I've only recently gotten into podcasts. And in all honesty, I've only really gotten into a few. Cautionary Tales, Who Shat on the Floor at my Wedding, and of course Smith and Sniff. I think it was Lord of the Autojumble that finally convinced me to Patreonise them.
A month or so back us Patreons got an email saying they were finally coming to Scotland. I screenshotted it and WhatsApped it to a pal who's also a fan, and also usefully works with another pal who's another Smith and Sniff Patreon, but also a proper flake and literally the worst person I've ever met for replying to messages. Ten minutes later I have a screenshot of his ticket receipt. It's on.
My wife's been in meetings all day. I don't get to chat to her until late afternoon. 'Ummm, is it okay if I fly over to Scotland for a day or two to see a couple of pals, and ummm, watch a Podcast being recorded?'
...
'Egg and Grandrew (names changed to protect the guilty) and Smith and Sniff?'
'How did you guess?'
'I know you. Crack on.'
I'm not a miserable '80s comedian. I absolutely fücking love my wife. We look at the calendar together and it's happening when she's over by the German border for two days. curse word. But I'm not not going. So I get to calling in favours for looking after our youngest, and start looking at flights. My pals are in Aberdeen, the 'show' is in Glasgow. Midweek. That, and the price of AMS-ABZ-AMS flights puts paid to any idea of me travelling down with them and spending a couple of days with them either side. AMS-GLA-AMS? About 1,42€ before taxes and fees. I play the EasyJet lottery and with cabin baggage only, no speedy boarding, no seat choice, no insurance, no printed tickets, and no whatever else they try to sell me, I shell out 100-odd Euro for 23½ hours in Glasgow. This is really happening.
I book the Premier Inn at the airport as it'll save me hassle the next morning. An email from EasyJet comes through. My stomach drops, but it's fine. I can check in for the flight. Which is in three weeks' time. Saves me the hassle of doing it the day before, I suppose...
Window seat there, aisle back. Perfect. All I have to do now is wait. So I do.
I have a long and complicated relationship with Scotland, and Glasgow in particular. I also had a very tough year last year which involved me being back over several times. The last time was for a good reason, but the bad reason was still looming over me. This would be the first time I'd been back solely for a good reason. I probably shouldn't be in Glasgow on my own for an entire afternoon. So I message my mum, like a 41 year old scared wee boy. Twenty minutes later she sends me a screenshot of her booking details of the buses she'll be on. A week or so passes, and my wife mentions to her folks that I'll be away for a day. 'Oh, I'll come over and help with the boys' says her mum, as we're a few days out and our youngest has been ill for a few days at this point. Ace, I can properly relax about this now. Well, kinda. She's arriving the day before I leave, and youngest is still ill. I'm alone in the house with him that morning - our eldest has already cycled off to school and my wife's at work - and while I'm making my second pint of tea of the morning, he wanders through with his sick bucket, white as a sheet, and tells me he's been coughing up blood...
He's not lying. I phone 112, because that's what it's for. The very calm ambulance man talks me through everything and eventually seems happy that it's not life threatening and not ambulance worthy, but he wants him at the doctor's in town for 10am. Fine. I ring off and sit my youngest down. It's then I notice the red crust around one nostril. He's not coughed up blood. He's been asleep on his back and had a nosebleed start. That's run down the back of his throat, and that's what he's coughed up. Jesus. I get him to the doctor's anyway, because maybe it wasn't that?
It was.
An hour later I'm with him at the railway station, picking up MiL. I'll be back there in 20 hours.
I spend the afternoon prepping. Well, more truthfully, I spend an hour prepping and then spend the rest of the day in 'waiting mode'. Bag I usually use for mountain biking emptied (because losing a good multitool to pointless anti-terrorist measures would hurt) and repacked with all the little toiletries, a power bank and a phone charger, pants and socks, Dutch snacks, and Iain Banks's The Crow Road, because like I said, this is going to be emotional. I rearrange the bikes in the garage so that the one I care least about losing is the easiliest accessible at 0645 the next morning, and I go to bed early. I'm awake by six and just get up. I drink a pint of tea, throw my rucksack on and cycle to the station. It's two trains to Schiphol and they're dead. I arrive underneath the airport at some time around 0815 and I'm airside before 0830. I wander to the gate and sit down with my book with two and a bit hours in hand.
The flight is uneventful, although sucky. I theoretically have a window seat, but the windows and seats are like the graduations of a vernier caliper so I actually have the bit between windows as my view. The fattest German I've seen in years pours himself into the seat next to me - and my armrest for good measure. I'm not usually claustrophobic but this is grim. It's only an hour. Headphones in. Time passes. Prentice McHoan loses his virginity in a Lagonda Rapide Saloon, and Verity Urvill as a teenager is introduced. We land, through passport control, into John Menzies for Irn-Bru, then hop on a bus to Buchanan Street.
My mum's already at the bus station, so she's going to meet me there. The bus joins the M8 and makes good time. When it peels off before the Mitchell Library I notice that the pedestrian flynowhere has finally been completed. The office building built on the flyover to nowhere? That's still there. The M8 is such a cluster. I love it. From leaving the M8 to reaching Buchanan Street bus station I'd've been quicker walking. Nice to see that Glasgow's not changed *that* much, then...
My mum meets me off the bus. I ask her if she's alright with going into Buchanan Galleries on the way to get lunch, as I forgot my watch this morning and the Swatch shop is just there... sure, she says. She was a lecturer in art before she retired, and taught a few modules on Swatch, their history and ethos, and their ties to art and popular culture, so she's happy to have a look.
The boy in the shop obviously has to attempt some corporate nonsense, but that's interspersed with classic Glasgow patter.
'So what are yous up to the day, then?'
'Ach, I'm just here for the day. Meeting up with pals for an Indian on the southside, then, and I know this makes me sound like a pure hipster, we're going to the live recording of a podcast.'
'Would that be Smith and Sniff by any chance?'
'Hahaha, yes! Are you going?'
'Naaaw, ah couldnae get tickets. Yous enjoy!'
Seriously. The first 'native' I speak to off the bus, and they're one of us.
I have a great, albeit emotional afternoon in Glasgow, visiting GoMA, admiring architecture and street art and browsing in loads of cool wee shops. Spot a 911 and a G-Wagen, and a Lamborghini Urine driven twattishly because every city centre has one of those.
All too quickly it's almost time for me to get heading south. We hole up in a Mexican bar in a street named after a disease, and grab a window seat next to my bus stop. Now, Google Maps is ridiculously bad at public transport, but I was buggered if I was downloading any more apps,especially not for one journey. The 38 pulls up and I pop out and ask the driver if he really does go where Google says he does. He doesn't, he turns off half a mile before that. And he's leaving in a minute. Sod it. I can walk half a mile in no time. I jump off the bus, give my mum a big hug, and jump back on again, Giffnock bound.
The bus journey isn't a bad one, and before long I'm at Giffnock railway station with a half mile walk - and my tea at an Indian restaurant - in front of me. My pals are there already, at the table that I'd booked. They've ordered for me, and sent me a pic:
The restaurant is full of other petrolheads. Obviously. We tuck in to our poppadoms and chat shıt like we always do, like it was yesterday we last saw each other. It was actually October. I'm introduced to Al, who came down with Egg and Grandrew, who'd got a ticket independently after we had, and meaning that he'd not be sat with us. Egg shows me his Hipstergram Messenger, where he's asked Johny if he'd sign something for him, because they're twinsies in this regard. There's a reply that simply says 'bring it'. Ha.
The first Kingfisher goes down too quickly. The second is more measured. The food is excellent. And then it's probably time to get moving. I dump my bag in the boot of Egg's Rangie, and we skulk about in the car park because there's bound to be interesting stuff there, isn't there? There is.
We head inside, bump into more folk we know - then take our seats.
Soon enough the show begins, with the duo warming up the audience and Richard asks just how many folk ate at that really good looking Indian across from the theatre, and it seems a whole load of us did. He zeroes in on me and asks what I had. Now if you listen to the podcast, you'll know that he has a very distinctive way of saying 'what?', and my answer elicited that response. I'm not telling you what it was, though. You'll just have to listen for yourself. The next hour passed too quickly, and it was time for the intermission. Egg grabbed the thing he'd brought for Johny to sign, and we headed out.
The thing? The sunvisor from the actual cheapest 986 Boxster in the UK. Now adorned with a message in gold Sharpie.
Johny kept the Sharpie, the cheeky shıte. I get chatting with Richard, and get my second 'what?' of the evening out of him when I tell him where I've come from just to see this. He's astounded, and says that 'we're absolutely not worth it'. They were. We get pics and then sod off so that other folk can chat with them.
Before the second half we treat ourselves to some of the free musks that Johny's arranged at the front of the stage. Aramis and Sportscar sting the nostrils. And genuinely smell like the '80s. Blue Stratos smells like talc. Egg apparently still smells of Amaris the day after.
The second half of the show is a Q&A, allegedly with prizes for the best questions asked. The prizes? A Land Rover print. A Renault 20 brochure. Concept sketches by Ian Callum. A Transformers 911RS Richard nicked from Rennspowwrrttahhh 7 at Laguna Seca. Nigel Mansell's head. The Q&A is even funnier than the first half, and runs massively over time. Once they've finished recording it's time for prize-giving, and nobody's been paying attention, so initially it's a quiz between the folk that want the prizes, and when the model 911 comes up I put my hand up. At this point Al, who is higher up the auditorium, shouts at Richard that I should have that since I've travelled all the way from the Netherlands(h), and Richard immediately agrees. Then singles me out for a round of applause. I'd've usually hated the attention but I'm having fun this evening so it's fine. This annoys the single other person from The Netherlands(h) in the audience, who is placated by Richard giving him the Ian Callum drawings. The 'prize-giving' descends into chaos soon after, with the print of the Land Rovers going to someone who shouted 'fück it, I'll have that' before Richard could finish describing it or thinking of a quiz question. I think it was supposed to finish around 9. It's nearer 11 when we leave.
I ask Egg if he'll drop me off in town so's I can get the bus back to the airport, but he argues that he's got a three hour drive ahead of him and not enough sleep anyway, so an extra twenty minutes makes no odds. I don't argue, because time with pals is important.
I wake up early the next morning, breakfast, and walk to the airport. Through security quickly, I pick up Octane and figure I'm not driving today, so can enjoy second breakfast.
The big German lad is on the same return flight, but thankfully not next to me again. Somehow I manage a new record time through Schiphol - from getting out of my seat to standing on platform 4 takes me under ten minutes. I'm back home 32 hours after I left. I need to find a home for the wee 911.
