Year: 2018

Six by Nico: Middle East

Back to Six by Nico for their latest menu – MIDDLE EAST – and I’ll admit upfront that of all the world cuisines this area is my least favourite (it’s all those olives) but as ever I entered the restaurant with a quiet optimism that my opinion would be swayed.

  1. MEZE PLATTER – Falafel, Caper & Raisin puree / Ewes Curd Kibbeh, Coriander Emulsion / Duck Leg Dolma, Preserved lemon
  2. KEBAB – Lamb Belly, Red Cabbage Slaw, Ras El Hanout Yoghurt, Pickled Cucumber
  3. SPICED CAULIFLOWER – Rose Harissa, Barrel Aged Feta, Kamalata Olives, Toasted Almond
  4. SEA BASS – Baba Ganoush, Pomegranate, Freekah, Walnut
  5. GLAZED CHICKEN – Orange Blossom, Medajool Date, Sumac Carrot, Chicken Skin Dukkah
  6. BAKLAVA – Hazelnut & Chocolate Creamaux, Sour Cherries, Coffee & Cardamon Creme Fraiche

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Antibiotics put paid to any apertif so it was straight on to the snacks last night!

Listed as Pitta Bread, Hummus & Green Harissa, Halkdiki Olives, Lemon & Chilli it was exactly that. Given that every snack option so far has included ‘bread and olives’ of some variety it’s safe to say this was a little underwhelming. The pittas were freshly made, but the hummus wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, but hey it’s just a little snack to get us rolling.

The first course arrived on a wooden platter, which didn’t strike me as very Middle Eastern but nevertheless offered us three small temptations taken firmly from that region. A deliciously light falafel on a caper and raisin puree (more please), a slice of rich kibbeh which needed the coriander emulsion to save it being too bland, and a duck leg dolma which was well prepared but only the preserved lemon gave it much of a flavour.

Not being a fan of fatty meats, the Kebab course was the least favourite going in. That said, the meat was tender and well seasoned, the pickled cucumber was an interesting addition that helped lift things, with the red cabbage slaw and yoghurt providing a nice crunchy tangy to counter the fatty meat. Better than I had anticipated.

I wasn’t sure what to expect for spiced cauliflower but I was delighted by the little bowl of veloute that was placed in front of me. Accompanied by a little side offering with a slice of picked cauliflower and two little deep fried florets, the veloute was utterly divine. Rich, creamy, lightly but obviously spiced, with tiny feta crumbs to pop some salt onto your palate, and a dash of rose harrissa oil to give a hint of warmth. I’d happily just have had a big bowl of that and some bread and go home happy!

One thing that Six by Nico has been consistently good at is serving fish and the Sea Bass was no exception. Perfectly cooked with a crunchy skin, and the light flaky sea bass was delicious. Not being a fan of Baba Ganoush I was glad for the little sweet pockets of flavour brought by the pomegranate, overall though this dish could’ve done with a bit more flavour.

The next dish didn’t really do much to lift the flavour profile of the menu either. A wonderfully moist chicken breast was helped by some dates, but the Surmac Carrot was tasty but without much punch. As ever, everything on the plate was cooked well but as a dish it felt a little lacking, perhaps the Orange Blossom could’ve been given a bit more of a tang as it hardly got a mention on my palate.

Ahhh Baklava, layers of pastry, drenched in syrup, with creamy pistachios and almonds and fruit and … well no. This version was three thick crisp layers, sandwiching dollops of hazelnut and chocolate creamaux, with sour cherries to the side and a dollop of a delicious Cardamon Creme Fraiche. It wasn’t overly sweet, which was good, with the cherries nicely balancing out the deep richness of the chocolate creamaux. That said, I’m hard pushed to see how it was anything remotely similar to Baklava but maybe that’s my own lack of knowledge of Middle Eastern cuisine at play? Regardless, it was a nice if confusing dish to end the meal on.

Overall, not a favourite. As ever each plate is well cooked, prepared and presented, but for me this was lacking in the things I associate with the Middle East, smokey spices, rich meats, and deep dark flavours.

Good food, friendly service and, I know I’ve said it before but it bears repeating, at £28 for six courses of wonderful food, plus £5 for an apertif and £5 for snacks (between two) Six by Nico continues to be ridiculously good value for such well prepared and considered food.

IDLES

If you’ve not heard of them, then sod off and give them a listen as a lot of what I’m about to write won’t make much sense if you haven’t heard their music and ideologies.

Done? OK good.

When you tell people you are off to a gig at the weekend, people always ask you to describe the band, ‘what are they like?’ they ask.It’s almost always something I answer with a series of comparisons; they are bit like x with a hint of Y and the attitude of Z. That kind of thing…

Yet the best description I can come up with to describe Idles isn’t based on comparing them to anyone as that would be selling them short. The simple description is that they produce ‘angry caring punk rock’ (I’d say their closest bedfellows at the moment are the Sleaford Mods) and ever since hearing Divide & Conquer from their first album earlier this year, they’ve slowly creeped further and further up my playlist. So, with a second album out and a tour announced that was stopping in Glasgow, I quite happily double booked myself and missed out on Superorganism (I’ll catch them again I hope) to head to the QMU for a night of loud, thumping, powerful music. Expectations were high.

From the punk rock side, Idles are a full-on, thrashing guitars, mosh-pit inducing force of nature, with so much energy coming from the stage that you can’t help but get carried along with everyone else – literally in many cases, as I’ve not seen that much crowd surfing for a long time – and get sucked in to the moment time and time again. It’s probably telling that there was very little chatting going on less you miss a second of the visual and sonic explosions that were continually fired from the stage. This band is TIGHT as well, and with a growling, punching, wound up singer up front, backed by two crowd surfing guitarists and a rhythm section that was on it from the second the stepped on stage, it’s safe to say that these geezers work damn hard to deliver.

Lyrically, Idles explore all topics with deep passion, ranging from anger at the dismantling of the NHS and the way immigrants are treated in this country, through to mourning for the loss of loved ones, the depressed, the stillborn and more. Yet it’s the passion and love that comes through at all times. Railing against the establishment is not new, but the confirmation of the strength of ‘us’, of how much better life would be if there was more compassion in the world is what comes across in droves.

At times we are right to be angry, and Idles encourage that anger, that rebellion against the big money that drives our world. The best way to scare a Tory is to read and get rich, they say, to a packed audience in a vocal student union venue, and with a united roar we all responded, and little by little, faith in the future of humanity was restored.

Expectations met, and then some.

Fit and fat

I stepped out of the shower the other morning, dried myself off, wrapped the towel round my waist and turned to face the sink. I reached up to retrieve my electric toothbrush from it’s charging point and caught my reflection in the mirror.

I don’t really look at myself all that often, I’m not exactly my greatest fan in that respect; I’m all too aware and disapproving of my shape so I don’t tend to dwell on my appearance as all I ever really see is a fat man staring back at me. I know I’m not as fat as I think I am, but there’s one part of my body that I struggle with, all the more now that I’m seeing the difference that a year at the gym has brought to the rest of my body.

So let’s focus on that for a minute, the good stuff, if you’ll excuse the vanity (and believe me, this is more of an effort for me to write than it is for you to skim-read).

For one thing, my arms have definition; my forearms actually have visible muscles, and my neck and shoulders have some new lumps and bumps. I can see the difference in my back and my legs, that walking challenge earlier in the year has definitely helped with the latter (1 million steps in two months, boom!).

Mind you, I’ve always been happy with my legs and still have fond memories of being complimented on them when I was at school (I can’t remember who said it but I’m sure it really did happen). It’s perhaps telling that the last compliment on my physique that I have stored is from when I wasn’t even aware of the term body dysmorphia. No doubt there have been other compliments, but they’ve never ‘landed’ with me which is an issue and part of my problem.

A few years ago I was at a charity burlesque/cabaret show. I knew many of the people there, both performing and attending, and felt comfortable in that company. As it was for charity there was a raffle and I won a prize. A pair of sequinned nipple tassles no less! As I walked up to graciously accept them, someone shouted that I should put them on, specifically that I should take my shirt off and put them on. The terror that gripped me was immediate. The thought of taking my shirt off was too much, I tried my best to laugh it off but it ended up ruining the rest of the evening for me and I left early.

I always knew my weight was an issue, a burden on my mental health, but that was probably the most visceral example of how much it preyed on my mind. And looking back from that point I realised that it’s ALWAYS been ‘a thing’, even as a kid I knew I was fat, or at the very least chubby. Other boys in gym class had flat chests and stomachs, some had definition in the arms and chest. I had neither, I was always a little heavy around the middle. Yet looking back at photos suggest I was pretty average size wise but my (self sabotaging) memory suggests I was, and always have been, fat.

With a father who was a PE teacher I had plenty of resources available to try and understand why my body looked a little different to so many of my friends. In one school of thought my body is a classic Endomorph; “Big, high body fat, often pear-shaped, with a high tendency to store body fat.”

And where does my body store all that fat? Around my belly. No getting away from it, no matter how I try and hide it, I have a classic ‘beer belly’. I am fat. I am fat and no matter what I try and do, how I try and shy away from it, how I try to cover it up, it’s immediately what I think of when anyone asks me to describe my body… right before I change the subject completely.

My self-image has been present so long that I barely even register it as something I can change. It’s who I am, after all, right? I’m fat, always have been, always will be? Yet I go to the gym, I try and eat better, I know that more calories out than in will help me lose weight, I know the benefits of building muscle, the benefits of cardio, the best way to perform exercise x, the proper technique for exercise y (regardless of whether I can actually do it or not), but always, ALWAYS, in the back of my brain I’m just that fat kid that got picked on (ohhh did I not mention that bit?).

Having this as a constant state of thought permeates everything, every single day. From the clothes I wear (shirts that bulge open mean I’m more frequently found in shirts that are a size too big or t-shirts), to what I eat (look at that fat guy eating THAT, no wonder he’s so fat!), to how I hold myself when I walk (if I stand tall maybe people will notice my height first?).

Don’t get me wrong, it’s not debilitating, it’s not stopping me living my life but it is always, ALWAYS there.

And believe me, intellectually, I’m aware my entire body image is skewed. Take, as an example, this question Lynsay poses at the end of her post “what is your favourite body part?”. My first answer, the one that popped straight into my head was ‘my legs’. Which is a great answer, until you ask me why.

“Because they aren’t fat”

Ugh.

Walking home through the parks of Glasgow this past summer, I saw plenty of men employing the now popular vernacular ‘taps aff’ approach to the sunshine. I envy them their freedom and ease, their glib disregard of what others think as they are safe in the knowledge (presumably) that they conform, that they are the “right shape”; there is no shame in their smooth hairless stomachs.

That’s another thing, hair. I don’t really care that I’m balding, nor that I have a hairy chest, but a hairy back seems to be a bad thing and whilst it doesn’t bother me day to day, I wonder how much of my dislike of that aspect of myself is borne from hearing and seeing reactions to it on TV or social media.

But hey, I could shave my back, right?

Equally I could just lose some weight, right? It’s not like I don’t know HOW but in the litany of failures that make up my life, it’s the one that has remained for the longest time. I don’t mind that I’ve failed at many things in the past as I’ve learned a lot about myself by doing so, but being fat is a permanent state, a futile exercise (pun intended).

And so it starts to self-perpetuate. I get upset and annoyed that I’m fat and turn to food for solace. What harm is a bar or two of chocolate, or a share bag of Doritos… and is it really bad if I have pizza for a dinner twice a week?

And there you have it, my body confidence is low all the time, not because I’m bald, not because my beard is more grey than any other colour these days, not because I’m getting an inordinate amount of hair growing out of my ears (why!), not because I’m unfit and can’t touch my toes, but because I am and always have been fat.

It doesn’t seem to matter that I go to the gym three times a week and push myself hard, it doesn’t seem to matter that I can see the progress I’ve made there, that I can lift more, do more, push myself further than before.

All I have to do is look down at my stomach. I am fat.

Body positivity is a wonderful WONDERFUL thing, and some days I will say that I don’t care I’m fat and almost mean it, but not quite, not completely. No matter how many calories I burn at the gym, no matter how many compliments are given, none of that will really matter until I’m happy with me. I’d love not to care, but I do.

My body is weird but I’m not quite able to admit that it’s cool.

Not yet.

But that’s changing.

Ultimately I want to learn to be comfortable with my body, I want to get to a place where I can look at myself in the mirror and be happy with what I see and for me, that means losing some weight. I’m never gonna be the type of guy who is ‘ripped’ with a well chiselled 6-pack, but I’m pretty sure I can at least be a guy who isn’t ‘fat’ (for my own interpretation of ‘fat’ obvs).

On the flipside, why is being ripped and toned with hardly any body fat the image I have of a ‘healthy’ me? I know it’s not realistic for me, but that is the image being pushed and peddled by Mens Health and the myriad of health based adverts thrust into my social media feeds – ever seen an exercise app advertised by someone who clearly already spends most of their life working out? Show me a fat man doing the exercises suggested please. ‘Now bend and touch your toes’… I can’t my belly gets in the way, gahhhh!!!

When I first started going to the gym it was to lose weight and to ‘get fit’ (whatever that means), I set out a long-term goal to hit my target weight and a short-term goal to be able to do 10 push ups as I couldn’t even do 1. Pretty good goals, right? Specific, measurable, achievable, realistic and loosely time based.

Well perhaps not as, over a year later, that long-term goal is still there I’m still not getting close to it. I’ve gotten close before, just by reducing my calories and I’ll be the first to admit I could be better with my diet but my weight remains roughly where it is despite all that effort at the gym, and generally being way more active this year over last. Mind you, I can now do 10 push ups, so that’s good!

Let’s look at the facts. I currently weigh about 107kgs (16st 8lb). That target was 95kg (just under 15st). The lightest I’ve ever been is 96.6kg for reference. Looking at the trend of my weight over the past two years is pretty much a flat line. So clearly focussing on my weight isn’t working, so maybe it’s time for a new long-term goal.

Ultimately I want to look in a mirror and be happy with what I see. And truth be told, aside from that fat beer belly, I can see that my body is changing. I can see the muscles developing on my arms, shoulders and neck, I can see my face is less chubby, my man boobs are now starting to look more like pectoral muscles than A-cups.

Additionally I know my overall fitness is improving. Sure I still get out of breath climbing the stairs but I recover a LOT faster. 10 push ups? Easy! I can deadlift and squat more than my bodyweight, and my bench press is getting close to that ‘bodyweight’ goal as well.

On top of that I feel healthier, I don’t really get ill too much, I’m more flexible and I’m generally starting to feel a lot more positive about this weird body of mine, starting to accept it a little more, starting to appreciate it.

AND – hold the front page – I’m getting the odd compliment here and there so I guess I must be doing something right.

Yet that fat belly remains but it is going. Slowly, for sure, but it’s going.

I’d love to be able to accept my body as it is today, and I think that time is getting closer but it’s not quite here yet. Somewhere there is a graph that charts my changing physique to my acceptance of my body as part of who I am but I can’t quite see where those points cross so, until they do, I’ll just continue to keep on working on it.

Perhaps it is those little changes and the work I’m putting that is actually what is important, perhaps the fact I’m still going to the gym, and still working on ‘me’ is actually more important than the end result itself. I’d like to be the case but it isn’t yet, not quite. But that’s ultimately the goal, to get to a point where I accept my weird body, to get to a point where the end result isn’t what matters, where I’m looking after myself well, eating well, exercising enough and enjoying life to the fullest.

The good part is that it finally feels like that time is getting closer. I don’t think it’s anywhere near. Realistically that target weight is still in my head so until I get to that I won’t be able to know if it’s enough, or not. Yet the signs are there that things are changing.

I’ve not been at the gym this past couple of weeks as I injured my back, nothing too serious but it needs rest. I’m annoyed and frustrated that I can’t work out. That is not the Gordon of a few years ago. Equally in the past I’d have reverted to my comfort eating habits but that doesn’t seem to be happening this time. I’m far more conscious of eating healthily whilst I recuperate, which is not something that would have happened in the past.

Baby steps perhaps but it makes me believe that one day I won’t see myself as just that fat guy in the mirror. One day I’ll see myself without quite so many flaws.

There is one final thing, one final realisation I’ve had recently, that suggests that my own internal thinking may be changing, that I might be starting to feel more confident about my body, that I might be making my peace with it. It’s something I know has helped me with other things in the past, helped me process them. I do a lot of it, but not all of it is shared here; the simple act of writing down your thoughts and confronting them is one thing, sharing those thoughts with others is quite another. So the fact I feel comfortable doing the latter means, hopefully, things are changing.

Thank you for reading.

Reading to escape

There were two routes I used to walk to my primary school, both of them down main roads that spanned the top half of the town. One took me down Townhead Road and offered the chance to nip in to a corner shop for some illicit sweeties, the other took me off Bonhill Road and into the lane that ran behind some off the houses, passing a piece of long (and still) neglected waste ground before arriving at the gates. It wasn’t a long walk, 10 mins if you were in a rush and hurried, not that I ever did.

Depending on the time of year I’d change my route on the way home, but most days I simply retraced my steps. Head out the gate, turn left and back past the area of waste ground and its mass of weeds and bushes. It was an odd location to have your first encounter with a naked woman.

My walks home were always slower than my walks to school. It wasn’t that I particularly enjoyed school, I was definitely more concerned with getting there on time than rushing to get into class, but I was just never in that much of a rush to get home. My Mum likes to tell the story of my Aunt Irene, who lived on the route home, phoning my Mum to tell her not to worry that I wasn’t home yet as I’d stopped and was sitting on her wall and had been for a while. Daydreaming no doubt.

Just as I had been the day Aunt Irene phoned my Mum, the day I encountered the naked woman was another one where, no doubt, I was plodding my way home, thinking about everything and nothing, lost in another daydream as I turned left out of the gates and started past the area of waste ground. And there she was, completely naked, sitting up and facing me, her legs spread wide open. To this day I can remember thinking it was an odd way to be sitting, closely followed by thoughts about the state of her pubic region even though I wouldn’t know to call it that for some years to come. I was in Primary Six, aged 10.

That school year was memorable for other reasons mostly because my teacher frequently indulged my burgeoning reading habits. I grew up around books and have fond memories of wandering the rows and rows of books in the local library as a child. It didn’t take me long to graduate from the basement which housed the children’s books, to the grown up main floor with its towering rows of books, shelf after shelf of wonders waiting to be discovered. At home there were several bookshelves crammed full and my parents were happy for me to read whatever I picked up and pretty soon I was reading books like 2001: A Space Odyssey – my first foray into sci-fi, before Star Wars flipped that script – and I found a book of short stories by an author called Richard Bachmann that utterly gripped my imagination like no-one else had before (bonus points if you know who that pseudonym belongs to).

I always used to have a book on the go and in the past have joined in various reading challenges, the type where you aim to read x number of books in a year. However a couple of years of those quickly removed the joy of reading, the time-sapping wonder of being lost in a good book, as it became a purely time-based activity; better read faster or I won’t meet the challenge! As I much prefer to be able to read at my own pace, I’ve stopped doing those.

More recently I’d been attending a Book Club, a fraught activity that only occasionally added to the overall experience of reading the book itself. Not that the books were bad, per se, most of them were wonderful choices but I soon realised that whilst it can be academically interesting to discuss a book with others, ultimately it sucks all the enjoyment out of it for me. I don’t read to think, I read to escape.

I am no longer attending Book Club.

With no Book Club, and no reading challenge to spur me into action, I’ve been in a bit of a reading drought recently, retreating to some old David Sedaris columns (collated into books) which are my book equivalent of binge-watching Friends episodes, and waiting for my reading mojo to return. I have an unfinished Atwood on my Kindle, and I started The Slap but it’s not exactly holding my attention. So I’m currently casting about to find something without much success. Recommendations are welcomed.

One day in primary school, as I’d finished my class work for the morning, my primary six teacher Mrs. Trotter picked out a book for me. Growing up I’d been through all the Famous Five and Secret Seven books, and the book she suggested was of a similar ilk – these days it’d be called a ‘young adult novel’ – and it featured a young boy who spent a lot of his time daydreaming, wandering around, and who was much more interested in the animals he came across than the people he had to interact with. I have NO IDEA why she picked it for me, none, nope, not a clue. The book was called The Boy from Sula and it was probably the first book I can recall that really pulled me in to an imagined world, a book that grabbed my imagination and whisked me away to the beautiful Scottish island world in which it was based.

That’s the kind of book I still enjoy, it doesn’t really matter the subject type or setting, it can be a thriller, a romance, a sci-fi, a social critique, if it’s written well enough to draw me in and let me lose myself for a few hours then it is, by my own loose definition, a GOOD BOOK.

The Book Club I had been attending was, at best, semi-regular and to be honest a lot of the joy was more about the people and whatever brunch was on offer, than the book itself. It started off as a Yelp event but when the Glasgow community was given the Game of Thrones treatment, one attendee decided to keep organising it even though it’s not for me any more, I have been lucky enough to be prompted read some wonderful books because of it; The Other Mrs. Walker, The Sudden Appearance of Hope, All the Light We Cannot See, Station Eleven, to name but a few.

However, and perhaps more importantly, the one thing Book Club taught was when to stop reading.

It doesn’t happen often, thankfully, but as the entire premise of a Book Club is that someone else is choosing the books, I guess it’s understandable that I’ve not been able to finish a couple of them, that I’ve had to stop reading them because I just wasn’t enjoying them.

This may seem obvious but is a complete odds with how I was brought up, a book is not something you do not finish!

As a child, books were granted an almost hallowed status, backed by the hushed tones of the library and the deep frowns that would appear on my parents faces when a book was seen to be mistreated. Respect was a word frequently associated with books, and with all the weight and heft of reverence they were offered, the act of not finishing a book was an insult to every book ever written, or so it seemed. Add in my reliance on books as a way to escape the trials and tribulations of primary school, and it’s fair to say they occupied a fairly elevated place in my world.

Because of that I used to soldier on with books I wasn’t enjoying, determined to finish lest I was to insult the author with my heinous behaviour, or maybe I just felt I was letting down my parents and teachers, the very people who bestowed on me a curious mind and a desire to learn, not to mention their continued encouragement which gave me my love of reading in the first place.

But no, I’m a grown man, able to make decisions for myself. If I want to eat Coco Pops for breakfast I will, and if I don’t want to continue reading a book then I won’t.

Recently this happened with a Book Club choice, the Booker Prize winning The Sellout, no less. No matter how I tried, I just couldn’t get past the pages of rambling descriptions that didn’t seem to be going anywhere. I would read a little, put the book down and pick it up the next night, re-read a few pages, and put it back down. I repeated this for about a week, finally slogging my way through the first 100 pages or so and came to the conclusion that I just wasn’t enjoying this book at all. It’s a meandering show-off of a book that read like it was written by someone who was enjoying the writing process a little too much and left me feeling, well, not a whole lot of anything.

This was not the relaxing enjoyment that I associate with books and I started to resent having to spend the time doing something I don’t want to do. So, I stopped reading it. A surprisingly hard decision to make. But given I had a few decades of behaviours to fight against, the looming Book Club date, the fact that this was a Booker Prize winner (and I’ve enjoyed all the ones I’ve read before) and it isn’t really surprising that I didn’t find it easy to quit a book. I might go back to it some day, it’s still on my unread shelf, and hopefully it was just the wrong time to try and read it but I decided that no, I wasn’t going to finish it. Book Club be damned!

When I moved, and cleared out two entire bookshelves worth of books to charity shops, I found it pretty easy to part ways with all the books I’d read. Those books were in the past after all and I know if I really take a notion to re-read a book then I can always get a copy somewhere. This is despite the fact that I rarely re-read books, I can count on the fingers of one hand the number of times I’ve re-read ANY book, and two of those re-reads were a certain book suggested to me by Mrs. Trotter.

Books are an escape.

My primary school years were dotted with small incidents of bullying and not fitting in and I quickly found that the way to steer clear and avoid those incidents, even in a classroom setting, was to bury myself in a book. Don’t disturb Gordon he’s reading, Mrs. Trotter would say, and I’d be left alone to roam the Isle of Sula.

I had good childhood, I know I wasn’t unhappy and for the most part my memories of the playground are good ones, but I know I was much happier if left to my own devices, left to dawdle home in a daydream, along the lane that skirted the area of waste ground where I had the encounter with the naked woman, spread-eagled as she was across the pages of a magazine. I can remember toe-ing at the pages of the magazine, flicking past image after image of awkwardly posed women, all in various states of undress. Page after page and I couldn’t help wondering, where were all the words?

My interest waned and with a final kick to send the magazine further into the depths of waste land bushes I headed home, pausing to watch a squirrel run along the top of a wall before disappearing into the high branches of a tree. I wondered what his story was, where he was going, and what adventures he might have on the way.

45 miles

My first bike was a Boxer. It was royal blue, with chunky tyres and these days would probably be called a mountain bike (for kids, it was tiny). It was the smaller version of the Grifter, which itself was a BMX/off-road kinda thing with the most totally awesomest twist-handle gear shift just like an actual motorbike! My best mate’s big brother had a Grifter and ohhh how I would covet that bike. Not that I’d ever have touched it, he was a bit scary…

I can’t remember learning to ride my bike beyond vague memories of my Dad running along behind me telling me to pedal faster, nor can I recall when the stabilisers first came off and I flew solo for the first time. No doubt there were scraps and cuts and bruises but I didn’t lose any limbs so it can’t have been that traumatic. But that little Boxer was just the stepping stone to my first proper grown-up bike; The Enterprise (note: I am not a Star Trek fan so this wasn’t as big a deal as it may sound).

The Enterprise was a black behemoth with straight handle bars. I desperately wanted a racer (drop handlebars) but no, it was the touring bike stylings for me. I’m still not sure why my parents bought me it, probably because it was cheaper, but I have a sense that I was a bit disappointed by it, such was my desire to NOT have a BMX like all the other kids. I’ve always been contrary that way, and is largely why I have no fashion sense at all because going WITH the crowd is so dull! The Enterprise was the first bike I had that had gears, all three of them, and that opened up an amazing realisation.

Gears mean you can go faster, and going fast is FUN.

The first time I did Pedal for Scotland, some 8 years ago, I had no real idea what I was letting myself in for. I’d done some training, and my friend had done it the year before so I felt that it was at least achievable. And I finished it with tears in my eyes as I rolled through Murrayfield Stadium but my god it was a bit of a slog at times. And that’s before you get to the hill on the way out of Avonbridge; a never ending beast with a sharp incline at the start (8%), which eases off to a mere 6% as you climb to false summit after false summit. But it did not defeat me! and hey, thigh muscles are SUPPOSED to feel like they are on fire, right?

I don’t get out on my bike often enough, and it’s been a few years since I attempted cycling from Glasgow to Edinburgh but a year or so in the gym had me feeling reasonably confident about tackling it this year, despite having only managed to get my bike out for three short training rides.

I was right, being a bit fitter this year definitely helped and made the good bits of the ride, and there are many, all the better. For all the hills you climb, you are rewarded with some stellar views and the best bit of all…

Free-wheeling downhill.

Going fast is fun.

And being a fairly large chunk of human being, with thanks to the laws of gravity and some reasonably slick tyres, I reckon I was easily above 25mph at some points, including one utterly glorious section where I didn’t pedal for about 5 mins, carrying enough momentum to coast up the small crests on the way before gathering speed again on the next downhill section.

It was utterly joyous; out in the fresh air, whizzing down a long straight and when I started absent-mindedly weaving to and fro across the road I realised that this is why I like cycling and I silently admonished myself for not doing it often enough. For all the painful hills, the rattling vibrations through your hands (that no gloves seem able to quell), the accidents, punctures, and aching legs, those moments, when the sun breaks through the clouds as you coast magnificently along are magically carefree and childlike.

As we neared the finish the sun started to break through the day long grey, a last hurrah for a fast fading summer. We crossed the line, collected our medals, then found a quiet spot to rest our weary bones. And what better way to end a day out than collapsing in a sweaty heap on the grass, lying there as the sun shone through the endlessly scrolling clouds. A rare indulgence, and yet another forgotten childhood pleasure.

Gigs for the soul

“Fry your onions in garlic!”, he shouted.

It was another evening in the Barrowlands, the ageless dance hall turned gig venue. It was late December, 1991, and I was there to see the Silencers, ably supported by the wonderful Humpff Family (wonderful in both name and in their rock/ceilidh stylings). As we were waiting for the Silencers to come on stage, the audience was starting to gear up and the noise was steadily increasing as more and more people came in and jostled their way into the crowd.

It’s the same at every gig. A guitar tech wanders on to the stage to plug in a guitar and is given a rousing cheer, every gap between playlisted ‘intermission’ songs is met with whoops and hollers. It was at this point of the evening that, in an achingly art school moment, a friend attempted his parody of the casual gig goer and their catcalling antics.

“Fry your onions in garlic!” he shouted.

Near us, heads turned in bemusement. Some people laughed and, further into the crowd ahead, a handful of people shouted back some inaudible response. Then the band came on stage and it was all lost in the maelstrom. It’s a silly moment, but it stuck in my head in that way these silly things are wont to do, and it always comes back to me whenever I go back to that dance-hall.

My memories are scattered with such things. I may barely remember who played which venue, or which song a band opened with, but I was there when a topless man, painted bright orange, went stumbling and rolling down the hill at Balloch Park, to the accompanying sounds of a didgeridoo courtesy of Hothouse Flowers. I was there when three people, one after the other, all caught their foot on the bottom step of the little raised area in the ABC, I was there when Guy Garvey pointed right at us during our favourite song.

There is something intoxicating about a good gig with a good audience. Being in the right spot helps, too far back and you are with the talkers and moaners, and alas these days there is a ‘too far forward’ as well; that is a space for young people to bounce and jump and elbow and have their own moments of glee and abandonment that I still remember from my own youth. The best gigs aren’t just about the band and the music; Faithless at the Academy on their farewell tour which was rammed full and for a change it seemed like everyone was up for a good night, Hypnotic Brass Ensemble urging the entire audience to crouch down and laughing as we all eagerly complied, the rousing rendition of We Are Sailing delivered by everyone in the Academy as we were promised the band would come back on to do an encore if we sang loud enough.

This year has, quite deliberately, featured quite a few gigs already, with many left to attend. I’ve double booked myself on more than one occasion, eschewing Superorganism for Idles, and more recently Ladytron over The Prodigy but only because the latter are playing at the single worst venue I’ve ever attended; the SEC, aka the Big Red Shed. For many years it was the largest non-stadium venue in Glasgow, hosting the likes of the Chemical Brothers, Red Hot Chili Peppers, Foo Fighters etc but, thankfully, we now have the glowing UFO-esque Hydro, and the Barrowlands has reaped the benefits as the SEC focussed more on ‘events’ than gigs. Thank fuck.

Attending more gigs than I normally do has had the bonus effect of increasing my tolerance of gig arseholes. They still frequent every gig I attend but I’m much more likely to brush off their antics as just that, antics of people who’ve had a little too much liquid refreshment, or otherwise – I’m looking at all you middle-aged pill poppers raving away at The Orb gig a few weeks back – and I’m just not letting them spoil my enjoyment of the evening. If you wanna spend the money to go to a gig and talk your way through it, that’s cool. I’ll either move, or politely ask you to shut up, but either way, ain’t no skin of my nose.

I’ve enjoyed ear-bleedingly loud gigs in the smallest venues (hello Slime City/These New South Whales/DZ Deathray at the Hug & Pint) to the completely overwhelmingly over the top visual effects offered by Roger Watters at The Hydro (if you aren’t in total awe of a 60foot high laser pyramid, including dissecting rainbow shards, then I don’t even know…). From the wonderful one woman and a guitar styling of the tiny pixie punk Stella Donnelly, to the Olympic Park stadium filling, ridiculously turned to 11, Foo Fighters. I’ve also taken chances and caught bands I’ve never heard of and been rewarded more than is fair, and making more of an effort to catch support bands has, in turn, proved to be a great decision (Gurr and the aforementioned Slime City being the stand outs, so far).

Occasionally you luck out completely and the support band just happens to be one of your favourite bands too! So it was last night when the mighty Garbage rocked up at the Barrowlands, and were ably supported by Honeyblood, a band I’ve now seen 4 times from headlining the smallest (The Hug & Pint, capacity 100) to supporting the Foo Fighters at Murrayfield (capacity 70,000) and yes, there are themes to my venue and band choices and no, I don’t care.

Fundamentally my joy of going to gigs is hearing music in a rare and raw state, away from production studios and I still love the fact that I can go into a gig with an expectation and have it utterly blown away. Gorillaz have some beautiful songs, some slow paced numbers but their live set is full of energy and M1A1 might well be one of the best opening songs ever? Add to that the joyous feeling of being as one with thousands of other people; arms raised to LCD Soundsystem, feeling the bass move through me, I could have been anywhere as I was utterly alone and lost in that moment along with a couple of thousand other strangers.

These moments of joy, of connection, of passion and positive energy feed my soul for days. The music may vary, but give me an artist who performs, who sweats, and screams, and jumps, and puts themselves into every moment on stage and I’m sold. These are the stars, the people who clearly belong on the stage, who feed off the energy we supply and give it right back in droves. They can be quiet, they can be loud, but if the connection is there then it is an entirely other thing. From the screaming Skin of Skunk Anansie who WILL make you rock out no matter how hard you try and fight it, to the dulcet coaxing and smiles of Guy Garvey, the ability to own a room and make it yours is a special talent indeed.

And it would be remiss of me not to mention the shared joy that is the cover version. Pick the right one and you have an instant massaoake; Royal Blood did it with 20th Century Boy, KT Tunstall drops a kazoo led Seven Nation Army into one of her songs (which works way better than you’d expect!), Hot Chip seamlessly blend Dancing in the Dark with All My Friends by LCD Soundsystem, and last night I left the Barrowlands still happily teary-eyed thanks to Garbage ending the night with a cover of Starman.

I rarely leave a gig without a smile on my face, a lightness in my step. Music can raise the spirit, can soothe and coddle, but a good gig is that and so much more. My soul is sated as I step out on to the street and start the journey home, already looking forward to the next one.