As my wife will tell you, I’m a big softie. (No jokes, please, about the wee blue pill that’s now freely available…)
I hate arguments, fights or any form of confrontation, especially in public. However, a bit like The Coward of the County in the great Kenny Rogers song, I had to make a stand last Saturday night at the Pavilion Theatre in Glasgow.
I’d gone with my wee girl to see my very talented pals Johnny Mac and Liam Dolan performing their brilliant tribute to the legendary Francie & Josie. (If it comes to a theatre near you, folks, DO NOT MISS IT!) But forget the famous characters created by the late, great Rikki Fulton and Jack Milroy, it was another double act who took centre stage during the first half of the show.
Yes, chinas, I could hardly hear a word thanks to a truly awful mother and daughter duo to our immediate left who accused me and the wean of sitting in their seats and proceeded to mutter (loudly) to themselves until the lights came up at the interval. And that’s when the laughs continued for the audience members in our wee section of the stalls.
“Look!” growled the daughter as she leapt to her feet and showed me the ticket confirmation on her phone. “Seats J23 and J24!” That’s when I whipped out my tickets – for G23 and G24 – and said: “Naw, YOU look – YOU’RE IN THE WRONG ROW!” I can only imagine she was otherwise engaged – working on the ghost train, perhaps – when the rest of the kids in her class were learning the alphabet.
By the way, folks, I thought the fairer sex (if I can still use that expression in 2023 without being reported to the police by a “fauxfended” attention-seeker) didn’t like the C-word? It’s just as well I’m not easily offended. Two minutes before curtain up, my wee lassie had a fly peek at the text message the mother was sending to her daughter (who was presumably having once last pint of Guinness in the bar) and, yes, I had to laugh when Sophie spilled the beans.
“Dad,” she whispered. “She’s saying there’s a big fat **** in their seats…” You don’t get that at the opera! Confrontation of a different type in midweek when I tried putting some of that AdBlue stuff in my car.
(No idea what it does, to be honest, but it apparently reduces the risk of any hate mail from Greta Thunberg). Only two or three tiny drips came out of the pump (it was like my 89-year-old dad having a pee) and I gave up.
Rather than just drive away, however, I did my good citizen bit and informed the guy in the shop that the machine wasn’t working properly. He fobbed me off with some excuse about having to treat it gently (it’s a fuel pump, mate, not a virgin bride!) and, as I headed to the door, he said: “Ehhhh, there’s six pence on the pump.”
Thinking he was joking, I smiled and said: “I don’t have cash – is a card OK?” But he WASN’T joking… and I stood there like a diddy making a contactless transaction for 6p! But listen, if you think that’s a farce, it was reported last week that a petrol station in Cheshire is now charging motorists THREE QUID to put air (yep, fresh air!) in their tyres! That’s inflation for you…
PS. My old Kirkcaldy correspondent Jimmy Stirling – a veteran comedian and cabaret star – was reminiscing about a wee run-in he experienced while playing the summer season in Jersey 30 years ago.
At the end of his six-week run, he asked the theatre boss: “Will you have me back?” The gaffer shook his head and said: “To be honest, Jimmy, we’d rather have the Germans back…”
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