Glasgow Walkabout 2010
I have made no secret that this has been a pretty shitty year for me. Things in Munich went bass-ackwards very quickly, very unexpectedly and, very badly; it’s a long story and I’m not even sure that I understand what happened myself. I do know that it wasn’t my fault, but the way things worked out, I got stuffed, yet again, and not in a good way. It also landed me back in the UK at a time when the job market was in freefall and, for someone with my unusual skillset and experience, there has been pretty much nothing.
Within the realm of corporate training and e-Learning, the advent of software like Adobe Captivate and Articulate Presenter, and the almost universal employment of Microsoft PowerPoint, means that an Instructional Designer with 25 years of experience is an expensive commodity and no one wants to risk, given the current global economic shitstorm. Large blue chip companies have PowerPoint presentations by the boatload that can easily be run through Articulate by some poorly-paid intern, and Line Managers can tick the box next to training. It isn’t good training, but for bean counters, it suffices and, for me, it means: rock, Me, hard place.
I’d had such a vastly different idea of how 2010 was going to turn out, so the reality has been exceedingly hard for me to deal with. Aside from a short trip back to Munich to collect the rest of my belongings, this year has been very much restricted to the remedial backwater that is rural Cheshire, and the dull tedium and frustration of such a stultifying existence.
Within the realm of corporate training and e-Learning, the advent of software like Adobe Captivate and Articulate Presenter, and the almost universal employment of Microsoft PowerPoint, means that an Instructional Designer with 25 years of experience is an expensive commodity and no one wants to risk, given the current global economic shitstorm. Large blue chip companies have PowerPoint presentations by the boatload that can easily be run through Articulate by some poorly-paid intern, and Line Managers can tick the box next to training. It isn’t good training, but for bean counters, it suffices and, for me, it means: rock, Me, hard place.
I’d had such a vastly different idea of how 2010 was going to turn out, so the reality has been exceedingly hard for me to deal with. Aside from a short trip back to Munich to collect the rest of my belongings, this year has been very much restricted to the remedial backwater that is rural Cheshire, and the dull tedium and frustration of such a stultifying existence.
Murrrderr
Bobby Muir - Cambuslang
I hadn’t been able to get back to Munich for Oktoberfest, so my good bud Rob came over here last weekend. He’s from Glasgow originally, but let’s not hold that against him.
The last time I was north of the border was almost thirty years ago, and I couldn’t remember that much about Glasgow, having spent more time in Dundee, Aberdeen, and Edinburgh. Back in the day, I was only there for a specific purpose (a gig), not to go sightseeing, and looking at the architecture was not high on my list of priorities. Consequently, I had no idea what to expect.
As a youngster growing up in Yorkshire, I knew that the once soot-blackened industrial cities of Northern England had, over the years, been restored and, where once stood dark, satanic mills, now gleam the blonde sandstone buildings, much-favoured by the young and affluent for loft-living. To my shame, my general ignorance of all things Glaswegian meant that I had no idea whether the city had been Larry Bowen’d, or not. I did seem to remember it being City of Culture not that long ago, but then so has Liverpool, so that means little as most scousers can’t even spell Culture, never mind know what it means.
The last time I was north of the border was almost thirty years ago, and I couldn’t remember that much about Glasgow, having spent more time in Dundee, Aberdeen, and Edinburgh. Back in the day, I was only there for a specific purpose (a gig), not to go sightseeing, and looking at the architecture was not high on my list of priorities. Consequently, I had no idea what to expect.
As a youngster growing up in Yorkshire, I knew that the once soot-blackened industrial cities of Northern England had, over the years, been restored and, where once stood dark, satanic mills, now gleam the blonde sandstone buildings, much-favoured by the young and affluent for loft-living. To my shame, my general ignorance of all things Glaswegian meant that I had no idea whether the city had been Larry Bowen’d, or not. I did seem to remember it being City of Culture not that long ago, but then so has Liverpool, so that means little as most scousers can’t even spell Culture, never mind know what it means.
Manchester Skyline, Salford Lights
Manchester Skyline, Piccadilly Lights?
Aside from a bit of a dodgy experience in a bar in Dundee, I have to say that I have always had a ball when I’ve crossed the border (apart from the time I overtook an unmarked police car on the A9 just outside Inverness.) That said, Dounreay was a little surreal.
Anyway, Rob called me from Munich airport to say that he would come and pick me up on the Friday and we would head up to Glasgow for the weekend. A few hours later, I got another call from Rob, saying he was in Mongleton. Eventually, we left my hovel and headed up to Manchester to spend the night at his cousin’s flat, before making a reasonably early start for points north. After rather poor directions from me (sorry), we finally arrived in the right part of Manchester, drank a rather nice malt, and crashed out. In the morning I woke up to the view you can see in the photos, below. This was not a view I’d ever seen of Manchester before and, if you showed me these pics and asked me where it was, I wouldn’t have a clue!
Anyway, Rob called me from Munich airport to say that he would come and pick me up on the Friday and we would head up to Glasgow for the weekend. A few hours later, I got another call from Rob, saying he was in Mongleton. Eventually, we left my hovel and headed up to Manchester to spend the night at his cousin’s flat, before making a reasonably early start for points north. After rather poor directions from me (sorry), we finally arrived in the right part of Manchester, drank a rather nice malt, and crashed out. In the morning I woke up to the view you can see in the photos, below. This was not a view I’d ever seen of Manchester before and, if you showed me these pics and asked me where it was, I wouldn’t have a clue!
Uphill
Dog-faced gremlin
We hit the M60 about 9.30 and started off, driving uphill.
Around Gretna we pulled off for some munchies. As we parked the car, we noticed this guy parked next to us. Of course, it could have been a portent of weirdness ahead, but we just thought it was funny at the time.
Around Gretna we pulled off for some munchies. As we parked the car, we noticed this guy parked next to us. Of course, it could have been a portent of weirdness ahead, but we just thought it was funny at the time.
Hilton
Seriously?
As we hit the outskirts of Glasgow, Rob elected to find a hotel. His original choice turned out to be full, due to the [untimely] arrival of a busload of football fans, and we ended up at the Hilton. I know. Tough, innit?
I quite like Hiltons. The name encourages you to think that you are getting something more for your money than if you stayed elsewhere (but, in reality, you just get pretty much the same as if you stayed in any other chain). Then again, that was Conrad’s aim, wasn’t it? Wherever you went, a Hilton would be the same, never mind if it was New York, or New Delhi. Where that falls down, usually, is that you get the building and its facilities, but you get ‘local’ staff, which often compromises the experience, as they rarely have the same work ethic as back in the US.
The room itself was comfortable and well-equipped, even if the shower was confusing and lacking in water pressure, meaning that you had to dance around a bit in it to actually get wet. Not a pretty sight…
Two things really made both me and Rob frown though. Firstly, how can they justify charging £3.95 for a bottle of mineral water that we all know you could get for a quid down at Aldi? Secondly, how can they still be charging for an internet connection in the room?! Come on Hilton, stop ripping off your customers quite so blatantly. You already have the internet connection, obviously, so it would not cost you to give it to your customers for free. As for mineral water, no one would object to a bit of a mark up, but £3.95? That is just sticking the boot in. Surely, no one with a brain actually pays for it? Why is everything such a rip-off these days?
Friday evening was fairly laid back with a meal, a few beers, a movie, and sleep. Hell, I was going to need the rest, tomorrow I was going to take one of my walkabouts. Come on, how much trouble could I possibly get in to?
I quite like Hiltons. The name encourages you to think that you are getting something more for your money than if you stayed elsewhere (but, in reality, you just get pretty much the same as if you stayed in any other chain). Then again, that was Conrad’s aim, wasn’t it? Wherever you went, a Hilton would be the same, never mind if it was New York, or New Delhi. Where that falls down, usually, is that you get the building and its facilities, but you get ‘local’ staff, which often compromises the experience, as they rarely have the same work ethic as back in the US.
The room itself was comfortable and well-equipped, even if the shower was confusing and lacking in water pressure, meaning that you had to dance around a bit in it to actually get wet. Not a pretty sight…
Two things really made both me and Rob frown though. Firstly, how can they justify charging £3.95 for a bottle of mineral water that we all know you could get for a quid down at Aldi? Secondly, how can they still be charging for an internet connection in the room?! Come on Hilton, stop ripping off your customers quite so blatantly. You already have the internet connection, obviously, so it would not cost you to give it to your customers for free. As for mineral water, no one would object to a bit of a mark up, but £3.95? That is just sticking the boot in. Surely, no one with a brain actually pays for it? Why is everything such a rip-off these days?
Friday evening was fairly laid back with a meal, a few beers, a movie, and sleep. Hell, I was going to need the rest, tomorrow I was going to take one of my walkabouts. Come on, how much trouble could I possibly get in to?
No Mean City
The book...
Usually, my walkabouts tend to lead me into some kind of dodgy area, largely by accident. I was concerned and I had my reasons. You see, one of my favourite books is called No Mean City. This is the set in 1930’s Gorbals and tells of the rise and fall of Razor King, the toughest hard man of the terrible tenements. It is really quite brutal and graphic (and is also one of the main reasons I can understand Glaswegian, as the dialogue is all written as spoken) and, not wanting to give the ending away, but it doesn’t have a happy one. Rob had driven me round the areas south of the river the evening before and, although nowhere close to the conditions of eighty years ago, Gorbals would not be my first choice for relocation. Besides, let’s face it, I don’t need to do anything to find trouble, it seems to seek me out, without my help!
So, having breakfasted upon a Full Scottish (bacon, eggs, potato pancakes, mushrooms, tomato, baked beans, toast and tea) I was set for the day. Rob dropped me off at Glasgow Cross, one of the oldest parts of the city, right by The Tollbooth Clock Tower, which marks the east side of Merchant City. As he went off to do the relative-visiting thing, I zipped up my Jack Wolfskin and headed back up High St, to Ingram, to snap a long shot of the Art Gallery.
So, having breakfasted upon a Full Scottish (bacon, eggs, potato pancakes, mushrooms, tomato, baked beans, toast and tea) I was set for the day. Rob dropped me off at Glasgow Cross, one of the oldest parts of the city, right by The Tollbooth Clock Tower, which marks the east side of Merchant City. As he went off to do the relative-visiting thing, I zipped up my Jack Wolfskin and headed back up High St, to Ingram, to snap a long shot of the Art Gallery.
I had pretty much no idea of where I was, where I wanted to go, or how to get there, and I had about four hours to do it all in. As I knew very little about Glasgow (which may, or may not, mean ‘Green Hollow’) I thought this would be a good chance to have a look around and see what was what and, maybe have a better idea of what I would want to see next time I came here. Optimistic, considering the path of my life in recent times…
Anyhoo, I knew that I wanted to head over to Sauchiehall St (pretty much the only street name I knew in Glasgow, because of my Charles Rennie Mackintosh fixation) and locate The Willow Tea Rooms. Incidentally, the name ‘Sauchiehall’ comes from ‘saugh’, the Scottish word for a willow tree, and ‘haugh’, meaning meadow. This provided the starting point for ideas for the design, or so it says in Wikipedia.
Of course, my lack of local knowledge meant that, contemporaneously, I didn’t realise a few things. The tea rooms were the entrepreneurial endeavour of Miss Catherine Cranston, a devout advocate of temperance and the daughter of a local tea merchant. She owned four different tea rooms in the city and, between 1896 and 1917, Mackintosh designed and re-styled the interiors of all of them.
Had I had the foresight to do a little research before coming, I would have made for The Lighthouse (the former Glasgow Herald building designed by… I’ll give you three guesses) which has panoramic views over the city, and the Buchanan St Tea Rooms (No. 97, next door to the site of Miss Cranston’s original location). But, I didn’t, so I didn’t… Maybe I will get another chance?!
Anyhoo, I knew that I wanted to head over to Sauchiehall St (pretty much the only street name I knew in Glasgow, because of my Charles Rennie Mackintosh fixation) and locate The Willow Tea Rooms. Incidentally, the name ‘Sauchiehall’ comes from ‘saugh’, the Scottish word for a willow tree, and ‘haugh’, meaning meadow. This provided the starting point for ideas for the design, or so it says in Wikipedia.
Of course, my lack of local knowledge meant that, contemporaneously, I didn’t realise a few things. The tea rooms were the entrepreneurial endeavour of Miss Catherine Cranston, a devout advocate of temperance and the daughter of a local tea merchant. She owned four different tea rooms in the city and, between 1896 and 1917, Mackintosh designed and re-styled the interiors of all of them.
Had I had the foresight to do a little research before coming, I would have made for The Lighthouse (the former Glasgow Herald building designed by… I’ll give you three guesses) which has panoramic views over the city, and the Buchanan St Tea Rooms (No. 97, next door to the site of Miss Cranston’s original location). But, I didn’t, so I didn’t… Maybe I will get another chance?!
Glasgow Art School
The Art School and a hill
My next task was to find the Art School and see some more of Mr Mackintosh’s handiwork. Fortunately, the ‘You Are Here’ blobs on those helpful street maps pointed me in the right direction and I took in City Chambers (reminded me of City Hall in Philadelphia), St Georges Sq (a bit like Manchester’s Piccadilly Gardens area), and the Glasgow Film Theatre (wonderful example of Art Deco), as I made my way towards the arty parts of town. What I didn’t realise, or hadn’t actively considered, until I walked it, was that Glasgow is actually built in a river valley (Duh!) and anywhere you want to go seems to be up a bloody steep hill! It actually reminded me a lot of San Francisco, just not quite as extreme. Or, maybe San Francisco is an extreme Glasgow? My, somewhat belaboured point being: it is knackering to walk around…
The Art School buildings, as with so many of the wonderful sandstone edifices in the city, are impressive, to say the least. You can see Mackintosh’s influence from a distance and if you like that kind of thing, you should bring tissues.
Still, with no idea of where I was, nor where I needed to go to get back to where I would later meet Rob, I blindly pointed myself in what smelled like the right direction and continued, blindly, on my way. What can I tell you? It is, generally, how I find my way around new places. Memo to self: Perhaps if I look at maps and stuff, in future, I wouldn’t get myself into trouble?
The Art School buildings, as with so many of the wonderful sandstone edifices in the city, are impressive, to say the least. You can see Mackintosh’s influence from a distance and if you like that kind of thing, you should bring tissues.
Still, with no idea of where I was, nor where I needed to go to get back to where I would later meet Rob, I blindly pointed myself in what smelled like the right direction and continued, blindly, on my way. What can I tell you? It is, generally, how I find my way around new places. Memo to self: Perhaps if I look at maps and stuff, in future, I wouldn’t get myself into trouble?
Beresford Hotel
Beresford Hotel Building
Back on Sauchiehall St, but further along, I encountered the Beresford Hotel. Wow! If you love your Art in the Deco style, this is a superb example of a beautifully-restored building. Opened in 1938, this ten-storey building is truly stunning and was the tallest building built in the city between the wars. Once dubbed Glasgow’s first skyscraper, it was sold to ICI after WWII for offices then, in 1964, believe it or not, it was acquired by the University of Strathclyde for use as student accommodation. In 2003, it was sold once more and, needless to say, after forty years of abuse by the great unwashed, required restoration. It is now an apartment building and definitely a place I would check out if I moved here!
I had, no matter how unwittingly, achieved two, or three, of my objectives, so the rest was just gravy. I like gravy.
Charing Cross is an area of the city on Sauchiehall St. at Junction 17 of the M8. According to the great oracle, Wikipedia, much of the area was demolished to make way for the motorway but, thankfully, the Mitchell Library, the biggest reference library in Western Europe, was not razed to the ground. Seemingly, it is also part of the so-called Square Mile of Murder, the location of a series of sensational murders which scandalised Victorian society. I must check that out next time though, for sure.
I had, no matter how unwittingly, achieved two, or three, of my objectives, so the rest was just gravy. I like gravy.
Charing Cross is an area of the city on Sauchiehall St. at Junction 17 of the M8. According to the great oracle, Wikipedia, much of the area was demolished to make way for the motorway but, thankfully, the Mitchell Library, the biggest reference library in Western Europe, was not razed to the ground. Seemingly, it is also part of the so-called Square Mile of Murder, the location of a series of sensational murders which scandalised Victorian society. I must check that out next time though, for sure.
St Vincent
St Vincent St Free Church
Time was getting on and I thought it wise to head back towards where Rob would meet me later. Of course, I had only guesswork to rely on to determine where that was, but hiking along St Vincent St. seemed like the right thing to do. I always like the name Vincent, you see. At number 265 St Vincent St. is the Free Church of Scotland, a wonderful Greek-style building designed by architect Alexander ‘Greek’ Thomson, built in 1859. Although it could use a bit of a scrub-up, it is a fantastic building, and I was running low on comparatives and superlatives.
I seemed to be heading in a direction, but whether it was the right one, I had nary a clue. It felt right and I took a somewhat circuitous route to the Gallery of Modern Art, yet another fine building. It has to be said, though, that the traffic cone on the head of Wellington’s horse did make me chuckle and reminded me of the beer can in the hand of Max Joseph, outside the Opera House in Munich.
I seemed to be heading in a direction, but whether it was the right one, I had nary a clue. It felt right and I took a somewhat circuitous route to the Gallery of Modern Art, yet another fine building. It has to be said, though, that the traffic cone on the head of Wellington’s horse did make me chuckle and reminded me of the beer can in the hand of Max Joseph, outside the Opera House in Munich.
St Enoch's Sq
Caffe Nero at St Enoch's Sq
By now, I was thirsty and I had just one thing on my mind: a large vanilla latte from Costa. I headed towards Argyle St. It was a big road on the map and it stood to reason that I would come across a Costa, at some point, and secure my Holy Grail. Then, Lo! Behold! at St Enoch’s I espied that which I sought. Mind you, it was tough. I’m a Costa Coffee man. Starbucks may do the best foam, but Costa has the best-tasting coffee (not counting Dunkin’ Donuts, which we just don’t have in the UK).
Caffe Nero, on the other hand has, without a shadow of a doubt, the coolest coffee house I have ever seen. This used to be the entrance to the subway (the first stop north of the river) but, due to modernisation, ceased to be used as a railway building. So, in December 2009, it was turned into a Caffe Nero. At least they didn’t knock this amazing building down.
Caffe Nero, on the other hand has, without a shadow of a doubt, the coolest coffee house I have ever seen. This used to be the entrance to the subway (the first stop north of the river) but, due to modernisation, ceased to be used as a railway building. So, in December 2009, it was turned into a Caffe Nero. At least they didn’t knock this amazing building down.
Down By The Riverside
After a satisfying java, I thought I should have a quick look at the water, then find Rob. I don’t do water (particularly south of the river, any river) but I do enjoy the architecture of bridges. So, I walked over the road and snapped a couple of saucy pics of the bridges and walked in the direction I thought I should go to find Rob.
He had said to find a pub by the name of The Scotia, which was somewhere down the road from where he had dropped me off earlier. As I didn’t have a map, or any idea as to exactly where I was, or where I was going, even I was surprised to turn a corner and walk right past the aforementioned establishment. I couldn’t see Rob anywhere, so I just ambled around the immediate vicinity. Less than five minutes later my phone rang. Am I good, or what?
I have to admit, I loved Glasgow. If they could just iron it a bit, it would work for me. I think I could quite enjoy living here for a bit. I already have a local picked out: The Clockwork Beer Company. They sell Erdinger, Andechs, Fürstenburg, and Paulaner. ‘Nuff said!
He had said to find a pub by the name of The Scotia, which was somewhere down the road from where he had dropped me off earlier. As I didn’t have a map, or any idea as to exactly where I was, or where I was going, even I was surprised to turn a corner and walk right past the aforementioned establishment. I couldn’t see Rob anywhere, so I just ambled around the immediate vicinity. Less than five minutes later my phone rang. Am I good, or what?
I have to admit, I loved Glasgow. If they could just iron it a bit, it would work for me. I think I could quite enjoy living here for a bit. I already have a local picked out: The Clockwork Beer Company. They sell Erdinger, Andechs, Fürstenburg, and Paulaner. ‘Nuff said!
Scottish Pizza
What Chaplin's would like to be?
Saturday evening commenced with me back at the hotel watching a movie on my laptop whilst Rob packed in some more visitations. I was glad for the rest. My ass and leg muscles were paining me due the undulating nature of Glaswegian topography. Rob returned and suggested pizza, I acquiesced, and off we went to Bellshill. I’m not saying it’s rough round there, but it sure could use a good sanding down! And I’ve been to Trenton NJ, so I know whereof I speak.
As we dodged the potholes on the main street, I noticed a garishly pink-painted building bearing the name Chaplin’s. Obviously a high-end establishment, the patrons had spilled out onto the pavement and were amiably discussing politics, ethics, religion, and the plight of the Third World. Had this been in Hollyweird, I would not have been surprised to see a neon sign boldly announcing ‘Girls! Girls! Girls!’ Classy place. I spotted Leo’s pizza shop and we parked up.
Of the assembled throng outside Chaplain’s, one voice could be heard above all others, and it was not for the squeamish, let me tell you. The young lady in question (and I use the term so loosely that, if you were using it as a belt, your pants would fall down) could have been no more than 17, or 18, but her voice was the cry of a banshee. We both hurried past this harridan and ducked into Leo’s, trying hard not to be noticed. Whilst waiting for our pizzas the door opened and a voice that would curdle milk inquired after Menthol cigarettes. I winced. Surely, she was after Navy Cut?
As we waited for our grub, Rob made polite conversation with the lady behind the counter. When he said that he was just back visiting for the weekend, and staying at a local hotel, she inquired if we were staying at Charlie’s? Rob replied, that we were, in fact staying at the Hilton. This caused much laughter from the back, but we weren’t entirely sure why. We left with our comestibles only to find the car park populated with drug-dealing boy racers. We didn’t see nuffink, honest Guv. It was only as we drove past Chaplin’s that the cause of the earlier mirth over us staying at the Hilton hit me. Chaplin’s/Charlie’s… I couldn’t imagine two more diverse hostels.
The pizza was excellent, in case you were wondering.
Munchies, beers, sleep. Ausgezeichnet!
As we dodged the potholes on the main street, I noticed a garishly pink-painted building bearing the name Chaplin’s. Obviously a high-end establishment, the patrons had spilled out onto the pavement and were amiably discussing politics, ethics, religion, and the plight of the Third World. Had this been in Hollyweird, I would not have been surprised to see a neon sign boldly announcing ‘Girls! Girls! Girls!’ Classy place. I spotted Leo’s pizza shop and we parked up.
Of the assembled throng outside Chaplain’s, one voice could be heard above all others, and it was not for the squeamish, let me tell you. The young lady in question (and I use the term so loosely that, if you were using it as a belt, your pants would fall down) could have been no more than 17, or 18, but her voice was the cry of a banshee. We both hurried past this harridan and ducked into Leo’s, trying hard not to be noticed. Whilst waiting for our pizzas the door opened and a voice that would curdle milk inquired after Menthol cigarettes. I winced. Surely, she was after Navy Cut?
As we waited for our grub, Rob made polite conversation with the lady behind the counter. When he said that he was just back visiting for the weekend, and staying at a local hotel, she inquired if we were staying at Charlie’s? Rob replied, that we were, in fact staying at the Hilton. This caused much laughter from the back, but we weren’t entirely sure why. We left with our comestibles only to find the car park populated with drug-dealing boy racers. We didn’t see nuffink, honest Guv. It was only as we drove past Chaplin’s that the cause of the earlier mirth over us staying at the Hilton hit me. Chaplin’s/Charlie’s… I couldn’t imagine two more diverse hostels.
The pizza was excellent, in case you were wondering.
Munchies, beers, sleep. Ausgezeichnet!
A Bird-related Incident
The Birds
Sunday began with me trying to make sense of the Korean Grand Prix, followed by a trip down for brekkie.
As anyone who knows me will attest, I am a quiet, shy, retiring individual who doesn’t like to make a fuss, nor complain, but I do not feel that a half-hour wait at a Hilton is acceptable, especially when you can clearly see empty tables, waiting to be cleared and no one doing a damn thing about it. I raised this matter with the short-arse git who was supposed to be seating us. He then began to argue the toss with me, telling me they had only just gone, when I had been stood there looking at the bloody tables for the last twenty minutes! I let him live, against my instincts.
We de-Hiltoned and it was off to Rob’s mate Wullie’s (that’s how it is pronounced, not sure how you spell it) to watch the Celtic/Rangers match. I’m not a football fan but I do appreciate why others are, and I can enjoy a good game. Rangers lost it, rather than Celtic won it, in case you were interested. It was fun, though, I have to say: Excellent hosts and the kettle was always boiled and teabags ready. Cheers!
From there, it was a long trip downhill back into England and back to my Home Sweet Hell. At Killington Lake services on Motorway 6, we stopped for coffee. It was like an excised scene from ‘The Birds’. Swallows, thousands of them, flying in a herd. Quite unsettling.
That was, as they say, that. My weekend away was great fun and much needed.
My thanks go to Rob. You are a true Gentleman.
Mark L. Potts
The God of Thunder
25th October 2010
As anyone who knows me will attest, I am a quiet, shy, retiring individual who doesn’t like to make a fuss, nor complain, but I do not feel that a half-hour wait at a Hilton is acceptable, especially when you can clearly see empty tables, waiting to be cleared and no one doing a damn thing about it. I raised this matter with the short-arse git who was supposed to be seating us. He then began to argue the toss with me, telling me they had only just gone, when I had been stood there looking at the bloody tables for the last twenty minutes! I let him live, against my instincts.
We de-Hiltoned and it was off to Rob’s mate Wullie’s (that’s how it is pronounced, not sure how you spell it) to watch the Celtic/Rangers match. I’m not a football fan but I do appreciate why others are, and I can enjoy a good game. Rangers lost it, rather than Celtic won it, in case you were interested. It was fun, though, I have to say: Excellent hosts and the kettle was always boiled and teabags ready. Cheers!
From there, it was a long trip downhill back into England and back to my Home Sweet Hell. At Killington Lake services on Motorway 6, we stopped for coffee. It was like an excised scene from ‘The Birds’. Swallows, thousands of them, flying in a herd. Quite unsettling.
That was, as they say, that. My weekend away was great fun and much needed.
My thanks go to Rob. You are a true Gentleman.
Mark L. Potts
The God of Thunder
25th October 2010
