The weekend before last was a winner winner chicken dinner. Packed in the fun like it was going out of style. First, a littel stopover in paperwork town (otherwise known as the dodgey end of Glasgow) for a little finger print, eye-scanning frivolity. I'm IN the matrix. Incidentally, I now have my new visa, allowing me to camp out here in the Frozen North for another 2 years. For better or worse, in sickness and in health, it's me, Stu and Eburger for the forseeable future.
After the fun times at the Home Office, we moved on to the Weege city itself. Great city. Gritty, funky, flashy. All the things Edinburgh in its calm, conservative nature is not. I love them both for different reasons, though I haven't spent nearly enough time in Glasgow to completely appreciate all it has to offer.
We were joined in our Glaswegian adventure by a rag tag bunch of companions, including the delightful Meghan all the way from Toronto on holiday, Stu's 7 month pregnant sister Emma, her partner Tommy, and their little boy Louie, and my friend the feisty Fifer Ross, our source of local knowledge for the duration.
It may surprise few of you that the photographs depict an early group effort to concentrate on cultural pursuits. The high brow content of said pursuits diminishes as the evening progresses, and the death knell would probably be when they brought out the Tequila slammers.
Meghan is the meat in a Kimsey sandwich.
I play the meat, but really it'a all cheese.
I should mention that earlier in the day, I was shat on from a great height by a pigeon with Delhi Belly. All over my trench coat. It was disgusting, and I was in the middle of a busy shopping street literally wailing for Stu to clean it up. It wasn't my finest moment, but it certainly helped me appreciate the plight of every statue in St Georges Square.
The Glasgow Modern Art Gallery. I think the traffic cone is meant to be some kind of juxtapositional statement. Discuss.
We don't know what it means either.
Quite frankly the best balloon twisting I've ever seen - he made a very passable Luigi (Mario Brothers) for Louie, who was thrilled and trailed that balloon around for the next two days. His steps were punctuated with the occassional pop.
Seriously delicious food at dinner - pork belly, roasted apple and roasted new potatoes.
More food porn - my pizza was deliciouso.
Umm ... tequila. Ross, meet Tequila. Oh, you've met? And you don't see eye to eye? Kiss and make up.
Tommy lurves him some Tequila.
Earnest discussion: Ale vs. Lager.
Time to go home.
Stu and I dropped Meghan at her hostel in a taxi, and we went back to our dingey hotel over the river (the derro side). We were all merry, but not outrageously drunk, and it was a good time to go home before things got messy. However, I got a call from Meghan just after we got back to our hotel. She had attempted to go through the hostel bar to get up to her room, but the bouncer had refused her entry, stating (I kid you not), that her eyes were 'glassy'. According to the bouncers' manual: Things to Say to Drunk People When Refusing Entry, this was most definitely 'a sign of intoxication'. Intoxicated. In a pub. In Glasgow, Scotland, UK. You'll forgive my incredulity.
What if she had actually possessed a glass eye? What if she had just been crying and her eyes were wet with tears? What if she had been legitimately blind, rather than 'bloind'? Meghan was outraged, considering the night before she had been down in the bar having a few light ales when in stumbled a retchedly drunk couple who had all but vomited on her shoes and were still getting served at the bar! I'm convinced it was some kind of anti-Canadian conspiracy. Actually, I'm not, but wouldn't that be something?!
