I'm Sandy, Fly Me.

Canny believe I haven't told yuz about this yet. Happened a couple of months ago.

Now that I am away up here in the great wilderness 30 miles short of the Argtic circle my traveling expenses to work are a little painful. When I go to work in Glasgovia for instance it's: bus-ferry-bus-ferry-bus-foot-bus-flight-bus-train. And back.
(the first ferry is free and the second one is included in the bus fair so canny really hark aboot that. Still. Ooyah!)

So a cuppla months ago I'm coming out of departures at Glasgow Airport and I see two Arriva Glasgow Flyer busses. I only need one.

As I stand there gormlessly wondering which bus to get on some suit collers me and says, "Excuse me, are you getting on this bus?"
"Yes," sez I, "but I'm not sure which one to get."
The suit points to the one on the right and sez, "It's that one. Congratulations. You are our ONE MILLIONTH CUSTOMER!"

As I stand there eyebrow raised Spock style trying to comprehend this Oor Wullie storyline that unfolds before me, other eye looking out for Dom Joly, a wee crowd of semi suits start chattering "Ooh! Is that him? There he is! He's the one" (the closest I'll get to being Jesus.)

Next thing I know I am surrounded by them cameras flashing, champaign, chocolates and low quality Arriva promotional items being thrust into my hands.

While I stand there wrestling with the possibilities of my agent and showbiz mates crawing, "That fanny will do anything for publicity," against free sweeties and booze the suit says, "Here's a pass for a years free travel on the Airport Flyer."

That's £120 in old money.

So, as you can imagine I said, "Well I never had a reputation to speak of anyway. Festoon away."
The pass was passed over with four vouchers to the Free Booze Lounge (don't know what it's official name is but I think Free Booze Lounge covers the idea.)

Carbon fitprint through the fuckin' flerr.

Allelujah!

That's me back in Unst after a month of tearing up 'n' down Airstrip One shaking my white ass for works nights out. During this time I had few notable experiences. Only really the RTD stalking of the previous post and an enlightening little gay date out to IKEA with my pretty blonde posh chum Neil.

During our "man-date" I went to releive my self in the "toaletter" when I was suddenly overcome by the love of our lord Jesus Christ.

He appeared to me in a piece of saw milled Swedish elm.

Well, of course, I had to go back and wash my hands.

He wished me a commerce free Saturnalia, I wished him a happy official birthday and went about my cushion admiring business.

Hoppas ditt 2009 ár mycket bra!

S.x.

RTD! OMG!!!

This week I’ve left the fun, wind and drink of The Auld Rock and come down to visit our celtic brothers in Cardiff.

I am wandering through Cardiff Bay with top bog-trotting comic and Doctor Who Fan extraordinaire Johnny Candon, spouting crap about Torchwood as if I know what I’m talking about when Johnny goes “Oh. Look.”

-And who is sitting there at a wee cafe reading his paper and smoking a fag?-

-None other than the great man himself Russell T Davis! Recent Úberlord of all things Whovian!

And of course, Queer As Folk- the programme that made it ok for straight blokes to have gay mates. Not the intention of the show, but a nice by-product (or bi-curios-product, if you will)

Well, it takes us five minutes of saying things like “What if he tells us to fuck off? I couldn’t recover,” and so on to each other but we finally go and do the shakey hand thing.

Loveliest bloke in the world! No kidding. A pleasure. AND it's my birthday. What a gift? I thanked him for inspiring and entertaining me with his book The Writers Tale, a pressie from my wife which I’m reading just now, and told him in a voice like a teenager in the midst of dropping his balls “I’m a writer too!” Yeah, I know. A bit pathetic. But his book says you have to be bold and just go for it! Put yerself about a bit. So it’s his own fault.

Honestly, though. Nicest guy you could meet.

And of course we get the photo. Check out below this fabulous image of tri-celtic, sci-fi homo-erotica (or two sadcase, fanboys pushing 40, pestering a hard working man who is just trying to have a fucking coffee break.)

Love Thy Neighbour

Day 1. Friday. On our first morning in Baltasound the grass out the back looked like this:

Waist high to most, shoulder high to me. So I joked (well not joked just sort of said chirpilly,) to my neighbour, Boagsy, "Ye'd need a scythe to deal with that lot." He replied, "I hae a sye, ah'll hae it done in ten meenuts." It was lovely day so I said "Great," and went on rake'n'barra duty.

So Boagsy, who looks a bit like Catweasel, took his scythe and hacked away for about an hour and low and behold...There was a dog under there! No, of course not. You've been introduced to Meg before. But he did find rhubarb! "Get chirsell a knife an stick that in a crumble," enthused Boagsy. In fact he told me THREE times! "It's ripe! Root it oot!"

So when I went over to tell him that I'd done it he was talking to Frank, my other neighbour, the guy who tames Shetland Ponies (except up here they're just called ponies. A Brazillian doesn't call a Brazil nut a Brazil nut, he just calls it a nut. Actually up here they are just called horses. The ponies that is, not Brazil nuts.)

Frank just happened to have a bottle of Grouse in his bag, so he sent Boagsy in to get four glasses and me in to get Caroline. It was only about 1.30 in the afternoon, but , well, it's just a dram.

Then out comes Andrew, a lovely guy next door who sits in his garden drinking cider from a mug arrived, as did Yorkshire Steve who I'd met earlier when he came my door and said "If you need anything, anything at all, just ask." My city hackles went up wondering what he wanted from me till I remembered where I was and people actually mean stuff like that. So we all stood there drinking a dram, like the opening credits of King Of The Hill, (in fact Frank looks a bit like Dale Gribble.) And it was nice.

We all broke up and I went back to my raking, and Caroline back to her sanding and staining. That should have been it but Andrew went up the shop and bought another bottle of whiskey. So we all ended up together again sitting in our garden this time pissing it up with grain whiskey and red wine. By this time I was like this:


"Me daughter anner friend are oop frompt down south at t'moment," says Yorkshire Steve, "They mekkin' a pottachilleh? Fancy a bitta dinner?"
"Aye!" Sez we.

We were in his house till 1.30 in the morning drinking vodka and smoking rollies.

Now let me remind you- this was our FIRST DAY!!!! Where have we moved to?

Nothing much happened on Saturday.

Stay tuned.
S.x.