Finding a job, a decent 3 for 2 book, and a person who doesn't speak Polish
So, the summer begins, and gambling aside, I have no real source of income. So I decided to get a job, a quick search of the jobcentre website reveals that the supermarket at the bottom of the hill wants a new security guard. Standing around, getting paid £6 an hour to look menacing and ensure that children only steal sweets from unethical companies? Even I could do that, so I phone the number, get an interview, fill out an application form, and away I go,
Both my mother and father, who having divorced 15 years ago seldom see eye to eye, came to the conclusion that I wouldn't get a job with so much hair and my "tramp beard". I eventually came to the compromise with myself that I would try to flatten my hair so it didn't look so imposing and scare interviewers (the only reason I personally can think of for hair getting in the way of a job) but I would shave off my beard, as it's approaching summer, and I might not notice how cold my face is.
My interview for some reason was in Glasgow rather than the place I’m planning on working, but I walked past the supermarket on my way to the train station and was enraged when I saw that the man currently hired to do the job I’m applying for HAS A SKINHEAD AND A GOATEE!!! Apparently I had come to completely the wrong compromise for this job.
But never mind, for as established the interview was in Glasgow, and a certain radiolibertines had agreed to meet me there, away from the prying eyes of my mother, whom she detests*, and under the watchful eyes of her mother (who once had her drink-spiked by Ginger Baker, and is therefore cooler than any of us).
After the interview, myself and Kirsty cavorted about the town eating Ben and Jerry's ice cream, marvelling at the art work in the GOMA etc(including lovely exhibits of a person limbo-ing, a desk sawn in half inside a glass box and some little wagons that are different colours) until the mylittlemimi and Durton signal was raised aloft into the skies of Glasgow, so we met up with them, and went for a jaunt to Woolworths under the loving arms of a giant umbrella I had purchased during the aforementioned cavorting.
On the way we passed a gift shop on the corner of St Enoch's square with some truly truly truly awful gifts. One that stuck out particularly in my mind was a mug, with a west highland terrier on the front. Now this wasn't a WHT in the style of say, Tarzan, a real dog's dog. This WHT was in the style of Babar, he'd sold out on his doggy ways, and was standing up on two legs, wearing clothes. It had decided that it would end its learning from Babar there and wouldn't opt for a nice green suit or perhaps the yellow jumper and jeans made popular by Arthur; instead this dog wore a kilt and a t-shirt with a slogan proclaiming that it had seen Nessie (with a further Babar-ised picture of a smiling snake type creature curving its way over and under the surface of a loch, wearing a Tam O'Shanter which happened to be the same tartan this dog was wearing on his kilt - perhaps they are related - and beaming a great big monster smile at being caught on camera.)
Now at the time, I let most of the above pass, for what annoyed me most about this mug, was the fact that this dog, had a saltire on the left arm of his sleeve, in case we were to have any doubt about his ethnicity.
So on to Woolworths we went for Mimi to stock up on ponies and "whore dollies", but Woolworths collection of ponies and Bratz was to be bemoaned, so instead we looked at many other cool toys such as Batman toys and Lego and some crap toys, such as Superman toys (which include two different types of "Superman lifting action", one of Superman apparently not suffering ill effects from karate chopping a large piece of kryptonite and one toy I did quite like the look of where you could fire a missile into his chest) cars, and a toy that proves that Mimi is woefully behind in her alphabet studies unit (X is for X-ray, not Xylophone!!)
After all this Woolworths fun, we were thirsty for more entertainment, and hungry for pizza, so we sauntered up to the UGC cinema, where we all jumped through the revolving doors into the wilderness of the box office. Mimi, Kirsty and Sean spent 3 days wandering through the maze of ropes, while I employed my smarts and carved a path out for myself. My lack of student card meant I had to pay full price to see "Thank you for smoking" despite the fact I was with three students because as Mimi so eloquently put it "I look like their dad".
We all went off to Pizza hut which was fairly uneventful, until I realised that unlimited Pepsi + unlimited ice cream = unlimited coke floats.
The movie was watched, all were silent, although there were trailers that made me and Mimi think of Derek (Nacho Libre), the film was enjoyed by all, especially Mimi and Kirsty who felt that smoking was their duty to society.
We went to the train station, Sean explained he frowned upon all technology produced after the 1930s, we mocked him, and his tin helmet rejecting ways.
Unscathed by this, he went home with Mimi, to take part in adventures I cannot relate to you but that may or may not be found at mylittlemimi.
With Mimi and Sean off gallivanting without us me and Kirsty decided that town was a bit boring and we'd go back to the hotel for sleeping, and to amuse ourselves with complimentary tea and coffee and so on.
Our airport bus arrived, a Polish man, greeted us, and whisked us off to the airport in an efficient and punctual manner, while showing a modicum of respect to his employers.
Once we arrived at the airport, we headed over roundabouts and fences and such to get to Travel Odge - as we decided it must be as Trave Lodge would probably be capitalise while "o"s look the same either way - later we found out there was a "courtesy bus" as Travel Odge are courteous enough not to wish death upon their clientele the minute they arrive in the country. We checked in at the front desk, we were in the non-smoking 119, while Kirsty's mother was in the smoke filled 139, certain of the facts, as presented to us, we went down the hall to 119 to dump our bags, and when we opened the door, the chain was on and a hand emerged in the gap. This was not at all scary.
It turned out reception had put us all in the same room, a problem which - thankfully - they resolved allowing Kirsty's mum to smoke, and me and Kirsty to live our lives without serious psychological trauma.
Myself and Kirsty slept soundly.
We awoke the next day, well after the official breakfast having time, both hungry we mused on where we should eat breakfast while watching a TV programme about Longleet House, a Baronial Manor house owned by Lord Bath, that has been converted into an animal shelter of some kind.
Kirsty suggested going to Italmania, which I will confess, was something I originally was not very keen on. I've been brought up to believe that Italian restaurants should have long unpronounceable Italian names, like “La Scarapetta” or “Il Buongostaio” and be staffed by old Italian men and women who insist on you calling them Uncle Mauro or Aunt Julietta etc, and all the young people I saw jostling about underneath a red mini, did not suggest to me fine dining.
I was proved wrong when a Polish woman presented me with "Mushroom Bruschetta" (a fancy way of saying mushroom stroganoff on toast!) and banana and meringue hot chocolate. Should I get a job in Glasgow, I shall lunch here often.
After our hearty breakfast (which we left at around half five), Kirsty decided to try and spend some of the book vouchers she had received from various people over the years, as WH Smith was closed, we headed to Borders where the princely sum of £30 was to be spent on a whole host of things.
We wandered around the bookshop for two and a half hours, considering whether to buy such fantastic books as "Scottish hard bastards" "Disused railway lines of Glasgow and Dunbartonshire" everything by Ben Elton, or the latest children's book by Andy McNab. We lamented the fact that £30 wasn't enough to buy one of everything in the entire Da Vinci section (yes, they have a book case, devoted solely to books about the Da Vinci code, that is how low we have sunk) I noticed a very interesting complete illustrated works of Jane Austen for £15 but as it was slightly bigger than Kirsty, we decided not to buy it on this occasion.
One of the books Kirsty bought was 3 for 2 which led to us searching for some other 3 for 2 books that were worth buying, but as they tended to be biographies of Robert Kilroy Silk, or the history of line dancing in middle eastern nation states, we eventually gave up and Kirsty got a copy of Beowulf (but apparently not the Gangsta Rap version) to add to her collection.
As I write this I’ve realised how amazing Kirsty is, and how much I love her, if I (who apparently display signs of ADHD and turn a 15 minute trip to Tesco into an hour long troll) can wander about a bookshop with her for two and a half hours and not get bored of it, and I only had the briefest of brief looks at the comic section.
So books in hand, and everything closing down he headed off to the top of town, hoping to catch a film called "Brick" which I am informed by people who know me tastes, is a film I should enjoy immeasurably so as it is a Chandler-esque story set in a modern Californian high school. Unfortunately it would finish before the last bus to the airport, so -after buying some chocolate milk from Sainsbury’s (who delighted Kirsty by having a sign saying that any customers with "5 items or FEWER" may purchase them at the kiosk) we cut our trip short and our Polish friend drove us back to the airport, where we took advantage of a courtesy bus to the Travel Odge.
After rendezvousing briefly with Kirsty's mother, who told me stories of the times Kirsty threatened to eat small children, and the lies they told her about their pet pig going to live on a farm, Kirsty and I decided to watch a film in the hotel room seeing as we didn't get a chance to go to the cinema again.
The choice of Blockbuster films wasn't up to much, Donnie Darko, Ocean's 11 and Police Academy 19 etc etc so myself and Kirsty, pondered viewing one of the films in the Adult section, these had far more interesting names such as "Anal Debutantes" "Asian Babes" and "Barely Legal(new)" which myself and Kirsty found out in the synopsis involved the babysitter, rewarding the lonely father with "a goody shagging". We decided that paying £6 to watch 40 minutes of Graeme Garden and Tim Brooke-Taylor doing the Funky Gibbon while Bill Odie twitched in the corner was poor value for money, so Kirsty read one of her new books, and I read the bible the Gideon’s had placed there, and we sat, reading our books, drinking chocolate milk, like an old married couple, until it was time to go to sleep. I don't think being an old married couple with Kirsty would be that bad
The next morning we needed to check out, I hadn't finished my bible the night before so I took it with me, and then we decided to go for a wander around Glasgow, perhaps to spend Kirsty's remaining WH Smith vouchers. We had breakfast in one of several eateries called "subway". One of my first ever jobs, after leaving school, was working with a company who among other things offered people incentives to dine at subway frequently. I've smoked a joint with the Master Franchiser for the West of Scotland, and at that time, I felt that Subway, were good people; but I was saddened, and shocked to my very core when we went to subway and I found, that in my absence, they have lost their way, and switched drink suppliers, from Pepsi, to Coca Cola.
Naturally this led to myself and Kirsty ordering no drinks, and instead going off to the nearest Sainsbury’s to buy more chocolate milk and then we went to a toy shop I thought Kirsty might like, that sold old fashioned toys that required no batteries, like kites and marbles and dinosaurs. We decided to buy a kite for when I visit Islay to try and get it to fly on the long, sweeping and windy shores of the Big Strand.
We didn't have much time for anything else, and so for the third and final time, a Polish man took us to Glasgow airport, where after meeting up with Kirsty's mum, and having a browse around Dorothy Perkins (where for the second time now I found a Marilyn Monroe style dress, placed it around my neck and pretended their was an air vent in the ground, because lets face it, that joke will never get old) Kirsty had to board her flight, I said goodbye, and sauntered off to the bus stop, where a non-Polish person took me back to the city.
*Kirsty claims not to detest my mother, but wouldn't you detest someone who gave you a cheese and onion lattice pie while everyone else got to eat chilli con carne?
Both my mother and father, who having divorced 15 years ago seldom see eye to eye, came to the conclusion that I wouldn't get a job with so much hair and my "tramp beard". I eventually came to the compromise with myself that I would try to flatten my hair so it didn't look so imposing and scare interviewers (the only reason I personally can think of for hair getting in the way of a job) but I would shave off my beard, as it's approaching summer, and I might not notice how cold my face is.
My interview for some reason was in Glasgow rather than the place I’m planning on working, but I walked past the supermarket on my way to the train station and was enraged when I saw that the man currently hired to do the job I’m applying for HAS A SKINHEAD AND A GOATEE!!! Apparently I had come to completely the wrong compromise for this job.
But never mind, for as established the interview was in Glasgow, and a certain radiolibertines had agreed to meet me there, away from the prying eyes of my mother, whom she detests*, and under the watchful eyes of her mother (who once had her drink-spiked by Ginger Baker, and is therefore cooler than any of us).
After the interview, myself and Kirsty cavorted about the town eating Ben and Jerry's ice cream, marvelling at the art work in the GOMA etc(including lovely exhibits of a person limbo-ing, a desk sawn in half inside a glass box and some little wagons that are different colours) until the mylittlemimi and Durton signal was raised aloft into the skies of Glasgow, so we met up with them, and went for a jaunt to Woolworths under the loving arms of a giant umbrella I had purchased during the aforementioned cavorting.
On the way we passed a gift shop on the corner of St Enoch's square with some truly truly truly awful gifts. One that stuck out particularly in my mind was a mug, with a west highland terrier on the front. Now this wasn't a WHT in the style of say, Tarzan, a real dog's dog. This WHT was in the style of Babar, he'd sold out on his doggy ways, and was standing up on two legs, wearing clothes. It had decided that it would end its learning from Babar there and wouldn't opt for a nice green suit or perhaps the yellow jumper and jeans made popular by Arthur; instead this dog wore a kilt and a t-shirt with a slogan proclaiming that it had seen Nessie (with a further Babar-ised picture of a smiling snake type creature curving its way over and under the surface of a loch, wearing a Tam O'Shanter which happened to be the same tartan this dog was wearing on his kilt - perhaps they are related - and beaming a great big monster smile at being caught on camera.)
Now at the time, I let most of the above pass, for what annoyed me most about this mug, was the fact that this dog, had a saltire on the left arm of his sleeve, in case we were to have any doubt about his ethnicity.
So on to Woolworths we went for Mimi to stock up on ponies and "whore dollies", but Woolworths collection of ponies and Bratz was to be bemoaned, so instead we looked at many other cool toys such as Batman toys and Lego and some crap toys, such as Superman toys (which include two different types of "Superman lifting action", one of Superman apparently not suffering ill effects from karate chopping a large piece of kryptonite and one toy I did quite like the look of where you could fire a missile into his chest) cars, and a toy that proves that Mimi is woefully behind in her alphabet studies unit (X is for X-ray, not Xylophone!!)
After all this Woolworths fun, we were thirsty for more entertainment, and hungry for pizza, so we sauntered up to the UGC cinema, where we all jumped through the revolving doors into the wilderness of the box office. Mimi, Kirsty and Sean spent 3 days wandering through the maze of ropes, while I employed my smarts and carved a path out for myself. My lack of student card meant I had to pay full price to see "Thank you for smoking" despite the fact I was with three students because as Mimi so eloquently put it "I look like their dad".
We all went off to Pizza hut which was fairly uneventful, until I realised that unlimited Pepsi + unlimited ice cream = unlimited coke floats.
The movie was watched, all were silent, although there were trailers that made me and Mimi think of Derek (Nacho Libre), the film was enjoyed by all, especially Mimi and Kirsty who felt that smoking was their duty to society.
We went to the train station, Sean explained he frowned upon all technology produced after the 1930s, we mocked him, and his tin helmet rejecting ways.
Unscathed by this, he went home with Mimi, to take part in adventures I cannot relate to you but that may or may not be found at mylittlemimi.
With Mimi and Sean off gallivanting without us me and Kirsty decided that town was a bit boring and we'd go back to the hotel for sleeping, and to amuse ourselves with complimentary tea and coffee and so on.
Our airport bus arrived, a Polish man, greeted us, and whisked us off to the airport in an efficient and punctual manner, while showing a modicum of respect to his employers.
Once we arrived at the airport, we headed over roundabouts and fences and such to get to Travel Odge - as we decided it must be as Trave Lodge would probably be capitalise while "o"s look the same either way - later we found out there was a "courtesy bus" as Travel Odge are courteous enough not to wish death upon their clientele the minute they arrive in the country. We checked in at the front desk, we were in the non-smoking 119, while Kirsty's mother was in the smoke filled 139, certain of the facts, as presented to us, we went down the hall to 119 to dump our bags, and when we opened the door, the chain was on and a hand emerged in the gap. This was not at all scary.
It turned out reception had put us all in the same room, a problem which - thankfully - they resolved allowing Kirsty's mum to smoke, and me and Kirsty to live our lives without serious psychological trauma.
Myself and Kirsty slept soundly.
We awoke the next day, well after the official breakfast having time, both hungry we mused on where we should eat breakfast while watching a TV programme about Longleet House, a Baronial Manor house owned by Lord Bath, that has been converted into an animal shelter of some kind.
Kirsty suggested going to Italmania, which I will confess, was something I originally was not very keen on. I've been brought up to believe that Italian restaurants should have long unpronounceable Italian names, like “La Scarapetta” or “Il Buongostaio” and be staffed by old Italian men and women who insist on you calling them Uncle Mauro or Aunt Julietta etc, and all the young people I saw jostling about underneath a red mini, did not suggest to me fine dining.
I was proved wrong when a Polish woman presented me with "Mushroom Bruschetta" (a fancy way of saying mushroom stroganoff on toast!) and banana and meringue hot chocolate. Should I get a job in Glasgow, I shall lunch here often.
After our hearty breakfast (which we left at around half five), Kirsty decided to try and spend some of the book vouchers she had received from various people over the years, as WH Smith was closed, we headed to Borders where the princely sum of £30 was to be spent on a whole host of things.
We wandered around the bookshop for two and a half hours, considering whether to buy such fantastic books as "Scottish hard bastards" "Disused railway lines of Glasgow and Dunbartonshire" everything by Ben Elton, or the latest children's book by Andy McNab. We lamented the fact that £30 wasn't enough to buy one of everything in the entire Da Vinci section (yes, they have a book case, devoted solely to books about the Da Vinci code, that is how low we have sunk) I noticed a very interesting complete illustrated works of Jane Austen for £15 but as it was slightly bigger than Kirsty, we decided not to buy it on this occasion.
One of the books Kirsty bought was 3 for 2 which led to us searching for some other 3 for 2 books that were worth buying, but as they tended to be biographies of Robert Kilroy Silk, or the history of line dancing in middle eastern nation states, we eventually gave up and Kirsty got a copy of Beowulf (but apparently not the Gangsta Rap version) to add to her collection.
As I write this I’ve realised how amazing Kirsty is, and how much I love her, if I (who apparently display signs of ADHD and turn a 15 minute trip to Tesco into an hour long troll) can wander about a bookshop with her for two and a half hours and not get bored of it, and I only had the briefest of brief looks at the comic section.
So books in hand, and everything closing down he headed off to the top of town, hoping to catch a film called "Brick" which I am informed by people who know me tastes, is a film I should enjoy immeasurably so as it is a Chandler-esque story set in a modern Californian high school. Unfortunately it would finish before the last bus to the airport, so -after buying some chocolate milk from Sainsbury’s (who delighted Kirsty by having a sign saying that any customers with "5 items or FEWER" may purchase them at the kiosk) we cut our trip short and our Polish friend drove us back to the airport, where we took advantage of a courtesy bus to the Travel Odge.
After rendezvousing briefly with Kirsty's mother, who told me stories of the times Kirsty threatened to eat small children, and the lies they told her about their pet pig going to live on a farm, Kirsty and I decided to watch a film in the hotel room seeing as we didn't get a chance to go to the cinema again.
The choice of Blockbuster films wasn't up to much, Donnie Darko, Ocean's 11 and Police Academy 19 etc etc so myself and Kirsty, pondered viewing one of the films in the Adult section, these had far more interesting names such as "Anal Debutantes" "Asian Babes" and "Barely Legal(new)" which myself and Kirsty found out in the synopsis involved the babysitter, rewarding the lonely father with "a goody shagging". We decided that paying £6 to watch 40 minutes of Graeme Garden and Tim Brooke-Taylor doing the Funky Gibbon while Bill Odie twitched in the corner was poor value for money, so Kirsty read one of her new books, and I read the bible the Gideon’s had placed there, and we sat, reading our books, drinking chocolate milk, like an old married couple, until it was time to go to sleep. I don't think being an old married couple with Kirsty would be that bad
The next morning we needed to check out, I hadn't finished my bible the night before so I took it with me, and then we decided to go for a wander around Glasgow, perhaps to spend Kirsty's remaining WH Smith vouchers. We had breakfast in one of several eateries called "subway". One of my first ever jobs, after leaving school, was working with a company who among other things offered people incentives to dine at subway frequently. I've smoked a joint with the Master Franchiser for the West of Scotland, and at that time, I felt that Subway, were good people; but I was saddened, and shocked to my very core when we went to subway and I found, that in my absence, they have lost their way, and switched drink suppliers, from Pepsi, to Coca Cola.
Naturally this led to myself and Kirsty ordering no drinks, and instead going off to the nearest Sainsbury’s to buy more chocolate milk and then we went to a toy shop I thought Kirsty might like, that sold old fashioned toys that required no batteries, like kites and marbles and dinosaurs. We decided to buy a kite for when I visit Islay to try and get it to fly on the long, sweeping and windy shores of the Big Strand.
We didn't have much time for anything else, and so for the third and final time, a Polish man took us to Glasgow airport, where after meeting up with Kirsty's mum, and having a browse around Dorothy Perkins (where for the second time now I found a Marilyn Monroe style dress, placed it around my neck and pretended their was an air vent in the ground, because lets face it, that joke will never get old) Kirsty had to board her flight, I said goodbye, and sauntered off to the bus stop, where a non-Polish person took me back to the city.
*Kirsty claims not to detest my mother, but wouldn't you detest someone who gave you a cheese and onion lattice pie while everyone else got to eat chilli con carne?