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Glasgow's slogan is 'People Make Glasgow'. My first reaction, of course, was 'shitty?' Every city has an allotted amount of shitty people, but in Glasgow it wasn't particularly noticeable, because it's a fantastically lovely city. I had a riot of a time!
I saw a man having an increasingly violent argument with a bin, some young chap bounded up beside me and threw his arm around my shoulders and politely enquired if he could have my newly purchased hat, I acquired some knock-off sour sweets that purported to be the British answer to Warheads, yet just contained so much citric acid as to melt my tongue and make my asshole pucker up tighter than a balloon knot.
My lodgings were infinitely better than Belfast, and hosted by a hip young couple who made me feel old, but welcome. I resolved to visit two museums in a day, and made good on the first by stopping at the Kelvingrove, an amazingly designed building built in 1901 and home to a wide array of objects, including ancient Scottish wildlife, select artworks by a group of period painters known as The Glasgow Boys, weapons and armour that belonged to warriors of the past, and Egyptian artefacts.
I thoroughly enjoyed all of it, except for the screaming babies. What kind of shithead brings a baby to a museum? Are you making sure they start their education early? They can't talk for fuck's sake, they're hardly interested in the reign of Robert the Bruce.

Making my way out of the Kelvingrove, my phone decided to just stop working, even with half a battery charge. I wandered down the street and found a mobile phone repair store, and the guy told me it appeared to be the charge outlet, and he could fix it for £30. Being the pessimist and cynic that I am, it came as no surprise to me that Murphy's Law would rear its ugly head, in that the most likely time your phone will take a shit and die will be when you're on the opposite side of the globe and travelling on a budget.

This meant I couldn't get to the other museum, the Riverside, and instead had to mill about the high street and wait for the repairs to be finished. Still, as I said, I thoroughly enjoyed Glasgow. The following day, I made my way to Queen Street station and bent over the counter to let British Rail have their way with my butthole, as there's no other way to describe the pricing and services offered by them. At least they were on time.
A pleasant journey ensued, as I was sat with two girls from Inverness, who were friends that worked together at KFC. One was 26 and, in profile, the the spitting image of my sister Madeleine. She was apparently an alcoholic as well, as on the 3 hour trip, she demolished a large can of Strongbow cider, two large cans of Tennant's lager, and then three smaller cans of Kopparberg cider. The other lassie was 21 and a non-drinker. They were very inviting, however, and named some rivers and landmarks that we passed by.
Inverness itself is a quaint little port town, with a refreshing lack of high rise buildings or apartments, and my Airbnb is the very model of hospitality, with a plump, comfy bed and very modern facilities.
I dined at an expensive and uppity Italian restaurant on the bank of the River Ness and then made my way to my lodgings to sleep in preparation for the big day ahead.
The other guests at my Airbnb had a car and we're going my way, and so kindly dropped me off at the little village of Drumnadrochit, near the shores of Urquhart Bay on Loch Ness. After dutifully wandering it's pleasant streets and grimacing at the amount of souvenir shit for sale, I booked a spot on a boat that does an hour-long cruise out into the Loch. With its peat-infused water, there's nothing to see in the depths themselves, but the surrounding forested hills are simply breathtaking, and the boat passed by the ruins of Urquhart Castle, which was magnificent from afar, but as we passed by, I could see that tourists were swarming over it like flies on a turd.
Everything else was wonderfully scenic and I'm glad I paid the exorbitant price to get onto the water.

Titanic bullshit.

First impressions count, and Belfast looked like a hybrid of Dublin and Liverpool, but things only got worse as I hiked out to my lodgings, past grey shopping centres, boarded up factories and run down houses.

The place that looked reasonably inviting on Airbnb was an unclean hovel, with two lovely dogs that had no proper bedding but instead lived in the kitchen. I can't imagine that the floor would have been cleaned in the last 3 months either.

However, things got better when I ventured out the next day, back into Belfast central and through to much nicer neighbourhoods, one of which housed the Ulster Museum. Full of interesting exhibits and presented in an erudite, easy to understand manner, I spent a comfortable few hours dawdling through its halls.

Heading back, I crossed the River Lagan, and made my way down to the docks, where a flashily designed building had caught my eye. It was the new Titanic museum, Belfast being where the ship was built. Interested, I made my way inside. Then back out again when I learned they wanted 20 fucking quid to tour a building 1/4 the size of the Ulster. It was noisy and full of American tourists and I hated it.

Back outside, I found that I could visit the now filled in dry dock where the ship was built, and read informative billboards placed along the way, for free. So I did this instead. Heading back into the city, I got myself a haircut from a barber who had an Irish accent so thick, I could understand only 1 of every 5 words. Eventually I gave up, and just nodded, and laughed when he laughed, and said 'ha ha, yeah!' with a conspiratorial nod.

Today dawned cold and dreary, with the rain gusting in from the west and pissing all over my planned day trip. I nodded back off, and when I awoke, the day had come good. I walked out to see Belfast Castle, situated at the base of the Cave Hills. A lovely building, it was built at some point by someone. I couldn't find out any further information because they didn't provide it. The castle itself is the starting point for walking trails into the Cave Hill Country Park, and I ascended the mountain to a beautiful viewpoint, where I took lovely photos that I can't show you.

A kid who looked to be about 8 asked me if I'd sell him the water bottle I was drinking out of, but when I declined he said 'your loss!' and headed down the hill. Strange.

Tomorrow, I board a bus at 6:30 am so that the bus can board a ferry and take me to Glasgow, where I  can be miserable. Looking forward to it.

Potato Famine Hilarity.

What a lovely place is Ireland. If I listen to Jeremy talk about it, it's an island made of turds and swarf, populated by arseholes, and a weather system that actively hates humans. I know he must secretly love it, because it's beautiful.

Very akin to Scotland, naturally, it has hues of green that I didn't know existed. The view as the plane came into land showed lovely, organised rows of houses and belts of luscious greenery, and I couldn't wait to get out and see it.

I stayed with a lovely family the first night, and with whom I should have stayed the whole time as their place was closer to Dublin than the place I'm at now, but never mind. The city centre itself is rather circuitous and rambling, as opposed to the straight streets of Melbourne, but Google maps is a fantastic tool. I wandered through Temple Bar and observed the buildings and the people, skirted around Dublin Castle, and watched a man high on something swim haphazardly across the River Liffey.

The next day saw me arrive bright and early at Dun Laoghaire for my bus out to the countryside, as part of the 'Wild Wicklow Tour'. Our first stop was the tourist trap hellhole of Eniskerry, a little village whose only reason for existence was to sell tat to bus loads of tourists, and I began to think I'd made an awful mistake.

But then we hit the real country part of the tour, and all was forgiven. The bus came to a stop overlooking Lough Tay, and I had an impressive view from a cliff side of some mostly untouched natural beauty that took my breath away. (It is here that I'd link a picture, but this fucking blog program makes it so hard to do so I can't even figure it out.)

Then, we moved on to Glendalough, where the bus driver herded us around an ancient, crumbling monastery and its accompanying graveyard, then advised us to walk to the Upper Lake, which I did. Standing on the shore, looking towards the far side, was a view that was so amazing and humbling it made me want to shit. Seriously, this vista made my anus relax. The photo I took is so fit for a metal band that I'm just going to make an album because of it.

Back in Dublin I wandered round and looked for a restaurant, and settled on a nice Indian place that provided me with a tasty vegetable vindaloo, and I ate slowly, watching people out the window as they headed for a night out. One alarming trend I've noticed is that the younger women have taken makeup application to a new level, where the only real comparison is Homer Simpson's shotgun that he modded to apply beauty products. 'Homer, you've got it set to whore!' says Marge. I'm of an opinion that makeup can play a supporting role to natural beauty by enhancing it in reasonably subtle ways, not looking like you've just smashed your face into a child's multi-coloured birthday cake.

Today I was hit with a mild migraine and so slept the morning away and opted not to go out, but tomorrow I shall return and view some more Dublin before heading for Belfast.

She's Got A Ticket To Ride...

...and she's getting the fuck out of Liverpool.

If Britain had an anus, then Liverpool might be it. From their days in the Cavern Club, the Beatles then moved on to playing club shows in Hamburg, and I think I know why they were so eager to get to another country.
With no real natural beauty to speak of, and the Mersey cutting a swathe through the city like a brown smear of shit, I wandered up from my pissy lodgings in the south of the city and meandered through its streets to see if I could find any diamonds in the rough.
Can't say I found many, to be honest. The imposing edifice of the Liverpool cathedral was suitably gothic and attractive, but to my dismay visitors were not allowed in due to it being taken over for the graduation festivities for students of Liverpool University.
I was, however, directed to another building of God; the Metropolitan Church of Christ a mile or so down the road. A circular building with a rising conical roof, the inside was relatively new, and quite fetching. Some form of school function was happening, and I sat down to observe the goings-on. An entire grade level of schoolgirls burst into song, accompanied by a keyboard player. Suitably morose, they sang in harmony about something I couldn't quite decipher, but it made little difference. The acoustics of the massive, circular building transformed their voices into a reverb-drenched, echoing choir of beauty, and I sat transfixed.
Until I realised that my bag contained the Cradle of Filth tshirt I bought in Camden that reads 'Jesus is a Cunt' in large block letters on the back, and I felt like a heathen, gathering my bags and making an exit. Sadly, that was the only moment of purity or real enjoyment I felt in Liverpool, apart from taking off at the airport.

Tayyab's: The Return

I arrived into Gatwick airport at 6am with coffee on my mind. Disembarkation was quick and painless, and this time round I was ready for the customs official, instead of responding to the question 'Where in London are you staying?' with the phrase 'I don't know.'
Catching a train into the city proper, I wandered around with time to kill until I could check into my Airbnb. Crossing London Bridge, I circled around the Tower of London and up towards St. Paul's Cathedral. Despite its impressive size and grandeur, it appears that it is being slowly engulfed by the drab corporate office buildings surrounding it, towering edifices of brown and grey. The streets themselves were quiet, it being a Sunday, and with very few businesses open, this area of London was dull and lifeless. I've seriously enjoyed myself more during a sojourn through Frankston.

Finally, I checked into my accommodation and set about finding dinner. Due to some cosmic coincidence, my lodgings were literally around the corner from Indian cuisine institution Tayabb's, the first restaurant I went to on my previous trip with Julie. I eagerly grabbed myself a table and ordered their signature dish, the 'dry lamb', and some naan bread. While the naan is easily the best I've ever had, the curry itself I find tasty but lacking, as if the spices are toned down so as to appeal to the masses.
With no dining companions to engage with, my thoughts turned inward, remembering my first time here, with my then-fiancée across from me, Danny and Rowan seated beside us and making us laugh. A melancholic gloom settling over me, I ate in silence, watching through the window at a pigeon strutting self-importantly across the nearest rooftop.

Setting out early the following day, I visited the nerd paradise that is Forbidden Planet, a two storey sci-fi and fantasy merchandise shangri-la boasting an impressive and almost overwhelming array of books, clothing and assorted tidbits. Feeling positively energetic, I wandered over to Buckingham Palace, but skirted the gates and the attendant crowds that I had been part of on my previous visit, and instead walked into, and through, Hyde Park. The trees in Europe seem altogether greener and more lush than those back home, and I found it soothing to walk amongst them, watching people picnic and play. Towards the opposite side of the park, I encountered a group of 15 or so people, all huddled around a spiked fence, looking at the other side and pointing interestedly. An elderly lady called out to the people walking past, 'Anybody have long arms?'
Intrigued, I wandered over to see that the object of everyone's gaze was simply a tennis ball. 'The dog can't get his ball back!' said one bystander. Indeed, the brown Labrador next to the fence was staring forlornly at his ball, just out of arms reach, seeming to encourage the people reaching through.
'Well fuck this shit' I thought, crouching down next to the dog. He looked at me expectantly.
Straightening, I gingerly vaulted the spiked fence, and retrieved the tennis ball, handing it back through to the doggo. He grabbed it eagerly, trotting off happily as the same elderly lady said 'Well that's your good deed for the day!'

Yes. Yes it was.

Carpet Crusader Issue 1.

Hello, and welcome to the first edition of 'Airport Carpet Craziness' where we discuss the amazing and often overlooked world of carpets in airport terminals the world over. In this first instalment, we've travelled to Hong Kong International Airport, to gaze upon one of the more crazy carpets we've had the pleasure of viewing.


Laid down when the new HK terminal was built in 1998, this audacious choice, named 'Flange', was designed and fabricated by Zeuster-Huygyaks and Co., a company which I'm sure needs no introduction.
Chosen as it was for its rugged tri-yagget weave and resistance to wear & tear and bodily fluids, I spent an intense and tiring hour drinking vast amounts of water and urinating in various spots across the terminal before a rugged, yet friendly security guard accosted me bodily and told me 'you can't do that, sir'.
The final results of my investigation will be delivered as soon as airport security return my documents and come to their senses that a 'lifetime' ban is rather extreme.

More carpet-related hilarity next time, readers!