A King and The Flowers

Lums o the world, lets be serious for a moment.

I watched When We Were Kings this weekend. If you haven't seen it, let me give you a bit of background.

Its a documentary filmed around the George Foreman-Muhammad Ali world heavyweight boxing fight in Zaire in 1974, the famous Rumble in the Jungle. It has testament from the key players, the journalists, the trainers, fly on the wall access to the promoters, Foreman and of course the incomparable Muhammad Ali. Its an insight into the world of the day, the fashion and music, its amazing what good nick Kinshasa looks like its in and how clean and healthy everybody looks there, its only 8 years after independence right enough, Mobutu would take another 20 odd years to strip the country back to the stone-age.

But this is all about Ali. He was the first sportsman, maybe even the first personality I remember being aware of as a child and to see and hear him in this, in all his blustering glory is a joy. He is simply an unbelievable man, a sky scraping monument to self-belief, defiance, courage and beautiful talent. When he moves you cant help but watch him, he skips and shuffles like a ballet dancer, when he speaks, you listen and cant help but smile.

He either pours out heavenly rhyming bravado or the most incisive social comment. He talks of racial equality, social justice and "getting it on, because we don't get along" . He was the sharpest tack in the box, when one reporter, talking of the power of Foreman in his sparring matches said to Ali " I saw Foreman just yesterday..." and before he could finish, Ali says, "Ain't he ugly" reducing the entourage and gathered reporters to laughter. You cant not love the man, for his humour, his style, the bravery not only to climb in the ring with the most brutal fighters ever, but to stand faithfully and unwaveringly for his beliefs against the government and the orthodox white society of the deep south. He told everyone that he was the greatest and he was, and still is.

This week marked the 15th anniversary of the Dunblane Primary School shootings.

That was my school, my son went there and my nieces and nephews, some of them were in class 15 years ago. Every year I mark it in some personal way that means something to me and allows me to feel a little connected with all those that were affected that day. Its not something I think about doing, or even feel obliged to , its just on the days leading up to it you feel compelled to do something. So, on Sunday I woke at 8am and felt compelled to go and look for a snowdrop and take a picture.

The snowdrop was the little spring flower that came to symbolise the disaster and the appeal that it inspired. Snowdrops, I didn't think would be easy to find in East London so I kitted myself out like I was going on some endless quest to the furthest corners of the earth and struck off for Greenwich Park. It turns out snowdrops are not easy to locate even in a Royal Park, it took me about 3 hours to find a little clump, sheltering under a tree and trying to look coy among the infant crocuses. But the job was done for another year, I thought a bit, reflected and had a good walk in the fresh morning air, moistened with the finest of drizzle.

I had a knot in my stomach for weeks after that day, I would discretely well up for months and can honestly say that a day did not go past for many years when at least one thought, however fleeting would flash, or dally across my mind. And I didn't lose anyone, only a little history, memories of primary school somehow erased by the horror that occurred long after I had ran through the halls and playgrounds. I had only lost a piece of past, not my future as some parents had. Everyone at the school gates that morning probably felt relief when they learned it was not their child's class, I did, but it was the briefest of emotions, perhaps only lasting a second before being immediately drowned by the wails of anguish and unbridled grief of the families that were suffering, then all I felt was sick with sorrow. It was, and remains the worst day of my life, and as I said, it barely touched me. I hope I don't offend anyone writing about this, I know my old school class mates will have emotions around this week, some very acute because of personal loss, but those snowdrops come back every year and when they do, I think of us.

Lang may yer lum reek.

Farewell to the Port

Lums,

In the course of a normal day, the brain of the reeking lum will function I dare say, much like your own. Those budding thoughts, zinging about from neuron to neuron before bursting like fireworks in the receptors where consciousness takes over and they will express themselves in some great and meaningful action or articulation. It is after all, what sets us apart from the other passengers on this planet. But today there is no zinging and no fireworks. Instead those thoughts are travelling through a fog bound brain with the consistency of old, cold engine oil. Why are hangovers worse now. You would think that over 23 years your body and brain would have learned to cope with the odd irresponsible drinking binge.

Meaningful memories of last nights goings on are a little vague but I will try and convey the points of potential interest as best I can and hope that I'm not reeking about some Tennents induced dream sequence.

First of all, the pre-planned meeting place was a place called Nico's in Sauchiehall St. Now Nico's was proposed because it was a cool, trendy kind of place that we gentle types could kick back without feeling threatened by 5pm Glasgow drinking society, it will probably be virtually empty we were assured.

I was of course, as I always seem to have been, first to arrive and it was not empty. It was in fact full of all the things you would expect to see in a trendy city centre bar at 5pm, that is if this seasons trend is threatening and scary. There were scars and missing eyes, throaty coughs and a lonely singer, doing his best to sing Danny Boy to, I can only assume, a beer mat on the table in front of him. There were drunk ladies with bags of defrosted shopping, very attractive but foreign barmaids from somewhere in the East that looked like they maybe belonged to some Albanian gypsy family living in the cellar.

I only had to wait 15 minutes for my pals to arrive and I felt safer immediately, just like herds of wildebeest I thought if I stick in the middle, I'll be picked off last. I plucked up the courage to go for a pee, though, I shouldn't have been to worried about following convention judging by the state of some of the patrons, still I thought, I'll use the facilities provided. Now, these days its normal to expect some entertainment with the things you see written on the walls of gents toilets. Normally its offers of unconventional sex with accompanying mobile numbers and sometimes, in case there was any doubt about what was implied, there may be a crude cartoon trying to graphically convey the body parts that will be required. But not in Nico's, instead there was the scrawled mobile phone number with the message " Phone me if want a fite, ya pusseys". I thought, thats pretty Glasgow, even for Glasgow.

My weeks of pondering over songs to impress the Shanghai Shuffle mob were totally wasted, as the host sung Just Cant Get Enough, and my Elvis request was completely ignored. I did in a last ditch attempt to get heard put in my standby song and I was the last singer of the night, singing , irony of ironies, Dignity by Deacon Blue. Biggest laugh I got of the night was hearing that an old manager colleague, who, despite being in his 50s still fancies himself as a bit of a ladies man, asked this girl up to dance. Now, i expect she is a lovely girl, and her wardrobe at home is full of lovely clothes, but last night, she chose to ignore all of them and instead wear this white, skin tight dress, that covered her arse, like a pelmet covers a window, and it had what appeared to be black electrical tape all wound around it for some reason, anyway, her priceless reply when getting asked to dance by my mature colleague, "DREAM ON" . A warning to all us fortysomethings.

It was a great chance to catch up with old workmates from Port Dundas Distillery but it was tinged with a sadness too. The final production batch is being processed this weekend and by Sunday evening all will be silent. The distillery and cooperage which has been there in some form or another for over 200 years will be dismantled, demolished and I expect, over the coming year or two, all trace of it removed ready for whatever follows, empty offices and business units and lots of TO LET signs I imagine.

Anyone that has been to Glasgow will have noticed the distilleries massive smoke stack dominating the northern skyline, its the original reeking lum. Though of course only odorless and thoroughly cleansed reek, as I was always carefully explaining to the Scottish Environmental Protection Agency and concerned neighbours when I was the manager of the offending chimney. Its a sight that has signalled a successful homecoming to generations of Glaswegians and I hope there are some efforts to keep the chimney as a reminder, of not just the distillery but of all Glasgows industrial heritage, of which, there is very little left. Maybe the Reeking Lum should start a campaign.

Saturday means I'm off to see the kids, but a quick call confirms that they have more important things to do today and because my car count remains at zero this weekend, my usefulness is roughly the same. So, I instead decide to jump on the train with my bike and head to Dunblane to visit my Dad.

Its a bit odd cycling through the old home town, I feel as if I should have a paper sack slung around me. There are memories at every turn, the Braeport is still leg quiveringly steep and The Chimes is still The Chimes, even though now its called The Tappit Hen and that is where I find my old man and enjoy a couple of pints in his company. The Tappit Hen is by the way an old Scottish term for a bottle of wine or port that holds 2.25 Litres of soreheads. I am at as much of a loss as you probably are as to why Old Scots required wine bottles 3 times larger than anyone else. Maybe it was to save pennies in.

I'm doing a lot of cycling, and by now I thought I would have had the body of Chris Hoy but no, I fear I appear a little too portly, though I prefer to call it prosperous. It doesnt help that I have this recurring inability to make a decision when I go into Greggs the bakers. Shall I have one of their lovely sausage rolls, or perhaps a tasty Scotch Pie, how to choose? I don't choose, I take both. I need help with my indecision. I think, or maybe not. I am going to have to do something and I think on Monday I shall blow the dust off the Wii, and take stock with Wii Fit.

One last thing before you all fall asleep, if you haven't already. I was watching the Bolton v Man Utd game tonight and noticed on the advertising hoardings one company of particular interest. It was for "The Nipple Shop". Suddenly there was some zinging in the old noggin and I had to find out what "The Nipple Shop" was all about, and did they have a logo and did you need to buy them by the pair , like shoes. It turns out, "The Nipple Shop" belongs to Harrison Lubrication Engineering Ltd and is only interested in providing "lubrication solutions for the wheels of industry" but do have for sale grease nipple selection boxes. I think that would be a pretty crap Christmas present myself and I'll always prefer the Cadburys ones.

Lang may yer lum reek.