There's Always Room for Gelato Motherfucker - Milan Special Pt 2.

No, This Isn't Photoshopped.

Welcome back folks. As you join me I am sitting in my hotel room watching some chatshow with a singer so ridiculously tanned that she has gone from being Mediterranean to being mahogany. And she's a bit shit too. Well we've had a bit of a cracker today. After getting on a couple of wrong trams, we finally found ourselves at the Metro system (or Subway). Once again we got on the wrong train, however when I realised my mistake I jumped off at the soonest possible stop. I expected the Missus to be at my back, but as the doors closed, I saw her sitting on the seat looking confused, as the train moved off again. It was like the penultimate scene of the world's shittest rom-com. It may have been something to do with her confused/scared face, and my surprised/happy face as she moved off into the darkness. My joy was short-lived however, as she had the good sense to jump off at the next stop and double back. When she returned her enraged face was a joy to behold, although I swear she was thinking of pushing me in front of the next train to arrive.

God Has a Lovely House.

We eventually arrived at our destination - The Duomo di Milano. In English it translates as "That fuck-off bollocking huge cathedral thingy". It was a sight unlike any other place I've visited. The architecture was as jaw dropping as street sellers were irritating. As breathtaking as it was, I couldn't help but think that rather than spend all the money building it, how much that money could have helped the poor. It just seemed like one big Papal self indulgent hard-on. As we crossed the square a man offering to take our picture kept pestering us. Politely saying 'no' obviously wasn't enough for him so I said "Vaffanculo, testa di cazzo" (look it up) and he promptly retreated.

Me, Happily Enjoying a Coffee.

The Missus and I then sat at a piazza where we enjoyed a glass of coke in the sun. The Missus left for a moment to use the restaurant's toilet. When she returned she divulged that the toilet consisted of a hole in the ground, and that she couldn't go for fear of peeing on her own clothes. We therefore set off in search of a proper restaurant with proper food and a proper toilet to shit that proper food back out. Properly. The place we found did the most beautiful cappuccino I've ever tasted, making Costa Coffee taste like festering snot from a rabid dog by comparison. We got a massive pizza each, which was extremely filling. We passed a place selling gelato (ice cream) when the Missus moaned "I thought you said you were full" to which I replied "There's always room for gelato, motherfucker".

Bastard Conmen Everywhere.

We then got ambushed by more street sellers. This time it was Africans who were selling multicoloured string wristbands which tied on. They promised that the wristbands were free and that they were sending "Love from Africa". I replied "So, AIDS then?" but the sellers played dumb. Once the bands had been tied on and the excess clipped off meaning we couldn't remove them without breaking them, that's when they suggested (surprise surprise) a 'small donation'. The Missus naively asked how much, to which one seller replied "5 Euros". I said, "Well give us another 2 then, for our friends!". Thinking that he'd bagged another couple of tourist suckers, he held out his hand smiling expecting to receive 20 Euros. He looked crestfallen when I gave him 5cents. He then protested that they were 5 EUROS EACH, and not 5cents for all 4 wristbands. "Eh?" I replied. "5 EUROS EACH!". I smiled, nodded and said "Si! Si!" and pointed to the 5cent coin in his hand. "No, 5 EUROS each!" he insisted. I shrugged "Mi dispiace, non capisco (I'm so sorry, I do not understand)", and we walked away. The seller realising HE was the one who'd been mugged, looked dejected. When we turned the corner and were out of sight, I put all 4 wristbands in the bin. Serves him right. Fucker.

I'm Lovin It. And Lovin It. And Lovin It. And L....

We seemed to spend the rest of the time shopping, which isn't a massive surprise. Take your wife/girlfriend/fiancee to Milan and you can forget wanting to do anything else. One thing which surprised me was the number of McDonalds restaurants there are here. The Missus and I went for a nice evening stroll and we passed by 2 separate McDonalds outlets on the one road. As we walked we saw a McDonalds poster on every streetlight for 300 yards. I think they were advertising a seperate one each time. I guess it's true what they say - McDonalds outlets are like rats; you're never more that 20 feet from one at any one time. We also strolled past a gang or rather mangy looking prostitutes who were applying make-up, removing coats etc, obviously preparing for tonight's shift. I couldn't help but feel sorry for them. I could tell they were all 20 - 30yrs old but they had faces like 90yr old Russian grandmothers. Obviously the world's oldest profession had not been kind to them, as they all looked like they'd given one blow job too many a long time ago.


***UPDATE***
Ok everyone sing with me!

Oh, show me the way to go home,
I'm tired and I want to go to bed.
I was on holiday about an hour ago
And now I feel half-dead.

Enjoying My Balcony.

I'm back bitches! I have returned home and I'm almost resembling something near slightly tanned. Normally I look slightly blue, like a drowning victim, but now I actually look white. The only thing I didn't sample was the local whores, although having seen the state of them, I really wouldn't want to even if I was single. I have certainly grown more appreciative of the Missus' looks. Compared to a haggered drug addict prostitute she looks great. I told her this and although she said thanks, she also looked a bit underwhelmed. I'll never understand women. I've got somewhere in region of 4 - 5 million photographs which instead of assaulting you with here, I will assault you with on my Facebook page.

Arrivaderci Bitches! - Milan Special Pt 1.

Happy and Excited at Edinburgh Airport.

Arrivaderci bitches! As I write this I'm currently bout 10 million feet off the ground in an airplane headed to Milan, Italy with the Missus in tow. And before you ask, yes I have asked if I could join the Mile High club. Initially I was hopeful, but the look on the Missus' face gave me my answer. To be fair, perhaps I should have asked to join the Mile High club with her, rather than some of the pretty passengers. So a few days in Milan seeing the sights will do me a world of good. The Missus is taking all her nicest clothes with her, as it is one of the world's foremost fashion hotspots. I too am taking some of my finery, and I'm confident I will be amongst some of the more fashion-conscious Milanese homeless community. The pinnacle of my fashionable accessories is my old fart "bunnet" hat bought in a Glasgow shop, but with the impression that it was stolen from a sleeping pensioner on a bus. In the lead up to this brief little visit the Missus asked me to draw up a rough itinerary for our stay. After a full day searching and thinking I managed 'Visit the San Siro stadium'. I'm such a bloody boy sometimes.

The Alps, from My Airplane Window.

Ohhh by the way, I just sneakily felt the Missus' boob. So as far as I'm concerned I'm now an official bonafide member of the Mile High club :-D. Anyway, whilst the missus sits embarrassed and seething, let me tell you about what's been happening recently. My standup career is really going surprisingly well, with me entertaining audiences all over the city. The crowd laugh, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it is out of pity more than anything else. I've unfortunately been neglecting my writing duties both here, and in my Glaswegian newspaper column, something which I shall endevour to rectify post haste.


We're Staying in Milan for 3 days at a 5 star hotel. Now I know what you are wondering - 'How can he afford to stay in 5 star luxury when he is so bloody poor all the time?'. Well it's basically thanks to the Missus and the nature of her job. She gets to do these things, whilst I am the poor arty-farty writer scribbling away my thoughts on this gadget thingy like a squirrel hiding nuts in a tree. We'll be visiting the Duomo di Milano (In other words, the bollocking great cathedral) and also some Castello Dforzesco place too. I'm expecting the tour of the Duomo to cost a fortune. The one thing Italians know how do do, apart from play horrendously boring yet crushingly effective football, is make money out of religion. The last time I lived in Italy it was Florence (or Firenze if you're Italian, or an arsehole) and I once went on a day trip to Assissi, of St Francis fame. The Basilica there was beautiful in every way, but if you wanted to see where St Frankie was buried you had to pay, and if you wanted a candle then you had to pay 2 Euros. Scandalously, they then asked you to put it back in another container a mere six feet away. So you paid 2 Euros to carry a candle six feet. Like I said, a tremendous amount of money in religion.

Happy and Having Fun on Our Balcony.

 I must say, the cabin crew have been absolutely lovely, and have treated us well, especially when one came to collect the rubbish and I asked if he would take away the Missus. The Missus then promptly asked how good the flush on the toilet was to the bemused steward. She then said "I have 14 stones of shit to get rid of before I arrive". Touche Missus, touche. I guess you could count this trip as a pre-wedding honeymoon. Why go on a honeymoon BEFORE the wedding? Well I figured that since most marriages end in divorce, we may as well get the fun stuff out of the way. In fact since the marriage statistically won't last, we may as well get it out of the way as soon as possible. That's why on the morning of the wedding I will be filing for divorce. I'm sure the Missus will appreciate the thoughtfulness. I will keep you up to date with how the holiday goes, but for now, buon giorno bitches. 

***UPDATE***

We have now arrived at our hotel and are attempting to chill out. Milan city centre is absolutely fucking insane. Crazy drivers, suicidal pedestrians and so many people cutting in front of one another in queues that it could have been London in summer. Like I said, having lived in Italy before, I was used to this and expected it, but poor old the Missus didn't and got herself so worked up that she had steam coming out of her eyes. We decided to take a walk tp the local shopping centre, which immediately made me feel like I was back in the Buchanan Galleries (which is kind of defeating the purpose of going abroad). In these galleries we were stopped by security and had our shopping bags searched for no reason other than the guard was being a prick. I asked him "Is it cos I is black?", but he didn't understand and continued rummaging around our bags. He got frightened off when I asked to see his warrant, and threatened to call the Carabinieri if he didn't stop it. Fucking twat. We're currently sitting watching the Italian edition of The Voice (Which is like Eurovision, only even shitter) with a bottle of prosecco trying to digest today's events. So until tomorrow, buona sera bitches.

The Week that Wasn't - Thatcher Special (Unedited Version)

"Irony Lady's Rule United Angry Scots" The Glaswegian, Wednesday 17.04.2013

The Iron Lady in her Prime.

Unsurprisingly, the news for the last week has been dominated by the death of Maggie Thatcher. To some the saviour of the harrumphing classes, to others, the scurge of the working man. Today the world will watch as she will be laid to rest with a funeral afforded to the Queen Mother, a full ceremonial funeral with military honours at St Paul's Cathedral, effectively a state funeral in all but name and at a cost to the taxpayer thought to be between £8-12 million.

With Excellent Make Up Meryl Streep is a Dead Ringer.

Glasgow, like most of Scotland, was hit incredibly hard by the effect of Thatcher's policies, none more so than the shipbuilders on the Clyde and other heavy industry workers in and around Glasgow on which the country relied. And impoverished areas of Glasgow, already suffering the effects of "The Winter of Discontent" felt her policies even more accutely. Not all of Britain suffered though. As long as you lived in middle to southern England, were middle class and upwards, white, Christian and straight then you had the best chance tofind life quite comfortable. Indeed some with privileged starts to their lives were allowed to flourish in Thatcher's Britain, giving rise to the free market Yuppy stereotype which is looked upon today with derision. This rule is not hard and fast, and there were some working class or immigrants who did do well, and if you managed to succeed during this time then fair play, well done. But if you were poor or working class, black, asian, non-British, and gay, then the chances of you flourishing and reaching your potential were much slimmer. She once said to the press that there was no such thing as "society". Unfortunately, for the majority, regardless of talent or potential there was no such thing as meritocracy either.

A Meeting Between Thatcher & Pres. Ronald Reagan.

As a result, the memory of Maggie has since maintained a specre-like shadow over the country, and parents tell their children of what it was like when Thatcher was in power. In this way Maggie has evolved into a societal boogeyman figure akin to Lord Voldemort, when Harry was still living under some dude's stairs and Voldemort was living under some dude's turban. "Do you remember when She who Shall Not be Named stopped the children getting milk at school? And do you remember when she opposed sanctions on South Africa's Apartheid and branded Nelson Mandela a grubby little terrorist?". "Yes. I remember when She Who Shall Not be Named sent the SAS to train the Khmer Rouge and opposed the reunification of Germany". "I remember the Poll tax, her opposition to the national minimum wage, raising VAT from 8% to15% and nearly 5 million people unemployed whilst giving tax cuts and other incentives to the richest"."Yup, She Who Shall Not be Named was a bit of a rotter, really. Still, in her defense she had a jolly posh accent and knew how to wear a blue dress".

Scotland's Grief on Planet Rifkind.

The award for the biggest fantasist goes to Sir Malcolm Rifkind, who recently claimed that the Scots actually LOVED Maggie. He is of course referring to Thatcher's Right to Buy policy which allowed people to buy their council house at cut rate prices. This was one of the few kind things she did for the working class, and she should rightfully be hailed for it, however it clearly never occured to her that in the future council houses would eventually run out leading to the shortage we have in many areas. She could have used some of the money to build new houses but perhap she either didn't realise or care. Sir Malky obviously left Planet Reality a long time ago, but I'm sure he's now quite happy on his new home planet where all of Scotland vote Tory, Maggie is a national hero and Scotland had a week of national mourning, with people crying in the streets on a level only known in North Korea.

Scenes Which Would Enrage the Daily Mail.

So Maggie passes in luxury warm in her bed in The Ritz, but for those who say that Thatcher won, I counter with this - the Scots finallly got their own back at the end. Her callous treatment of the poor and her determination to hammer the unions into submission united an angered Scotland which stood helplessly by, as the number of votes from England in the General Elections ensured that the Scots' votes would always be meaningless. Such unified desire for Scots to have their voice heard eventually led to the creation of the Scottish Parliament, and given our taste for autonomy it has led to next years' independence referendum. Margaret Thatcher was always deeply opposed to the idea of Hollyrood, and if we do vote yes for independence, then I'm sure that Thatcher's rage will be felt straight from the afterlife. In that way her punative policies have drastically backfired on her, because if only she had treated the poor fairly and with some compassion, if only the unions had not been hammered, then Holyrood may not even exist today. But if Scotland sees out 2014 having collectively said yes to independence, then Scotlands retribution will be complete.

Thatcher's Ideology Lives On.

Plenty in Scotland will celebrate Thatcher's passing, but whilst living at the height of Cameronism (which dwarfs Thatcher's ideology in many ways) those celebrations will all seem a little meaningless.

Kieran
X

The Only Way is Anna Devitt

Comedian Anna Devitt has been making large waves in the comedy circuit which has culminated in her winning New Comedian of the Year at the prestigious Scottish Variety Awards 2013. Originally a student of highly respected and seasoned comic Viv Gee, Anna has set up her own all female production company called "Direct Devitt" and is responsible for producing and running shows. As part of the Glasgow Comedy Festival 2013, Anna had a 3 night run of her highly anticipated solo show "Made in Scotland: The Only Way is Glasgow!" hosted at S.P.A.C.E in The Argyll Arcade, Buchanan Street.

The show itself was split into 2 parts. Part one was a combination of off the cuff standup, and compering her own show. The show was interspersed with Anna  recounting a very special rendition of Happy Birthday for her niece via "Truffle", Anna's belly button-mouthed 'friend'. Anna also recounted how she and a few friends were invited down to Henley (of annual regatta fame) and her Poundland present for her well to do hosts. A large portion of the show was not only audience interaction, but also with a healthy dose of self deprecative humour, showing that Anna was not afraid to highlight herself as the butt of many of her own jokes.

Part 2 began with her recounting tales of her school career at "Nae Bother High". And the show culminated with an impromptu pole dancing performance which also feature such disco dancing movies such as "The Worm" (Look it up), which was not only hilarious but also adorable in the nicest way. Throughout the show audience interaction was a key element, especially when she persuaded a male audience member to attempt a pole dance of his own.

Overall, the audience were treated to a much more intimate show than most Glasgow Comedy Festival show, which was to Anna's credit. The show although having the air of being more unpredictable than others' shows (due to the nature of the performance), still packed a punch and the prolonged standing ovatation from the crowd was ultimately the final say on Devitt's performance. The show was very enjoyable and highlighted not only Anna's quick-witted nature, but also a more personal side to her which can often be lacking with some of her peers' shows. Her run in this years' comedy festival may be over, but I will be looking out for more of her shows in future, and would recommend other fans of standup comedy to do the same. Very Good ♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♥♡♡

Kieran x

Urinating on Nurses, and other Such Traumas.

"HnnnI wazznnlike illnnn killnnn priests!"

I'm ill.

Kind of. What I mean is my voice is ill. The rest of me is ok now. Well, fairly anyway. I look perfectly healthy so you wouldn't think that something inside is a bit peaky. This must be how people with Gonorrhea feel. Peaky and burny. My problem is however, that if I were to read this aloud I would sound like a cross between Selma Blair from the Exorcist when she was suffering from an acute bout of exzema and killing priests, and Sooty's best pal Sweep when he was suffering from an acute bout of depression and killing Sue. It sounds like my voice is breaking all over again, which is rather upsetting, because going through puberty was horrendous enough the first time. When I need to speak to members of the public I explain myself by saying that I have a fancy dress party to attend later, and that I'm going as Bjork having an orgasm. At least I now know what 80's movie start Bobcat Goldthwait feels like.

"Don't Hide Like a Little Bitch. Come at Me, Pussy"

My house has been ever so slightly plagued recently, as the Missus too has been consistently ill for the last few months. Well her eye has been. She has a chronic eye condition, which instead of healing keeps reinjuring itself, meaning many trips to the hospital in agony for her, and many undeserved bollockings for me. When the condition errupts her eye gets all swollen, bruised and weepy. So when the Missus and I are outside together I get vicious accusatory stares from strangers which say "You abusive bastard", so I offer them a stare back which says "Meh". We make quite the fetching couple; her with her eye looking like she's gone 10 rounds with Mike Tyson, and me with my voice soundling like a knife fight to the death between a baby and a cat. So as you can imagine, with all this bollocks going on daily, my house hasn't exactly been the cheeriest place recently. Still, it could be worse - I could be Nick Clegg.

It has also got me to thinking about this country's NHS. Truly a remarkable institution which should be considered sacred. Of course it isn't perfect; the waiting lists for treatments are at times ridiculous and there's a fighting chance you'll leave hospital with some kind of super duper mega bug which with eat you arm, then your spleen, then kill you. Some nurses have the bedside manner of Hitler's SS and some doctors are dismissive egotistical twats, but they could be worse - they could be Nick Clegg. I think we should spare a thought for the aforementioned nurses etc. They work in extremely stressful conditions, are poorly paid, understaffed, keep ridiculously long hours, and yet they still do a fantastic job and are always there when we need them most, even when so many patients are rude and/or abusive to them. But enough of that, lest I begin to sound like a politician fishing for a round of applause on BBC's Question Time.

What My Mind Sees When It Walks into a Hospital

As I write this I am currently in hospital with the Missus as she waits for another appt for eye doctors to do more eye treatments with eye equipment and give her eye medicine for, surprisingly enough, her eye. If only they gave her a fucking punch bag to take home rather than eye drops it would save me almost as much pain as they try to save her. I hate hospitals. Being in one immediately makes me feel like I am surrounded by death and disease on all sides. I look around and I see a stream of empty, soulless, haunted faces, and those are just the hospital cleaners. Every time I visit a hospital I expect to see four diseased looking horses parked in the senior management car park next to the Jaguars. "Paging Death to the Cardiology department, that's Death to Cardiology. Thank you". I've received surgery on various sports injuries etc so often in the past that when I see a porter ferrying a patient on a hospital bed, my first instinct is to shove the deathly ill looking patient off and hop onto it myself. That's why I decided to give up sports and be a lazy bastard instead.

"Now Kieran, Urination Does Not Equal My Affection"

When I was young I was a very sickly child, which involved a lot of hospital trips with both my parents until I decided I was a big brave boy, then I only wanted my dad to come with me. When I was young I was told that when I was born, my first act as a new life into this world was to pee on the nurse who was trying to weigh me. I weighed 10lbs, however if she had weighed me before I had anointed her with my own personal seal of approval I might have weighed 11lbs. My dad always recounted this story with great fatherly pride, which as a child I mistakenly associated with approval and acceptance. That's why every time I attended a hospital I would immediately pee on the nearest nurse. For some unfathomable reason he didn't seem quite so proud of me anymore, especially when the shouting and swearing and threats of police involvement started. So now when I see a nurse in the corridor I run up to her, scream "ARE YOU HAPPY NOW DAD?!" and run away again, crying.

Well I best go now, as I can see a nurse coming towards us and I really would rather be somewhere else instead. Like Syria.

Kieran x

Marley and Me.

"I'm Going to be a Tiger Assassin when I Grow Up!"

I'm about to welcome a new addition into my family. Fuck off, I mean I'm getting a pet. A kitten to be specific. I've named him Marley, after Bob the Rastafarian genius, not Jacob the fictitious regretful ghost. I continue the family tradition of naming pets after a famous musical genius. My sister called her cat "Hendrix" after Jimmy, and I named my cuddly toy tiger (shut up smartarse) "Joplin" after Janice, and now Marley is the latest addition.

Marley will be Doing This from the Kitchen Window.

Marley is only 1 week old, still blind, can't yet stand, but I already get a sense of his personality. Perhaps it's because he stops crying for his mum whilst in my arms, or that he bobs his head when he hears Bob Marley's "Is This Love" playing. Either way, he is already much cooler than me. The Missus has already fallen in love with him, although she's worried as she has a tendancy to be allergic to cats. And dogs. And hamsters. But unfortunately not me. She said "But what if I turn out to be allergic to Marley?". I saw the genuine worry and sadness in her eyes, and I soothlingly replied "Don't worry - I'm sure Marley and I can find alternative accommodation for you". For some unfathomable reason she was not amused. My friends who own Marley's mum said that he will be ready to leave in less than 12 weeks, which for a 10yr old boy like me is an excruciating amount of time.

Still, just wait until the kitten shits diarrhoea all over the bedroom carpet and I'll be ready for microwaving the little bastard. So I need to get the house kitten-proofed. Kitten-proofing a house is like child-proofing it, but impossible. When childproofing a house, you only need to worry about the dangerous things within reach of the child, but cats can reach places you can't. So unless you happen to be Stretch Armstrong, or have Inspector Gadget as a roommate you can only hope for the best. Advice from scholarly experts on the subject of cats include taking some of the dirty gravel from it's old litter tray and putting it in it's new tray in your house, so that it will be familiar with where it is supposed to shit. But that also includes brining pissy gravel into my house which, to be honest, I'm not in the habit of doing. I guess since I'll be inviting a cute little shitting machine into my house for the next 15-20 years I should start as I mean to continue.

"One Way or Another, You're Going In that Food Bowl."

I suppose a plethora of miscellaneous paraphernalia shall be required, which will quickly make Marley the highest maintainance resident of the house by far, I mean, I don't need a scratch post or a litter tray although the same can't be said for the Missus. Marley is going to be an indoors cat, which will be the first time I've had one, the other previous cats all being the outdoorsie kind. That's because I now live in the city centre with all the hustle and bustle of traffic etc. Back when I lived in the arse end of nowhere there were fields and trees and hills for them to roam, chasing the local wildlife. Now I live in the city, the local wildlife carry knives, drink buckfast and are likely to attack Marley with fireworks, so indoors he shall stay.

"I Have the Bowels!!!"

It may not be plain sailing though, especially if Marley turns out to be a bit of a moron. I once had a cat, who after having a major operation had to stay indoors for a few weeks. I knew the vet was poking around inside her, but I thought that it was in her general stomach area not her head because when I got her back, she was distinctly more stupid than when I left her. For a start she had begun standing in her own shit whilst trying to cover up her poo in the litter tray. She would then merrily bounce her way (also a worrying sign) through the whole house. Now we've all stood on dog shit and true sometimes, depending on footwear, we haven't immediately noticed it which is understandable. But she didn't have that excuse. It's not like she went to the loo in Nike Air Max trainers, no she had her bare paws. You'd think that if you're walking barefoot in a big box of rough gravelly stuff, then you stand in a warm soft squidgy bit then it would dawn on you what had just happened. I hardly ever stand on my own poo - it's very rare, but I at least I always notice it when I do.

What is this Warm Fuzzy Feeling Inside? I Don't Like It." 

So with any amount of luck Marley will have 2 brain cells to rub together, which I'm sure will be nice for both Marley and me. After that rusty old disused thing in my chest has started beating again, the Missus said that Marley would probably do me some good. Anyway, when Marley comes home you can expect an update, but for now just enjoy these nauseatingly cute pictures.