Greeting Reekers,
Goodness, the period between reeks grows and grows. I blame the World Cup of course, so hopefully normal service will resume shortly.
Its not like I don't have anything to fire up my lum, every day brings another incredulous guffaw or barely concealed gasp of disbelief at some sight or another.
The World Cup has meant that I have spent a little too much free time in my local boozer, from now on called The Chavs Arms. It is, the more I think of it, a bit too much like the Queen Vic, but with less murders, affairs and bodies buried in the cellar (I think). Now, prior to Englands heroic efforts to turn us all off football, this was a hotbed of the very finest English patriotism and jingoistic spoutings. Incidentally, have I mentioned the high pit-bull count in my neighborhood, well, there would appear to be a direct correlation between the number of pit-bull preening prats, and the number of George cross flags flapping all over the place.
I watched a game in there prior to the 0-0 humping England got from Algeria but after cheerily ear wigging into a conversation about Englands chances to win the cup, the talk turned to the bottlings and fist fights with biting that broke out after the USA game.
I am just surprised, after the number of pints I'd had that I retained my self preservation instinct and retreated to the safety of my place, where I could enjoy to the full, the goat herders of North Africa, which doesn't even have any grass, outplay and out fight the goats of Engerlund.
Well done to Geoffrey Hill, who was elected to the prestigious position of Professor of Poetry at Oxford University. The paper that shared that little dollop of drivel with me, was also good enough to print one of his poems. It was only 50 words long but what words they were. Here are a few of the ones that deserve a special mention. admonitory, atrorubent, stone holt, claustral, now Geoffrey, can I offer a couple of my own for your next composition, nonsense, utter and absolute.
Thanks to all the reader that responded to my little poser. You will recall I had asked you to delve into your 70s confectionery memories and allow your neural sensors a judder at the prospect of those hard core e-numbers. The triumvirate of Tots had the sugar and artificial colourings market cornered for 5 year olds back then. Well, Jelly Tots of course are still going strong, an established constituent of the sweety premier league, confidently seeing off Skittles and anything evil Haribo can concoct in their underground labs. Candy Tots are the second of the little princes, little pastel coloured cubes of tooth loosening joy. The third, now hardly ever seen, like the mad 6 fingered royals of Victorian myth, that get locked in the attic of some obscure country pile. Tiger Tots, they were like miniature liquorice allsorts, the ones with the liquorice sandwiched between to slivers of candy. Sometimes they turn up in a packet of dolly mixtures brought back from a Bulgarian holiday, or even the supermarket, in the baking aisle, that's full of things with packaging that hasn't changed since 1959.
I made the journey home for the weekend, I had been looking forward to it for weeks, and I've decided that I have to get home much more often. I miss home, I miss the kids, I miss S, I even miss driving and Kirkie. Anyway, at Stansted airport, kicking my heels for 2 hours before my flight I had an "almost classic movie scene in real life" moment. I say almost, but it was basically just a few Hare Krishna's in the airport but I immediately thought of the scene in Airplane where Rex Kramer punches and wrestles through a throng of them.
I had time to consider todays summer traveller while there as well. Back in 1975 we went to Spain on a four day holiday. Llorret De Mar, I remember the drive to Glasgow airport, right through the city centre because the Kingston Bridge hadn't opened yet, I remember looking out the windows at the clouds, the wings wobbling up and down as if they were flapping and getting taken into the cockpit to meet the pilots just as we were approaching the Pyrenees. I was told that of course, I didn't figure it out for myself at 6 years old.
I also remember getting my picture taken as I came off the plane, and what I was wearing. A little checked sports jacket that Arthur Montford was making so popular for the old man about town, a blue shiny shirt with big rounded collars and a green tie on an elastic cord with a picture of a bullfighter on it.
Todays flyer's don't get their picture taken any longer as they get to the bottom of the planes stairs, but they still get dressed up in brand new clothes just in case they do. Its not snazzy sports jackets and cool ties now though, its track suits and super white trainers. So brand new and clean, I'm convinced they just put them on at the door of the terminal.
The tracksuits make the departure lounge look like the marshaling area of some Olympic event, except of course, when you consider what it is that's in the tracksuit. Anyone over 30, shouldn't be allowed to wear them for a start, and that goes for earrings as well. When was the last time you seen some man over 30 wearing an earring and thought to yourself, that's cool, I think I'll get mine done. Maradonna and David Beckham aside.
Speaking of Beckham, I've just witnessed Andy Murray getting a right Real Humping from the Spaniard and who's in the crowd? Remember who was watching on the sidelines during Englands implosion? In fact, he has been pretty close to all the national sporting failures endured these past years. I think its the pact he made with the devil, you can have looks, wealth, you can even have golden balls and a cock like a tractors exhaust, but anyone you go to support, will play like dunderheids and get gubbed.
It was great to get back to Scotland, the air felt fresher and I managed to clear all the soot out my nose while I was there. It was even a nice train journey up from Prestwick to Glasgow, running past those famous links golf courses, a bit parched mind from the lack of rain. The reason I was home was to attend the wedding of some friends. It was a fabulous day, in a fantastic location with only one faintly curious observation made. I noticed the waiter that served us breakfast in the morning, wore black gloves with his black suit. It made him look more like an assassin, like he was going to garrote somebody rather than take the top off their boiled egg.
Back to the Chav Arms for something that is worth a reek. A bloke came in, about 60 odd year old I would say, and ordered a double, double Bacardi. That's four measures of Bacardi in a glass and topped up with cola, it cost £10.75. I think he had two of them. Apparently he does it every week. I was getting pissed just thinking about it, on second thoughts, it might have been the Kronenbourgs.
Lang may yer lum reek.
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