For the first ten or twelve years of my life, my mother cut my hair. She had professional qualifications and we were poor, so this was a harmonious arrangement. Unfortunately, this meant that by the time it came for me to branch out and get my hair cut by other barbers and hairdressers, I had no knowledge of how to ask what style I wanted my hair cut in. Perhaps this is why, to this day, I avoid getting my hair cut, and when I do cut it, I do it myself. Over the last decade I’ve fallen into a pattern of growing my hair long, and then once I’m fed up with the maintenance such styles demand, shaving it all off and starting again. I’d bought myself a pair of Wahl clippers for this very purpose, and for trimming my facial hair, and it was they I used to shave my hair off last November. Today was the first time I’d been for a trim since.
When I have gone for a hair cut since returning to Glasgow, I’ve tended to visit City Barbers in Glasgow, for no other reason than it’s the place my dad used to go. I went in today, not expecting much, and instead came out with a nice, cheap trim and having had a really entertaining conversation with the stylist. We got talking about politics for some reason, and he went off on an inspired monologue about the London mayoral election before recommending a book for me to read, being ‘The Isles’ by Norman Davies. I think that’s the first haircut I’ve ever actually enjoyed. And he only charged me £4 because it was just a trim.
It’s a shame the Scotland game wasn’t so pleasant. I guess those of us that have grown up supporting Scotland knew what to expect, that we would come a cropper against supposedly the weakest team in our group, but it doesn’t make it any the less disappointing. The performance was terrible, and the selection was slighty suspect, but I’m not sure what else we can do at the moment. Non-Rangers fans have been mocking George Burley’s decision to call up Kirk Broadfoot, but tellingly, no-one has suggested who he should have called up instead. We’ll always be a little thin on the ground as far as personnel goes, which explains why players like Scott Brown started today, despite him being bereft of form for what seems like twelve months or more. But again, who do we replace him with? I personally would like to see Kris Commons start on Wednesday, and not just because he was born in Mansfield. As far as our midfield goes, he’s been one of the few to show any kind of spark in the last few games.
But there you go. For us to qualify for South Africa (or wherever it ends up being played) we needed to win as many points as possible from the games not involving Holland. To have none after one game isn’t quite a disaster, but it’s not a mile off. We shall have to wait until Wednesday night to see what state our qualifying campaign really is in.
One day like this…
3 September, 2008
Today, on reflection, was rather a good ‘un. It started with being numbers crunching and electricity crackling and money being moved from my employer’s bank account to mine, which is always a pleasant experience, and then I got the bus to work, which is increasingly either a surreal or annoying experience. Today it was surreal; the driver obviously fancied himself as Lewis Hamilton, save for the fact he was an overweight white 40 something. While picking up a passenger at the high school, he managed to splash a passer-by with a miniscule spot of mud, resulting in her slinging the metaphorical version at him, who gave as good as he got. After the victim of the drive-by argument angrily informed she was taking the driver’s number and that he should drive more slowly, he pulled away from the bus stop, went through another puddle and splashed more mud on her. I couldn’t stop laughing, cruel as it might sound.
Work’s been quite good so far this week, mainly I think because I wasn’t in on monday, John’s been on holiday and Nerisa has joined us. She’s covering for Christine while she’s on long-term sick, but I hope she stays on; she’s lovely, and what’s more, she’s one of only a handful of people in our part of the office that’s under 30, so it’s nice to have someone around I can talk to and not feel like I’m being mildly patronised. Already, after only a day and half there, she shares the common hatred of BS that everyone in the bloody company seems to possess.
Just before lunchtime I received a phone call I was hardly expecting; It was Michael from college, telling me that the course was running after all, despite the low numbers. I’m not sure I can express how glad I was to hear this, but I didn’t really have much time to reflect on it before I had to head up to Glasgow for my appointment at the dental hospital. Around May or so, my two premolars on my bottom jaw began to feel as if they were coming loose, and despite two visits to my dentist in the space of a week he was unable to determine what the problem might be. In fact, he was adamant there was nothing wrong at all; there were no signs of any problem. So he referred me to the specialist orthodontists.
I never hated the dentists before, but after my filling earlier this year, I’ve become much more wary of them, and I must confess I was dreading being told all my teeth were rotten to the core and needed pulling. Fortunately, the news was rather better. After having an orthodontist and a consultant poking around in my mouth for nearly an hour, they came to the conclusion that the problem was due to a combination of several smaller factors, the prime one being the fact that my top arch is a complete mess; the last time I saw an orthodontist, at age 13 or so, he recoiled in terror at the thought of what he’d have to do to fix them. To the layperson, I suppose they don’t look too bad, but I think they might cause me some problems later on. Suffice to say, for now, the sensation I’d been having has abated, and if a dentist, an orthodontist and a consultant can’t find any problem, then I’m going to bow to their knowledge.
So I made my way home to find that my new bank card had arrived. I had to cancel the previous one after the wallet incident on Saturday, but it’s a relief the replacement has arrived so quickly. And it was a good thing too, because my dad has decided to transfer my web-domain into my name, so I had to set up an account for it this evening, before working on uploading my best pictures from the first half of the year (yes I know I should have done this in the first month of april, but you all know I’m bone idle).
So college is back on, I have a clean bill of orthodontal health, I have money and the means to withdraw it. But that’s not quite the best news.
In six months time, I’m going to have a little neece or neffuw. I do rather hope it’s a boy, just to complete the set.
Taking three weeks off earlier in the year for my U.S. trip has left me with very little leave to last the rest of the year, and so days where I get away from the place are few and far between. I can top my remaining allowance up with flexi-days; basically I don’t work set hours, and as long as I’m there between 10am and 4pm, I can stay as long or as briefly as I like, as long as my account is in balance. If it’s significantly in the black, say over 7 hours, I can apply to transfer it to leave, and I can do this once a month for each thirteen month cycle of a year. It was a flexi day I took to allow me to attend the Connect festival in Inveraray.
If you’re not familiar with Inveraray, it’s a small village in the west of Scotland, on the banks of Loch Fyne, and it’s an absolutely gorgeous, serene and relaxing part of the world. I’d been there once before, during a period in my A Level photography when I was particularly struggling for inspiration. My class-mate Kris’s mother runs the post office there and operates a small lodging house, and he invited me up for a few days, one September or October, around nine years ago. We explored the grounds of the castle and climbed the hill up to the watch house, a process that exhausted both of us, but which surrendered fantastic panoramas to the south and east. I didn’t get too many great pictures I must confess, but it definitely seemed to spark something into life.
The festival, which takes place in the grounds of the castle, is a fairly new event, this being only its second year. It’s the brainchild of T in the Park founder Geoff Ellis, and he’s said he’s willing to make a loss for the first few years of the event’s life, which it looks like he has done for the first two. Tickets didn’t sell out last year, and day tickets were being sold on the door this weekend. Still, I wanted to attend last year and didn’t make it, so I was doubly determined to get there this year, not least when I heard my favourite band were playing. And then Tim twisted my arm a little more…
So I pitched my tent at around half past four on Friday, ready for my first festival since V04 in Stafford. I was quite happy with my first ever attempt at putting a tent up, and while it probably didn’t look too professional, it stayed erect and kept me dry, so I’m counting it as a success. I then went to get my wristband. As it’s been a good few years since 2004, I’ve so far completely bypassed the fabric wristband revolution that’s swept the festivals of the world. Apparently they’re harder to forge, harder to remove once applied and more comfortable to wear; all plusses, but actually having one attached to your wrist is a faintly terrifying experience. After you’ve put your hand into the fabric loop and the lackey has adjusted the aluminium woggle to fit, they then lead your hand down to a large metal tool that looks as if it’s been borrowed from a ship yard, whereupon they then clamp the woggle in place, with appropriate sound effects. Maybe I’m being overly dramatic, but the whole process reminded me of reconstructions of medieval serfs having their hands amputated for stealing bread. Think of ‘Robin Hood, Prince of Thieves’; “This is English courage”, but delivered in an American accent.
After I left Guantanamo Bay, I met up with Tim and some of the other Manics fans in the centre of the food and drink part of the site. The Manics weren’t on for a couple of hours, so we decided to go and get a drink. This was easier said than done for some of us; I was refused service by one member of the bar staff because she thought I was under age. There was nothing I could do; I’ve worked in retail, so I know if there’s any doubt you must refuse service, but at the same time I was incredulous that anyone could mistake me for a seventeen year old, as even with the best will in the world, I have laughter lines around my eyes and I’m going grey. Nevertheless, I circumvented this problem by going to the other end of the same bar and getting served by a different barmaid.
Music wise, Tim and I saw a bit of Ladytron and the fantastic Guillemots before , for us, the headline act of the Manics. I was a little disappointed with the set to be honest; there were no new songs, and the selection of their handsome back catalogue managed to exclude quite a few songs I really love for some I’m not so keen on. Still, they always put on a good show, and I love seeing how Nicky’s improved as a bassist and how confident he is these days. He’s even singing his lines from ‘Your Love Alone Is Not Enough’. Neither Tim nor I were particularly fussed by Kasabian, so we went to see Mercury Rev instead. They surprised me; I was only familiar with a couple of songs from Deserter’s Songs, and I was expecting a much more fey act than the one that I saw before me, blasting the crowd with a powerful, if shoe-gazing sound. We left before the end of their set though, and it wasn’t until I’d reached my tent that I heard them playing the one song I was really familiar with, ‘Goddess On A Highway’.
I woke on the Saturday morning after a fitful sleep, but I still felt well, considering how much I’d had to drink the previous night. My mood however was soiled when upon getting ready to leave for the day, I found that I couldn’t find my wallet. I’d last seen it the previous evening, when I retrieved the key to my tent’s padlock in the porch, and I must have left it there. While I was unconvinced anyone would have seen it, it was definitely missing, with my bank card and £70 in cash. To say I was dismayed would be an understatement, but I had food, alcohol and a return bus ticket, so it wouldn’t be the end of the world. I trooped down to the local police office to report it missing and to cancel my bank card, not thinking I would ever see the wallet again. While I waited for Tim’s arrival, I repaired to my tent and started working my way through my supply of lager. By the time I’d smuggled my plastic water bottle filled with vodka into the main site, I’d found a voicemail on my mobile phone. It was from the police office telling me that my wallet had been handed in. I didn’t at this point know if the contents would be intact, but I started the short walk anyway, more in hope than expectation. But I was to be pleasantly surprised; the wallet, the card and the cash were all there, much as they’d been last night. The police officer couldn’t tell me who had handed in the wallet, or what the circumstances of them finding it were, so I’m still none the wiser, but I’m beginning to suspect it might have been the kindly woman and her daughter ‘next door’ that may have seen it and considered handing it over to the authorities the best option. I can’t really complain, although I am now sans bank card for the rest of the week. But still, it could have been much worse.
Tim arrived shortly afterwards, and after regaling him with my escapades already, we decided on our plan of action, which was to wander about aimlessly, eat, try and find people we knew and maybe even take in some bands. We started, eventually with Spiritualized, who we found a bit bland, and migrated to the other stage to take in Turin Brakes and Gomez, who I thought were the stars of Saturday. Their set consisted of playing their 1998 debut album Bring It On in its entirety, and a few thoughts struck me. One, could it really be ten years since Gomez’s debut album? Secondly, with Ben Ottewel’s singing voice, their musicality and their songs, how are they not bigger than they are, and thirdly…well, I forget what the third point was, but anyway, they were great. We again avoided the headline acts, the interminable Bloc Party and Gossip, and instead returned to our respective accommodation, making sure we didn’t lose wallets and the like.
After I’d serendipitously bumped into Kris for the first time in years outside work about a month ago, I’d mentioned that I was going to the festival, and he expressed his interest in attending as well; after all, he had free accommodation pretty much on the doorstep of the site. He’d texted me on Saturday, but we’d been unable to meet up, and so we arranged to meet in town on Sunday morning, despite me pointing out that Rangers were playing Celtic in an early kick off, and all the pubs with TV screens would be packed. And so we ended up drinking the Southern Comfort and lemonade security hadn’t let him in with the day before while watching Malcolm in the Middle. I must say it was nice to be in a house after two days of field-based existence. And it was there that we listened to the last ten minutes of the Old Firm game on the radio; Rangers won 4-2, which set me up perfectly for the rest of the day. And the Southern Comfort helped as well.
As was becoming customary, I met Tim after the arenas opened, although this time it was in town outside the Co-op. I bought another half-bottle of vodka and some water so I could carry out my nefarious transfer, and we made our way back to the site. As Kris was leaving early to return to Glasgow for work purposes, he made short shrift of our aimless meandering, and frogmarched us to see the colourful Iglu & Hartly. Kris then expressed a desire to see the Levellers, and so we decided to head over to the main stage, via the pudding tent where Tim and I indulged in some of their delicious sticky toffee pud.
Kris is diabetic, and thus he shouldn’t really drink. That said, he does drink in a manner more befitting some kind of aquatic animal. When his blood sugar gets low, he can have periods of hypoglycaemia where he becomes unresponsive and if left unattended, can eventually lead to more serious problems. During the Levellers’ set, I became aware that he was weaving about the place. I asked him if he was alright, and he replied, which was a good sign…well, a sign that he was just very drunk rather than being hypo. I knew he was supposed to be meeting his brother Mikey at one of the other stages, but as we were walking towards said stage, he received another message from Mikey’s girlfriend telling him that they’d changed their plans and were now leaving for Glasgow at 6pm. It was five to six at this point, so all I could do was get him back to his mother’s house. Fortunately, from the arena, it was only around a mile or so to his mother’s house, and we made it back before Mikey and his girlfriend left. I managed to make it back to the main stage to miss just the first song of Elbow’s set, a band I particularly enjoy. They have a strong back catalogue, but I’m sad they didn’t play some of their songs I particularly love, like ‘Grace Under Pressure’, surely a quintessential festival song. We watched Goldfrapp (well, Tim did; I went to the bar, had a soft drink and then a brief sit down to let the worst of the Southern Comfort wash over me. The penultimate band was Sigur Ros, who Tim and I both wanted to see. We got to within a couple of rows of the front and settled in. I own two albums of theirs, ( ) and Takk…, but I’m not too familiar with their songs; they tend to lack the hooks my attention span requires. That said, the set itself was quite magnificent. Like Guillemots and Gomez, Sigur Ros tend to operate outwith received musical trends, and they like to do things slightly differently. A large number of their songs are in the band’s own made up language, and individual members swap instruments with alacrity. It’s thrilling to experience, and a welcome antidote to the stale, straitjacketed musical inarticulacy displayed by the likes of Kasabian and Franz Ferdinand. I for one left the mud in front of the Oyster stage buzzing, and Tim and I decided to treat ourselves to another round of sticky toffee pudding. By now Franz Ferdinand and Duffy were bringing the festival to a close, but as neither of us particularly wanted to see either of them, we bid farewell to each other, and went for a good snooze ahead of the following day’s travelling.
Tim was flying back to London from Glasgow, while I had to catch the bus and then transfer to the train to collect my keys from my sister. I wasn’t booked to get on the bus until 1pm, so I spent most of the morning relaxing and watching the rain drive people slightly crazy. I was disappointed to see the amount of rubbish that was being left behind however; some people had simply dumped duvets and tents rather than take them away which is just stupid. Anyway, after the stewards came round encouraging people to leave, I packed up, bought a newspaper in town to read about the Old Firm game, and chanced my arm at getting on an earlier bus. Which I did.
All in all, it was a great weekend. I got to see some great bands play, I ate some good food and some awful food, and even the rain didn’t annoy me as I had good wellies and a solidly constructed tent. The highlight of the weekend for me was seeing Sigur Ros/being IDed for alcohol, and I also enjoyed Gomez, Elbow, the Levellers, Guillemots, and of course the Manics. I had good company, which is essential I feel, and I loved the location, and so I would really like to go back next year, although I kinda have my eye on Glastonbury to be honest, just to say I’ve done it. We shall see what the coming months have to hold though.
I’ve put some pictures up at http://www.flickr.com/photos/leftmidfielder/sets/72157607060764681/
. They’re not particulalry good, but I wasn’t really there to take pictures…
