Glasgow Shame  

                                                                                                                                                             (Republished with permission: cancerouscapers.blogspot.com)

I told you, didn’t I? I told you nothing interesting whatsoever would happen to me in-between my scans. Recently, if I’ve not been describing my life in obscenely dull detail to 91 strangers on Twitter, I’ve simply been living my life in obscenely dull detail. Even now, having exceeded my usual 140 characters, I feel perilously out of my depth.

However, I thought it was about time I wrote in here before some other sarcastic young man gets diagnosed with cancer and actually has something interesting to write about - the lucky ill b*st*rd. Return To Glasgow last week, I finally returned to the hallowed turf which probably caused me to get so spectacularly ill in the first place.

After ten entire months away from it, the first thing that struck me was that it smells absolutely grotesque as soon as you get within about five miles of the place. It was horrendous, and it made me feel like some form of naive country bumpkin travelling to the metropolis of a smoggy Dickensian London for the first time except, instead of learning how to be a gentleman, I was there to relearn how to be a depraved idiot student.That was a top-class literary reference.

After getting disproportionately drunk on about a third of a pint, it was decided that it would be a fantastic idea to go to the casino. Sounds quite exciting, doesn’t it? The word ’casino’ might induce heady images of bright lights, scantily-clad showgirls, elaborate cocktails and thousands of James Bondesque men rolling around laughing, showering in coins and happiness. However, this particular casino was essentially a run-down pub, seemingly unchanged since 1973, with two angry-looking men standing next to a roulette table. On top of this, they told me to remove my hat at the entrance so they could take a photograph as a form of ID.

Looking back, it might have been fun to have broken down and screamed something highly acidic at her to ruin her week, but instead I just put on a big, sad face and quietly informed her of my situation. Having won enough money to splash out on a taxi to the West End, a few more drinks were consumed and we skipped off to the hall where we were going to see semi-famous comedian Richard Herring. About fifteen minutes into his show, Richard Herring spotted a fly in his drink and pointed this out to his sea of adoring fans.

Allan MacDonald, former flatmate of mine, couldn’t just enjoy this observation like the rest of the crowd and decided to loudly and boldly proclaim that the fly could probably perform a more solid hour and a half of stand-up than Richard Herring. Personally, I thought this was quite a funny, jokey and inventive heckle.

However, it displeased Richard Herring, plus the 500 strong crowd who greeted it with a chorus of boos. Ashamed of Allan’s actions and feeling the sheer, unadulterated hatred of 500 people on the back of my head, I thought it would be a good idea to offer Richard Herring a drink as I was getting up to go to the bar myself. “The bar’s closed, mate.” Richard Herring astutely pointed out, causing 500 people to erupt in laughter as I shrank back into my seat. Touché Richard Herring.

Feeling mildly unwelcome, we left soon after to the sound of sarcastic applause. After I had got back, I went on to Richard Herring’s blog and found this entry whining about us: “There were some drunker, younger guys in the second row who were a bit chatty and at one point asked me to tell a joke. I told them that that wasn't what was going to happen and that the show had been pretty funny so far, but if they couldn't concentrate on a narrative they should leave.

The audience mainly seemed to be on my side. And about fifteen minutes later, after an unsuccessful attempt to get booze form the closed bar, the disruptive element left.” Not only does this discredit the inventiveness of the heckle, it also makes me sound like the worst kind of drunken lout you could possibly imagine - as if I stood at an empty bar for twenty minutes screaming ‘Give me some booze!’ at nothing, only pausing to be intermittently sick on the floor. Yet I suppose history is written by the winners isn‘t it, Richard Stalin?