Red Dwarf real ale and Runrig

Skull Splitter, Dragonhead Stout, Devil’s Advocate and Stone the Crows. Just a few of the beers on offer last week at the 13th Ayrshire Real Ale Festival in Troon town hall. Straight after work, on Friday night, I jumped in the car and headed out to Barassie to meet up with Dad and Dougie at Tom and Linda’s house. The plan was to get a quick dinner in the Barassie Reid’s house before heading out to the annual beer festival, staying the night with my Aunt and Uncle and the two dogs, Sally and Jake.
Dougie and Dad, who’d been at last year’s beer swilling event, had the spare rooms and I had the luxurious splendour of the living room floor, so whilst the two Dad’s were out getting everyone a fish supper, or a steak pie supper, in my case, Tom and myself pulled the couch cushion in from the mobile home, parked outside in the side driveway, ready for another trip the next Sunday morning.
Four giant portions of fish and chips and a steak pie supper later, we were ready to go. I knew agreeing to the chippie was a mistake as soon as I agreed to it. Eating that amount of food with the intention of then drinking a copious amount of beer could not be a good idea, surely?
Leaving Linda indoors with the dugs, Tom, Dougie, Dad and myself piled into the car and drove down to the Troon town centre, heading straight for the large concert hall after a brief stop off at the seafront Morrisons for a quick visit to the cash machine.
Once parked and disembarked outside one of the small, cosy looking bungalows on Academy Street we followed the few passers by up towards the Troon Concert hall, where, according to the notice board standing outside, Donnie Munro was to be playing at the beginning of November.
One of Mum’s favourites, Donnie Munro is the former lead singer of Runrig, the Scottish, gaelic speaking, celtic rock band. Donnie left to be a politician back in 1997. He’d played his last gig with Runrig at Stirling Castle on August 29th. I know because I was there, along with Colin, Chaz and Adie. Shazz was also there with relations, somewhere in the crowd. Colin had always been into Runrig and I wasn’t unfamiliar with them after hearing more than a few of Mum’s albums, not to mention my Uncle Laurence’s tapes. The 1988 live video ‘City of Lights’ was also a favourite of Mum’s. The live video began with lots of sweaty, eager looking Runrig fans trampling over one another to get through the front doors of the Barrowlands whilst Radio Clyde reported from the Eye in the Sky, circling the gloomy towers and rooftops of Glasgow as the opening drums of Dance Called America boomed through the echoing ballroom. At the time of the farewell gig in Stirling we must have been going through a particularly patriotic musical phase and had even cajoled Adie and Chaz into liking them, although I think that was down to the fact a few of the songs had rather loud drums which sounded good emanating from a bass tube.
I’ll never forget that Farewell Donnie Concert. Not because the singer officially left the band that night, or because we met the man himself and Runrig guitarist, Rory MacDonald straight after, but because suffering a slight hangover, Dad woke me up the next morning and told me Princess Diana had been in a car crash earlier that morning and died soon after.
Anyway, Donnie’s political career obviously didn’t work out fabulously so he’s back at the music, much to Uncle Tom’s vexation (“Runrig? They’re rubbish - Name one good tune?!”) but the night of the 13th Ayrshire Real Ale Festival was going to have a very different kind of music.
Paying our £4 each and receiving our pint glasses and programmes in the process we ventured forth into Troon’s crowded concert hall. A bar took up the whole of the right side of the large hall, barrel’s piled up behind, all with A4 paper labels displaying the many wonderful varied names of the sweet nectar stored inside, all colour coded indicating which kind of category they each fell into. A bitter, a best bitter, a golden ale, a strong bitter, an IPA, a mild, a stout or a Speciality ale. Over 120 beers were being served over the bar, £3 a pint or if you wanted to drink quicker, and taste more, £1.50 a half pint. The bar was run by a large bunch of volunteers from the organisers, Camra, the Campaign for Real Ale organisation whose posters adorned the walls shouting about petitions to George Osborne whose apparently taking over two thirds of the cost of our pint as we drink.
After visiting the Real Ale festival with Tom last year, Dad and Dougie, had told stories ever since of great beer and good music so I was curious to see what kind of music this occasion was going to serve up. As we shuffled through the crowd for our first beers, guys moved around on the stage at he end of the hall with wires and instruments.
First up, I tried the Kelburn Jaguar, a smooth, fullbodied ale with undertones of grapefruit and citrus with a hoppy aftertaste. No, I have not turned into the beer version of Jilly Goolden, I am merely reading from the programme, though I do remember this being the best beer of the night. As the crowd of drinkers got busier, a few of Tom’s mates introduced themselves, each with their own flagon of ale, and the band took to the stage.
Big Licks’ surprisingly good loud cover versions soon had Troon Concert Hall rocking with hits from the likes of the Goo Goo Dolls, Tom Petty, the Stones, Lenny Kravitz, Primal Scream and a whole lot of others. Three guitarists, one a bassist, a drummer and a lead vocalist who immediately reminded me of Bill Nighy from “Love Actually”. He was around the same age with a similar hairstyle, except a little longer at the back and a bit balder on front, with similar Bill Nighy glasses.

He made very decent attempts at the cover versions’ vocals, and jumped around the stage flinging the microphone stand around rather well, considering his age, smiling and laughing through his rather pronounced teeth excitedly. The bass guitarist looked on a little bored in his dark T-shirt and jeans, nodded emphatically to the beat, as most bass guitarists do, whilst the two other guitarists worked hard over their fretboards, spinning off into the occasional impressive solo between pints delivered to the top of a local amp by their wives.
Second beer of the night was the Golden Plover, a light, golden ale that was exceedingly easy to drink as we hummed along to the music. A beer named Red Dwarf followed as the third beverage of the night. I seen the name in the book and thought that since the new series had now started back I owed it to Doug Naylor himself to give it a bash. Another good choice.
Losing track of my beers, though taking it a little easier following the steak pie supper, I’m not sure what was drunk after the Red Dwarf but last of the night was by far, the worst. Merry Maiden’s Mild was this particular tipple’s title and it was in no way merry or mild. It was like drinking watery, alcohol imbued syrup.
Pretty horrible. Especially as I had to drink this one rather quickly.
The witching hour had swiftly come around and Tom informed us we’d have to run for the free train journey home to Barrassie. Dad, Dougie and myself followed Tom and his pal, a short running pal of my Uncle’s, up Academy Street towards the train station. Unfortunately we were travelling upwind.
As we walked there were some distinctive noises from one of the arses walking ahead of us and unfortunately we walked straight into some clouds of definite noxious nitrogen mixed with carbon dioxide with what tasted like the Merry Maiden’s Mild.
Up ahead, the train [ulled up at the station at the top of the hill. Tom and his pal arrived at the train station just as the doors slid open to the waiting crowds of beer swillers and other Friday night travellers. We had to run up the last hill behind them, after having deliberately fallen a safe distance behind whilst debating which of the guys the putrid gases were exiting from. Just as we ran up behind, gasping after the short jog, Tom’s short pal gave another loud frump. Our timing for arriving at their rear, out of breath, could not have been worse and as we suffered in another cloud of rectum gases.
After two minutes on the crowded train the five of us disembarked at Barassie, where Tom’s short pal left us with one last fart, propelling himself up Barassie station’s cross platform stairway behind some chattering girls. Tom had invited him back for some toasted cheese but I wasn’t too keen on the consequences of some more beer being introduced to the guys system, not to mention the cheese. Sally and Jake would have been packing their bags, never mind the rest of us.
Although Sally did almost get a rather more comfortable bunk for the night before we all headed off to bed. Just as we all parted from the living room following our toasted cheese, and Tom’s trip through his concert ticket memory box, I visited the bathroom to clean the old gnashers. Whilst I was brushing everyone else had a good laugh as, the now elderly, Sally made herself comfortable in my cosy mobile home couch cushion and sleeping bag set up on the living room floor.
She looked so comfortable.
I kicked her out.

The Pars and the Celts

Wednesday night was different. I found myself among the football hordes, in the middle of the Lisbon Lions stand at Parkhead, watching Celtic play Dunfermline.
Dad had phoned mid afternoon to ask if I fancied a trip to Parkhead as he had two season tickets temporarily in his possession. As I’m not much of a football fan I didn’t exactly jump at the chance. Dad and Kenny were always the football nuts. The odd game of footie, a weekly games of fives, and only the occasional outing to see a game, that was about it for my football dedication. The team I went to see most was probably the Westwood Rovers, and they didn't have much of a home ground.
I was tired, work was boring, I had an appointment with the gym after work and I had a nice piece of lasagne waiting for me when I got home. Humming and hawing I thought it over as my Dad spoke over the mobile.
Wednesday had been a bit of a struggle. The atmosphere in the office is rubbish at the moment as those of us in the prepress department have still not been informed on where we stand with regards to the company amalgamation with the Daily Record. I’ve been quite happy just to work on and get on with things while the managers make their minds up but the atmosphere has been worsening recently, speculation is rife and there’s always a bit of whispering and muttering going on which doesn't help the atmosphere. So being fed up I didn’t feel particularly up for any last minute trips but after a little consideration I accepted my Dad's invite.
Why not? A wee change. It had been a while since I'd went to a footie match.
Dad usually goes with his cousin and neighbour Michael Brady, as Michael’s son, the owner of the second ticket, often doesn’t get the chance to go along. So my Dad usually goes along to enjoy the games in his place. Michael was ill on Wednesday evening, however, so Dad invited me along.
It had been at least ten years since the last time I’d been in the Parkhead. Since then it’s always been Hampden for the very occasional Scotland game or music gig. 2 U2 visits, the Stones and a Chilli Peppers concert were all in Hampden. Music gigs have been the only occasions I've found myself standing, or jumping about singing, in a football stadium more recently.
Liam Gallagher was there on Wednesday night. It wasn't THE Liam Gallagher obviously. This one was eight years of age. He was the mascot of the night. Not the bloke in the big dog outfit but the home team's young visitor that led the teams on to the park as the music started blaring from the loudspeakers overhead.
Back in my teens, when I was vaguely interested in footie, I’d occasionally visit Parkhead on a Saturday afternoon with my mates.
Back when it was affordable.
Chaz, Colin, Tony and myself would stand in the temporary stands, around 1993-4, shivering in the cold, soaking in the rain, watching Van Hooijdonk and the lads. We even met Fergus McCann one day and got our photo taken with him (I’m not sure whether he was looking at the camera though). Fergus being the main man that rescued Celtic from near bankruptcy in 1994.
How times have changed.
The crowds were taking great delight in singing about Rangers current plight. Something along the lines of “We’re gonnae have a party” echoed at various points around the various stands. It won't be much of a party, I thought, with no one to compete against.
I was quite surprised by how busy the mid week game was, especially considering this was the current table leaders v the current table trailers.
Dad had parked the car around twenty minutes walk away, up beside Shawfield stadium, and just as we'd pulled over to park, cars were pulling up alongside us, passengers disembarking, most with the green and white wools. The walking crowds gathered as we made our way up towards the stadium. Families, couples, fathers and sons, pensioners, groups of kids with a single adult guardian. All were talking away as they walked, the large lights of the stadium growing larger in the dark evening sky as we approached.
We entered the stadium through the usual turnstiles flashing the season tickets, which lit up in response with a bright green 'go' light and strode into the main hall, passing some ticket sellers and the food and drinks kiosks on our way.
£4.10 for a scotch pie and bovril? Crazy prices. I'll never complain about Greggs again. You don't even get beans? You've got to have baked beans with a scotch pie for gawds sake! Especially at that price.
I was starving. I was missing my lasagne.
Most of the stands were pretty full as the match began, the gathering noise echoing up and around the stadium from various corners continuously throughout like a vocal wave machine. One stand would sing one verse and the other stand, the next in response like some sort of giant choir practice. A large crowd of fans in the corner of the Lisbon stand with flags and drums created an almighty racket, thumping away throughout the game's entirety and singing away.
The Green Brigade. The nutter fans. Fans that go to the games more for a workout than for the entertainment by the looks of things. They created a great atmosphere within the giant walls and got a lot of the other stands singing along with them in their enthusiastic chanting, belting out the simple lyrics. Some of the lyrics I could not make out through the echoes and some just seemed made up on the spot, probably by a couple of particularly loud voices, swiftly repeated by others until it became a loud chorus circling the crowd filled stadium.
As the rain intermittently poured down in white pellets through the bright lines of light from the floodlights Dunfermline struggled to make any kind of attack. The blues and yellows, or the Pars, seemed to sit back and merely defend for the most part of the game, only venturing upfield on the odd occasion during the first half, fighting Celtic off the best they could. The visitors were lucky to get away with only a 2-0 defeat thanks their goalkeeper Chris Smith (I think that was his name), who certainly earned his money on the night, saving and deflecting more than a good few shots.
At half time there was a draw for raffle tickets that had apparently been on sale in the stadium's gates and as the winning number was announced over the tannoy there was a loud cheer from the corner of the south stand and a wee couple emerged from the cheering crowd waving and jumping about.
£15,000 they won?! That would have bought them a couple of pies from the food kiosks.
If I'd known about the fifteen grand prize I would have bought myself a ticket. That has to be better odds than the Wednesday night lottery. £15,000 just for going along to the footie on a Wednesday night? Maybe this football malarky is worth it after all?

The good, the bad and the funky

“Who are they then?” Dave frowned, turning in his chair in the new workplace, the stiflingly hot office with broken down air conditioning.
“Who the hell are the Tom, Tom, Club?” Mum frowned over her spectacles, as she put her book down in the conservatory yesterday.
“Whose the Tom Tom Club then?” Colin frowned, after opening his birthday presents which included a Miles Kane album and a remote controlled Dalek. “Jillian said they something about a bunch of councillors or something?”
“Let’s go see the Tom Tom Club th’night guys” a wee ned laughed, as he passed the O2 ABC on Sauchiehall Street. “Whoever they ur!”
Nobody knows who the Tom Tom Club are. Except from the mixed, happy crowd that occupied Glasgow’s ABC2 club on Wednesday night.
Ka and myself were among them, bopping away to the good, the bad and the funky beats.
The Tom Tom Club are the band formed in 1981 by Talking Heads’ bassist Tina Weymouth and drummer husband Chris Frantz, originally formed as a side project for the two of them which, when Talking Heads split in the late eighties, then became their main project. They were and are an original, new wave, electro pop, rock outfit and very rarely make live appearances in Britain, never mind Scotland, so, being a Talking Heads fan, I bought the tickets a few weeks ago out of sheer curiosity. It was a good gig, more rock than rap.
Cheers went up in the small ABC2 as Billy Sloan walked out on to the stage bringing the DJ’s set to a close around nine, introducing the band on to stage. The band performed till late playing their hits along with their three famous cover versions and one or two surprises from the Talking Heads catalogue, including a fantastic ‘Psycho Killer’ to finish off, making a lot of the gathered fans very happy, some exceptionally so. One lassie headbanged her way through the gig, making me suspect she’d taken a wrong turn somewhere and was actually supposed to be in the SECC, watching Iron Maiden and was just too drunk to realise. Her sweaty hair swung and spun around her head into surrounding members of the audience before us, one of which was a pretty tall guy in a red T-shirt. This guy was not popular either as he kept letting off the most horrendous smelling farts, ruining the following five minutes of the gig for us standing behind him with his offending gases. Gawd knows what he’d been eating.
On my way up to the ABC to get the tickets, before the gig, leaving Ka sitting outside Bar Bhudda in the dying sunshine, I passed by the Tom Tom Club as they ambled down Sauchiehall Street together, presumably for a bite to eat. As I was running I’d already past the small motley crew before I realised that it was actually them and it was with considerable excitement that I arrived back down at the bar, tickets in pockets, to hurriedly ask Ka if she’d seen them.
“Seen who?” Ka frowned.
“The Tom Tom Club!” I gesticulated urgently, people frowning, looking up from their drinks from surrounding tables. “They must have passed right by!”
“Oh, is that who they were?” Ka nodded in realisation, recognising the description I gave her. A couple from Newcastle, sitting at the table alongside us, nodded knowingly.
“We’re going too” the rather boring looking couple nodded. Following a brief conversation with the couple from Newcastle (who originated from Glasgow, according to Ka, but had been living down south for nine years) a bird sh*t on me. The second ‘sh*tty’ situation in a week and the second bird poo I have received on Sauchiehall Street.
Anyway, following the gig, some members of the Tom Tom Club came out to mingle with the crowd.
As Ka and myself left we passed Victoria Clamp, the singer who accompanies Tina on vocal duties. I interrupted the conversation she was having with two other blokes to thank her for the show which she politely nodded and thanked me for, looking a little disturbed at the same time as she seemed to have been accosted by a strange, shivery looking bloke who apparently didn’t have anywhere to stay for the night.
Before the show had started I’d also shook Frankie Boyle’s hand. Ka had been in the loo when I suddenly noticed a familiar, heavily bearded, bespectacled, face minding his own business, supping a pint with his bespectacled wife in the quiet, but steadily busying crowd before the stage. As Ka eventually emerged from the loo I led her up towards the bar but took a slight detour by the controversial, Scottish comedian. Ka sighed and rolled her eyes, again not realising, wondering who it was I’d met now. It was not until after my cheery ‘pleased to meet you’ and friendly handshake that Ka’s eyes recognised the bearded man before her.
Boyle had seemed happy enough, and polite enough, to acknowledge the recognition, shifting his pint to his other hand for the handshake which he greeted with a smile and a nod.
You hear horror stories of people meeting celebrities in the street and being given unfriendly replies to hellos or, if you’ve really got the balls, autograph requests. For instance there was more than a few stories of innocent, excited bystanders greeting Billy Connelly and being given a rude and rather severe “f**k off!” in return.
I’ll never understand that myself. Being rich and famous is surely a privilege and being recognised in the street is surely expected to come hand in hand with such a chosen career, so why be rude in such a fashion to the people that keep you in the job? Okay, you might be having a bad day, but there’s no need for bad language surely? If you were to see someone famous in the street and start slinging insults at them, their work or their latest movies, I’m sure a “f**k off!” would be justified, but if you’re simply saying hello, surely a simple nod would suffice.
Boyle obviously understands this and is quite willing to shake the hands of a passing concert goers, happy after a few pints. Either that or he is now treasuring any pleasantries he can get after the criticism he got for slagging off Jordan’s kid.

Frankie’s wife frowned as the strange, smiling bloke walked off to the bar, towing his own wife behind.
“Who was that then?”
Frankie looked round at her and shrugged.
“No f***in’ idea” he hummed with a slight shake of the head taking another sip from his pint. “Just another to**er”.
His wife sighed with a nod as she took another drink from her vodka and coke.
“So” she frowned again, as she looked round towards the stage. “What’s this band called again?”

Magnificent

U2 rocked Hampden on Tuesday with a fantastic concert. Ka, Chaz, Tracey (a friend of Ka's) and myself headed into the stadium around six and met up with Colin and Heather who had already picked their spot. A rather good spot as it turned out almost directly infront of the stage, facing the east side of the stadium and directly infront of the circular walkway which surrounded the stage. Above us stood the massive 'claw' stage with it's giant screen circling the upper part of the claw and the tower of lights at it's centre spewing out dry ice as David Bowie's 'Space Oddity' roared from the eight sets of speakers hanging above us.
Then Larry took the stage pounding on his drums, the opening beats of 'Breathe' welcoming Adam, The Edge and then Bono to the stage. I had been moaning about the sound quality at the last Hampden gig with the Vertigo Tour back in 2005 (ish) but there were no such problems this time round, whether this was to do with the stage being more centralised in the stadium or not I have no idea but it just sounded ten times better and as a result made the whole gig far better. There was a slight problem later in the gig when the sound was lost during 'Walk On', one of the roadies must have tripped on a plug wire or something. The sound loss only lasted around a minute or so and things soon kicked back in making everyone breathe a sigh of relief. 'Walk On' was sang in tribute to the Burmese pro-democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi, whose prison sentence was extended last week, and sang in protest and support for her with volunteers from the stadium's crowd taking to the stage with masks of photos of her face. A face I had mistaken for David Mitchell's upon arrival in the crowd when the masks were being dished out.
There were countless folk holding their phones up for the near entirety of the gig, filming the whole thing. You only have to have a quick look on You Tube to find loads of clips of varying quality from quite clear and sharp to just plain rubbish. I only took a couple of short little clips, the longest of which I've put on my You Tube page but most of that picture quality comes from the enormous circular screen which was really something to see, especially when it expanded down over the stage and gave us the incredible light shows which accompanied some of the songs such as 'Unforgettable Fire' and 'City of Blinding Lights'. In all a great concert and a great night out.

Byrne in full swing

During the weekend Ka and myself took a brief and deliberate break on the Saturday night. We went through to Edinburgh to see Mr. David Byrne again. We last seen him in Glasgow at the end of March as he hit Scotland on his Everything That Happens tour and I was delighted to find he was going to be part of Edinburgh's Edge Festival and booked the tickets with a mere week to go before the gig. Unfortunately after Gran passed away I was unsure whether to still go through for the gig but after various relations told me not to be silly and what Gran would have said I agreed that it may still be a good idea and would maybe even help take our minds off the grief that was to come on Sunday and Monday.
It worked, if only for the Saturday night, and Mr Byrne and his band were great. There were a few teathing problems for the first half hour however as Byrne had to restart the third song after realising the guitar he had started using for that song was completely out of tune. Unfortunately there was also a couple of gobsh*tes in the audience who revelled especially in the guitar tuning break yelling at the musician and his band in the first half hour or so whenever they got the chance. Presumably they were shut up at some point as they went quiet after the first half hour or so once the music was back in full swing. In fact, after Byrne had tried and failed with that guitar he seemed to start up full throttle again as if in answer to the critics in the crowd and after a couple of songs more everyone in the Playhouse was on their feet and dancing. Byrne's dancers were excellent, spiralling, jumping and swaying over the stage, behind, in front and around Byrne and his band as they played a good mix of new tunes and old, mixing new material from the 'Everything that happens...' album and the Talking Heads material, mostly from the Eno produced albums. The sound in the Playhouse was not great (certainly not as good as Byrne had sounded in the Royal Concert Hall in March) but was certainly not the worst, being a hundred times better than any stadium gig I've been to in recent years.
Talking of which, U2 will be at Hampden next Tuesday with their new sci-fi looking spider stage. U2's sound at Hampden had been a major disappointment the last time on the Vertigo tour so hopefully things will have improved since then.

Everything that happens live

We were in Glasgow's Royal Concert Hall last night for a brilliant night watching Mr David Byrne and his excellent band. When I say excellent, of course, I mean excellent, as Byrne played the majority of his latest album and Eno collaboration 'Everything That Happens Will Happen Today' proving that all the tracks lose nothing, if not sound better, live and onstage. There were also a select number of tracks from the Talking heads days including the brilliant, and one of my own personal favourites, Heaven. Byrne rebelled against the usual few folk shouting for Psycho Killer and played more than a few more obscure and brilliant Heads songs including I Zimbra, Born Under Punches and Houses in Motion. All the while Byrne was accompanied by his great band and, the majority of the time, by three professional ballet dancers who spun, shimmied and acted around him as he sang, the male dancer at one point jumping over the lead singer, leaping Byrne's full height like it was a walk in the park. Life During Wartime, Once in a Lifetime and Burning Down the House were the big Heads hits sung on the lead up to the finally which was the slow but beautiful title track to the latest album. On entering, at the beginning of the gig, Byrne received a standing ovation to which he smiled 'that's what we came for, may as well go home now', the trouble was, even after the lights came back up 2 hours later, nobody did want to go home.