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In which Tony and The Admiral encounter a most vocal critic of Scottish journalism.

There was an unusual squawking sound coming from within The Admiral’s flat. The last time I remember hearing anything similar was when LaFlamme had agreed to give The Admiral a haircut. It was an ill-judged move on his part, as LaFlamme kept her shades on and held a glass with a sherry-like substance in it throughout. The results, however devastating, were short-lived because as everyone knows, a haircut is just for Christmas and not for life.

The squawking continued as I stepped tentatively into the kitchen-office. On the ex-boardroom table where The Admiral conducted his greatest bodges sat a large multi-coloured vertebrate. Initially I mistook this for a bouquet of flowers but as the incongruity of a vase of flowers in The Admiral’s office sunk in I realised something was afoot. This was clinched when the vase of flowers spoke.

“Who are you?” said the bird.

“Tony.”

“Hello Tony.”

I was somewhat taken aback by this, as it was already more conversation than I would normally expect at The Admiral’s.

“I appear to be stuck,” said The Admiral, from the other side of the room. He had most of his upper body crammed into a large wire enclosure on the kitchen worktop and for a moment I wondered if there had been a body-swap incident, as he is usually the one perched on the table. I wasn’t sure whether he was trying to get in or out, but I held the back of the cage and let him decide.

“Thank you,” he said, removing himself and dusting off the flakes of wood-shavings from his sleeves. “I’m looking after the little chap and it was time to clean his cage.”

“Who does he belong to?” I asked.

“My friend Muriel,” said The Admiral. “You know. Journalist. Lots of opinions." He said this in a way which suggested she might be dangerous. "He’s not generally any trouble, but he’s most particular about the materials with which I furnish his lodgings.”

“Correct gauge of shavings, or what?” I asked.

“Underneath the shavings,” he replied, “is a lining of four or five layers of newspaper and I’ve been told on no account to use the Daily Record.”

The parrot piped up. “Utter pish,” he said. The animal’s use of the Scottish vernacular was striking.

“Why on earth,” I asked, “would a parrot object to the Daily Record?”

“Utter pish,” repeated the parrot.

muriel gray's parrot

“Well, parrots are among the most intelligent of birds,” said The Admiral. “I can only assume that the quality of journalism within its pages is simply not up to his high standards.”

“But he’s only going to crap on it,” I said.

“Nevertheless,” replied The Admiral. “He does not deem it worthy. Apparently it was only a matter of days with said paper before he insisted on crapping on The Scotsman instead.”

“Bollocks,” said the parrot.

“But soon he also became dissatisfied with The Scotsman.”

“Bollocks,” repeated the parrot.

“Then there was only one paper good enough for the little prince.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“The Herald,” said The Admiral.

“It’ll have to do,” said the parrot.

"The Herald?" I said.

“It’ll have to do,” repeated the parrot.

It probably said something for the quality of Scottish journalism that this most discerning of readers could only find one quality newspaper and even then it was to defecate on. I can only imagine the foul language had he been raised in Dundee.

I asked The Admiral what could have sparked such disdain for the papers in question.

“Perhaps he used to write for them,” said The Admiral, without a hint of sarcasm. I concluded that it was a possibility. “In any event, you’re perfectly welcome to ask him directly.”

I turned towards the parrot. “So, um.. the Daily Record and The Scotsman..”

“Utter pish bollocks,” said the parrot.

It wasn’t the most eloquent of arguments but then I wasn’t the most eloquent of guests and didn't particularly fancy debating the merits of Scottish print journalism much further. Besides, he was starting to win me over with his passionate and forthright take on the subject.

“I think I remember your friend Muriel,” I said to The Admiral. “Better get him back in his cage before he starts boffing on about Munros.”

Thanks to Kevin Robertson

Muriel Gray’s Parrot

April 25, 2012

In which Tony and The Admiral encounter a most vocal critic of Scottish journalism. There was an unusual squawking sound coming from within The Admiral’s flat. The last time I remember hearing anything similar was when LaFlamme had agreed to give The Admiral a haircut. It was an ill-judged move on his part, as … Continue reading →

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In which Tony finds another way of avoiding work.

LaFlamme had a notion that we should visit an art gallery this afternoon. It was a grey-ish kind of day and I was probably going to do something pointless anyway, so I thought why not. Crucial to this decision was the fact that it was free, something that would not have been lost on LaFlamme as she, like myself, was often short of cash.

I was disappointed to see so many pieces by Damien Stirrup, the controversial conceptual artist, as I had a feeling he inhabited a talent-free zone. Stirrup was well-known for putting dead animals in formaldehyde and recently surprised no-one but himself when he picked up a paintbrush and discovered painting was more difficult. This inspired one of LaFlamme’s finest newspaper headlines of recent times: ‘Formaldehyde boy tries painting – gets in a pickle.’

The fact that he was over-represented, not just here but in any gallery, didn’t really bother me but it tended to mean there was less room for people who weren’t complete twats.

Formaldehyde Boy

April 3, 2012

In which Tony finds another way of avoiding work. LaFlamme had a notion that we should visit an art gallery this afternoon. It was a grey-ish kind of day and I was probably going to do something pointless anyway, so I thought why not. Crucial to this decision was the fact that it was … Continue reading →

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Given that the subjects of Band Managers and Elvis Presley had been at the forefront of my thoughts recently, it was only natural that both would infiltrate my dreams. Natural for me anyway, which admittedly isn’t particularly natural.

I was going to relate last night’s nocturnal madness here, but then I remembered how tedious it was listening to other people’s dreams. And if it was tedious listening to theirs, it was likely to be more so listening to mine. So I thought of another way of describing it, as I know you have the attention span of gnats.

You are about to leave the black and white confines of this interminable journal and enter a new, technicolour world peopled with extraordinary characters and talking inanimate objects. A bit like The Wizard Of Oz, but not as plausible. Are you ready? Then let’s begin..

When I came back with the drinks, poor Elvis was distraught. But by then, I was waking up and returning to my black and white world. I remembered that the ghost of Elvis Presley didn’t really roam the earth and that potatoes, with a few exceptions, don’t make good band managers.

My Technicolour World

March 1, 2012

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In which Tony finds a novel way of describing a dream sequence.

My Technicolour World

March 1, 2012

In which Tony finds a novel way of describing a dream sequence. Given that the subjects of Band Managers and Elvis Presley had been at the forefront of my thoughts recently, it was only natural that both would infiltrate my dreams. Natural for me anyway, which admittedly isn’t particularly natural. I was going to … Continue reading →

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In which LaFlamme's timely appearance saves Tony from more unnecessary pain at the hands of band manager George Lyttleton.

It was another throwback to Lyttleton’s 70’s musical pedigree.

“I’ve written a piece for the gatefold,” he said. What kind of gate is only four inches wide? I took the hand-written note and gazed at it blankly. “I think a written piece adds weight to the release, don’t you?” he continued. “We want it to have impact. It can’t just go off like a damp squid.” Once again, Lyttleton’s seafood obsession coloured his language. This time I was almost being drawn in to his world and finding the image of a damp squid going off sufficiently daunting.

Luckily at this point LaFlamme made a surprise appearance, arriving just in time to spare me having to read the piece. Lyttleton rose.

“LaFlamme,” he said, bowing his head slightly. This was unnecessary as she was already a head taller.

“I’m usually very good with names,” said LaFlamme, “but I’ve deliberately forgotten yours.”

Lyttleton shifted uneasily. “Well, I think we’re pretty much done here,” he said. There had been no mention of budget and that’s the way Lyttleton liked it. People like me should simply appreciate the privilege of working with such great talent and relish being a moth around a great flame.

“We can discuss costs later,” I suggested.

“Costs,” he said vaguely, as if unfamiliar with the term. “Yes. Of course.” He left to continue building his empire elsewhere.

LaFlamme meanwhile was flicking through Lyttleton’s photographs, casually dropping each in turn out of the open window.

By No Stretch Of The Imagination Can A CD Sleeve Ever Be Described As ‘Gatefold’

December 23, 2011

In which LaFlamme's timely appearance saves Tony from more unnecessary pain at the hands of band manager George Lyttleton. It was another throwback to Lyttleton’s 70’s musical pedigree. “I’ve written a piece for the gatefold,” he said. What kind of gate is only four inches wide? I took the hand-written note and gazed at … Continue reading →

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In which Tony has difficulty ordering a cup of coffee.

LaFlamme asked to meet me in a well-known coffee house uptown, an unusual choice of venue in that it wasn’t dark, dingy or catering to a lowbrow clientele. I would generally steer clear of chain stores like this, not because I'm concerned about creeping globalisation or the imperialism of large international corporations, but because I find their menus intimidating. I usually have no idea what I’m ordering. If the waitress confused my order with another, I’d never know.

“I’d like a Caffe Misto, I think,” I said to the girl at the counter.

“You think?” she said.

“Yes.”

“Aren’t you sure?”

“No, I’m not,” I replied, “but life is short and I don’t want to waste any more of it reading coffee descriptions from Madison Avenue.”

“Medium or large?” said the girl.

“Medium or large?” I replied. “Whatever happened to small?”

“We don’t do small,” she said.

“Then how do you know what medium is?”

“Because of large.”

“Why don’t you just call it small and large?”

“We don’t do small,” she said. Life may be short but this little episode appeared to be infinite.

“Ok,” I said. “I’ll have the small-est size available. But put it in a big cup.”

“To stay or to go?”

“Should I?” I said.

“Should you what?”

“Stay or should I go?”

“It’s your choice, buddy.” She was probably too young to know the song. I ran through it in my head wondering if the band had come to any conclusion that might give me an idea of how to respond to the question, but nothing rang any bells.

“Better make it to stay,” I said. “I’m not sure what I’d do with a large cup of Caffe Misto in the street.” She seemed non-plussed by my dilemma and went about fulfilling the order. I paid and she returned my change.

“Should I put this change in the tip jar,” I asked, “or should I keep it for myself?”

“It’s always tease, tease, tease,” she said.

Medium Or Large?

August 31, 2011

In which Tony has difficulty ordering a cup of coffee. LaFlamme asked to meet me in a well-known coffee house uptown, an unusual choice of venue in that it wasn’t dark, dingy or catering to a lowbrow clientele. I would generally steer clear of chain stores like this, not because I'm concerned about creeping … Continue reading →

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In which Tony breaks the news of his impending journey to LaFlamme.

I called LaFlamme and told her I was being sent on a narrowboat expedition.

“Like a canoe?” she said.

“Bigger than a canoe,” I replied.

“Like a liner?”

“Well, no, smaller than a liner. You don’t see too many of those on the canal.”

“Like a yacht?” I could hear her having difficulties visualising such a fantastical vessel so I explained as best as I could that a narrowboat was a kind of houseboat favoured by Cary Grant types who have the ennui with modern life.

“When do we leave?” she said.

Bigger Than A Canoe

August 14, 2011

In which Tony breaks the news of his impending journey to LaFlamme. I called LaFlamme and told her I was being sent on a narrowboat expedition. “Like a canoe?” she said. “Bigger than a canoe,” I replied. “Like a liner?” “Well, no, smaller than a liner. You don’t see too many of those on … Continue reading →

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In which Tony inadvertently upsets vegetarian food scientist and fruitcake Suave Gav.

It had been an interesting evening of experimental vegetarian cuisine and our hosts had proven to be formidable food scientists. But as Suave Gav continued to discuss the positive health effects of the bizarre beverage Blutwurz I felt nobody was acknowledging the more obvious teeth-blackening effects and began to feel quite uncomfortable. I nudged LaFlamme and she snorted awake.

“I think it’s time we were going,” I said. LaFlamme pointed to my teeth in a befuddled way but decided not to raise the point. “Thanks for the Blutwurst.”

There was a gasp of shock from the quartet as if I’d said something inappropriate to the host’s wife. “Tony,” said the demure Jane, “it’s pronounced bloot-voortz.”

“I’m sorry,” I replied. “What did I say?”

“You said bloot-voorst,” said Ethel, under her breath.

“Bloot-voorst?” I said again, to even more horror.

“Please,” said Ethel.

“Steady on, old man,” said Dick, removing his pipe. Suave Gav fainted away into an armchair.

“Darling, are you alright?” said Ethel, racing to mop his brow. Jane began to loosen his collar.

“I’m.. sorry,” I said again.

“It’s nothing to worry about,” said Ethel. “Gavin’s terribly sensitive to that word.”

“Which word?” I said. “Bloot-voorst or the other one?” Gavin broke into a sob and Dick ushered us amicably to the hall as if my next utterance might break a fragile shell.

“Easy mistake to make, Boaks,” said Dick. “He won’t blame you personally.”

“But I don’t understand.”

“Don’t give it a second thought,” he assured me. “Are you sure you have to leave? We’ll probably play Twister shortly.”

Saturday

This morning I consulted my Bavarian dictionary and discovered Blutwurz, meaning ‘blood-root,’ is a traditional liqueur from the Alsace region. Blutwurst, on the other hand, meaning ‘blood-sausage,’ is a foul affront to vegetarians everywhere. I might as well have offered him some Foie Gras.

My Faux Pas

July 17, 2011

In which Tony inadvertently upsets vegetarian food scientist and fruitcake Suave Gav. It had been an interesting evening of experimental vegetarian cuisine and our hosts had proven to be formidable food scientists. But as Suave Gav continued to discuss the positive health effects of the bizarre beverage Blutwurz I felt nobody was acknowledging the … Continue reading →

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Dick split the silence. “Did you say hangover cure?”

“Yes, he did,” replied Suave Gav from the bar.

“And your friend,” said Dick, taking a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “You have an address for him?”

“Now, Dick,” said Gavin, “there’s plenty time for that. Let our guests enjoy a little Alsatian hospitality for the moment. Lights please, Ethel.” Ethel rose and cut the main lights, leaving us in the glow of candlelight. Gavin emerged from the bar, underlit by a ghostly blue haze. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “I give you - Blutwurz A La Flamme.”

We all clapped, although LaFlamme and I weren’t sure why. My mind was perhaps not at its sharpest after a few hours working with a succession of experimental martinis. All I could think was that it was tremendous somebody had named a drink after her.

Suave Gav laid a tray of oddly-shaped serving dishes on the table; a cross between miniature soup bowls and saucepans, with small protruding stumps for handles. Each contained a deep murky substance with a soft blue flame rising from the surface. It gave off a strong medicinal odour, sweet with strong hints of menthol and herbs. I began to feel quite woozy and my sinuses cleared instantly.

“Do you have any marshmallows?” said LaFlamme. The others laughed, but I think it was a serious question.

“Flambé can of course be an important part of the Blutwurz process,” said Gavin. “It both improves the flavour and reduces the alcohol content.”

“Aren’t you concerned about reducing the alcohol content?” I said, like a true lush.

“Ordinarily I might be,” he replied, “but as its original content is around 60% and burning for five minutes reduces it to only around 45, it’s not something we get too concerned about.” No wonder these guys were interested in a hangover cure. I gulped nervously. I was already intoxicated by the Blutwurz odour, I wasn’t sure I actually needed to drink it.

But drink it I did. It was warm, with a bitter taste of unripe citrus fruit and Italian herbs, rosemary, marjoram, bay, a nutty kind of Edam and just the faintest hint of vanilla. Not that my palate was sharp enough to detect these flavours, I just overheard the gastronomes at the table as they savoured it.

I felt distinctly giddy when the drink was finished but giddiness turned to alarm once Ethel turned up the house lights. I was surrounded by a sea of black teeth. I turned to LaFlamme. Her lips were dark. She had drifted off and was lightly snoring, the empty miniature soup bowl still clutched in her hands. This wasn’t a comment on the evening, merely something LaFlamme did when light was low. It was a good thing to remember for times when she was obstreperous. A bit like having a budgie hood.

Blutwurz A La Flamme

July 12, 2011

Dick split the silence. “Did you say hangover cure?” “Yes, he did,” replied Suave Gav from the bar. “And your friend,” said Dick, taking a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket. “You have an address for him?” “Now, Dick,” said Gavin, “there’s plenty time for that. Let our guests enjoy a little Alsatian hospitality … Continue reading →

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The chutneys came thick and fast, served with Suave Gav’s own specialty breads - olive and onion amongst them - alongside numerous dips, spreads and Dick’s selection of baroque cheeses. Some of the outstanding creations the quartet had prepared included Onion Marmalade With White Wine And Herbs, Hot And Sweet Cranberry Relish, Pineapple Ginger Salsa, Chestnut And Ginger In Red Wine Vinegar Pate, and Every Single Word In The Title Capitalised. One thing was sure. These weirdos could cook.

We may have been a mismatched grouping to begin with but we seemed to gel. Whilst we regarded them as oddballs from a glamorous distant past, we too appeared to be something of a novelty to them. LaFlamme, who can be difficult at dinner parties due to her low boredom threshold, behaved remarkably well around our hosts. I think she was genuinely confused.

“How do you get your hair to sit like that?” asked Jane, who had the most perfect beehive I’d ever seen.

“I iron it,” replied LaFlamme.

“Oh,” said Jane excitedly. “Do you have tongs?”

“I have an ironing board,” said LaFlamme.

When Suave Gav said he had an announcement to make, LaFlamme and I simply gazed up at him like ten-year-olds at a birthday party.

“First,” he said, “a crucial question. Bavarian summer or Alpine winter?” There was a collective ‘ooh’ from the gathering. “In other words, would you prefer your Blutwurz flaming or on the rocks?”

Without hesitation Dick and Jane began chanting ‘flaming, flaming.’

“In that case, we’re heading for the Apres Ski,” said Gavin, retreating behind the bar. “Whilst I make the final preparations, perhaps Tony might like to recant to the group his most fascinating insight into our beloved blood root.” I wasn’t sure what this meant in English but was sufficiently emboldened by the Brandy And Olive Mustard to address the gathering.

“Well,” I began, “a friend of ours heard about this plant. It’s called Torpentile or Turniptil or something.”

“Tormentil,” said Gavin.

“We’ve been working with it for a while now. It’s very refreshing. And we always feel pretty good after it. I don’t know if it is actually a hangover cure, but..” For some reason this grabbed their attention. “All I can say is it’s still under development and we look forward to working with it some more.” Even the virulent cocktail jazz had ceased, which was remarkable given that there had been no exorcism. The only sound was Suave Gav whistling softly with one ear still cocked towards the conversation.

Dick split the silence. “Did you say hangover cure?”

The Cure

July 4, 2011

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