when on winter vacation. the wicked witch of the west stays here. ground floor. glasgow west end.

this is how dark it is here at 7pm now. bah humbug.

the glasgow grief mafia are an organisation which can be employed so as to bulk up the mourning experience of any factory closure, disaster anniversary or funeral. the principle members of the g.g.m. are as follows:

miss elizabeth violet-quimby. wears a large black dress, a floral hat and black veil. she wrings her gloved hands and sobs like this:    'oooooHOOO HOOO HOOO'    at a very loud level and with a touch of upper class hawtiness in her voice. she resembles a stretched mrs pankhurst.

captain john godfrey tonton. is an elderly sea captain who has gone down with over 100 ships. as such his face has a perpetual look of depressed but stoic resignation. he lists slightly to the left and will salute as coffins are lowered.

the shoosher. is a large hulk of a man whos appearance can quieten even the most rowdy crowd or child. his hands are large enough to smother low flying seagulls or clusters of cheery little songbirds and his height is such that he can block out the sun, should that be atmosperically required. he wears a large overcoat lined with thick theatre curtain and his back is naturally shaped like egg cartons used for sound dampening in cheap recording studios.

little thomas fank. is a small child with black outlined eyes. very cute, he can be taught to shout scripted lines such as ' mama? wheres mama?' or 'is aunty sleeping?' in french even 'ou est mamon?', or with a lisp, ' wherth mama?' enuf to crack any hardened heart.

esparilla marquez and molichev rospeeka. are two of the most experienced wailers in the business. where outrageous coffin charging and slapping are needed these are your pair. able to wail in south american and eastern european dialects these unsettlingly large ladies with headscarfs and shoulder scarves dont hold back when it comes to mourning.

it should be noted that all payments to the glasgow grief mafia should be paid in a timely fashion as they have a habit for turning up at the birthdays or weddings of non payers and turning the events into a thoroughly damp squib.

 

 

whilst travelling abroad, it has been my luck to be cornered and attacked by a wide variety of the worlds beasts. they see me as a tasty snack. my scrawny swimmers build and milky green complexion giving the illusion of good health food chow. it has also been my experience at home, that small children, upon seeing my scars ask about these same beasts with a dread and fear in their little bodies entirely unhealthy for todays youth. and so. to dispel the foggy claptrap built up over years of wildlife documentary, bedside fairy tales and poor parental fearmongery, (it is no wonder bedwetting is the prevalent killer it is today) i bring you part 1, in a series of information graphics detailing my experience in the digestive flume of beasts. there is nothing to be frightened of.

 

 

 

 

 

 

we found ourselves off the wagon and  back in the old haunts. squandering what money we had on gumballs. we fell asleep with the chip pan on.  we got consumption. and scurvy. the old opium den had been turned into a health food shop. the quarter gill was now a mash potato restaurant. what had become of our regular haunts? we used to devour these bars as if they were chocolate. we wandered into tango class but the number was odd and rather than dance with the teacher or charlie i backed away and danced with an imaginary woman. the teacher said i was holding her too close. the rangers won the league, which was good for charlie who is a hun, but not for me. we watched in a rangers pub, and i had to remain incognito while across town celtic lost. 

at dusk we passed a colossus of a jungle jim. all covered with kids. silent kids. silent barely moving kids watching us with malevolent intent. dear god in heaven, a few of them swung their legs slowly or brushed a fly away, their stare unbroken. more would appear from the shadows and latch on to the jim. if the moment could speak it would have buckled over and puked on the floor with nervous panic.  oh for a rocket propelled grenade. and in our pockets nothing but gumballs, oversized gumballs too big for any human mouth. we went to the book beach pub and after rooting about under the sand we both found one. i got post office. i forget what she got. we wandered into a new bar over at the mire. they served cocktails in goldfish bowls with large straws. it was all very silly but everyone else was doing it. in the club i was hit by a gold shoe. a womans heel thrown by some unknown clogchucker which arced over the dance floor and smashed into my drink throwing it over my tshirt and face.

as we headed home and reached the suburbs, avoiding the early morning learner drivers, we basked in the muesli light. a real mouth mould had taken root, and we were forced to drink from a koi pond on all fours. and charlie got nipped on her chin by a fish. it was hilarious, then unsettling, then just confusing. i didnt know those fish could bite, she kept saying, while holding her chin, walking with her eyes shut. it seemed like revenge for the fish bowls.  in the morning i woke up with the smell of my tshirt filling the room with the smell of sweets and charlie and mashed potato. it must have been a magic shoe.

 .