I took a trip to Kelvingrove with my girlfriend on Saturday. I heard a lot of good things about the place and its refurbishment. Pretty good fun and I could probably lose myself in there for a few hours in the future.

My enjoyment was marred by the amount of screaming kids around the 2 to 4 year age group running around. No doubt they were taken there by weekend dads because their fathers have no clue as to where to take them. The fathering instinct took hold and made me realise that I wouldnt take a toddler to a museum. Id rather take them for ice cream and a bag of chips, but not neccesarily in that order.

Have you ever thought about what you would leave behind to be placed in a museum for generations you will never see to look at?

Id bequeath the following:

A pair of well worn adidas samba trainers
Some hair pomade and my favourite brush
Empty diet irn bru cans

—

Pretty pointless to people who are not me or lived my life. But there are a good number of rediculous things in museums that have no relevance to my life..

I had heard about this from a selection of Taxi Drivers:

In Glasgow, some kind of unpublicised work idea for asylum seekers ( EDIT: actually Katie pointed out they are immigrants, asylum seekers are not allowed to work.. ), Glasgow City Council are offering non English speakers the chance to become private hire drivers with the freebie of SatNav and a translator sitting in the passenger seat.

Im all for a multi cultural society, but this is not right. Regardless of colour or creed, I wouldnt feel comfortable being in a taxi with two men, one who is behind the wheel and cant speak English. How could he read and understand our roadsigns? Surely it would be more logical for a would be taxi driver immigrant to undertake some sort of English course?

A lot of women certainly would not go into a car with two strange men.. Racist taxi drivers are having a field day with this absolute nugget from Glasgow City Council and I have to listen to thier filth on some mornings..

UPDATE: I have been informed that this may not be exactly a Council idea...

Dear readers. Apologies for lack of blog insights. Things have been hectic and there have been some personal turmoil which is too tedious to go into here.. Lets move swiftly on.

Im thinking of creating a new catagory called ‘ Observations ‘ Artist Stuart Murray is a well versed observationalist, and the success in his art has some quite incredibly funny and sad art muse. Reading his books has made me even more aware of Glasgow/human/non human characters.

Tonight’s observation comes from the social magic that is cast on the 41 bus. The other evening, a small boy annoyed me. Well he annoyed everyone as did his hag of a mother. Yes, strong lexical choices but she stank of cider and smelled of long term benefit fraud. The kid was mouthy from the beginning to the end of my journey. He must have had a Bon Jovi Greatest Hits in his record arsenal at home because he sang out loud a few choice cuts of their work. Word perfect too.

I dont like Bon Jovi, this kid added to the sound pollution. His mother was speaking to someone she knew whilst her kid was performing karaoke. She was loud too, effing and blinding - even mentioning how she was in court the other day for answering to a charge of in her words ‘ bootin her 17 year old neighbour in the fanny ‘

Fair enough. One comes to expect this in Glasgow. But the kid got sick of Bon Jovi and started singing - much to his mother’s amusement:

bum, tit, tit, bum, bum. Play the hairy banjo

Ive never heard that one until he sang it. Some friends have accused me of being socially retarded due to the lack of knowledge.

He got louder and louder, and louder… His mother intervened with ‘ i’ll fuckin kick yer shithole. Now shut yer mooth ‘

( For non Glaswegians. She asked him to kindly refrain from singing too loud )

The bold kid told his mother that he ‘ will punch her in the tit ‘ when he gets home.

There is always an old pensioner that intervenes in these kind of situations. Giving them a lesson in good manners.. She too was told to go away ( but that was said in Glaswegian dialect with double venom) Pensioners are annoying in those situations. AS if the world was without colourful metaphors in the days of Black and White TV and Rationing. It was there back then and they know it.

Rudeness though was more refined and classy. I always remember the story that my mother told me when I was 19 during a candid conversation about sex and other things one shouldnt ask a mother. Mum was visiting a friend of hers about 35 years ago. This friend was a good age back then. Well mannered, lynchpin of morality in front of her friends this lady was.

Anyway. Mum needed the loo and her friend told her in all seriousnessthat ‘ Before you go in, I need to empty the bath as my James has just came out of the toilet and I want to say goodbye to the Grandchildren I could have had…. ‘

I wonder if the pensioner who accosted the rude boy and his mother remembered that comment from 35 years ago..

My good friend moved to Glasgow this year and he has a knack of finding things that are useful on the dear green place’s streets. Not too long after he settled in he found a lovely couch on the street. While others would walk on by, he carried it home, cleaned it up and now its sitting right at home in his room.

However last night I was with him and what he found this time made me wonder if he is the second coming with someone above leaving him gifts on the steet. My good friend found a box (unopened ) that contained about 20 packets of Ginger Cake of the highest quality. It was lying on the kerb, awaiting the binmen. I would have walked past, but of course my friend took the box home!

On further examination they just went past their sell by date. We had a slice with our tea/beer and it was great. I was however indulged to try and eat a full one. I am slim and this would have been an easy task during my fat Elvis period. I ate it myself and it amazed my friends.

Today, my insides are in pain and I feel pregnant. I am gingered out. The things I do for laughs..

On our way home from work tonight, my friend and I encountered a waif like girl in her twenties looking rather disorientated and upset. She also sported a very severe gash on her forehead/eyebrow - recently aquired as her clothes were freshly bloodstained.

She approached us asking for help. Immediatly we told her she needs medical help and enquired as to how she got into this state.

‘ I fell. ‘ she replied.

Pretty obvious she didnt..

She then asked if she could buy a cigarette off my friend. It would have been pretty expensive for one fag as she offered a £10 note. My friend, the good soul that he is declined the money but gave her a cigarette.

This is where my compassion ended. My Glasgow instincts kicking in. This wasnt right, she was in pain but wanted to part with a tenner for a coffin nail. We asked again how this very nasty gash happened.

‘ Sumbody a know…. ‘

Hmmm.. strange and I began to look around for the boyfriend. Looking at her again this wasnt shock that was making her judgement impaired. She looked as if she enjoyed a drug or two.. I also began to wonder if we would end up getting mugged by the boyfriend and her..

We told her that we would walk her to a taxi to get to the hospital. She again refused. We then walked away sharply as did she..

Now, why refuse when she initially asked for help? I do not trust people like her who have all the hallmarks of being on some kind of drug/or coming off a hit, blood pissing from a head wound but had the gall to ask for a fag.

What is the point of being a good samaritan? I wonder how many other good samaritans were stopped tonight by her. I also wonder if someone took the £10?

Probably her boyfriend.