Sunday

Tilting At Windmills


For breakfast that morning we sat and took in the delicious aroma of freshly fallen rain drying on sun warmed pebbles in a magnificently cobbled presidio square.  With no time constraints, we languidly enjoyed the morning sunshine, a seemingly endless stream of delicious espresso's and perfectly poached eggs in a pleasantly quaint stramash of interestingly ordinary people. I would casually avert my gaze from my now compulsory habit of people watching just long enough to spread rich sunflower butter on to Siobhan's wheat toast. Apart fae the charmingly tall Italian lady with the somewhat alarming Adams apple and the rather manly hands, I could not detect even the slightest soupçon of an anomaly oozing discreetly from the other early morning diners sitting at the tables around us. The fast flowing Spanish accent is on occasion smoother than an exquisite brandy, at times drawing a man in like the all powerful delectable female flower, before erupting vociferously into a bubbling sequence of small volcanic shudders of delightful Mediterranean melee. The female Balearic vowel trickles warmly down a mans back, it leaves his nape damp with lust and an excitable muskiness that protrudes his guilt and forms a veritable ruddiness upon his cheeks.

I chuckled aloud as we took in the somewhat risqué real life metatheatre melodrama between two nearby octogenarians as they sparred playfully with their colourful linguistic tryst. It would seem that the romance begins beneath the morning sun, with the gift of laughter, intelligent conversation and a spot of playful patter over a sumptuous breakfast and then rapidly gathers speed towards a late candlelight supper. My own culture's special skill is sadly subliminal, conquering the smoking ban in public houses with little thought to smudged lipstick and in many cases embracing the coquette's scorn. Encouraging the purchase of wee black cocktail dresses from late night supermarkets and shamelessly embracing the glossy princesses in the TV guide. As a result, Glasgow now has more unromantic men per square mile than your average licensed bookie has leg men. Romance does exist it would seem, but only between the working man and his beloved Friday night pints. It is a romance that will never end in divorce, an intrepid voyage of burnt hops and Dublin's finest water as it cascades down many a torn-faced Glaswegian gullet. A true love lasts, while lust merely exists as long as the beery froth on the inside of a warm glass.

Don't get me wrong here, It's not that I am bitter about the fact that my own loveless culture is pure shite. No, merely a small glimmer of cultural cringe seeping through my brandy-addled pores as I perspire pure alcohol and attempt to practise my woo face before Siobhan glides ever gracefully towards our marital bed. Glasgow people don't as a rule need to advertise our heritage for the same reason Pavarotti didn't need to wear a name tag. We look exactly what we are... Heavies! Unscrupled villains, cattle meat literally hot on the hoof, with the knotty limb of an enormous oak announcing our arrival. Somewhat pale, prone to looking forever fervent, there is something distinctly suspect about the way in which Mother Nature gifted her Celtic men with Rottweiler good looks and physiques large enough to draw green-eyed pangs from a gaggle of Californian youths. How could she omit the one gene that offers up red and white roses, opens doors and allows us to cuddle up with the desirable women folk in our hearts? The tango is a sensual ballroom gallopade, rhythmically significant, that sadly is far too intricate for my large scaffolders feet to indulge, but at the very core of my rhinoceros reel beats the heart of a simple romantic Glaswegian fool.

 If only everything in life was as easy as an 8am poached egg, eh?

28 comments:

  1. romance is not all flowers and mooey-eyed mush, my dear... "Adjectives on a typewriter, he uses words like a prize fighter." - a line from a favorite song by a tribe named Cake.

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    1. Which is quite a coincidence my dear. I do like on occasion to have my cake and eat it.

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  2. Ah, but you express it well. And your words will last long after a red rose wilts. :)

    I often say the most romantic thing Hubby ever did for me was boil water on a camp stove so I could have a bath. That was after a hurricane and we didn't have power for 13 days!

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    1. Ah my sweet pecan princess. Romance comes naturally to those who cannot hold a candle to the reflection of those who hold firm a heart.

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  3. Hey big yin, while you've been toasting your butt in the sun things have been happening over Tollcross way with the fellas in green. Celtic are champions once again. We're having a party when Celtic win, we're having a party when Celtic win!

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    1. As toasty as my butt is my friend, I did manage to make it to the party in the east end as Celtic did Glasgow proud and brought prosperity back to my William Hill account.

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  4. Feck off ya eejit, yer the most romantic man I've ever known! (I'm still wearing it!)

    Welcome home, now if yis can only make it to the RIGHT game, I'll buy ya a couple of the black wans. :¬)

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    1. I'm glad it fits, you have no idea how many racks of children's clothes we had to trawl through just to get you that size. I'll take you up on the offer of a wee swally, but first I have a backlog of chores to keep me busy before we take to the skies again. I don't suppose you can remember where I left my one remaining bottle of Millennium champagne can you? It appears to be missing along with thirty packets of Tayto crisps and my best clan dew raisins.

      Funny that, eh?

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    2. Ya, I'm a funny guy! :¬)

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    3. Amongst the Tayto crisp debris trodden into my wooden floors I also found some rather nasty curly looking nasal hair. These nose nuggets are now undergoing forensic DNA examination to determine A) The exact species of the intruder. B) Should we notify the Natural History museum in England and inform them that we may have found proof of Neanderthal man just prior to its transformation from primate. C) Will I need to put down any type of slug pellet to further repel the intruder.

      I'll keep you informed in due course.

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    4. Funny, I didn't notice anything strange whilst I was there!

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    5. Does a shadow notice its own shadow? Does a reflection see itself in others? Do you have miscellaneous Tayto crumbs in your belly button I wonder?

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  5. The bowels of Hades will be a demon short now that you have returned unwashed to spread disease and bile amongst innocent lambs.

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    1. Short demons? You've the wrong door pal, try two down on the left, ask for the little singing fella, eh?

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    2. Surely the 'innocent lambs' was a reference to meself?

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    3. Are you not confusing yourself with mutton dressed as lamb oul friend? It'll no be long before you join the queue down the Barras of a Sunday, waiting in line to try on the recently deceased owners glasses and false tegs.

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    4. There ya go, mocking the afflicted again! My legion of fans won't stand for it! (Bless 'em!) :¬)

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  6. Of course they cannae stand for it, half of them are bed ridden, while the other half continually have their eyes down for a full hoose!

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    1. Not my gang! Look again! :¬)

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    2. Ahh now, it would seem that you are correct. Pewfodder will be delighted, a miracle has actually occurred.

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    3. Now, I'm not saying anything, but quite a lot of them wanted to touch the hem of me jaicket........

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    4. Aye, most probably trying to get to your pockets to get their money back, eh?

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  7. Man, I haven't had a poached egg in a long, long time. I forget it's an option. Always going with fried.

    Speaking of accents, I saw Scottish ex-pat Alan Cumming perform Macbeth last night. Himself, doing about 10 characters. Quite a scene. And a real joy to hear Macbeth done by an actual Scot for once instead of someone from London. Authentic accent and all. Poor Macduff and his slaughtered wife and wee ones.

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    1. Aye, if only Macduff had come clean about his connection to Ireland and his hatred of the English realm. Sadly, WS was not only a dandy, but also an out and out Englishman, therefore painting Macduff as a prod. Sound familiar? Nothing has changed here in Scotland for over 500 years.

      Fried eggs you say? Next time you are frying an egg add a little paprika to the yolk before you turn up the heat. The flavour is magnificent.

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  8. Imagining your woo face gave my first chuckle of the day.
    You can't fool me -I know you are a true romantic and God knows I should know.

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  9. Dear lady, I have been told that my woo face is akin to the little pope fella himself trying to cross a country style.... and slipping half way through.

    I was thinking more Javier Bardem masel.

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  10. Javier does scrub up well.

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    1. Aye, but I bet his woo face is no a patch on mine, eh Pat?

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