Ralph the Wonder Llama

So today was my last Monday morning on the treadmill, the last time I’ll have to buy a season ticket to Glasgow, the start of the last week in this damnable job. Four more days to go and after four years it’ll all be over. People asked me today whether I was excited. I suppose I ought to be, and in different circumstances, maybe I would be. At the moment, though, I’m simply too tired and too low to feel anything very much. My one concession to it being my final week was to let myself off lunch-making duties. Woo-hoo. Way to let go, G.

On the way home from work I stopped in at the gym for a quick, guilt-induced run, and then took the chance to cancel my membership. Since I’ll be away for a little while in India, and since I’ll be unemployed when I get back, I’ll have to economise (the Sky Sports subscription is next). I’d been looking forward to cancelling the gym membership for some time, as I don’t very much enjoy the place – in fact the only thing I like about it now is Sunday’s yoga class, which I shall miss, but that will have to be pursued elsewhere. Yet when it came to it, I didn’t feel anything at all about it. It was just like returning an ill-fitting coat. They were very nice about it, so was I, and that was that. The pleasure I’d expected simply wasn’t there.

I could tell you how I am feeling about now, but I imagine you’re already thinking I’m feeling unnecessarily sorry for myself, so I shan’t bother. Yet all I seem to be doing lately is letting things out of my life. I’ve yet to find much worthwhile to take their places. Until then, I suspect, I’ll keep noticing the holes. Careful what you wish for, kids.

On the plus side, I have got a few of my best friends coming at the weekend for what will be, I think, quite a cosy party. It will be a gathering of quality rather than quantity. Also, and quite by chance, I’ve arranged a few days in the Lakes with my friend Claire, our paths having unknowingly been fated to cross there on Saturday week. It was somewhere I’d hoped to see for the first time this year, in slightly different circumstances admittedly, so it’s a nice unexpected treat. Even if it will probably be a bit damp.

After that, Christmas. After that, India. After that – I honestly couldn’t tell you. I thought I’d know by now, but I don’t. Maybe when I’ve had some sleep.

Last Thursday (12 Nov) I dashed back from work, did a quick turnaround at home and was out of the door again in fifteen minutes. Having taken a glance at the traffic on the walk back to the flat, I knew it was going to be as quick to walk across town as to get a bus, even to Lothian Road. I was to meet the Mathesons in All Bar One on Festival Square, just across the road from the (relatively) newly restored HMV Picture House, Edinburgh’s newest major music venue. Donald and Adele had left around 6, and I’d got there around 6:45 as arranged, after a brisk stroll. A few traffic-watch texts later, at 7:30 they walked into the bar looking ever so slightly hacked off. An hour-and-a-half from Bathgate – who can blame them? Unable to even raise cheer levels with a drink since she was driving, Adele especially was in need of entertainment. Truth to tell, we all were.

So after a swift one we headed over the road. The inside of the Picture House has been really well done. They’ve even retained the period squeak of the wooden doors, and added an almost unheard-of level of civility to the door staff. Presumably they’ll learn, in time. It’s well laid-out inside, but presumably tickets remained, as there was plenty of space – not the sardine-tin packed-ness I’d heard tell of from the Seasick Steve gig the other week. Despite not being sold out, though, it was a good sized crowd.

Support was from 6 Day Riot, and we caught about half their set. I know nothing about them, but they seemed pretty good and went over well. We were expecting much from Mr Lakeman, having seen him tear up the stage at Cropredy on the Friday night, when he really was on fire – an evening that will live long in the memory. He did not disappoint. Even though I thought the crowd were a little restrained at times, this stuff is big, beaty and bouncy, and it’s almost impossible not to be uplifted by it if you have music in your soul. The songs are top notch, the playing joyful and enthusiastic and the man himself both unprepossessing and infectious. I still don’t understand how anyone sings and plays fiddle at the same time, but I’m glad someone else has figured it out. One of my other favourite things about him is the extensive rack of tenor guitars he has lined up at the back of the stage, which he changes between songs on a frequent basis – very Rock ‘n Roll. I don’t know how many tunings it’s possible put on a tenor guitar, but Seth must employ a fair few of them.

As for the songs, inevitably the ones I’m most familiar with are those from Freedom Fields, with Lady of the Sea, Setting of the Sun, The White Hare, King & Country, 1643 and Take No Rogues making an appearance amongst others. Spirits lifted visibly as the evening wore on, and it can’t just have been the beer as Adele’s mood was similarly raised from a pretty low start. This guy just brings a grin to my face which is no mean feat just now. Thank goodness for good music – it can be a real soul saver, as Tim Burgess once had it. Herewith the obligatory crappy phone pic:

It was over all too soon. I must go and buy more of his records, and will take any and every chance to see the man live, that’s for sure. A real winter warmer.

The other weekend, as those of you paying attention will remember, I went to Ireland for a bit of a break down in Kildare with my friends Jan and Dave. They were heading back from a wedding further up north and we arranged to meet at Dublin Airport. Having left it till the last minute there were very few flights to be had and those that remained were fairly expensive. The solution, it turned out, was a very early morning train journey from Edinburgh to Manchester Airport and one of the last two seats on an Aer Lingus flight from there. £80 all in.

I never did find out what made Dublin such a popular destination on that particular weekend, but evidence of some of the standard reasons was to be found in abundance at the gate: two “teams” of women, one that looked as though they ought to be old enough to know better and probably didn’t, and one who looked to young to know better and who plainly had no intention of finding out, not on this trip thank you very much. The one thing they had in common was their apparent chosen sport – Having a Good Time, and fair enough, so long as I know where they’re going (Temple Bar, odds-on) and can go somewhere else. One team had an official strip commemorating in emerald sequins a birthday (50) on the back, with their names, so handy for the Garda later on, on the front. The other had no strip (well, not yet…) but a clear captain, who was wearing a bridal tiara and a look of intent. Lucky lucky boy…

Anyway, the trip was, as Our Lord John Cleese once so wonderfully observed, relatively crash-free, not to mention short. 35 minutes after leaving Manchester I was in Ireland and ten minutes after that I had a pocket full of Euros and a pint full of Guinness. Not the best, but certainly the most expensive, of the weekend. But t’is an airport, and I had a wait. What to do? Anyway, the bar was right next to the ATM and I had to make sure the money worked didn’t I?

Ireland. Tropical Paradise. Almost every time I’ve been there I’ve come home with a tan, or at least partially burnt. One has come to expect a certain climate, and it was only late October after all. And so, as I awaited the arrival of the Strachans, I watched from the snug confines of the, erm, snug, as what looked suspiciously like rain lashed down upon those poor, unfortunate Guinnless souls outside, while I turned my attention to finishing off A Suitable Boy. The book, you understand…
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