I’m shite at titles. Pure shite.
So I promised Connie I’d write a wee thing about our wee trip tae London last month for ICW. Me, her and Dave went for the whole weekend ye see cause we really hate money, and love being constantly terrified and sweating on the Underground. The journey started wae me missing the bus I was gonnae get from my bit into Glasgow. Nae big deal really, I was getting the earlier bus just to be safe, the next yin would get me there in plenty of time. My iPod was a godsend throughout the first leg of this trip, and I let some Kendrick Lamar grace my eardrums while I done lunges at the bus stop tae stay loose for the upcoming 9 hour bus journey (10 if ye include the hellishness that is the 88 I was getting in tae town) after a 20 minute wait, the next bus came, and I merrily bounced on it. “Top of the early evening to you sir!” I said to the driver, as he looked straight through me. This wis not a man to be jousted. “Single to Glasgow please my liege” and he met my request by pressing a button and once again staring right through me. Unless you ask, First bus drivers more often than not wont actually tell ye how much the bus fare is btw. Its like top secret info. I knew it was about 4 quid, but I panicked and emptied all my London spending money intae it. Wae every £20 note I put in, I got sweatier. With every pound coin I pulled out the emergency fund in my sock, my anxiety worsened. Why isnt he stopping me? And now he’s grown horns, and indulging in a mad fire breathing laugh at my expense, growling “I’M GONNA BANKRUPT THIS CLOWN..MUHAHAHAHAHAHA” in my direction at least in my heid anyway. Evil maniacal bastard. Eventually I was out of money, and after an unsuccessful attempt tae jam my toothbrush in the wee money slot, he eventually stopped me. I took what remained of my bag, my ticket with “£4.10” printed on it, and trudged up the stairs. At this point there wis nae cunt on the bottom deck of the bus, so I assumed the top would be the same, so when I done a wee stumble up the stairs, I re-assured myself with the thought “nae cunt seen me…its aw good” only to look round and see 3 dudes staring right at me. Around my age, or younger. Smirking. Audibly chuckling a bit. Dirty. Stinkin. Bastards.
Over the initial hurdles of lateness, anxiety attacks, and falling on yer face, we had successfully negotiated the first leg of this trip, as the soothing sounds of Seal got me through the 88 intae town. I immediately gained re-assurance that this trip might actually go awrite when the bus stopped at Buchanan, and a young lad mistimed his foray forward to proceed down the stairs. WHOMP! Poor wee cunt fell right on his melt. Teeth first. Like ye know that bit in American History X where the guy puts his teeth on the kerb and Ed Norton stomps on his heid? It was like that, but more hilarious, less racist, and not as stompy.
So I’m in Glesga noo. A good 20 minutes before the MegaBus is due tae leave. Having been informed by Connie that she would “probably be there early” I assume shes either in the vicinity, or nearly there. I immediately relax, and pull out the pre rolled crack joint I had in my pocket for a delicious Class A snack (that shows ye how much I actually know about crack, that I referred to it as a ‘crack joint’….) another 10 minutes go by, I’ve had my crack, it was mad moreish, still nae Connie though. At this point the bus is boarding n I’ve took myself out the queue 3 times cause I wis gettin tae the front and she wisnae there yet. She’s a panic merchant, so getting on the bus without informing her was not an option. I would have settled down, sat my bag on the seat next to me to keep her a space, then all I’d here is her outside the bus, pacing round in circles shoutin “MARTANNNNNNNNNN….MARTANNNNNNN…..WHERE URR YE MARTANNNN” so I waited it out, and wae about 90 seconds to spare she bounces oot a motor. Last cunts on the bus. Didnae get sitting together. I considered myself the least organised of the three folk embarking on this journey, but I was proven incorrect fairly quickly.
The bus journey itself was yer standard exercise of passive aggression between strangers forced to spend 9 hours together in a sardine can filled with perspiration and the faint stench of death. Two wuman in front of us had the light on (this is the night bus btw…..or the “sleeper”….full of people trying to fuckin sleep through this ordeal) and it wisnae even for any reason. They had it on to TALK. A light for fuckin talking. At 3am. Nae offence to either of them, but they were a pair of howlers anaw. I dunno why you’d want tae shine a fuckin light on that hideousness, and when you consider that the basis of most of their patter was repeating “this bus disnae stop btw!” to each other at 5 minute intervals, you wonder why the fuck they were conversating at all. The guy next tae me had enough, and when he was on the phone to his pal, he quite openly referred to them as “fuckin idiots” (I got a wee mention anaw, but I was just referred to as ‘I’ve got a guy next to me’ so he got a pass…if he mentioned the fact that I kinda smelled like Haribo, we might’ve had words) anyway, eventually said guy offered Connie his seat, so we could sit together and I had a new problem tae endure. A daft wailing goth in ma fuckin ear for 6 hours.
The rest of the journey went off without a muhfuckin hitch. Apart fae me gubbing 4 beta blockers thinking they were paracetemol, and gently drooling myself in a light coma. Before we knew it we were in Landan! Having been once again exposed to the harrowing sights and sounds of Preston on the way there. More like DEPreston amiright guys? Entirely original humour there so it was.
I was originally persuaded to do the weekend in Landan cause Connie wanted to do Landan type things on the Saturday before the wrasslin. I was fine wae it. When the idea was presented to me, I was still a student and had a wee bit saved up, so I thought “why the fuck no!” For every daft lassie thing she dragged us along to, me n Dave would get an hour of ping pong in the Albert Hall (I know a guy, who knows a guy, who can pick some really big locks) yet by the time we got tae London, we had two problems. Firstly, Connies feet had apparently went up two sizes from Glesga to London, so the first thing we done after a 9 hour bus journey was gaun in tae fuckin New Look for new shoes. I say “we”, I was an innocent bystander to this attrocity. Standing staring blankly at some handbags wondering if theres one big enough tae suffocate me. There wasnt, so Connie got new shoes and off we went to the train station. CAMDEN TOWN was the cry.
No quite yet though, cause if I’ve learned anything from 9 hour bus journeys, its that they’re fuckin shite. I had nae idea people could get so worn out from sitting down, but there must be a wee vacuum on the MegaBus that sooks wee bits of yer soul out, because you always step off the fuckin thing feeling….broken. So we sat in a Wetherspoons nursing a drink each, after looking at the menu for a good half hour and me continually pointing out that Coleslaw was only 85p, and how we should “get a ‘slaw sharer for the table” Eventually we worked up the courage tae make a move, Camden fuckin town it wis. Here we go.
The thing about London that weekend is that it was fuckin ROOOOOOASTIN, and Connie exclusively wears black shit cause apparently she enjoys catching fire. So we stoated around Camden for about an hour, before she melted intae a wee black puddle and disappeared doon a drain. Still about 3 hours till Dave arrived tae, Marty nae pals for a FULL 3 hours, and I didnae have my VHS collection with me, so I couldnae even fire Summerslam 90 on to kill the time. Just as I was phoning Connies relatives to inform them that she had unfortunately melted, she appeared hauf a mile up the road, shoutin at me for being late or suhin. I’m always late, even when I’m on time, I’m late. Even when my pal melts and reforms, I’m late for suhin. Whatever though, that was 2pm, meaning we could check intae the fuckin hotel, hallelujah.
We got tae the hotel, seemingly via a time machine, cause this was the doss house that time forgot. I’m not even exaggerating btw. Think of yer grannies hallway in 1998. Think of it exactly. Mad green or a weird kinda red wallpaper, and some howling carpet wae a pattern on it aye? Thats exactly what we were met with on the way to the room. Stoating past a communal shower which was essentially a cupboard with a watering can, with the raw materials to make soap in it. The room itself was…startling. There was stains on the wall that looked deliberate if ye know what I mean. Like the owners used that wall to wipe their hands after they’d cooked something particularly manky (like “tourists”) and there was a lonely wee bin in the corner that looked like tooth decay. Like…if there was a physical representation of tooth decay that could sum up its affects (other than an actual decaying tooth) this lonely wee pish stained bin was it. I got para immediately cause we booked that hotel due to our skintness and its cheapness, but Dave isnae skint. Dave books the Hilton 6 months out the year just tae have the option of going there to “get away from it all” …a high roller ye see. So wis he gonnae be content to spend two nights in a spare room that time forgot? With a scenic window view of hunners of other windows, and a rich tapestry of bird shite and fag douts? My worry about his reaction wore off pretty quick, cause fuck that cunt. I replaced my nervousness with repeating that line. Over and over. “Fuck…Davey…Curren”
THEN HE WAS HERE! We stoated along to the train station to meet Davey, a wee bit buzzed fae tanning vodka and some unnamed substance we found in a drawer. He shows up fresh faced and sober. Lording his superior financial status over us by getting the train, and arriving in London well rested. Fuck Davey Curren man. Fuck him right in his financially secure, hoose buying face (a wee bit of real life resentment pouring out there I think…mooooving swiftly on) this cunt was chipper as fuck. Ready to tackle Landan, and Connie seemed the same despite enduring the same hell as I had so far. All I wanted was a hauf pizza supper and a 3 hour nap at this point. No walking please. No more being outside. No more noise. No more people. No more fucking….London…LONDON ISNAE GLESGA. GLESGA IS BETTER THAN LONDON. It has sources of lager for less than 3 quid a pint, and occasionally ye get to walk 100 yards without someone bumping in tae ye. FUCK LONDON.
Was that the tiredness talking? Fuck knows. There was nothing in particular apart from the expensiveness that I was finding unpalatable about London. Its busy as fuck anaw, but its London. Of course it is. Going tae London and being annoyed by its busyness is like going tae Amsterdam and moaning about it smelling like weed. Or going to Florida and continually asking why everyones “fat as fuck”. London = busy. London = anxiety. London = wee pockets of sweat forming on yer eyebrows, causing them to puff oot like Tulisas fish lips. London = stress. Adapt or perish.
We went out for a swally and it was a fairly uneventful time of it. Our attempts tae source a cocktail were not successful, despite the fact that according tae google maps there was at least 56 cocktail bars in the area. We eventually settled for a place called The Gillian, or the Guvnors Tavern, or The Eagle Lodge, or I dont fuckin know, it was weeks ago. Point is, the place was shite. Connie was told they didnae do cocktails, only for us tae sit down next tae a team of lassies who had a big fishbowl filled with something fuckin delicious looking. Anti Scottish racism at its finest. Some auld guy was heavy eyeballing me anaw. He wore a broon leather jaiskit, and a look in his eye that said “I’m either gonnae stab you, or pump ye….possibly both” I was in nae mood for either, so we got the fuck out of there.
There was drinking in the room. There was chat. There was the bin i mentioned before growing two legs, walking up tae me and Dave and asking for a square go. There was sleep. Finally fuckin sleep. Apparently I slipped intae instant snoring, and even stapling my nose shut didnae stop it. I recited the Lords Prayer in German at one point tae. Before we knew it Sunday was here! ICW Sunday! waking up for it for the first time somewhere other than my own bed. That carried its own wee buzz, but before we tackled whatever Sunday had to offer, we took in some teleshopping. And thats when my life changed. Thats when I discovered…the nutriblast.
Heres my favourite thing about the Nutriblast right. My favourite thing about it is this. Its a fuckin blender. You put shit in it, and it blends it for ye. Its a blender. Perhaps a more powerful blender that yer average blender, but its still a blender. People are selling blenders, and making them sound like they aren’t blenders. Thats one of my favourite things in the world. Pure hussle. I’d like to try it wae something else. I’d like to see someone try and sell me a football by calling it “The Exercise Sphere” and sticking a 20 quid markup on it cause its the “revolutionary object in human exercise today…literally endless possibilities with the exercise sphere…..you can throw, catch, kick and punch…PERHAPS ALL IN THE SAME DAY!” Anyway, don’t buy a nutriblast. Its a blender, if you want Nutriblast, buy a blender. Same thing. Got it? Good.
Sunday was another sweaty affair. After negotiating Camden again, and enjoying a leisurely swally a pub called “The Worlds End” which as essentially 5 pubs in the one pub, that had various men and women that look like Jeff Hardy in it. The price for 3 drinks was in the £13 range, and I paid for it by rolling 5p pieces across the bar and going “whooops, too slow” when the barkeep failed to catch them. 6 hours later, I’d paid for the round and it was nearly wrasslin time! So far I’ve no really mentioned the underground, cause ye’ve heard it all before. Its scary. The weak perish if they go on it. You must move fast or you’ll die slow. If a wuman gets off and her child does not immediately follow her, she will pull that child off the train by his fuckin neck, as he passes straight through you in the process. But we finally had a notable incident on the underground that wisnae just sweat related. WE GOT ON THE WRONG TRAIN! *dramatic music plays….gong goes off in the background”
The wrong fuckin train eh. A team of vets like us, and we’re getting on wrong trains, who’d have thunk it. See when I said Connie melted earlier btw? That was a joke. A bit of fiction weaved intae this non fictional tale. When we got on the wrong train and spent the next hour or so hopping on and off different wans? Connie actually melted. With every train her face got more sinister. With every passing minute, my attempts at humour tae lighten to mood fell on less welcoming ears. With every passing minute, Daves use of accents and making everything intae a song got deefied. London had officially broke Connie. For the 5th time since we got there she claimed tae have heat stroke, then all of a sudden we found a Wetherspoons, a jug of some kinda fruit cocktail, and with the wrasslin starting in about an hour CONNIE CAME BACK TO LIFE!
The wrestling was rerr. I wrote words about that more extensively here
At the show we were greeted with some familiar faces, most of which I completely missed cause I’m fuckin dire at recongising folk. Awful at it. Folk must think I’m an ignorant bastard for never seeing them, but the truth is I’m only being deliberately ignorant about 80% of the time. For the rest of it I’m just a daft absent minded cunt. With the show done and dusted, it was time tae fine out who won the fuckin World Cup! The after party brought nae answers to that, but it did bring a guy coming up tae me, asking me if I’m “The guy from Snapmare Necks” and buying me a drink, a fuckin double IN LONDON. I dunno how he managed to re-mortgage his house so quickly, but as soon as he came up to me, Dave immediately projectile vomited a tar like substance, and when it landed on the ground, it spelled the words “Get it fuckin up ye” Free drink doon my gullet, and a fair amount of drink we actually bought, we were told the afterparty wis fuckin closing. At 11pm. Shite. Last time it was open tae 1 and I spent most of that being shite feart of Tommy End, but nae sweat. The Wetherspoons we were in before was still open. Lets round off this evening wae some slightly cheaper than everywhere else pints, and perhaps a shot of Apple Sourz sooked intae the eyeball. The guy on the door asked if we were steamin, remarking that “a lot of people have come from across there (the venue) and they’ve had a good drink in them” I smoothly shot a wink and the the double finger guns in his direction to break the ice, before telling him “Friend…we are not steaming, we’re just silly tourists!” and he opened the iron gate, allowing us to pass through. I was immediately greeted by Rob Cage, who spotted the CR Drunk t-shirt and said something along the lines of “nice threads” I responded in kind, even though I quickly realised I wisnae Rob Cage at all. It was the physical form of Rob Cage, wae a serpents heid, and it has been speaking in tongues the whole fuckin time. I slowly edged away from the beast and sat down, tae Connie giving it patter about hating Scott Brown and how she “loves” El Hadji Diouf. At that point, I missed the Rob Cage/Serpent hybrid. Fuckin El Hadji Diouf, fuck sake. There holocaust apologists with stricter moral codes than that cretin, but anyway. Hame time. Up eh road.
We had a wee falling out the way back to the hotel, apparently Dave had been DM’ing nudes tae Whoopi Goldberg on twitter before discovering it was actually a parody account run by his own da. Me and Connie both scalded him for his foolishness, and off he went in the huff, but teamwork makes the dreamwork mate. I asked him for a word outside, and he politely accepted, so I explained to him that “you’re better than this man! it dont have to be this way! you dont have to go lookin for love in the wrong places!” and he accepted my point of view. With everyone pals again, Dave went tae sleep. Cause of the three people in our group, David fuckin Curren is by far and away the most responsible. This is a man who I’ve seen whitey at least a million times, and once stoated into a house party caked in spew (im sure he actually went hame n cleaned up first but he WAS caked in it before) after drinking in town, and having tae jump off a train in Bishopbriggs tae spew, before deciding to walk it from Bishy to Kirky (for a wee bit of context as to how far that is….its quite far…a considerable distance) That cunt was the most responsible of the three…by a mile. He got as much shut eye as he could, while I tried tae finish the half bottle of Glens I had left before morning, and me n Connie discussed fuckin…..suhin. Wrestling n that. I think there was a wee game of “who would ye rather pump” involved anaw. Patty or Selma? I went wae Patty, cause she’s switched tae e-cigarettes and looks much better fur it. Eventually we went tae sleep. Fuck knows when. MegaBus wae a hangover beckoned anyway. It really didnae matter when we went to sleep, the sweet release of death was coming. Probably as soon as we crossed the border back in tae Scotland. Its ok to die now. Yer home.
Connie may or may not have spewed on the street between train and bus station (a 2 minute stoat) and eh. Fuck, thats about it really. I’d tae pay 30p for a pish in the bus station, and I decided tae pish all over the floor in protest while writing “its 20p in Glesga” in my own blood on the ceiling. Going out in style.
The MegaBus hame was actually awrite. Second half of it anyway. Had some patter, has an auld guy proper fire shadies in our direction for having the audacity tae speak at 5pm in the afternoon. Mate….simmer. The whole journey hame I could smell B.O. Heavily. I assumed it was Connie, and this combined wae the Diouf thing made me seriously question my friendship choices. That was until the wuman in front of me stuck her arms in the air tae stretch, and the most horrendous waft came rushing oot her pits directly intae my gub. A combination of dug food, pig shite and aff mince is how I’d describe the smell. All tied intae a wee airtight bag, and soaked in the juices aff a 3 day old donner kebab. But listen. We were hame. FINALLY…..THE SNAPMARE NECKS TEAM, HAD COME BACK…TO GLASGOW (Dave had been hame for hours cause trains are faster, and far more pleasant than buses….fuck Davey Curren)
Got on the 88 hame, and dug in my bag for the iPod that got me through the first pre London 88 journey, and guess whit? Nae fuckin iPod. Not only did London eat the last of my savings, a lot of my dignity, and a small piece of my soul, it ate my fuckin iPod anaw. I came back fae London a lot poorer than when I went down, and d’ye know whit?
I kinda miss it.