Nice weekend, that was. Joke. It was an absolute fucking blinder. Attended Bredda I's 21st on the Friday night, just meself, him, his dad and brother (or maybe that should be bredda?) and it was an overall good night, reckon he thought so too, main thing. So I woke up a bit tired - why sleep was invented when it malfunctions like that, I'll never know. Within ten minutes you found me swaggering down the high street to find Don Bongo waiting, fag and guitar in hand. Somewhat predictably, Captain Haddock slept in (just a bit to be fair) and our payphone call woke him. Halfords, then picked up the Cap. So that's the full Rastaman Rebels assembled. What was needed now, I hear you ask? A tent, sleeping bags, beer, Bacon Tastys, Cheese Balls, a white wig, Tunnock's caramel wafers and a baby alien named Ezekiel. The English one saw one of those baby aliens in a plastic egg that were all the rage in the late 90s and made me go up and pay for it. For a great deal of our car journey he sat with his sticky 'baby' who he had named Ezekiel (or Zeke for short).
We come to a grinding halt. We sat for half an hour in the Jazz Wagon, trying desperately to get Her started. She was having none of it as we sat in a very public place, praying for my car to cut us a break, just this once. Eventually as our thumbs hovered over the Phone button for the RAC, someone's Dad or a local hero, the engine went. When I say went, I mean said "Alright you bastards, I'll play tennis" Now, the complicated part was as follows: We needed petrol, but were terrified the car wouldn't start again and we'd be stuck in a bloody petrol station, even more dignity-stripping than the car park of a discount shop. None of us were sure if you could fill your baby up with the engine still running. Oh, what a dilemma. We must've charmed the old girl by this point, she started right away. Onwards!
...To Glasgow. After much ado about nothing, we were on the road to Stirling. Then to Perth. Nothing of note happened between those two places, but DB finally embraced The National via their album Alligator, albeit not completely. Many piss stops were made as we plodded along to Inverness. We stopped at a wee parking spot out the road, ate crisps, smoked, they drank their beers and I had my Powerade. Not to bang on about a bleeding parking spot, but it really was pretty sensational for what it was. Haddock sat in the back for a lot of the trip looking deep and interesting (he was actually just tired) like he was just waiting to die. Which may not have been far from sensible. But it was at this point the illegal prick hijacked my pride and joy and drove away, leaving myself and Don Bongo looking like spare pricks at a wedding. Or so his plan probably went. In a spark of genius, he tried to start the car in second gear. Stalled it. From now until the day I die, I will never forget the look on his face as he stepped out of the driver's seat and faded back into the backseat. I have just discovered tonight that I got yet another musical reference wrong in the car. I referred to 'a band called Slim Pickens and Fat Chance' I actually meant 'Ronnie Lane and Slim Chance' so I'm feeling pretty fucking stupid at present. Slim Pickens was an actor into the bargain.
I should stop now and explain a few things. First, the scenery for the entire journey was absolutely fucking stunning. If you've never been up North, go. Within five minutes of being around that sort of thing you genuinely believe you're a direct descendant of Willy Wally (big one with the claymore, Scottish guy) and want to wax lyrical like a Glasgow art student after a shot of Baileys. Second, I'm understating the length of the journey - it took from noon til half seven to get there, around three hundred and fifty miles (scarier in words instead of numbers). Thirdly, having only owned the Jazz Wagon for three months, I've had little opportunity to show it who's the bitch and who's the butch in our relationship - but on the way She reached 100mph. This is notable cause it's my 100mph cherry being popped. The inconveniently placed speed camera...well, we'll see what happens.
We arrived in Wick (ha ha ha, fucking Wick...) where they're a tad behind on the trendy lingo. Their big thing when we were there was "Later!" That was the fucking mid noughties that stopped, at best, surely? Anyway, we got some Gordons and tonic for our planned card game later that night. John O'Groats, next on the right. No feeling like driving down the final leg of the journey from Wick to our destination, bellowing The Proclaimers' I'm Gonna Be (500 Miles). Kudos to Bongo for that selection. "Welcome to John O'Groats" whispered a road sign. Woke up the Captain again and not by swerving the Wagon this time. We saw a good few signs that said that on the way to the coast, we were at no point sure when we were actually in the place. But eventually we were met with the end of the road - John O'Groats.
Chewing your teeth out to know the rest? Wait a day. To be continued.
The following is an excerpt from my Australia Journal 2008-09. Lest ye want to revert back to virginity, dinnae read the fallawin'......
Tuesday 23rd December 2008
Another more emotion-based entry I'm afraid, largely due to the fact that I did bugger all today. Woke up, went on PC, swam, did short musical entry into Australia, shopped for nothing, got pissed, watched Jay Leno and all stops inbetween. Oaft. Gig went fine, naturally the nerves played up. One or two girls had a pop at the aftermath, but nah, if there's one thing I'm not it's a cheat. Jay Leno, or his writers at least, are funny fuckers. Should tune in more often. Aunt Sandra said my music is shite, I WAS LISTENING TO PAUL FOOKING WELLER! Oh aye, she got a long silence and a death stare for that remark. Christmas eve tomorrow, bloody Hell, I should really buy a present.
"I only want you, I only need you, my one bright star"