The weekend where many small things happened

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Anyone who frequently reads these blog posts would quite reasonably be able to draw the conclusion that my life is not made up of a series of staggeringly exciting events.  It is highly unlikely that there is going to be a cinematic release of the biopic of my life, and if such a film is ever made it will surely go straight to Netflix with a single star rating under the category:  “Films only a completely mad fool who has exhausted all other forms of entertainment would consider watching.”

This post promises to make a mockery of such thoughts, however.  Whilst ordinarily I have one single event to focus on when I make these trips to the football, this weekend could have produced exactly eleven different blog titles:

  • The night I joined a choir
  • The night I talked to a woman without making her cry
  • The night I drank minty green shots
  • The afternoon I sat at a table on the train opposite an attractive young lady and was vocally impotent
  • The night I ate Malaysian food and couldn’t figure out how to use the chopsticks
  • The night they played KISS in the hipster craft beer bar
  • The night I found the best coffee and chocolate milk stout
  • The day I didn’t eat a half-time pie
  • The day the guy next to me jinxed the weather
  • The day Celtic went an entire league season unbeaten
  • The night the quiz ended prematurely

The weekend was blossoming with new experiences.  It is often said that if life gives you lemons you should use them to make lemonade, but over the last few years I have been of the view that why would you want to wait until someone hands you a fruit which is fairly boring and not immediately pleasing when you could instead go out into the wild and pick all of the juicy and delicious berries you want.

It was with this fruit salad in mind that I made the drunken decision to go along to a ‘scratch choir’ on Friday night – an event where a group of people come together and learn how to sing a song from the beginning, in this case the audio treat being Erasure’s “A Little Respect” – and on Saturday to put aside my usual reluctance to dabble with unfamiliar ethnic cuisine by making an impromptu judgment to eat Malaysian food.

It was perhaps unfortunate that in my enthusiasm to savour life’s fruits I walked through the door of a restaurant and was greeted by a friendly busboy who directed me to a table suitable for a solo diner and handed me a menu, which I immediately recognised as being one for the Italian restaurant next door to the Malaysian place I thought I was entering.  I sat fairly sheepishly at this table by the door, listening to the authentic Italian Muzak taunt me as I feigned interest in the menu and considered ways of leaving without it being too awkward.  I contemplated inventing a story whereby my ‘friends’ had decided that they were going to eat elsewhere, but then I had already told this dude that I was going to be eating alone, and I looked very much like someone who would eat alone and so feared that he would see right through my web of deceit and insist that I order.  The server returned and I panicked, my mouth operating far in advance of my brain by announcing that I had just remembered that I had already eaten this weekend and that I would have to leave.  He looked baffled as I stood up and made a sharp exit, barely able to get my arm through the sleeve of my jacket by the time I had reached the door.  My confidence was dented and I took a walk around the block before returning to the Malaysian restaurant next door, where I enjoyed what was at least my second meal of the weekend despite the adversity of trying to master the chopsticks.

Against the backdrop of a sky which was thick with grey clouds Celtic Park was a carnival of colour and noise on Sunday afternoon.  I arrived in time to take part in the full stadium display in honour of the 50th anniversary of the Lisbon Lions winning the European Cup, squeezing into my row between unfamiliar faces as every seat was taken.  The older man to my left uttered some words which were not quite as incomprehensible as those spoken by the Northern Irishman who ordinarily sits close by, but his Irish brogue did require a second listen.  He repeated:  “It looks like the sun’s going to come out.”  Three hours later I walked back into the city centre in a deluge of rain which soaked all the way into my skin.  It was probably the only thing that was gotten wrong at Celtic Park this season.

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It takes a little rain to help you grow, though, and Sunday was so strewn with historic happenings that drenched denim was never going to be cause for accepting lemons.  A win for Celtic ensured that they became the first Scottish team since the 1890’s to complete a league season without defeat, and the first to do it in the modern 38 game era.  A feat so phenomenal that it almost put into shade the fact that for the first time this season I didn’t eat a pie at half-time, so full was I from the two meals I had the previous day.

My first year as a season ticket holder at Celtic Park brought a lot of joy and some fun new experiences, even if I never did learn the name of the eccentrically dressed grey-haired man in the row in front of me, or find myself in romantic rapture with the most beautiful steward in the world.  My seat may be located right underneath a drip on rainy days, and sometimes the pies have a frustrating habit of clinging dearly onto their foil tray, but you have to go picking berries.  I can’t wait to do it all again in August.

Final scores:
Celtic 2-0 Hearts
JJ 1-0 Lemons

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The day I didn’t wear a jacket


I am not a man who typically makes bold decisions.  On a day-to-day basis my greatest considerations are typically whether or not to match my socks to the colour of my tie, what kind of sandwich I should eat for lunch and how many sticks of celery I will use in my juice.  There is not much bravado required for any of those decisions, no matter how many minutes I spend each morning agonising over my socks.  I don’t lead a particularly complex life, which is what made my choice to leave for Glasgow on Saturday morning without a jacket all the more remarkable.

It was a moment of wild improvisation when I opened the curtains and my bleary, still-drunk eyes were met by a radiant spring sunshine and I first considered the possibility of not wearing my denim jean jacket.  Such a notion should surely at least be contemplated over the bathroom sink whilst brushing your teeth, so I gave myself those few minutes to account for all of the possible outcomes.

I don’t tend to wear a jacket as a statement of fashion; I view it more as storage space.  My jacket is a vessel for carrying my wallet, earphones and phone.  Those are pretty much my only three possessions of note and if I wasn’t going to wear a jacket the question would beg to be asked:  where would I keep my worldly belongings?  There is only so much space in the pockets of a pair of jeans and I argued with myself that it might be too uncomfortable to try squeezing everything into those pockets for an entire day, but I successfully argued back that it would probably be more uncomfortable to be wearing a heat sucking jean jacket all day and sweating like a hog roast.

There is a certain element of risk in leaving your house in the west of Scotland without a second layer of clothing, and there was a part of me that had visions of sudden explosions of rain and grumpy black clouds prowling over Glasgow.  I wondered whether I would be able to survive if there was an unexpectedly cool evening breeze on my walk back into the city centre.  But then part of the process of making a bold decision is to acknowledge that although there may be risks, the potential gains are so overwhelmingly spectacular that you are almost compelled to take the gamble, and it was with that in mind that I cast aside my fears of what could go wrong and enjoyed the freedom of going jacketless.


Others around me in the Jock Stein Stand had made even bolder decisions in their sartorial selections, with some wearing simply a t-shirt.  The middle-aged dude with the floppy grey hair and occasional red jeans who sits in the row in front of me wore a black t-shirt which afforded me a brief glimpse of a tattoo on his tricep.  It appeared to be a heart with the date “28-12-1929” etched beneath it and for a few minutes of that goalless first-half I wondered why that date would be relevant to him.

Celtic Park was bathed in a pleasant warm sunshine.  Beams of light cascaded from the top of the stand, casting a lustrous and illuminating glow on the forehead of an inviting figure at the front of the section next to mine, 139.  It was the most beautiful steward in the history of the world.  She was looking hot in her high visibility jacket, and I can only assume that the temperature was quite high for her as well.

There was a slight disappointment that the most beautiful steward in the history of the world wasn’t casting a watchful eye over the safety of my section this time, but I still couldn’t help but wonder, if she could see me, would she be impressed by my bold decision to come to the game without a jacket.  I had to think that she would be; although almost everyone in her section had also attended without a jacket and she didn’t appear too fussed about that.  In fact, she seemed more amused by the playful children in the front row of section 139.  I have never envied young boys so much.

The longer the game went on with the Celtic attack scorching the St. Johnstone defence with four second-half goals the more comfortable I was feeling in my minimally layered approach.  There was a certain freedom which came without the burden of a jacket on my shoulders or the need to take it off and find a safe spot to rest it in.  I was able to leap from my seat with no inhibition, chant along and celebrate.  It seemed a shame that the Huddle had whimpered out before it reached my end of the stadium, though with a string of empty seats around me it would have been a bit of a stretch for me to get involved.  Many of the familiar regulars who sit around me weren’t present, with some day tourists taking their seats.  The Northern Irishman with the inaudible accent was replaced by a trio of Spaniards who were marginally easier to understand, despite communicating exclusively in Spanish.

As I embarked on the walk back to the city centre with my wallet safely snuggled in my jean pocket and my earphones attached to my phone I was able to bask in the dying embers of the afternoon sun and with it the glow of knowing that my bold decision to not wear a jacket was correct.  Even if I subsequently ate a disappointing ham and egg salad on the train home, the shine couldn’t be taken from my day.  The risk I took earlier in the day had been rewarded with a regulated body temperature and a refreshing lack of sweat on my shirt.

Final Scores:
Celtic 4-1 St. Johnstone
JJ 1-0 The discomfort of wearing too many layers