Fierce Creatures
My back garden, yesterday
Pretty much every day we take Sonny the Black Menace, up the back road. And before you call the RSPCA, that is not a euphemism.
The back road is a nanosecond from the House of the Flying Martinis, and takes you straight into the Aberdeenshire Veldt. And before you think I’m being silly when I say veldt, don’t be so quick to scoff, as I am here to tell you that dangers lurk in the back road and everything I tell you here is the GODSHONESTTRUTH*
Sonny the Black Menace looking fierce(Photo: S. Munro)
In fact, on these two chilling cases I am about to impart, I can actually provide evidence to back my stories up. But if you click the links looking for proof, you must come clean and start your comment in the box with the words, “I’m sorry for not believing you Misssy, I clicked the links….”**
Raptor attack
There is a bird of prey that is terrorising those who innocently travel “the back road” like something out of One Million Years BC (also known as that film with Raquel Welch in the fur bikini, dads). From out of nowhere a quite sizable member of the hawk genus sweeps down and attacks people without provocation. With menace. And possibly a small flick-knife.
Now, I’ve never been attacked personally, but that’s because I reckon the Animal World in general know of my walking companion Sonny’s street fighting prowess, and wouldn’t dare rile him.
However, my most excellent friends and neighbours Dr Diane and her equally excellent beau, Dr Ben have been brutally attacked on several occasions whilst out running the four mile long “back road”. Dr Diane has had the pterodactyl sweep down on her and touch her head repeatedly with its pointy bits. It got so bad that she started taking a stick with her to brandish (ahh… if only video existed of this). Quite impressive given that most folk would have just never gone out of their house again and hid in a corner rocking like Eastenders’ own Arthur Fowler that Christmas he had a breakdown.
Dr Ben has been assailed on his bike but informs me that the bird was without a vehicle.
One for the Dads
Things got so bad, that the bird actually started targeting the two of them at home at their cottage which is half way round the road. The eagle had become like some twisted stalker waiting across the road in his car with leather gloves and dark glasses on. I’m imagining his voice was like Kiefer Sutherland’s for some reason. Although, we are relieved that he stopped short of making menacing phonecalls in the middle of the night.
Things came to a head one Sunday as the bird dived down on their garden during a barbecue, taking on her entire extended family. Needless to say, the festivities had to be abandoned.
Turns out that the Young Doctors weren’t the only ones that were on the bird’s hit list. A man was brutally attacked and first blood was drawn by the psychopathic feathered fiend. And here’s your actual video proof, which you can click if you need evidence. Click here ye of little faith!
Big cat sighting
Every place in the UK has stories about a big cat that lurks round their way. This is the result of legions of Dads in the Seventies coming back with “something for the kids” that they bought off some geezer in a pub, which turned out to be a leopard, and once fully grown, ate their dog and had to be turned loose beofe it started picking off the kids one by one.
In NE East Scotland there’s The Beast of Buchan (a cat in need of a decent PR agent, if ever I saw one) and the good folks of Elgin lay claim to having no end of an amount of panthers hanging about their back yards, making off with pet bunnies, whipping ladies washing off the line and doing giant animal turds on folks’ patios.
And now to add to the panther pantheon (do you like what I did there?) there’s the Beast of the Back Road (TM) as seen by my in-laws, who admittedly are no strangers to the services of their local Specsavers, but whose word I trust implicitly.
The pair took young Sonny for a walk up the back road on the final day of their stay at the House of the Flying Martinis last month. When they came back, they casually (casually!) mentioned that they saw something in the fields that “looked like a Big Cat”.
Under further interrogation they described the beast as being black, slightly smaller than a cow, much bigger than a dog and “walking like Harley Boy”. Harley Boy is our cat, who is a bit of a strutter, even given his advancing years (he’s sixteen, you know!)
And here’s some further evidence that may have to be rolled out to prove that my in-laws are not ready for the sanatorium just yet. Click here you unbelievers!
Always on the look out for a new direction that allows me to dress up, I propose to buy safari suit and Landrover and start The Flying Martin Safaris.
Any takers?
*As is everything on these here Misssives even though most of you think that I’m off on one most of the time. **But click them anyway, the first one is a cracker.
Bells, Booze and Blasphemy
There is nothing so unnatural as the phenomenon I am about to tell you about. It is as if the laws of nature turned a blind eye and allowed something to happen despite a crucial element being absent. I’ll lay out those elements for you now and then the full horror will be revealed.
The Place
The place is Glasgow. Hope Street, to be precise. The city is held in great affection the world over. It holds memories of good times, good people and good vibes. Songs, books and plays are written about it. Comedy careers rest on its very existence.
The occasion
A wedding reception. A celebration of the nuptials of two individuals brought together through love.
The participants
A hall filled with about one hundred guests, most of whom had never met one another. Aunties mixed with friends, neighbours sat next to workmates, acquaintances held sway with old schoolmates. A wedding is never an easy social gathering to mix up.
“Right, what do you want to drink?” asks Meeester.
“Glass of white wine. Hurry back….don’t leave me for long.” I say nervously eying the sea of “friends I haven’t met yet”.
Minutes pass, when suddenly I see an ashen face drill a terrified stare at me as Meeester rushes forwards.
“Holy shit, there’s nothing. It’s ….it’s…”, Meeester frantically whispers.
“What is it? Calm down…tell me…”
“You’d better sit down and brace yourself. It’s a… DRY WEDDING!”
“Dry wedding…don’t understand…” I am genuinely confused.
“Dry wedding, no booze…no bar…nothing. There is nothing to drink.”
I stare at him blankly until it is apparent he is telling the truth.
“But how can there BE such a thing…? It isn’t ….I haven’t ever….whaaaaaa? Nothing? Not even sherry?”
“Nothing….absolutely nothing.” Meeester shakes his head.
Suddenly a voice calls out from the stage, “Ladies and Gentlemen, as the bride and groom will shortly be arriving, can you please find your seats. You’ll find your names and allocated tables on the board at the front of the hall”
“Right, let’s leave now…they’ll never notice. We don’t know anyone anyway. This is going to be shit,” I say.
“We can’t,” he nods in the direction of a wee lady in lilac, “ Mum.”
Meeester glances over at Meeesus M, his Mum, who we’ve accompanied. The groom is the Minister and family friend of the Martinis. He is also the man who married Meeester and I over a year ago, hence the reciprocal invite to his own wedding. Meeesus M doesn’t drink anyway and is as happy as a sober sandboy chatting to old church pals.
“Did you know about this?” already I start with the finger pointing.
“No! Keith drinks. Must be his wife’s lot. Well, look at them…” he looks over at some buttoned up sisters, a sour lemonesque mother, and a joyless defeated wizened father.
“Bloody Christians. Where in the Bible does it say anything about no booze. The whole book is booze soaked! Jesus drank wine, he wanted others to drink wine. He was practically forcing it down the disciples necks at the Last Supper. These people are DEFYING Jesus!” I say through gritted teeth, the full horror now sinking in.
But I am silenced before I can go on about the Second Coming happening tonight and Jesus being pissed off that there’s no vino on offer to welcome him.
“Sshhhh! We’ll just have to get on with it.” Meeester is now at the acceptance stage, having heard the news two minutes earlier than me. I’m still firmly at “anger”.
“It’s unpatriotic. That’s what it is.” I’ve moved off blasphemy and onto jingoism.
“We’ll be fine” says Meeester ushering me towards our table, filled with six other people we don’t know. People who seem unperturbed by the dryness.
“It nullifies their vows. No toast, no marriage.” I am now belligerent and frankly annoyed at the deception, looking now, to the laws of the land, for justification.
“Maybe we’ll get a glass to toast them. That’s it…they’ll dole out booze for the toast.” Meeester has suddenly snapped back to the “denial stage”.
Two hours later, the toast has come and gone and no more than diluted orange cordial has passed anyone’s lips.
In the confusion that is the start of the “Strip the Willow” dance (which you need to be hammered to attempt, by Scottish Law- look it up), Meeester and I take the matter into our own hands and escape down Hope Street, on the pretense of “getting some more money out” (for what?) to the legendary Griffin Bar.
During this 30 minute Griffin session we have a glass or two and a short or two. To be fair, this is much more than we would normally squeeze into that timeframe. But we’re on borrowed time. We’ll be expected back for the Gay Gordons.
During our hiatus, we also gamble on the bandit, swear a lot, covet someone’s ass, think impure thoughts and take the Lord’s name in vain a couple of times.
Dry weddings- you heard it here first.
Be warned; they do exist.
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My Drugs Hell
On the day he went missing, his parents called the police and not much was done. The Chief Superintendent liked to be in charge of pretty much everything and he wasn’t around to make any decisions.
Two missing persons, then.
One was a small boy being held by a convicted and paroled paedophile who should have been closely monitored, but wasn’t.
Another was a Chief Superintendent who was banging a woman who wasn’t his wife in a lay-by, too busy to go into work.
An enquiry later that year pointed all fingers of blame in the direction of the Chief Superintendent. Who knew how long the boy had been held alive before his horrible death? Who knew why the police couldn’t suss out that a dangerous convicted paedophile living across from the playpark in question might be responsible? Who knew how much of the lack of action was because the boy was the son of a benefit financed council estate family who had a colourful reputation?
I was telling you about the Drug Awareness Mandatory Course. I promised you all I’d write about it.
You’re thinking that maybe I’m going to belittle the efforts of a hemp wearing Dudley-DoRight-Drugs-Action-Type-Guy, aren’t you? But I’m not. That might have at least been useful.
So anyway back to the Ex-Chief Superintendent. What do you do when you are forced, kicking and screaming, into early retirement by then First Minister, Donald Dewar, your reputation in tatters? Well, you write a book. Not about the little boy. No, you can’t touch that one. You look around you, you see how well that chap Mr Nice is doing with that drug trafficking book. So you write your own. Except this one is from the point of view of a law enforcer (kinda).
And then you get a nice little earner pontificating over a strung out two day (TWO day!) course lecturing educational professionals about the international drug trade. These educational professionals sit hoping to God that at one point the monologue will at least lead to some informed pointers on dealing with young people in their charge who may need help with drug addiction. It does not. It is like sitting in front of a 5 hour Party Political Broadcast. And then having to come back next week to do it all again.
So “Drug Awareness” it was called. Three months worth of lectures subjecting all employees to the course. Nice work, if you can get it. As a result, all teaching staff can tell you anything you want to know about the evil that is hash, cocaine and heroin. We know how it is made, where it is made and how illegal and nasty it all is.
What we can’t tell you is how to get help for any of our students who maybe having trouble with drugs or how to tell any of the signs of being under the influence in your classroom.
But let’s face it, they probably all live in council estates and are not to be bothered about anyway. Or possibly the self proclaimed expert on drug awareness has never met a junkie, or been any where near a drug rehabilitation centre in his puff.
Maybe instead of doing all those things he was banging some woman who wasn’t his wife in a lay by, being covertly photographed by the local papers….
Roadside Cafe Rage
Anyone who has ever driven on the A90 to Aberdeen will have passed this building.
This is the Stracathro Services near Brechin. Frequented by truckers and the country’s future heart attack patients.
I don’t know how well you can see the sign but just in case you can’t read it I will display it for you here:
Ye May Gang Faur and Fare Waur
What the blue blazes does that sign mean?
For years as a kid, I would drive past with my parents and we would all go on about how never in our entire lives have we heard anything approximating this phrase. At first we put it down to being Weegies. Perhaps after a couple of years in the land of the Aberdonian Doric speaking environs we would be able to understand it. But no, it is not Doric. It is just utter pish.
We think it means this:
You May Go Far and Fare Worse.
What kind of ad is that for an eating establishment?
Let’s break it down, shall we? In fact let’s imagine we are trying to get a concrete answer from the utter moron who thought it up all those years ago.
Are we actually saying, “There’s worse food out there but you’d have to travel far to find it?” No?
So, are you saying, “Our food is so bad that worse cannot be found in the immediate vicinity?” No?
So, let me get this right, you’re then saying, “Our food is fucking terrible but there’s not another restaurant for 40 miles, so you might as well put up or shut up.” No?
So, to recap, you’re saying, “You may go far, but there’s a hell of a lot worse out there than our crap, so what the hell are you complaining about” No?
Well what are you saying then? Is it a greeting? Is it a warning? Is it a Northern Scottish version of “Bon Appetit!”?
Oh, I’m getting really annoyed just contemplating it. Nothing quite enrages Meeester and me as the sight of this building. The Flying Martinis drive up and down Glasgow a lot, to remind ourselves why we stay in Aberdeen amongst other things. Each time we pass this eyesore, we go into rant mode. Or at least we used to.
Actually, we don’t rant as much anymore, as Meeester gets so worked up about it, that he can’t vent without swearing and now we have two impressionable kids in the back, he can’t get away with it. The rants have now subsided to Meeester grimacing, a vein popping out on his temple, and the delivery of the two fingered salute in the direction of the establishment. Just to make sure we register our displeasure.
In fact, it’s a ritual. Once we went past and I didn’t see him give the Services sign the Vs.
“How remiss,” I thought.
I double checked with him, “Did you..?”
“Yes, I did it back there, quickly” he assured me.
It’s like I am checking with him that he put the kids’ seatbelts on or he switched the gas fire off before we left. If we forget to do it one time, would we have to do a U-Turn and submit our rude gesture before making our way on our planned journey? I think possibly we would.
What is it about that sign that enrages us so? I think it’s a number of things:
- It is bloody typical of that Scottish negative turn of phrase. Another example of this is:
Person A: “How are you?”
Person B: “Nae bad”
Or, worse:
Person A: “How’s it going?”
Person B: “Cannae complain”
Like it’s disappointing that they can’t complain! How gutting! What a nightmare, I can’t complain!
- It’s not a phrase! Has anyone ever been offered a sandwich at someone’s house and been cajoled into accepting it by the phrase,
“Well, ye may gang far and fare waur”.
“Oh, okay then, load me up, odd lady!”
- It is twee. I bet the tourists love it. They think we speak like that! We don’t. I feel angry and misrepresented. No wonder Gaelic is dying.
- Everyone who wonders about the sign goes in at least once to the “restaurant” (the loosest use of a word ever) to find out the answer to the riddle. They leave with amoebic dysentery. My in-laws were caught out with this not two years ago.
So can I ask you all should you ever pass the Stracathro Services, to join us in raising those two fingers aloft? And if you don’t plan on coming up this way soon, but would like to join in anyway, then scroll back to the photo at the top of the post and similarly give the place the respect it deserves.
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Stop Press: Head on over to Top Blog Magazine to read my post Paper, Pregnancy and the Princess as well as other primo stuff. It’s a little different from the usual Misssives fare. And if that doesn’t entice you over then perhaps if I say “Ye may Gang Faur fae the Misssives and Fare Waur”? Arrgghghgh!
Aberdeen Beeaaatch
Seen in the window of the twee Scottish tourist shop in my town today. A t-shirt on a female dummy. It is white and has a has blue slogan that reads:
“I was born a bitch, what’s your excuse?”
“Aberdeen, Scotland”
It has little Scottish St Andrew’s flag embroidered below .
What the blazes? I am absolutely at a loss. Is “I was born a bitch, what’s your excuse?” Aberdeen’s Slogan? Was there a vote on this? Did I miss a meeting?
1. What has being a bitch got to do with being in Aberdeen, Scotland?
2. Is this a traditional well known quote from the works of Rabbie Burns or Sir Walter Scott that I have missed? It surely must have some cultural significance…why else would it be there above our national flag?
Maybe it’s an Irvine Welsh quote. But surely that would be more,
“I was born a doss c**t, what’s your excuse”
3. Maybe it’s an attempt to capture the modern Scots way of talking. A bit ghetto, you know. Like those t-shirts that circulated back in the late eighties that said “Pure Dead Brilliant” on them. So then why does it sound like something that would come out of the mouth of a trailer trash Jerry Springer guest?
4. Who are going to buy these? Bitches, presumably.
5. If this is what’s in the window, what the hell else is inside? I may go in the shop tomorrow to find out. Maybe there’s such delights as t-shirts with:
“See Glasgow and
get to f**k”
“Edinburgh….
City of Bastards”
“Get tae Fochabers”
“ I 
Dundee.
Whit the F**K are ye gonna dae about it, pal”
6. The phrase in itself doesn’t make sense. It suggests that being born a bitch is OK.
Claiming that you were born a with a disposition towards extreme violence may just get one off in court after committing the most heinous of crimes? I can just see Eichmann trying that one out in Nuremberg,
“I was born a fascist genocidal evil monster, what’s your excuse?”
“You’ve got us there, Adolf!”
7. So imagine you’re an American tourist, and you go in and buy this for someone back home as a souvenir. “Here you go, Mom. I saw this and thought of you.”
8. How many babies do you know that are bitches? You can’t be born a bitch! That’s ludicrous. I bet even Margaret Thatcher was cute once.
9. Scottish tourist board marketing meeting on a range of “ironic” t-shirts.
“It doesn’t say shortbread, tartan and haggis. It says ‘Come to Scotland, we may threaten you, but we’ll do with with our famous sense of humour.’”
Aberdeen Beeeeaaatch
“Aberdeen, Scotland”
It has little Scottish St Andrew’s flag embroidered below .
What the blazes? I am absolutely at a loss. Is “I was born a bitch, what’s your excuse?” Aberdeen’s Slogan? Was there a vote on this? Did I miss a meeting?
1. What has being a bitch got to do with being in Aberdeen, Scotland?
2. Is this a traditional well known quote from the works of Rabbie Burns or Sir Walter Scott that I have missed? It surely must have some cultural significance…why else would it be there above our national flag?
Maybe it’s an Irvine Welsh quote. But surely that would be more,
3. Maybe it’s an attempt to capture the modern Scots way of talking. A bit ghetto, you know. Like those t-shirts that circulated back in the late eighties that said “Pure Dead Brilliant” on them. So then why does it sound like something that would come out of the mouth of a trailer trash Jerry Springer guest?
4. Who are going to buy these? Bitches, presumably.
5. If this is what’s in the window, what the hell else is inside? I may go in the shop tomorrow to find out. Maybe there’s such delights as t-shirts with:
get to f**k”
“Edinburgh….
City of Bastards”
“Get tae Fochabers”
“ I Dundee.
Whit the F**K are ye gonna dae about it, pal”
6. The phrase in itself doesn’t make sense. It suggests that being born a bitch is OK.
Claiming that you were born a with a disposition towards extreme violence may just get one off in court after committing the most heinous of crimes? I can just see Eichmann trying that one out in Nuremberg,
“You’ve got us there, Adolf!”
7. So imagine you’re an American tourist, and you go in and buy this for someone back home as a souvenir. “Here you go, Mom. I saw this and thought of you.”
8. How many babies do you know that are bitches? You can’t be born a bitch! That’s ludicrous. I bet even Margaret Thatcher was cute once.
9. Scottish tourist board marketing meeting on a range of “ironic” t-shirts.
“It doesn’t say shortbread, tartan and haggis. It says ‘Come to Scotland, we may threaten you, but we’ll do with with our famous sense of humour.’”
A thistle at the final whistle
Sorry about the title. Crap isn’t it? I was going to go with “What a load of Ballots” but that was even worse. Suggestions for anything better most welcome.
Anyway, I just can’t let Thursday go past without a wee commemorative blogette about the Scottish Elections. I’m a Nationalist so let’s just get that out of the way first. Yes, yes, I know lots of people hate us, but hey ho, we’ve won (kinda) so let’s try and be friends. If you want to comment on my politics then that’s your prerogative but you won’t change me, so bear that in mind.
So, colours nailed to the mast I can go on. Fourteen memories of the day:
- That wonderful moment that Tommy Sheridan lost his seat and his poor wife grinned her arse off in the same Tammy Wynette way she’s been doing over the last eighteen months. Guess now he’ll have to ask for a job at that tanning salon he’s been using, and go the other side of the counter.
- Jack McConnell not appearing til late at night after he’d had a good greet. He’s a former maths teacher, you know. Maybe he’ll come back to education one day and then try and do his job whilst filling out the paperwork his party have foisted on us in the name of “Education, Education, Education”.
- Lib Dems coquettishly leading the two leading parties on, but trying to play hard to get. Chase me! Chase me! What a shower. Their UK Parliamentary leader does have the coolest name, I’ll give him that. Ming- that’s just genius.
- Alec being all presidential. How many times has he woken up from that dream? I nearly wept. Yes, yes, I know he’s a smug git but he’s our smug git.
- My mum phoning me about 6.30pm and squealing high pitched, “We’ve won! We’ve won!”
- Surfing the various Scots blogs and laughing at the way everyone celebrated. My personal favourite was “Get it up ye, Jack McConnell”
- The way Scotland was the first headline in the
UK national news all day for a good reason. - The way both John and I made the kids watch the telly at 6.45 telling them they were “Watching History”. They are 9 and 4, what do we really think they got out of that?
- My mother in law telling me she voted for the Christian Alliance Nutjob Party. I told her Jesus might be upset with her. No, of course I didn’t. But it would have been funny, I think.
- Watching the seats go up all day. Then that final wee flurry at the end.
- Those bloody ballot papers. But then again…they weren’t that hard to figure out. Maybe an inability to fill out a ballot paper properly should disqualify one from voting anyway. A kind of election natural selection.
- An unionist (probably Scottish) getting a bit angry with me when I posted on the Guardian forum inviting all English who wanted to emigrate to a peace loving Scotland that had no interests in sending their boys to get killed in Iraq. I figured it was only polite and I meant it most sincerely but he called me lots of big words I didn’t understand and got awful hot under the collar.
- Phoning my brother who was coming up from his home in
London to tell him that he would only be allowed back in if he could prove he is Scottish. We offered him a surefire test involving a football. If he failed the football skills challenge, he was allowed back in. - Brother’s
Essex girlfriend was sorted as she does one of the best Proclaimers impersonations I have ever seen. Honorary status awarded, goes without saying.
So there are my election day memories. But what happens next though, eh?
The Good the bad and The Queen
The Flying Martinis are back on Scottish soil. The Thai party’s over and we must return to our normal lives.
Despite the fact that I’ve been posting up the last of my Thai blogs over the last few days (There’s still one last one to come- but I can’t post it now for reasons too boring to relate- it’ll be up later tonight) we have actually been back since Sunday night.
In that time I’ve realised that nothing of note has happened in the UK during our absence. On the flight from Dubai to Glasgow, the cabin crew doled out copies of the Saturday Glasgow Herald and I knew that it had been a slow news week when the front page headline was about Wayne Rooney’s “better half” (could you find a worse half? She’d have to be an Ork) Coleen stunning the nation by NOT wearing a hat on Ladies Day at Ascot. Sweet Jesus, will the madness never end?
Things hotted up slightly on reaching Glasgow and Sunday papers which of course had the earth shattering news that like his old man, Oor Wullie, our next King but one, was going to hang about a bit (read shag a few more well bred fillies) before marrying some fertility tested Sloaney breeding machine. This place has gone to the dogs! (Corgis, perhaps?)
Of course, all events and real news have been scrapped for the Scottish Parliament election coverage. Maybe this time next year we’ll be an independent nation, who knows? It’s certainly looking like it could happen. I think a lot of Scots are thinking they’d rather have their taxes spent at home than on an illegal war in Iraq and that we could probably benefit from being freed from the clutches of the US. Since the UK government doesn’t seem to want to distance themselves from Mr Bush’s crackpot foreign policies, then maybe at least the Scots have a way out the back door.
Now, I know that a lot of folk don’t want to lose our ties with the Royal Family. I’m not one of them, but I understand that many people have a lot of affection for the inbred bunch of disfunctionals. Even now that the best ones are dying off. So I am hereby offering up my Family as candidates for the Scottish Royal Family. I think we’ve got all the ingredients you’d expect.
Take my Gran- she’d be a great Queen Mum. She is just like Viz comic’s Mrs Brady, Old Lady, but more offensive. She also looks great in lilac and is despite some recent health scares refuses to leave this mortal coil- so she’s definately a candidate for reaching the big 100. I’m sure she’s also choked on the odd fish bone, as HRH used to do regularly just to keep us on our toes.
My Dad upsets groups of people regularly, just like Prince Philip. He’d never be out of the papers. He’s not been as bad as to call people “slitty eyed” like old racist Phil did that time in China, but he did once upset all local golfers when introduced to the chairman of the local golf club, he said something along the lines of “And I thought all golfers were queer…”. He has also in the past told a Stevie Wonder joke to a blind man. He’s perfect for the job.
My mum thinks she’s in charge of everyone anyway so she’s perfect for Queen. And she’s had the same hairstyle her whole life- just like Liz.
My brother is the Prince Andrew type international playboy. STILL not married! At 36! Just ask my gran- it’s all she talks about.
Where does leave that me,and the Flying Martinis? Oh, we just want to be those peripheral royals that get a wad of cash for doing not much of anything, that get the kudos, privelege and use of the country houses but no-one really knows how they get away with it.
We’ve all got our own green wellies and headscarves so we’re good to go.
Give it some thought and get back to me.
Ps: One more Thai blog to go up- sorry for messing with your heads. It’ll be up later.
The other day was the first anniversary of the Sco…
The other day was the first anniversary of the Scottish Smoking Ban in Public places (26 March). It’s been great, hasn’t it?
Let’s look at why it’s been the best idea Scotland has had since Mr Fleming found some mould in a coffee cup that he’d left under his bed, that he had an idea might fight infection. (We’ve invented all the best stuff by the way, it’s easy to think that just because we’re crap at football, we must be crap at everything else. As I write we’re 1-0 down to Italy…)
So why is the smoking ban a top idea:
Heaps of people have given up the fags. Could we reach a stage in the future where smoking looks a bit eccentric like taking snuff, driving a Sinclair C5 or having a mullet?
- You don’t stink like Deirdre Barlow’s thermal vest everytime you wake up from a night out.
- You don’t have to deny yourself an outfit cos it’s dry clean only and will cost you £7.50 in dry cleaning everytime you so much as look at a pub or club.
- Friendships have been made as smokers stand together in the cold outside pubs…aw bless…I like to see the stats on how many weddings have taken place from people who met in the smoking area outside a pub. Just think they can go halfers on an iron lung…So beautiful.
- The pubs haven’t gone out of business. People still want to go out with their mates. They are not individually sat at home on their own with 50 Malboro and a carry out.
- Young people are less likely to have a cigarette whilst pissed in a pub- cos they can’t! (That’s how I started- gave up in 1997) Again great to see stats on how many people’s first fag was one that they lit the wrong end of, or set their hair on fire because they were hammered. The figures will be high.
- Dying of lung cancer isn’t an occupational hazard if you want to work in the hospitality industry anymore.
- You never ever have to eat a meal in restaurant and nearly have a stroke getting upset about the git in the table next to you who lights up just as your meal arrives and blows smoke over your toddler sitting in the high chair directly in the blue smoke stratos.
- Public places are cleaner generally. White walls ARE white, not “nicotine sunset”. And the seats in pubs are not like a pair hookers tights; grubby and full of holes.
- (Hooker’s tights….my metaphors are so poetic, kind of Shakesperian, I think…”Shall I compare thee to a Hooker’s tights, thou art so stained and full of bombers….”)
- This is a corker. It’s just not like Scotland to be a forerunner in the health stakes. We stink at everything else and are a nation of pie eating, binge-drinking liabilities, but we are a nation ahead of our time on this one. England still can’t get this law passed. What’s wrong with you people, if the fag addicted Scots and Irish can do it so can you! Now all we have to do to further improve our health is put a ban on the production of Lorne Sausage.
- You can now take your kids for a pub lunch. I would never have done that before. I once took baby Louis briefly into Ma Camerons as the staff had a present for him when he was born (John and I were regulars before our social life was severely curtailed.) Anyway after a fifteen minute visit where he was handed round the bar by cooing ladies, I took the boy home and his previously divinely smelling baby hair smelled of smoke. I was horrified.
- Can I just point out that I did not visit the bar at 11.30pm on a Friday night with the bairn…just in case any of you are thinking of phoning the “social”.
- It’s not cool to smoke anymore, it’s just bloody freezing to stand outside with your legs turning corn-beef in your mini skirt and wedges. Mmmm attractive, girls!
- And what a hassle- nipping out every five minutes for a smoke- you’ll lose your seat when you go out, and miss half of what’s going on in the bar, and it being Scotland, you’ll get your hair-do rained on or blown to hell and back. Not worth it.
- Are the tobacco manufacturers losing heaps of money? Let’s hope so. They’ve had it pretty good for too long. You lied to us, cigarettes didn’t make us sexy! They just gave us bad skin, brown teeth and buggered up our insides!
So long may the ban reign, and let’s hope that Wales find it as good as we have when their ban starts next month. England are due to start it soon but still can’t make up their minds about how far to go. Not the English as such, just the MPs. At the moment they’re arguing over whether it’s just for the unwashed or if the posh nobs in private gentlemen’s clubs have to pitch in too. They are actually discussing this. In a serious manner. Like it’s a reasonable argument. For real. No really. It’s true.
So, here’s Jerry’s Final Thought:
It might take a generation to really make a huge difference to the nation’s health but this is the best thing we’ve ever done up here. That and inventing the telly. (It’s amazing the stuff you get done when there’s no telly to distract you….)
Pinch of snuff, anyone?
