So…
I may have mentioned earlier in certain blogs that five years of cruising leaves you not only an email contact list the length of the Nile (admittedly, many of them never used,) a couch on which to sleep in any city and a habit of making the same email promise over and over again:
"Yes I will come and visit you next week/month/year… yeah that would be awesome… I've always wanted to come to Canada/South Africa/Kreblakistaan… let me check my bank balance and I'll give you a call."
Ultimately… life always gets in the way and next week/month/year you find yourself washing your hair/cleaning your room/worming your cat.
(Not that I have a cat… but if I did I would worm it. In fact the closest thing I have to a pet at the moment that the blow up kangaroo that is currently face down in the corner of the lounge room… which reminds me I must water the cactus…)
Anyway… last weekend saw me actually hold true to the often forgotten, but mostly said through drunken tears at 4am in the crew bar vow:
You are one of the most awesome people I know and I will definitely definitely come and see you when we are back in the real world you are totally awesome and we are totally going to be friends forever in fact will you make a speech at my wedding I don't know who I am marrying but at this stage the random garbage man sitting staring at the floor in the corner looks like a viable option... in fact… I'll be back in a moment"
Yes dear readers… I hopped a flight to Glasgow Prestwick Airpot… to visit a guy I like to call Johnny Mow hawk.
Johnny was a bartender on the Disney Magic and was one of the few people on that ship I actually liked. In the painful six month contract I spent there, Johnny was one of the people who made it easier (no offence Magic people… but who am I kidding… you all know I hated it there… it was not like I hid it!) The mow hawk reference is because he recently gave himself a bright red mow hawk… and personally I think that it has a rather rock and roll sound to it. This suits him well because he is also a bit of a rock star and he and I would often rock out at jam nights together in the crew bar.
Anyway…. Scotland is really not that far away and when Johnny recently told me he was moving away to the random island of Guernsey, I decided it was time to put my money where my mouth was. I took a look at my diary and I between visits from ship friends, university mates and the one and only Pamela Maiden I realised that this weekend, was the only one I could actually get out of this crazy city.
So after a few double clicks on my good friend ryanair.com I was off. While I was surfing the land of the www's I dropped Johnny an email to let him know the Amy show was going to be rolling into town. A couple of hours later, Johnny gave me a call to let me know that not only did he have a gig I could jump in on, it was on the island of Arran. Where the hell is Arran I hear you ask??? Well if you take a look at a map, it is just off the coast of Glasgow… but let me tell you… it is a world away from civilization!
But first… we had to get there.
So after the BENNY HILL MOVIE that is currently air travel in this country – I got to a little town just outside of Glasgow called Prestwick.
Note to whoever – i don't care who's fault the current political temperature is, but let me tell you I am bloody well sick of it!!!!! Stop trying to bomb my trains, planes and busses!! Don't these people know I never got off my ass to get a driver's license and need to use the public transport… don't they know that these looks are not natural… that I need to take foundation and moisturizer on a plane to avoid walking through the arrival's gate looking like Jabba the hut!?? Stop it! Stop It now! Oh yeah… and please stop killing all those innocent people… I'm sure they don't like that either.
But I digress. Upon arrival in Prestwick there was a Johnny Mow hawk waiting to pick me up. I grabbed my bags and headed out with him and began looking though the car park for what I thought Johnny's wheels would be. Ah… nope. Prestwick is so small you can WALK from you house to the airport. And that we did.
Walking through the streets of Prestwick with Johnny is like being in a J-lo film clip. Johnny aka Jenny from the block knows everyone in this town and every ten meters we are stopping to say hello and shoot the Scottish shite with whoever is wandering by. It was then I realised something.
I had no idea what these people were saying.
I was only catching one in five words said. Despite my strong Scottish heritage and knowing Johnny for about a year now… all of a sudden I needed a translator to work out what the hell was going on! I was lost in waves of "och aye snu fu rara PINT doon tae merpha snugga PUB derk lrmph DAVID." In situations like this I fall back in the proven method of international communication. Smile, nod and laugh when everbody else does. Ask questions later.
(Admittedly, this did find me in some questionable bars with beautiful lady boys in Bangkok… but that's a whole other blog)
So… after a quick tour of town, a bite to eat and a couple of pints (since when do I drink beer? Apparently since I got to Scotland) it was time to get all rock and roll, pack the van and get on the Ferry to Arran. What an entourage we were: two rock stars aka the guys with guitars (John and Ben) a band manager aka the guy who owns the stationary caravan we are staying in (Dave) a Roadie aka the guy with nothing else to do for the night (Keir) and one token backup singer/dancer/groupie – aka yours truly (Amy, Amelia, Aims, Mccat, Maiden, Gaiden, Mable Xanadu, that girl who wont shut up.)
Singer/dancer/groupie… now that's what I call a triple threat!
And so… these 5 rock and roll legends got into the stretch hummer aka white van with no windows, five seats, a p.a. system, all out bags, a missing number plate, lined with itchy blue carpet and a toy marmot tied to the front bumper bar and headed off to find the Ferry that would take us to our adoring fans.
Our designated driver – Ben… the one holding the beer – took us on a scenic tour of wherever the hell we were to get us to the fabulous ferry. (By scenic… I mean dodgy council houses and a fish and chip shop.) I was beginning to get horribly claustrophobic in the back of the van when the ferry finally came into sight and was looking forward to some fresh oceanic air. But no… unfortunately due to the collapse of a mezzanine level onto the lower level of parked cars… there would be a FOUR HOUR WAIT until we could get going on our way.
FOUR HOURS.
IN A VAN.
WITH FOUR SCOTS.
WHO I DIDN'T UNDERSTAND.
What did we do? Well we did what all rock stars do…
"I spy with my little eye… something beginning with B."
"Um… Beer?"
"Yup… You're turn."
"I spy with my little eye… something beginning with C"
"Um… Cider?"
"Yup."
Needless to say… mezzanine level or no mezzanine level… I was except exceedingly happy to finally see the van heading over the ramp and onto the ferry.
45 mins and a session of "the emergency signal is seven short blasts followed by one long one on the ship's whistle" later… we arrived into Arran. The sun had already well and truly set… so I could not tell you for the life of me what the island looked like that night… even if the sun was beaming down… I would not have seen it anyway because we were driving at the speed of light to get to what was going to be the most RANDOM and SURREAL gig of my entire life. (This one even topped the "sing a long show tunes" gig in 1997 at the nursing home where the lady spat her false teeth at me.)
As soon as we got there the boys started setting up the PA left me to play dedicated groupie I am and head to the bar as I was now on the all important beer duty.
You know those old cowboy movie clichés when the new cowboy heads into the saloon and the entire room stops and stares and the pianola automatically stops playing "Oh Susannah"… that was me. But in this version, Shakira somehow finished singing about her jiggling hips on the juke box as I walked up and ordered "two pints of Guinness, two pints of Stellar, and a glass of white wine please" The silence descended on the bar like a pack of Americans on a buffet. I could feel the eyes of fifty or so locals who were starting at me… clearly wandering why I was not wearing the matching lime green tracksuits they were.
The bartender peered over glasses frames… "Ye're noot from arooond here are ye? Are you the singer? That's £8.25"
I handed over a pile of Scottish money. He laughed at me.
"That's £40… you're definitely noot from arooond here."
I headed over to the boys to deliver the drinks… Toto… we are not in London anymore (but obviously in a place that sells very cheap drinks.)
As soon as they sat down… Ben and John were bombarded by forty something women (and their scary sagging boobs) who had obviously not seen men from the main land for quite some time… "Can you play Elvis, can you play Elvis, can you play Elvis???" they were shouting. Clearly… the set list was out the window.
And more drinks were needed.
So away we went… and the requests kept coming. If it was Elvis they wanted then Elvis they got! Suspicious Minds was obviously a favorite for the islanders – proven by Gladys (let's call her Gladys… I don't really know her name… she didn't need one.) Gladys looked as if she was pushing seventy, was wearing a short denim skirt and a yellow boob tube sans a much needed bra. With a frightening pair of boobs that hung below her knees (and a pair of nipples that hung even lower) she leapt to her feet. Shuffling around the dance floor with her arms swinging around her like two dead lumps of wood Gladys got her groove back in her own little world, obviously filled to the brim with passion for Presley. But this was not the highlight… as the song got faster and faster Gladys had trouble keeping up and eventually hit the deck with a spectacular James Brown "I can't go on" style. As a few of us rushed to her aid she shooed us with away with the immortal words…
"Aye… it's all right… it's just me wee Gammy leg"
At this point… she got back up and kept on dancing… and then fell over … and got up… and kept on dancing… and then fell over… and got up… and kept on dancing.
Her dedication to the soul of rock and roll would have been admirable… has it not been heartbreakingly funny to watch. It was like staring at a car crash… I simply could not look away. In have it all on film… I'll show you all one day.
Giving Gladys a run for her money were the group of late thirties primary school teachers on the island for the weekend for a team building exercise. Apparently they had replaced the "fall in to each other's arms" trust exercises with "falling down drunk and attempting to snog the guitar players" These women were like a hens night from hell and completely uncontrollable. John and Ben were being attacked from all sides from the boozed and lonely women. So… to distract them for a second we did a rousing version of "I will survive"… and were nearly trampled to death by the clip clops of several pairs of cheap high heels. It was a frightening sight
And so on and on the night went. Song after song after song… until three hours later it was time to pack it in and head to our accommodation for the night. The roadie, the manager, the guitarists and the groupie piled into the van and headed to our rock star accommodation. A permanent caravan. Yup… staying in a trailer, with bunk beds and tiny gas heater. I've reached it… it's the pinnacle… nothing but luxury for me these days!
So… we all crashed out and slept through the entire morning the next day and finally rose the beautiful afternoon sun of Arran, a traditional Scottish breakfast, a bacon buttie, and the intention of going for nice afternoon stroll to the local waterfall.
John had warned me before I got there… "Bring some comfy shoes, we might go for a bit of a walk" In my mind… a bit of a walk equates to a stroll down the main street…. So it was cowboy boots I packed. But apparently a walk in Scotland is a HIKE UP A FREAKIN' MOUNTAIN! Alright, so maybe it wasn't quite Everest… but it was a damn long walk for this little cowboy.
But all complaining aside, it was a beautiful walk past the waterfalls and back down to the tea house for some tea, cake and staring at the sea side. Oh, and the highlight of the walk was the Iron Age Fort – AKA pile of old rocks.
And in a nutshell… that was Arran. 24 hours, a broken ferry, a random gig, a bunch of teachers, some swinging nipples, a giant mountain and some old rocks later – you can't say we didn't make the most of it.
A couple of pints and a taste of Haggis later we were on the way back home to Glasgow. As the now fully repaired ferry headed towards the main land we took a last look back at the island before it disappeared on the horizon… I may be mistaken but I swear I saw Gladys and her frightening boobs waving us goodbye… and then falling over
