Kieran's Christmas Special!

Hail the Conquering Heroine

The Missus is back home from Los Angeles! Please don't confuse that exclamation mark with an expression of joy, it's more an expression of consternation. Don't get me wrong, I really wanted her to come home, but as soon as she arrived I was reminded of why I really wanted her to go away in the first place. At least the bruises on my shins got the chance to heal a bit before they go back to having the shit kicked out of them in bed again.

She said that she was delighted and relieved to be home again, although I suspect that the real reason for her relief is her coming home to find that the flat had not burned down, exploded, imploded, ceased to exist, or had been warped into a parallel dimension. She was also impressed that the flat was neat, tidy, had no cave paintings on the walls and no faecal matter had been thrown around. She gets quite precious with our home. She can handle a small amount of untidiness but any kind of dirt accumulation causes her to progress to near nervous breakdown levels of stress.

Jolly Old St. Coke

Jolly Old St Nick ...

So now that we're all “coupley” again, the Missus has suggested that this weekend we go shopping for Christmas presents. Bah humbug. I remember when I was a child Christmas was all about the baby Jesus, his homeless parents and 3 blinged-out pimps giving presents of gold, frankincense and pizza. Now people worship a magical elephantine Inuit who sold out to the Coca Cola company. Jolly old Saint Nick wore a GREEN suit until the Coke company decided to paint him wearing a RED suit. The image stuck and now everyone recognises the red suited old man. 

...Is Now a Greedy Non-Sharing Bastard

So now Santa drinks syrupy caffeine soft drinks and tells anyone who will listen that the 'Holidays are coming, holidays are coming' etc. If I were Santa and that was my legacy I would sooner ignore the cookies and milk lying on the living room table and instead drink the bleach under the kitchen sink. Still, if dear old Sanity Claus can embrace consumerism then why shouldn't we? And so cue toy adverts shown during children's cartoons and Marks and Spencers adverts with their food porn for middle class adults, and we'll all go out shopping.

Christmas: The Nation's Favourite Bloodsport.

Baby Jesus Wants a Buzz Lightyear for His Birthday

 

Christmas is loved here in Britain because it combines the nation’s 2 favourite pastimes; buying unnecessary goods and waiting in queues. Christmas shopping and sanity are inseparable, as they move lockstep. As Christmas approaches, panic-buying increases at the same rate of which sanity decreases. This is compounded when a shop promotes a sale. Drones will buy things they do not need at a price the shopkeeper can't afford. As the prices of goods on the shelves go down so do the manners of his patrons. No wonder Christmas is known as ‘Silly season’.

Christmas Traditions

Christmas has a number of traditions, chief of which is panic buying food. It is truly beyond me why people feel the need to buy 6 months worth of bread and milk just because the shops are closed for 1 day. Perhaps if people did not eat 6 months worth of food in 6 days, then there would be no need for useless New Year's resolutions, such as pledges to shrink the engorged size of the arse a man has accrued over Christmas.

Another tradition is to endure the Queen’s speech. It's amusing to be lectured on the state of the nation by an old crone who has never truly tasted the hardship that most of her subjects live with daily. I would sooner listen to the stuttering nonsense dribbled by Colin Firth and his attempts at a King’s speech. Many Scottish people reject the Queen’s speech and instead look for meaningful social commentary and pearls of wisdom by the expert in all cheese-related matters, Wallace and his intellectual pet pooch Gromit.

Please, Stop Breathing so Loudly.

After the celebrations of Christmas Day comes the collapsed pudding that is Boxing Day. Boxing Day is a national day of penance. We punish ourselves for feasting like kings the day before by lying on the sofa with turkey sandwiches and paracetamol on tap. That's why Boxing Day is the quietest day of the year. Ungodly headaches caused by the excesses of Christmas now make hearing your own soft breath feel like Satan is rubbing a cheese grater against your face.

And so Merry Christmas to all, and to all a bearable Boxing Day.

My Washing Machine has Gone on Strike.

I find myself alone in the house all this week after my better half has been away on some business trip. I’m not quite sure where, but I think it's either Armenia, America or Afghanistan. Surprisingly enough I've found it increasingly hard to sleep. It's not that I've been missing her, it's more likely that I'm waking up and the quilt is still covering me. I'm also happy to report that the bruises on my legs from where she kicks me in her sleep are healing well. It hasn't been plain sailing of course. Most confusingly my clothes are not being washed. I always thought that they washed themselves in collaboration with the washing machine, but it seems to have gone on strike. After putting on a cycle myself, I asked the washing machine why it isn't working by itself any more, but it just farted a few bubbles and started leaking from underneath.

My friends have been joking that now the cat is away me and my fellow mice should play. Jokes of raging house parties and wild nights out have been spouted, but the truth of the matter is I've been going to bed early with a cup of tea, a scone and a movie. I'm not sure when I became middle aged, but I think it was roughly 5 days ago.

I haven't bought any Christmas presents yet. It’s not that I’m being lazy (My natural laziness is completely coincidental); I'm blaming the 2012 Mayan end of the world prophecy. If the world is going to end before Christmas, then why waste time in long and infuriating shopping queues? If you're not aware of the 2012 prophecy then let me indulge you. The ancient Mayans projected that their 5'000 year calendar would end on the 21^st December 2012. Cue hysteria about the end of the world and terrible disaster movies. Personally, any more awful apocalypse movies and I'll be looking forward to judgement day. Fear not though, pretty much every scientific expert and even Mayan experts have refuted these theories as nonsense. They state that we should be more concerned with more immediate fears, for example global warming, and if the X-Factor will get another Xmas number 1.

Rest assured that on December 22^nd you're likely to find me rushing around Sauchiehall Street like a headless chicken, desperately trying to convince myself that my missus would just LOVE a “Tickle Me Elmo” toy. And when you sit down to your Christmas dinner, just think about how many red-faced ancient Mayans there will be out there, and I promise you we'll be thinking of each other.

Merry Christmas and God bless us, eeeeverrryyyone!

Kieran x

Hello......

Hello, let me introduce myself. My name is Kieran and I am a country bumpkin.

Having been raised in a small town in the countryside near Glasgow, I was aware of the big bad city, but completely ignorant of it at the same time. It was not until I met my long suffering girlfriend (who is now sadly my fiancée) that I upped sticks and moved to Glasgow City to be with her. Just think of my life as being a mix between Crocodile Dundee and The Wicker Man.

I have come to love this city as my home and can think of no place I’d rather live. I will therefore endeavour to tell you tales of my day-to-day exploits. What I see, hear and think about this ever changing, amazing, confusing, topsy-turvy city, all from the eyes of a budding city slicker.

My first experience of real life Glasgow was waiting at a bus shelter (for what would turn out to be another wrong bus). At the shelter was a rather dishevelled woman arguing with a one-legged pigeon. The argument ended by her calling it a ‘scumbag’ and the pigeon hopping off in a huff.

Lately, with the cold weather shivering everyone’s timbers I have been putting more and more layers on, to the point where my missus (as I affectionately and patronisingly call her) told me that three pairs of socks were excessive.When out in the city centre at night I was amazed to see clubbers and pubbers wearing short sleeved shirts and mini skirts in freezing temperatures. And that was just the men.