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.
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