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.

Feeling guilty?

Another night of Children In Need. Upsetting, uncomfortable and difficult to watch. Three ways to describe Alan Sugar’s attempts at humorous acting and Ian Beale in a tight pink jumper and skirt, pushing a hoover around his living room to the tune of Queen’s “I want to break free”. All this uncomfortable viewing between the many short sad films about the kids of the UK that need the help and the money.
DVD Andy has always suspected me of being guilty of spending my weekly Thursday’s off just like Freddie, with the hoover, as Thursday is usually housework day. This week, however, I was waiting on plumbers coming round to give us a quotation for the installation of Gas central heating. Unfortunately, after being given the quote, we’re not sure we’ll bother. Two and a half grand they want for putting central heating into our wee one bedroom flat. A normal house costs between three and four so I think we may just stick with what we’ve got.
The good old electric.
We’d only be installing the gas heating to help sell as it seems to be the only complaint from possible buyers who’ve come round to view. Look’s like we’ll just have to wait on a non energy biased buyer.
We barely use the electric anyway. The guys in work, asked me how we usually keep warm if we don’t use it. We never need it, though with the winter just around the corner Ka and myself could, quite soon, be finding ourselves walking around with double helpings of dressing gowns. At the moment it would seem all Ka needs is Michael Buble. The wife was up dancing around the living room in her pyjamas on Thursday night as the singer started his contribution to the Children In Need Rocks Manchester concert.
Last night we had a little heat from one large solitary candle standing lit in the middle of our coffee table. We had just finished a curry for dinner though so I suspect that was lit by Ka merely to try and get rid of the stench of Indian food which was now lingering throughout the living room and kitchen. Our second curry in a week.
The first was last Saturday when we went through to Tom and Linda’s in Barassie, Troon. As my Uncle Tom is in the middle of rebuilding his kitchen, we had hit upon the idea, a while back, at my cousin’s son’s baptism, of a curry night. So after arriving early evening on Saturday, just after the sun had set on the cold, Firth of Clyde horizon, Tom and Linda informed us that they were taking us along to their favourite curry house, the Maharani. The maharani was a small, but cosy, Indian restaurant just a short walk from the front on West Portland Street where we ate some fantastic food, mine being a giant portion of Chicken Tikka Tandoori, which arrived sizzling on a long black plate perched on a pile of hot, flavoured onions. Tom had also ordered a Tandoori, a ginger chicken, but refrained from eating all of his massive portion, instead opting to keep some for Sally and Jake, the dogs back home. For a brief few moments I also considered politely putting some of my chicken aside for the dogs’ supper but only for a brief few moments. I then thought better of it and demolished the rest of my plate. Feeling rather full afterwards, and slightly guilty about the hungry dogs back at the house, we then ambled over to the Lido bar where we joined Troon’s Saturday night elite for a few drinks.
Lido is a stylish café like bar, owned by the same bar and restaurant outfit that runs the harbour restaurant in the same town, Scott’s and Elliots in Prestwick. The brasserie sits on the quiet street, among the other, older bars and seaside shops, it’s modern face a little out of place. With polished dark wood furniture and decorated cushion seats and walls inside, circling a decorative bar and open kitchen, it’s obviously drawing inspiration from some of the swankier places in town making it a great alternative for the folks of Troon, to some of the other, more traditional settings. It was busy, lively and comfortable and just as we were leaving to head back to the house the DJ was setting up his decks on the large, rectangular table alongside us, casting some smokers’ drinks and scarves to the side. These smokers had thought it acceptable to keep their interior seats whilst they sat out at the tables in the outside front, framed by neatly trimmed hedges. As long at their scarves were still slung over their inside chairs and their glasses of water were still in place on the table they considered themselves able to come back and forth whenever they pleased. They left their inside table to head outside for a cigarette and made themselves comfortable on one of the round tables outside, safe in the knowledge their table inside was guarded by the scarves and water. For at least forty minutes, they lounged around outside, before frowning through the window as the DJ turned up with his various laptops and control panels, quickly casting their scarves aside after asking if they had belonged to us.
Why should smokers’ unattended tables be kept for them in a busy bar area? If they decide to leave their table empty, in order to feed their nicotine cravings then giving up the comfy indoors table should be a sacrafice they should be willing to take. Why should others, in a busy bar, be made to stand, by a scarf slung over the back of a chair?
Ka and myself have actually nicked smokers’ tables before. One of the last times being in the Theatre Royal Bar in Edinburgh when we innocently nabbed what we thought was an empty table, considering the one jacket left over one of the chairs to have been long abandoned, and made ourselves comfortable with a few glasses of wine before the david Byrne gig next door. After a good half an hour of sitting enjoying ourselves the smoking couple (they weren’t that good looking) turned up looking for their place. As it turned out they were actually very nice about it and pulled up another chair on the opposite side of the table and started chatting away. They were an older couple, the bearded bloke perhaps around forty odd in age, the woman looking a bit older. Before we knew it they were spitting at the ground with the sheer mention of trams, telling us where they lived, how they’d met and about when they’d last seen the Talking heads in concert. When the time came to go and take our places in the theatre next door, Ka and myself apologised once more for taking up half of their table uninvited and left them in the lively bar.
Upon entering the Playhouse, Ka and myself split up for a quick toilet visit and as I was standing at the male trough doing my business somebody ambled up and took the place next to me.
“Oh, hello again!” the bearded man smiled from my side. After another short conversation, very short, as conversation over urinals are always a bit awkward, I headed out and found Ka through the busy throng of the Edinburgh Playhouse. Upon meeting each other we decided to get a wee drink from the bar, rolling out the barrel, as it were, as it’s not every week you go to the theatre or a gig. So as I joined the bustling crowd at the ridiculously small theatre bar I slowly made my way to the front of the crowd as slowly but surely the people before me obtained their various beverages from the choice of two bottles beers at triple the usual price or three kinds of wine, white, red, or rose. Upon finally reaching the bar I planted my elbows down on to the bar and turned to find the bearded smoker standing at my side again. I think he gave me the same look I gave him. The ‘not you again’ look. The pleasant surprise and nod of the ‘how are you’ look followed by the ‘look away at something, anything, that’ll enable me to not make conversation’ look. After getting my drinks I half expected Ka and myself to get into the theatre and find the two smokers sitting in the next seats along from us.
I get the ‘look away at something, anything, that’ll enable me to not make conversation’ look quite a lot. There was a girl in high school that I used to fancy who used to find lamp posts or brick walls extraordinarily interesting to look at whenever I approached.
During the week I was wondering up Cadzow Street in the morning, on my way to work, when the Head honcho woman from our Estate Agents, (let’s call them ‘Your Maneuver’ again), seen me walking up towards her as she made her way to the ‘Your Maneuver’ office. I’d spoke to her for around an hour, not more than four or five weeks ago, and I know she recognised me, but, for whatever reason, decided to suddenly give the passing shop windows at her side and the passing pavestones under her feet, her full, uninterrupted, attention.
Guilt at having failed to sell our beautiful flat. That's what I reckon it was.
Guilt. Terrible thing.
That’s probably what makes Children in Need such uncomfortable viewing. If you don’t donate you must, and should, feel guilty.
It doesn’t take a lot to make me feel guilty.
Hopefully Sally and Jake will forgive me for eating all my Tandoori.

Let them eat cake

Ka and myself took a trip to the cinema on Friday night to see 'The Curious Case of Benjamin Button'. The main character being born as an old man, or an old baby at the very beginning, and growing younger as the years go on, living his life in reverse. A great idea which is handled brilliantly and realistically. Pitt and Blanchett are great in the main roles and the effects are awesome. For the first hour of the movie you forget that it is actually Brad Pitt playing the lead role, the effects and make-up are so natural looking. A brilliant but weird film which left me thinking about life, death and the short goings on inbetween. The people, the relationships, the places, the chances, the opportunities and events of ones life. All very short, fleeting but vastly different. Some being extraordinary, massive or life changing and others being whether you have milk in your tea.
We arrived home from the cinema only to find a message waiting for us on the phone. My Gran had been taken into hospital for treatment after an investigative X-ray. Apparently the Doctors had looked over the X-ray taken and told her she would not be going home. So she has been in hospital ever since. Hopefully not for too long.
The next day we were in Troon choosing a wedding cake with the help of my Aunt Linda and Uncle Tom. Another job ticked off the to-do list for THE BIG DAY. Ka and myself were not particularly fussed about a Wedding Cake but as always with these things, it's traditional, (plus, I rather like a bit of cake late on, at a Wedding reception, when your veering towards drunkeness). Aunt Linda had told us of this fantastic wee cake shop in Troon which specialises in Wedding Cakes. After a pasta lunch in Barassie at Tom and Linda's, we set off for the Troon town centre. It was a bright but cold day and Sally and Jake, the two border collies, moved around impatiantly in the Volvo's back boot, eager for the Troon streets and for a short run across the beach. On arrival Tom left us to head for the front while Linda led us round to Sugar and Spice. A small white door in a back alley, just off Troon High Street, squashed between a printers and a garage, it was a small little opening, the smells of sweet ingredients, icing and sponge hitting us as we stepped inside.
A flurry of activity greeted us as the white aproned bakers, icers, or general cake makers, scuttled about in the large kitchen behind the compact front counter before us. The small standing area before the front counter was walled by glass cabinets containing giant cakes of varying shapes and sizes and catalogues of photographs from cakes constructed for weddings of the past and various other occasions. Little couples made from icing, animals, cars, bathtubs, seemingly anything can be made out of icing. The whole room like a very white, very claustrophobic mini version of a room in Charlie's Chocolate Factory. After flicking through a large catalogue, admiring, and slagging, many of the cakes, we made our decision, a rather nice octagonal number, and left to allow another three people and a buggy entry into the tightly packed little shop. Another job done and another of life's little moments taken care of. The picking of the Wedding cake. It was just unfortunate we did not get the opportunity to taste any.