The Calgary Stampede, from what I have gathered is an annual meeting of legitimate Cowboys and Cowgirls and tourists in Cowboy hats. The money made from the sales of cowboy hats in the last week alone could have saved the Global Economic Meltdown. Which, I should add, some Canadians haven’t even heard of. This is thanks to the many oil reserves, gold and diamond mines and cowboy hat factories that are only just coming to fruition. I got talking to a guy in a bar who works in a goldmine and he told me they had just found a new vein which would keep that particular mine busy for another decade. They are pulling money out of the ground here. His exact words when I told him about the recession were “I’ve not heard about that, eh.”
The Stampede started a few days ago, it is celebrating it’s centenary and to help this celebration, the City of Calgary decided that they would put on the absolute bare minimum of taxies in some hilarious Fuck You to the blue jean wearing, bad ass swaggering, daft hat aficionados. Apparently 190,000 people descended on the opening night. Me and Martin helped towards that number, we arranged to meet our Canadian Buddy Dave there. We all made an attempt to fit in by wearing cowboy hats and checked shirts.
Not knowing exactly what is was, and not really bothering to find out, we arrived late (too late to see any rodeo) and paid full price. We walked in, met Dave and went looking for a bar. Now. This place is massive, it has many, many food outlets, lots of stalls to buy cowboy hats and clothing (for the unprepared Stampeder) there is a gigantic fun fair and there is TWO bars. Two bars for 190,000 people. They had not thought this through. The queue to get in to the first bar was comprised of a few hundred people, and that is just to get in. I can only imagine how long you would have to wait once inside before you actually got near the bar. The second place was just as bad. There was no hope. I watched drunken Canadians with envy as they were carried out by their friends. I saw one holding on to a telephone pole for dear life. I stood there, the effects of my early drinking now fully worn off, and I watched as he spun round apparently completely unaware that he was even moving. And even although I knew that, if he made it home, he would spend the night throwing up, crying and cursing his luck, I was oddly jealous.
We left the arena just as the fireworks were kicking off to mark the end of the night. We jostled through hordes of drunken caricature cowboys all looking up at the bright lights in the sky. Don’t get me wrong, fireworks are cool, but not in anyway worthy of applause. Certainly not for every one that goes off. On our way to the arena we had spotted a casino, we rushed to find it.
Upon entering the aptly named Cowboys Casino, we were greeted by an attractive lady with comically large breasts standing guard of a big bucket of ice cold beer. Tits and booze. Big tits and ice cold booze. “what d’you want fellas?” A combination of not wanting to be sleazy or obvious mixed with a severe thirst, we asked for three cans of beer and tried not to stare at her incredible rack. While Martin and Dave got good Canadian beer, I got landed with a Bud for some reason. I drank it because I needed a drink, but I wasn’t happy about it. Life is too short for American beer. To me American beer is like sex on a boat, they’re both fucking close to water. A country which produces the likes of Bud, Miller or Nat Ice should not have such a high opinion of themselves. I made sure my next beer was at least Canadian.
I tried to get a seat at a card table, no such luck. Every seat was taken up by a good old boy, all whooping and hollering with the turn of every card. I was resigned to the slots. After wasting money to watch reels spin and never match, I went back to the bar. We got as drunk as we could, then decided to go to an actual bar. Sadly the one we walked into was decrepit. It didn’t stop us drinking there for a while, but really it was only because we, like almost everyone else in Calgary, couldn’t get a taxi. We eventually managed to get a ride to a good bar, at least I was told it was, and I have been hearing that since I got to Calgary. It is a favourite of Martin and Dave’s called Voodoo. We walked in, they went for a piss and I approached the bar. I ordered three drinks, the barmaid told me I couldn’t get three by myself after 1 in the morning, so I told her I’d just wait for them to get back from the pisser. She asked where I was from, I said Scotland and she gave me a free shot of Jager. So far my favourite reaction to that answer.
Martin and Dave returned from the toilet, it seems she knew them by name, and they hadn’t been exaggerating their fondness for, or frequent visits to Voodoo. By all accounts it seems like a cool place, the only problem that night was that it seemed to be the only place in Calgary that had no girls in it, save for the barmaids. It was full of drunk Canadian Buddies. They seem to lack control, I have yet to got to a bar yet and not see a big old pile of vomit somewhere. One of my first nights in Calgary I got some on my hand as some bastard threw up all over the stairs and hand rail, the swine. Black vomit on my fingertips, and it reeked so terribly. The barmaid came up to our table at one point and asked if it was one of us. We had about 3 pints each in that place, regardless how drunk we were going in, we weren’t at the throwing up in the bar stage yet. As she was asking us a drunk suit walked back from the toilets with his shirt half untucked, black lips and a hell of an issue with straight lines. I pointed over her shoulder and told her it was maybe him. Since that night I have seen vomit in every bar, or street in front of a bar.
Myself Martin and Dave got wrecked in Voodoo, but nowhere near as wrecked as the bar staff. At closing time we stood outside and hailed every taxi that drove by. Eventually we got one. We stopped at a gas station for cigs and then we headed home where we drank until it was sunny outside and then tried to sleep.
Maybe at some point before it ends we will head back to stampede and see some of the actual stampede and not just walk about the fun fair, sober, wondering where all the gypsies are. All the people in charge of the games and the rides all have name badges and uniforms on. It is most bizarre and not like any fair I have ever been to. Like an episode of the Twilight Zone or something. It looked like a fair, smelled like a fair, there were waltzers and candy floss. But no gypsies, no violence, no guys in leather jackets and trackie bottoms selling hamburgers. Unsettling.
Monday 16 July 2012
The Calgary Stampede.
The Calgary Stampede, from what I have gathered is an annual meeting of legitimate Cowboys and Cowgirls and tourists in Cowboy hats. The money made from the sales of cowboy hats in the last week alone could have saved the Global Economic Meltdown. Which, I should add, some Canadians haven’t even heard of. This is thanks to the many oil reserves, gold and diamond mines and cowboy hat factories that are only just coming to fruition. I got talking to a guy in a bar who works in a goldmine and he told me they had just found a new vein which would keep that particular mine busy for another decade. They are pulling money out of the ground here. His exact words when I told him about the recession were “I’ve not heard about that, eh.”
The Stampede started a few days ago, it is celebrating it’s centenary and to help this celebration, the City of Calgary decided that they would put on the absolute bare minimum of taxies in some hilarious Fuck You to the blue jean wearing, bad ass swaggering, daft hat aficionados. Apparently 190,000 people descended on the opening night. Me and Martin helped towards that number, we arranged to meet our Canadian Buddy Dave there. We all made an attempt to fit in by wearing cowboy hats and checked shirts.
Not knowing exactly what is was, and not really bothering to find out, we arrived late (too late to see any rodeo) and paid full price. We walked in, met Dave and went looking for a bar. Now. This place is massive, it has many, many food outlets, lots of stalls to buy cowboy hats and clothing (for the unprepared Stampeder) there is a gigantic fun fair and there is TWO bars. Two bars for 190,000 people. They had not thought this through. The queue to get in to the first bar was comprised of a few hundred people, and that is just to get in. I can only imagine how long you would have to wait once inside before you actually got near the bar. The second place was just as bad. There was no hope. I watched drunken Canadians with envy as they were carried out by their friends. I saw one holding on to a telephone pole for dear life. I stood there, the effects of my early drinking now fully worn off, and I watched as he spun round apparently completely unaware that he was even moving. And even although I knew that, if he made it home, he would spend the night throwing up, crying and cursing his luck, I was oddly jealous.
We left the arena just as the fireworks were kicking off to mark the end of the night. We jostled through hordes of drunken caricature cowboys all looking up at the bright lights in the sky. Don’t get me wrong, fireworks are cool, but not in anyway worthy of applause. Certainly not for every one that goes off. On our way to the arena we had spotted a casino, we rushed to find it.
Upon entering the aptly named Cowboys Casino, we were greeted by an attractive lady with comically large breasts standing guard of a big bucket of ice cold beer. Tits and booze. Big tits and ice cold booze. “what d’you want fellas?” A combination of not wanting to be sleazy or obvious mixed with a severe thirst, we asked for three cans of beer and tried not to stare at her incredible rack. While Martin and Dave got good Canadian beer, I got landed with a Bud for some reason. I drank it because I needed a drink, but I wasn’t happy about it. Life is too short for American beer. To me American beer is like sex on a boat, they’re both fucking close to water. A country which produces the likes of Bud, Miller or Nat Ice should not have such a high opinion of themselves. I made sure my next beer was at least Canadian.
I tried to get a seat at a card table, no such luck. Every seat was taken up by a good old boy, all whooping and hollering with the turn of every card. I was resigned to the slots. After wasting money to watch reels spin and never match, I went back to the bar. We got as drunk as we could, then decided to go to an actual bar. Sadly the one we walked into was decrepit. It didn’t stop us drinking there for a while, but really it was only because we, like almost everyone else in Calgary, couldn’t get a taxi. We eventually managed to get a ride to a good bar, at least I was told it was, and I have been hearing that since I got to Calgary. It is a favourite of Martin and Dave’s called Voodoo. We walked in, they went for a piss and I approached the bar. I ordered three drinks, the barmaid told me I couldn’t get three by myself after 1 in the morning, so I told her I’d just wait for them to get back from the pisser. She asked where I was from, I said Scotland and she gave me a free shot of Jager. So far my favourite reaction to that answer.
Martin and Dave returned from the toilet, it seems she knew them by name, and they hadn’t been exaggerating their fondness for, or frequent visits to Voodoo. By all accounts it seems like a cool place, the only problem that night was that it seemed to be the only place in Calgary that had no girls in it, save for the barmaids. It was full of drunk Canadian Buddies. They seem to lack control, I have yet to got to a bar yet and not see a big old pile of vomit somewhere. One of my first nights in Calgary I got some on my hand as some bastard threw up all over the stairs and hand rail, the swine. Black vomit on my fingertips, and it reeked so terribly. The barmaid came up to our table at one point and asked if it was one of us. We had about 3 pints each in that place, regardless how drunk we were going in, we weren’t at the throwing up in the bar stage yet. As she was asking us a drunk suit walked back from the toilets with his shirt half untucked, black lips and a hell of an issue with straight lines. I pointed over her shoulder and told her it was maybe him. Since that night I have seen vomit in every bar, or street in front of a bar.
Myself Martin and Dave got wrecked in Voodoo, but nowhere near as wrecked as the bar staff. At closing time we stood outside and hailed every taxi that drove by. Eventually we got one. We stopped at a gas station for cigs and then we headed home where we drank until it was sunny outside and then tried to sleep.
Maybe at some point before it ends we will head back to stampede and see some of the actual stampede and not just walk about the fun fair, sober, wondering where all the gypsies are. All the people in charge of the games and the rides all have name badges and uniforms on. It is most bizarre and not like any fair I have ever been to. Like an episode of the Twilight Zone or something. It looked like a fair, smelled like a fair, there were waltzers and candy floss. But no gypsies, no violence, no guys in leather jackets and trackie bottoms selling hamburgers. Unsettling.
The Stampede started a few days ago, it is celebrating it’s centenary and to help this celebration, the City of Calgary decided that they would put on the absolute bare minimum of taxies in some hilarious Fuck You to the blue jean wearing, bad ass swaggering, daft hat aficionados. Apparently 190,000 people descended on the opening night. Me and Martin helped towards that number, we arranged to meet our Canadian Buddy Dave there. We all made an attempt to fit in by wearing cowboy hats and checked shirts.
Not knowing exactly what is was, and not really bothering to find out, we arrived late (too late to see any rodeo) and paid full price. We walked in, met Dave and went looking for a bar. Now. This place is massive, it has many, many food outlets, lots of stalls to buy cowboy hats and clothing (for the unprepared Stampeder) there is a gigantic fun fair and there is TWO bars. Two bars for 190,000 people. They had not thought this through. The queue to get in to the first bar was comprised of a few hundred people, and that is just to get in. I can only imagine how long you would have to wait once inside before you actually got near the bar. The second place was just as bad. There was no hope. I watched drunken Canadians with envy as they were carried out by their friends. I saw one holding on to a telephone pole for dear life. I stood there, the effects of my early drinking now fully worn off, and I watched as he spun round apparently completely unaware that he was even moving. And even although I knew that, if he made it home, he would spend the night throwing up, crying and cursing his luck, I was oddly jealous.
We left the arena just as the fireworks were kicking off to mark the end of the night. We jostled through hordes of drunken caricature cowboys all looking up at the bright lights in the sky. Don’t get me wrong, fireworks are cool, but not in anyway worthy of applause. Certainly not for every one that goes off. On our way to the arena we had spotted a casino, we rushed to find it.
Upon entering the aptly named Cowboys Casino, we were greeted by an attractive lady with comically large breasts standing guard of a big bucket of ice cold beer. Tits and booze. Big tits and ice cold booze. “what d’you want fellas?” A combination of not wanting to be sleazy or obvious mixed with a severe thirst, we asked for three cans of beer and tried not to stare at her incredible rack. While Martin and Dave got good Canadian beer, I got landed with a Bud for some reason. I drank it because I needed a drink, but I wasn’t happy about it. Life is too short for American beer. To me American beer is like sex on a boat, they’re both fucking close to water. A country which produces the likes of Bud, Miller or Nat Ice should not have such a high opinion of themselves. I made sure my next beer was at least Canadian.
I tried to get a seat at a card table, no such luck. Every seat was taken up by a good old boy, all whooping and hollering with the turn of every card. I was resigned to the slots. After wasting money to watch reels spin and never match, I went back to the bar. We got as drunk as we could, then decided to go to an actual bar. Sadly the one we walked into was decrepit. It didn’t stop us drinking there for a while, but really it was only because we, like almost everyone else in Calgary, couldn’t get a taxi. We eventually managed to get a ride to a good bar, at least I was told it was, and I have been hearing that since I got to Calgary. It is a favourite of Martin and Dave’s called Voodoo. We walked in, they went for a piss and I approached the bar. I ordered three drinks, the barmaid told me I couldn’t get three by myself after 1 in the morning, so I told her I’d just wait for them to get back from the pisser. She asked where I was from, I said Scotland and she gave me a free shot of Jager. So far my favourite reaction to that answer.
Martin and Dave returned from the toilet, it seems she knew them by name, and they hadn’t been exaggerating their fondness for, or frequent visits to Voodoo. By all accounts it seems like a cool place, the only problem that night was that it seemed to be the only place in Calgary that had no girls in it, save for the barmaids. It was full of drunk Canadian Buddies. They seem to lack control, I have yet to got to a bar yet and not see a big old pile of vomit somewhere. One of my first nights in Calgary I got some on my hand as some bastard threw up all over the stairs and hand rail, the swine. Black vomit on my fingertips, and it reeked so terribly. The barmaid came up to our table at one point and asked if it was one of us. We had about 3 pints each in that place, regardless how drunk we were going in, we weren’t at the throwing up in the bar stage yet. As she was asking us a drunk suit walked back from the toilets with his shirt half untucked, black lips and a hell of an issue with straight lines. I pointed over her shoulder and told her it was maybe him. Since that night I have seen vomit in every bar, or street in front of a bar.
Myself Martin and Dave got wrecked in Voodoo, but nowhere near as wrecked as the bar staff. At closing time we stood outside and hailed every taxi that drove by. Eventually we got one. We stopped at a gas station for cigs and then we headed home where we drank until it was sunny outside and then tried to sleep.
Maybe at some point before it ends we will head back to stampede and see some of the actual stampede and not just walk about the fun fair, sober, wondering where all the gypsies are. All the people in charge of the games and the rides all have name badges and uniforms on. It is most bizarre and not like any fair I have ever been to. Like an episode of the Twilight Zone or something. It looked like a fair, smelled like a fair, there were waltzers and candy floss. But no gypsies, no violence, no guys in leather jackets and trackie bottoms selling hamburgers. Unsettling.
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