Brighton Rocks, Zippy and Frocks

Howdy-do Reeking Lums of Planet Earth,

Because the toffs in government are making intercity travel in the UK only something that can be enjoyed by Viscounts and Papal emissaries delivering bulls, I had to have another weekend away from the little lums in the North and remain down here in East London.

I have on occasion managed to get a return flight from Stansted, 36 miles North of London to 36 miles south of Glasgow for as little as £36, but usually somewhere between £50 and £60. But now Its hard to get anything under a ton.

The tax on a flight now is greater then the flight itself.

Now, you could perhaps swallow that if you were treated more like a passenger and less like an 88Kg sack of bovine marrow, so its back to letting the train take the strain. Still over a hundred quid but needs must.

I did get a little taste of the beating, more of a faint tap really, industrial heart of the nation this week, with a little business trip to Manchester. Eee, lad, it really is grim up North. Well, it was the day I was there, grey, cold, raining and to top it all, Manchester, with nothing of any note to look at and where everybody looks pissed off. Where I was visiting was right next door to the giant new Media City complex that the BBC is relocating too from Sheperds Bush in London. The luvvies at the Beeb are revolting apparently, the top earners are just refusing to go, like Dimbleby, now his production staff have to fly to London 3 times a week for meetings with the old dear. Can you blame him though, really?

Anyway, couldn't be bothered hanging around London kicking me heels so thought I'd take a trip to the sea-side and chose Brighton as my lovely day out destination of choice. Brighton as it turns up has quite a cool trendy vibe, must be all those gays I guess, they know how to dress something up.

I spent ages browsing around the vintage shops, which is gay speak for second hand clothes shops, in Manchester they would be called Sue Ryder or Barnardos, in Brighton its Red Mutha and Vintage Owl. I ended up in a place called Snoopers Paradise. Its just the Paradise, I just see Poopers Paradise when I see that written down, what is that, some kind of dyslexia?

Anyway, this place was big, and crammed full of at least one of everything ever made. I think the proprietor bought the first 25,000 available things on e-bay then crammed them in this shop, even a stuffed Zippy from Rainbow, in a dressing gown.

He made me laugh so I gathered him up, paid my tenner and as easy as that, like Madonna adopting an African, he was part of the family and joined me on the rest of my day in Brighton. Later that evening I was even made an offer for him, doubling my outlay, but I couldn't sell him after all our laughs so he came home and now sits in my room, with a blonde wig on and some US dollars stuffed in his belt, a bit like a Julia Roberts drag act between shows.

A lot of hen nights in Brighton, soon to be wedded young ladies, out enjoying a last night out as a singleton. Normally dressed with all her pals as complete tarts, which is agreeable to the casual observer, such as I ,but quite funny when you see the pie faced mother and her hag toothed pals trailing along behind, pretending to enjoy themselves in hot noisy pubs, where there Malibu and Cokes cost £6.50 and there are no seats to sit on to ease the swelling of their ankles and their squealing tortured feet, coerced into impossible shoes that they havent had on for 15 years. There faces getting redder and puffier with each pub trotted too and all the attention the younger, impossible them are getting from the blokes, though maybe not in Brighton right enough.

Lang May Yer Lum Reek.

When 12km isn't

Hello reekers,

The week started with some belly splitting mirth, I laughed so hard and for so long that once the hyperventilation kicked in, I had to breath into a brown paper bag for an hour and a half. This was comedy writing at its greatest, with the ability to dilate pupils, palpitate hearts, get your endorphins in a fizz, induce wonderment at the creativity, make you doubt everything you thought you knew about anything with its sheer imagination and boldness. What could have reduced me to this comedy wreck?

I stole ten minutes at work to book some flights home in February. Ryanair, the rapid livestock movers of choice were offering tax free flights to go with their frill and service free flights and I was directed mistakenly to the page that describes the destination I had chosen, Glasgow Prestwick. Where I read this little piece of fantastic fiction

" Ryanair’s low cost flights to Glasgow Airport land 12km from central Glasgow in the wild and lovely west of Scotland".

It encourages you further by promising you a 20 minute bus ride into Central Glasgow.

Hold on, I've only been away nine months, I'm pretty sure the tectonic plates don't move that quickly, if its only 12km, why does it take me 45 minutes on the train, its not Stevensons Rocket, its not got a man with a flag walking in front of it to warn the horses. Plus, I don't know what kind of bus is on that route, maybe they are rocket powered hover buses, driven by Nikki Lauda on a custom built designated arrow straight road, I'm pretty sure that's not the case though.

After I'd recovered from the seismic shock that I,ve maybe been measuring everything wrong, which could have depressing consequences for me, I decided to investigate a little.

Glasgow Prestwick airport is next door to Troon, the same Troon as the famous golf course, on the south west coast of Scotland in Ayrshire. A very pretty part of the country, none of the drama of the highlands but a romantic rolling landscape that gave birth to Robert Burns and Robert the Bruce, Alexander Fleming, John Dunlop and James McCosh. Reeking Lums may not be familiar with the last of those men, but he was a noted philosopher of the Scottish School of Common Sense. They say common sense is the least common of all, so this seems like a worthy pursuit, it must have been because his common sense led him to becoming the president of Princeton University.

The thing about Troon is, its 31 miles from central Glasgow, that's 59km, not 12. To make the bus trip in 20 minutes, the bus would need to travel at an average speed of 1.83 miles per minute, that's about 110 miles an hour, optimistic. Where did the 12kms come from then, bear in mind Ayrshire is also where the famous Electric Hill is, now that's the contourious oddity where the road looks like its going downhill, but your actually going up, and if you stop your car and take your foot off the brake, you'll roll gently uphill, which is very strange but perhaps there's also a road where 47kms can disappear, mmm? doubtful!.

I can only think that is the distance between central Glasgow and the very northern tip of Ayrshire, which is a teeny bit of a liberty, still, £36 return, cant argue there, that's my kind of common sense Mr McCosh.

Lang may yer lum reek.