Dirty Old Men

I don't like one of my work colleagues. He has a bad habit of believing that all middle-aged women like to be cuddled when greeted. It's not the fact that he has rather offensive body odour, or that he has small white flecks of spit permanently fixed to the corners of his mouth. No, it's not even his habit of wriggling his pinky finger when he touches a female hand during the exchange of monies at the food counter. It's definitely the cuddling of women he hardly knows. He often takes the business cards left in the large glass bowl on the counter from those trying to provide a business service. He adds the details to that dreadful Facebook that passes itself off as a social network, then calls these strangers his friends. I am tempted to jab his bulbous eyes with a fish slice the next time he insists on cuddling a member of the public. I often wish that a rather large irate husband would enter the restaurant and pile drive a huge knuckle sandwich into his flabby belly to teach him a lesson.

I can only hope.

The Royal Baby - Breaking News

I have it on very good authority that the latest silver spoon sprog is to be named Malachi Patrick Joseph Seamus, due to the overriding guilt felt by his parents over the way in which the monarchy shamefully acquired their land over the last few hundred years.

Yeah, I've been drinking. Two coffees and a large vanilla shake since my dinner. My bad.

The Lesser of Two Evils

I am a failure on so many fronts it would seem. Whilst my fellow Glaswegian blogger jets off to the tropics to lap up the hot weather, swim with dolphins, drink strong whisky as if it was water and still create Mallorcan dishes that would knock the spots from a cheater, I sit here on top of an electric fan and feebly clutch a diet coke. I'm not cut out for hot weather or strong drink. The sun peels my skin and the big strong Highlander that I aspire to be seems a million miles north of what I actually am. Hot! How does the Chef, with his bronzed tan and his ability to adapt to whatever his environment throws up before him, still manage to produce the most wonderful of recipes while I struggle to flip burgers and salt fries for 10 hours a day? As for drinking fire water? Fanta orange and Dr Pepper give me a headache if I drink too much. I may have to question my parentage. Perhaps I am English and adopted by 2 lovely old people who just happened to live in Scotland. Yeah, that's it. I'm not a failure, I'm just an Englishman. I really am doomed!

Mapstew, Trailer Park Refugee, Past Imperfect

Just found em, loving them already.

Americans, Dogs, Beetles & Neck Tattoo's

I hated Americans without ever meeting one. I hated dogs without ever owning one. I detested Volkswagen Beetles without ever driving one. I detested unemployed people with neck tattoos without ever knowing one.

On Monday I attended a food course and was seated next to a guy from Chicago who was here for a year on an exchange programme. I was disappointed. Not once did he brag, show off or act like the fuck wits we are forced to endure so often on television. He was suave, funny, intelligent and a hell of a chef. We have exchanged numbers and we are going to meet up midweek for a few beers.

My girlfriend is ill so I have had to walk, feed and amuse her small pooch which up to now has just been background noise as far as I am concerned. To my delight I have discovered that a wagging tail, a cocked head and a welcoming little canine jig in constant circles as I arrive has grown on me. He is sitting beside me right now with his head on my feet.

Being on a limited budget dictates which mode of transport I get to drive. The for sale cards in my local supermarket threw up a limited choice after my scooter decided to die in the middle of a rainstorm on Friday night. I left it writhing in agony in a puddle at the side of the road where it fell. I never looked back. £1,480 got me a rather retro looking vee-dub, all be it somewhat rusty and with a musty smell which reminds me of mushroom soup. I love it. I feel like a kid again and people wave to me from the cramped confines of their own Beetles. So cool!

I'm still working on the neck tattoo thing though, but so far the prognosis isn't looking good.

Big Man

Hunger is a ghost of which no spirit can ever fill me. Today I missed a meal and also a friend. I can replace the meal, but the friend who lifted me and returned me to blogging has left. Enjoy the sun big yin, see you in Glasgow one fine September morning in the rain.

Waiter there is a nun in my soup

Extraordinary week this one now dormant on the calendar, but one for the diary while it's still fresh in the mind. Yesterday we had a few holy visitors from Ireland in to fill up on grub while their minibus was being repaired across the road. It seems that god made many things, but Movano buses was not one of his better ideas. As we were kinda busy during the lunchtime rush hour the lovely nuns instead of whining at the waitresses to hurry up and serve the soup, they actually ferried it from the serving counter to their tables. Nice of them in a way, but one customer sidled up to me and said that an elderly nun had spilled soup on his coat hanging from the back of the chair. What was I gonnae do?
I poured him a free coffee, but he wanted something more. I gave him free soup, all good, until the offending nun carried it over to his table with her thumb in the broth.

He stormed out. I  let him go, perhaps the devil serves soup better in hell. Amen to that one.