Tuesday, 25 June 2013
New Home.
Hey there cheeky face, I have moved to drhenryhunter.com for now. Decided on a change of scenery. So if you find yourself here and wanting more you know where to find me.
Wednesday, 15 May 2013
New Look.
I have finally got round to changing the look of the blog. It isn't a massive change, but a change nonetheless. In the interest of getting to know you all better I have also added my email and skype to the bar at the right. Use it wisely if you wish.
Tuesday, 14 May 2013
How I Spend My Days Part 1.
I can't speak for all writers; I can't speak for all people, let alone the important ones, the writers. Artists of any kind are the only people I care to know about and they are not the people you get to hear about on a daily basis. The news isn't filled with stories about how between a wank and a sandwich the writer wrote his best sentence yet. There is no thought given to these unique moments because we are led to believe that people dying in war is newsworthy. I guess it is, but I find it hard to care. Someone being killed in a fight of some sort is nowhere near as surprising as the creation of something from the unique mind of a free thinking human not limited by nonsensical constraints. This is clear by the never ending fiction being fucked into your brain by the intrusive and metaphorical cock of the mainstream media.
But all this is unimportant. All this is just the beliefs of someone with no real care about the spreading of democracy; no real care for the paradoxical holy war that is being fought with our money, no real care for the status of oil rich countries I'll never visit for the various reasons my Government has imposed on us. But all this is unimportant.
So I spend my days writing; figuring out how to put it down best, hating the entire world until it makes some kind of sense and then all is right with the world, at least in my immediate surroundings. I wake up late & I drink coffee and smoke cigarettes; I eat, I masturbate, ignore my financial woes in favour of writing about whatever comes up, I shower, moisturise and go out into a world I often hate just to end up back in front of my computer because only then does my day start to make sense. You can be anything you want to be, take on anything you want to, but you have no control over it really. If I had control over it I would probably not have chosen to be a writer, I would have chosen to be a multimillionaire playboy with little or no brain function, I would while away my time between the legs of the type of girl who only sleeps with rich playboys with loads of stuff and things that impress that type of creature. I would be oblivious to everything that pains me, but also everything that pleases me. That would be the price to pay. I wouldn't know the buzz of being published on some website or in some paper, but I also wouldn't know the anguish of the story to begin with.
All this is unimportant. What you do for a living is unimportant, what you do for enjoyment is all that matters. My vague political beliefs dictate that I can never have a job working for a big, faceless corporation. It isn't even political in nature; my reasoning, because politics is nonsense that too many people think is important, but it is just nonsense created to make us feel like we are involved. But my reasons are just, I think big corporations should die and I would never be part of it. Good luck to you if that is how you make your money, but it isn't for me. Integrity is a poor man's affliction after all.
I rarely consider posting these things. This kind of rambling isn't fit for publication, but recently I have learned to care less about that. If you have something to say then you should say it. I'm working towards gaining some kind of self belief so that I won't take things too personally now that I am pitching my biggest project to date. The last thing any publishers need is me walking into their office with a bat and breaking someone's legs because they rejected my book. I don't take criticism well from strangers & I don't think I should be expected to. What I need is to be able to ignore it, but sometimes that is an impossibility. Sometimes all that we have at our disposal is the threat of very real, very violent repercussions. I learned that from the manager of a band called The Subways who I met on tour with Sucio some years ago. He told me that after a scathing review from the wanky music press he went and threatened to kick the writer's teeth in. Some may see that as an over-reaction, others may see it as completely justified. Indeed, after a series of death threats I received from an American soldier I emailed him and told him to follow me on twitter so he knew when I would be in the States, then we could have a fight. I am no hardman, I have been battered more times than I would care to remember, but if someone threatens you there is only one response; attack, jump in teeth first. More often than not the threat will be enough to put your adversary off. But keep in mind that sometimes you will catch a really bad beating.
But you have to learn how to take a beating. How much can you possibly know about yourself if you've never taken a beating?
But all this is unimportant. All this is just the beliefs of someone with no real care about the spreading of democracy; no real care for the paradoxical holy war that is being fought with our money, no real care for the status of oil rich countries I'll never visit for the various reasons my Government has imposed on us. But all this is unimportant.
So I spend my days writing; figuring out how to put it down best, hating the entire world until it makes some kind of sense and then all is right with the world, at least in my immediate surroundings. I wake up late & I drink coffee and smoke cigarettes; I eat, I masturbate, ignore my financial woes in favour of writing about whatever comes up, I shower, moisturise and go out into a world I often hate just to end up back in front of my computer because only then does my day start to make sense. You can be anything you want to be, take on anything you want to, but you have no control over it really. If I had control over it I would probably not have chosen to be a writer, I would have chosen to be a multimillionaire playboy with little or no brain function, I would while away my time between the legs of the type of girl who only sleeps with rich playboys with loads of stuff and things that impress that type of creature. I would be oblivious to everything that pains me, but also everything that pleases me. That would be the price to pay. I wouldn't know the buzz of being published on some website or in some paper, but I also wouldn't know the anguish of the story to begin with.
All this is unimportant. What you do for a living is unimportant, what you do for enjoyment is all that matters. My vague political beliefs dictate that I can never have a job working for a big, faceless corporation. It isn't even political in nature; my reasoning, because politics is nonsense that too many people think is important, but it is just nonsense created to make us feel like we are involved. But my reasons are just, I think big corporations should die and I would never be part of it. Good luck to you if that is how you make your money, but it isn't for me. Integrity is a poor man's affliction after all.
I rarely consider posting these things. This kind of rambling isn't fit for publication, but recently I have learned to care less about that. If you have something to say then you should say it. I'm working towards gaining some kind of self belief so that I won't take things too personally now that I am pitching my biggest project to date. The last thing any publishers need is me walking into their office with a bat and breaking someone's legs because they rejected my book. I don't take criticism well from strangers & I don't think I should be expected to. What I need is to be able to ignore it, but sometimes that is an impossibility. Sometimes all that we have at our disposal is the threat of very real, very violent repercussions. I learned that from the manager of a band called The Subways who I met on tour with Sucio some years ago. He told me that after a scathing review from the wanky music press he went and threatened to kick the writer's teeth in. Some may see that as an over-reaction, others may see it as completely justified. Indeed, after a series of death threats I received from an American soldier I emailed him and told him to follow me on twitter so he knew when I would be in the States, then we could have a fight. I am no hardman, I have been battered more times than I would care to remember, but if someone threatens you there is only one response; attack, jump in teeth first. More often than not the threat will be enough to put your adversary off. But keep in mind that sometimes you will catch a really bad beating.
But you have to learn how to take a beating. How much can you possibly know about yourself if you've never taken a beating?
Thursday, 25 April 2013
The Long Straight Road To The Middle of Nowhere
I sat in the passenger seat of the Dodge and the boss lay out in the back finishing his beers and then slept for pretty much the entirety of the long journey. I stayed awake to keep Nathan company as it is the gentlemanly thing to do; we got to know each other, we shot the shit and traded war stories. I have no idea how long it took, but eventually we were driving on the depressingly straight roads of Saskatchewan. They say your dog could run away here and you would see it running away for 3 days. I don't doubt it because it is that flat. But it is impressive in it’s flatness, it’s true, you can see for-fucking-ever which is not conducive to a quick journey as you are just straight lining it with no change in scenery, no nothing, just fields and this fucking road. The kind of road that leaves you cursing The Romans.
Eventually we stopped for a piss break. We pulled up next to a road that shot off west for as far as the eye could see. We pissed, I forgot what country I was in and pissed at the wrong end of the truck allowing passing cars and trucks to get a glimpse of my urinating penis. Lucky them. We got back in the truck and continued along the most boring road on the face of the fucking planet, I dosed off. I felt bad when I felt myself going because it was right in the middle of Nathan talking to me; I saw him notice in my eyes that I was about to drop off. There was nothing either of us could do about it. When I woke up I had a mild panic for a few seconds when I noticed we were sitting parked beside what looked like the same road that shot off west as far as the eye could see that we pulled up to when we last stopped for a piss. I immediately thought it was some sort of Groundhog Day situation. Because that seemed like the logical thing to think. This road had looked the same for 500 miles already, it took me a few minutes to wake up properly and remember that. That part of the world is so flat and devoid of any kind of natural landmarks that it all looks the same, so even although it looked very much as if we were still stopped at the piss break, it turned out that we had driven some more and this identical turn off was the last mentioned available gas station on the sat nav. We decided not to question this machine lest we end up stranded in the middle of nowhere. I always hated that saying “the middle of nowhere” because I always found it quite disrespectful to the people who call it home. But it wasn’t until I was on this road that I fully appreciated the phrase. That really felt like the middle of nowhere. In certain parts the only real proof that humans had been there before was that there was a road, the road we were on. For miles and miles that was all there was. It was truly slap bang in the middle of nowhere.
So we decided to take this right and go looking for the town of Delilah, the sat nav claimed that this town had a gas station. We drove along the dirt road for a while.
Then we found it.
The town of Delilah was more of a street than a town. And that street was more of a sandpit than anything. It was odd. Although there were houses dotted around away from the “main street”, there were a lot of churches, much more than really needed given the population. Or what I presumed the population was. It looked like a slightly more modern western town. Wooden buildings, and one of them was actually a General Store. I volunteered to go in and ask about the gas station because I was curious and wanted a walk after so long in the truck. I wandered in and found what appeared to be a town meeting going on. I put on my best voice and asked about the gas station. A big man in dungarees looked me up and down paying close attention to my skinny black jeans, Hunter S Thompson tee, hair that no one should leave the house with and eyes like piss holes in the snow. He grunted something about how to get to the gas station and something about a card I had to get from the café beforehand in order to start the machine. I thanked them, wished them a good day and backed out, staring at them like I genuinely feared death by their hands. If their noses were tuned enough to get over the stench of old beer and cigarettes eminating from my unwashed self, they would have caught a whiff of fear.
I closed the door behind me, filled the guys in on the situation and I wandered over to the café. I opened the flimsy door of the cafe and walked in. I nearly ended up on the floor because I didn’t notice the slight step at the entrance; I regained my composure and made my way to the counter, passing odd looking locals eating eggs and bacon while giving me the stink eye. I got to the counter and there was no one manning it. I used the “I need service” cough. It worked. From the kitchen appeared a small Vietnamese woman, which was the very last thing I expected to see in a town I was already convinced to be a one family town. I had them all pegged as Johnsons. I told the little lady what I needed, but she had already made moves for the card, sensing, I guess, that I wouldn’t have been in for anything else, unless JimBob in the general store had radioed ahead. I thanked her and she just stared at me and loudly shouted “you bring back!” Again, I backed out, careful not to trip up on the step. I got back in the truck and pointed Nathan in the direction of the gas station.
As it happens Delilah didn’t have a gas station. What they had was one pump. To use this pump first one must figure out how the card machine works. Eventually we got the gas flowing and once we were topped up we still weren’t sure if we had paid for it. While Nathan tried to figure that out I took a piss behind the pump, what came out of my bladder looked and smelled a lot like pure lager. It had a head and everything. Although it had only been a matter of hours since my last drink I was glad to be taking a short break from it, it had it’s claws in me and this long drive was the only thing stopping me getting boozed up again. We decided to give up caring if we had paid for the gas or not, because it didn’t really matter. We would never be back to this place if, of course, we actually get to leave. By this point I was worrying that the locals knew we would be returning the card, so they knew where we would be. What if they kept us hostage? What if the rumours you hear on the road in Canada about small towns inviting outsiders in to impregnate their daughters in exchange for meats and other produce? Could I live as some sex slave in a place like this? Probably. Still, I worried about someone wearing my skin as a suit. I moved quickly and kept my head on a swivel. I stormed the café, gave the card back and loudly told the Vietnamese woman to “have a nice day”. She simply stared at me for a moment before saying “yes.” That was that. I bailed, we floored it and got out of that place as soon as we possibly could. I kept an eye on the rear view in case I saw an old pick up filled with angry, bored, bloodthirsty rednecks who were jealous of my hair and good looks. We got lucky this time. We built up enough distance between us and the town that I could stop worrying.
After a few more hours on this fucking road, I swear it never even curved. It felt like a straight line from Calgary to our destination town, Outlook. You wont have heard of Outlook unless you have had the misfortune of having to go there, or know someone who has been. It would have been the strangest place I’d been in a while had I not just visited Delilah. Nathan drove into the town of Outlook, the sign for which was the name of the town curved over a rainbow. Yet it didn’t seem like a very liberal town, I can imagine they are not aware what the rainbow represents to almost everyone else on the planet. We drove by various small hotels, some looked pretty nice. With each one we passed the Boss would make sure we knew the one we were staying in wasn’t even as nice as these decent but most basic looking places. It didn’t bode well.
We parked up outside the Outlook Motor Inn. I got a shiver when I stood in front of it. The general vibe, the Orwellian grey sheet metal facing, the creepy sign, the Shining-esque appearance of the Motel made me feel on edge. The inside was only a little less terrifying. We were greeted in the bar by a little Chinese man called Sun. He ran this place with his brother, who was a cunt. And his wife, a gorgeous Russian who he “met online”. We got into our rooms and chilled a while. We wouldn’t be starting work until the next day, so we relaxed on the Saturday evening. Me and the boss managed to get into the job site that evening, a primary school, and we got a look at the mess we had to fix because the big bosses trusted an Irishman to run a job site. If we know anything about the Irish it is that they make OK labourers, just don’t expect them to be able to actually run a site responsibly, and prepare to hear constantly how they built the world. We took note of what needed done the next day, the boss showed me the part of the school that he claimed was haunted and when he made a joke about it in front of the school caretaker, she simply smirked and said “I know nothing about that.” I was now really on edge.
We walked back to the Motel, went to the bar and sat down to wings and beers. The wings in Outlook were probably the best I had in Canada. They mix the buffalo sauce and the ranch dressing and cover the chicken with that mix. Spectacular.
After that there was little to do so we retired to our rooms and made a plan to maybe meet back in the bar later for more booze, nothing solid was decided since this was the first bed I had in a while, and the first tv in even longer so I wasn’t that bothered about socialising I just lay in bed watching TV for most of the evening. Eventually, in the middle of Die Hard with a Vengeance I heard the music from the bar creep through the floor and into my room. It sounded like a party so I threw on my clothes and went down to see what could pass as a Saturday night in a town called Outlook. I walked down the stairs and the music got louder, it sounded like a hell of a party, I opened the door of the bar and walked in. In total there were 5/6 people, including the Russian woman behind the bar and Nathan who was sitting on his own drinking a beer. I ordered a Kokanee and joined him. The group of 3 or 4 locals were drinking and playing pool and listening to really shitty music full blast, they seemed to enjoy it and when one song in particular came on they all lost it. They rushed over to the “dance floor”, fired up a disco ball and started dancing. I watched this tragedy for as long as I could handle before I drained what was left of my beer, said night to Nathan and went back to bed via outside for a smoke. Saturday night in Outlook was a let down, but I kind of expected it to be. Luckily the TV was good that night, and I had internet/porn access.
I awoke early on Sunday and got myself ready for work, I met the guys down stairs and we got in the truck and headed to the job. I spent the day crawling about under the school dealing with the various hilarious mistakes made by the Irish contractors. I am not cut out for such arduous work though, my bony hips were bruised for weeks following my crawling about. Once the work beneath the school was done I had some painting to do while Nathan and the boss took care of fitting drain pipes to the guttering. We worked for most of the day, breaking for lunch and the odd shot of basketball and hockey in the games hall. Once the work was done, and the night began to fall we cleaned up and escaped the school before the ghosts woke up and started fucking with us. The boss said the last time he was at the school, just as he locked up and was leaving with a worker they heard a sickening scream and bang on the window behind them. They ran back to the Motel. Luckily for us there was no scream or bang, but I can say that once or twice I got the feeling someone was behind me. That feeling that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end and made me run back towards the boss and Nathan. I was happy to see the back of the school. We decided to blow town and not spend another night in the Outlook Motor Inn. I had seen what I needed to of the place to be happy enough to leave. I had been on their landmark “longest bridge in Canada” a truly terrifying piece of shoddy workmanship. My arms looked like brail thanks to the mosquitoes which are among the biggest I have ever seen. Like flying cats. We hit the road and didn’t look back. It was a long drive, but we were lucky enough to see the most beautiful sunset on this long straight road back to civilisation in the shape of Calgary. The kind of sunset that even I, being colourblind, could appreciate. The world around me looked like a Monet. Truly beautiful. Sadly the sunset is forever tainted because the only radio station we could pick up was playing Justin Bieber’s new album in it’s entirety. With that heinous shit filling my ears while the sun set I found myself wishing the sun would just explode and take us all with it for allowing such a celebration of mediocrity to take place. Total devastation of the earth in a violent apocalypse is the only thing that can stop Bieber et al now. We deserve everything we get. But fear not the apocalypse, if and when it happens these cretins will be wiped out also, unless the conspiracies are true and they are all moving to The Ozarks or back to their home planet with the other reptilians. I doubt there is any truth in those, because although the world is interesting, it's not that interesting. Bieber, Cowell, Cameron, Romney, Obama, Thatcher, Bill O'Reilly, the guy at your work who picks on you, your exes and your enemies, they will all perish. So fear not the apocalypse. You won't miss a thing.
We shot through the flat, post apocalyptic-esque badlands of Saskatoon. I was happy when we got to Calgary and saw the green hills that looked lots like one of my favourite places to get high, the Carrick Hills in my home town of Ayr. It felt like home. In many ways Calgary started to feel more like home than home did. Most places on this trip felt like that. It is too easy to get comfortable in your home town, which breeds the type of complacency I am often guilty of. This trip was blowing the cobwebs out, spring cleaning for the soul. On the road home to Calgary I stopped for a piss and was rudely interrupted by a cop who tapped me on the shoulder. I turned round, still pissing and he said “just what the hell do you think you're doing son?” His laid back attitude said he frequently has to stop people pissing on this sign which read: “welcome to (whatever the town was called) The Home of Nickelback.”
Monday, 18 March 2013
Comfortably Drunk with Tiffany Stevenson.
“Women just aren’t as funny as men.” You may have heard such a line before if you have ever spent any time in the company of imbeciles. It isn’t true, obviously. It has never been true. Sure, there are a multitude of terrible female comics, but there are an equal number of terrible male comics. Such is the way of things. For every (unfunny Womans name here) there is a Lee Evans to balance the equilibrium.
In celebration of my appreciation of female stand up comedy I spent my Saturday night (16th March) trawling the venues being used for The Glasgow Comedy Festival with Miss Tiffany Stevenson. I have known Tiffany for a few years now, together with her partner and my comrade Paul, we have written probably the greatest action movie you have never seen. What started as an exercise in trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t afraid of the ever escalating seagull situation in Ayr became a collaboration between the three of us which resulted in a great script that one day we hope to actually release into the world.
My night nearly ended before it began as I genuinely thought I was going to piss myself as I was on the bus to Glasgow. Due to the unbridled laziness of every cunt who works for stagecoach buses you cannot use the toilet on a service you pay £10 for. You simply pay £10 to an angry & bitter old wanker behind the wheel, have him be as rude as possible and take your seat, thankful that Stagecoach exists because it is slightly better than walking 30 odd miles. I got off the bus in Glasgow and waited on a street corner to be picked up by my good friends Gus and Sarah, I was scared to move from the spot lest I simply let go of whatever muscles it is that keeps the piss in the bladder.
Once picked up we drove towards the first venue, Blackfriars in Merchant City. I rolled about in the back seat praying to all the gods that I would make it to a toilet in time, by the time we were getting close the piss felt like it was in my dick. This is not a good point to get to. Specifically if you don’t have the luxury of having a big dick.
I jumped out the car as we got close to Blackfriars and I bolted in, leaving Gus and Sarah to circle the block looking for a space to park. I ran down into the comedy club, shouting my name at the girl in charge of guestlist and ran straight towards the gents where I felt sweet, almost orgasmic relief in front of the urinal.
Near miss averted it was now time to actually begin enjoying my night. Tiffany was in Blackfriars to perform her Uncomfortably Numb show which gained glowing reviews at last years Edinburgh Festival. In the show Tiff tackles and shines a very bright light on all the nonsense force fed to women through the pages of the glossy mags which have long positioned themselves as some kind of bible to live by rather than the falsified & photoshopped tripe that they actually are. In the hour long set she sets her sights on racism, sexism, classism, the alarmingly fast spreading idiocy in the younger generations and, my personal favourite, when she talks about Paul. Accent included.
The show ended to rapturous applause and she exited stage left, Guinness in hand. By the time Gus, Sarah and myself got drinks in the upstairs bar Tiff had finished signing and chatting to fans and it was time to make our way towards the next show on Tiff’s schedule.
Downstairs at The State Bar is home to a comedy club ran by a man called Chris, who sounds Welsh but claims not to be. He was the compere for the evening, he was also the only male voice. Besides Tiffany putting on another 40 minute show, in which she tried out mostly new material, there were another two females plying their trade. First up was an Irish lady called Mary Bourke. I hadn’t heard of her before this, but I was a quick convert. Her style is quite dry, but I was in stitches as she built up momentum and I look forward to seeing her again. In between Mary and Tiff there was a local girl who was funny but her name escapes me. She was quite terrifying actually. A Glesga Girl through and through. Tiff closed out the show with a great set and, save for the 3 hipsters in the front row, everyone seemed to really enjoy their night.
As if we hadn’t had enough comedy there was one more show, the late show at The Stand. Tiff wasn’t playing there until Sunday, so we got the gins in and watched a bit of the very funny Fred MacAulay and a guy called Mark Nelson who proved to me that people from Dumfries can actually be hilarious. When he finished, to a deserved rapturous applause, my night was basically over. No more comedy to be seen except the young couple in front of me who were winching like a couple of 15 year olds, seemingly unaware of all the hundreds of people around them and oblivious to the concept of hotel rooms or back alleys. Suitably drunk we said goodbye to Tiff and headed back to Gus and Sarah’s flat to crash out.
With my horizons now broadened, and some new comics to search for on YouTube I feel I should insist you check out any of the Stand Ups I have mentioned here. But mostly Tiff, I think she is going to tour Uncomfortably Numb this year and you should really see it, be you man or woman. The show is sharp, witty and very truthful.
My only regret of the night is that I missed Katherine Ryan twice, I have a thing for funny and totally cute Canadian girls. Next time, I guess.
My point, if I have one is this;
Penis or Vagina. Funny is funny.
In celebration of my appreciation of female stand up comedy I spent my Saturday night (16th March) trawling the venues being used for The Glasgow Comedy Festival with Miss Tiffany Stevenson. I have known Tiffany for a few years now, together with her partner and my comrade Paul, we have written probably the greatest action movie you have never seen. What started as an exercise in trying to prove to myself that I wasn’t afraid of the ever escalating seagull situation in Ayr became a collaboration between the three of us which resulted in a great script that one day we hope to actually release into the world.
My night nearly ended before it began as I genuinely thought I was going to piss myself as I was on the bus to Glasgow. Due to the unbridled laziness of every cunt who works for stagecoach buses you cannot use the toilet on a service you pay £10 for. You simply pay £10 to an angry & bitter old wanker behind the wheel, have him be as rude as possible and take your seat, thankful that Stagecoach exists because it is slightly better than walking 30 odd miles. I got off the bus in Glasgow and waited on a street corner to be picked up by my good friends Gus and Sarah, I was scared to move from the spot lest I simply let go of whatever muscles it is that keeps the piss in the bladder.
Once picked up we drove towards the first venue, Blackfriars in Merchant City. I rolled about in the back seat praying to all the gods that I would make it to a toilet in time, by the time we were getting close the piss felt like it was in my dick. This is not a good point to get to. Specifically if you don’t have the luxury of having a big dick.
I jumped out the car as we got close to Blackfriars and I bolted in, leaving Gus and Sarah to circle the block looking for a space to park. I ran down into the comedy club, shouting my name at the girl in charge of guestlist and ran straight towards the gents where I felt sweet, almost orgasmic relief in front of the urinal.
Near miss averted it was now time to actually begin enjoying my night. Tiffany was in Blackfriars to perform her Uncomfortably Numb show which gained glowing reviews at last years Edinburgh Festival. In the show Tiff tackles and shines a very bright light on all the nonsense force fed to women through the pages of the glossy mags which have long positioned themselves as some kind of bible to live by rather than the falsified & photoshopped tripe that they actually are. In the hour long set she sets her sights on racism, sexism, classism, the alarmingly fast spreading idiocy in the younger generations and, my personal favourite, when she talks about Paul. Accent included.
The show ended to rapturous applause and she exited stage left, Guinness in hand. By the time Gus, Sarah and myself got drinks in the upstairs bar Tiff had finished signing and chatting to fans and it was time to make our way towards the next show on Tiff’s schedule.
Downstairs at The State Bar is home to a comedy club ran by a man called Chris, who sounds Welsh but claims not to be. He was the compere for the evening, he was also the only male voice. Besides Tiffany putting on another 40 minute show, in which she tried out mostly new material, there were another two females plying their trade. First up was an Irish lady called Mary Bourke. I hadn’t heard of her before this, but I was a quick convert. Her style is quite dry, but I was in stitches as she built up momentum and I look forward to seeing her again. In between Mary and Tiff there was a local girl who was funny but her name escapes me. She was quite terrifying actually. A Glesga Girl through and through. Tiff closed out the show with a great set and, save for the 3 hipsters in the front row, everyone seemed to really enjoy their night.
As if we hadn’t had enough comedy there was one more show, the late show at The Stand. Tiff wasn’t playing there until Sunday, so we got the gins in and watched a bit of the very funny Fred MacAulay and a guy called Mark Nelson who proved to me that people from Dumfries can actually be hilarious. When he finished, to a deserved rapturous applause, my night was basically over. No more comedy to be seen except the young couple in front of me who were winching like a couple of 15 year olds, seemingly unaware of all the hundreds of people around them and oblivious to the concept of hotel rooms or back alleys. Suitably drunk we said goodbye to Tiff and headed back to Gus and Sarah’s flat to crash out.
With my horizons now broadened, and some new comics to search for on YouTube I feel I should insist you check out any of the Stand Ups I have mentioned here. But mostly Tiff, I think she is going to tour Uncomfortably Numb this year and you should really see it, be you man or woman. The show is sharp, witty and very truthful.
My only regret of the night is that I missed Katherine Ryan twice, I have a thing for funny and totally cute Canadian girls. Next time, I guess.
My point, if I have one is this;
Penis or Vagina. Funny is funny.
Friday, 8 February 2013
My Week With George Wyllie.
I have spent this week doing something that I don’t often do, and indeed try to steer well clear of, which is hard graft. I am not scared of hard work, I am simply not built for heavy lifting. Physically or mentally.
However, a job is a job and this week I got to do something amazing.
I was asked by my friend Mike to help him strip the amazing George Wyllie exhibition at The Mitchell Library. I had attended the opening night back in October 2012 when I got disastrously drunk on free wine and ended up getting my photo taken with Alex Salmond, the Scottish First Minister.
The exhibit; In Pursuit Of The Question Mark ran for 3 months, if you managed to see it then well done. If you didn’t, you really missed out. I have never seen anything like it, unique, quirky and hilariously Scottish. Sadly I never met George Wyllie, he died in the early part of 2012, I would have very much liked to have met him because his outlook on life and the way he conducted himself within this reality would be something that would no doubt rub off on anyone around him.
A lot of his work is made up of sculptures made of metal or rock, which doesn’t make moving it much fun, yet it was hard to notice that when you are carrying a piece because all I thought about when my muscles were being ripped to bits was how amazing the piece was. It was a good distraction because so much of the exhibition was seriously, seriously heavy. One piece, a beautiful metal eagle sat atop a big chunk of granite was so beautiful to behold, but heavy as hell and had sharp edges, one of which pierced my trousers and nearly took off a nut. I had a lucky escape.
We finished yesterday and I am not moving until I have to today, I am aching from the toes up and flicking through the lovely book I was given by George’s daughter Louise, who set up the exhibit and is now in charge of figuring out what to do with the wealth of work her father produced, some of which I would describe as awkward. Totally genius, but very awkward to lift, move or store. The book shares the title of the exhibition and it is filled with quotes by George, sketches and picture of his most famous works.
Having been given such hands on access to these magnificent pieces of art and being trusted to move them from the impressive hall in the Mitchell back into secure storage. I was also fortunate to see where he lived and worked, getting to snoop quickly around his workshop and seeing first hand what kind of life an artist can live it has had a massive effect on me. I’m not going to start welding metal together in some attempt to be more like him, it is another aspect of his art that has got my creative juices flowing. His outlook on life is what I think many people could learn from. He seemed to care very little about the more materialistic aspects of our species, which is a beautiful thing.
Chances are you have seen George Wyllie’s work. There is plenty on public show; the paper boat, the walking clock, the question marks along the Clyde coast, the big safety pin. The list is long. It was a firmly held belief of George Wyllie’s that art should be accessible to everyone. No sign of the pretension and ego which is rife in the art world, the work he produced is truly inspirational.
Be Suspicious. Those two words jumped out at me as I drunkenly looked through the merchandise at the exhibition on opening night. I bought a badge bearing those words and immediately pinned it to my jacket. Those two words are important words to me, they have been for the longest time without really knowing it. Growing up in a religious school and family, but never buying what I was being sold then growing up in a godless world being wrestled into submission by the concept of money and all the useless things it can buy, it is important to Be Suspicious. We are controlled by things that shouldn’t have any bearing on how we live our lives, but we are surrounded by beauty and art and people who possess the ability to find art in a rock, or a chunk of wood. George Wyllie possessed that ability. A lot of his work was created from things that others would throw away, or walk right by. He could find beauty in the simplest things, while people spend disgusting amounts of money on things that have no such beauty simply to impress idiots.
So I am lying in bed in a little bit of pain. But it was worth it. I didn’t expect it to have this effect on me, the exhibition amazed me both times I went to see it during it’s 3 month run but getting to touch it, break it down and move it back to the house where it was created was an honour. A legacy is important, to me it is the most important thing. The amassing of money or belongings doesn’t say anything important about you, not in any real sense. What you do, how you do it is what is truly important. How you conduct yourself. Many people don’t care about that and in many ways couldn’t care less about how they conduct themselves because they are fixated on making money caring not a jot that many souls must be destroyed for every pound, dollar or dong that is worshipped. But people like George Wyllie pop into your life every so often to remind you that there is an alternative to all that nonsense, there is a different way and it is the way that has been around a lot longer than 3D TV, iPhones, supercars, heated pools, gold door handles or expensive clothes. It takes a certain kind of mind to live in the world people like George Wyllie lived in, some people can’t comprehend it, they are so busy looking for a place to plug their phone in to notice the true beauty of the world around them. I can admit to becoming one of those people. I get distracted. We all get distracted. I wrote celebrity gossip once and I should never forget that, or be allowed to forget it. What I did was completely unacceptable and I know this. I gave up that sinister nonsense after a night of searching the deepest darkest corners of my mind surrounded by people who are very important to me. I gave it up, along with the money I was getting and I sought to better myself leading to me making the trip to North America last year. The work I did this week for Louise Wyllie has solidified what I have been trying to make sense of in my mind for a long time.
I could go on, I really could. But I will finish this with a quote by George Wyllie which I think truly captures the spirit and ethos of his work.
“It should be obvious that an adventurous voyage is most unlikely in the shallows of a bathtub, but the illusion of that possibility persists and is exemplified by art that never sails beyond the gallery.”
However, a job is a job and this week I got to do something amazing.
I was asked by my friend Mike to help him strip the amazing George Wyllie exhibition at The Mitchell Library. I had attended the opening night back in October 2012 when I got disastrously drunk on free wine and ended up getting my photo taken with Alex Salmond, the Scottish First Minister.
The exhibit; In Pursuit Of The Question Mark ran for 3 months, if you managed to see it then well done. If you didn’t, you really missed out. I have never seen anything like it, unique, quirky and hilariously Scottish. Sadly I never met George Wyllie, he died in the early part of 2012, I would have very much liked to have met him because his outlook on life and the way he conducted himself within this reality would be something that would no doubt rub off on anyone around him.
A lot of his work is made up of sculptures made of metal or rock, which doesn’t make moving it much fun, yet it was hard to notice that when you are carrying a piece because all I thought about when my muscles were being ripped to bits was how amazing the piece was. It was a good distraction because so much of the exhibition was seriously, seriously heavy. One piece, a beautiful metal eagle sat atop a big chunk of granite was so beautiful to behold, but heavy as hell and had sharp edges, one of which pierced my trousers and nearly took off a nut. I had a lucky escape.
We finished yesterday and I am not moving until I have to today, I am aching from the toes up and flicking through the lovely book I was given by George’s daughter Louise, who set up the exhibit and is now in charge of figuring out what to do with the wealth of work her father produced, some of which I would describe as awkward. Totally genius, but very awkward to lift, move or store. The book shares the title of the exhibition and it is filled with quotes by George, sketches and picture of his most famous works.
Having been given such hands on access to these magnificent pieces of art and being trusted to move them from the impressive hall in the Mitchell back into secure storage. I was also fortunate to see where he lived and worked, getting to snoop quickly around his workshop and seeing first hand what kind of life an artist can live it has had a massive effect on me. I’m not going to start welding metal together in some attempt to be more like him, it is another aspect of his art that has got my creative juices flowing. His outlook on life is what I think many people could learn from. He seemed to care very little about the more materialistic aspects of our species, which is a beautiful thing.
Chances are you have seen George Wyllie’s work. There is plenty on public show; the paper boat, the walking clock, the question marks along the Clyde coast, the big safety pin. The list is long. It was a firmly held belief of George Wyllie’s that art should be accessible to everyone. No sign of the pretension and ego which is rife in the art world, the work he produced is truly inspirational.
Be Suspicious. Those two words jumped out at me as I drunkenly looked through the merchandise at the exhibition on opening night. I bought a badge bearing those words and immediately pinned it to my jacket. Those two words are important words to me, they have been for the longest time without really knowing it. Growing up in a religious school and family, but never buying what I was being sold then growing up in a godless world being wrestled into submission by the concept of money and all the useless things it can buy, it is important to Be Suspicious. We are controlled by things that shouldn’t have any bearing on how we live our lives, but we are surrounded by beauty and art and people who possess the ability to find art in a rock, or a chunk of wood. George Wyllie possessed that ability. A lot of his work was created from things that others would throw away, or walk right by. He could find beauty in the simplest things, while people spend disgusting amounts of money on things that have no such beauty simply to impress idiots.
So I am lying in bed in a little bit of pain. But it was worth it. I didn’t expect it to have this effect on me, the exhibition amazed me both times I went to see it during it’s 3 month run but getting to touch it, break it down and move it back to the house where it was created was an honour. A legacy is important, to me it is the most important thing. The amassing of money or belongings doesn’t say anything important about you, not in any real sense. What you do, how you do it is what is truly important. How you conduct yourself. Many people don’t care about that and in many ways couldn’t care less about how they conduct themselves because they are fixated on making money caring not a jot that many souls must be destroyed for every pound, dollar or dong that is worshipped. But people like George Wyllie pop into your life every so often to remind you that there is an alternative to all that nonsense, there is a different way and it is the way that has been around a lot longer than 3D TV, iPhones, supercars, heated pools, gold door handles or expensive clothes. It takes a certain kind of mind to live in the world people like George Wyllie lived in, some people can’t comprehend it, they are so busy looking for a place to plug their phone in to notice the true beauty of the world around them. I can admit to becoming one of those people. I get distracted. We all get distracted. I wrote celebrity gossip once and I should never forget that, or be allowed to forget it. What I did was completely unacceptable and I know this. I gave up that sinister nonsense after a night of searching the deepest darkest corners of my mind surrounded by people who are very important to me. I gave it up, along with the money I was getting and I sought to better myself leading to me making the trip to North America last year. The work I did this week for Louise Wyllie has solidified what I have been trying to make sense of in my mind for a long time.
I could go on, I really could. But I will finish this with a quote by George Wyllie which I think truly captures the spirit and ethos of his work.
“It should be obvious that an adventurous voyage is most unlikely in the shallows of a bathtub, but the illusion of that possibility persists and is exemplified by art that never sails beyond the gallery.”
Friday, 18 January 2013
Nic Cage is God & The Rock is a Modern Classic.
I am often accused of being a little infatuated with the works of Nicolas Cage. Which is fine with me because I know that I am. His output is unlike anyone working in Hollywood today. Cage probably has more detractors than fans, but to those who get the madness, mania and massive output, he is a Cinema Great. If you don’t think so it’s OK. You’re only wrong, it’s no big deal because I am sure you’re right about some things. Just not this.
I could barely fit in a book all the glowing things I have to say about Nic Cage, I could, and really do want to go into intricate detail about his back catalogue but who has the time? I am still working on turning the story of my summer adventure into some kind of coherent mass of words. I have resurrected an old script, trying to write 3 short stories which make up the larger picture of possibly my favourite idea, it involves Nazis. I am also currently, until two minutes ago, working on the pilot of a detective show.
Basically, I am trying to say I have plenty to be getting on with, but last night I watched The Rock and feel like talking about it at great length.
There are a few pictures which could be argued are The Best Ever Made. But this is always reliant on opinion, or rather the ability of the person(s) speaking to make a solid case on behalf of the movie, its makers and it’s stars. I always stand by True Romance when asked that all too silly question of What is Your Favourite Movie? True Romance is a well written story with great dialogue and an incredible cast who are all on top of their game. Think about the support cast in that picture, the Christopher Walken/Dennis Hopper scene is a stone cold classic piece of Hollywood Gold. Even the tiny part Brad Pitt plays is memorable. It is an easy and educated answer to a fairly redundant question.
The Rock, however, is just as good. It is a very different beast though. It isn’t as cool as True Romance because very little is, but as far as action movies go, The Rock kicked back into life the Action Thriller. Not only that but it became a blueprint for a whole new generation of film makers.
Released in 96 it did a lot for a genre that had become a little uncool after the heady heights of the 80s, a decade which seemed to be made up entirely of Action Movies, catchphrases and violence all the family could enjoy.
Like True Romance there is a Tarantino connection, he wrote True Romance and did work on the script for The Rock, albeit uncredited. Being that Quentin Tarantino is one of the greatest directors of all time and a purveyor of quality dialogue since before his first own movie changed the way people looked at film making, this should only increase peoples love of The Rock.
The Rock is the story of disgruntled Marine General Francis Hummel, played by Ed Harris, who steals rockets armed with VX Gas and plans to fire them at San Francisco from his base on Alcatraz unless, of course, he is paid one hundred million, billion dollars. Classic set up. But will he pull it off?
Probably not because the Feds have an ace up their sleeve. Nic Cage plays a Chemical Weapons Expert called Stanley Goodspeed who is brought in, he thinks, to educate the Seal team, led by Michael Biehn, on how to disarm the rockets and save the day. Little does he know that he will have to actually join the seal team for the incursion. It is important to point out that Goodspeed is a man who drives a beige Volvo and eats pressure for breakfast, but he is not a field agent, and has never killed anyone.
To help the seal team and Nic Cage fight Ed Harris’s army of mercenary traitors is a man who has been in jail longer than Nelson Mandela, locked up, forgotten about and left for dead. Former SAS spy, master of escapology and a man who knows the USA’s most secret secrets from The Alien Landing at Roswell to the JFK assassination. Sean Connery, ladies and gentlemen, playing John Mason, from Glasgow. His involvement in the story is thanks to the fact that John Mason is the only man to have ever broken out of The Rock and survived.
The cinematic soup created by the people involved, established early on, gives off an aroma that can’t be argued. It smells great.
When it comes to Nic Cage, as I said earlier, some people get upset, angry and loud about how he can’t act, or makes too many movies, or something about his hair. While I can see how people don’t get it, I am here to maybe push those people in the right direction. He has taken the thing that made Die Hard a great franchise- the every man bit- and ran off in an odd direction with it. Nic Cage plays the every man with Gusto. He makes decisions that most actors couldn’t. He makes decisions that most actors don’t even know are options. His refusal to swear in The Rock, for example, makes for some of the most memorable lines in the film. I point you towards Zeus’ Butthole, Gee Whiz, Golly and What Say We Cut The Chit Chat A-hole! He could have sworn, I would imagine swearing was in the original script, but Cage knew that would be easy, opting instead to keep it clean because maybe a chemical weapons specialist has no interest in swearing. Maybe Stanley Goodspeed was brought up by loving, but strict parents who taught him well. You don’t know.
The irk which forced Ed Harris’s hand is that the American Government failed his men who were left to rot outside Baghdad after operation Desert Storm. This is another thing the movie seems to put across at times, the ineptitude of the American Military, while speaking highly of the British and their handling of situations. This, to all the youngsters, was how the so called Special Relationship used to be. Britain were in charge of the thinking and America took care of the blowing shit up. It worked. But that is all ancient history now. Thanks 9/11!
This film truly has it all; domestic terrorism, gas that melts your skin before doing such a number on you that you spasm so hard you break your own back, conspiracy theories, shadow ops, Alcatraz, obligatory car chase down that big hilly road in San Francisco, brutal kills, quality action movie dialogue, edge of the seat sequences, high quality photography, bad guys you really hate (like the guy with the big jaw) good guys you really like, believability, empathy for certain characters. It is quality from start to finish. And, as if all that isn’t enough, it has Michael Fucking Biehn in it. To those born at the right time, Biehn is a stamp of pure quality.
I better start trying to wrap this up, we all have stuff to do, but I felt compelled to gush a little, but don‘t want to spoil it. The Rock is a movie that should be taught. I studied cinema, briefly. Not once was it brought up. We watched Battleship Potemkin and took it to pieces for what felt like months, we watched Italian Neo Realism for kicks and of course we watched Citizen Kane and I had to learn to deal with the highly pretentious talking about it as if it is the only film ever made. But not once was The Rock brought up. The Rock is a modern classic. It only gets better with age. It is easy, I suppose, for people to disregard it because it is a Nic Cage action movie from the 90s featuring Sean Connery, a man who is usually so hammy he makes me crave mustard, yet it all comes together to make a not-far-from-perfect picture. This kind of thing came up at Christmas when I watched Hook, it is easy to forget that Captain Hook is one of Dustin Hoffman’s finest performances. The way the world is today, and was back then, movies are only taken seriously if it deals with super heavy subject matter. Look at what nonsense Hollywood shat out this month, the film about how a tsunami affected an American family, forgetting the story was about a Spanish family. That isn’t even the point. Making a film about it, to me, is pointless. I saw the news footage and the doc made up of home videos shot at the time. I couldn’t take anymore. I certainly couldn’t take Hollywood’s take on the matter. Although I am in no doubt that the dialogue will be totally hilarious. Movies don’t have to be super serious to be a game changer. You won’t hear about that Tsunami movie in 20 years, but people will still be watching The Rock.
If you have not watched it in a while or, for some nonsensical reason, never watched The Rock you should do yourself a favour. Sit down, switch off and bask in the full glory of it, potentially The Greatest Action/Adventure/Thriller Ever Made.
I could barely fit in a book all the glowing things I have to say about Nic Cage, I could, and really do want to go into intricate detail about his back catalogue but who has the time? I am still working on turning the story of my summer adventure into some kind of coherent mass of words. I have resurrected an old script, trying to write 3 short stories which make up the larger picture of possibly my favourite idea, it involves Nazis. I am also currently, until two minutes ago, working on the pilot of a detective show.
Basically, I am trying to say I have plenty to be getting on with, but last night I watched The Rock and feel like talking about it at great length.
There are a few pictures which could be argued are The Best Ever Made. But this is always reliant on opinion, or rather the ability of the person(s) speaking to make a solid case on behalf of the movie, its makers and it’s stars. I always stand by True Romance when asked that all too silly question of What is Your Favourite Movie? True Romance is a well written story with great dialogue and an incredible cast who are all on top of their game. Think about the support cast in that picture, the Christopher Walken/Dennis Hopper scene is a stone cold classic piece of Hollywood Gold. Even the tiny part Brad Pitt plays is memorable. It is an easy and educated answer to a fairly redundant question.
The Rock, however, is just as good. It is a very different beast though. It isn’t as cool as True Romance because very little is, but as far as action movies go, The Rock kicked back into life the Action Thriller. Not only that but it became a blueprint for a whole new generation of film makers.
Released in 96 it did a lot for a genre that had become a little uncool after the heady heights of the 80s, a decade which seemed to be made up entirely of Action Movies, catchphrases and violence all the family could enjoy.
Like True Romance there is a Tarantino connection, he wrote True Romance and did work on the script for The Rock, albeit uncredited. Being that Quentin Tarantino is one of the greatest directors of all time and a purveyor of quality dialogue since before his first own movie changed the way people looked at film making, this should only increase peoples love of The Rock.
The Rock is the story of disgruntled Marine General Francis Hummel, played by Ed Harris, who steals rockets armed with VX Gas and plans to fire them at San Francisco from his base on Alcatraz unless, of course, he is paid one hundred million, billion dollars. Classic set up. But will he pull it off?
Probably not because the Feds have an ace up their sleeve. Nic Cage plays a Chemical Weapons Expert called Stanley Goodspeed who is brought in, he thinks, to educate the Seal team, led by Michael Biehn, on how to disarm the rockets and save the day. Little does he know that he will have to actually join the seal team for the incursion. It is important to point out that Goodspeed is a man who drives a beige Volvo and eats pressure for breakfast, but he is not a field agent, and has never killed anyone.
To help the seal team and Nic Cage fight Ed Harris’s army of mercenary traitors is a man who has been in jail longer than Nelson Mandela, locked up, forgotten about and left for dead. Former SAS spy, master of escapology and a man who knows the USA’s most secret secrets from The Alien Landing at Roswell to the JFK assassination. Sean Connery, ladies and gentlemen, playing John Mason, from Glasgow. His involvement in the story is thanks to the fact that John Mason is the only man to have ever broken out of The Rock and survived.
The cinematic soup created by the people involved, established early on, gives off an aroma that can’t be argued. It smells great.
When it comes to Nic Cage, as I said earlier, some people get upset, angry and loud about how he can’t act, or makes too many movies, or something about his hair. While I can see how people don’t get it, I am here to maybe push those people in the right direction. He has taken the thing that made Die Hard a great franchise- the every man bit- and ran off in an odd direction with it. Nic Cage plays the every man with Gusto. He makes decisions that most actors couldn’t. He makes decisions that most actors don’t even know are options. His refusal to swear in The Rock, for example, makes for some of the most memorable lines in the film. I point you towards Zeus’ Butthole, Gee Whiz, Golly and What Say We Cut The Chit Chat A-hole! He could have sworn, I would imagine swearing was in the original script, but Cage knew that would be easy, opting instead to keep it clean because maybe a chemical weapons specialist has no interest in swearing. Maybe Stanley Goodspeed was brought up by loving, but strict parents who taught him well. You don’t know.
The irk which forced Ed Harris’s hand is that the American Government failed his men who were left to rot outside Baghdad after operation Desert Storm. This is another thing the movie seems to put across at times, the ineptitude of the American Military, while speaking highly of the British and their handling of situations. This, to all the youngsters, was how the so called Special Relationship used to be. Britain were in charge of the thinking and America took care of the blowing shit up. It worked. But that is all ancient history now. Thanks 9/11!
This film truly has it all; domestic terrorism, gas that melts your skin before doing such a number on you that you spasm so hard you break your own back, conspiracy theories, shadow ops, Alcatraz, obligatory car chase down that big hilly road in San Francisco, brutal kills, quality action movie dialogue, edge of the seat sequences, high quality photography, bad guys you really hate (like the guy with the big jaw) good guys you really like, believability, empathy for certain characters. It is quality from start to finish. And, as if all that isn’t enough, it has Michael Fucking Biehn in it. To those born at the right time, Biehn is a stamp of pure quality.
I better start trying to wrap this up, we all have stuff to do, but I felt compelled to gush a little, but don‘t want to spoil it. The Rock is a movie that should be taught. I studied cinema, briefly. Not once was it brought up. We watched Battleship Potemkin and took it to pieces for what felt like months, we watched Italian Neo Realism for kicks and of course we watched Citizen Kane and I had to learn to deal with the highly pretentious talking about it as if it is the only film ever made. But not once was The Rock brought up. The Rock is a modern classic. It only gets better with age. It is easy, I suppose, for people to disregard it because it is a Nic Cage action movie from the 90s featuring Sean Connery, a man who is usually so hammy he makes me crave mustard, yet it all comes together to make a not-far-from-perfect picture. This kind of thing came up at Christmas when I watched Hook, it is easy to forget that Captain Hook is one of Dustin Hoffman’s finest performances. The way the world is today, and was back then, movies are only taken seriously if it deals with super heavy subject matter. Look at what nonsense Hollywood shat out this month, the film about how a tsunami affected an American family, forgetting the story was about a Spanish family. That isn’t even the point. Making a film about it, to me, is pointless. I saw the news footage and the doc made up of home videos shot at the time. I couldn’t take anymore. I certainly couldn’t take Hollywood’s take on the matter. Although I am in no doubt that the dialogue will be totally hilarious. Movies don’t have to be super serious to be a game changer. You won’t hear about that Tsunami movie in 20 years, but people will still be watching The Rock.
If you have not watched it in a while or, for some nonsensical reason, never watched The Rock you should do yourself a favour. Sit down, switch off and bask in the full glory of it, potentially The Greatest Action/Adventure/Thriller Ever Made.
Sunday, 13 January 2013
I Just Sent This to E4. I can't Take Any more.
Dear E4.
Alex Zane is a cunt.
I have sat here trying to come up with a more grown up way of starting this that would ease you and I into it with an element of class and sophistication. But Alex Zane is a cunt and there is no other way to put it.
The tiny suit wearing scourge of Rude Tube has had enough time to show any of the talent one is supposed to possess in order to land a job presenting a TV show. He has also had enough time to write jokes that are actually funny, or failing that find people to write them for him. Although I would imagine that even if he got the greatest comedians who have ever lived to write jokes for him he would still manage to drain every ounce of humour from them such is the magnitude of the Comedic Black Hole this prick creates every time you cut back to studio. Hate is a strong word, I am aware of this, but I hate Alex Zane. I hate him hard.
From the off, without even needing to get too deep into the vicious things I could say about this dick, he is extraneous. Much like that wee fanny Richard Hammond on Total Wipeout. There is no need to cut to someone in a studio for introductions to something that wouldn’t need an introduction if the director just ran the video. There is no need to try and expand on an already funny clip with a sketch which can only be described as a terribly unfunny, pointless reiteration of a video I only just fucking watched.
Have any of you people ever watched You’ve Been Framed? Although the videos are largely predictable, middle class mishaps that more often than not result in some poor bastard taking a shot to the nuts or old ladies exposing their big panties, there is no onscreen presenter. They hired a funny comedian to narrate it, they probably didn’t even think of doing what you do because it is just utterly pointless. But you do it and besides the nonsensical decision to have a presenter you still chose Alex Zane, which is really incredible. Just how you landed on his name is a mystery. You could have hired anyone, you could have hired Gallagher to smash the shit out of fruit in the studio, the two are on the same comedic level. Alex Zane opens his mouth and the sound of a watermelon being obliterated by a sledgehammer wielding imbecile rings in my ears with a chorus of applause from the truly, truly dumb. It distracts me from the videos and I don’t have Sky+ so I can’t fast forward through it like my friends do, I just have to stomach it. Even if I did have the ability to scan past him I would still see his face and those fucking suits.
There is a man working for you dressed in children’s suits telling jokes that aren’t funny, making puns that would shame a tabloid hack, performing sketches that do nothing but waste your time and ours. It would benefit both of us if you fired Alex Zane. If you sacked him and hired someone who is actually funny and has a decent speaking voice to narrate Rude Tube then you would save some money and be able to put more videos on the show. The latter also benefits us, the viewers, but we would also benefit from his dismissal because it would no longer be such an emotional rollercoaster. One second I am laughing like a madman because there’s a guy doing really impressive air drumming using his cat‘s paws, the next I am having to endure some wee talent void in an ill fitting suit cracking wise in a way that isn’t just unfunny, but actually depressing and infuriating. The only explanation I can think of is that his Mum and/or Dad have a connection to the production company or your channel.
You need to do something about it, E4. Only you can do something about this. He had a good run, but things need to change because he really is a cunt. A cunt of Herculean proportions, if you asked the British public “who is the biggest cunt on TV?” I promise that a really high number would say Alex Zane. Because he really is The Biggest Cunt on TV.
Alex Zane is a cunt.
I have sat here trying to come up with a more grown up way of starting this that would ease you and I into it with an element of class and sophistication. But Alex Zane is a cunt and there is no other way to put it.
The tiny suit wearing scourge of Rude Tube has had enough time to show any of the talent one is supposed to possess in order to land a job presenting a TV show. He has also had enough time to write jokes that are actually funny, or failing that find people to write them for him. Although I would imagine that even if he got the greatest comedians who have ever lived to write jokes for him he would still manage to drain every ounce of humour from them such is the magnitude of the Comedic Black Hole this prick creates every time you cut back to studio. Hate is a strong word, I am aware of this, but I hate Alex Zane. I hate him hard.
From the off, without even needing to get too deep into the vicious things I could say about this dick, he is extraneous. Much like that wee fanny Richard Hammond on Total Wipeout. There is no need to cut to someone in a studio for introductions to something that wouldn’t need an introduction if the director just ran the video. There is no need to try and expand on an already funny clip with a sketch which can only be described as a terribly unfunny, pointless reiteration of a video I only just fucking watched.
Have any of you people ever watched You’ve Been Framed? Although the videos are largely predictable, middle class mishaps that more often than not result in some poor bastard taking a shot to the nuts or old ladies exposing their big panties, there is no onscreen presenter. They hired a funny comedian to narrate it, they probably didn’t even think of doing what you do because it is just utterly pointless. But you do it and besides the nonsensical decision to have a presenter you still chose Alex Zane, which is really incredible. Just how you landed on his name is a mystery. You could have hired anyone, you could have hired Gallagher to smash the shit out of fruit in the studio, the two are on the same comedic level. Alex Zane opens his mouth and the sound of a watermelon being obliterated by a sledgehammer wielding imbecile rings in my ears with a chorus of applause from the truly, truly dumb. It distracts me from the videos and I don’t have Sky+ so I can’t fast forward through it like my friends do, I just have to stomach it. Even if I did have the ability to scan past him I would still see his face and those fucking suits.
There is a man working for you dressed in children’s suits telling jokes that aren’t funny, making puns that would shame a tabloid hack, performing sketches that do nothing but waste your time and ours. It would benefit both of us if you fired Alex Zane. If you sacked him and hired someone who is actually funny and has a decent speaking voice to narrate Rude Tube then you would save some money and be able to put more videos on the show. The latter also benefits us, the viewers, but we would also benefit from his dismissal because it would no longer be such an emotional rollercoaster. One second I am laughing like a madman because there’s a guy doing really impressive air drumming using his cat‘s paws, the next I am having to endure some wee talent void in an ill fitting suit cracking wise in a way that isn’t just unfunny, but actually depressing and infuriating. The only explanation I can think of is that his Mum and/or Dad have a connection to the production company or your channel.
You need to do something about it, E4. Only you can do something about this. He had a good run, but things need to change because he really is a cunt. A cunt of Herculean proportions, if you asked the British public “who is the biggest cunt on TV?” I promise that a really high number would say Alex Zane. Because he really is The Biggest Cunt on TV.
Thursday, 27 December 2012
The Best Thing About 2012...
2012 has been one of my favourite years. The reasons are many, probably, I will hopefully think of some before the end of this but I have only just realised that I enjoyed it. On WorldNewsVine.com I used to do a predictions for the year to come in favour of doing the more common Year in Review style bit. This would be a terribly depressing thing to do this year. We made it through this year by the skin of our teeth and I don’t want to think about next year just yet.
Despite the best efforts of the Internet, conspiracy theories and the wildly religious, the world is still spinning and we are still alive, congratulations on your survival.
2012 will be remembered as the year in which many people thought the world was going to end. The rest of us will remember it as the year we realised just how many people are wasting valuable oxygen and are too fucking gullible. I am no retro-hipster-wank but I didn’t like the Mayan prophecy of 2012 as much as I liked Harold Camping’s Rapture in 2011. While Harold Camping and his Rapture For The Boys, so to speak, was as far from the mark and as hideously nonsensical as a bit of stone from thousands of years ago predicting the end of the world, it was much funnier thanks to the number of his followers who destroyed their lives and the lives of their loved ones by selling everything they owned in preparation for the Rapture.
Heaven has a cover charge apparently.
The good thing about Camping’s Rapture is that they didn’t commit mass suicide and are left alive to think about how stupid they are. But this is about what happened in 2012 so spare a thought for the idiots who are still cowering in the bunkers in their garden, too scared of things they found out about on conspiracy sites to open the door and confront their unfathomable stupidity.
The End of The World, Royal babies, the Olympics, singing contests, Mormons trying to fit into reality, my government supporting genocide in Palestine, famous people dying just like regular people, the NRA landing on “arm teachers” as their response in the wake of yet another mass shooting in a school.
These things happened. Some funny, some tragic, some out of order and some downright insulting things made 2012 the year it was. But none of the above are close to the thing I liked most about this year. The thing I liked most about 2012 was an offshoot of one of the biggest things that happened on the internet in 2012.
Stop Kony was a campaign that captured many hearts and much money in March this year, but failed to capture or stop, or even prove the existence of Kony. The short film released by an organisation called Invisible Children used a small white child to raise awareness for small black children being forced into fighting by a man called Joseph Kony. It was a sad movie and made good points.
What was truly wonderful about this movement, other than the immediate acceptance of it’s legitimacy based on nothing but our combined conscience, was what came next.
Jason Russell was one of the people behind the movement, the small white child in the video is his son, and he is the guy exposing his son to the horrors of life as a child soldier in Africa. Not too long after the release of the video Jason Russell was in the news representing himself, his family and his wildly conservative religion in my favourite news story of 2012, and potentially of all time.
If you make an effort to educate, be it through the medium of music, film, art, writing or anything else, and you make points that you are passionate about and wish others to take seriously then you have to be really careful not to totally destroy all that hard work.
Not too long after the release of the film Jason Russell, devout Christian, took mind bending hallucinogenic drugs and ran around the streets naked, stopping only to wank furiously in the direction of whatever poor bastard who happened to be near him. He wanked on the pavement, he wanked on the road, he jumped on someone’s car and wanked on that. After releasing a movie about a tyrant, giving his kid an early insight into the true evil people are capable of and making a lot of money for the charity and it’s investors he embarked on a Magical Masturbation Tour of San Diego which ended in jail and humiliation. But most importantly it destroyed his wee film. It destroyed his point. It took everything good about his film and replaced it with wanking in public.
I don’t think we will ever manage those heights again. If something funnier ever happens I don’t think I could handle it. I watched the newsreel of him jumping on that car more than most people watched Stop Kony.
The news on TV is one of the big casualties on this year, and now that they have no issues doing something as sickening as reporting live from the funeral of a child, they won’t have time for actual news anymore, let alone a video of a guy wanking ON San Diego.
2012 was fun on a personal level too. I spent 4 months of it in North America, starting with Biffy Clyro in California while they recorded their new album and ending in a sort of mini crime spree in Canada. I even managed to hold it all together long enough to write a book about the whole thing. Maybe in 2013 you will get to read it. As long as we are not wiped out by the many things we seem to create to keep us scared of each other, the sky above us all and the water that surrounds us.
I love you guys. You’re all totally smashing. We should all get together sometime and have an orgy. Let me know.
Dr Henry Hunter. 2012.
X
Despite the best efforts of the Internet, conspiracy theories and the wildly religious, the world is still spinning and we are still alive, congratulations on your survival.
2012 will be remembered as the year in which many people thought the world was going to end. The rest of us will remember it as the year we realised just how many people are wasting valuable oxygen and are too fucking gullible. I am no retro-hipster-wank but I didn’t like the Mayan prophecy of 2012 as much as I liked Harold Camping’s Rapture in 2011. While Harold Camping and his Rapture For The Boys, so to speak, was as far from the mark and as hideously nonsensical as a bit of stone from thousands of years ago predicting the end of the world, it was much funnier thanks to the number of his followers who destroyed their lives and the lives of their loved ones by selling everything they owned in preparation for the Rapture.
Heaven has a cover charge apparently.
The good thing about Camping’s Rapture is that they didn’t commit mass suicide and are left alive to think about how stupid they are. But this is about what happened in 2012 so spare a thought for the idiots who are still cowering in the bunkers in their garden, too scared of things they found out about on conspiracy sites to open the door and confront their unfathomable stupidity.
The End of The World, Royal babies, the Olympics, singing contests, Mormons trying to fit into reality, my government supporting genocide in Palestine, famous people dying just like regular people, the NRA landing on “arm teachers” as their response in the wake of yet another mass shooting in a school.
These things happened. Some funny, some tragic, some out of order and some downright insulting things made 2012 the year it was. But none of the above are close to the thing I liked most about this year. The thing I liked most about 2012 was an offshoot of one of the biggest things that happened on the internet in 2012.
Stop Kony was a campaign that captured many hearts and much money in March this year, but failed to capture or stop, or even prove the existence of Kony. The short film released by an organisation called Invisible Children used a small white child to raise awareness for small black children being forced into fighting by a man called Joseph Kony. It was a sad movie and made good points.
What was truly wonderful about this movement, other than the immediate acceptance of it’s legitimacy based on nothing but our combined conscience, was what came next.
Jason Russell was one of the people behind the movement, the small white child in the video is his son, and he is the guy exposing his son to the horrors of life as a child soldier in Africa. Not too long after the release of the video Jason Russell was in the news representing himself, his family and his wildly conservative religion in my favourite news story of 2012, and potentially of all time.
If you make an effort to educate, be it through the medium of music, film, art, writing or anything else, and you make points that you are passionate about and wish others to take seriously then you have to be really careful not to totally destroy all that hard work.
Not too long after the release of the film Jason Russell, devout Christian, took mind bending hallucinogenic drugs and ran around the streets naked, stopping only to wank furiously in the direction of whatever poor bastard who happened to be near him. He wanked on the pavement, he wanked on the road, he jumped on someone’s car and wanked on that. After releasing a movie about a tyrant, giving his kid an early insight into the true evil people are capable of and making a lot of money for the charity and it’s investors he embarked on a Magical Masturbation Tour of San Diego which ended in jail and humiliation. But most importantly it destroyed his wee film. It destroyed his point. It took everything good about his film and replaced it with wanking in public.
I don’t think we will ever manage those heights again. If something funnier ever happens I don’t think I could handle it. I watched the newsreel of him jumping on that car more than most people watched Stop Kony.
The news on TV is one of the big casualties on this year, and now that they have no issues doing something as sickening as reporting live from the funeral of a child, they won’t have time for actual news anymore, let alone a video of a guy wanking ON San Diego.
2012 was fun on a personal level too. I spent 4 months of it in North America, starting with Biffy Clyro in California while they recorded their new album and ending in a sort of mini crime spree in Canada. I even managed to hold it all together long enough to write a book about the whole thing. Maybe in 2013 you will get to read it. As long as we are not wiped out by the many things we seem to create to keep us scared of each other, the sky above us all and the water that surrounds us.
I love you guys. You’re all totally smashing. We should all get together sometime and have an orgy. Let me know.
Dr Henry Hunter. 2012.
X
Saturday, 1 December 2012
Hey Buddy, Update Time!
As is always the case I have been distracted of late, keeping me from updating this or doing anything else really. I have been writing this book since the day I got back from my trip. As far as I know it is going to be called Don't Call Me Buddy, Buddy! It has a long subtitle too, but so far that has only been for the amusement of myself and I doubt it will stick.
Even this blog, which I am doing to keep you up to date, is a distraction of sorts. I am lying in my pit watching Columbo, reading over what I have done already and hoping that I write some more before I have to go to work. But there is no stress. Much like my trip, it will be done when it's done. I hope.
Last week I had the mild blues brought on, I think, by doing nothing but sitting in various rooms writing and doing not much else. Today is the first time in a week I have even opened the file holding my story. I am not saying it is good, but so far I have resisted the urge to delete the whole thing and actually do something with my life that would get me out of this damn room.
Few things bring me as much pleasure as writing. I mean, there is always sex, drugs and whatever kind of music you are into, but I take a strange kind of pleasure from stringing words together. Albeit with a complete disregard for the entire concept of grammar. I am aware of this and don't need some fool pointing it out to me.
I hope to be done with this soon, I feel like I have been talking to you guys for ages about it. I have got rid of many distractions, facebook, shifts, comfort in the quest to wrap this up. But I have spent most of the last week procrastinating, pondering pointless nonsense like just what the fuck the people who made Lethal Weapon 2 were all about casting Juney Smith in the role of Tom Wyler, a member of the squad who looks far too much like Danny Glover to have been cast in the same police unit as him. I have worried that this idea makes me racist, but the guy is so much like Danny Glover that when Wyler gets shot dead - while hanging upside down for absolutely no reason at all - the South African badguy actually has to mention that he isn't shooting Danny Glover just so the audience don’t get confused due to sloppy casting.
I don’t think it is racist. I have given this a lot of thought. Go watch the movie, you’ll see what I mean. You should watch it anyway, it is the best one. By a fucking mile. See when Mel puts his shoulder back in place after winning his bet, watch the older cop right next to him as he slams his shoulder into the wall. This bit part actor delivers some of the greatest acting I’ve ever seen. A fine example of taking your chances. It truly is a wonderful film.
Anyway, I guess you understand my predilection to distraction now. I am always looking out for something to over analyse in favour of actually doing any work.
But I think I have a point. That cunt in Lethal Weapon looked exactly like Danny Glover from the shape of his face to the moustache on it.
I mean, it doesn’t really matter. But it is really fucking annoying.
Anyway. I can’t wait for you guys to read Don’t Call Me Buddy, Buddy! I just hope the Mayans were on the wind up and I will get a chance to finish it.
Even this blog, which I am doing to keep you up to date, is a distraction of sorts. I am lying in my pit watching Columbo, reading over what I have done already and hoping that I write some more before I have to go to work. But there is no stress. Much like my trip, it will be done when it's done. I hope.
Last week I had the mild blues brought on, I think, by doing nothing but sitting in various rooms writing and doing not much else. Today is the first time in a week I have even opened the file holding my story. I am not saying it is good, but so far I have resisted the urge to delete the whole thing and actually do something with my life that would get me out of this damn room.
Few things bring me as much pleasure as writing. I mean, there is always sex, drugs and whatever kind of music you are into, but I take a strange kind of pleasure from stringing words together. Albeit with a complete disregard for the entire concept of grammar. I am aware of this and don't need some fool pointing it out to me.
I hope to be done with this soon, I feel like I have been talking to you guys for ages about it. I have got rid of many distractions, facebook, shifts, comfort in the quest to wrap this up. But I have spent most of the last week procrastinating, pondering pointless nonsense like just what the fuck the people who made Lethal Weapon 2 were all about casting Juney Smith in the role of Tom Wyler, a member of the squad who looks far too much like Danny Glover to have been cast in the same police unit as him. I have worried that this idea makes me racist, but the guy is so much like Danny Glover that when Wyler gets shot dead - while hanging upside down for absolutely no reason at all - the South African badguy actually has to mention that he isn't shooting Danny Glover just so the audience don’t get confused due to sloppy casting.
I don’t think it is racist. I have given this a lot of thought. Go watch the movie, you’ll see what I mean. You should watch it anyway, it is the best one. By a fucking mile. See when Mel puts his shoulder back in place after winning his bet, watch the older cop right next to him as he slams his shoulder into the wall. This bit part actor delivers some of the greatest acting I’ve ever seen. A fine example of taking your chances. It truly is a wonderful film.
Anyway, I guess you understand my predilection to distraction now. I am always looking out for something to over analyse in favour of actually doing any work.
But I think I have a point. That cunt in Lethal Weapon looked exactly like Danny Glover from the shape of his face to the moustache on it.
I mean, it doesn’t really matter. But it is really fucking annoying.
Anyway. I can’t wait for you guys to read Don’t Call Me Buddy, Buddy! I just hope the Mayans were on the wind up and I will get a chance to finish it.
Monday, 26 November 2012
Breaking News: Winter is Cold.
I wrote this a few years ago, but it is worth keeping it in mind. The news has already started with their pish. Winter is coming, it's fine.
Breaking News: Winter is Cold.
"I haven’t been on here in ages. But I thought it would be the best place to do what I’m about to do, which is save lives. Which is important.
In a global sense, I don’t know many of you, and statistically I probably wouldn’t get on with many of you either. Which is both our faults. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to look out for you. You see, despite the many differences that have been created by shadows to keep us apart… We are all exactly the same. Some of us are slightly more toned and handsome though.
Anyway, I digress.
This is, in essence, a public service announcement, and like any public service announcement, I am trying to save lives. I don’t expect anything in return. I am a selfless human who only wishes to be left alone.
It is already October, which means soon the Winter will be here. Some places sooner than others, I’d give it one more week here in Scotland before the frost arrives.
But we shouldn’t panic. If you have been alive a while, you must have noticed the pattern. Generally speaking, after Autumn - or Fall depending on your geographical location - comes Winter. This happens EVERY SINGLE YEAR.
Winter, for those not paying attention is a fairly cold season, the coldest season actually. So don’t worry… That white stuff that covers your world, that you used to think was picturesque, that’s called frost. Sometimes it’s called Ice. Ice, by it’s very nature is a slippery bugger, so you should watch your feet. Walk slowly, which will not only save your bones, it will also give you a chance to take in the awesome beauty of a winter landscape.
The other white stuff, the softer, more fun and versatile substance is snow… Remember the stuff you longed for when you were a kid… It’s the same stuff. And it is still as much fun.
You can build things out of it, or ball it up and throw it at people. If you are a real crazy cat you can get a bit of plastic, sit on it and go down a hill. It’s called sledging. You used to look forward to it.
You have no excuse now. I have given you fair warning, you hopefully won’t be too shocked when that bastard white stuff falls on you… Stopping you getting to your job, or school. The Horror! The Horror!
It’s going to be cold, we know it’s going to be cold. It’s fucking winter. Don’t listen to the news. If you get a day off work because of the snow, count yourself lucky. Go out and enjoy it. Because before long you’re going to be bitching that the summer is too hot.
Breaking News: Winter is Cold.
"I haven’t been on here in ages. But I thought it would be the best place to do what I’m about to do, which is save lives. Which is important.
In a global sense, I don’t know many of you, and statistically I probably wouldn’t get on with many of you either. Which is both our faults. But that doesn’t mean I’m not going to look out for you. You see, despite the many differences that have been created by shadows to keep us apart… We are all exactly the same. Some of us are slightly more toned and handsome though.
Anyway, I digress.
This is, in essence, a public service announcement, and like any public service announcement, I am trying to save lives. I don’t expect anything in return. I am a selfless human who only wishes to be left alone.
It is already October, which means soon the Winter will be here. Some places sooner than others, I’d give it one more week here in Scotland before the frost arrives.
But we shouldn’t panic. If you have been alive a while, you must have noticed the pattern. Generally speaking, after Autumn - or Fall depending on your geographical location - comes Winter. This happens EVERY SINGLE YEAR.
Winter, for those not paying attention is a fairly cold season, the coldest season actually. So don’t worry… That white stuff that covers your world, that you used to think was picturesque, that’s called frost. Sometimes it’s called Ice. Ice, by it’s very nature is a slippery bugger, so you should watch your feet. Walk slowly, which will not only save your bones, it will also give you a chance to take in the awesome beauty of a winter landscape.
The other white stuff, the softer, more fun and versatile substance is snow… Remember the stuff you longed for when you were a kid… It’s the same stuff. And it is still as much fun.
You can build things out of it, or ball it up and throw it at people. If you are a real crazy cat you can get a bit of plastic, sit on it and go down a hill. It’s called sledging. You used to look forward to it.
You have no excuse now. I have given you fair warning, you hopefully won’t be too shocked when that bastard white stuff falls on you… Stopping you getting to your job, or school. The Horror! The Horror!
It’s going to be cold, we know it’s going to be cold. It’s fucking winter. Don’t listen to the news. If you get a day off work because of the snow, count yourself lucky. Go out and enjoy it. Because before long you’re going to be bitching that the summer is too hot.
Tuesday, 16 October 2012
North American Adventure Photos.
Here is a little update. The attempt to get my notes and fuzzy memories into some kind of order is going ok. I am deep, deep into it. I am always on the look out for something that I can do to fill the time on the days i am "not really feeling it" which is writer for "being a lazy bastard."
Fortunately, I remembered something that I have been planning to do for a while, update my flickr with pics from the trip.
So. Here it is. It's not all the pics because I can't be bothered doing that much stuff. I am almost sick of the entire concept of technology at this point. But there are quite a few there.
Start here and work back. It's in reverse chronological order.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/94992570@N00/page5/
Enjoy.
XX
Fortunately, I remembered something that I have been planning to do for a while, update my flickr with pics from the trip.
So. Here it is. It's not all the pics because I can't be bothered doing that much stuff. I am almost sick of the entire concept of technology at this point. But there are quite a few there.
Start here and work back. It's in reverse chronological order.
http://www.flickr.com/photos/94992570@N00/page5/
Enjoy.
XX
Monday, 3 September 2012
The End. For The Time Being.
The thing about anything fun is that it is always going to end. This is not some pessimistic post-adventure blues. It is a fact, and it works in reverse too. The shit times pass along with the good and before you know it you are back in the place you started, trying to make the most of it. And in this case, I didn’t even notice it happening.
I left Ayr in late April and I arrived back a few days a go. The Bitch Jetlag has it’s claws deep in me. I can’t shift it. I snuck back into town after only telling one person about my return because I was dead broke and needed a lift from Glasgow Airport, my mother was both happy to hear about me coming home finally and happy to pick me up. The wee star she is.
4 months of doing very little. Something I am very good at and really enjoy. In the 4 months spent wandering around North America I got involved in some crazy shit, met some crazy people and ended up really broke two or three times, which led me to consider getting involved in something that may or may not have involved international drug smuggling. I will say that soup kitchens are not as bad as you think they are.
I fell in love a bunch of times with girls, scenery and food. I filled my trusty notebook with scribbles that I am positive meant something at the time, and when I finally decipher them might make a good story. One of the things I am happiest about when I look back over the last few months is that I managed not to lose that notebook. The whole thing would have been pointless if I had. I checked I had that before anything else each time I moved on.
So my life for the next while, in between working to save to leave again, I am working on turning my notes and any memories that weren’t washed away by liquor into some sort of coherent story that I would hope you will get to read at some point.
Any messages, cat photos, skypes or monies that you fine people sent my way throughout my trip meant more than I could possibly put into words right now. I am rarely lost for words. I have just written a chunk of the story this afternoon and my mind feels a bit like mush. So, whatever, you are all good people. I could have done with a few more dirty pictures being sent my way but, you know, whatever.
I left Ayr in late April and I arrived back a few days a go. The Bitch Jetlag has it’s claws deep in me. I can’t shift it. I snuck back into town after only telling one person about my return because I was dead broke and needed a lift from Glasgow Airport, my mother was both happy to hear about me coming home finally and happy to pick me up. The wee star she is.
4 months of doing very little. Something I am very good at and really enjoy. In the 4 months spent wandering around North America I got involved in some crazy shit, met some crazy people and ended up really broke two or three times, which led me to consider getting involved in something that may or may not have involved international drug smuggling. I will say that soup kitchens are not as bad as you think they are.
I fell in love a bunch of times with girls, scenery and food. I filled my trusty notebook with scribbles that I am positive meant something at the time, and when I finally decipher them might make a good story. One of the things I am happiest about when I look back over the last few months is that I managed not to lose that notebook. The whole thing would have been pointless if I had. I checked I had that before anything else each time I moved on.
So my life for the next while, in between working to save to leave again, I am working on turning my notes and any memories that weren’t washed away by liquor into some sort of coherent story that I would hope you will get to read at some point.
Any messages, cat photos, skypes or monies that you fine people sent my way throughout my trip meant more than I could possibly put into words right now. I am rarely lost for words. I have just written a chunk of the story this afternoon and my mind feels a bit like mush. So, whatever, you are all good people. I could have done with a few more dirty pictures being sent my way but, you know, whatever.
Friday, 17 August 2012
The Cheeseburger Hunter.
Of the many reasons I had for coming to North America, most of which I haven’t really figured out yet, cheeseburgers are pretty high on the list. Nothing too fancy, no gourmet blue cheese, no fancy bun, not even bacon. I’m talking about the standard cheeseburgers available in your run of the mill giant corporation burger joint.
Not that I don’t enjoy your more fancy burger, I do. But those are hard to eat on the run. The noble art of snacking, eating on the run.
The only real problem is that I have the same issues with giant fast food corporations as mostly everyone else. But I have learned to put them aside in the ongoing quest to find the best burgers. Its not so much an attempt to stave off the hunger as much as it is a life long quest. A really tasty quest.
Some years ago, on my first trip to the West Coast of America, I wandered into a place called In N Out burger and my life changed forever. This may sound like an exaggeration to some, but I will chalk that up to those people never having been into this Mecca. In N Out burger is the greatest burger joint burger on the face of the planet. There was life before my first Double Double, and my life since. Like some crazed junkie chasing his first high, I have been trying to sample as many standard burger joint cheeseburgers as I can in the hope that one day I will unwrap one and experience what I did 6 years ago on that sunny day on Sunset Boulevard.
The go-to cheeseburger is obviously McDonalds. For the longest time I stopped going to McDonalds because I got caught up eating the Big Mac, or any of the many limited edition burgers they release monthly. But they built their reputation on burgers, fries and drinks when they were a simple burger stand. That is the one thing that people, myself included, forget when bitching and moaning about giant corporations, they get to that size because they have good product. So forget the Big Mac, or the angus burger or whatever shite they throw in a box, shake up and audaciously present as a burger. Eating one of those travesties isn’t worth the sorrow. You only hate yourself after. The classic McDonalds Cheeseburger is the best readily available cheeseburger for the on the go snacker.
However, that isn’t to say that it is the best fast food burger. No no, not by a long shot. It is just handy, there art McDonalds everywhere, squire. USA is awash with convenient eating. From fast food to Mall food. The restaurants are even chains. Families will go out on a Friday night to Chillis, or Applebees. Because no matter where you are they are all the same, you know what you are going to get. I understand the appeal.
The next best fast food to In N Out that I have tasted is in the fine establishment of Five Guys Burgers And Fries. But again, like In N Out I am not including it. It is simply too good. The toppings options are plentiful, including jalapeños, that alone keeps it out of the list. But if you ever get the chance you should try it. The fries come covered in piri piri and they give you a fucking mountain of them. Plus they give you free access to as many monkey nuts as you can handle as way of an appetizer or desert. Depending on how you roll.
The best thing about Big Boy burgers is the money boxes they sell in the shape of the famous logo. Carl’s Jnr was OK, they do a chilli burger which, unlike most chilli burgers, wasn’t a pain in the tits to pick up and eat. I had my first Burger King in ages in a town near Vernon BC with my cousin Neil, it was pretty special as it was my first time trying maple bacon. I was only just getting used to The Canadian Staple, Maple. Even the new One Hundred Dollar Bill smells like maple, I shit you not. I convinced a Canadian girl that it smells like that because it is made from compressed maple syrup, and if you are ever stuck for maple syrup you can simply melt the note on your waffles. Some Canadians are beautifully naïve.
A&W is pretty shitty. It is a ghetto ass burger joint started in Canada. The burgers are all family orientated in name, Mama Burger, Papa Burger, Baby, Teen, Grandpa etc. You get the point. Plus, in keeping with it’s geographical origins there is also a Buddy Burger. They do however have their own Root Beer, which is pretty fantastic, if you are in to fizzy juice that tastes a little medicinal. The best thing about A&W is that the soda, pop or fizzy juice (according to where you live) is served in an iced mug.
For every Five Guys Burgers and Fries there are many A&Ws. For example the likes of Jack in The Box, Fatburger, Arby’s and White Castle can all suck my balls. Wendy’s I have yet to decide about, it is pretty low rent, but at the same time they give you proper bits of tomato and lettuce. There is a lot to be said for that.
Randomly, about 2 months ago while wandering Calgary, I went to Dairy Queen with my buddy Martin, who promised me they did burgers. I didn’t believe him. We got our order and sat down to eat it. I wasn’t expecting much. I certainly didn’t expect to be eating a contender. Dairy Queen cheeseburgers are probably the best Standard Cheeseburger I have had the pleasure of eating.
I have been a little quiet of late on here, and now you know why. I have been writing a lot, drinking a lot, not really sleeping and working on occasion to help keep me here a bit longer. But mostly I am Cheeseburger Hunter.
Not that I don’t enjoy your more fancy burger, I do. But those are hard to eat on the run. The noble art of snacking, eating on the run.
The only real problem is that I have the same issues with giant fast food corporations as mostly everyone else. But I have learned to put them aside in the ongoing quest to find the best burgers. Its not so much an attempt to stave off the hunger as much as it is a life long quest. A really tasty quest.
Some years ago, on my first trip to the West Coast of America, I wandered into a place called In N Out burger and my life changed forever. This may sound like an exaggeration to some, but I will chalk that up to those people never having been into this Mecca. In N Out burger is the greatest burger joint burger on the face of the planet. There was life before my first Double Double, and my life since. Like some crazed junkie chasing his first high, I have been trying to sample as many standard burger joint cheeseburgers as I can in the hope that one day I will unwrap one and experience what I did 6 years ago on that sunny day on Sunset Boulevard.
The go-to cheeseburger is obviously McDonalds. For the longest time I stopped going to McDonalds because I got caught up eating the Big Mac, or any of the many limited edition burgers they release monthly. But they built their reputation on burgers, fries and drinks when they were a simple burger stand. That is the one thing that people, myself included, forget when bitching and moaning about giant corporations, they get to that size because they have good product. So forget the Big Mac, or the angus burger or whatever shite they throw in a box, shake up and audaciously present as a burger. Eating one of those travesties isn’t worth the sorrow. You only hate yourself after. The classic McDonalds Cheeseburger is the best readily available cheeseburger for the on the go snacker.
However, that isn’t to say that it is the best fast food burger. No no, not by a long shot. It is just handy, there art McDonalds everywhere, squire. USA is awash with convenient eating. From fast food to Mall food. The restaurants are even chains. Families will go out on a Friday night to Chillis, or Applebees. Because no matter where you are they are all the same, you know what you are going to get. I understand the appeal.
The next best fast food to In N Out that I have tasted is in the fine establishment of Five Guys Burgers And Fries. But again, like In N Out I am not including it. It is simply too good. The toppings options are plentiful, including jalapeños, that alone keeps it out of the list. But if you ever get the chance you should try it. The fries come covered in piri piri and they give you a fucking mountain of them. Plus they give you free access to as many monkey nuts as you can handle as way of an appetizer or desert. Depending on how you roll.
The best thing about Big Boy burgers is the money boxes they sell in the shape of the famous logo. Carl’s Jnr was OK, they do a chilli burger which, unlike most chilli burgers, wasn’t a pain in the tits to pick up and eat. I had my first Burger King in ages in a town near Vernon BC with my cousin Neil, it was pretty special as it was my first time trying maple bacon. I was only just getting used to The Canadian Staple, Maple. Even the new One Hundred Dollar Bill smells like maple, I shit you not. I convinced a Canadian girl that it smells like that because it is made from compressed maple syrup, and if you are ever stuck for maple syrup you can simply melt the note on your waffles. Some Canadians are beautifully naïve.
A&W is pretty shitty. It is a ghetto ass burger joint started in Canada. The burgers are all family orientated in name, Mama Burger, Papa Burger, Baby, Teen, Grandpa etc. You get the point. Plus, in keeping with it’s geographical origins there is also a Buddy Burger. They do however have their own Root Beer, which is pretty fantastic, if you are in to fizzy juice that tastes a little medicinal. The best thing about A&W is that the soda, pop or fizzy juice (according to where you live) is served in an iced mug.
For every Five Guys Burgers and Fries there are many A&Ws. For example the likes of Jack in The Box, Fatburger, Arby’s and White Castle can all suck my balls. Wendy’s I have yet to decide about, it is pretty low rent, but at the same time they give you proper bits of tomato and lettuce. There is a lot to be said for that.
Randomly, about 2 months ago while wandering Calgary, I went to Dairy Queen with my buddy Martin, who promised me they did burgers. I didn’t believe him. We got our order and sat down to eat it. I wasn’t expecting much. I certainly didn’t expect to be eating a contender. Dairy Queen cheeseburgers are probably the best Standard Cheeseburger I have had the pleasure of eating.
I have been a little quiet of late on here, and now you know why. I have been writing a lot, drinking a lot, not really sleeping and working on occasion to help keep me here a bit longer. But mostly I am Cheeseburger Hunter.
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.
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.
Monday, 18 June 2012
The Party is Over. KInd Of.
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.
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.
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.
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