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It’s a moot point now, but there’s been a lot in the press over the last few days about how the Scots aren’t supporting the England team in the World Cup, and whether or not they should. Well, finding myself in Glasgow on Saturday, I can confidently tell you that an awful lot of Scots seemed to be supporting England as they played Portugal – especially the cheery Scots in bowler hats wearing orange sashes.
So it was I found myself in Glasgow on the first day of the marching season, that time of year when two groups of people who are utterly indistinguishable from each other to the external observer spend a month or so playing pipes, banging drums and stabbing one another. As I sat in the restaurant where I lunched, the waiter and I watched one or another of those groups striding past and I asked him; “What’s the marching today in aid of?”
He thought for a moment before answering. “Bigotry”, he said, nodding sagely.
Still, England, as I predicted, are out of the World Cup on penalties, which I suppose will give people one less thing to fight over. My idea for future World Cups is this: If England make it through to the third round, then the team should line up in front of goal and spend five minutes kicking footballs over the crossbar before bursting into tears and retiring from the tournament. It’d save a lot of time and emotion, and the net result would be the same as if they’d played on.
As for the rest of my Scotland trip, I stayed at a rather nice hotel, climbed Arthur’s Seat, and wandered around Glasgow School of Art, a building which I would have hated to be a student in but which gave me several interesting ideas about combining the geometries of Modernist architecture and Lovecraftian horror which I might work up into something at some point.
All round, a super time was had in the land of haggis and porridge. Och Aye.
Oh, and a quick competition: Spot the Difference
The Glasgow Underground:
Squirrel Nutty's Ride at Alton Towers:
So it was I found myself in Glasgow on the first day of the marching season, that time of year when two groups of people who are utterly indistinguishable from each other to the external observer spend a month or so playing pipes, banging drums and stabbing one another. As I sat in the restaurant where I lunched, the waiter and I watched one or another of those groups striding past and I asked him; “What’s the marching today in aid of?”
He thought for a moment before answering. “Bigotry”, he said, nodding sagely.
Still, England, as I predicted, are out of the World Cup on penalties, which I suppose will give people one less thing to fight over. My idea for future World Cups is this: If England make it through to the third round, then the team should line up in front of goal and spend five minutes kicking footballs over the crossbar before bursting into tears and retiring from the tournament. It’d save a lot of time and emotion, and the net result would be the same as if they’d played on.
As for the rest of my Scotland trip, I stayed at a rather nice hotel, climbed Arthur’s Seat, and wandered around Glasgow School of Art, a building which I would have hated to be a student in but which gave me several interesting ideas about combining the geometries of Modernist architecture and Lovecraftian horror which I might work up into something at some point.
All round, a super time was had in the land of haggis and porridge. Och Aye.
Oh, and a quick competition: Spot the Difference
The Glasgow Underground:
Squirrel Nutty's Ride at Alton Towers:
