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!

Don't look back in anger

Enjoyed Chris Moyles' show on Radio 1 this morning. On Friday morning he talks less and plays more, playing great tunes from years gone by, chosen by him and his team. Whilst driving to work I was pleasantly surprised when he played Sleeper?! The small, britpop band from the early to mid nineties fronted by the superbly beautiful Louise Wener (slightly unfortunate name there). My first ever proper gig back on the 26th May 1996. At least, I think that's when it was. The first of many, and the first visit to the Glasgow Barrowlands too. Chaz, Colin and myself being successfully crushed, battered and bruised in the rocking Glasgow crowd. It was absolutely mental and I'm pretty sure we were lucky to survive. The sheer pain involved I don't think has ever been surpassed at any gig since. U2 at Murrayfield in 1997 came close though. At the beginning of the Popmart gigs the band would march down an avenue cutting through the crowd, fencing off the fans at either side with waist high, metal barricades. My stomach was pressed up against one of these barricades by the 50,000 people behind me. Not pleasant. I'm surprised I did not crack a rib in that crowd as I managed to stay up against the front of that barricade for the majority of the concert, up ahead of the others who suffered behind. Great gig though considering it was a fairly middling point in U2's excellent career. It's about time we had some new material from them. Going back to Britpop, we heard yesterday Blur are getting back together again for some special gigs next year. Always liked Blur but for some reason opted for Oasis in my younger, foolish, days when the whole Blur v Oasis Britpop war was going on. When Blur grew more experimental with their tunes I definately started liked them more and more, their sound moving away from traditional Britpop and maneuvering into more electronic, atmospheric art rock with the '13' album and 'Think Tank'. Something Oasis have never done. They've stuck firmly to the good old strumming and whining routine most of the time. However, I have to admit to almost liking Oasis' new tunes that are getting the airplay at the moment. After 'What's the Story Morning Glory' I mostly lost interest with them, revisiting them briefly with the 'Heathen Chemistry' album a few years back but again, not paying much attention following that. A band that have had definite flashes of brilliance in their music over the years but have suffered terribly with ego problems. That was always a Manchester thing though wasn't it? The Stone Roses were the same. Egos the size of Manchester itself. Liking the new tunes from Snow Patrol and the excellent Killers. Not sure what the new Killers' Song lyrics are all about ('Are we human or are we dancers'?) but who cares, U2 and Oasis have got away with shoddier than that (not that the two of them are in any way alike). You'd have a field day in a shoddy lyrics competition with Oasis.

Fighting the humbug

Gran is in the Christmas mood. Whether she likes it or not. Early afternoon, after posting the last of our Christmas cards, I visited my Gran. Poor Gran is not in the best of shape at the moment but I did manage to talk her into helping her put her Christmas decorations up around the wee house. After a bit of a huff and a puff she grudgingly agreed and before I knew it I was up a shoogily ladder pulling the small, artificial electric tree down from the cold darkness of the loft. She had also bought a funky plastic Christmas star recently which eerily glows different colours as it hangs. It looked more like something that had fallen from Krypton and would be more likely to guide Superman home rather than three kings. I want one. After Christmasising (okay, there's no such word!) the place I left happy in the knowledge that my Gran would no longer be sitting in a humbug state as she had been before. Saying all this, of course, Ka and myself do not even have a tree to speak of yet. Tomorrow I'll no doubt be dropping round the old B & Q for a nice fresh Norwegian Fir as soon as I get out of work. Nothing beats a nice real tree sitting in your living room stinking the place up with it's nice pine odour. Gives you that Christmas high... I'm just getting carried away now.

Mind bloggling

It is always surprising to read messages from folk that say they enjoy reading your blog or in my case, diary, or even, to give it it's official, perhaps slightly ostentatious title, 'journal'. This is my 100th post and I never once thought I would get this far. The whole experience of writing life's thoughts, happenings, meetings and conversations has actually turned out to be more fun than I thought, even though I'm certainly not documenting anything particularly spectacular. Then again, that depends how you define 'spectacular' I suppose... Everyone's ideas of 'spectacular' are very different. The fact I've kept this up is spectacular in itself perhaps. Looking back, I reckon it was hitting the grand old age of thirty that did it. On the event of the birthday I think I panicked as I could not remember where the last thirty years had gone and what the hell I had done with them. There was school, school, uni then work. But what happened inbetween, and during, come to mention it? Where does it all go? Where did it all whizz off to? They say life is fleeting but this is ridiculous. In the beginning I reckon this was all an effort to try and document something... anything?! Together with the odd rant, review and other extraneous thoughts thrown in for good measure, of course, I discovered what this blogging thing is all about.
When I first activated my own website (www.reidnet.org.uk) I had the intention of using it as an online portfolio, which I still use it for, but also as a place for family folk and mates to hang out. I engineered a messageboard for it, with much difficulty at the time, which only a few folk ended up using, usually arguing. This made it considerably pointless. That's where I went wrong. It was not a messageboard I wanted but a proper writing blog. A much better, easier way of saying something online. Okay, Bebo, Myspace and all these other online communities are great at that but more often than not you get a whole bunch of emails from complete weirdos, who you don't know from adam, asking you to be their friends. People sitting at home, on their computers, jumping with glee when they hit the fifty friend mark (or whatever friend amount would make you jump with glee). I'm not particularly interested in what celebrity I may or may not look like, adopting a computer generated duck or what kind of alcoholic drink I would be. Well, okay, the alcoholic drink I'm curious about, but usually I'm quite happy to just sit and type. This blog has been great in talking to folk on other blogs, some on other countries, reading other peoples' writing, getting inspiration, ideas, motivation and generally gaining a better way of exploring the web. In short, I'm having fun writing on this journal, whether people read it or not.

Liver damage

Semi successful little trip into Glasgow yesterday for the S&UN Christmas Dinner, hosted by Óran Mór. Started off well with a few pints along Great Western Road with Gareth and his mate Gav, meeting a hairdresser named Joe along the way, another of Gareth's best mates who it turns out is cousin to Claire, of Claire and Martin fame. This fact I realised when faced with Joe the hairdresser's receptionist - Claire's Auntie Maureen. All very confusing but another one of these weird 'it's a small world' instances which we encounter so often in our fleeting little lives. Anyway after that, window shopping at the book shops and considering the purchase of a rather skinny looking Santa outfit in the local Shelter shop we met up with the rest of the S&UN crew and enjoyed our dinner. For starter I tried the pigeon. Something I've never eaten before, and probably something I'll never eat again but an interesting (only as it was 'different') menu choice all the same. Some diners perhaps inspired by the final of the dreadful 'I'm a Celebrity' tv programme the night before. Pointing out that pigeons are not quite the same as camel testicles I quickly shut up in case I put someone off their dinner. Creamy Chicken John spent some time wondering where they got their pigeons. Maybe the restaurant hired a tall, thin cackling man with twirling black moustache and a complaining mutt to snatch them in stupidly small aeroplanes from in and around George Square. Matters did not improve when people started comparing it to eating liver. Never eaten liver. Quite frankly, liver has always been as appealing to me as camel testicles. However, I have had a nice chianti before... ssssisisisissssss.
Talking of eating flesh, for main I had a lovely sirloin steak, cooked to perfection. No chianti with it though. As always with these company outings/meals some of us ended up paying more than what was originally planned. This was partly due to some pregnant women complaining about how they never drank anything, wanting special treatment when it came to tally up time discounting the fact some of us were paying over the odds for the two course option. Flamin' pregnant women. It was their own choice to get pregnant and stay sober not the rest of us. Why should we have to overcomplicate the bill payment just because they've got one in the oven? In the end they got a fiver back each. Whoopee! Don't spend it all at once girls! How long will that feed y'er screaming wean for eh?
Afterwards we retired to the general bar area and had too much to drink over various conversations including baby name calling, David Bowie's pianist (not penis Anna), how George Lucas should not be allowed to make movies himself, kilts, tartans, the Red Hot Chilli Pipers and Latvian Wonder women amongst other things which I probably have absolutely no hope in remembering until Wednesday, at the earliest. Even now, late on Sunday evening, after having regained my full senses after the damage and trauma from the alcohol abuse the night before, I cannot fully remember what the hell I was jabbering to folk about all night. I do, quite definately remember the bus journey home though, as the No.20 took the longest time ever to crawl up to Calderwood. Moving slower than walking pace at times and at others playing whacky races with the taxis. Gawd, how I wish I could afford the taxis! Maybe I should have went to George Square to see if any of those small aeroplanes were buzzing about.

Wall street

The Street Art Awards Party 2008 was held last night in London. An awards exhibition of artwork produced solely on the dirty brick walls, grimy, dark underpasses or the sides of tall buildings of the streets throughout the country. Banksy is of course the most 'commercial' and recognisable of these rebellious, vigilante type artists but these awards showcase so much other really impressive artwork and show that it, as a true artform, is getting more and more exposure and appreciation. The works of Adam Neate, Conor Harrington, Replete and Guy Denning are particular favourites of mine. The colour, vibrancy and sheer dynamism in their images is really amazing. Guy Denning is another who is featured in the online exhibition having become involved in Bristol. He is largely more famous for his portrait work and paintings but obviously still has a major following in the urban art scene there. His work combines collage and painting fusing colours, characters and messages together with powerful emotions, his subjects often screaming or twisting in movement. Adam Neate is another who is slightly more conceptual in his approach who, after finding canvas too pricey, started painting on cardboard, material and bascially any old shit left lying about the streets. He is now an internationally recognised artist after being approached by the National Gallery and having his work sold at Sothebys in London. Moving away from the portrait like images by looking at the likes of Replete's work, you can quickly tell the inspiration and styles he has picked up through his computer graphic animation. Though this style is perhaps a little more 'conventional' for street art it's impact and sheer volume cannot be lost on the viewer taking you into another world as you stroll down the street for a pint of milk. Fantastic stuff. If only i lived in London. There seems to be so much more of it down there. Unfortunately Glasgow does not have much in the way of Street Art except from the occasional cartoon willy. The most urban art in Glasgow I've seen has usually been around the Kelvinbridge area but even then it was pretty minimal and certainly no Denning or Banksy. Maybe there's a career opening for someone there..?

With scarf and spade

Winter is most definately here with ice covering the roads and the outside temperature near dangerous without a pair of gloves. My hands felt red raw with cold after scraping the frost from my windscreen this morning. It was a struggle to even get out the street both today, and yesterday, as we live on a uphill climb and the gritter lorries don't seem to ever pass down our way. People sat in their cars yesterday morning, halfway up our street, uselessly spinning their tyres on the spot to try and get up the road. I had a plan though. Armed with scarf and spade I strode out yesterday morning and made good use of the salt bin across the road, spreading the grit over the majority of the street managing to avoid an embarrassing fall on the ice. It's always more embarrassing when you fall on the ice rather than a regular trip on pavement. Regular trips or falls you can usually deal with. But ice falls are far worse. Before you actually hit the ground your body will assuredly twist, swivel, spin, strain in an uncomfortable upright position and then, with one final skid for effect, collapse to the cold, solid street. To make matters worse someone will undoubtedly always see or be watching you and may even be working perfectly normally on the other side of the street. After spreading the salt I set off for the car, parked further down the street, managed to turn it and started up the hill, only to get stuck further down the hillside. After a few moments i turned into one of the neighbours I had been tutting at not half an hour before, spinning the tyres uselessly in sheer desperation of movement. Yet more gritting was called for. For some reason with these conditions the Council has neglected their usual winter road attacks and left us all to suffer with the ice. Last week I passed a salt spreader lorry when they wasn't a single snowflake to be seen so where have they all gone this week in our moment of need? If I was grumpier I would phone the council up and complain... but instead I'll just complain on this journal. I've found this journal quite good for venting some spleen or as fellow blogger Miriam calls it, ranting. Nothing wrong with a bit of ranting as long as it's the truth.
It was Lost Ian's last day in the office today and we all bid him 'fare thee well'. Till Saturday anyway as it's the work's Christmas lunch. It's okay to mention Christmas now as it is officially December. Christmas should only be in December, not October or even November. It still seems very early to be having a Christmas night out but I suppose it's only 3 weeks away now. Another year almost over. Better get those baubles out again.