The day I was measured for a suit (aka Conor Oberst @ O2 ABC Glasgow)


Even though I frequently wear a suit – and sometimes I not only wear a suit, but I wear a suit – I have only ever been measured for a suit once.  That was for my mum’s funeral and there were so many other things on my mind at the time that I couldn’t really enjoy the fitting experience.  Nobody is going to a funeral thinking about whether they look good enough to attract the attention of someone of their chosen sexual persuasion.  A wedding, though, is different.  Or at least they are for other guys; guys who know how to talk to women, how to make women think they are more attractive than any of the other guys there, how to convince a woman that having sex with them would be a really good idea.  Guys like me aren’t pulling at a wedding.  I’ll be happy if my socks are commented on.

I had a really strong idea of the look I was hoping to achieve when I visited Slaters on Tuesday afternoon.  What I wasn’t expecting was the equally strong stench of fish which was polluting the air along Howard Street, presumably from the wholesale fishmongers across the street from the menswear store.  So pungent was the smell that I began to have concerns that it would somehow attach itself to all of the clothing in the store – including the suit I was about to purchase – and linger around it forever, like some ancient curse you might read about in Egyptian history books.  I quickly dispelled this fear when I decided that all of the Joop I am likely to wear on the night of the wedding will overpower any hint of fish.

Entering Slaters is like finding some sartorial paradise.  There is rack upon rack of pristine suits, crisp shirts and ties in every colour you can imagine.  I wanted to wear it all, but I knew this might be frowned upon.  I briefly walked around these islands of elegance with the sort of dazed and bemused look which immediately has an assistant asking if you require any help.  I informed the young lady that I was hoping to be fitted for a suit, and to my relief she directed me towards another sharply dressed male colleague.  I knew that I would become unbearably nervous if I was to be measured by a woman.  The handling of the measuring tape, the talk of taking in inches and the closeness of it all would be too much for me.  I could imagine the awkwardness of the situation if I became aroused during the measuring and I wondered who that would be more awkward for.  I would almost certainly be banished from the premises.

Though would that really be a worse outcome than if I felt a stirring whilst being measured by the bearded gentleman I was placed – literally – in the hands of?  I tried to put this question out of my mind as he went to work with his measuring tape, his use of small talk as a method of distraction proving quite effective.   He asked about the occasion and what I do for work as his tape ran down the length of my leg and I wondered where the inseam ends and intimacy begins.

Slaters is like a conveyor belt of clothing elves with each elf there to tailor for a different part of the anatomy.  Once I had provided the bearded gentleman with my measurements and suit selection he ushered me down the store to another well-dressed man who would deal with shirts, and then a woman who would assist me with a tie and shoes.  I was expecting that picking a shirt would be the least arduous part of the process, bearing in mind that I knew exactly which colour would go best with my new suit and that I am familiar with my collar size.  Nevertheless the clothing elf asked me my size.  Sixteen-and-a-half, I told him, before he proceeded to measure me anyway.  Sixteen-and-a-half, he found.  Have you lost weight recently?  He asked to my bafflement.  I mean, I try to look after myself as best as I can when I’m not drinking ten pints of beer in Aulay’s on a Friday night, but it was an unusual question to ask when the measurement he took was exactly the same as the one I gave him.  Perhaps, like in the Hippo Taproom last month, this was the first time I was being hit on by a man in a men’s clothing store and it was my luck that he turned out to be so inept that my confusion was preventing me from feeling any flattery.

It was my hope that if the shirt selection wasn’t quite as buttoned down as expected then at least finishing off the outfit with a tie and socks couldn’t cause any controversy.  It is, after all, a pretty straightforward combination of colours I was looking to pair and the older, bespectacled female clothing elf was able to find me the perfect tie to compliment both the shirt and the suit.  I was happy.  That is, until she began trying to match the socks to the suit.  Maybe it’s just me, but for me that is a strict no-no.  I cannot think of a worse thing than socks which are the same colour as your suit and, worse still, your shoes.  In that event a man just becomes one single colour from head-to-toe and it looks ridiculous.  After she pointed out a couple of pairs of socks that might go well with my suit I suggested to the lady that, actually, I prefer to match my socks to my tie.  She seemed aggrieved.  As though I had declared that I hate puppies or find Donald Trump a fair and reasonable man.  I’ve never heard of that, she sniffed, and I could almost see a vision of her measuring tape tightening around her neck in fury and draining the colour from her face.

Nonetheless, the assistant dutifully obliged to my apparently crazed request and I was successful in spending a lot of money.  I elected to spend the afternoon after my first actual suit fitting in a bar, and eventually I would go on to experience another first – the first time I have had a drink with a girl who has pink hair.  It’s not that I have actively avoided people with pink hair in the past.  I find the colour quite becoming and spent much of the evening imagining this particular shade on a tie.  I just don’t tend to encounter pink hair often, and as a result probably concerned myself far too much with the question of whether it was closer to a light lavender or lilac.  It was maybe due to this conversational tick that I made the flawed decision to order a pint of Joker IPA, which despite being one of my favourite beers proves very difficult to drink in a sociable fashion due to its wicked hops.  It felt as though I was probably nursing this prickly potion for hours, and goodness knows what terrible chatter I devised to distract attention from my inability to drink beer at a normal pace, but I enjoyed a pleasurable few hours with the first girl with pink hair I have met.

Unfortunately we were separated before the Conor Oberst gig, largely due to the ABC’s ridiculously early stage times, and I instead took in the show with a guy with regular, boring coloured hair.  Owing to my condition at the time I don’t have a fantastic memory of the performance.  I remember that it didn’t feel nearly as intimate as Conor’s set at the Albert Hall in Manchester in February, but it was perhaps more enjoyable musically with the addition of a backing band and the return of a few Bright Eyes songs to his repertoire.  Lua, in particular, made me feel simultaneously happy and excruciatingly sad.  By all accounts it was a very good gig.

 

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The day I was three minutes and thirty seconds late to the game

There is something about the first day of a new football season that makes it more exciting than any other on the calendar.  There is a hope and expectancy that comes with it, a tangible belief that anything is possible when you’re working from a blank page.  There has been an entire summer to learn from the mistakes made over the previous season, an opportunity to put in place new routines and systems which will surely lead to better results over the coming year.

When I roused myself from a fairly ordinary slumber on Saturday morning I was filled with intentions of ensuring that I didn’t repeat the missteps I took during my first year as a season ticket holder at Celtic Park.  I had promised myself that I wouldn’t get so drunk on a Friday night that the train journey the following morning to Glasgow would be an unbearable trek through the various stages of a hangover:  Wishing the world would end, remorse, discomfort, a need for sleep and, finally, an unquenchable desire for another drink.  I also vowed that I would dress appropriately for the climate; make sure that I reach the queue for food at half-time before they run out of steak pies; eat some form of breakfast in the morning; watch more of the game than the stewards; become more fluent in my understanding of the Northern Irish accent.  On the opening day of the season I was convinced that I would have learned from my mistakes of the previous campaign.

As I stuffed my green and white scarf into my olive satchel I became increasingly aware of the fact that, despite my better intentions, I was feeling a lot like a person does after an evening spent at the bar.  I found myself contemplating how a football scarf must feel between the months of May and August, when it sits unused and unloved in the dusty bottom drawer that you keep all the things you no longer wear.  Because, really, there is no use for a football scarf once the season has finished.  Nobody is walking around town in July with their club’s colours wrapped around their neck in some crazy, woolen warm show of support.  A grown adult wearing a football shirt in a non-sporting environment is ridiculous enough of a sight.

I planned my day so that I woke up early enough on Saturday morning to allow me adequate time to get a bacon roll from the corner shop close to the train station.  I took care of matters of personal hygiene as best I could given my condition and arrived at the fast food outlet just as the girl behind the counter was thrusting a tray of light pink bacon slices under a grill.  She informed me that there were only hot drinks available at that moment as “we open at eight o’clock on a Saturday.”  I looked at my watch in the manner a person does when they know what time it is but they want to emphatically make a point.  It was 8:35am.  My famished frustration turned to a concern that this humble employee didn’t know how to cook bacon.  I had visions of some hungry patrons walking into this establishment at 10am expecting a bacon roll only to be told that they open at eight o’clock on a Saturday and they would have to wait until the portions of pork have been turned before they are ready for purchase.  In my confused panic I poured a medium cappuccino from the machine at the side into a large cup, when what I really wanted was a small coffee.

I departed the corner shop hungry and over caffeinated and made my way towards the train station, early for a change.  I located the carriage relevant to my reservation and found that my table seat was positioned opposite a fairly attractive young woman.  Ordinarily this would present a pleasing opportunity, but with a hangover and a large cup of coffee filled only with a medium-sized cappuccino I was in no position to pursue any kind of romantic agenda.  I pushed my earphones deeper into my ear holes, as though to indicate that I was not to be spoken to under any circumstance, and plopped into my seat by the window.  As I performed this grand spectacle I noticed the slender woman opposite me reach into her bag and proceed to parade a variety of items across the surface of the table.  A bottle of water; a black Bose headphone case; an iPod; a copy of the Sunday Times Magazine dated 12 March 2017.  It was this latter item which caught my eye the most.

As the train progressed its painfully slow journey through the West Highlands I began to question why this woman had a copy of the Sunday Times Magazine from 12 March 2017.  Surely she was aware that today was Saturday?  And, despite what the weather later in the day may have suggested, it was most definitely August.  It is possible that the 12 March issue was an especially good edition of the Sunday Times Magazine, but I have never heard that said in every day conversation and it wouldn’t explain why she didn’t thumb through a single leaf of the issue.  If it wasn’t a noteworthy edition worth keeping for future reference then it is perhaps reasonable to assume that this stranger is a slow reader.  After all, it is said that the Sunday Times can be read over an entire week; maybe this girl needs five months to read a copy?  It was probably around Ardlui when it struck me that she was probably employing the same strategy I use on the train of leaving a piece of high brow content sitting in public view next to me in order to intimidate potential train talkers from interacting with her.  My deployment of this tactic is typically to convince my fellow passengers that I’m not some kind of drunken scumbag, but I definitely recognised this is a variation of the tactic.

It turns out there was a reason that the journey was feeling more arduous than usual:  a signal failure in the Helensburgh area caused a 13 minute delay to the service, which wasn’t ideal when I was already pressed for time in making the 12:30pm kick-off.  I walked off the train at Glasgow Queen Street with some urgency and found a ticket machine to purchase a single journey to Bellgrove, which is still a significant walk from Celtic Park but I felt confident that I could make it without missing more than maybe ten minutes of the football.

The 12:18 service to Edinburgh Waverley screeched alongside platform 9 at the exact moment I was bounding down the steps to the lower level of the station and I began to feel that things were finally going my way.  I stepped in to a fairly quiet carriage and waited for the train to depart, knowing that in four minutes I would reach my destination.  The conductor announced that we were on the delayed service to Edinburgh Waverley, confirming that I had successfully managed to get on the right train.  He continued in his flawless tone to inform passengers that as the train was so far behind schedule it would be skipping several stops and would next call at Airdrie, far beyond where I needed to go.  I stormed off the train as emphatically as a fairly aloof, placid guy can and clambered up the stairs I had just come down, unsure of how I would now get to Celtic Park.  I meandered around the station concourse before deciding that I would take a taxi, which I should probably have done in the first instance.  There were a couple of taxi’s waiting outside the front of the station and so I got into the back seat of the first car, asking the driver to take me to Celtic Park.  He asked me to repeat this instruction, leading me to suspect that he might either be incompetent or a Rangers fan.  With some hesitancy I asked him again to go to Celtic Park, fearing that he was intending on driving me to some wildly distant part of the city far from the football.  Kick-off was nearing and I sat anxiously in my seat listening to the league championship flag being unfurled on the radio, an event which really doesn’t lend to an exciting radio commentary.  I stared intently out the window, soon recognising the familiar landscape of the Gallowgate and feeling my fears of being double-crossed by the taxi driver subside.  He drove me close to the stadium and I told him to keep the change from £10 as gratitude for him not taking me to Govan.

I arrived inside Celtic Park with 3:30 shown as having elapsed on the stadium scoreboard.  I walked down to my row to find that my seat had been taken by a young woman, probably around my age.  I decided that I wouldn’t challenge her over her erroneous seating, accepting that the empty seat next to my own would offer the exact same view of the game in an equally uncomfortable green plastic.  Of course, this put me right next to the Northern Irishman whose thick accent proved incomprehensible all last season.  He provided a running commentary on every aspect of the game, all the way through.  Every word spoken in an accent I couldn’t understand.  I would throw in an occasional “aye” so as not to appear rude, but really I could have been agreeing to anything.

The half-time whistle brought some respite from the barrage of opinion, which came as frequently as Celtic attacks on the Hearts goal.  I stood in the queue at the pie stall for close to fifteen minutes and observed how peaceful it felt.  Finally I made it to the front of the line and ordered a steak pie, which I noticed had increased in price by 10p since May.  The young cashier took my money and then asked me once again what I wanted, presumably because she had forgotten.  I told her and she slumped over to the hot cabinet, returning seconds later empty-handed.  “Sorry, we only have Scotch pies left,” she informed me.  A curious thing to say after she had taken my payment for a steak pie, I thought.  However, a pie is nothing if not a pie, in my opinion, and so I accepted the substitute meat offering and ate it before the start of the second-half, despite my failure to find a single sachet of brown sauce anywhere.

As it happens the pie was almost as warm as the sun which beat against my forehead for most of the afternoon.  It felt like a pleasant summer football experience, at least until the walk back to the city centre brought the most almighty downpour of rain I can remember.  It wasn’t a long shower, but for a while it rained and rained and rained.  Every article of clothing was soaked through until it felt like the water had gone beyond my skin and into my bones.  It kept raining, harder and more viciously with every step I took, my clothes clinging to every identifiable part of my body and my socks sodden in my boots, until eventually I was little more than a man wearing wet clothes walking into a bar.

Final scores:
JJ 0-1 Lessons Learned
Celtic 4-1 Hearts