Insert Title Here.
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.
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.
posted by Elfin at 10:30 AM
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