It was never far away, the work. I could only last so long without making some money, and the time has finally arrived. I have been on the road since the tail end of April and since then I have largely been bumming around, rattling through my savings.
I spent the first few days in Calgary partying. Friday night was odd, we got fall down drunk, starting the day on beer, moving quickly on to vodka. I sat out on the back deck smoking a cig when the neighbour downstairs, an old lush with a bad dye job started having a full on shouting match with her deadbeat boyfriend. The lush and her female friend were chucking him out, the lush screamed for him to “get the fuck off” her property. Not that she owns the place, in fact she is getting evicted soon I heard. I assume for situations similar to the one I found myself in the middle of. The deadbeat boyfriend stormed out the garden yelling that he hoped the two old boozers would enjoy their lesbian relationship. The old lush burst out crying, turned to me and started making sure I didn’t think they were lesbians. I said as little as possible, dumped what was left of my cig, walked back in the house and locked the door. No one needs that kind of vibe when trying to get drunk. We partied into the early hours, when I wanted a smoke I went out the front, just to be on the safe side.
On Saturday morning I awoke with a bastard of a hangover and the sinking feeling that at some point that day I would be put to work. First we needed to get to the worksite.
The final destination was a town called Outlook in Saskatchewan. Martin, myself and a guy called Nathan bundled into the truck and began the 7 hour journey to get there. Both times I had woken up in Calgary I started the day with a beer before anything else, there was nothing else to do. I was actually happy to be forced into the position where I couldn’t (or at least shouldn’t) do it that day. I was feeling sick with the booze.
Alberta and surrounding regions are really flat, this is good for petrol consumption, but not great for long journeys in the sense that you can see for miles and miles making the journey feel that bit longer. I dozed in and out of consciousness. I woke up at one point and we were stopped on the side of the road, piss break. In my haze I jumped out the truck and pissed at the back of the truck with a blatant disregard for the fact that I was in a country where the traffic is on the other side of the road, I only realised when a truck went by, the driver of said truck was treated (for lack of a better word) to the full show. I got back in and fell asleep.
At some point not long after I was awoken again, it appeared we were at the exact same point in the road. We weren’t, I was just realising that this road was like a Vegas casino, all aspects of it looked exactly the same for hundreds of miles. This time Martin and Nathan were discussing turning off into a town for petrol as it might be the last chance before we ran out and became stranded. We turned off on to a dirt road and floored it to a town called Delilah.
As we turned onto what I guess you would call the Main Street of this town I started to worry that it looked exactly like the kind of place that you would drive in and not be allowed to leave, like the movie U-Turn. We stopped outside the General Store to ask where the petrol station was.
I volunteered to go in. I walked in the front door and came face to face with about 12 locals sitting around chatting. They looked me up and down, skinny jeans, Hunter Thomson tee, hair that no one should leave the house with and eyes like piss holes in the snow. I tried my hardest to talk coherently through the hung over Scottish drawl. “Good day, I am looking for the gas station.”
I was informed by one dungaree wearing local that I needed a card from the café to access the pump, he went on to tell me where the pump was.
I walked out the shop told the boys the story and walked a few yards to the café. Again, the locals in there didn’t take there eyes off the outsider. It probably didn’t help matters that I nearly decked it on the step over the threshold of the café. I managed to stay standing, regained my composure and walked up to the counter. A small Vietnamese woman appeared from the kitchen. Which was the very last thing I expected in a town that I had already pinned as a one family town, to the point that I was calling them all Mr or Mrs Johnson in my head.
I asked the lady for the gas card, she gave me it and barked “you bring back!” I grabbed it and walked out.
We took the only other road in this place and within seconds were at the “gas station”, which was one pump that seemed to be plugged straight into the ground. We fiddled with the idiotic machine for a few minutes before the petrol started flowing. I wandered round the back of the pump and pissed what looked like pure lager. By the time I was finished the truck was filled, we may or may not have paid for it, the machine was too confusing. We stopped back at the café, I returned the card to the lady. I said “have a nice day” she just replied “yes” I got back in the truck and got the fuck out of there before we got chopped up, or made into suits, or whatever else I have learned from too many redneck horror films.
The three of us kept our eye on the mirrors in case we hadn’t paid for the gas and were being chased by some madman in a pick up. We were in the clear.
After some more dozing and a stop at McDonalds we were within striking distance of Outlook.
The sign for Outlook was the name of the town curved over a rainbow. It has the largest pedestrian bridge in Canada apparently. Whether it is or not, it is certainly one of the most terrifyingly badly made high structures I have ever been on, it is an old railway bridge with a wooden walkway built on top of it. When I went to check it out I didn’t dare go the whole way across.
We pulled up in front of The Outlook Motor Hotel. Standing in front of the hotel was the second time in one day that I feared I wouldn’t leave a place alive. There was a bar downstairs, we checked in with the little Chinese man called Sun. He has a Russian wife that he “met on the internet”. The room wasn’t too bad. We had some beer and wings in the bar. Work started on Sunday morning, so we just relaxed in our rooms on Saturday night.
I was lying in bed watching Die Hard With A Vengeance when I realised the music from the bar was coming through the floor, it sounded like a party, so I threw on my clothes and went down for a drink. The place was practically empty, save for Nathan sitting drinking beer and 5 locals dancing under a disco ball. Saturday night in Outlook. Jumping.
I had one beer and went back to bed.
I spent all day Sunday crawling about under an Elementary School. It was hell. I am not built for hard labour, literally, my boney wee hips are all bruised today. We sorted a bunch of problems that were left by the last workers, of which there were many. Eventually we had finished. It had been a long day, but we still had to drive home as there was another job to get to the next day. We grabbed some road beers as we were checking out and then we were gone. Leaving behind that odd little town.
The scenery on the drive home was breathtaking. The sky was beautiful. The radio station we were listening to was playing the exclusive first play of Justin Bieber’s new album. We tried to listen to it, but it was ruining the view. I was getting to look at the most beautiful sunset, it was throwing up amazing colours and all I could think was “I hope the sun fucking explodes and kills every single one of us", that's the only way to stop Bieber now. At that I decided to change the station, it didn’t matter to what.
We finally arrived back in Calgary. We got a few hours sleep before we needed to be back up. I ended up not going on the next job straight away, I need to wait and see if there is room for me on the job. I’ll probably be going up tomorrow or the next day.
Either way reality just got hold of me, pinned me to the ground and kicked my back doors in. I can’t complain though. I had a hell of a run doing fuck all.
Monday 18 June 2012
Saturday 16 June 2012
The One Hour Flight. Kelowna To Calgary.
I left Kelowna early morning Thursday, the flight to Calgary takes one hour. In theory I should have been in Calgary by midday, and we were right on course, I slept from take off to just before landing. We landed, taxied and came to a sudden stop just short of the gate. The pilot mumbled something about a lightning storm coming in, and that we should get comfortable because, it turns out, Canadians are shit scared of lightning, rain and thunder.
The WestJet stewardesses were great, somehow they managed to keep everyone calm. Even when everyone found out that they are not allowed to serve booze while on the ground. I say everyone, but I may have been the only one asking for it. But I asked enough times for everyone on the flight. There are a few things that one can do when faced with boredom of that calibre; drink, smoke, have sex or masturbate. Oddly, and it is to the detriment of the human race I think, only one of those things you are allowed to do in public. Even then, there are rules enforced to make sure you are never actually enjoying it. I never got that drink.
The storm hung around for a while, I sat on the plane for 6 hours, not including the hour it took to get there. My friend Martin, who lives in Calgary spent the 6 hours waiting for me in a bar in the airport. At least someone was having some kind of fun. I sat a while and chatted to a lady because her kid was watching old Disney films on her laptop without headphones. After a couple of hours of conspiring and watching Disney films I decided that the best course of action would be if she grabbed her left arm, hit the deck and fake a heart attack. It was the best idea either of us could come up with to get the fuck off that plane.
She wasn’t up for it, and anyone who has seen me acting will tell you that I could never have pulled it off. Put me in a penalty box and I will convince any ref that I have been fouled, I am an incredible diver (I once punched myself in the eye to win a penalty), but faking a heart attack was out of my talent range. We were in this for the long run.
Eventually the wee storm passed and we were finally released from our tubular aluminium prison. I walked into the terminal which by now was resembling a post- natural disaster emergency shelter, it was jam packed with disgruntled should-be passengers, all grounded because of a wee storm. I can’t mock them too much I guess, it is exactly the same reaction the British have to a tiny bit of snow.
I met Martin in the bar, he was already deep into the drinking. I had some catching up to do. But first I needed to get my bag.
Two things stood in my way of this relatively easy task. First the back log of baggage, secondly I suffer from a little known visual impairment called Luggage Blindness. I‘m not racist, but all luggage looks the same to me. Luckily I had prepared myself this time and had some garish ribbons attached to the handle. Sadly, some other smart people had the same idea. It was a clusterfuck.
I threw my hands in the air in celebration when I finally clocked my bag. I let out a yelp. Grabbed the bastard and left Calgary airport. Martin had managed to talk his housemate, an Irishman called Dave to pick us both up. Knowing what Martin is like, and throwing an Irishman into the equation, I smelled booze soaked mischief.
I am now in Calgary, I have been here for a day and a half (at the time of writing), I have just stopped partying. I was sad to leave Kelowna, but I figured that with all the crazy shit that happened from the International Drug Smuggling job offer to my last Saturday night when I ended up spending the evening safely tucked under the wing of one of the Kelowna’s head Hells Angels, ending my evening in their clubhouse filled with Angels, strippers and low lifes. There were few things left to do in that town after that I felt.
Kelowna had the most amount of women I have ever seen in one town. According to someone who works at the local uni the intake ratio is 13:1. I would suggest visiting.
I am amazed I made it to Calgary. I had some help. I will be working hard labour for Martin to pay off my flight and make some money to try and get home at some point. But I am not thinking about that too much just now.
Once again my Internet access is limited but as and when I have something to tell you I will happily go and steal the internet from the wanky scenester coffee shop at the bottom of the road. I have already got into an argument with a bellend with a shite hairdo about the queue, of all fucking things. He lost. Obviously.
The WestJet stewardesses were great, somehow they managed to keep everyone calm. Even when everyone found out that they are not allowed to serve booze while on the ground. I say everyone, but I may have been the only one asking for it. But I asked enough times for everyone on the flight. There are a few things that one can do when faced with boredom of that calibre; drink, smoke, have sex or masturbate. Oddly, and it is to the detriment of the human race I think, only one of those things you are allowed to do in public. Even then, there are rules enforced to make sure you are never actually enjoying it. I never got that drink.
The storm hung around for a while, I sat on the plane for 6 hours, not including the hour it took to get there. My friend Martin, who lives in Calgary spent the 6 hours waiting for me in a bar in the airport. At least someone was having some kind of fun. I sat a while and chatted to a lady because her kid was watching old Disney films on her laptop without headphones. After a couple of hours of conspiring and watching Disney films I decided that the best course of action would be if she grabbed her left arm, hit the deck and fake a heart attack. It was the best idea either of us could come up with to get the fuck off that plane.
She wasn’t up for it, and anyone who has seen me acting will tell you that I could never have pulled it off. Put me in a penalty box and I will convince any ref that I have been fouled, I am an incredible diver (I once punched myself in the eye to win a penalty), but faking a heart attack was out of my talent range. We were in this for the long run.
Eventually the wee storm passed and we were finally released from our tubular aluminium prison. I walked into the terminal which by now was resembling a post- natural disaster emergency shelter, it was jam packed with disgruntled should-be passengers, all grounded because of a wee storm. I can’t mock them too much I guess, it is exactly the same reaction the British have to a tiny bit of snow.
I met Martin in the bar, he was already deep into the drinking. I had some catching up to do. But first I needed to get my bag.
Two things stood in my way of this relatively easy task. First the back log of baggage, secondly I suffer from a little known visual impairment called Luggage Blindness. I‘m not racist, but all luggage looks the same to me. Luckily I had prepared myself this time and had some garish ribbons attached to the handle. Sadly, some other smart people had the same idea. It was a clusterfuck.
I threw my hands in the air in celebration when I finally clocked my bag. I let out a yelp. Grabbed the bastard and left Calgary airport. Martin had managed to talk his housemate, an Irishman called Dave to pick us both up. Knowing what Martin is like, and throwing an Irishman into the equation, I smelled booze soaked mischief.
I am now in Calgary, I have been here for a day and a half (at the time of writing), I have just stopped partying. I was sad to leave Kelowna, but I figured that with all the crazy shit that happened from the International Drug Smuggling job offer to my last Saturday night when I ended up spending the evening safely tucked under the wing of one of the Kelowna’s head Hells Angels, ending my evening in their clubhouse filled with Angels, strippers and low lifes. There were few things left to do in that town after that I felt.
Kelowna had the most amount of women I have ever seen in one town. According to someone who works at the local uni the intake ratio is 13:1. I would suggest visiting.
I am amazed I made it to Calgary. I had some help. I will be working hard labour for Martin to pay off my flight and make some money to try and get home at some point. But I am not thinking about that too much just now.
Once again my Internet access is limited but as and when I have something to tell you I will happily go and steal the internet from the wanky scenester coffee shop at the bottom of the road. I have already got into an argument with a bellend with a shite hairdo about the queue, of all fucking things. He lost. Obviously.
Thursday 7 June 2012
A Bizarre Conversation With A Canadian Ned.
I have toyed with the idea of not telling this story, as short as it is, because no matter how much I think about it or type it out it doesn't feel like it actually happened. But it did. I wrote it out in my increasingly jammed jotter and it read like the opening to a particularly horrific episode of Banged Up Abroad.
Yesterday I was in my usual spot outside a coffee shop on the main street in Kelowna drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette. As with almost every time I have been smoking a cigarette in this fine country I was approached by someone begging one off me. I said "no, sorry mate, I only have a few left and can't really afford to just give them away." The guy, dressed in a manky hoody and tattered sweat pants stared me up and down and asked "are you looking for work?" I told him I was always looking for something to do.
He sat himself down in front of me. I handed him the half finished cig I was smoking, I took out a fresh one and lit it up. He asked where I was from and where I was going. I mentioned that I was trying to get from California, through Canada and back round to California, and had kind of got stuck here in Kelowna. "I have a buddy with a plane" he said. Which I doubted straight away given his scruffy look. But he continued. "He flies in and out of California all the time. Maybe you could help him out with something."
I said that if it was a free flight I would definitely be interested, even although I was days from heading to Calgary for to visit my buddy Martin who had work lined up for me. But when a guy who looks like a wee ned offers you a free flight on a private plane, you let him continue talking because, if anything, it's going to be hilarious.
"Have you ever shot a rifle?" He asked. "Sure." I said. "Although shooting a rifle and being a good shot are two very different things."
I once took a squirrels head off with a .22, but it was purely accidental and I felt terrible for weeks, and thinking back, I still feel pretty shitty about it. Damn squirrel ran behind a target I was shooting at, wee guy didn't stand a chance. A horrible twist of fate.
Anyway.
This kid stared at me again as I blew my smoke in his direction and stubbed out the cig. "What about automatic rifles?" Again, I told him I had. I had done that in a Las Vegas gun shop. I had been up for days and decided that gun play was the right move at that point. I shot the US Military Issue assault rifle at a picture of Osama. I did the bastard in, and, according to the guy in the shop had "killed all the terrorists in the background" with all my wayward wasted bullets dotted around the figure of Bin Laden.
I didn't tell this kid about my only experience with an assault rifle, he didn't need to know. I just said "sure, I've fired an assault rifle."
"You're not a cop, are you?"
I laughed for second or two, but then realised he wasn't joking. "I have better things to do with my time than be a cop, big man. But maybe you should have asked me that at the beginning." He didn't seem bothered by the details. Just the answer.
"Well, meet me and my buddy here tomorrow at noon. He might have some work for you."
With that another guy came out of the shop, well dressed, groomed hair, carrying two coffees. The wee guy took one of them and they walked off.
I lay in bed this morning watching the clock. I toyed with the idea of turning up, sitting outside the cafe like I didn't give a fuck. I got out of bed, threw on some clothes and walked towards the shop. I stopped at another place, had a coffee and checked the internet. I regailed the story to Gus, and in doing so became more curious. 11:45. I had 15 minutes to decide. I walked along. I stood across the road from the cafe, hood up, hat on and I waited. Midday came and went. I pulled out a smoke, giving it till that was finished before I would head back to bed.
12:10. I stubbed my butt end and binned it (because I am not an asshole) and just as I did that, lo and behold, who rounded the corner? The guy and his same buddy from the day before. The wee guy stood outside and his friend went in, a few minutes later coming back out with two coffees. They stood and drank them outside, looking about. Then at 12:20 they walked off.
I'm no crime expert, I have broken many laws, but I am no expert. Maybe this was innocent enough, maybe it was just a free flight, and maybe some manual labour. But to me, someone who watches too many movies, this reeked of International Drug Smuggling. And I am not at that stage yet. Was I curious? Yes. Am I an idiot? Maybe. Was I curious and idiotic enough to actually meet up with some guy in ripped trackies who offered me a free flight to California in his friends private plane on the condition I could handle assualt rifles and wasn't a cop. No.
I'm leaving Kelowna this weekend.
Yesterday I was in my usual spot outside a coffee shop on the main street in Kelowna drinking coffee, smoking a cigarette. As with almost every time I have been smoking a cigarette in this fine country I was approached by someone begging one off me. I said "no, sorry mate, I only have a few left and can't really afford to just give them away." The guy, dressed in a manky hoody and tattered sweat pants stared me up and down and asked "are you looking for work?" I told him I was always looking for something to do.
He sat himself down in front of me. I handed him the half finished cig I was smoking, I took out a fresh one and lit it up. He asked where I was from and where I was going. I mentioned that I was trying to get from California, through Canada and back round to California, and had kind of got stuck here in Kelowna. "I have a buddy with a plane" he said. Which I doubted straight away given his scruffy look. But he continued. "He flies in and out of California all the time. Maybe you could help him out with something."
I said that if it was a free flight I would definitely be interested, even although I was days from heading to Calgary for to visit my buddy Martin who had work lined up for me. But when a guy who looks like a wee ned offers you a free flight on a private plane, you let him continue talking because, if anything, it's going to be hilarious.
"Have you ever shot a rifle?" He asked. "Sure." I said. "Although shooting a rifle and being a good shot are two very different things."
I once took a squirrels head off with a .22, but it was purely accidental and I felt terrible for weeks, and thinking back, I still feel pretty shitty about it. Damn squirrel ran behind a target I was shooting at, wee guy didn't stand a chance. A horrible twist of fate.
Anyway.
This kid stared at me again as I blew my smoke in his direction and stubbed out the cig. "What about automatic rifles?" Again, I told him I had. I had done that in a Las Vegas gun shop. I had been up for days and decided that gun play was the right move at that point. I shot the US Military Issue assault rifle at a picture of Osama. I did the bastard in, and, according to the guy in the shop had "killed all the terrorists in the background" with all my wayward wasted bullets dotted around the figure of Bin Laden.
I didn't tell this kid about my only experience with an assault rifle, he didn't need to know. I just said "sure, I've fired an assault rifle."
"You're not a cop, are you?"
I laughed for second or two, but then realised he wasn't joking. "I have better things to do with my time than be a cop, big man. But maybe you should have asked me that at the beginning." He didn't seem bothered by the details. Just the answer.
"Well, meet me and my buddy here tomorrow at noon. He might have some work for you."
With that another guy came out of the shop, well dressed, groomed hair, carrying two coffees. The wee guy took one of them and they walked off.
I lay in bed this morning watching the clock. I toyed with the idea of turning up, sitting outside the cafe like I didn't give a fuck. I got out of bed, threw on some clothes and walked towards the shop. I stopped at another place, had a coffee and checked the internet. I regailed the story to Gus, and in doing so became more curious. 11:45. I had 15 minutes to decide. I walked along. I stood across the road from the cafe, hood up, hat on and I waited. Midday came and went. I pulled out a smoke, giving it till that was finished before I would head back to bed.
12:10. I stubbed my butt end and binned it (because I am not an asshole) and just as I did that, lo and behold, who rounded the corner? The guy and his same buddy from the day before. The wee guy stood outside and his friend went in, a few minutes later coming back out with two coffees. They stood and drank them outside, looking about. Then at 12:20 they walked off.
I'm no crime expert, I have broken many laws, but I am no expert. Maybe this was innocent enough, maybe it was just a free flight, and maybe some manual labour. But to me, someone who watches too many movies, this reeked of International Drug Smuggling. And I am not at that stage yet. Was I curious? Yes. Am I an idiot? Maybe. Was I curious and idiotic enough to actually meet up with some guy in ripped trackies who offered me a free flight to California in his friends private plane on the condition I could handle assualt rifles and wasn't a cop. No.
I'm leaving Kelowna this weekend.
Sunday 3 June 2012
Save The Children? Save The Writer Would Suit Me Better.
I have entered a new phase of my trip. I had no choice in this matter. I am pretty much dead broke, running on fumes. I have only just realised that I cannot afford to go home, my return flight is out of LAX and that is a cupla hundred bucks worth of travelling. Which I don’t have. But I am not sweating it, I am in a good spot with my Canadian family. Food and beer in the fridge, and a bed in my own room.
I have something in the works, I have some work waiting for me out East somewhere, but as it stands I can’t afford to get there either, so I am in a tricky spot. But in the proper spirit of this thing I am not too worried. There’s always time for worry later.
I left Kelowna briefly on Friday. I hitched a ride to a town called Vernon where I met my cousin Neil, who I met once 15ish years ago when he came to Scotland. He was then, and remains today one of the coolest of cats. We went straight out, he bought me a Burger King, it had maple bacon on it, it was incredible. From there he took me to the booze shop where he bought me beer and rum and then took me back to his house, I cracked a beer and we chatted a bit before he had to head to work. I waited it out until his wife Molly came home. I skyped my friends, it was a rogues gallery. A who’s who of the coolest bastards in Ayr and beyond. After that myself, Molly and their daughter Natalie went for lunch and drinks.
It wasn’t even afternoon before I had a bit of a head on, and the real drinking was yet to take place.
Neil finished early and came home, grabbed me and we were off. We went to the “next town over”, a small, dusty wee place with not much going for it, but it had one of those cool main streets you see in American Movies set in the 50s. We got to the bar for Jam Night, it was in full flow. Classic Canadian, proper rock music. Guys with beards and skip caps playing guitars and drums.
I had heard about Neil’s exploits with bands through my Dad some years ago, but it became abundantly clear that he was well tuned in because everyone wanted to talk to him. Which is probably as much to do with his nice nature as it is his affiliation with any band. We drank beer, we listened to good musicians play songs that I don’t really like, and I talked to a bunch of Scottish people who didn’t have Scottish accents or had’t even stepped foot in Scotland. I like their desire to be Scottish. It fills you with a pride that I am sure Nationalists feel when they eat shortbread, or when they see a deep fat fryer somewhere other than Scotland.
We decided after a couple of beers to head home, not because of the drive, but because of the grotesque woman singing. Or “singing” if I was going to be a total dick. I’m sure it sounded fantastic in her head, but in the realms of reality - noticeable by the look on the faces of those who hadn’t walked out - she was simply fucking terrible. I’m no Milli Vanilli (or whoever the kids are into these days) but I can hold a tune enough to cast such devastating reviews. I found out on the ride home that she and her husband show up at every Jam Night and practically empty the place. She gave people like me advance warning, however, by shouting “1, 2! 1, 2, CHECK CH CH CHECK” when there was no sound guy, just a mic plugged into a wee amp aimed at a small room of people. I thought it was nice of her actually, and less offensive than going round every table introducing herself as the biggest cunt in the room.
I may sound overly harsh, but to be fair you didn’t see her snapping her fingers and jiggling about when there were no words to gargle out of her air hole.
Eventually we were back on the road and headed home, she was but a memory now, a bad one. And even now when I think about every aspect of her that I witnessed, I can feel the anger building. I have no control over that. Maybe she is a lovely person, a great wife, a good mother, a kind friend, the life and soul of the party. But, to be honest, I seriously doubt it.
We arrived back at Neil’s. I opened the rum and poured sensible measures because it was a smaller bottle and it needed to last. We got in the hot tub, watched a music documentary, drank and chatted. Neil toured with bands like Trooper and Prism. He was, and still is friends with them. We have a lot in common in that regard. He offered great advice, and I took it all on board. While you can never say never, I can’t see myself doing much touring again. It’s the way of the beast, you can’t keep doing the same shit and expecting different results. That’s a ticket to madness.
The second rum was poured by Neil. There was no third. Back home we used to call those drinks Maidens Measures in honour of Skindog’s blatant disregard for the consequences of drinking what is basically pints of raw booze. The bottle was empty. The movie was over. We continued chatting for a bit before succumbing to the rum and beers and heading for bed. We had to be up and on the road for 8am after all.
The morning was too nasty to even really think about.
I got back to Kelowna where I was reminded that I had volunteered to paint the room I’m sleeping in. I went for coffee first. It didn’t help, nor did the second one. My only hope, it would seem, was the beers I left in the fridge. Luckily for me painting kind of zones me out, before I knew it I was pissed again and the walls looked great. They still look great now that I’m sober, save for the little bit of paint on the ceiling which occurred during the time I was zoned out and was momentarily brought back to reality with a jolt when listening to Ornament/The Last Wrongs by Oceansize. If you’ve heard it you’ll know what I mean. If you haven’t heard it you really should listen to it. I would suggest not listening to it with headphones while you’re cutting in, and slightly worse for wear. Just a tip.
After finishing the painting I just continued with the beers and ended up drinking until the sun came up with the neighbour and her friends. But that is a story for another time, for now I am too hung over to even think about what exactly happened. But I did finally understand the reason for boxed wine. Glasses are for suckers man, just press the button and pour that nasty shit straight into your mouth.
If you have been affected by pissing all your money up the wall and becoming stranded in a foreign country and you would like to help. The email address is h.hunter@live.co.uk and you can donate money direct to pay pal.
Don’t make me release a video of me with flies on my face, and that.
I have something in the works, I have some work waiting for me out East somewhere, but as it stands I can’t afford to get there either, so I am in a tricky spot. But in the proper spirit of this thing I am not too worried. There’s always time for worry later.
I left Kelowna briefly on Friday. I hitched a ride to a town called Vernon where I met my cousin Neil, who I met once 15ish years ago when he came to Scotland. He was then, and remains today one of the coolest of cats. We went straight out, he bought me a Burger King, it had maple bacon on it, it was incredible. From there he took me to the booze shop where he bought me beer and rum and then took me back to his house, I cracked a beer and we chatted a bit before he had to head to work. I waited it out until his wife Molly came home. I skyped my friends, it was a rogues gallery. A who’s who of the coolest bastards in Ayr and beyond. After that myself, Molly and their daughter Natalie went for lunch and drinks.
It wasn’t even afternoon before I had a bit of a head on, and the real drinking was yet to take place.
Neil finished early and came home, grabbed me and we were off. We went to the “next town over”, a small, dusty wee place with not much going for it, but it had one of those cool main streets you see in American Movies set in the 50s. We got to the bar for Jam Night, it was in full flow. Classic Canadian, proper rock music. Guys with beards and skip caps playing guitars and drums.
I had heard about Neil’s exploits with bands through my Dad some years ago, but it became abundantly clear that he was well tuned in because everyone wanted to talk to him. Which is probably as much to do with his nice nature as it is his affiliation with any band. We drank beer, we listened to good musicians play songs that I don’t really like, and I talked to a bunch of Scottish people who didn’t have Scottish accents or had’t even stepped foot in Scotland. I like their desire to be Scottish. It fills you with a pride that I am sure Nationalists feel when they eat shortbread, or when they see a deep fat fryer somewhere other than Scotland.
We decided after a couple of beers to head home, not because of the drive, but because of the grotesque woman singing. Or “singing” if I was going to be a total dick. I’m sure it sounded fantastic in her head, but in the realms of reality - noticeable by the look on the faces of those who hadn’t walked out - she was simply fucking terrible. I’m no Milli Vanilli (or whoever the kids are into these days) but I can hold a tune enough to cast such devastating reviews. I found out on the ride home that she and her husband show up at every Jam Night and practically empty the place. She gave people like me advance warning, however, by shouting “1, 2! 1, 2, CHECK CH CH CHECK” when there was no sound guy, just a mic plugged into a wee amp aimed at a small room of people. I thought it was nice of her actually, and less offensive than going round every table introducing herself as the biggest cunt in the room.
I may sound overly harsh, but to be fair you didn’t see her snapping her fingers and jiggling about when there were no words to gargle out of her air hole.
Eventually we were back on the road and headed home, she was but a memory now, a bad one. And even now when I think about every aspect of her that I witnessed, I can feel the anger building. I have no control over that. Maybe she is a lovely person, a great wife, a good mother, a kind friend, the life and soul of the party. But, to be honest, I seriously doubt it.
We arrived back at Neil’s. I opened the rum and poured sensible measures because it was a smaller bottle and it needed to last. We got in the hot tub, watched a music documentary, drank and chatted. Neil toured with bands like Trooper and Prism. He was, and still is friends with them. We have a lot in common in that regard. He offered great advice, and I took it all on board. While you can never say never, I can’t see myself doing much touring again. It’s the way of the beast, you can’t keep doing the same shit and expecting different results. That’s a ticket to madness.
The second rum was poured by Neil. There was no third. Back home we used to call those drinks Maidens Measures in honour of Skindog’s blatant disregard for the consequences of drinking what is basically pints of raw booze. The bottle was empty. The movie was over. We continued chatting for a bit before succumbing to the rum and beers and heading for bed. We had to be up and on the road for 8am after all.
The morning was too nasty to even really think about.
I got back to Kelowna where I was reminded that I had volunteered to paint the room I’m sleeping in. I went for coffee first. It didn’t help, nor did the second one. My only hope, it would seem, was the beers I left in the fridge. Luckily for me painting kind of zones me out, before I knew it I was pissed again and the walls looked great. They still look great now that I’m sober, save for the little bit of paint on the ceiling which occurred during the time I was zoned out and was momentarily brought back to reality with a jolt when listening to Ornament/The Last Wrongs by Oceansize. If you’ve heard it you’ll know what I mean. If you haven’t heard it you really should listen to it. I would suggest not listening to it with headphones while you’re cutting in, and slightly worse for wear. Just a tip.
After finishing the painting I just continued with the beers and ended up drinking until the sun came up with the neighbour and her friends. But that is a story for another time, for now I am too hung over to even think about what exactly happened. But I did finally understand the reason for boxed wine. Glasses are for suckers man, just press the button and pour that nasty shit straight into your mouth.
If you have been affected by pissing all your money up the wall and becoming stranded in a foreign country and you would like to help. The email address is h.hunter@live.co.uk and you can donate money direct to pay pal.
Don’t make me release a video of me with flies on my face, and that.
Kelowna. Where Hells Angels Became Legitimate Businessmen.
I left Whistler in the same mood I arrived, giddy with excitement to be on the road and hopeful about the place I was going to wake up in. As I arrived in Whistler with one cousin, Paul, I was leaving with another, David. Believe it or not, David Rossi, which some of you may find amusing.
On my last day in Whistler Paul, David, myself and David’s partner Trudy went for breakfast. It was a glorious feast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and pancakes, I had to eat fast because I was on a tight schedule, before moving on I had a trip up a mountain in a Hanging Basket of Death to accomplish. I believe they refer to it as the Whistler Gondola. But don’t be fooled, it is a box hanging by a wire getting dragged up a mountain. But what a mountain it is. I stopped at the top long enough to take a piss and a picture before bundling back into one of these death traps and heading back down.
I met David and Trudy back at the breakfast place and we mounted up and shipped out. We were headed back to Vancouver. As we hit the outer edge of Whistler I was happy to see an old friend had come out to see me off, my pal The Bear. There he was, like when I met him on the first day, chilling deep. This time on the hill at the side of the road. I can’t be sure but I think he smirked as if to say “where’s your basket you pansy?” But maybe I was just being overly paranoid about my reputation among the bears.
Before long, after a stop at my new favourite doughnut supplier Tim Horton’s, we had arrived back in Vancouver, at the home of Trudy. After picking up some tools from the garage so David could work on his new sail boat, we hitched said big bastarding boat to the truck, said goodbye to Trudy and hit the road, via another Tim Horton’s and their fabulous honey crulers.
The road to Kelowna was as beautiful as the road to Whistler, we chatted the whole way about everything and anything. Mainly, I suppose, women and music. Both of us keeping one eye on the boat via the wing mirror just to make sure it was still there. It was, and eventually, when we got to Kelowna we got it parked in the drive way, no thanks to a badly parked Volvo. I hate Volvos and their drivers. But it is wise no to open your mouth too much, this town is run by Hells Angels. I gathered my belongings, walked up what I thought were the steps into David’s house and in through what I thought was David’s front door. Neither were the case, I had walked straight into some ladies living room at 2 in the morning, where she was lying on the couch watching TV. I backed out, mumbling apologetically, missed the first step and made close friends with the last three. A fine start to my stay in Kelowna.
I regained my composure and walked into David’s house where he showed me around and pointed me in the direction of my bed. And what a bed it is. A sofa bed, but a comfy example of one. I have only been in two beds since arriving on the continent over one month ago, and I paid over the odds for both of them. But at the time I was coming off the back of a 35 hour train journey and decided to treat myself.
Canada continues to deliver on a grand scale. Kelowna is devastatingly beautiful. In a much different way to Whistler. It is hot as hell, and the ratio of women to men is stacked highly in the way I would have hoped. I found out on my first day that hockey, moose, mounties and Garth Richardson are not the only famous Canadian staples, Kelowna is Canadian Wine Country. I’m here to tell you Canadian Wine exists and it is fucking fantastic. My cousin Samantha took me to a winery, where the guy at the tasting bar gave us more than we paid for, or should have consumed in the blazing afternoon heat. It tastes as good as it feels.
Drunk in the sun is a better drunk that I’m used to, coming from that depressing, perpetually cold little Island we call home. Everything is better in the sun. I realised at some point in the last month that I find it hard to be my usual angry self. Something that comes so naturally to me back home is noticeable by it’s absence since arriving in California back in April. I am putting it down to the sun and lack of any real worries other than falling in love with every single pretty girl I see and not going broke too soon. The sun adds a layer to your reality, and that layer is perfectly complimented by booze and/or weed. All tied together it enhances the act of wandering aimlessly, which I have been doing since late April.
Long trips beat short holidays so much that the two shouldn’t ever be compared. But fuck it, I’m going to compare them. I am as fortunate as I am ill fated to never amount to a hill of beans in the traditional sense of entering into a career that would consume my life without thought for my mental wellbeing , my hopes or my desires. I am lucky in many ways. I have a job with my parents business, which to many seems a joke or a cop out, but those people miss the point. I will never make a penny for anyone on this planet so long as my parents strive to build their business, that has always been the case, and only those in family ran businesses really understand that. Family first before anything, especially considering how hard my parents work. Thanks to that job and ethos I can afford the luxury of taking long trips rather than short holidays. I hate short holidays. You see nothing, you learn nothing and you leave them behind you with pictures on your facebook page, a shady magnet on your fridge and not much else.
My mother may not like to hear this from her son, but I am a bum and, hopefully, I always will be. But there are consequences, even for bums. But they pale into insignificance at the mere thought of them while you are looking at the beauty of the world outside your bubble. This trip has already drained my savings (I have but a fist full of Dollars left), and when I decide that I can’t possibly go any further on this trip and return home, I know there will be hell waiting for me. But as always, it is what it is. Res Ipsa Loquitor, as the Good Doctor would say, Let The Good Times Roll.
On my last day in Whistler Paul, David, myself and David’s partner Trudy went for breakfast. It was a glorious feast of bacon, eggs, hash browns and pancakes, I had to eat fast because I was on a tight schedule, before moving on I had a trip up a mountain in a Hanging Basket of Death to accomplish. I believe they refer to it as the Whistler Gondola. But don’t be fooled, it is a box hanging by a wire getting dragged up a mountain. But what a mountain it is. I stopped at the top long enough to take a piss and a picture before bundling back into one of these death traps and heading back down.
I met David and Trudy back at the breakfast place and we mounted up and shipped out. We were headed back to Vancouver. As we hit the outer edge of Whistler I was happy to see an old friend had come out to see me off, my pal The Bear. There he was, like when I met him on the first day, chilling deep. This time on the hill at the side of the road. I can’t be sure but I think he smirked as if to say “where’s your basket you pansy?” But maybe I was just being overly paranoid about my reputation among the bears.
Before long, after a stop at my new favourite doughnut supplier Tim Horton’s, we had arrived back in Vancouver, at the home of Trudy. After picking up some tools from the garage so David could work on his new sail boat, we hitched said big bastarding boat to the truck, said goodbye to Trudy and hit the road, via another Tim Horton’s and their fabulous honey crulers.
The road to Kelowna was as beautiful as the road to Whistler, we chatted the whole way about everything and anything. Mainly, I suppose, women and music. Both of us keeping one eye on the boat via the wing mirror just to make sure it was still there. It was, and eventually, when we got to Kelowna we got it parked in the drive way, no thanks to a badly parked Volvo. I hate Volvos and their drivers. But it is wise no to open your mouth too much, this town is run by Hells Angels. I gathered my belongings, walked up what I thought were the steps into David’s house and in through what I thought was David’s front door. Neither were the case, I had walked straight into some ladies living room at 2 in the morning, where she was lying on the couch watching TV. I backed out, mumbling apologetically, missed the first step and made close friends with the last three. A fine start to my stay in Kelowna.
I regained my composure and walked into David’s house where he showed me around and pointed me in the direction of my bed. And what a bed it is. A sofa bed, but a comfy example of one. I have only been in two beds since arriving on the continent over one month ago, and I paid over the odds for both of them. But at the time I was coming off the back of a 35 hour train journey and decided to treat myself.
Canada continues to deliver on a grand scale. Kelowna is devastatingly beautiful. In a much different way to Whistler. It is hot as hell, and the ratio of women to men is stacked highly in the way I would have hoped. I found out on my first day that hockey, moose, mounties and Garth Richardson are not the only famous Canadian staples, Kelowna is Canadian Wine Country. I’m here to tell you Canadian Wine exists and it is fucking fantastic. My cousin Samantha took me to a winery, where the guy at the tasting bar gave us more than we paid for, or should have consumed in the blazing afternoon heat. It tastes as good as it feels.
Drunk in the sun is a better drunk that I’m used to, coming from that depressing, perpetually cold little Island we call home. Everything is better in the sun. I realised at some point in the last month that I find it hard to be my usual angry self. Something that comes so naturally to me back home is noticeable by it’s absence since arriving in California back in April. I am putting it down to the sun and lack of any real worries other than falling in love with every single pretty girl I see and not going broke too soon. The sun adds a layer to your reality, and that layer is perfectly complimented by booze and/or weed. All tied together it enhances the act of wandering aimlessly, which I have been doing since late April.
Long trips beat short holidays so much that the two shouldn’t ever be compared. But fuck it, I’m going to compare them. I am as fortunate as I am ill fated to never amount to a hill of beans in the traditional sense of entering into a career that would consume my life without thought for my mental wellbeing , my hopes or my desires. I am lucky in many ways. I have a job with my parents business, which to many seems a joke or a cop out, but those people miss the point. I will never make a penny for anyone on this planet so long as my parents strive to build their business, that has always been the case, and only those in family ran businesses really understand that. Family first before anything, especially considering how hard my parents work. Thanks to that job and ethos I can afford the luxury of taking long trips rather than short holidays. I hate short holidays. You see nothing, you learn nothing and you leave them behind you with pictures on your facebook page, a shady magnet on your fridge and not much else.
My mother may not like to hear this from her son, but I am a bum and, hopefully, I always will be. But there are consequences, even for bums. But they pale into insignificance at the mere thought of them while you are looking at the beauty of the world outside your bubble. This trip has already drained my savings (I have but a fist full of Dollars left), and when I decide that I can’t possibly go any further on this trip and return home, I know there will be hell waiting for me. But as always, it is what it is. Res Ipsa Loquitor, as the Good Doctor would say, Let The Good Times Roll.
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