Irrational Encounters With The Modern World


Sign Of The Times.

This is the sign outside my local takeaway:

I went in today and told them that I choose David Cameron’s head.

Preferably with both his faces, so that I can alternate punching them.

I despise that smug, rich, reprehensible Tory fucknugget. Virtually nobody in my country voted for his party – of 59 seats, they won one. Independence can’t come soon enough.



The Best Bus-Stop I Ever Stood At.

This happened a wee while ago, but is another encounter that has stayed with me for its inherent silliness (in part) and for the humour demonstrated by fellow citizens of my favourite city.

I was on Union Street, as I recall, one dark night about 10 or 11pm, waiting at a bus stop. It was cold enough that I was standing with my back to whatever shop was behind me, arms folded for warmth, and late enough that the buses were running relatively infrequently. As I was waiting, a girl came staggering up the street towards me, swaying from side to side and trying desperately hard to keep her chips-and-cheese balanced in one hand while spilling lots of it with the other. I stepped back, to give her plenty of room to pass. The way she was zig-zagging up the pavement, she needed space to maneouvre.

“Are you a bouncer?” she slurred as she passed. I replied in the negative. As a general rule, they don’t hire bouncers to stand at deserted bus stops. Furthermore, as I discovered shortly afterwards, I was standing outside a dark and very closed branch of a high street opticians. In hindsight, I wish I had told her that yes, I was a bouncer, and then refused her entry to the shut Specsavers – just to see what she would do.

At this point, a small group of guys came down the street, as two girls were walking up the street across the road. This exchange was beautiful, purely for being so unexpected and, therefore, funny.

One of the guys wolf-whistled at the girls. One of the girls looked across, and the guy shouted “No’ you, yer pal!”

Haha, cheeky bastard! 😀



I Fail At Being A “Foodie”.

I’m not much given to dining out, my budget is limited and I’m still of an age where a social evening with friends is more likely to involve a pub, comedy night, cinema trip, or DVD night. My social group are not naturally given to going out for dinner, darling.

Birthdays and celebratory occasions are the exception, and then almost always exclusively limited to family. As time goes on, there are even less of us involved. Tonight, we went out to a local restaurant called Persia.

I remember when the place was an Indian takeaway, round the corner from a flat I later lived in, and outside which I saw my first (and so far only, touch wood) knife fight. I’d left the Oran Mor, heading for crap food on the way to the bus, when there was a ruckus. High stools were wielded, freshly-bought kebabs were thrown in defence, and after it died down someone reappeared from a side street brandishing a kitchen knife. He was standing on the boot of a parked car, holding it aloft like some deranged Glaswegian Lion-O, when I last looked – I decided I wasn’t that hungry, returned to the pub, and proceeded to drink for the next seven hours before catching the 6am bus instead. I love this city, but people get a bit mental when they’re buying food after a night’s drinking. Something about fried food brings out the worst in us, in every capacity.

Being unfamiliar with Persian cuisine, I looked the menu up online during the day. There were two reviews prominently featured on their page, and both recommended the same chicken stew dish. Faced with the menu, and deciding to try it for myself despite my hankering for the more predictable chicken shish kebab, it was disappointing. Not that it wasn’t nice, it was alright. Nothing more though, just alright. Maybe I’m a heathen, but I can’t get excited about chicken in a sauce served with rice – it was a staple of the family dinners we ate (or suffered) growing up, and the meal I had tonight didn’t taste any better or worse than Marks and Spencers are capable of. No disrespect intended, like everything else food is very subjective.

Nice place, good service, the starters were nice, and the mains looked pretty good. I think I just chose badly, and it’s the first and last time I order something based on a review. Chicken in a sauce with rice. Really, if that’s what excites you maybe you should get out more.