Glasgow and Other Such Things…

Glasgow is not what it seems…

Or rather Glasgow does not live up to my preconceptions.  I have heard before now that deep fried pizza is a local speciality. It is served with chips and the pizza is wrapped around the chips and the whole thing is eaten like a sandwhich with the pizza replacing the bread.  I leave this culinary dystopian image as a shorthand testament in place of a lengthier resolve in order to save face.  My first actual experience of Glasgow was enjoying a chai-latte in the i-café.  I leave this as a shorthand testament in place of a lengthier expression of astonishment.

The day is hot and sunny.  We waltz up and down the high street popping our head into various charity shops, a Chinese chemist, a pseudo-oldy-worldy furniture shop, the Captain’s Rest.  This latter establishment is where we play.

There are pictures on the walls of the Jolly Roger, Blackbeard and Advertisements for rum. An anchor holds open the door and a life belt behind the bar will save any over zealous drinker from drowning.  The password for the Internet is Moby Dick.

The support act is a young girl called Baby Taylor.  She greets us all with hugs and asks us a barrage of questions whilst simultaneously answering them in no particular order.  I don’t think she is crazy, more she just made the most of the hot weather outside with her friends and a couple of bottles of her choice.  She is defiantly bubbly and we, as happy as we are with our surroundings for the evening are defiantly dry.  So Gus takes a trip to spar to relieve the drought.

By the end of the show we are favourably lubricated.  We say goodbye to friends, some old, some new and climb back into the van for a drive to an Ibis hotel somewhere between Scotland and Manchester for an early morning set off.  Back in the van. It is not unbearable, this time in the van; it just represents a kind of inertia so benign that you almost cease to exist. You become apart from yourself and the rigours of a jump-start, upon alighting, become more and more tiring and more and more questionable so eventually a bad mind becomes yourself.  In this instance, more than a jump-start is not enough and the resuscitation needed to fix your mind must be ritualistic.  A shower, a stretch, some breath, a walk, catch the light, have a meal, make a circle.

The dance begins again. We laugh and we cry. We hide and we seek.  We climb out and into the back of the van…


  1. pearley said:

    Poor smashed apple, who’s cheeks were so rosy. Who is pipe’s new fellow? Looks quite solid and not smashable at all. Thank you for being so prolific. Those stories are most entertaining, and, in fact I think, this is what blogs were invented for.

    Should you, despite being obviously occupied with seemingly endless touring, be able and inclined to help Zoe Boekbinder find an opportunity for a show in the Manchester area roughly within the first 3 weeks of June, it would be lovely if you contacted me via mail. Sorry if this comes kind of spammy.

    Pat Crow and be great,

    • Hey Bernd,

      Thanks very much, I’m not sure many would agree with your sentiments.
      The new apple is a potato – I think even more humble than the apple…

      I’ll see what I can do for Zoe, no coming off as spam at all. Send me your address so as I can contact you…

      Take care

  2. pearley said:

    Oh, a potato! Then they are family – kind of – though none of them seems to be too proud of that relation, hence trying to keep it a secret. That might explain why potato is not really mourning about the smashing event. The kind of relation remains unclear, but there are undeniable clues that it exists: The word for potato is “earth apple” in The Netherlands (Aardappel) and in some German, Austrian, and Swiss regions (Erdapfel). 😉

    Thanks for your kind help,

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