Around fifteen years ago I was in my first job and heading out on a Christmas night out. I was young and intending to get as pissed as possible. I did.
We went to a restaurant on the south side of Glasgow. A very nice Italian place. It was quite plush inside and even had a seven foot stone statue of some greek God.
As the night wore on me and my pal got more and more drunk. To the point I was visiting the toilet every fifteen minutes as the pints were going right through me. Each time I had to ask three women to move which wasn't impressing them at all.
More and more drunk I got, to the point where I started to feel a little bit sickly. One of the women spotted this and said to get into the toilets as quick as possible. I did. I fucking ran. Thank Christ because I just got in and started throwing up in the sink. I couldn't even make it to the toilets.
I started chucking up my dinner, bloody loads of it. All orange, I remember that. I was running the taps to rinse it away, but in my pissed state I didn't realise that it wasn't running away as I was swirling the water around the basin. I noticed when it started swishing over the edge onto the floor.
I rolled up my sleeve and jammed my arm into the watery vomit and tried to loosen the chunks around the plug but it just wouldn't drain away. It was even worse as some old man came in to the toilet and saw me swaying around, steaming, with my arm in a basin of puke. Then my boss came in, the fifty year old company director. He didn't seem too happy, but left me well alone.
After several minutes it eventually drained away, and I rinsed my arm and washed it as best I could to remove the stink of puke and staggered back out into the restauarant. I was very pissed and almost fell over something. I was aware of several people crouched down on the floor, but I just got past them, stepping over something and back to my table, hoping I wouldn't fall over.
I needn't have worried about embarrassing myself any further. My colleague who was quite pissed as well had been on his way to the toilet, past the seven foot statue and grasped it around the waist and the outstretched hand as if he was dancing with it and managed to pull it over onto the floor.
I found out later it weighed 3/4 of a ton and he had managed to knock the whole thing over which snapped the remaining arm off. It was the fallen statue I stepped over when I came out the toilets.
The restaurant sued my employer and as an insurance broker that was fun having to submit that one to our own insurance company.
The only other amusing Christmas office lunch story I have is when I went to two. It was 1994 and I was leaving my first job in the November. I'd committed to the first one then got invited to the second at my new job. I said Yes immediately then later realised they were on the same day. No matter I thought, one was a lunch at about 3pm and one was a dinner around 6pm. Good times.
I didn't want to let anyone down from my old office and wanted to be part of the new office crowd, so I went to both. I thought 'it can't be that difficult. Two meals, hours apart. I won't eat that much.'
It wasn't the eating that scuppered me. At the lunch I was saying goodbye to my pals for the last 4 years, and I'd been out for Christmas lunches with them before and it was a beerfest. I drank and I drank.
When I got to the meal later with my new colleagues, my wife had been invited to that one and she waiting for me. Thank God, cos she kept me right. It was going quite well....I thought. I was feeling a bit stuffed with all the food and the drinks kept coming.
The turning point though was when I turned to my wife and said;
"When are we having the main course then?"
"You've just had it."
I was very confused.
I was also pished out my tits, and at that point I knew it. I was thinking 'Oh Christ, I'm with my new colleagues, I'm absolutely steamin', I'm going to look like a fanny.'
No worries, my wife ceased my drinking, much to my displeasure, and got me the hell out of there still looking no' bad.
Friday, 31 August 2007
Thursday, 30 August 2007
That Woman Was In The Nip 2
As a young lad I did my duty and did a paper round. I did have trouble as I was usually the last boy into the shop, and the last one back, and had to be rudely awakened on occasion by the guy from the shop hammering on my front door. This is surprising as I lived only 100 yards from the shop and the first house on my paper round was my own and the round ended about 150 yards from the shop.
At one point I was given another round and delivered to houses in a more affluent area. In the winter months you’d walk around in the near dark shitting yourself at the slightest noise, but it also had its advantages.
One morning I walked up to a door, and was almost going to slide the paper through, when I saw movement through the small glass panel at head height. I knew someone was walking about inside and didn’t want to batter the paper through the letterbox and make them crap themselves so I respectfully held back a few seconds. And thank lordy I did.
I then saw the person walking towards the door. There was a faint light on inside, and I could make out she was carrying a tray with mugs etc. She was walking towards the front door to go up the stairs.
She was also only wearing her tiny white panties.
Yup, here I was a young lad watching some topless woman’s breasts bouncing around right in front of me. After she’d gone up the stairs I waited about 20 seconds then pushed the paper through and walked off feeling slightly uncomfortable.
On looking back on it, she must have thought she was so lucky to have just gone upstairs and just avoided showing the paper boy her tits.
There was also the time I walked up to a door and got a view right up the stairs to some female bending over and brushing her teeth in the skimpiest of night attire. Even better that it was one of the most sexy girls in my year at school. Please bear in mind I was the same age so this was completely legal.
I think I’m too old now for a paper round. Bugger
At one point I was given another round and delivered to houses in a more affluent area. In the winter months you’d walk around in the near dark shitting yourself at the slightest noise, but it also had its advantages.
One morning I walked up to a door, and was almost going to slide the paper through, when I saw movement through the small glass panel at head height. I knew someone was walking about inside and didn’t want to batter the paper through the letterbox and make them crap themselves so I respectfully held back a few seconds. And thank lordy I did.
I then saw the person walking towards the door. There was a faint light on inside, and I could make out she was carrying a tray with mugs etc. She was walking towards the front door to go up the stairs.
She was also only wearing her tiny white panties.
Yup, here I was a young lad watching some topless woman’s breasts bouncing around right in front of me. After she’d gone up the stairs I waited about 20 seconds then pushed the paper through and walked off feeling slightly uncomfortable.
On looking back on it, she must have thought she was so lucky to have just gone upstairs and just avoided showing the paper boy her tits.
There was also the time I walked up to a door and got a view right up the stairs to some female bending over and brushing her teeth in the skimpiest of night attire. Even better that it was one of the most sexy girls in my year at school. Please bear in mind I was the same age so this was completely legal.
I think I’m too old now for a paper round. Bugger
That Woman Was In The Nip !!
Every so often at my office the head office IT people upload some sort of software to our PC’s in Glasgow and a few of us go in at the weekend to check the systems are working before the Monday. This involves sitting around for up to eight hours as the IT guys keep fannying around before we can do anything. There’s usually five or six of us. There’s me and the girls. Interesting conversations indeed. And double time for doing nothing.
One day we even brought a few bottles in as it was supposed to run into the Saturday night. Someone even located a key to a cabinet under a keyboard on another floor and raided that department’s drinks cabinet, then locked up again and returned the key. Good times.
One day, this girl brings in her holiday snaps and starts showing them round. They’re making the rounds with me passing them on and one of the women says to her;
“Can he see this one?”
Without knowing what it was but with my mind running amok, I say;
“Yes?”, almost pleading with my eyes. A short debate ensued and she shrugged her shoulders and I was passed the photo.
To see one of your female work colleagues naked in the shower, facing the camera, drinking a beer is a wonderful moment. One to be savoured.
If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still see it.
One day we even brought a few bottles in as it was supposed to run into the Saturday night. Someone even located a key to a cabinet under a keyboard on another floor and raided that department’s drinks cabinet, then locked up again and returned the key. Good times.
One day, this girl brings in her holiday snaps and starts showing them round. They’re making the rounds with me passing them on and one of the women says to her;
“Can he see this one?”
Without knowing what it was but with my mind running amok, I say;
“Yes?”, almost pleading with my eyes. A short debate ensued and she shrugged her shoulders and I was passed the photo.
To see one of your female work colleagues naked in the shower, facing the camera, drinking a beer is a wonderful moment. One to be savoured.
If I close my eyes and concentrate, I can still see it.
What A Cult !
A few years ago a friend of mine got married. He was never much of a churchy bloke. He liked to fix cars and anything mechanical.
His family was quite well off and lived in a reasonably large house in the country. It was one of these houses that was dirty as they were just so careless about their property and belongings. In his bedroom once I saw numerous televisions and radios lying in pieces all over the floor and oily carparts on the carpet too.
Their garden was nice. Swimming pool and a church to the side. A bleedin' church. The church building was used a garage. I think it was about 7 metres wide by around 20 metres long. It was empty inside, a very high roof, and a large opening at the front where they drove some of their cars in.
They also had a family living at the bottom of their garden. Literally.
The far end of the church had been converted into a small house. It took up the last 5 metres of the building and had a wee door at the back. Those people were wonderfully friendly. I still remember one drunken night lying on the floor on the garage, some people were sat on small stools, and their homemade wine was being passed around. I think the guy took care of the garden for the family and they had lived there for 20 years or so.
Anyway, as time went on, I heard rumours that my pal had joined a religious cult while away at University. His parents were worried as they couldn't contact him sometimes and when they did he seemed distant.
Sometime after we heard news of his impending marriage to his cult girlfriend. Exciting. What the hell was a cult wedding going to be like?
The wedding reception was to be held in his garden. The swimming pool was boarded over and a marquee erected in the grounds. I drove up to the gates and was met by the gardener, who was there to direct the traffic up the long driveway. Apparently the long time family friend, who lived on their property hadn't even been invited to the wedding but had been asked to direct traffic.
The wedding reception was as normal as could be after the ceremony in a very normal church in Govan, until later...
If you've ever seen Four Weddings And A Funeral, just picture the hippy couple who dedicate a song to the happy couple and sing with their guitar.
There were several weird people at this wedding. You could just tell they were from "the cult" just by looking. Quite decent people when you actually spoke to them.
Well, after the meal, there were a couple of speeches, then someone announced that a couple had a special gift for my pal and his new wife.
As they started strumming away at their guitars, and singing some weird religious song I didn't understand, I looked across the sea of guests and saw my best pal at sitting at the other side of the marquee.....staring straight back at me.
His look said it all.
"What the FUCK is this !!!!"
If you ever get the chance, go to a cult wedding. You won't regret it.
His family was quite well off and lived in a reasonably large house in the country. It was one of these houses that was dirty as they were just so careless about their property and belongings. In his bedroom once I saw numerous televisions and radios lying in pieces all over the floor and oily carparts on the carpet too.
Their garden was nice. Swimming pool and a church to the side. A bleedin' church. The church building was used a garage. I think it was about 7 metres wide by around 20 metres long. It was empty inside, a very high roof, and a large opening at the front where they drove some of their cars in.
They also had a family living at the bottom of their garden. Literally.
The far end of the church had been converted into a small house. It took up the last 5 metres of the building and had a wee door at the back. Those people were wonderfully friendly. I still remember one drunken night lying on the floor on the garage, some people were sat on small stools, and their homemade wine was being passed around. I think the guy took care of the garden for the family and they had lived there for 20 years or so.
Anyway, as time went on, I heard rumours that my pal had joined a religious cult while away at University. His parents were worried as they couldn't contact him sometimes and when they did he seemed distant.
Sometime after we heard news of his impending marriage to his cult girlfriend. Exciting. What the hell was a cult wedding going to be like?
The wedding reception was to be held in his garden. The swimming pool was boarded over and a marquee erected in the grounds. I drove up to the gates and was met by the gardener, who was there to direct the traffic up the long driveway. Apparently the long time family friend, who lived on their property hadn't even been invited to the wedding but had been asked to direct traffic.
The wedding reception was as normal as could be after the ceremony in a very normal church in Govan, until later...
If you've ever seen Four Weddings And A Funeral, just picture the hippy couple who dedicate a song to the happy couple and sing with their guitar.
There were several weird people at this wedding. You could just tell they were from "the cult" just by looking. Quite decent people when you actually spoke to them.
Well, after the meal, there were a couple of speeches, then someone announced that a couple had a special gift for my pal and his new wife.
As they started strumming away at their guitars, and singing some weird religious song I didn't understand, I looked across the sea of guests and saw my best pal at sitting at the other side of the marquee.....staring straight back at me.
His look said it all.
"What the FUCK is this !!!!"
If you ever get the chance, go to a cult wedding. You won't regret it.
...My Name Is...My Name Is...My Name Is...
I was on the train going home at Queen Street this afternoon and I saw the weirdest thing. I caught it out of the corner of my and I had to crane my neck around and half rise from my seat to make sure my eyes were not deceiving me.
The girl was standing on the platform, wearing faded blue jeans, a pink zip up hoodie, and she was slightly overweight. Around her waist she had a distinctive belt.
The buckle was a large scrolling LCD display. It was like the thing you see inside the carriages... the next stop is Partick....the next stop is Partick.
Except this one was announcing her name.
...Rachael....Rachael....Rachael.....Rachael....Rachael....
...constant scrolling in bright red LCD dots across her belly.
Bloody hilarious.
If you can't picture this thing, visit www.scrollingbuckle.com
It's one of the tackiest things I've seen.
The girl was standing on the platform, wearing faded blue jeans, a pink zip up hoodie, and she was slightly overweight. Around her waist she had a distinctive belt.
The buckle was a large scrolling LCD display. It was like the thing you see inside the carriages... the next stop is Partick....the next stop is Partick.
Except this one was announcing her name.
...Rachael....Rachael....Rachael.....Rachael....Rachael....
...constant scrolling in bright red LCD dots across her belly.
Bloody hilarious.
If you can't picture this thing, visit www.scrollingbuckle.com
It's one of the tackiest things I've seen.
Monday, 27 August 2007
Village of The Damned
A few weeks ago I was in Asda and got to the checkout. The guy serving me came out with the line;
"I don't mean to be rude but, is that your oldest boy over there" nodding in the direction of my son who was standing against the wall about twenty feet away.
"Shit," I thought, "what the hell has he done, has he got his hands down his trousers? Is he making faces at someone, what has he done to bring shame on me?"
"Yes, that's him" I said.
"Umm, it's just that he looks like a character from a film."
"Oooh," I thought, "how cool."
"Oh right, what film?" I said.
"Have you ever seen Village of The Damned?" he asked rather slowly and a bit nervously.
"No," I said honestly.
"It's just that he looks like the boy from that film, the spitting image of him."
He then tried to explain the film to me, as I said I'd never seen it, and I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He kept talking about the original version. I said I would get it to see the resemblance myself.
He kept saying "I hope your not offended." Offended? I was pissing my pants as the guy was so scared he just pissed me off.
My wife didn't know what the guy was talking about and as we walked away she asked me and I told her wait til we got outside. Outside the doors, I explained what the guy had been saying in between pishing myself laughing.
I haven't seen the film yet, but I've looked at some 1960s posters for it, and you know what?
He does.
"I don't mean to be rude but, is that your oldest boy over there" nodding in the direction of my son who was standing against the wall about twenty feet away.
"Shit," I thought, "what the hell has he done, has he got his hands down his trousers? Is he making faces at someone, what has he done to bring shame on me?"
"Yes, that's him" I said.
"Umm, it's just that he looks like a character from a film."
"Oooh," I thought, "how cool."
"Oh right, what film?" I said.
"Have you ever seen Village of The Damned?" he asked rather slowly and a bit nervously.
"No," I said honestly.
"It's just that he looks like the boy from that film, the spitting image of him."
He then tried to explain the film to me, as I said I'd never seen it, and I didn't know what the hell he was talking about. He kept talking about the original version. I said I would get it to see the resemblance myself.
He kept saying "I hope your not offended." Offended? I was pissing my pants as the guy was so scared he just pissed me off.
My wife didn't know what the guy was talking about and as we walked away she asked me and I told her wait til we got outside. Outside the doors, I explained what the guy had been saying in between pishing myself laughing.
I haven't seen the film yet, but I've looked at some 1960s posters for it, and you know what?
He does.
Drug deal witnessed....exciting
Last Friday night I was at a works night out in The Auctioneers pub in Glasgow.
At one point around 5pm, I walked to the toilets downstairs. There was a line of four guys walking down to the bogs, and as I walked into the toilet the second guy casually handed a small white bag containing white powder to a man who had just walked out of a cubicle. He walked on to the wash basins and then just turned round and looked around nervously. The other guy just walked out. I went for a piss.
I have to admit I was impressed with the choreography of it. The guy appeared from the cubicle at just the right time when the other walked in. Not impressed with the taking of the drugs though. Who am I to say what he can and cannot do though?
I don't need drugs myself. I'm high on life. What a lot of shite.
At one point around 5pm, I walked to the toilets downstairs. There was a line of four guys walking down to the bogs, and as I walked into the toilet the second guy casually handed a small white bag containing white powder to a man who had just walked out of a cubicle. He walked on to the wash basins and then just turned round and looked around nervously. The other guy just walked out. I went for a piss.
I have to admit I was impressed with the choreography of it. The guy appeared from the cubicle at just the right time when the other walked in. Not impressed with the taking of the drugs though. Who am I to say what he can and cannot do though?
I don't need drugs myself. I'm high on life. What a lot of shite.
Sunday, 26 August 2007
London incidents
I went to see my pal in London a few times. I was about eighteen to twenty years old and he could get me flight tickets for a tenner. So I'd fly to London on the Friday night after work, go out and get pissed for two nights and fly back on Sunday. Occasionally I would fly down for just one night. Very jet set. The taxi to the airport cost more than the flights.
He lived in Hounslow which is a cultural hot pot. A bit of everything.
He lived in a rented house with four other guys who were very decent. But their house was a fucking tip. The kitchen was a disaster area. Unwashed plates, mugs, food in the frying pan left for days. I washed up once and one of them walked in and laughed, asking "What the fuck are you doing? Just leave that."
One particular event made me laugh. They didn't use a hoover...for a good reason. One day, someone dropped lump of hash on the carpet and with the shitey brown design, they couldn't see it, so we were all down on our hands and knees crawling round looking for this wee lump of hash. They eventually found it and the day was saved.
I also once experienced a "deal" in front of me. One of them called someone and within ten minutes a car pulled up and the guy came in and sat on the sofa. He got out these wee scales about five inches high and started weighing out hash for them.
I never smoked it. I was more than happy just getting pissed.
The people that lived in Hounlsow were a source of entertainment for me.
Walking along the street behind some old man, he was sort of "jiving" along the pavement. His hands were shaking to some silent beat and he was bobbing around. As he approached people he would stamp his feet as he came to halt in front of them, and bring his hands up to the side of his face, shaking them shouting "Ta Dah !" as if he'd just finished some sort of performance. He continued this all the way along Hounslow high street.
I went to the supermarket and was buying dinner. A tin of beans. The old man in the queue behind me just asked me if I was having the beans for my dinner then asked me if I had a job which he seemed very impressed with. Short and sweet.
There was a pub along the road my pal took me to which he warned me could get a bit rough as it was used by soldiers from a nearby barracks who clashed with the regulars. On the night we were in it was very quiet and he was facing the door. For good reason. He'd positioned us away from the main area, near the back and the pool table, and apparently the fire exit. For good reason. He saw the soldiers come in and warned me. After about thirty minutes the fighting started. My pal obviously used to this just grabbed my arm and dragged me over behind a wide pillar and there we crouched with our pints. He warned me that it was a favourite of theirs to throw the glass ashtrays at each other. And this I will never forget because within seconds one of those glass ashtrays smashed against the pillar above my head and I still remember the sight of the shards of glass spraying inches away from my face. I think we left by the fire exit.
One other pub we went to I saw a young man holding court to several visitors. He was wearing an absurd jumper with a huge collar and lapels...on a jumper. His fingers were covered in chunky gold rings and he was drinking a coke. A succession of people would walk over to him and talk in hushed tones before a series of nods and thanks and they would leave.
My pal went out one evening to meet up with other mates in a wine bar in Kingston. At the end of the night we went out looking a taxi and outside there was a very tall black man sitting on the bonnet of a gleaming white Mercedes with one foot up on the bumper showing off his leather boots. He was built like a brick shithouse.
"Yaw lookin for a tawxi mawn?" he drawled very slowly in his thick Jamaican accent. We negotiated £15 and to his credit he took us straight home. Didn't mug or murder us. There's no way now I get a lift off some guy in the street.
I still remember the first time I bought a round in my friends local and asked for two pints and the guy said £5.30. It was the early 90s when I could get two for about £3 in Glasgow. I said to him innocently I only wanted two. He said he knew that. I was a bit embarrassed. Bloody London prices.
He lived in Hounslow which is a cultural hot pot. A bit of everything.
He lived in a rented house with four other guys who were very decent. But their house was a fucking tip. The kitchen was a disaster area. Unwashed plates, mugs, food in the frying pan left for days. I washed up once and one of them walked in and laughed, asking "What the fuck are you doing? Just leave that."
One particular event made me laugh. They didn't use a hoover...for a good reason. One day, someone dropped lump of hash on the carpet and with the shitey brown design, they couldn't see it, so we were all down on our hands and knees crawling round looking for this wee lump of hash. They eventually found it and the day was saved.
I also once experienced a "deal" in front of me. One of them called someone and within ten minutes a car pulled up and the guy came in and sat on the sofa. He got out these wee scales about five inches high and started weighing out hash for them.
I never smoked it. I was more than happy just getting pissed.
The people that lived in Hounlsow were a source of entertainment for me.
Walking along the street behind some old man, he was sort of "jiving" along the pavement. His hands were shaking to some silent beat and he was bobbing around. As he approached people he would stamp his feet as he came to halt in front of them, and bring his hands up to the side of his face, shaking them shouting "Ta Dah !" as if he'd just finished some sort of performance. He continued this all the way along Hounslow high street.
I went to the supermarket and was buying dinner. A tin of beans. The old man in the queue behind me just asked me if I was having the beans for my dinner then asked me if I had a job which he seemed very impressed with. Short and sweet.
There was a pub along the road my pal took me to which he warned me could get a bit rough as it was used by soldiers from a nearby barracks who clashed with the regulars. On the night we were in it was very quiet and he was facing the door. For good reason. He'd positioned us away from the main area, near the back and the pool table, and apparently the fire exit. For good reason. He saw the soldiers come in and warned me. After about thirty minutes the fighting started. My pal obviously used to this just grabbed my arm and dragged me over behind a wide pillar and there we crouched with our pints. He warned me that it was a favourite of theirs to throw the glass ashtrays at each other. And this I will never forget because within seconds one of those glass ashtrays smashed against the pillar above my head and I still remember the sight of the shards of glass spraying inches away from my face. I think we left by the fire exit.
One other pub we went to I saw a young man holding court to several visitors. He was wearing an absurd jumper with a huge collar and lapels...on a jumper. His fingers were covered in chunky gold rings and he was drinking a coke. A succession of people would walk over to him and talk in hushed tones before a series of nods and thanks and they would leave.
My pal went out one evening to meet up with other mates in a wine bar in Kingston. At the end of the night we went out looking a taxi and outside there was a very tall black man sitting on the bonnet of a gleaming white Mercedes with one foot up on the bumper showing off his leather boots. He was built like a brick shithouse.
"Yaw lookin for a tawxi mawn?" he drawled very slowly in his thick Jamaican accent. We negotiated £15 and to his credit he took us straight home. Didn't mug or murder us. There's no way now I get a lift off some guy in the street.
I still remember the first time I bought a round in my friends local and asked for two pints and the guy said £5.30. It was the early 90s when I could get two for about £3 in Glasgow. I said to him innocently I only wanted two. He said he knew that. I was a bit embarrassed. Bloody London prices.
Saturday, 25 August 2007
I Only Want To Shag You
Many many years ago me and my pals used to frequent a pub in Finnieston several nights each week. We got to be regulars without living anywhere near it. There was a reason we were in the area and we always finished up our night with a few pints in this pub. It wasn't a flash pub, but it was a sight better than some of the shiteholes around it. One of them had linoleum and metal tables from the 70s. We stayed out of there.
In "our" pub there was a man. He became our pal. We liked him. He liked us. I'll call him Jimmy.
We bought rounds for each other. Jimmy more so than us. He insisted on getting the rounds in. It was sometimes difficult to get your own drink in. He was a pensioner, but he seemed to have endless money for our drinks.
He would sit at his usual seat in the corner right beside the bar and shout "GAS !". This stood for Gin And Soda. The barmaid would promptly bring over the drinks.
One night my pal was up from London and he came out with us. There was a group of around seven of us and that particular night we were supposed to be getting to stay overnight in a church hall for some kind of religious thing that some of my friends had a connection with. It was a night vigil or something. Five of the group had a direct involvement and me and my pal from London were told to just come along ..... "It'll be alright."
So after the pub we all went along for this wee sleepover in a church. At the door me and my pal from London were turned away, even though we were with the others and the woman at the door took offence to the fact that we'd had a few pints and told us we couldn't come in.
Later on my pal ended up back at the pub on his own, having a drink and then went to get a taxi.
Jimmy said he would get him a taxi from the taxi rank round the corner. So they both went out the door of the pub. My pal asked where the taxi rank was and Jimmy led him off Argyle Street onto a side street saying there was a taxi rank just round there.
As they walked round my pal could see there was no taxi rank and no taxi cab company anywhere so started walking back to the main road. Jimmy followed him closely and kept telling him that he'd get him a taxi. My pal was walking up and down the road, mostly to try to shake off Jimmy as he was starting to piss him off, but Jimmy kept following him. Very closely.
This went on for a few minutes and Jimmy stayed right beside my pal and he got to the end of his tether and eventually just said to Jimmy...
"Look what the fuck is going on here?"
"I only want to shag you," said Jimmy.
My pal recounted this incident to me early on the Sunday morning when he turned up at my door and asked if he could have a word. As soon as he said that Jimmy had asked to shag him I realised I should have told him he was probably gay, but I hadn't thought there was any need to. My pal was a bit surprised that I knew already. So I explained to him.
For the year that we'd been going to the pub, Jimmy had been kicking me under the table and catching my eye. After kicking me I'd say "What is it?" and he'd shake his head and look away. Out of the whole group he'd only tap me under the table, no-one else. This went on for a few months and my pals noticed that when I went to the toilet Jimmy would make a point of getting up after me and going to. I usually went into the cubicle so I never noticed.
One night though I was standing against the wall peeing and Jimmy came in and wrapped his arms around me, clasping his hands across my stomach...my stomach thank God.
I froze. I pushed my elbows out and broke his grasp and asked him what he was doing and he said nothing and went to pee, so I went out. From that time on, I would never pee in there again. I used to go out of the pub to a lane across the road, but my mates still noticed that after I stood up, he stood up.
He never said anything blatant to me, but that incident in the toilet confirmed it to me. He probably wanted to shag me too.
In "our" pub there was a man. He became our pal. We liked him. He liked us. I'll call him Jimmy.
We bought rounds for each other. Jimmy more so than us. He insisted on getting the rounds in. It was sometimes difficult to get your own drink in. He was a pensioner, but he seemed to have endless money for our drinks.
He would sit at his usual seat in the corner right beside the bar and shout "GAS !". This stood for Gin And Soda. The barmaid would promptly bring over the drinks.
One night my pal was up from London and he came out with us. There was a group of around seven of us and that particular night we were supposed to be getting to stay overnight in a church hall for some kind of religious thing that some of my friends had a connection with. It was a night vigil or something. Five of the group had a direct involvement and me and my pal from London were told to just come along ..... "It'll be alright."
So after the pub we all went along for this wee sleepover in a church. At the door me and my pal from London were turned away, even though we were with the others and the woman at the door took offence to the fact that we'd had a few pints and told us we couldn't come in.
Later on my pal ended up back at the pub on his own, having a drink and then went to get a taxi.
Jimmy said he would get him a taxi from the taxi rank round the corner. So they both went out the door of the pub. My pal asked where the taxi rank was and Jimmy led him off Argyle Street onto a side street saying there was a taxi rank just round there.
As they walked round my pal could see there was no taxi rank and no taxi cab company anywhere so started walking back to the main road. Jimmy followed him closely and kept telling him that he'd get him a taxi. My pal was walking up and down the road, mostly to try to shake off Jimmy as he was starting to piss him off, but Jimmy kept following him. Very closely.
This went on for a few minutes and Jimmy stayed right beside my pal and he got to the end of his tether and eventually just said to Jimmy...
"Look what the fuck is going on here?"
"I only want to shag you," said Jimmy.
My pal recounted this incident to me early on the Sunday morning when he turned up at my door and asked if he could have a word. As soon as he said that Jimmy had asked to shag him I realised I should have told him he was probably gay, but I hadn't thought there was any need to. My pal was a bit surprised that I knew already. So I explained to him.
For the year that we'd been going to the pub, Jimmy had been kicking me under the table and catching my eye. After kicking me I'd say "What is it?" and he'd shake his head and look away. Out of the whole group he'd only tap me under the table, no-one else. This went on for a few months and my pals noticed that when I went to the toilet Jimmy would make a point of getting up after me and going to. I usually went into the cubicle so I never noticed.
One night though I was standing against the wall peeing and Jimmy came in and wrapped his arms around me, clasping his hands across my stomach...my stomach thank God.
I froze. I pushed my elbows out and broke his grasp and asked him what he was doing and he said nothing and went to pee, so I went out. From that time on, I would never pee in there again. I used to go out of the pub to a lane across the road, but my mates still noticed that after I stood up, he stood up.
He never said anything blatant to me, but that incident in the toilet confirmed it to me. He probably wanted to shag me too.
It Was Like Gone With The Wind
On my way to work the other day on Buchanan Street I saw a couple sort of calling to each other from a short distance apart and slowly moving away from each other. They both had one hand raised in a sort of farewell gesture. He was walking backwards away from her, she was standing with her jacket over her arm and a bag at her feet.
Guy: "Alright, doll see you later."
Girl: "Alright, babe see you later."
Guy: "Aye see you later, at the hoose."
Girl: "I'll see you at the hoose?"
Guy: "Aye see you at the hoose later, doll."
Girl: "Alright Davy, I'll see you later, at the hoose?"
Guy: "At the hoose, I'll see you later."
Girl: "Alright sweetheart, I'll see you later, at the hoose."
Guy: "Alright sweetheart, I'll see you later" (still each with hand raised in a permanent goodbye).
Girl: "Aye sweetheart, I'll see you back at the hoose."
Guy: "At the hoose?"
Girl: "Aye at the hoose, I'll see you later."
Guy: "Alright doll, see you later."
A couple on their way to their respective offices? No, a couple of junkies. Their clothes were old, worn, dirty, ill-fitting, the jacket over her arm was a manky anorak, the bag at her feet was a ripped supermarket poly bag, their hair left me with no doubt it hadn't seen shampoo in weeks, and their faces were dirty and worn.
I'm now glad they never kissed. But a warming sight all the same. Even those people can show a semblance of reality which the majority would recognise.
We should all learn a lesson from this. What that would be though, I don't know.
Guy: "Alright, doll see you later."
Girl: "Alright, babe see you later."
Guy: "Aye see you later, at the hoose."
Girl: "I'll see you at the hoose?"
Guy: "Aye see you at the hoose later, doll."
Girl: "Alright Davy, I'll see you later, at the hoose?"
Guy: "At the hoose, I'll see you later."
Girl: "Alright sweetheart, I'll see you later, at the hoose."
Guy: "Alright sweetheart, I'll see you later" (still each with hand raised in a permanent goodbye).
Girl: "Aye sweetheart, I'll see you back at the hoose."
Guy: "At the hoose?"
Girl: "Aye at the hoose, I'll see you later."
Guy: "Alright doll, see you later."
A couple on their way to their respective offices? No, a couple of junkies. Their clothes were old, worn, dirty, ill-fitting, the jacket over her arm was a manky anorak, the bag at her feet was a ripped supermarket poly bag, their hair left me with no doubt it hadn't seen shampoo in weeks, and their faces were dirty and worn.
I'm now glad they never kissed. But a warming sight all the same. Even those people can show a semblance of reality which the majority would recognise.
We should all learn a lesson from this. What that would be though, I don't know.
Thursday, 23 August 2007
Oh Bollards !!
I remember a few years ago in Glasgow city centre I heard a yelp of pain and looked over my shoulder to see a guy upside down in the air. He was actually vertical, but upside down, about twelve inches off the ground.
He'd run into one of those waist high metal bollards that line some streets. The impact had flicked his body up and over. On landing he stood up, dusted his jacket a little, laughed nervously and carried on running.
He'd run into one of those waist high metal bollards that line some streets. The impact had flicked his body up and over. On landing he stood up, dusted his jacket a little, laughed nervously and carried on running.
John My Pal, The Attempted Murderer
When I was at school I'll never forget my first day at secondary school.
I was from one of the better schools in the area. I'm not bumming myself up, that's what the other kids told me. Until then I'd never known the other schools were so shit. Apparently we were the only school that had carpets. "Did you not?" I used to ask confused. Anyway first day in registration, just getting used to the fact you get totally split up from your mates all day, me and another guy practically clinged to each other when we realised we were in registration together. Being quite shy, the both of us, we sat up the back.
Little did we know, the nutters, being workshy and a bit mental sat up the back too. Beside us.
What fun they had that first day, taking the piss out the two "poash boys". How amusing it was for them that we wore blazers and ties to school.
"Why are ye wearing them?"
"Because we've got to," we said eyeing up their windcheaters and open neck shirts.
"Who says ye've got to."
"Our Mums."
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha."
And so many more.
Strangely, over that first year with sitting beside them for the first ten minutes of every day they began to realise we were not a couple of posh wee wankers from a privileged background and we realised they were not complete psychos...all the time. They were nice once we became their pals.
John and Bob. Twas their names. Or Joan and Boab, to give it the correct phonetics. As it turned out the most quiet and most violent put together.
John had the edge on the two of them as to who was more liable to act like a psycho. Later on I knew his reputation and if I hadn't known him I would never have gone within a hundred metres of him.
One day wee Boab even asked me to put in his earring (left ear). How close were we? I do recall having to stab this little thing through his ear and feeling the skin give as it slipped through which was my very first time. I was an ear virgin. Thanks Boab.
I also recall the time in Religious Education when I was sitting beside John. He mentioned to me something about a hoor.
"A what?" I innocently asked.
"A hoor," says he.
"What's that?" I asked, Well, set a match to the fucking firework why don't you. Just so happened Boab was sitting across the other side of the room. The teacher had the idea of keeping them apart and sitting them with the people of the class least likely to cause trouble. Me.
"Haw Boab!" shouts John.
"Whit?!"
"He disnae know whit a hoor is, ha ha ha."
"WHIT?!"
"He disnae know whit a hoor is," he shouted louder.
"Ha ha ha ha."
The volume of their voices was quickly getting the attention of everyone else and also the teacher. I was more embarrassed by the fact he was shouting across the room saying I didn't know something than the fact I didn't know what a hoor was, as I had no clue what he was talking about. He could've just bloody explained to me. So inconsiderate.
It reminds me of the time when I was at the dinner table with my Mum and two older brothers. I was maybe around twelve. The news was on and a brothel was mentioned. In a moment of sheer madness, I turned to my mother and asked what a brothel was. As soon as I'd said it I realised I actually did know what a brothel was. My Mum replied though.....
"It's where loose women hang around and loose men go and......." and she sort of trailed off. Silence across the table. Pass the salt ummm, please.
Anyway, as the years rolled on we got older and me and John never saw much of each other other than passing in the corridor at school.
When I left school it was the time of the "casuals". The neds of the day. They weren't so fond of tracksuits then. It was more kind of jeans, tracky tops or jumpers and definitely...most definitely a scarf wrapped in a certain way around their neck so it appeared to be one single roll around there. Mostly Rangers and Celtic colours. I don't think Burberry was the thing then.
The casuals used to hang about at the village centre at night and it came to a point where you went detours just to avoid the place, or approach it along a long road so you had a good view to see if the door to the chippy was clear.
One incident sticks in my mind though. Walking through the village one Friday night as I thought it was clear but at the last moment I saw a group of casuals and at that point it was too late to turn back because that would just give reason to verbally abuse me or chase me.
Walking closer to them, some of them turned, a few stared menacingly at me, just waiting for me to make eye contact so they could start on me. I heard a couple of comments made towards me, baiting me. Some more, then out of the terror a light......
"Alright, mate? Leave him alone...he's alright."
I looked up.
"Alright John," I smiled in relief, nodded quickly and kept on my way.
One of times I was very glad of those mornings we sat together in the first scary year of secondary school.
I did hear though a few years later that he was arrested for attempted murder after glassing someone in the face at the local pub. Still, nice bloke though.
I was from one of the better schools in the area. I'm not bumming myself up, that's what the other kids told me. Until then I'd never known the other schools were so shit. Apparently we were the only school that had carpets. "Did you not?" I used to ask confused. Anyway first day in registration, just getting used to the fact you get totally split up from your mates all day, me and another guy practically clinged to each other when we realised we were in registration together. Being quite shy, the both of us, we sat up the back.
Little did we know, the nutters, being workshy and a bit mental sat up the back too. Beside us.
What fun they had that first day, taking the piss out the two "poash boys". How amusing it was for them that we wore blazers and ties to school.
"Why are ye wearing them?"
"Because we've got to," we said eyeing up their windcheaters and open neck shirts.
"Who says ye've got to."
"Our Mums."
"Ha ha ha ha ha ha."
And so many more.
Strangely, over that first year with sitting beside them for the first ten minutes of every day they began to realise we were not a couple of posh wee wankers from a privileged background and we realised they were not complete psychos...all the time. They were nice once we became their pals.
John and Bob. Twas their names. Or Joan and Boab, to give it the correct phonetics. As it turned out the most quiet and most violent put together.
John had the edge on the two of them as to who was more liable to act like a psycho. Later on I knew his reputation and if I hadn't known him I would never have gone within a hundred metres of him.
One day wee Boab even asked me to put in his earring (left ear). How close were we? I do recall having to stab this little thing through his ear and feeling the skin give as it slipped through which was my very first time. I was an ear virgin. Thanks Boab.
I also recall the time in Religious Education when I was sitting beside John. He mentioned to me something about a hoor.
"A what?" I innocently asked.
"A hoor," says he.
"What's that?" I asked, Well, set a match to the fucking firework why don't you. Just so happened Boab was sitting across the other side of the room. The teacher had the idea of keeping them apart and sitting them with the people of the class least likely to cause trouble. Me.
"Haw Boab!" shouts John.
"Whit?!"
"He disnae know whit a hoor is, ha ha ha."
"WHIT?!"
"He disnae know whit a hoor is," he shouted louder.
"Ha ha ha ha."
The volume of their voices was quickly getting the attention of everyone else and also the teacher. I was more embarrassed by the fact he was shouting across the room saying I didn't know something than the fact I didn't know what a hoor was, as I had no clue what he was talking about. He could've just bloody explained to me. So inconsiderate.
It reminds me of the time when I was at the dinner table with my Mum and two older brothers. I was maybe around twelve. The news was on and a brothel was mentioned. In a moment of sheer madness, I turned to my mother and asked what a brothel was. As soon as I'd said it I realised I actually did know what a brothel was. My Mum replied though.....
"It's where loose women hang around and loose men go and......." and she sort of trailed off. Silence across the table. Pass the salt ummm, please.
Anyway, as the years rolled on we got older and me and John never saw much of each other other than passing in the corridor at school.
When I left school it was the time of the "casuals". The neds of the day. They weren't so fond of tracksuits then. It was more kind of jeans, tracky tops or jumpers and definitely...most definitely a scarf wrapped in a certain way around their neck so it appeared to be one single roll around there. Mostly Rangers and Celtic colours. I don't think Burberry was the thing then.
The casuals used to hang about at the village centre at night and it came to a point where you went detours just to avoid the place, or approach it along a long road so you had a good view to see if the door to the chippy was clear.
One incident sticks in my mind though. Walking through the village one Friday night as I thought it was clear but at the last moment I saw a group of casuals and at that point it was too late to turn back because that would just give reason to verbally abuse me or chase me.
Walking closer to them, some of them turned, a few stared menacingly at me, just waiting for me to make eye contact so they could start on me. I heard a couple of comments made towards me, baiting me. Some more, then out of the terror a light......
"Alright, mate? Leave him alone...he's alright."
I looked up.
"Alright John," I smiled in relief, nodded quickly and kept on my way.
One of times I was very glad of those mornings we sat together in the first scary year of secondary school.
I did hear though a few years later that he was arrested for attempted murder after glassing someone in the face at the local pub. Still, nice bloke though.
Beef Jerky
I've never told my brother this so I think it may come as a surprise to him. I only just remembered it.
Fifteen years ago, I was helping him paint his new flat on the Gallowgate.
I was standing at a window on the first floor looking out to the road, and a double decker bus passed. The bus was nearly empty on the top deck except for a few people down the front and the man sitting masturbating three seats from the back. Need to read that again?
That's right. He was a fifty year old guy whacking off on a bus.
Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for you reading this, the bus stopped right in front of my window. He was beating himself to a steady rhythm, but then I noticed some new passengers "coming" up the stairs. When they came up he quickly flipped his cock away under cover of his long beige flasher mac and sat very still as if nothing was amiss. The two people sat down completely obvlious to the guy and his seedy deed. The bus then "pulled off" and he was gone.
It struck me that I had a brilliant view of what he was doing and it had clearly not crossed his mind that he was driving past flats. And the funny thing, he had a small cock...that I do remember.
Fifteen years ago, I was helping him paint his new flat on the Gallowgate.
I was standing at a window on the first floor looking out to the road, and a double decker bus passed. The bus was nearly empty on the top deck except for a few people down the front and the man sitting masturbating three seats from the back. Need to read that again?
That's right. He was a fifty year old guy whacking off on a bus.
Unfortunately for me, but fortunately for you reading this, the bus stopped right in front of my window. He was beating himself to a steady rhythm, but then I noticed some new passengers "coming" up the stairs. When they came up he quickly flipped his cock away under cover of his long beige flasher mac and sat very still as if nothing was amiss. The two people sat down completely obvlious to the guy and his seedy deed. The bus then "pulled off" and he was gone.
It struck me that I had a brilliant view of what he was doing and it had clearly not crossed his mind that he was driving past flats. And the funny thing, he had a small cock...that I do remember.
Wednesday, 22 August 2007
Scruff and His Enormously Bosomed Wife
Opposite me on the train a few days ago were a couple. They were arguing. Fantastic. He was battering away at his mobile phone buttons, and she was getting mad saying;
"Yous are gonnae brek that, daein that," pointing at the phone.
He was explaining forcefully that indeed battering the buttons was just the way to do it.
"Whit ye daein?"
"Gettin a menu, hauns off."
"Naw, you'll brek it, gie it tae me."
"Naw."
"Aye."
"Naw," etc.The most embarrassing bit was when he started playing his ring tone.
"Bom Chicka Wa Wa, Bom Chicka Wa Wa" from the adverts. I had my head down reading my book and nearly burst out laughing. I had to clench my teeth to stop myself.
They were a surprising couple. He was dressed very shabbily. And I don't mean like shabby chic. More like shabby shit. He looked like crap. Dirty t-shirt, old worn jeans, a week's growth of beard and hair in no particular order.
She, on the other hand, was very pretty, tanned, immaculate hair, immaculate clothes, fancy handbag, hands manicured to perfection and popping out of her low cut top were her enormous bosoms. HH?, JJ?, who knows?. I didn't want to ask. Well, I did want to really.
In between watching them argue I was trying my best to look anywhere but her breasts. Staring off into space, finding the passing billboards fascinating, something over her shoulder further down the carriage. Anything at all, but them.
Then suddenly....quiet. They both started phoning people. She phoned her office to advise someone she would be in within ten minutes and said:
"Have you all got enough work to do?" (very well spoken now).
What?? She's checking they've got enough work to do but she'll be there in ten minutes. God forbid they might be sitting on their asses for ten minutes. I have no idea what he was mumbling though it sounded sort of IT-ish.
Then at Partick without anymore conversation between them, he just got up and left. No wee kiss, whispers into her ear, not even a wave from the platform, like she was looking out for. Strange.
"Yous are gonnae brek that, daein that," pointing at the phone.
He was explaining forcefully that indeed battering the buttons was just the way to do it.
"Whit ye daein?"
"Gettin a menu, hauns off."
"Naw, you'll brek it, gie it tae me."
"Naw."
"Aye."
"Naw," etc.The most embarrassing bit was when he started playing his ring tone.
"Bom Chicka Wa Wa, Bom Chicka Wa Wa" from the adverts. I had my head down reading my book and nearly burst out laughing. I had to clench my teeth to stop myself.
They were a surprising couple. He was dressed very shabbily. And I don't mean like shabby chic. More like shabby shit. He looked like crap. Dirty t-shirt, old worn jeans, a week's growth of beard and hair in no particular order.
She, on the other hand, was very pretty, tanned, immaculate hair, immaculate clothes, fancy handbag, hands manicured to perfection and popping out of her low cut top were her enormous bosoms. HH?, JJ?, who knows?. I didn't want to ask. Well, I did want to really.
In between watching them argue I was trying my best to look anywhere but her breasts. Staring off into space, finding the passing billboards fascinating, something over her shoulder further down the carriage. Anything at all, but them.
Then suddenly....quiet. They both started phoning people. She phoned her office to advise someone she would be in within ten minutes and said:
"Have you all got enough work to do?" (very well spoken now).
What?? She's checking they've got enough work to do but she'll be there in ten minutes. God forbid they might be sitting on their asses for ten minutes. I have no idea what he was mumbling though it sounded sort of IT-ish.
Then at Partick without anymore conversation between them, he just got up and left. No wee kiss, whispers into her ear, not even a wave from the platform, like she was looking out for. Strange.
Tuesday, 21 August 2007
I Nearly Had To Get The Window Cleaner In
A woman was overheard today describing her child's birth many years ago and she was saying how it was a difficult delivery.
So much so...
"We nearly had to get the window cleaner in to help."
And the second child, her son, had a big head. Ewwwww.
That window cleaner was going to need a bigger bucket.
So much so...
"We nearly had to get the window cleaner in to help."
And the second child, her son, had a big head. Ewwwww.
That window cleaner was going to need a bigger bucket.
We've Got That Guy Again....Over The Shoes
Last year, I was walking down Buchanan Street in my lunch hour, and I bumped into a friend who is a Police Officer. He was dressed casually so I assumed he was doing a bit of shopping on his day off.
As I was talking to him I heard a burst of static from under his jacket and he cocked his head to one side to listen to his radio. He explained he was working in plain clothes looking for shoplifters. After a minute or so another guy came up to him, tapped him on the shoulder and delivered the immortal line...
"We've got that guy in the shoe shop, wanking over the shoes again."
Now the pertinent word here is again. They've got him again. I did wonder how many times he'd done it before. And how do you go about doing that. Get a pair of shoes and head off to a wee corner at the back or do it openly in the middle of the shop? I've never considered it myself.
I won't name the shop but it's a very nice shoe shop. You can't buy shoes for a tenner in there. Anyway my pal ran off to arrest the strange man.
I'd love to be in Court for that.
As I was talking to him I heard a burst of static from under his jacket and he cocked his head to one side to listen to his radio. He explained he was working in plain clothes looking for shoplifters. After a minute or so another guy came up to him, tapped him on the shoulder and delivered the immortal line...
"We've got that guy in the shoe shop, wanking over the shoes again."
Now the pertinent word here is again. They've got him again. I did wonder how many times he'd done it before. And how do you go about doing that. Get a pair of shoes and head off to a wee corner at the back or do it openly in the middle of the shop? I've never considered it myself.
I won't name the shop but it's a very nice shoe shop. You can't buy shoes for a tenner in there. Anyway my pal ran off to arrest the strange man.
I'd love to be in Court for that.
It Was Like Saving Private Ryan
On my travels last week I picked up a local paper in Milngavie, the Milngavie and Bearsden Herald. I sometimes think that local papers thrive on the sensational headlines that you normally see adorning The Sun.
This headline was "Yobs on Rampage." Excellent.
It described how "violent neds caused a night of bloody carnage...thugs armed with wooden poles prowled the streets looking for victims...gangs clashed on open ground...two plain clothes police officers arrived in an unmarked car, and soon realised they needed backup."
One resident said;
"We guessed it was another fight and didn't even bother looking out the window." They're clearly used to it now.
"The neds are only young teenagers but go at each other like frenzied animals."
My favourite line of all was this quote from a resident;
"The view from my window was like something out of Saving Private Ryan - pure chaos. There were four police cars, a van and an unmarked police car with officers everywhere".
Now if I recall in Saving Private Ryan there were no police cars, no police vans, certainly no unmarked police cars, and I'm sure no police officers. There were soldiers with arms and legs blown off and their faces cut to shreds. No real comparison.
A slight exaggeration on their part. But I'll bet the newspaper reporter nearly creamed himself when he heard that quote. That's me on the front page for sure!
This headline was "Yobs on Rampage." Excellent.
It described how "violent neds caused a night of bloody carnage...thugs armed with wooden poles prowled the streets looking for victims...gangs clashed on open ground...two plain clothes police officers arrived in an unmarked car, and soon realised they needed backup."
One resident said;
"We guessed it was another fight and didn't even bother looking out the window." They're clearly used to it now.
"The neds are only young teenagers but go at each other like frenzied animals."
My favourite line of all was this quote from a resident;
"The view from my window was like something out of Saving Private Ryan - pure chaos. There were four police cars, a van and an unmarked police car with officers everywhere".
Now if I recall in Saving Private Ryan there were no police cars, no police vans, certainly no unmarked police cars, and I'm sure no police officers. There were soldiers with arms and legs blown off and their faces cut to shreds. No real comparison.
A slight exaggeration on their part. But I'll bet the newspaper reporter nearly creamed himself when he heard that quote. That's me on the front page for sure!
Monday, 20 August 2007
The Day A White Tracksuit Kicked My Head In
Around eight years ago I had been out on a works night out in Glasgow city centre. I was having trouble getting a taxi and decided to walk a bit into Partick to try again for a taxi. Just beyond Charing Cross on Argyle Street, I was heading through Finnieston. I ended up walking along beside a young couple, who were visible in the dark evening in their white tracksuits, white trainers and white caps.
God knows why but I started talking to them. I don't know why. I was drunk. I don't really know what I said to them. I was drunk.
At the bend in the road where the Police Station is they both turned right and walked off up a side street. I meandered happily along. About thirty seconds later, they both appeared in front of me. They had gone round the whole block and come out ahead of me.
Slight confusion on my part. Why were they now walking back? Why did they go round a whole block to appear in front of me.
I saw the look on the guy's face. He was striding very determinedly towards me. It took about two seconds for me to realise he was going to set about me. Even before he ran, I ran.
I turned and ran as fast as I could, but.....I was drunk.
I got halfway across the road then he was on me. I don't know if he kicked or pushed me but I went down right in the centre of the road, about thirty metres from the front door of the police station. I balled up into a foetal position with my hands up at my face.
He just started kicking me on the back, the head, round the front to the face. I'm grateful now that my glasses came off quickly or I'd have had them broken into my face. I found them the next day at the side of the road. He just kept kicking me and kicking me. At one point I looked up and saw his girlfriend just standing there watching.
I don't remember feeling much pain, just the thuds of his feet against my head. I was lying there beginning to think how ridiculous this all was. I'd probably said something to annoy him and he does this.
I started shouting at him;
"Gonnae stop that, come on, that's enough, alright alright I give in, for chrissakes."
While it might sound cowardly and a bit childish all I was thinking was how weird this was. It didn't feel like a serious assault, I wasn't feeling any pain. But he kept kicking me. It went on for over a minute I think and suddenly he just stopped and ran off.
I looked up and saw two women at the side of the road who had shouted at him. They kindly took me into their flat close by so I could get off the street and phone a taxi. I went into their bathroom to survey the damage and my face was grazed, bleeding in places and I had a large gash above my right eye. Suddenly the bathroom door opened and a man was standing there staring at me.
"Hello," I said with my face spattered with blood. And he closed the door. He'd heard a male voice in the flat and wondered what was going on.
I phoned my wife and explained I'd be a little delayed but I was just waiting on a taxi.
"Don't worry but I've had a bit of a kicking." Was she pleased with me.
The next day I managed to get into work for 7am despite having been drunk and assaulted the night before. After work I went into Finnieston Police Station to report the assault, more for their stats rather than for any serious attempt at trying catch the guy. The officer at the desk asked why I hadn't reported it the night before seeing as I was only across the road and then as I was giving the description of my attacker and listing his white tracksuit and white cap, the policeman actually laughed. And from then on I could see he'd lost interest and was just really ticking the rest of the boxes.
So that was my only kicking and I've been trying to avoid a repeat occurrence ever since.
God knows why but I started talking to them. I don't know why. I was drunk. I don't really know what I said to them. I was drunk.
At the bend in the road where the Police Station is they both turned right and walked off up a side street. I meandered happily along. About thirty seconds later, they both appeared in front of me. They had gone round the whole block and come out ahead of me.
Slight confusion on my part. Why were they now walking back? Why did they go round a whole block to appear in front of me.
I saw the look on the guy's face. He was striding very determinedly towards me. It took about two seconds for me to realise he was going to set about me. Even before he ran, I ran.
I turned and ran as fast as I could, but.....I was drunk.
I got halfway across the road then he was on me. I don't know if he kicked or pushed me but I went down right in the centre of the road, about thirty metres from the front door of the police station. I balled up into a foetal position with my hands up at my face.
He just started kicking me on the back, the head, round the front to the face. I'm grateful now that my glasses came off quickly or I'd have had them broken into my face. I found them the next day at the side of the road. He just kept kicking me and kicking me. At one point I looked up and saw his girlfriend just standing there watching.
I don't remember feeling much pain, just the thuds of his feet against my head. I was lying there beginning to think how ridiculous this all was. I'd probably said something to annoy him and he does this.
I started shouting at him;
"Gonnae stop that, come on, that's enough, alright alright I give in, for chrissakes."
While it might sound cowardly and a bit childish all I was thinking was how weird this was. It didn't feel like a serious assault, I wasn't feeling any pain. But he kept kicking me. It went on for over a minute I think and suddenly he just stopped and ran off.
I looked up and saw two women at the side of the road who had shouted at him. They kindly took me into their flat close by so I could get off the street and phone a taxi. I went into their bathroom to survey the damage and my face was grazed, bleeding in places and I had a large gash above my right eye. Suddenly the bathroom door opened and a man was standing there staring at me.
"Hello," I said with my face spattered with blood. And he closed the door. He'd heard a male voice in the flat and wondered what was going on.
I phoned my wife and explained I'd be a little delayed but I was just waiting on a taxi.
"Don't worry but I've had a bit of a kicking." Was she pleased with me.
The next day I managed to get into work for 7am despite having been drunk and assaulted the night before. After work I went into Finnieston Police Station to report the assault, more for their stats rather than for any serious attempt at trying catch the guy. The officer at the desk asked why I hadn't reported it the night before seeing as I was only across the road and then as I was giving the description of my attacker and listing his white tracksuit and white cap, the policeman actually laughed. And from then on I could see he'd lost interest and was just really ticking the rest of the boxes.
So that was my only kicking and I've been trying to avoid a repeat occurrence ever since.
Saturday, 18 August 2007
Customer Service Gone Too Far
On the Helensburgh train into Glasgow a couple of weeks ago I was sitting opposite a very pleasant old couple who had a suitcase and smaller hand luggage. I guess they were around 65 years old. The suitcase was protruding into the passageway and the old man was taking care not to get it in people's way.
His wife started sifting through a white envelope with some travel documents and I was trying to get a wee look to see where they were off to. No matter, across the front of the envelope she had scrawled in huge red felt pen "London Tickets" in very squint writing. That's nice, a wee 10 hour trip on the train for them down to the big smoke. At their age too. There's no way I'd do that.
At Central the guy got up and I was of a mind to offer to help him with his case up the stairs off the platform. In amongst all the people disembarking, the ticket collector appeared from behind us and grabbed the handle of the suitcase. The old man was holding the little lift up handle at the end which allows you to use the wheels. The ticket man (TM) grabbing it caused the old man (OM) to look round and the following conversation ensued.
TM " I'll give you a hand with this off the train."
OM "Oh no, it's alright, I can manage, thank you."
TM "No, it's okay, I'll help you get it off."
OM "No, really, I can manage," (turning away).
TM "It's not a problem, it's bit awkward to get off with this."
OM "I can manage, it's fine."
He went to move and turned back and realised the ticket guy was still holding the handle.
TM "I insist, I'll help you get it down to the platform."
OM "It's fine really, it's not heavy."
TM "No, it's okay, I'll help you with it."
OM "It's fine, I can manage on my own."
The old guy stared at him, and I saw his wife is looking at little bemused. There was silence on the train except for the screeching from the wheels, metal on metal as the trains slowed down.
Inside my own head I was screaming "Let the bag go !!, he doesn't want it."
TM "Are you sure, I can lift it down for you."
OM "I'm sure, I'll get it myself."
TM "It's really not a problem, sir, I can get it for you."
OM "Really, it's fine, I can do it myself, it's okay."
TM "Oh well, if you're sure."
OG "I'm sure."
At last the ticket man let go of the handle and stepped back to let the wife past, beaming at the old guy, at which point he says simply :-
TM "Customer service !"
Customer assault more like.
His wife started sifting through a white envelope with some travel documents and I was trying to get a wee look to see where they were off to. No matter, across the front of the envelope she had scrawled in huge red felt pen "London Tickets" in very squint writing. That's nice, a wee 10 hour trip on the train for them down to the big smoke. At their age too. There's no way I'd do that.
At Central the guy got up and I was of a mind to offer to help him with his case up the stairs off the platform. In amongst all the people disembarking, the ticket collector appeared from behind us and grabbed the handle of the suitcase. The old man was holding the little lift up handle at the end which allows you to use the wheels. The ticket man (TM) grabbing it caused the old man (OM) to look round and the following conversation ensued.
TM " I'll give you a hand with this off the train."
OM "Oh no, it's alright, I can manage, thank you."
TM "No, it's okay, I'll help you get it off."
OM "No, really, I can manage," (turning away).
TM "It's not a problem, it's bit awkward to get off with this."
OM "I can manage, it's fine."
He went to move and turned back and realised the ticket guy was still holding the handle.
TM "I insist, I'll help you get it down to the platform."
OM "It's fine really, it's not heavy."
TM "No, it's okay, I'll help you with it."
OM "It's fine, I can manage on my own."
The old guy stared at him, and I saw his wife is looking at little bemused. There was silence on the train except for the screeching from the wheels, metal on metal as the trains slowed down.
Inside my own head I was screaming "Let the bag go !!, he doesn't want it."
TM "Are you sure, I can lift it down for you."
OM "I'm sure, I'll get it myself."
TM "It's really not a problem, sir, I can get it for you."
OM "Really, it's fine, I can do it myself, it's okay."
TM "Oh well, if you're sure."
OG "I'm sure."
At last the ticket man let go of the handle and stepped back to let the wife past, beaming at the old guy, at which point he says simply :-
TM "Customer service !"
Customer assault more like.
Friday, 17 August 2007
Elvis Makes Amends, and Drives a Mercedes Benz
I actually went out looking for strange people this lunchtime. A little walk along Gordon Street onto Buchanan Street.
Well lawdy lawdy Miss Clawdy, did I see one?
A nice black Mercedes was moving slowly in the traffic along Gordon Street. And the driver?
Thick black hair, quiffed, big sideburns, large framed gold glasses, and a brilliant white jumpsuit, huge collar, huge cuffs and covered with a multitude of different coloured stones.
If he's in hiding from the world, someone should have a word with him.
Well lawdy lawdy Miss Clawdy, did I see one?
A nice black Mercedes was moving slowly in the traffic along Gordon Street. And the driver?
Thick black hair, quiffed, big sideburns, large framed gold glasses, and a brilliant white jumpsuit, huge collar, huge cuffs and covered with a multitude of different coloured stones.
If he's in hiding from the world, someone should have a word with him.
Would You Like a Brick With That?
The neds round my way are getting more vicious as they are all over the place. My street is used as a thorough fare between two particular areas, and the neds from each place don't appear to like each other too much. On Friday and Saturday nights we can hear banging, shouting and screaming going past. I've had my cars keyed a couple of times and vandalised more but the incident that happened recently was the worst by far.
A neighbour had come back from the town on the train about 10pm and was walking back home. The route dictates that you have to walk through either one of two tunnels, which is invariably where a bunch of neds hang out. It's pot luck whichever route you choose from the station as the streets go in a circuitous route back to the same point where you must go through these tunnels to get to our street. If you see one tunnel is blocked you might have a long walk back to the station to go back again through the other just to avoid them.
A few months ago a guy walking his young daughter back from school had to walk through the tunnel and past a group of neds. He asked them to stop swearing because of his daughter. They beat him to the ground and kicked his head in. He was an off duty Police Officer.
I've been beaten down and kicked in the head before. Luckily the offender was wearing his white trainers which were relatively soft when hitting my skull. They matched his all white tracksuit. The policeman actually laughed when I gave him that description. That was in Finnieston.
My neighbour isn't frightened of them so he walked straight through this group of about eight males/females, about 15-18 years old. And there the games began.
"Whit you lookin at?" said one guy.
"Nothing, pal."
"Whit'll ye dae if I punch you?", said a wee lassie, which she promptly did, right to the side of his head.
"What'll you do if I do that to you?" he asked back.
At which point they started to surround him. He got off his mark. He might not be scared but he's not stupid. Eight wee psycho neds against one. They chased him the couple of hundred yards past his house and got round him on all sides.
The slab of concrete they threw first just missed his head. I found it later beside my car, happy it wasn't on my car. It was about 18 inches long, 3 inches deep, by 7 inches wide with a metal rod sticking out both ends.
Next came the brick. Straight in his face, and he went down. We heard screaming outside and by the time we looked out we just saw his wife run past. She told us she'd gone round the corner and they'd run off. His legs were like jelly so she had to drag him back to the house.
As I was standing outside later talking to a guy who'd seen it all, he commented that one of them was coming past again, but that he'd changed his top to avoid identification by the Police. A Police van turned up, seemingly spoke to the group, were given details of the change of clothes, but appear to have made no arrests at all.
The neds have some nerve. They've just smashed someone in the head with a brick, the Police are there and they're still wandering about.
And the icing on the cake, as they passed his 15 year old girlfriend enquired of me,
"Whit are you staring at you cunt?"
I said nothing to her. No respect or decency at all. Tch tch.
I'm going out this Saturday night. Let's see if I make it home.
A neighbour had come back from the town on the train about 10pm and was walking back home. The route dictates that you have to walk through either one of two tunnels, which is invariably where a bunch of neds hang out. It's pot luck whichever route you choose from the station as the streets go in a circuitous route back to the same point where you must go through these tunnels to get to our street. If you see one tunnel is blocked you might have a long walk back to the station to go back again through the other just to avoid them.
A few months ago a guy walking his young daughter back from school had to walk through the tunnel and past a group of neds. He asked them to stop swearing because of his daughter. They beat him to the ground and kicked his head in. He was an off duty Police Officer.
I've been beaten down and kicked in the head before. Luckily the offender was wearing his white trainers which were relatively soft when hitting my skull. They matched his all white tracksuit. The policeman actually laughed when I gave him that description. That was in Finnieston.
My neighbour isn't frightened of them so he walked straight through this group of about eight males/females, about 15-18 years old. And there the games began.
"Whit you lookin at?" said one guy.
"Nothing, pal."
"Whit'll ye dae if I punch you?", said a wee lassie, which she promptly did, right to the side of his head.
"What'll you do if I do that to you?" he asked back.
At which point they started to surround him. He got off his mark. He might not be scared but he's not stupid. Eight wee psycho neds against one. They chased him the couple of hundred yards past his house and got round him on all sides.
The slab of concrete they threw first just missed his head. I found it later beside my car, happy it wasn't on my car. It was about 18 inches long, 3 inches deep, by 7 inches wide with a metal rod sticking out both ends.
Next came the brick. Straight in his face, and he went down. We heard screaming outside and by the time we looked out we just saw his wife run past. She told us she'd gone round the corner and they'd run off. His legs were like jelly so she had to drag him back to the house.
As I was standing outside later talking to a guy who'd seen it all, he commented that one of them was coming past again, but that he'd changed his top to avoid identification by the Police. A Police van turned up, seemingly spoke to the group, were given details of the change of clothes, but appear to have made no arrests at all.
The neds have some nerve. They've just smashed someone in the head with a brick, the Police are there and they're still wandering about.
And the icing on the cake, as they passed his 15 year old girlfriend enquired of me,
"Whit are you staring at you cunt?"
I said nothing to her. No respect or decency at all. Tch tch.
I'm going out this Saturday night. Let's see if I make it home.
Thursday, 16 August 2007
Morrisons Dress Down Day
I was in Morrisons today on Gordon Street and noticed they are having dress down days in there now. I find it a little confusing to find that shop staff are wearing no kind of uniform. I sort of like shop employees to be easily recognised. I'll stop short of the bowler hats, apron and moustache but I need that basic routine.
I would say the incident that occurred today was a direct result of the dress down day.
When I walked in one of the guys was filling the sandwich shelves from a trolley which involved bending down. With his cool low riding jeans and skinny t-shirt it caused a gap of sorts between the two. Imagine. Bending.....down.....gap.....yup, I walked through the door and was faced with a rather hairy arse crack. I actually shivered at the sight. Maybe if he'd used Veet, I wouldn't have been repulsed so much.
As I walked round I noticed that there were more people in the shop in uniform, who didn't work even there. The guy from Jessops across the street who recently advised me on digital cameras, and a woman from Ladbrokes where I've never been since I lost £5 on a "sure thing" fifteen years ago.
I really think shops where bending is a job requirement should avoid dress down days. Very upsetting.
I would say the incident that occurred today was a direct result of the dress down day.
When I walked in one of the guys was filling the sandwich shelves from a trolley which involved bending down. With his cool low riding jeans and skinny t-shirt it caused a gap of sorts between the two. Imagine. Bending.....down.....gap.....yup, I walked through the door and was faced with a rather hairy arse crack. I actually shivered at the sight. Maybe if he'd used Veet, I wouldn't have been repulsed so much.
As I walked round I noticed that there were more people in the shop in uniform, who didn't work even there. The guy from Jessops across the street who recently advised me on digital cameras, and a woman from Ladbrokes where I've never been since I lost £5 on a "sure thing" fifteen years ago.
I really think shops where bending is a job requirement should avoid dress down days. Very upsetting.
Tuesday, 14 August 2007
Two Bob For The Phone, Mate?
Yesterday I was walking to work on Union Street, and two neds in white track suits come out of a phone box asking if I can tap them two bob for the phone. I haven't heard that in years.
I replied with a look of concern "Did some wee bastard steal your mobiles you couple of fannies?".
Actually I said "No, I only carry notes on me".
That's not true either. I just said "No, sorry". Why the hell did I apologise?. It's the polite part of me, pushed along by the part of me that doesn't want to get stabbed.
I replied with a look of concern "Did some wee bastard steal your mobiles you couple of fannies?".
Actually I said "No, I only carry notes on me".
That's not true either. I just said "No, sorry". Why the hell did I apologise?. It's the polite part of me, pushed along by the part of me that doesn't want to get stabbed.
Hagrid's Got A New Job
I saw a guy at Queen Street last week. Spitting image of Hagrid.
He was well over 6 ' tall, dressed in loose dark clothing, big belly, well built guy, with long dark curly hair, and a huge bushy beard.
Maybe he's not in the 6th book and won't be working on the film and has got a wee part time job to tide him over.
I'm surprised he was at Queen Street though. I know Central's got a platform that's a bitch to find, away down on the right about 500 metres from the rest of them.
He was well over 6 ' tall, dressed in loose dark clothing, big belly, well built guy, with long dark curly hair, and a huge bushy beard.
Maybe he's not in the 6th book and won't be working on the film and has got a wee part time job to tide him over.
I'm surprised he was at Queen Street though. I know Central's got a platform that's a bitch to find, away down on the right about 500 metres from the rest of them.
Scooter / Suit Not Good
Today a bloke in a suit went zipping along the platform at Queen Street lower level on one of those two wheeled scooters.
He had a wee backpack on and had his nose up in the air as if he was trying to streamline himself against the winds coming down the platform.
Not a good look.
He had a wee backpack on and had his nose up in the air as if he was trying to streamline himself against the winds coming down the platform.
Not a good look.
Rush Hour Drinker
The same colleague who saw the amazing star shaped baby described to me a few weeks ago how almost every night on her train home a woman gets on with an M&S bag and a briefcase. It’s either the Largs or Ayr train from Glasgow Central each day.
Every single day is the same.
She gets out a small bottle of wine and a bag of crisps or cheese crackers, and just sits and swigs from the bottle, munching away. She looks very “well to do.” Classy.
Every single day is the same.
She gets out a small bottle of wine and a bag of crisps or cheese crackers, and just sits and swigs from the bottle, munching away. She looks very “well to do.” Classy.
Sunday, 12 August 2007
Edinburgh v. Glasgow
I saw a report on the Scottish News a few weeks ago about how Edinburgh was one of the best places to live and work in Scotland.
There was some English guy who said he'd moved there years ago and loved how everything was within walking distance and all the shops were so close to his work. Aye that's because it's tiny.
Shopping? You've got Princes Street and a shopping centre at the end which you could cover in about one hour. I'm not aware of any other great shopping areas other than that. The people are only friendly because half the people going into the shops are tourists. Let's close Edinburgh Airport and make them come through Glasgow first.
And if you have a problem with that, we'll just set aboot ye.
There was some English guy who said he'd moved there years ago and loved how everything was within walking distance and all the shops were so close to his work. Aye that's because it's tiny.
Shopping? You've got Princes Street and a shopping centre at the end which you could cover in about one hour. I'm not aware of any other great shopping areas other than that. The people are only friendly because half the people going into the shops are tourists. Let's close Edinburgh Airport and make them come through Glasgow first.
And if you have a problem with that, we'll just set aboot ye.
Saturday, 11 August 2007
Hi Ho Silver
Parking at B&Q in Drumchapel the other day I noted a Land Rover with a wheel cover on the spare at the back.
From a distance it looked like a cowboy on his horse against a beautiful orange sunset.
On getting closed I noted it was a hand painted cowboy on his horse against a handpainted beautiful orange sunset, and looked at bit crap.
They obviously don't sell that kind in the shops round here.
From a distance it looked like a cowboy on his horse against a beautiful orange sunset.
On getting closed I noted it was a hand painted cowboy on his horse against a handpainted beautiful orange sunset, and looked at bit crap.
They obviously don't sell that kind in the shops round here.
Thursday, 9 August 2007
Tourists Welcome
Driving through the area Yoker, in Glasgow the other day I noticed a shop selling a multitude of things. I can’t even describe it fully, but it’s one of these shops that seems to have no theme, like a stationer, book shop, ironmonger, soft furnishings, it has a bit of everything at very low prices.
What made me laugh was on the canopy above the door, it had the shop name and a list of things that they sold, and at the bottom, it said “Visitors and Tourists Welcome.” Tourists?
This is Yoker. No disrespect, but I think the guy is kidding himself if he thinks tourists will be strolling nearby taking in the sights, see his frontage and think “Oh, look at that, let’s go in.”
Lost tourists, maybe.
What made me laugh was on the canopy above the door, it had the shop name and a list of things that they sold, and at the bottom, it said “Visitors and Tourists Welcome.” Tourists?
This is Yoker. No disrespect, but I think the guy is kidding himself if he thinks tourists will be strolling nearby taking in the sights, see his frontage and think “Oh, look at that, let’s go in.”
Lost tourists, maybe.
Wednesday, 8 August 2007
Spar Customers
I was in my local Spar shop yesterday for a few essentials…bread, milk and butter. It was unusually busy.
The majority of them were young females, all seemingly part of the same “troop.” All were wearing a similar uniform of pastel coloured hoody tops, distressed loose baggy jeans, you know…where the back pockets render themselves useless as they are down at the back of the knees, hair scraped back into a tight ponytail, showing off their Glasgow Tans, and white trainers.
One of them was occasionally tending to the communal baby in a pram. I’m not sure which one it belonged to. Oh, and they kept jumping the fecking queue. It starts behind me!!
They were also in to get essentials. All of them were making a purchase of crisps or sweets and a two litre bottle of fizzy juice, mainly Irn Bru. Do these people not have a bite to eat or a drink before going out to meet their pals, or is it cool to go out hungry and munch crisps and swig from your big bottle of Irn Bru on a street corner while tending to the baby which someone brought along? It seems so.
The majority of them were young females, all seemingly part of the same “troop.” All were wearing a similar uniform of pastel coloured hoody tops, distressed loose baggy jeans, you know…where the back pockets render themselves useless as they are down at the back of the knees, hair scraped back into a tight ponytail, showing off their Glasgow Tans, and white trainers.
One of them was occasionally tending to the communal baby in a pram. I’m not sure which one it belonged to. Oh, and they kept jumping the fecking queue. It starts behind me!!
They were also in to get essentials. All of them were making a purchase of crisps or sweets and a two litre bottle of fizzy juice, mainly Irn Bru. Do these people not have a bite to eat or a drink before going out to meet their pals, or is it cool to go out hungry and munch crisps and swig from your big bottle of Irn Bru on a street corner while tending to the baby which someone brought along? It seems so.
Moan, Let’s Go Doon The Joab Centre
I was walking past the new job centre on Union Street and hanging out the door were some neds throwing plastic bottles at some other neds….behind me. The bottles were narrowly missing me and other passers by. I did think of passing comment but they looked a bit mental and there were more of them than me, frankly.
I looked in the window, through the rain of bottles and saw white polyester tracksuits and plenty of Burberry scarves and even more precariously perched caps. Their scarves were bunching up over the collars of their Helly Hansen waterproof jackets. It was like a bloody ned convention.
How sad when you see two teenagers walking through a major city centre wearing matching Helly Hansen jackets, red/blue with the little strip of yellow on the back. Who the fuck started that trend? I sometimes want to just say to them;
"Do you realise how fucking stupid you look?"
But alas, I may receive a knifing for my troubles. I’d rather live another day and enjoy looking at those sad asswipes.
I looked in the window, through the rain of bottles and saw white polyester tracksuits and plenty of Burberry scarves and even more precariously perched caps. Their scarves were bunching up over the collars of their Helly Hansen waterproof jackets. It was like a bloody ned convention.
How sad when you see two teenagers walking through a major city centre wearing matching Helly Hansen jackets, red/blue with the little strip of yellow on the back. Who the fuck started that trend? I sometimes want to just say to them;
"Do you realise how fucking stupid you look?"
But alas, I may receive a knifing for my troubles. I’d rather live another day and enjoy looking at those sad asswipes.
Tuesday, 7 August 2007
Post Boy Jobsworth
As well as the crazies out on the street there is always weird people around you eight hours a day at your work.
The "post boy" in my office is over fifty years old and I can’t figure out if he’d always been a post-room boy or if he’s ever held a position of authority and is just happy now with an easy gig. He wears plain white shirts and a very old tie. His shirt pocket is always pulled down by his heavy security tag which no-one else has and I don’t think he actually needs, and also a row of pens. He walks around with an air of superiority as if he knows that without him we would be unable to function. No, we'd just find someone else.
He supplies the basics of our office like paper for the copier and printers and stationary and gets the post collected and sent out. He has one of these multi functional trolleys which can be used upright to lift single heavy items or down on four wheels to transport the many stationary orders he gets.
I think he is a little "over proud" of his job and his little trolley as he frequently travels through the building with the stationary stacked as high as he can possibly get it. Boxes of paper at the bottom and paper clips at the top. Like thin pyramids. I am praying for the day the whole lot topples over in the middle of the office, with reams of paper bursting open and many boxes of small items breaking open and spilling their loads all over the place. That would be bliss.
If someone has not used the correct and acceptable "code" on the stationary order, he'll come and tell you all about it. "White window envelope, small" is not good enough. He'll read through the order standing beside you and not only advise you of the correct terminology for the numerous envelopes available, but also correct your spelling as well.
When the printer runs out of toner, he'll turn up some hours later, if not the next day and shake the toner, telling us it's not done yet and we can still get some use out of it. Then when it really starts churning out unuseable letters, he'll only then order another, saying it might be in tomorrow. He doesn't think to have some ready at all, in this large office with various printers on each floor.
When he goes around collecting stationary orders he goes to each photocopier and kicks the boxes to see how full they are, sometimes with a little laugh as if to say "they want more paper, that's typical." Or if someone tries to hand him an envelope to be posted while he is actually collecting the post, he doesn't just take it from them, oh no, he'll tilt his head back as if looking down his nose at it and take a few seconds to decide whether he is going to take it from them, like he's deciding if your letter is worthy of being posted or not.
I have seen him pick up letters which are obviously personal or a birthday card which the person has not stamped themselves and hold it up, inspect it and say "tch tch" before dropping it in his basket. Oh yeah, that should definitely be reported, someone bastard ripping the company off for 30p.
In the past he has moaned about people using the wrong envelope for the size of letter being sent, and once he actually visited each team during their weekly meeting to perform a talk on the various envelope options and which ones we should be using and actually gave us a frigging demonstration of each envelope. He'll only permit use of the large gusset envelopes if all avenues have been exhausted, which includes him showing you your file being stuffed into an envelope which is obviously too small, until it rips and he concedes that he needs to use the slightly more expensive one.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he was getting paid more than me. I just wish he’d just do his job and do what we tell him to do. However, he is a source of entertainment for me, and now you.
The "post boy" in my office is over fifty years old and I can’t figure out if he’d always been a post-room boy or if he’s ever held a position of authority and is just happy now with an easy gig. He wears plain white shirts and a very old tie. His shirt pocket is always pulled down by his heavy security tag which no-one else has and I don’t think he actually needs, and also a row of pens. He walks around with an air of superiority as if he knows that without him we would be unable to function. No, we'd just find someone else.
He supplies the basics of our office like paper for the copier and printers and stationary and gets the post collected and sent out. He has one of these multi functional trolleys which can be used upright to lift single heavy items or down on four wheels to transport the many stationary orders he gets.
I think he is a little "over proud" of his job and his little trolley as he frequently travels through the building with the stationary stacked as high as he can possibly get it. Boxes of paper at the bottom and paper clips at the top. Like thin pyramids. I am praying for the day the whole lot topples over in the middle of the office, with reams of paper bursting open and many boxes of small items breaking open and spilling their loads all over the place. That would be bliss.
If someone has not used the correct and acceptable "code" on the stationary order, he'll come and tell you all about it. "White window envelope, small" is not good enough. He'll read through the order standing beside you and not only advise you of the correct terminology for the numerous envelopes available, but also correct your spelling as well.
When the printer runs out of toner, he'll turn up some hours later, if not the next day and shake the toner, telling us it's not done yet and we can still get some use out of it. Then when it really starts churning out unuseable letters, he'll only then order another, saying it might be in tomorrow. He doesn't think to have some ready at all, in this large office with various printers on each floor.
When he goes around collecting stationary orders he goes to each photocopier and kicks the boxes to see how full they are, sometimes with a little laugh as if to say "they want more paper, that's typical." Or if someone tries to hand him an envelope to be posted while he is actually collecting the post, he doesn't just take it from them, oh no, he'll tilt his head back as if looking down his nose at it and take a few seconds to decide whether he is going to take it from them, like he's deciding if your letter is worthy of being posted or not.
I have seen him pick up letters which are obviously personal or a birthday card which the person has not stamped themselves and hold it up, inspect it and say "tch tch" before dropping it in his basket. Oh yeah, that should definitely be reported, someone bastard ripping the company off for 30p.
In the past he has moaned about people using the wrong envelope for the size of letter being sent, and once he actually visited each team during their weekly meeting to perform a talk on the various envelope options and which ones we should be using and actually gave us a frigging demonstration of each envelope. He'll only permit use of the large gusset envelopes if all avenues have been exhausted, which includes him showing you your file being stuffed into an envelope which is obviously too small, until it rips and he concedes that he needs to use the slightly more expensive one.
It wouldn’t surprise me if he was getting paid more than me. I just wish he’d just do his job and do what we tell him to do. However, he is a source of entertainment for me, and now you.
Monday, 6 August 2007
Two Birds With One Door
While trying to leave a shop in Sauchiehall Street I was walking out through the door and a young lady appeared at the door to enter.
Rather than continuing to walk in front of her to get past her which I feel is rude, I backed up to hold the door open for her and allow her to pass me.
In doing so, I backed into an old woman who was standing looking at a shelf display, nearly knocking her over, and in my panic of nearly breaking an old woman’s hip my hand slipped from the door and the door closed back onto the lady battering into her. Once I saw no-one was seriously injured I got out of there as quickly as possible without looking back.
They say that chivalry is dead, well maybe it should be.
Rather than continuing to walk in front of her to get past her which I feel is rude, I backed up to hold the door open for her and allow her to pass me.
In doing so, I backed into an old woman who was standing looking at a shelf display, nearly knocking her over, and in my panic of nearly breaking an old woman’s hip my hand slipped from the door and the door closed back onto the lady battering into her. Once I saw no-one was seriously injured I got out of there as quickly as possible without looking back.
They say that chivalry is dead, well maybe it should be.
Sunday, 5 August 2007
Jaffa Cocks
Two friends of mine woke up in their hotel room while away on a stag night or a golfing holiday. Either one, doesn't matter. Separate beds obviously. Mouths and throats dry as hell after a night on the piss, and starving.
First guy wakes up and goes to the bog for a pee. Goes back and settles on his bed and looks around the room trying to establish if there is anything edible. He spies a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the table and goes to get it. He's only wearing his boxers. The movement around the room and the rustling of the packaging wakes up his friend, but he is too hungover to even consider lifting his head up. He just wakes up.
He hears his friend eating and asks what he's eating. He's told Jaffa Cakes. He asks for one, and reaches his arm out way behind him, palm up, inviting his mate to place a Jaffa Cake in his hand.
Instead, his friend in a playful mood, walks across and squats down a little, pulls his knob out of his boxers and places it in the palm of his mate's upturned hand. There's also the remnants of a little bit of pee from his visit to the bog minutes before.
It doesn't take very long for his friend to realise it's not a Jaffa Cake and turns to see..... how they laughed.
First guy wakes up and goes to the bog for a pee. Goes back and settles on his bed and looks around the room trying to establish if there is anything edible. He spies a packet of Jaffa Cakes on the table and goes to get it. He's only wearing his boxers. The movement around the room and the rustling of the packaging wakes up his friend, but he is too hungover to even consider lifting his head up. He just wakes up.
He hears his friend eating and asks what he's eating. He's told Jaffa Cakes. He asks for one, and reaches his arm out way behind him, palm up, inviting his mate to place a Jaffa Cake in his hand.
Instead, his friend in a playful mood, walks across and squats down a little, pulls his knob out of his boxers and places it in the palm of his mate's upturned hand. There's also the remnants of a little bit of pee from his visit to the bog minutes before.
It doesn't take very long for his friend to realise it's not a Jaffa Cake and turns to see..... how they laughed.
Saturday, 4 August 2007
Prams, Trains and Baby Ordeals
A colleague of mine gets the train home to a posh place on the way to Ayr and has to suffer the plebs that travel with her. She suffers them then tells us all about them the next day. Much hilarity.
One such incident was during the 5pm rush hour, and two young “ladies” got on with a pram.
If you think of the trains in Glasgow you could fit a pram in the area between the doors or in the area for baggage/wheelchairs. Oh no, these girls took their pram to the centre seats and jammed it in the aisle. They then took up 6 seats for themselves. My friend was sitting in the 4 seats opposite them, and was wishing she could leave.
The young mother ignored the baby's cries for a while, and my friend, being a mother herself felt like checking the kid herself.
The baby kept crying, and eventually the mother lifted it out the pram and plopped it on her lap.
The kid was in a little all-in-one suit and was trussed up so tight in many layers of clothes that it’s arms and legs were sticking straight out in a star shape. It couldn’t even move.
My friend was sitting there thinking that the baby is too warm and feels like explaining to the inexperienced mother that maybe she’d stop crying if she wasn’t wearing so many clothes.
The young mum was showing much displeasure at the child for making a noise, and in between conversing with her friend is simply telling her baby;
“Shut it.”
She then had the idea of feeding the child. Yes! That’s right, it must be hungry, so she got a bottle and jammed it into the kid’s mouth which just caused screaming. The child pushed against it…no matter, she jammed it in again and again. The child screamed against being force fed, so the girl gave up moaning;
“Whit the fuck dae ye want?” (a loving mother perhaps?).
She then put the star-shaped baby back into the pram and told it to;
“Shut it,” and she went back to chatting while the kid screamed.
She maybe should have used a condom when the Boy From Burberry was pumping her.
One such incident was during the 5pm rush hour, and two young “ladies” got on with a pram.
If you think of the trains in Glasgow you could fit a pram in the area between the doors or in the area for baggage/wheelchairs. Oh no, these girls took their pram to the centre seats and jammed it in the aisle. They then took up 6 seats for themselves. My friend was sitting in the 4 seats opposite them, and was wishing she could leave.
The young mother ignored the baby's cries for a while, and my friend, being a mother herself felt like checking the kid herself.
The baby kept crying, and eventually the mother lifted it out the pram and plopped it on her lap.
The kid was in a little all-in-one suit and was trussed up so tight in many layers of clothes that it’s arms and legs were sticking straight out in a star shape. It couldn’t even move.
My friend was sitting there thinking that the baby is too warm and feels like explaining to the inexperienced mother that maybe she’d stop crying if she wasn’t wearing so many clothes.
The young mum was showing much displeasure at the child for making a noise, and in between conversing with her friend is simply telling her baby;
“Shut it.”
She then had the idea of feeding the child. Yes! That’s right, it must be hungry, so she got a bottle and jammed it into the kid’s mouth which just caused screaming. The child pushed against it…no matter, she jammed it in again and again. The child screamed against being force fed, so the girl gave up moaning;
“Whit the fuck dae ye want?” (a loving mother perhaps?).
She then put the star-shaped baby back into the pram and told it to;
“Shut it,” and she went back to chatting while the kid screamed.
She maybe should have used a condom when the Boy From Burberry was pumping her.
Friday, 3 August 2007
Satsumas And Cellulite
Today I overheard two female colleagues talking about being on the phone and one of them trying to peel satsumas at the same time, and she became a bit pissed off.
"I just realised I pulled all the white bits off," she said pointing to a little pile on her desk.
"They're supposed to be good for anti-cellulite," said the other.
She then walked across and blamed this on her friend who are convinced the white pieces are "evil" hence the reason she subconsciously was discarding them. Well there you go.
As a man I have none of these “satsuma style” worries.
"I just realised I pulled all the white bits off," she said pointing to a little pile on her desk.
"They're supposed to be good for anti-cellulite," said the other.
She then walked across and blamed this on her friend who are convinced the white pieces are "evil" hence the reason she subconsciously was discarding them. Well there you go.
As a man I have none of these “satsuma style” worries.
Ned In A Suit
Just minutes after I passed the busker the other day, I was walking up Sauchiehall Street and passed a fire appliance with two fireman at the rear talking, in their full outfits.
In front of me were three guys. One in a suit, light blue shirt, very neat hair. To his left were two neds....trainers, polyester tracky bottoms tucked into their white socks, tracky tops tied round their waists, polo shirts and....caps perched away back on their heads.
At a safe distance from the burly firemen the guy in the suit turns and shouts back over my head...
"Neeeeaaaarrright...cun ye no' find the fire, nnyyeeeeha ha ha ha"...... all delivered in the typical Glaswegian ned's nasal tone.
His two pals in the tracksuits burst into much laughter. Oh yes, hilarious, I thought as I fantasised about beating all three of them senseless with a baseball bat.
I realised that the suited guy was just meeting up with his wee unemployed pals in his lunch hour before heading back to the office where he would immediately drop his nasal vocab and talk properly in front of his colleagues. If only they could see him in his natural habitat.
On closer inspection when passing him my observations were that his "neat" hair was in fact shaved nearly to the bone almost to the top so it resembled a small hat, his suit was a royal blue cheap piece of tat (called a "fashion suit" in the Littlewoods catalogue some years ago with the strange collar, sometimes called in Glasgow, a court suit) and dirty black slip on shoes.
I'm sure his colleagues know exactly what he is.
In front of me were three guys. One in a suit, light blue shirt, very neat hair. To his left were two neds....trainers, polyester tracky bottoms tucked into their white socks, tracky tops tied round their waists, polo shirts and....caps perched away back on their heads.
At a safe distance from the burly firemen the guy in the suit turns and shouts back over my head...
"Neeeeaaaarrright...cun ye no' find the fire, nnyyeeeeha ha ha ha"...... all delivered in the typical Glaswegian ned's nasal tone.
His two pals in the tracksuits burst into much laughter. Oh yes, hilarious, I thought as I fantasised about beating all three of them senseless with a baseball bat.
I realised that the suited guy was just meeting up with his wee unemployed pals in his lunch hour before heading back to the office where he would immediately drop his nasal vocab and talk properly in front of his colleagues. If only they could see him in his natural habitat.
On closer inspection when passing him my observations were that his "neat" hair was in fact shaved nearly to the bone almost to the top so it resembled a small hat, his suit was a royal blue cheap piece of tat (called a "fashion suit" in the Littlewoods catalogue some years ago with the strange collar, sometimes called in Glasgow, a court suit) and dirty black slip on shoes.
I'm sure his colleagues know exactly what he is.
Thursday, 2 August 2007
Primark
Prymark or Preemark? I did telephone their head office once and they answered Preemark. I think. I forget now. I should do that again.
Prymark seems to be to posher version as I found out when discussing it with someone who pronounced it Preemark when she described how she was "gaun doon the Preemark." I had to supress the urge to correct her grammar and say "Actually, you say 'Going down to Preemark."
Anyway recently I was standing in the returns queue in "Prymark", with my £2 pair of reduced jeans (should have tried them on first) I noticed with some amusement the number of older women in the queue who had the traditional haircut of someone who can't afford a fully blown hairdresser and seem to opt for the barbers instead. It is shorn very short up the back and then permed on top. Almost muffin shaped. I knew someone like this many years ago. Can't say any more, but suffice it to say I married into another family instead.
But the one I saw today was unbelieveable. The permed bit on top had a sort of red dye over it. Not completely red as you could still see the grey through it, almost as if someone had gone over it lightly with a paintbrush. It was as if it had been dyed all over and then shaved up the back as there was a perfect horizontal line with the dye stopped or maybe started.
Anyway like I said I was in the returns queue with my £2 jeans. I'm not too posh not to shop there, but I’ll still call it Prymark.
Prymark seems to be to posher version as I found out when discussing it with someone who pronounced it Preemark when she described how she was "gaun doon the Preemark." I had to supress the urge to correct her grammar and say "Actually, you say 'Going down to Preemark."
Anyway recently I was standing in the returns queue in "Prymark", with my £2 pair of reduced jeans (should have tried them on first) I noticed with some amusement the number of older women in the queue who had the traditional haircut of someone who can't afford a fully blown hairdresser and seem to opt for the barbers instead. It is shorn very short up the back and then permed on top. Almost muffin shaped. I knew someone like this many years ago. Can't say any more, but suffice it to say I married into another family instead.
But the one I saw today was unbelieveable. The permed bit on top had a sort of red dye over it. Not completely red as you could still see the grey through it, almost as if someone had gone over it lightly with a paintbrush. It was as if it had been dyed all over and then shaved up the back as there was a perfect horizontal line with the dye stopped or maybe started.
Anyway like I said I was in the returns queue with my £2 jeans. I'm not too posh not to shop there, but I’ll still call it Prymark.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
