the following effects of the sudden blur, moving shadow or face in the window was on the big screen before me.
After the film we made our way home, getting lost in the car park across the road, unable to find the Scooby van. We got the elevator up and then back down again after realising the payment machine was at ground level. After waiting in a short queue, behind a snobby woman that sniffed in our general direction (I’m not sure who she was sniffing) we were then charged a grand total of £6.60 for the two and a half hours we’d been parked there (it may have been an NCP, robbing gits). Following this we then hit two different floors before finally arriving at the correct floor to find Jillian’s Mum’s car patiently waiting.
We should have just parked at the Station Bar.

Hiking and jackknifing

The snow is finally melting. We are now driving on actual tarmac rather than spinning around on half a foot of compressed snow and ice. I've never been so happy to drive unhindered in my life. No more digging my car out of a giant layers of snow or walking home to East Kilbride on the expressway. Well, not for the moment anyway.
On Monday night, after the biggest snowfall in decades, the expressway, the main dual carriageway into and out of the East Kilbride, had become near inpassable due to the weather.
Barry, Paul and myself walked home to East Kilbride, abandoning the cars in the work car park, hiking up the dual carriageway under a ghostly mist which hung down threateningly over the faded lights standing tall overhead in the darkness over the thick snow covered road, among the abandoned cars and the fellow walkers.
The road going into East Kilbride had been clogged up not only by the weather but by a Morrisons lorry jackknifing and the remaining traffic piling up behind, slowing to a near complete standstill. Not sure what was slowing all the outgoing traffic on the other side of the road up.
It may have been another jackknifed lorry. A Sainsburys one maybe. The two drivers having it out in the middle of the road. The abandoned cars all over the expressway only parked up to watch the big fight. Harry Hill shouting from behind a temporary desk in a nearby field.
Usually this dual carriageway would be buzzing with life. Traffic of all shapes and sizes blasting up and down it on either side. Hiking home on it all seemed very surreal. It reminded me of 'The Day After Tomorrow', the rather drab, silly movie with Dennis Quaid, in which he plays a climatologist who goes out in search of his son after a giant storm which throws the world into another ice age. Or something. Storms, snow, people collapsing in the snow. The collapsed people puffing and gasping, accidentally brushing some snow aside underneath them only to discover that their lying on the glass roof of central station. At which point it starts cracking...
Either that or a snowy version of 'The Day of the Dead'. Zombie like figures stumbling about the snow covered expressway wondering what to do.
It all puzzled me a little. We're on the expressway. That town over there, which you must of been driving towards with the high rise flats, is East Kilbride. These are legs. Those things at the end are feet. Why not try that walking thing?
Okay, there may have been the slight issue of abandoning your beloved motor, but it was either that or sitting in the beloved motor for an extremely long time which, in the end, would make it extremely unbeloved.
For instance, Ka hates Gillian's poor little car now as a result of sitting on a roundabout at Hamilton's Asda car park for at least three hours on the same night. Sitting anywhere near Hamilton's Asda is horrifying at the best of times what with all the Zombies that usually shop there.
Unfortunately I often find myself parking in Hamilton Asda, thanks to Ka who works in the town, and unfortunately I think my parked car has been hit by a 'fellow' shopper at least 50% of the time. Not because of my parking, you understand, but because most drivers in Hamilton, cannot drive nevermind park. They simply put their pedal down, turn the steering wheel and hope for the best. A seven year old in a dodgem would cause less damage to another vehicle than a Hamilton Asda shopper.
Anyway, thanks to the weather and the congested traffic the threat of having to spend the night at work became all too horrible to bear and Ka and Gillian sat it out, eventually getting home four and a half hours later than planned. It's amazing what folk will do in order to not spend the night at work.
It's also amazing what folk will do when not at work. Apparently there's folk going round in Kent somewhere nicking snowmen!

Manic meandering

On my day off yesterday, I relaxed. I was sitting around the house doing nothing in particular. Eating soup, listening to The Black Keys, surfing and watching tv was the majority of my daytime.
Among my tv highlights was David Cameron sitting on the couch, on 'This Morning', harping on about the economy, the coalition and what a great family man he is, standing by his decision to let his newborn baby sleep in a cardboard box. Tearing myself away from 'This Morning', I flicked the channel over to the BBC news where I ended up gawping at the half car, half jet, Jaguar C-X75 supercar, the surprise star of the Paris Motor Show, capable of reaching speeds of 205mph. So Jaguar claims anyway. Cars moving at 200mph is all well and good but personally I'd rather wait till 2015 when they'll be flying.
The news then went on to mourn the death of Tony Curtis, who died yesterday at the age of 85. This was to be expected really. After a life of alcohol, sex, drugs, and movie making you can't expect to live forever.
A noise from the hallway disturbed my televisual viewing as a small package dropped through the letterbox.
It turned out Ka had been browsing amazon on Monday and bought me a surprise present. Monday had been another one of those pesky bank holidays which everyone in the country seems to get, except from us in S&UN. There should be some kind of press holidays in the year for those unfortunate souls that work in the newspaper industry. Something to make up for the needless Bank Holidays that everyone else seems to get and end up giving everyone else that does work, more work for the rest of the week.
Anyway, the small package had dropped through the letterbox among a flutter of the usual promotional leaflets and bank statements.
"What's she been ordering now?", were my immediate thoughts, as I left the small package in the hall for Ka coming home. It turned out to be the Manic Street Preachers latest disc 'Postcards From a Young Man' especially for me. When I asked a reason for this surprise purchase, Ka simply said it was 'for being you'.
I'm not sure what that means. People don't usually give me presents for being me. In fact, this may be the first present I've ever received simply for being me, I usually need a better excuse like a birthday or the birth of Christ. It's certainly not often your wife buys you random, unexpected presents so you've got to lap those moments up when you can, no matter how bewildering they are.
My eyes narrowed after the inital surprise. I couldn't help wonder what she was up to? Why is she buttering me up? What's she after? Don't tell me she's wanting to go shopping, in search of a dress for Gillian's Wedding at the weekend? Does she want another foot massage? Better not tell her I'm referring to her as 'she' either...
The new Manics album is great. I missed out on last years 'Journal for Plague Lovers' so approached this album with some enthusiasm and was not disappointed. It's probably leaning towards the more rock/pop side of the Manic's repertoire rather than the downbeat melodic or screaming frustration sides. More 'This is My Truth...' than 'Holy Bible'. Saying that, it's by no means a sign of regression for them as a band and that's saying something considering this is their tenth studio album. Brilliant riffs, hummable tunes and some cracking lyrics, and I've only just started listening to it. Great for a drive in a supercar... or maybe just sitting in the house doing nothing in particular. As long as I'm not shopping for dresses, I'm happy.

Hell freezing over

Well, the whole of Britain woke up yesterday to snow. England panicked. Scotland sort of... shrugged. We all knew it was coming. The weathermen had forecast it. But still England seemed to panic. A whole three or four inches had fallen during the night in England, and around two in Scotland and by watching the English news you'd think another Ice Age had descended upon us. lf three or four inches of snow had hit us in Scotland overnight, we'd all have got up as usual and struggled into work, barely making the headlines. But when England gets it all hell breaks loose... or freezes over. There were news reporters standing on the banks of the Thames in yesterdays news telling us with serious, grim faces how this particular wall had over five inches of snow on top of it. Headlines, newspapers, the internet bulletins, all yelling about disasterous weather conditions, idiot drivers unable to cope, buses, trains and planes all ceasing transportation, electricity and gas supplies abruptly stopping, Boris Johnson pleading for more grit lorries like a very boring Bob Geldoff, schools and companies closing down, the shops of Oxford Street deserted and football transfers not being able to go ahead... in person. Unbelievable. The English get a wee bit of snow and suddenly think it's The Day After Tomorrow. Staying at home with the curtains drawn, the lights off, gripping their children tightly to their chest and praying for a miracle, thanking their lord for the great life they had led until those moments. My Aunt Ann, who live down in London sent me some pics via email of the wondorously uncommon snowfall in her area of Fulham. She was more excited than anything else. Anything to enable her to stay out of the office, I suspect. On getting out of work early, I also went out and took some pictures. Some of the women in the office were a bit panicky, of course. Let's face it, we all know what women drivers are like at the best of times (joke!).
On returning home I decided to park our car at the top of our hill, as we live on a steep street, and leave it in a safer place for the night, and a place that would be easy to manoeuvre out of in the morning if there had been more snowfall. Moments after parking, as I sauntered over the snow covered grass to our street, I heard a sudden squeal. Spinning round I froze, (not literally), as a BMW came down the hill, directly in front of my safely parked car. The BMW then started to drive at an alarmingly strange angle, it's rear heading straight for my freshly parked car's headlights. With a scrunch of ice and snow and a strange deathly silence the large car spun over the road in a 180 degree angle, nudging itself over the pavement infront of the Toyota but thankfully grinding to a rather unstable halt. Not being outwitted by some feeble snow, the BMW driver then decided to reverse determinedly half way down the street, as if to prove something to himself, the snow and any onlookers. After a few moments of pretending to be in complete control the driver hesitantly slowed to another, this time semi controlled, halt and performed a nice, sensible three point turn. (The only time you'll see 'nice' and 'sensible' in the same line as 'BMW driver' probably). If that BMW had slid any further, that would have been absolutely typical.
The snow is now gone, though, and we can all relax again. We did not get the predicted further foot of it during the night as forecast. A lot of scaremongering weathermen, if you ask me. Bring back Michael Fish, he used to tell you when things were definately not going to happen, but actually would. It's far more exciting that way. These new guys tell us whats going to happen, and it doesn't. Mr Fish would never have done that. He would have just came on and denied everything and then it would all have been a pleasant surprise in the morning for us all to wake up to.
"Oh, look everyone, it's been snowing... and there's a , er, BMW encased in my car bonnet... Quick call Jackie Bird!"

Pantos, pakora and peanuts

Our tree is up and the Christmas stench flows freely in the flat. Yes, on friday night we carried out the strange tradition of installing a cold, wet, smelly fir tree into the middle of our living room and decorating it with beads and baubles. Our wee flat now feels officially 'christmasy'. We helped welcome it with a wee bottle of wine. Maybe it was the wine that helped with the 'christmasiness'.
The next morning I was driving up to Chapelton on Saturday morning when I witnessed one of the most stupid examples of driving I've ever seen in my life. Driving up St Leonards Road, towards the roundabout at the Bonnie Prince Charlie pub, there was a row of traffic coming off the roundabout up ahead and heading down towards me on the other side of the road (nothing surprising there). As I approached the junction for Morrishall Road on my right, a car speeds up to the junction and decides to refrain from braking. Not only does he go straight out on to the road infront of the oncoming traffic, driving down from the roundabout, but he decides to drive into their side of the road, belting straight into the unfortunate car, at the front of the line of vehicles, head on. Both cars thudded to a halt as I drove past. It was a moment of sheer disbelief, almost incomprehension, for me as I'd never actually seen a car accident happen, never mind such blatant stupidity on the road. As the drivers of each car moved to leave their vehicles I drove on safe in the knowledge they would sort their little bang out between them (perhaps with more little bangs involving fists and faces). Sure enough, on my way back down from Chapelton, a police van was parked on the kerb where the cars had been, with its side door slid open and two busy policemen leaning in, obviously talking away to someone, hopefully breathalising them.
Afterwards it was a slightly less eventful drive into Glasgow's West End to see Colin, Ka's brother, in his latest Panto extravaganza. Colin works for a travelling theatre group and on Saturday morning he was performing with the group in the Kelvin Stevenson Memorial Church, just off Great Western Road, with their take on Jack and the Beanstalk. After having built up a bit of a thirst on the drive in, I tried to take a carton of juice and a packet of crisps from the entrance table at the front door as we bought our tickets. Unfortunately the stubborn old ticket woman stopped me saying the free juice and crisps were for the kids only. As I tried to persuade her with money Ka ushered me away hurriedly. We sat down in a large empty hall with the stage set out infront of us, surrounded by empty chairs. It did not look good and I was beginning to think I would be shouting at Widow Twanky on my own, without any crisps or juice. However, with only five minutes before the start, families and kids started flocking in and within moments, every seat around us was taken, most of the kids gathering on the dusty, wooden floor at the front in eager expectation, munching their crisps and drinking their juice. As I suddenly noticed a few parents with juice of their own the production began and Colin and his band jumped out on to stage, shouting, yelling and singing. For me, Colin's best performance was as Daisy, Jack's man sized, two legged cow, but he also played the Giant, that lived in the Castle at the top of the Beanstalk, a role that best suited his stature and loud voice. Afterwards he approached us and after a few words with his sister he looked at me accusingly and shouted 'You weren't doing any of the actions!'. A little taken aback, I stammered something defensively about how I had been singing and clapping enthusiastically. If I'd had a juice and a packet of crisps I might have been more eager to participate in the song actions. On the way out the church hall the old lady at the door gave us a cheery goodbye. I humpfed in response.
Saturday night arrived and Ka dolled herself up and ventured into Hamilton for her work night out with the girls, so Chaz and myself decided to head out for a carry out, to the Atrium, where the owner talked us into taking a table. The place was packed with Christmas nights out of all shapes and sizes. After waiting a few moments he sat us upstairs beside three large tables of drunken workers scoffing pakora, unwrapping secret santas and spitting lager into each others meals as they talked. The dreaded Karaoke soon started up on the temporary dance floor downstairs and before we knew it the drunken workers were all singing the same old songs that karaoke singers usually sing - you know, Sinatra, Neil Diamond etc. Nothing vaguely original like, say, Orbison. So Chaz and myself headed into Glasgow for a drink witnessing a massive brawl, on the way, in the middle of Argyle Street with a large bunch of Glasgow neds. Unbelievable. Makes you wonder why you stay in Scotland. Neds, alcohol and violence. All in a good night out. Anyway, Bunker was, as always, busy and Chaz and myself mused over women and how they think(that old chestnut!), Bill Paxton movies, Apparitions(the BBC series that's on at the moment), Christmas, New Year and hotels to take y'er woman. Afterwards we headed back to fetch Ka, Gillian and Louisa from Hamilton, the latter two hitching a lift to Ek's Centre Point. For some insane reason they continue to spend money going into that place.
Morven, Sean and Leo visited us yesterday for dinner, travelling up from Hawick. Ka and myself arrived home from the gym with only half an hour to get ready for them coming only to find them sitting on the doorstep waiting on us. We welcomed them in, still in our sweaty gym gear, quickly kicking away any newspapers lying about the living room and throwing the drying clothes hanging from doors into the bedroom. Unfortunately Leo spent the first hour moaning until I presented him with two bowls of peanuts. One Bombay mix and one salted. This helped cheer him up considerably and he took up position at the side of the coffee table, munching away. I was not sure about the way he was eyeing me suspiciously if I reached out to take any myself. Considering they were my nuts I thought this quite rude really. I'll let him off this once though, as it's almost Christmas and he was just recovering from a flu. There's also the fact he's only three... Shouldn't be an excuse though. Flamin' youngsters. Coming into this world and getting all our crisps, nuts and juice. Without so much as a by-your-leave. Do they have the right? Ageism that's what it is!

Black and white

Weather. Always a good conversation piece for folk when your struggling for subjects to talk about. On my way to work today it very much felt like winter was most definately here. The sky was clear with only the occasional strip of cloud hiding the luminous pale blue hanging overhead. These are the kind of winter mornings I like though. Freezing, but light and clear with the sunlight streaming through the tree tops over the edge of Calderglen. The sunlight in stark contrast with the cold temperatures. It is not as cold as it will get though. Today it has been around 5 degrees celcius but tomorrow the weather report is saying it will be more in the region of 2 degrees celcius but with less cloud. It is strange how I feel more at home in the winter weather than in the sweltering heat of a good summer. Perhaps I was an eskimo in a former life... or a penguin. According to religions, such as Hinduism or Buddhism, a human is supposed to be a higher form of life than the animal which would mean I must have been a good penguin in the former life. Maybe I caught lots of fish and shared them out to all my penguin pals. Not everything's black and white though.
The BBC Trust have finally got round to giving their final decision on the Russell Brand/Jonathan Ross nonsense stating there was no justification for the errors that were made in the production of the programme concerned. Really? No way! Who pays these people? Oh, yeah, that's right. US. It's been over three weeks for them to state the obvious. As the 'innocent' female concerned said on the news tonight - we are all so bored of this story. Why is it still in the news then? As I said when it first blew up in the gutter press three days after it actually happened - get over it. There are more important things to concern ourselves over. Getting Ross back on the telly! I've got to go out tonight now because there's no Jonathan Ross on!
Charlie Brooker's Screenwipe had a great ten minute piece on it, on Tuesday night, in his usual entertaining, sarcastic, indomitable way. The guy is a genius. Another guy with a similar humour is the brilliant Jack Dee whom I just happened to catch getting interviewed on This Morning yesterday. Not that I usually watch this Morning or anything... I was just finishing my breakfast tea with a bacon buttie. He was talking about his new series of Lead Balloon, his drama comedy series on BBC Two. Regretfully, I've not caught any of this series yet but it looks pretty good. May have to check it out.
The new car is flaimin' filthy. How come dirt on a car shows up more on black paintwork? You'd think it would be the opposite wouldn't you? I always thought it would be a nightmare owning a white car. JP says it's the salt on the road. Salt on the road? Haven't even seen any salt spreaders on the roads yet, firing it's load of grit at your windscreen. Soon we'll be scraping the ice off the windows and getting high on de-icers again. Could the snow be on it's way?

Headaches and children

Another weekend almost over! They whizz by like a chettah on heelys. Wish they wouldn't do that as it always makes us smack into the brick wall of another Monday morning. A bit of a quiet one again this weekend with more painting yesterday afternoon and then a movie last night. Chaz appeared at the door at around half eight with two carriers full of crisps, chocolate and corona and joined Ka and myself in watching the brilliant 'Training Day'. This movie I've been meaning to watch for at least two years and with Ka and Chaz settled down to watch. Denzel Washington was indeed great in it and deserved the oscar he received for the role afterwards. Conversations ranged from Costco, Corona's need for a good bit of lime, the Wispa bar to relationships (that old chestnut!) and redundancies.
This morning I awoke to a neighbour piling some empty glass bottles into the bottle bin downstairs, each clatter and smash echoing through the close up through our letterbox, down our hallway, in to the bedroom and directly into my right ear, through a slightly diverted route in the channels of my brain and out my left ear, continuing from then to the nearest wall and bouncing back off the brick, making a disasterous u-turn hurling back towards my right ear again. Trying to ignore the signs lighting up in my head telling me it was time to get up I did manage to go back to sleep until Ka woke me with a glass of orange juice. My head was aching and I had not thought I'd had that much to drink last night. In fact I know I hadn't. Six bottles of beer. That was it. Is that what it takes to gain a hangover these days? That's got to be a sign of getting old. Forcing myself up though I went straight to the gym and forced the alcoholic blues straight out of me and after an hours workout, a quick swim and a short time in the sauna, felt brand new again. I say quick swim because everytime we go to the pool on a sunday, for some demented reason, we end up going in when it's 'family time'. Yes, family time in the pool is when young kids flock in with their mums, dads, grandparents or all of them, to jump about on giant planks of polystyrene that the kids themselves only take up a fraction of space on. They glide these straight across the surface of the blue water, giggling and laughing whilst aiming straight for the side of your head. If it's not one of those butting into your body parts, or at least into your swimming path, your sure to get a ball or hoop of some description slung at you from the other side of the pool while the parents just jump about not giving a hoot. Sorry, I didn't realise I was really intended in life to be part some kind of aquatic fairground attraction. I'm half expecting a loud alarm to go off and Derek the lifeguard to come out from his viewing point with a stupidly large cuddly toy the next time a plastic beach ball bounces off my head.
Talking of fairground attractions Ka was driving today. Only kidding. Ka is a great driver, not at all like a dodgem... or a roller coaster. It is amazing how many a**e's you get up your rear bumper whenever they twig there's a learner infront of them though. You'd think a learner plate is a license to distress and agitate the attached vehicle for some drivers out there. This, understandably, stresses Ka out a little but not only do they put the rear end of my new car at risk but they also put their own car at risk, not to mention the other drivers behind them. Ignoring that though, Ka will undoubtedly be passing her test shortly.
We were dropping a painting off to Angela and Steven's today. A belated engagement present/early wedding gift. The grey rose seen here. We then went home to EK only to find the same Angela and Steven, with Morgan, in EK Sainsburys, suspiciously close to the alcohol aisle. After meeting our pal Martin, who is currently a security guard in the supermarket, and getting an update on the pregnant Claire, I managed to get myself a bottle of Jack Daniels for £13. I'll call it an early Christmas present to myself. Unfortunately there was a slight casualty in the trip as Morgan managed to fall flat on her face after I, yes me, told her to go and get her mum after she had spied her near the checkouts. She broke into a run on my words and ended up sliding down the floor of the CD aisle head first. She got up from the floor screaming and shooting blood from her mouth after puncturing her top lip in the fall. Needless to say I felt very guilty and will do for the rest of my mortal life no doubt. Hope your lip gets better Morgan. Martin told me determinedly that I would not be babysitting his child when it arrives. I nodded in agreement.

A Brucie bonus

Picked up the new car on Thursday and it smells lovely. Drives good too. It's wonderful, truth be told. Nice to drive a car that doesn't have a leaking roof like the clio did. I used to have to drive the clio, whenever it rained, with a mini umbrella propped above over my head which wasn't good for when you had to make a manoeuvre. Looking through the back window was slightly tricky. Two years old but with only 2000 miles on the clock. Fantastic. Chaz reckoned the older couple that owned it before only drove it to church and back every sunday. I wonder how long the new car smell will linger. Even though it is 2 years old, somehow, Chaz's garage has gave it a new car scent. Perhaps they have a cannister of 'new car smell' in the garage. I wonder who bottles that? A strange, sweet, leathery, polish like smell. Chaz came with me to pick the vehicle up from his showroom and had the car all ready on the showroom floor, covered with a silk merc cloak and with one swish revealed my new mode of transport. The other car salesmen around paid little attention to his Bruce Forsyth impression, working away at their computers as news of the interest rates came through to which Chaz coincidentally remarked it was a 'Brucie bonus'. One of his car salesmen colleagues was quite happy in that he was going on holiday on Monday to Spain, only quite, he informed me, as he was unfortunately going to be escorted by his lady wife.
Friday was drab - nothing to report. Tea went cold twice. There are few occasions when I let my tea in work go cold. Friday it happened twice for some reason. Mind must be on other matters.
Today, early Christmas, sorry, c word, shopping. Never say the 'c' word before December. That's been a moral of mine for a while now but unfortunately I've even fallen into the horrific shame of it all. Managed to get a few pressies while I have the money though so that has to be a good thing. I hate doing the 'c' word shopping early as well. Once again I'll blame the media!
Tonight, vodka and butterkist popcorn with a movie.

Practically perfect

Mr McKell has done it again. Chaz has found us a new car. A Toyota Corrolla. Ka and myself sat patiantly in a certain Glasgow motor dealership, drinking machine tea while Chaz finished another sale. He then came over and began by complimenting my new glasses. I told him he could dispense with pleasantries and was there to put him back on schedule, in getting us a new car. He took us out in a Toyota Corrolla which, although not as luxurious as the Audi Quattro, seems to be a very smart wee car. Well, when I say wee, I mean it's smaller than the Audi, but bigger than my old Clio. Although two years old it is in near mint condition with little mileage on the clock. Chaz informed us of the car's many selling points, including room and connections for baby seats in the back. Agreeing, I quickly pointed out that they would be good for Ka's niece, Morgan. After a ten minute test drive in the busy Glasgow city centre we stamped our names on it, considering it ideal and left as we had a pressing engagement.
Through to the traffic mayhem that is Edinburgh, Dad drove. Edinburgh traffic always seems so terrible compared to Glasgow with the sheer quantity of bus lanes, one way roads and road works that have been going on for, at least, the last five years. We spent Halloween in the Edinburgh Playhouse watching Mary Poppins with Mum, Dad and Lynsey Ann. The brilliant Cameron Mackintosh production version of the classic P. L. Travers tale about the weird, freakishly perfect nanny who gains employment in a troubled family's London house in 1910, eventually bringing the estranged family back together again with the help of dancing statues and suspicious looking bottles of medicine. The show was everything you'd expect from a Mackintosh production. Great music, fantastic sets, special effects, expert dancing, fun performances and a few surprise spectacles including Poppins gliding out over the stalls up into the galleries above, her brolley raised over her head. There was no tea party on the ceiling though which was a bit of a disappointment but there were a few scenes from the original book, missed from the 1964 movie, including a visit to Mrs Corry's magical Sweet shop in the park. She was basically a dealer based in the park. On one of the Banks' encounters with the Park Ranger he did start to go on about how he found many an odd person wandering around in the park. Bearing in mind the tale is set in London, I wondered if that included George Michael. Do you think George Michael, on being cornered by police and asked what he's up to, has used the excuse 'supercalifragalisticexpialidocious'? Maybe he claimed it only to be a spoonful of sugar? It was certainly a bit odd on leaving the theatre as we, and the rest of the Poppins mob, were surprised to find the street filled with drag queens. Apparently, or so we were to realise, the bar right next door to the Playhouse, the Cafe Habana, has a speciifc form of clientele. It's very popular in Edinburgh's gay scene and, since it was Halloween, the pub's crowd were taking full advantage of their mother's closet. Some of the looks on the older ladies and burly blokes coming out the theatre were a hoot. It was a bit like one of Mary Poppins' fantastical trips coming to life on Greenside Place, making our way through the wigs and feather boas to the car whilst people sang supercalifragalisticexpialidocious. Poppins was right, it does make you feel better!

Nightmares

After a particularly busy day at work, tonight I had more car difficulties. A flat tyre. I had to change a wheel on the Audi A6 Quattro I'm driving at the moment after coming out of work at half past eight. You would think this would be straight forward enough, but no, there were four of us working through it. We all reckon that the wheel's bolts had been superglued. Paul, Craig and Lost Ian were all excellent help in removing the flat wheel and helping me replace it with the spare one from the boot. If it hadn't been for them, I would most certainly have been there till at least midnight. Paul with his surprising mechanic skills, Craig with his strength of a bear and Ian with his indispensable socket spanners. Thanks guys, owe you one! Chaz, the ever helpful car salesman that he is, managed to get me the Audi last week, little did I know it had a flat though. Thanks Chaz! Drives like a dream now but eats petrol like a nightmare.
A very real nightmare of a more serious and saddening nature was in the news yesterday, about the charity worker being gunned down in Afghanistan by the Taleban. She spread the word of Christianity, that was what the Taleban claimed was their reason for this latest murder. Gayle Williams worked for a charity organisation called Serve Afghanistan which primarily aided in the education and help for people with disabilities and special needs. A couple of guys sped up to her on a motorbike, as she walked to work, and shot the South African six times at close range, killing her immediately. She gave her life for the cause and highlights the plight of all the aid workers out in these war torn countries. By not taking the bodyguards offered her, Ms Williams obviously did not value herself enough and underrated her own importance and her own heroism. These needless deaths and terrible incidents always bring it all home and make you wonder why your bothering worrying about things like the price of bread and petrol.

Lights, camera, traction!

It took us around 2 and a half hours to buy washing powder today. Just one annoyance about living without a car. One small, half hour job now involves a good half hour walk, a walk which involves passing through three car showrooms (funnily enough), the usual stroll around the supermarket and then the walk back home. Whilst at the car showrooms we did stop to have a quick look around and were immediately set upon by one of the salesmen. Car salesmen always seem so desperate. He started off by showing us a Kia Ceed and started going on about CSI and Law and Order. When he discovered that neither Ka or myself watched it, he then went on to talk of the Olympics and how Kia had sponsored part of the games. Finding Ka and myself again unimpressed he then moved off trying desperately to find something in common with us. We proved a hard sell. I think I actually witnessed his little heart sink when we finally excused ourselves. Not wanting to look like a complete b**ta** I did ask for his card, just to provide him with a faint glimmer of hope for maybe sometime in the future. Can't seem to find it now... Overall it was a fairly pleasant walk however, with the autumnal colours all around in the sunlight from the clear blue sky. There was a fair bit of wind though and not only from the weather conditions.
Last night's beers from the Early Learning Unit Charity Race Night are to blame which Ka and myself attended alongside Chaz, Mum and Dad. The races involved sitting on a chair facing a wall at one end of a long floor with a horizontal stick in your hands attached by string to a small wooden horse ornament positioned at the opposite end of the floor behind you. On the blow of the whistle you then had to wind the string around the centre of the stick, pulling the string up from under your chair thusly pulling the horse ornament along the floor behind you. Good wrist exercise. On entering the hall I was volunteered for the first race along with Chaz and four other girls. Unfortunately Chaz managed to win the race but only just as I was a very close second. This win made Chaz part of the Champions Race at the end of the night when he turned out the be the close second. Ka won her race in the ELU nursery race against other representatives from the other rooms within her work making her the Champion Jockey winning her the coveted ELU Challenge Trophy presented to her by her lordship herself, Carol, the boss. For some reason Ka does not regard this as a big deal however and has strenuously forbid me to put it on the living room shelf, above the television, for all visitors to see. However, I do have a photo of her receiving her illustrious prize so I ''l have to get down to the printers. We were less lucky with our raffle tickets though, only winning a twenty pound voucher for Dominoes Pizza. Not a place we frequent.
Last night I also uploaded my very first youtube video! Yes, I know, I'm ridiculously behind the times but there you go. The film is from up the Eiffel Tower in Paris on New Years Day.

Short and sweet, not to mention a bit on the wobbly side, but there are some nice shots of The Eiffel Tower's structure in there and some nice dancing lights. Not bad for my wee 5 mega pixel camera. Hopefully the first of many (or at least a few).

All good things...

This morning I said goodbye to the finest, truest friend of the past 7 years. My wee red Renault Clio. It stood on the dim garage floor looking lost and desolate with no where to go for the first time in it's ten year old life. The echoes of some watery drip was the only noise to be heard as I stood looking over it's tired frame once more. Arriving at the garage in the early morning I had already cleared out the few remaining contents inside the car and was now handing the registration form over to the mechanics who seemed to nod sympathetically, almost like understanding Funeral Directors.
Pathetic isn't it. Getting this depressed over a car. I for one never thought a small red road vehicle could make my so glum but there you have it. What a fabulous little car it was. Bought from an ex boss for the not unreasonable amount of two grand approximately seven years ago, I started driving the Clio about in Birmingham and the West Midlands when I worked down there. Including more than a few trips to various towns, cities and trips back north to Scotland, the Clio could hardly be stopped and very rarely let me down, the only money spent on tyres, MOTs and the odd service here and there. A great, reliable wee runabout it has served me well and done me proud. Only now, with a good amount of mileage run up, has it been cruelly forced off the road by a burst timing belt. I will miss it. My thanks go to all the folk in the work for all their consoling, advice and their lifts in the past few days. Gordon in his brother's car, Creamy Chicken John and his hand brake turns at bus stops and Linda M who has been especially helpful, going out of her way on two mornings already, to give me a lift to work, juggling babies, kids and mothers (not whilst driving thankfully). My Dad also allowed me to talk him into extending his usual route twice this week to take me to the garage. Chaz is now on the look out for a replacement vehicle, however, I know I'll never have a true replacement. No matter where my motoring life takes me in the future I shall always remember my Clio. Maybe I should take heed to the words of Winston Churchill:
“This is not the end. It is not even the beginning of the end. But it is, perhaps, the end of the beginning.”
Or Tom Baker:
"It is the end, but the moment has been prepared for" (after which he was replaced by a far lesser model).

A matter of timing

Driving along the East Kilbride expressway yesterday at 65 miles an hour the wee clio started making a strange noise and then it's engine suddenly stopped working. Lights blinked up infront of me and the speed began to fall. I was certain this wasn't right. Fortunately we were just approaching the High Blantyre turn off so I managed to coast the car off the busy A725 all the way down the hill, straight through the T-junction and into the layby opposite. Being unused to these kind of engine malfunctions in my car but having seen plenty of them in acquaintance's old cars I had hald a dreaded suspicion of what had occured. Sure enough, when the toe truck turned up, the mechanic immediately identified the problem. A bust timing belt. Possibly the worst thing to go in an engine - so it looks like it's the bus for me this week and a possible fond farewell to the wee clio. You never know there may be some kind of miracle and the damage may not be that bad but timing belt malfunctions are not known for their kindness on the wallet and it may spell the end for the eleven year old clio. Will hopefully find out in the next few days...
So it was the bus, tonight, to take us to the McGarva household for a brilliant sunday dinner from Ka's mum where many questions were raised watching Chitty Chitty Bang Bang such as should the Baroness not have died after her fall to the water from the height she was at after her dress was shot by the Baron? Or where did the Baron learn to shoot like that? Personally I reckon it was from his time under the persona of Goldfinger, but that's a different story. Also, how annoying were the kids in that film? No wonder they were caged up by that Child Catcher (Bet you that's what Russell Brand will look like in 40 years time). Relying on public transport again is a real pain though. We went out to get our bus home and the bus driver ignored us and our stop. Refusing to be ignored Ka and myself ran after him though and after he got a lucky red light we got him at the next stop. Arguing with bus drivers is my favourite past time (not really - but they make me do it) but tonight I just could not be bothered, flicking my ticket in his general direction and taking my seat. Bus drivers are generally very poor, certainly in this Glasgow area. They are always rude, grumpy, stupid (half of them don't know the areas they drive through) and give the impression they have a major gripe with the world and anyone that wishes to use their smelly, slow, creaking vehicle. You try to be polite to them, they growl back. You ask a question such as how much to... they growl back. You accuse them of missing the stop you'd just been standing at and the swear and shout at you. This has given me the impression that generally bus drivers are mostly unpleasant people but, unfortunately for me, they are my taxi service for, at least, the next few days. Unless I phone an actual taxi, but they're just silly money. Some of the folk in work may help me out (fingers crossed) - I may have to pull in a few favours! Please Clio, don't die! If only Caractacus Potts were here.