When A Man Loves A Woman

To be perfectly honest, this post was never intended to be written due to the personal nature of the content within. I feel that at least one of my dearest blogging friends, the very beautiful Pat, will be dismayed as she takes in the tale I am about to unfold.

The bond between husband and wife is a very precious one, and although I admittedly did play the field during my younger days (why are you all immediately thinking of Madame DeFarge?) I have never once broken my sacred vows to Siobhan.

However... a man has many needs during his lifetime and not all of them can be slaked by whisky and the company of his pals. Inevitably, during the course of married life, especially when the children are grown, and away fae the nest, a gap can appear between husband and wife, and that gap needs to be filled.

I didn’t set out intentionally to go behind Siobhan’s back; it was never my intention to make secret phone calls, or to rendezvous with a woman some five years younger than her good self. It started by sheer coincidence one evening whilst I was recovering from the first bout of the silliness with my health.

I came across a particular website which advertised a service slightly unusual than most. It was for those who are interested in certain things that are not often talked about outside of certain groups of people, especially those who are not into shall we say... horny things.

I made the initial contact with a very polite sounding woman, and unusual for me, we exchanged contact numbers, and discussed a fee for exactly what it was that I had in mind.

We met on several occasions after that, and things happened by way of Mother Nature, and it wasn’t long before we became excited about our little secret, and the meetings became more and more frequent. It felt great to be able to fill the need that had so long been missing between Siobhan and me for a number of years.

Yes, the guilt of the secret wore heavily on my mind, but the planning and the meetings between me and this particular lady was beginning to be so much fun. I admit that some nights as I lay next to Siobhan, my mind wandered back to where I had been only hours before.

Last week I received the phone call that I had long awaited, and I made a mad dash fae my home to be by her side when the kid was born. The feeling was immense, and the paternal instincts kicked in immediately and I was able to participate in the feeding, and the naming of our newborn kid.

Obviously with Christmas just around the corner, I have to pick the right moment to introduce Siobhan to the little one, so tomorrow morning I have chosen to be the day when I drive her across to my lady friend’s farm, and for the very first time she will see the beautiful creation in all of her wonderful glory.

Yes.. you guessed it. Tomorrow I will give Siobhan an early Christmas present of a tiny wee goat. I’ve named her ‘Beauty’ after the most precious woman in my life that is soon to be her new mammy.

Ahhh come on. You didn’t really think I was talking about anything else now, did you?

Midnight Ravens

A scuffed brown shoe sat forlornly by the blade of the shovel. Its lace, despite the violence, was still neatly tied by way of a carefully knotted bow.

He looked about him into the darkness. It was nothing more he wanted than to take back the actions of his exertions. All around him was still and calm, and the dead of night mocked him for his weakness. The frenzied shovelling left only a small uneven mound of earth to betray the hiding of the divils work beneath.

It was but a small trickle of earth that fought a losing battle against gravity, as it made its way towards a final resting place beneath the broken turf. A dried leaf hanging by the silken guilt of many a spider's thread. Left, right, back and straight to a hell, the scratching hands beneath the sod, as midnight ravens came to dance.

It was death, and only the lurid glow of a waxy moon betrayed the fear behind his eyes. Already a merciless haund gripped at his heart as the fear was replaced by a dull acknowledgement of fate. A cruel mistress it was, and one that would visit him often in the darkest of hours for many nights to come.

A pendulum swung over him for years, and many beautiful things turned to that of the ugliness of guilt about him. The blackest shadows of death’s cloaked mantle engulfed his veins with ice. It was to be a lifetime of regret that lay ahead afore the boy himself. He semi-existed in a half world where time stood still, and the years ground down like that of blunted cogs upon an anvil of despair.

They came from afar to see the final calling of the sod. Not a single horse with blackened brass to pull a coach resplendent of the dead. No glorious breath to waft from autumn’s equine mouth. No cobbled striking hooves to mark the beat as we marched along to the sounding of the end. Not one flying column marched behind the single tinker’s cart.

The lone frailties of the collector’s man had long since gone. The bone of my bones, the flesh of my flesh. Fourteen years nurtured in Glasgow's murderous vat, yet never to see or feel the sweetened ripened taste of an older age.

Like waxen mannequins, they stood before the mourners, an epitome of emptiness.We sang the songs that fiddlers love to play. Like rainbow contrasts, joy and sorrow, grace and sin, life and death, the earth took back its balance of men. No more the ravens call his name. Birds fly on paper wings while auld men cry as they mourn beside the violin.

Blood stains easily the wringing of the haunds, as they of innocent lives beg for salvation fae an invisibility of many a hidden god.

Rapparee

My replacement looked through me with the cold deadness about his eyes that I had once myself possessed. A man without a master, a mere puppet now without its string. An auctioning of souls, an encumbrance of guilt.

The gathering of rainclouds had drawn together the fear of many a good man for the anniversary of time. He took with him the unpaid debts of those who failed at life.

Scores of pallid faces had come to mourn, their looks aghast upon the attendance of so many of those who carry my name.

Boys climbed many a crucifix of the remaining debris which had once been our beloved homes, all to get a better view. We were there in force to stand atop the grave.

The brothers and their sons, we came to respect the living nae the dead.
There were none who stopped to lay their wreaths upon our tormentors grave. The killer and the killed, they lay now feet apart in death as they had lived in life.

The tipping of rain drenched hats as they glance my way in respect of the long since buried dead of my own. Nearby, still the flowers placed about the father's grave. The significance is not lost upon the priest.

Two Glasgow men have gone. Another year has passed and still the flowers come to mark the remembrance of the resting place of one. Their souls entwined in retribution that goes far beyond the grave.

Divinus Aequitas

It was her window they entered through the first time. They took the few pound notes that had been put aside for the Christmas, and a watch that had once been her mothers.

They broke her window, they broke her heart.

On the second occasion they found nothing of value. They smashed her television, and urinated on her bedding. The meagre contents of her food cupboard had been used to foul the slippers waiting for her hard working feet of a night.

They defiled her home; they left behind their signature syringes.

On Tuesday they were recognised and identified by those too old and frail to come out fae behind their own curtains.

They broke their spirits; they took from them their dignity.

Today they were visited in the wee small hours of the morning by persons unknown, and given the most valuable of all Glasgow lessons.

They entered their home; they broke every one of their fingers.

This Christmas, another place will be set at my table for a long time Glesga friend. Upon her wrist will be the watch of her mammy, and the fanciest of baffies upon her tired feet.

She entered my life; her refusal of tears broke the heart of my missus.

Fowl Play

It was across the fields to our local man that we went in the early part of the year. The plan was to be well prepared for the annual family Christmas dinner for over forty people, by rearing and fattening two grand looking birds for the table.

Each week, masel and the two grand-weans have fed up the two prime fat turkeys on corn, bread, rice, and plenty of nourishing goodies to ensure a tasty meal is had by all.

It's been a labour of love, where both "Rab" and "Nesbitt" have savoured the best of the Bastard family table scraps for well over nine months. Considering I have a bit of an oul phobia about poultry in general, it's been an experience for all concerned.

“Granda” says the youngest wean, “when people die, do they go to heaven?”

A tricky subject for me, but my grand babies are everything, and I have always believed in honesty being the best policy.

“Ask your Granny, hen”

“Mammy says that when you die you go to see Jaysus, Granda.”

“Uh-huh”

“So... when turkeys die.. do they go to see Jaysus as well Granda?”

“Uh-huh”

“But if we eat Rab and Nesbitt for Christmas dinner Granda, they won’t get to see Jaysus will they?”

“Errr...for the love of God, did you’se see that big oul squirrel over there on the tree stump looking at yers?”

“Answer.. the.. question.. Granda” said a wee voice, near to tears.

“Don’t you bother yersel doll, it’s the beef that we are having for the dinner this year, no the turkeys.”

“So you don't have to cut off their heads with that axe Granda?”

“No hen”

“Granda?”

“Yes hen”

“When cows die, do they go to heaven to see Jaysus?”

“Only the Catholic cows hen... only the Catholic ones, and your Granda is gonnae make sure that he only buys the very best of the Protestant beef!”

Footnote: If your name has been removed fae my sidebar during the changes to the current skin, contact me so that I can put you back on in pride of place with the others.

JB.

Sullivan's Wall

Beneath the great symphony of the Glasgow building industry, there is a controlling beast known by all as the winter. Glasgow, in November, there are no new beginnings, no occasional rainbows, nor temperate days when the baring of flesh is observed. Only a concentration of readiness for the cauld of winter to come.

The progress of work will slow; the enthusiasm for outdoor builds will ebb like that of the stickiness of clay upon boots.

Tools and men do not work well in the cauld. They are slow, sullen, and they move with a reluctant gait that does not fair well with the movement of joints. Metal and bone, the mechanics of man, one cannot progress without the development of the other.

Nose’s run silver, while gloved haunds are slapped together in a beaten leather of miserable applause.

The brutal cacophony of stamping feet do battle against the dampness and the sucking of the mud; a tedious glutinous quagmire that removes the soul of a man as he battles the vile viscous misery beneath the sod.

But still they come.

Empty of pocket, they enter the unemployment office. There, scuffed shoes hide bashfully as they leave a shame of poverty atop the mockingly deep carpet upon the floor. They listen with grim faced determination, these men of hard faces. They glance with trepidation at the voluminous forms of incomprehension that suck at their hearts, and suck at their souls.

Rough haunds that are more suited to the swinging of an axe, the arcing of a trowel, and the pulse of a pneumatic drill, clasp at the stubs of pencil as they read with moving lips.

The blank stare of those who find shame at their own clumsiness with the words is abound. Yet a strength of hope and the desire to work again keeps them aglow with the redness of shame about their cheeks, as they sit and exchange their identity for that of a number.

Earth, rock, and the greatness of concrete, subside beneath an unfamiliar stramash of personal references and green forms. The harshness of fluorescent light is unforgiving to the skin parched and rough fae the wind. Through the window they long for the rain about their shoulders once more.

I ease the uncle out of his bed. There is no shame to the soiling of his sheets. The smell, the foul obtrusive evacuation that clings to the lower part of his clothing matters not a jot. I sense the pleading in his eyes as he submits again to the wracking pains in his bowel.

He cries out for death beneath a silent groan.

I know the look of death so well. I’ve walked amongst those who dealt it at will. The metallic click of a gun has no conscience as it empties its vile chamber and leaves without a solitary glance.

The small frail man in my arms is near to death. The touch of cancer has gripped his insides with the swiftness of only six weeks. His heart dies a little more each day as he sees the last of the pride slowly draining fae his beloved Glasgow. But still we pretend. Still we discuss the falling of leaves and the harshness of winter.

I hold him in my arms so that he can once more glimpse the rooftops of the city beneath us. I feel the bones protruding through what used to be such strong muscle and flesh. I feel the desperation in his heart as he realises that no more will he walk the streets of oul Glasgow. I hold him high, and I hold him close until the tears threaten to fall.

My wife waits outside with the grown of my childer. They long to say their own goodbyes to the man who has the look in his eye of my beloved faither. But this is our time. The men of Glasgow do not greet with the tears of the weak. We deceive ourselves that we are upholding an honour; a pride ingrained into the soul of the working man amidst the earth, the trenches, and the water filled ditch.

“We need to finish the wall Jimmy” he whispers to me. “It’ll be the winter that is upon us before we can see it aft, and I have the pain in the haunds again, something fierce”

He closed his eyes and he died, as we stood together as one. Never to feel the coarse hew of the bricks about his hands again.

The rain it fell, the wind it blew. Still they came.

Yesterday they finished the wall. The men of the dole, the men stripped of all pride. They finished the wall, and then we went and we had the blackest of pints, and the melody of song.

Hard faces, hard men, but all with the feeling of the pride returned in the winter of another of Glasgow’s faithful dead.

We have many more walls still to build.

An Eye for an Eye?

Some say the Divil is dead...

Uncle Tommy was born to be a priest. You could even say that the blood of the priesthood flowed through his veins.... in more ways than one.

Above the door in the auld kitchen was a patch of wallpaper not quite as yellowed through age as the rest of the Grandmammy’s fruits of the forest choice in vinyl decor. Two large nails protruded forlornly from their anchor point beneath the crumbling plaster. The burden of weight long since gone fae their rusted shoulders.

The glowing red sacred heart had mysteriously been extinguished fae its home inside the alcove of the passageway, atop the stairs, since the day after the Grandmammy's fall. It was a sight familiar in every Catholic household across the city of Glesga back in the day.

The Grandfaither no longer took his place amongst us at the Friday Mass. It was in the saloon bar at Dooley’s that he was to be found amongst the whisky and his fellow heathen pals. The peelers still eyed him on occasion, and it was the suspicion of the guilt that made their noses twitch in his direction, even though no blood on his haunds had ever been found.

It was a mystery to us all for years, how a man who still carried an English bullet in his leg, and was too sick to work, would never be without a pint so black and creamy in his hand. He would often drink until the Dooley woman would throw him out in the street, and reclaim her drunken husband for the calling of his bed.

He had been that way ever since the day the Grandmammy had been cursed with the falling over that had blackened her eye and torn at her dress.

It was the day of the Appleby Fair, and all the men were across to England with the finest of horseflesh, and the temptation of the drink. The showing out of a tinker’s wealth was important to all at the fair. The Grandfaither was always a very proud man.

It was with great delight that the Saturday penny that week had been doubled by the Grandmammy. It was tearful she was on the day, but then it was always the way with a lot of the auld wan’s of a certain age. The sherbet dabs tasted extra grand with the watching of not one but two cowboy filums at the Saturday matinee on the day after the Grandmammy had fallen down and blackened her eye.

I recall the return of my faither and the uncles on the Sunday morn. The angry shouts, the awfie tears, and the greatness of the most terrible stramash, went on late into the night.

I cannae remember the exact day of that year, but it was about the same time that Faither Hagan was found floating beneath the bridge at the bend of the River Clyde. It was wee Charlie Rumble who found him, his head all bashed in and raw. Charlie was later to boast of how the fishes had been nibbling at Faither Hagan, and his one remaining eye.

We never did believe him about the eye. Charlie had a bit of a habit of coming over peely-wally whenever there was blood about him of any kind.

Uncle Tommy never did become a priest. It was the calling of the whisky that eventually made him his fortune. But it was many a divine time that was had by all when we sat in his bar and pondered the auld yellow patch on the wall where the Grandfaither's shillelagh used to hang.

The Grandmammy never did fall over again. It was just as well really, as she seemed to put on a terrible lot of weight after that awfie blackening of her eye, and the tearing of the dress.

For a woman born of the great religious sickness herself, it was strange how we never heard her enquire after Faither Hagan at all.

Animal Instinct?

'The Big Man' - by the very talented Aussie Artist - Ron Mueck.

click the pic to look for the naughty bit

"For the love of god, Jimmy! it's only the one night that you're giving up, it's not as if it's the end of the world now, is it?"

It may not be the end of the world to some, but it certainly feels like it is to me. Especially when the long drawn out evening is to be spent in the company of those of the vegan persuasion. Dinnae get me wrong here. I have the greatest of respect for all opinions and lifestyles of my fellow man, regardless of faith, creed, religion, or political confusion. But the thought of kaftan's, floor cushions, and the swoosh of beaded curtains is just not my thing.

Apart from their passion for strange, unfathomable Vietnamese party games, the inevitable late night bean curd flatulence, and the obligatory stray beard hair floating in the soup, the evening will no doubt be a blast. The last time we attended one of their 'entertaining' dinner parties, I made the terrible fashion faux pas of wearing shoes not made out of masticated cardboard and reconstituted buffalo hair. It was a three hour slide show on the error of my ways that ensued.

I won't be making that particular mistake ever again!

The real heart breaker was the fifteen year old whisky that we brought with us, that remained unopened on their sideboard during the entire evening. Instead we were invited to make free with the putrid Cambodian monkey pish the rather unusual home made wine that they had personally manufactured in a canoe somewhere between rainy Saigon and the Ho Chi Min trail. I hear it is very effective in the removal of upper lip hair in women.

The real highlight of the evening, apart from the slight wind mishap during her demonstration on the benefits of Pilate's, was of course his fascinating tale about the partially constructed 'straw bales only' loft conversion he has spent eleven long years working on. Too be honest, at first glance I thought the chimney had fallen fae the apex of the roof, and landed awkwardly. Hey.. it was an easy mistake to make.

Even choosing my wardrobe for the evening is turning out to be a bit of an oul chore. Try as I might, I cannae seem to locate any item suitable for this evenings main event. For suitable, read anything made out of either cheesecloth, hemp, or hessian sack. I guess the true meaning of vegan fashion is that your sense of style begins and ends at the mercy of which ever one of your farming neighbours woolly beast's dies from tuberculosis during the winter months.

Maybe if I throw myself down the stairs it might just get me out of the evenings hell. They might take pity on me and allow Siobhan to leave early, along with the return of my fifteen year old malt, and a brief taxi stop for a bucket of good oul tasty KFC. It could all work out nicely indeed. I'm sure they will understand, and not be offended at my absence around the rush floor matting of which they choose to feast with spoons carved from the wood of the ancient Szechuan tree.

Yes, I'll miss out on yet another descriptive excursion into the exciting world of hybrid cars, and the benefits of bottling your own feces. The many, many, holiday photies of their Rwandan mud hut holiday home, and how the wedding photographer airbrushed out the vomit stains on her canvas wedding dress after the pre-chanting exchange of wicker love-bands, and cous cous buffet went sooo wrong.

Who could have known those darn pretty orange berries would be so toxic?

Although I almost certainly do worship at the green temple of understanding when I visit their home, there are only so many choruses of "Cum-bay-ah" a man can stand in one evening.
I wonder if I should just go out and save a whale, or clean oil off a dolphin instead?

Guns, God, and Jimmy Bastard

I’m not sure what it was that I expected to find when I first made my way back into a classroom again after thirty odd years of absence. But then, this was no ordinary classroom.

The youngsters were encouraged to smoke at will, wear the clothing of their choice and frequent outbursts of coarse language was thrown about the room with careless abandonment.
There are no paintings displayed, no models of clay, text books, blackboards, not even a book, a pencil or a pen. This was a classroom with a unique difference indeed.

At this point of the post I would advise that any social workers, do-gooders, or those taken too wearing the robes of the Catholic or Protestant Church, should take themselves off and make a cup of tea, pray to your god, or vanish the contents of the collection plate. This is not written with you in mind.

I’ll not drag up my background anymore than I have to during this post, but on occasion you will understand where my ability to see more than others comes into the whole crux of the tale. I’m no Angel. We all know that, and it’s never been a secret from day one.

Together with another blogger, I have recently been involved in a form of therapeutic counselling sessions in Glasgow, by way of using the ability to communicate to young people without resorting to god. A do-gooder I am most certainly not. A’ n’er-do-well’ is also not one of my known characteristics either.

Let’s not confuse these young people with the often feral scum who rob your Ma, or sell drugs instead of working for a living. The kids in this classroom have experienced the darker side of life. Violent death, brutal beatings, gun crime, even torture. These kids are housed in a secure unit midway between borstal and prison. I’m sure you get the picture.

My role in these sessions is more of a translation roll than anything else. Trying to explain why they felt the need to use a blunt hatchet to hack at the knees of someone wearing the wrong colour fitba shirt, to a social worker, often falls quite short of the mark. If a person exhibits symptoms of violence, it is usually lumped into a definitive category. Usually, it can often be the wrong one.

Come at me personally with the word ‘fuck’ on your lips, and the shock value is lost along with the ability to intimidate. When a monster is faced with another monster, the locking of horns turns more to a meeting of minds rather than an engagement of fists. I’m not there to hold hands, wipe away tears, or push the guilt of sin towards the people in the classroom. I am there to listen and to answer their questions with honesty.

My methods are somewhat unorthodox, but they are honest, and when you have lost all else in life, honesty and respect can go a long way in forming real trust. If I began by asking them the all too common mistake made by social workers: “Tell me what you feel inside” They would probably attempt to cut my throat. But if I approach them with: “Look at how I turned my own violent upbringing around without the Church, sexually abusive do-gooders, or actually going to prison” I do get a better response.

To truly understand the exact nature of the beast, it can be very useful if you have actually been there yourself. I have, and I appear to have survived so far. Early day’s maybe? It is very easy to let the mask slip, and even now the red mist can descend upon me on occasion, and the need for violence surges forwards. I like to think I have it under control.

Also present at these sessions is a member of the clergy. He lasted a full day before he felt the need to draw us all closer to the path of righteousness, and lead us all in prayer. It’s still a light moment in our day when he begins his frequent sermons on the mount. He does however make a pure dead brilliant pot of tea, so it’s worth keeping him around until the vending machine is repaired.

The sessions continue, and three weeks in, the introduction from me will begin this morning with the world of literature. No need to worry though, the bible along with the crucifix has been left in the holy wan's car.

I’ll let you know how it pans out.

Awfie Weepy Drippy Puffy Things

As long as I live, I’ll never understand just what it is that makes the weaker sex tick. Take chick flicks for instance. What’s all the malarkey about? What on earth can be so enjoyable about blubbering into a wet tissue for ninety minutes, while making those ridiculous “aaawwww” noises every time another blubbering wreck of weakness on screen fails to meet the man of her dreams?

When the lights went down earlier this evening, the TV room had three attractive women sitting about me, all glossy haired, crystal eyed, and looking fit enough to gladden the heart of any red blooded man. Fast forward an hour.... the filum ends, the lights go up, and holy mother of god! I’m surrounded on all sides by the badly hungover original cast of Michael Jackson's ‘Thriller’.

For the love of all things holy, what is the point of paying a Kings ransom for waterproof, smudge proof makeup, when the crayon-like after effects of a wean on too much sugar, has drawn the faces of acid induced clowns upon the fizz hog of your missus? What’s it all about for crissakes?

Many a bar stool carries the arse of men who ponder the same questions. If women only knew the truth. Men dinnae just sit and discuss sport of a night. Jaysus no... We sit and wait for the hands of the clock to drag by until the blubbing has stopped, the used tissues have been thrown, and the little red dot in the corner of the TV announces that ‘Happy Weepy Hour’ is finally at an end. Only then can we make our weary way home.

But wait... the liquid has not stopped flowing from our loved ones. No... not by a long way. Am I the only man in the world to regret fitting an en-suite to the master bedroom? The thickness of the plaster board, the extra thick laying on of the trowel when it came to the mortar between tile and wall. All to no avail. There is something horribly wrong with the crescendo of sound that emanates fae the ladies when they take a pee.

For the sake of all the saints, it’s no hard to disguise the sound of your activities by dropping a few squares of lavvy paper down the hole first. I can never fully understand why the ladies refuse to muffle the rainfall “because it’s a waste of loo roll” but then condemn at least half the Brazilian rain forest's yearly supply of paper to the western world, wrapped around their hands as they do that strange sideways scuttle on the pan and pat their woo-woos dry.

For crying out loud... shut the door. It’s not much to ask...surely? At least that way you wouldn’t have to cough when one of those secret little toots just ‘pops out’ at the same time you’re waking the dead up with the splashing of Niagara Falls beneath you. You may think they’re silent, but they are not. Our ears are not tuned to the same frequency as a canine. It doesn’t take a genius to work out why next door's Jack Russell is howling.

Just when we’re coming to terms with the red puffy eyes, the streaky cheeks, the little annoying sniffles, AND the pee pee thing, they then ask you that ridiculous question that we fellas can recite off by heart without missing a beat. The dreaded words that send your eyeballs scurrying around in their sockets faster than a Nigerian sending out spam.

“Do you still find me attractive?”

No! Of course we don’t. We cannae stand to see this soured version of Alice bloody Cooper propped up beside us in bed. A creature so obscure looking in its curlers, its face cream, and that overpowering stench of ‘night spray for women’. Who in their right minds puts on perfume before they turn in of a night? All these inane activities does things to our minds that has a knock on effect to our gentlemen vegetables, and we want to run screaming through the streets to find sanctuary in a dimly lit bar full of beer, and whisky, and other reassuringly manly things.

“Och hen, you already know the answer to that one”

No...no no no no no! We really do not find you attractive. You put us off our manly rights. Our conjugal dreams are destroyed. Our ardour is... well... no longer ‘ard’. For the love of Jaysus... can you no move next door into the other bedroom until your makeup is reapplied, your hair is long and silky, and your eyes have returned to their normal colour and size. And for pity sake, if you’re gonnae have your third pish in as many minutes, SHUT THE DOOR!

“Aaawwww Jimmy, you are so sweet, you make me wannae cry”

Sweet Mary and Joseph, isn’t this where I came in?

Goodnight hen.

Goodnight doll.

“No Jimmy, not again tonight sweetie, besides... I need another wee!”

Bring Me the Head of Bill Gates

No! you're not going mad. But I am. Windows 7 really did eat two posts clean off of the plate of my blog.
My apologies to those who lost comments due to the blip! The blip may well have been due to my ignorance, but for the sake of me saving face... let's blame Bill.

The answer to the quiz was...... just ask daisy fae.

A Prayer for the Crying

“Bless me faither, for I have sinned. It’s been thirty nine years since my last confession, and you may want to send out for sandwiches and a top-up for your flask before I begin…

It all began rather innocently last night as I walked in on one of Siobhan's little ‘femme’ evenings for the sad and lonely housewives many charming friends of which she has accumulated over the years. The subject of the nights soiree was that of the whale gloop by-product that so many of you ladies slather all over your finely toned bodies of a night.

Oh yes.. I’m talking about you.

Now as grand as all these wonderful commercials really are, with their glittery buttock camera shots, flawless craw necks, and their silicon-free-chubby-baby-smooth-skin promises, the reality of any female actually managing to hold back the hands of time seems rather futile to me. Unless of course you have great wads of cash, you are Jackie Stallone, or you are married to a Californian scalpel merchant by the name of Todd.

Soooo… as the only female left in the hoose to make my usual evening pot of tea was busy extolling the virtues of the 'lemon and chamomile vaginal scrub,' (You never see the one containing the salmon advertised, do you?) I had to venture into the kitchen myself.

Picture the scene.

Twenty or so of the chattering bisoms gathered around an aged oul crone of no more than thirty five. Her skin so bronzed with decades of sunbed abuse, deep moisturising ‘carrot of god’ toner, and many many summers spent on the sands of the beautiful Gobi Desert beach itself.

I shouldn't really be nasty about 'Sizzling-Sarah', I have no right to be so malevolent about her, especially as she is about to get married for the fourth time in eleven years to a Protestant peeler fae Kirkcaldy. It's not as if she really loves her new man, it's more to do with the fact that he's the only fella she has ever met who hasn't yet thrown her out of a moving car.

I'll give it a fortnight...

The conversation was in full swing, and the mammy-in-law was demonstrating just how great the latest 'Oil of Gulag' vanishing cream had camouflaged the unspeakable grotesqueness of her mole.

“It’s just as if it wasn’t there….” she gushed.

It was at this point where, half cut fae the very small amount of Metaxa brandy still floating about my veins after my lazy afternoon on the couch, I heard myself say in quite a distinctive voice:

“For the love of Jaysus… if it is only a mere smidgen of the whale grease that can hide something so unattractive, just think what you could do if you purchased a whole tub”

Tonight’s post comes to you from beneath the eves of the very small unheated, unlit room above the garage. I’ve kept it short due to the fact that the small candle glow that lights my keyboard is just about burnt down to the nub, and the flickering flame is very soon to go ou....!

I'll be back as soon as the rain has cooled a few tempers, and they have abandoned their hunt.

A Tale of Two Journeys

Artist,* Richard Bagguley - 'man to meat'

I began my journey by train into Glasgow early on Friday evening. Alone, I was travelling to attend a somewhat sombre appointment in a less than salubrious part of the city. The change of seasons has been inclement of late, and my choice of clothing had been dark trousers, black roll neck autumn sweater, and a long black leather jacket of an Italian design. Classical, but sensible, was the nature of my informal attire.

Whether it was my recent unsteady gait, the sometimes menacing fullness of my height coupled with the undeniable flatness of my nose, or the way my shoulders filled the bulky cut of the foreboding leather about me. The atmosphere on the train took an instant dive downwards to at least 40 fathoms beneath its usual sea of tranquility.
It was somewhat awkward to find a seat on this rush hour packed commuter train, so I had no option but to stand in the doorway of the compartment.

As I glanced around the train during the fifteen minute journey, I noticed with some dismay that my presence was causing a considerable amount of unease for those directly around me. One gentleman appeared to find constant hidden interests in the intense wording on the rear of his somewhat crumpled ticket. His seating companion, a woman of perhaps thirty, studied me from head to crotch, while formulating her own secretly dark inward opinions. All of this to her credit, why still grasping ever tighter the grip on the handbag firmly locked between her knees.

Masterfully done, and she’s definitely one for the muggers to avoid.

The train stopped several times, and each time the doors opened, people clambered over a stumbling jungle-like trail of legs, shopping bags, pushchairs, and loudly greeting bairns. The path of their choice, all to avoid coming within striking distance of the sullen leather clad stranger blocking the doorway. An old man seated, his own battle scarred face remaining inwardly alert at the memories of his own jaded past. His eyes met mine in an unspoken alliance

The range of human perception is instinctively based on how we interrelate with our own personal comfort zones, even if the interaction consists of perhaps only the merest fleeting of seconds. The receptors in our brain can decide instantly whether or not to accept or reject the person who enters within feet of the afore mentioned zone.
It is automatic, and we have no control over the instantaneous emotions triggered by this apparent awareness of danger.

I could name perhaps twenty or so plastic hard men in Glesga, who would willingly donate the one remaining brain cell still in existence behind their darkened glasses and designer ‘reputations’, just to experience this apparent trepidation in people’s eyes.
The time has long gone since I relished the fear of those who stood before me. I required a seat, not the admiration of the dozen or so rock dwellers swilling cheap supermarket lager fae tepid cans.

Yesterday I made the same journey into the city, my wife by my side. My dress code was similar, only this time it was an expensive open necked shirt under a woolen coat of a similar value. As usual, we openly held hands as we stood just inside of the doorway, and we spoke quietly about our plans for the pending theatre visit that evening. We laughed lightly at husband and wife banter, and at times my hand strayed to her hair. It's something that I often do naturally without giving it a second thought.

Within moments… a space had been created for us between two ladies of winter years. The young woman sitting opposite chatted openly to me about the design of my shoes, her handbag beside her on the seat quite unclasped. The general patter of conversation never drew breath in its lack of concern over the presence of perhaps just a ‘tall man’ and his wife.

I caught not a glance at the bend of my nose.

Perhaps the idiosyncrasy of stereotyping those around us who do not always meet the decisive factor of our safety zone is somewhat flawed. Sometimes we should allow the eyes to wait until the mind’s other senses have had a chance to evaluate before we draw up the bridge, and resignedly bar that safety gate.

Perhaps, it’s a poignant reminder of the world we live in. Maybe I merely grow weary as I watch the years of my own life unfold before me. Whatever the reason, the view as we journey should not always end in the stereotypical vision of an unknown man, versus the rotting stench of an unknown meat.

*I would like to extend my gratitude to the artist Richard Bagguley himself, who kindly contacted me personally over my choice of his superb artwork, 'Man to Meat.

Gone With the Wind

“… and for the love of god now Jimmy, don’t forget we have Mairéad’s parents over the night for the supper, and it’s a good impression I’m after, do you hear me?”

How could I forget? My son is smitten with a newly acquired love, and it’s all any of us have heard about for the best part of two weeks. Normally I have no qualms about meeting new people, but with circumstances of late, I’ve kind of been shy when it comes to meeting with new people.

“Nae bother hen…”

It all started to go wrong immediately after they arrived, when my son first ushered in his possible future in-laws. I shook hands with a smartly dressed man, average height, warm smile, and a half decent grip about him. His wife of twenty years stepped forward, and the both of us nearly fell to the ground with realisation, and the horror of it all.

I knew her.

Not knew her as in “hello there hen, I’ve seen you before at the library, browsing the obituary section, many good funerals you've been to of late?”

I knew her. For the love of all things holy, I’m talking about knowing her in the Bill Clinton carnal sense here. Of course she looked slightly taller standing up, but it was the distinctive click of her knees that rang that far off distant memory bell.

Now, it’s been quite a few years since my bachelor days, but there are some faces, or in this case, there are some tops of heads that a man never forgets no matter how old he gets. It’s a wee bit like the ladies, and how they never forget their first true love. It’s like that for the fella’s, too, only we never remember unimportant things like names.

The soup course was the worst. Every time she raised that spoon to her mouth, she looked directly into my eyes as if to say… oh yes.. I remember you, you big oaf, with your fancy shoes, and your lying ways. Not to mention your inability to keep the appointment that you so ‘faithfully’ declared that you would drop everything for, just to see ME the following day.

After a very uncomfortable night in the company of my son’s ‘possible’ new in-laws, a taxi was called, and as soon as the red tail lights had vanished from the driveway, it was succour I required. Only this time, spelled quite differently indeed.

"That's them away hen, they're gone."

“You was unusually quiet the night Jimmy doll, was it a wee cat that had your tongue for a while back there?”

“….aye hen, only it may have been a wee bit more than my tongue that was had. "

"Ahhh I know you so well Jimmy" she said... "It was the wind from the pea soup that you was trying to keep in" "I could see that it was starting to effect Moira as well, I noticed her biting her lip on more than one occasion."

"It'll be pizza and tato jackets next week when they are round again for their tea."

....Next week?