Not going out today...

Two reasons:

1. I'm suffering from a pesky cough and sore throat that took hold on Christmas Eve (but didn't spoil my Crimbo too much - just annoying).
2. Rival Glasgow football clubs Rangers and Celtic are playing this afternoon at the Rangers' home ground, Ibrox Stadium, which happens to be about half a mile from my tenement building. Whenever Rangers play at home there are always big crowds wandering around outside the building and a massive queue to get onto the underground train at the station right under my living room window. This is the first Rangers vs. Celtic match at Ibrox since I moved here. Big, big rivals in the way that only same-city football clubs can be. Might see a bit of action from the safety of my second floor flat after the match.

Hope you all had an enjoyable and peaceful Christmas Day.

[UPDATE] - Everyone appeared to leave the game in a civilised and orderly fashion. A good thing, really, except from a morbid entertainment point of view.

[ADDENDUM] - Sorry, I realise that this post is virtually identical to this one. Have I really run out of fresh material for this blog?

Some new snaps, nothing exciting

I've put up some new snaps on me Flickr thingie; just click da image, yo.

This chap was singing excerpts from Tosca while, just down the street, a preacher man was bellowing salvation through a crackly old Marshall amp.

Some more pictures

Click the image to view some photos of my tenement building taken this morning on the way down to take out the trash:

Pictures. For your eyes

Ever since I have I moved to Glasgow I keep seeing buildings or urban areas and thinking, "Ooh, I must take a photo of that." Today, after months of not quite getting around to it, I actually started. And, by way of self-motivation, I thought I would set up a Flickr account to show them off.

Click on the picture to view the first shots I took today:

I want to get into the habit of taking my camera out and recording images that strike a chord for whatever reason. I've never been one to keep photos of people or places, there are none on the walls or shelves of my flat, but something about the urban landscape of Glasgow has inspired me to start.

Of course, it might be but a passing fad: I'm like that.

I'll stick a link to my Flickr Photostream in the sidebar for convenience access to my photographic progress... assuming that I don't lose interest within a week.

Mmm

The three of you who read this spiel regularly will have noticed that dispatches from my Great Glasgow Odyssey have dried up. Simple enough reason: after the hijinks and crazy adventures of actually getting here life has settled down into a regular and, frankly, unblogworthy routine. I got a flat, I got a job (oh, please rest assured that I still believe banks to be agents of Satan himself even though I work for one now. I pretend that this is an exercise in irony but, let's be honest, I'm a sell-out) and for the time being it's going to be the mundane business of grafting and surviving.

Still, you'll be glad to know that I have actually been out socialising with work colleagues. No, really! I got drunk and everything. Of course, I do end up being a bit boring and wandering off home at a sensible hour so as to not piss all my money away. Plus, after a few drinks I like to get home to my own music collection and my bed. But at least I am making the effort to not be a total hermit.

I've also been trying to sell off some of my CDs and DVDs, partly because, having dragged my hoard all the way from Oxford and up to the second floor of a tenement building, I've come to accept that there is a very strong likelihood that I am never going to watch or listen to a fair portion of my collection again and that those items are an unnecessary burden*. I'm also fucking broke and need some cash.

So, blog posts will be not so frequent for the moment, such is the ebb and flow of inspiration and the creative urge.

Oh, I have been recording unusual and extraordinary names during the day job but I will save those for a later date**.

* My book collection, however, is sacred and will forever accompany me on life's journey.
** And, you know, when I've got more than two.

Almost too convenient

So, the wedding over and my newly-wed chums off to Thailand for three weeks, I settled into their house, fed the cat, succumbed to satellite TV (I'm not proud - I only have the five UK terrestrial channels at home which I barely watch but, dagnabbit, there are lots of episodes of Malcolm In The Middle, Futurama, South Park, Family Guy and The Simpsons that I've never seen; I had to make the most of the opportunity), and, most importantly, looking for somewhere to live.

You know, it's almost enough to make me believe in fate the way things worked out: a six-month job assignment coming to an end, the house in Oxford in which I've been lodging for four years being put up for sale and my friend's house in Glasgow being available for me to stay rent-free for three weeks, all those events occurring at around the same time, circumstances dovetailing oh so conveniently to facilitate my escape to the land of porridge, haggis and loch-dwelling monsters. I don't believe in destiny or suchlike woolly concepts but all these circumstances don't 'alf coalesce into one fat gob of coincidence.

But to drag this post screamin' and cryin' back to the point, I spent three weeks on buses, trains and feet scouring the city for a place to call my own. Due to my budget, all the places I looked at were modest 1-bedroomed flats in old tenement buildings. Fine by me - that was exactly the kind of place I was looking for. I must confess to nurturing a clichéd romantic vision of the lowly writer tucked away in one of the less affluent areas of the big city, eking out a modest living by day and working on his literary masterpieces by night in his humble abode. But, you know, with all white goods provided and high-speed Internet access. I'm such a fake.

Most of the flats I looked at were more or less suitable but what often put me off were the living conditions of the incumbent tenants. It doesn't matter how good a property is if, when you go to view it, you are presented with piles of pizza boxes, bottles, dirty dishes and some guy plodding out of the bedroom in his boxer shorts scratching his balls. Likewise, discovering that the soon-to-be evicted tenant keeps a cat in the flat that's shut inside all day and therefore performs its ablutions anywhere it sees fit does not create a favourable impression no matter how well appointed the place may be. How many times did I hear an exasperated landlord or letting agent say, "Err, we will, of course, get the cleaners in to give the place a thorough going over... um..."

Just as my three weeks of free accommodation were up, I found this place. It had everything I wanted with just a couple of caveats: electric rather than gas cooker, some slightly disconcerting dips in the floorboards in the bathroom, plumbing to the shower that is, as my dad observed, "a little Heath Robinson", a noisy extractor fan in the kitchen*... Nothing major but enough for me to want to go away and have a think about it. I told the landlord that I was definitely interested and would get back to him the next day. As I was leaving I had to make way for a young woman who was also there to view the flat.

I thought it over, decided that the benefits of the flat far outweighed the quibbles I had and so decided to call the landlord and tell him that I wanted to take it. "Ah, I'm so sorry but the girl who came to look round right after you accepted the place on the spot. But, look, I've arranged to meet her tomorrow to sign the agreement and pay the deposit. If for any reason she changes her mind then I'll call you straight away, OK?"

Disappointed, I said OK but resigned myself to the fact that I had lost the place. Oh well, I still had a couple of days left and a few viewings booked. I'd just have to keep looking.

Whaddya' know, the next day the landlord phoned me: "She can't get the deposit together after all so if you are still interested...?"

Yes, yes, yes, fuck yes, I have the money in the bank and I can give you the deposit right now. (Obviously, I played it a little cooler than that.) Yet another dollop of good fortune spooned onto the gob of coincidence that has brought me here.

When I met the landlord later to do the business, he told me that after we had spoken on the phone the girl had called him to say that she had got the money together after all. Ha! Tough shit, lady, the place is mine.

All I had to do then was find a job, which I did just as the last of my funds were trotting merrily out the bank: another happy coincidence.

I'm actually a little freaked out by how everything has slotted so conveniently into place. This isn't how it usually works. What's going on? Well, best not to get too paranoid about it - just enjoy it, Stevie boy.

And rest assured, dear reader, I am.

By the way, this post was going to be about fake tans. Kinda' went awry there, didn't I.

* The landlord replaced said noisy fan before I moved in which was jolly decent of him. He also replaced the broken toilet seat. Oh yeah, I've gotta' show you the toilet seat - it's a work of art. I'll post a picture later.

Anti-climax

The football the other night turned out to be an anti-climax. I don't mean the match itself (although I gather from people who follow such things that it was a nil-nil draw - ooh, exciting stuff...) but in terms of post-match mob disorder outside my building. True, there were lots of people wandering around on their way home and a big queue developed outside the subway station but apart from the odd whoop and holler wafting on the breeze through my window it was all pretty civilised. No gangs of footy fans stripped to their underpants, chanting, dancing around with sticks and worshipping fire... nothing.

There is another match on this afternoon - Rangers vs. Liverpool - and there is a steady stream of people heading towards Ibrox stadium as I type. The only mildly anti-social behaviour in evidence is a regular flow of lads taking a piss up the wall behind the shops on the main road. I have a clear view of that from my window: no sign of hidden spears or nunchucks. Disappointing. Maybe things will liven up after the match.

Chill Da Wren

Children. Hmm. I'm not great with kids. They make me uncomfortable and I never know what to say to them. Why this is the case, I don't know. Thinking about it, I never got on with kids when I was one so there's no reason why I should get on with them now. Then again, I often don't get on with grown-ups either. Fuck it: people, I basically have a problem with people. But children in particular are small and weird and I don't know what they're for.

Case in point: a couple I know, good friends, have a son who must be about three years-old (I can't be exact without sawing him in half and counting the rings). This little boy had never taken to me. Whenever I attempted to communicate with him he always gave me this slightly uneasy look as if I were some tramp who barks and rambles incoherently at you and just won't go away even though you have given him all your spare change. (To be fair, though, he's a wary little thing and looks at most people like that; it's not just me).

So, we're all at my mate's wedding in Glasgow and guess who I've been placed next to during the wedding breakfast - that's right, the little boy who looks at me as if I'm the biggest freak alive*. What to do, what to say? I sit there talking to my pals round the table, occasionally glancing in the kid's direction and smiling but he is too busy investigating a bottle of bubble solution and a bubble ring. He was having trouble getting the hang of blowing bubbles but eventually managed to blow some across the table in front of me. I cooed some googly baby noises and made a grab for the bubbles that passed before me. The little man seemed greatly amused by this. He was even more amused when his bubbles ended up floating on the head of my beer and amused still further to blow bubbles in my face when the starters arrived. Then his dad and I tried to catch the bubbles in our mouths which he thought was the funniest thing ever.

I was his pal after that and he no longer looks at me as if I might be a maniac who could kill him with an axe.

Oh Christ, this post is quite sweet. I do apologise. I don't know what's come over me. I'll try and find something to rage about next time.

* Don't even think it, motherfucker.

Work 'n' fitba

Tomorrow night sees Rangers play Spanish team FBK Kaunas. This will be the first football match played at the Rangers' home ground, Ibrox Stadium, since I moved to Glasgow

Why should I, utterly indifferent to the Sport Of Overpaid Simpletons as I am, give a toss? I'll tell you why: Ibrox Stadium is half a mile up the road and my building is right next to a bus stop and a subway station. This means that tomorrow night there will be hoards of football fans milling around right below my window; and Glaswegian football fans can be... a spirited bunch. Advice has been unanimous: "Don't go out."

I'm not worried, though. I'll get some beers in, pull a chair up to the window and observe the shenanigans from the comfort of my second-floor flat. And when Rangers have a home match against their great local rivals Celtic, well, that should be a riot (perhaps literally).

Oh, and I started a new job today. Financial admin computery stuff, very little customer contact, no answering phone calls, dead convenient location, overtime available if I ever need a bit of extra dosh. Sorted.

When is a church wedding not a church wedding?

But enough about weird dreams: Let us return, gentle reader, to my Glasgow Odyssey.

Although, as an aside, "odyssey" is one of my problem words, a word that I can never remember how to spell and have to look up every time I use it. It's not as if I am generally bad at spelling - I have no problem remembering how to spell "onomatopoeia", for example - but there are a few words, "odyssey" being one of them, that just won't stick. "Occasionally" is another one: one "C" or two, one "S" or two? I never get it right first time.

Anyway, this wedding in Glasgow was held at a rather splendid building called St. Andrew's in the Square. It is a big old auditorium that has a café-bar in the basement which means that you can hire the space, the catering, the drinks and the waiting staff in one convenient package. But the great thing about St. Andrew's is that it is a restored 18th Century church but is no longer used as such. This means that you can have a church wedding but are not tied to having a religious ceremony (my friends had an humanist ceremony), and you can hold the reception complete with bar and band or DJ there as well. Result.

It really is a brilliant venue for a wedding and we had one hell of a party there. It almost makes me want to get married just so that I can hold my wedding there.

Almost.

Planes, Trains and... er... just planes and trains

What was I saying? Oh yeah: Glasgow.

It all started, as these tales so often do, with a wedding. Actually, no, it started with me missing my flight from Birmingham to Glasgow on account of the fucking hopeless train service from Oxford. I should have known better, really: I have never had a train journey to or from Oxford that has gone entirely according to plan. Delays, unannounced cancellations or the train coming to a halt and standing dormant for hours for no apparent reason: any or all of the above occur without fail every time.

Nevertheless, I foolishly thought that taking the train to Birmingham International Airport would be the most straightforward way to catch my flight. I simply had to make sure that I allowed plenty of time to make my flight in the event of some unforeseen delay. I really should have known better, shouldn't I.

I was surprised to discover that there was only one train every hour to Birmingham Airport. To put this in context, Birmingham is about 65 miles from Oxford, they are connected by direct rail links, one of which passes through the airport's station before reaching main stations in the city itself. Oxford, although not a huge city, is home to one of the most prestigious universities in the world and a popular tourist destination and yet none of the train companies see fit to lay on more than one train an hour to one of the nearest international airports. OK, yes, London Heathrow Airport is about ten miles closer, but still, Birmingham isn't exactly a tiny hamlet whose airport is a short sliver of cracked tarmac overgrown with weeds.

But what do I know?

My flight was at 11.55am. The train journey would take about one and a quarter hours. Departure times from Oxford station were 8.30 and 9.30. If I caught 9.30 then I would be able to check in at the airport about an hour and ten minutes before my flight. That was pushing it a bit, I thought. I know, I'll be sensible and responsible and catch the earlier train and arrive at Birmingham with over two hours to check in. So I got up nice and early, checked the web for any reports of problems with trains that day, set off with my bags and walked the mile and a half to the station, arrived about twenty minutes before the train was due to arrive only to discovered that at the last minute, out of the blue, the train had been cancelled.

I was somewhat perturbed by this turn of events but consoled myself with the knowledge that I could still get to the airport in time to check in if I caught the next train at 9.30. No problem. It would be fine.

Or it would have been fine if the 9.30 train had not been forty fucking minutes late. Forty minutes. Technically speaking, I did finally arrive at the airport in time to check in for the flight if I had only been taking hand luggage. Unfortunately, I wasn't only taking hand luggage and the hold had been closed fifteen minutes before I got there. There was nothing for it but to fork out some ninety quid for the three o'clock flight that afternoon. I spent three hours in the departure lounge bar and drowning my anger.

I would like to take this opportunity to thank Cross Country trains for making me miss my flight and costing me £90. It gives me great pleasure to know that I will never have to step foot on one of your tardy, overpriced and overcrowded trains ever again. My thanks also to First Great Western for their equally useless services in and around Oxford during my time there.

Despite this less than auspicious start, my Glasgow Odyssey was destined to improve greatly; but that's a blog post for another day.

To be continued...

(Look, I'm just trying to inject a little drama and suspense into this ultimately unexceptional anecdote, OK?)