IheartGlasgow
I love Glasgow, with all of my heart, and every other fiber of my being. Here’s why:
- The international class swearing, often casual in nature;
- Party power naps;
- Pajamas in pubic;
- Neds;
- Football;
- Football banter;
- The weather;
- The pubs;
- The atmos;
- Casual vomiting;
- Bus conversations and their aftermath;
- The humour;
- The punching of a man who was on fire;
- Glass bottles of Irn Bru;
- Irn Bru;
A caveman’s lament
So this week I have been alone. Sad and alone. Sarah went back to New Zealand last Friday, leaving me to cope, alone. Having survived a mystifying robbery and the utterly useless Budapest police, plus the rain and cold, I am glad to be back in Scotland for a couple of weeks. My mother will be pleased to note that almost all of the clothes I have brought with me need to be washed immediately. You see, this is what happens when Sarah leaves me alone for extended periods. I am the stereotypical useless man; without female supervision I fall apart, an immediately begin reverting to living like a feral third world child, scavenging for scraps and wearing the same dirty clothes for days on end. I ate out every single night, and I didn’t once buy any milk. In short, I am a disgrace.
To take my mind off the unrelenting terror I experience on a plane these days, I wrote part of this entry on the plane up to Aberdeen from Gatwick. It sounds jet set, but it wasn’t. Despite booking a British Airways flight, and due to the wonder of code sharing, I never once set foot on a BA plane. It was Malév from Budapest to London, and Flybe up to Aberdeen. As most people know, sitting on a budget flight is rather like what I imagine a battery hen feels like. Every time I wanted to move I had to do an elaborate slow motion cartwheel, and I kept throwing crisps everywhere. All this was, I’m sure, intensely annoying to the lady sitting next to me, but not as annoying as having a woman wearing too much makeup trying to sell you useless cack. Perfume by Kylie Minogue? For Christ’s sake. When did smelling like Kylie become fashionable? I don’t see the attraction, and besides, I already smell like an Australian woman, thanks to spending a week living like a peasant. And, if they must insist on selling rubbish, why can’t the flight attendants bring enough cocking change on board, so that when I buy a bag of crisps for six pounds, they have change of a 20?
At least Flybe are better than Ryanair, who cut so many corners that they have decided to do away with safety cards, and instead print the instructions on the back of the seat in front of you. For a nervous flier like me, who spends every moment of a flight trying to control their desire to try and get off the plane, sitting for an hour or two looking at a variety of disaster scenarios that I could be involved in adds another terrifying dimension to the whole experience.
