Prawn stars

Warning: This blog is full of foul mouthed effin and blinding. Do not read on. Well, not unless you're a foul mouthed effin and blinder yourself.

I was rather hoping for a better readership than that. Tut, tut.

As the Big Yin once said, stay oot the sea! You don't belong! There's things in there that bite ye. Don't go in. Yer not welcome!

And he's quite right. In fact, Sir Billy is never wrong, apart from his choice of Glaswegian footie team. Don't know what happened there. I suppose every genius is flawed. I mean, Einstein was quite sharp but his hair was pants. World's strongest man has biceps wider than a tree but his tadger is probably the size of a button mushroom. Yin and yang. Apples and pears. Comme si, comme ca, amigo.

Anyway, I'm digressing here. See the sea - stay out of the sea. There are sharks, piranhas, jelly fish and other ravenous things who all agree that, you, as a human being, should bugger right off!
"Go on, get lost. Get oot o' here!" shout the prawns.

"Sod off back to the sand where you belong. You smelly polluter bastards that ye are and tell yer kids to stop weeing in here!"

How many warnings does your average hard working killer shark have to give? Every month or so newspapers are littered with "shock" headlines of "surfer mauled by shark"; "shark ate man for dinner" and "Man went in sea and didn't come back" .

On a lighter note, gangs of cuttle fish have been seen around inner shore areas...

By the way, prawns should be banned and not just because of their foul mouthed abusive language. Don't get me wrong, I can understand why some people enjoy them as they are reasonably tasty in a tasteless chewy chicken sort of way. But if you actually make the mistake of looking at a fully clothed one before you bite it, you might view them differently.

Twidling its rigid crustacean body round in your murderous fingers, you give it the eyeball. Or rather two eyeballs 'cos they've got two of them, black and beady, that stare at you. They have straggley whiskers and dangly bits that hang off their arse - probably piles or something as they don't have easy access to Preparation H. Then you have to snap off their heads, crack their body and expectantly peel the crust. If you're lucky you get half a centimeter of soft pinky flesh, which always has a fragment of hard shell. As you crunch on a mouthful with the whiskers dangling out the side of your gob you say "hmm, prawns are great" and hope no-one noticed you'd eaten half the head.

Not the most appetising. Bit like Nana Mouskouri but without the make-up. Who the hell would want to eat that? They're locusts in disguise. If you came across one in the garden you'd run a mile, unless you're a salivating Frenchie.

But no, 'cos they're from the sea, they are considered delicous, sophisticated even. Tiger prawn soup, prawn cocktail, grilled prawns on the barbie, salmon and prawn medley on a bed of caviare. All very posh. All very noncy noncy. Cook them to a degree of imperfection and you'll get nags and dysentry for the next four months.

"Are you sure they're cooked all right?"

"Aye. They've been on for two hours and forty three minutes."

"Oh. Are they supposed to be pink in the middle?"

"Aye, they're prawns."

"Oh. Mine's a bit cold at the top end. Do you think it's all right?"

"Aye. the prawns are fine! They're always fine. I always cook them to perfection. It's not rocket science! Only takes two minutes by the book. In fact you can put prawns on a barbie and go for a bath and forget about them. They're easy!"

I say prawn eating is disgusting and should stop right now. Same goes for all their other seafish insect-like chums. I'm talking whelks, scallops, mussels and shrimps. They are all ugly buggers. They are the insects of the sea. Do not eat them. If you really want to eat something disgusting, fry a glow worm then marinate it in a mayonnaise sauce. If you can do it without heaving you'll be on TV.

Australia is as inviting as the sea. It's territory that humans should have no business with, even though it looks tempting to go in.

You don't belong.

You're not welcome.

Think about it.

This is a place tha, when first discovered, the well mannered civilized Brits thought, "urgh, I'm not living there. Get me a boat out o' here sharpish. Let's send the murderers, rapists and dirty criminals there instead. That'll punish the bastards. It's worse than Newgate Prison..."

This was a most unusual evolution in terms of pioneering activity. Normally, a place would be discovered. The discoverer would say this is great! I'm staying! I'm a genius. I want a knighthood right now and a magic wee statue in my image in the city centre! Oh, and an indoor flushing toilet wouldn't go amiss either!

Take the Pilgrim fathers. They didn't do a runner when they discovered America, did they? No, they thought 'we'll plant some potatoes and make some hamburgers'. That's because the US is safe. Well, apart from the bombings, guns and murders. Nothing actually bites you there.

Instead the Brits came back proclaiming 'Go on! Get on that weavil-ridden boat, bugger off to Australia and don't come back!'

Over the years you're conditioned to think this was a very sensible approach to housing the filthy criminals swarming the streets of Londinium. Little did you know how inhumanly cruel people can be and if given the choice, your average thieving nasty bit of work would instead have chosen to be hung naked with complimentary public humiliation.

No, the real reason they sent them there was not the distance. After all, if it was distance they were after, they'd have sent them to the moon or twenty leagues under the sea. It was the torture element they were going for. Send them to Oz, let them live there. That'll teach them to repent from their life of crime.

Silly thing is, if your average criminal had an ounce of sense, they could just have got the return ferry back. How difficult would that have been?

Go somewhere like Renfrew, for example. Don't like it? No problem. Get the ferry back. Simple.

Boat arrives from Plymouth full of convicts, bursting for the khazi and a decent pint, dumps them off in Oz. Picture the desperado wanting to return home on the quay at Sydney.

"Err, excuse me, captain."

"Yes, you flea infested scurvy ridden piece of scum?"

"Excuse me, captain. Thinking of going back to Old Blightey. Any room on the ship?"

"Are you a fellow of disrepute, violent tendencies and psychologically imbalanced personality?"

"Err, not with you captain."

"Are you a murderous, criminal, mental bastard?"

"Oh-arr, that I am, captain! At yer service!"

"Excellent."

"Does that mean I can come on board?"

"Certainly. Once ah get rid of these extremely dangerous criminals. I just need to be up the old sea dog and Roger the cabin boy. Plenty of space on here. Hop aboard."

Distance is irrelevant. They got sent there 'cos Australia is full of things that want to kill you.

Things that crawl, things that creep, things that eat.

On first impressions the crims would have thought, "woah, this is a bit of all right! Sun, sea, sand and beautiful beaches. Brilliant!

Then, before they knew it, the insects would be giving it large.

'Cos there's only one thing you need to know about Australia. It's dangerous. Forget about the barbeques, the blonde birds on the beach, Home and Away and Bonza mate. It's plain dangerous...

Even a harmless pursuit like jogging can put you in casualty.

I know, because every lunch time I go for a run down a cycle track which runs parallel to a creek.

Every lunchtime I come back with brown shorts having had a near-death experience. And this is not in some Abo Bush area with digeridoo musak in the background. This is in the middle of sky scrapers, industrial enterprise, science parks and central business districts.

The insects, lizards and snakes don't give a monkeys about that. This is their turf and you're tresspassing, mate!

What's more, I don't need to eat my sandwiches when I return to the office. To open your mouth or indeeed any orifice when running in Oz is madness. You'll consume flies bigger than fists, and jumping spiders that get stuck in your gullet. Mozzies the size of birds and flying ants that reverberate down your windpipe in time with your lungs. No point in trying to cough them up. It causes a gigantic panic, you'll hyperventilate then have a Russell. Just take it like a man and swallow hard. They'll fight it out amongst themselves in your intestines, to see who's first out.

Along the route, I hear things rustling through the grass, wee slimy fast bastard things that follow me along, just waiting do get a dirty big bite of some Scottish beef.

I run much faster now than I used to in Britain.

And that's just the insects. There are other things too. Things that even David Attenborough hasn't met cos if he had he'd now be dead. Bigger things that don't even try to get out your way or subtely attack you. They're so hard they go for a full frontal mugging.

I'm talking brazen gangs of lizards, who do not give a monkeys that God decreed, you as man, should have dominion over them.

"Hoi mate. What do you think you're doing on my path?"

"Err nothing, my reptilian scaley friend with the probing tongue. Just passing through."

"Oh, is that right, is it? Just passing through?"

Within seconds his mates have arrived, a whole gang of lizard mafia things. They swarm round and jostle you.

You probably think I'm exaggerating. I can tell you I'm not. The first time I saw one of these blighters was through my bosses office window. It was eating cars in the car park.

"Argh, there's a dinosaur in the car park!"

"Oh no. Good-day mate and bonza. Kylie, Kylie. That's nothing. That's just a blue dragon. They're really tame. Crack open a tinny mate. Everyone needs good neighbours."

"Well, where I grew up we were told dragons were very dangerous. Only really hard people called David could give them a pasting. Or was it Goliath? Always getting them mixed up. Oh no it was George, the MP for Dumfries and Galloway..."

First time you see one of these, the last thing you're thinking is whether you've got room in your house for one. You're more thinking there's been a breakout from the zoo - get the police!...and the ambulance!

Next time I saw one was when when the gang leader broke into the grounds of our house to go for a swim. No kidding, he did like 50 lengths. Breast-stroke, a bit of back-stroke and then got on the boat for a chill.

"Look, daddy, there's a lizard on the boat. You'd better get him!"

"Aye right ye are kids. Daddy's got to go to work now."

"But it's dinner time. You've been to work already."

"Oh, right, yeah, right. I mean no. No. Honestly, got to go."

"Darling, what could possibly be more important than getting this dragon out of the pool?"

"Err. I'm cooking dinner. Remember?"

"So?"

" Just got to check the prawns on the barbie. They're my favourites."

"So?"

"Need to make sure they're cooked properly. Don't want anyone getting ill, dear."

Fitba' crazy

Yep, it's fair to say the Grant family have gone fitba' crazy of late. Kids have gone garden-goals-shooting bananas, Katy is practising Ronaldo step overs and Jenny is washing kit like detergent is going out of fashion. Even the cat is running about like the beast it is, chasing a furry mouse ball.

I'm playing a serious match every weekend with our Wahroonga Tigers geriatric and very infirm over 35's. Our full blown season starts in two weeks. I'm training on Wednesdays and doing death defying fitness work on Thursdays. I've also got work lunch-time football and here's the latest...I start coaching the local Under 7s on Tuesday! We are all Wahroonga Tigers!

How can a hard-working father of three with a massive global debt find time for such self-centred pursuits?

Whilst the pure thinking by-stander might point a shaky finger towards the daddy for such selfishness, scratch beneath the surface and you might find quite a different story. Why have the Grants, and daddy in particular, gone fitba mad? You tell me, who's really to blame?

Here are the suspects...

"Uncle" Malcom & "Auntie" Seonaid

This dynamic duo, sponsored by Sydney Adventist Hospital, lured Ally and Jenny from the UK over to their house in Sydney last year, for grilled prawns and melon canopes served with a medley of tortillas and dips. (Please note the connection here - Jenny is Seonaid's cousin.)

Please also note the resemblance between Sepp Blatter, president of FIFA, and Malcs...

Sepp Blatter (top) and "Uncle" Malcolm (bottom)

Anyway, this visit coincided with Ally's job interview in Sydney but that's, well, just a coincidence. Under this pretext, Malcolm smoothly moved from the topic of tax evasion, political economics and global currency exchanges to playing fitba every Saturday for the Over 35s at Linfield. He even cited the fact that a former Rangers player and living legend, Dave Mitchell, used to play.

How did he know I supported Rangers, eh? Answer me that one. Good bit of insider research done there, perchance? Seonaid nodded on encouragingly saying buzz phrases such as "it's great" and "brilliant fun", whilst looking at Ally expectantly throughout. Ally nodded, thinking, hmmm - probably serious stuff. My football days are over. I'll stick to running. But Jenny said "yes that'd be great. You like football, don't you, Ally?"

"Yes, I do," said Ally. Ally then took the next flight home to Oakhill.

Tarun
Tarun is officially my best mate in Oz. Not only that, him and I make up the coach and management duo of the U'7s. How did I meet this soccer Guru and all round good egg? Goes like this. Brrring Brrring went my phone.

"Hello. I'm Tarun".

"Hello I'm Ally. Who the hell are you?"

"I'm Tarun."

"Ah right . You said."

Massive pause as Glasgow meets London in Sydney.

"Melissa tells me you want to play O35s football."

"Melissa? Who's Melissa?"

"My wife."

"Oh. Nice. Does she play football?"

"No. She said Jenny told her you wanted to play football.."

"Oh."

Local adverts Australia is different from Britain in many ways. For example, it advertises Mangos in a pseudo erotic manner.

It has a very sensible Prime Mininster with grey hair and a reasonably sized belly, plus it's got Dame Edna. We have Des O' Connor and Sonia; it has loads of Abos and Kangaroos, some of which have very large goolies indeed, and no, I don't just mean the Abos.

It also knows how to market its local football team. Other countries bidding for the World Cup might as well give up now. While if you lived in Oakhill you might be loosely aware of the the local football team. If you live in Wahroonga you cannot fail to have the mighty Tigers shoved in your face. There're banners across railway tracks. Signs at traffic lights, centre page spreads in the papers and a collection of mothers screaming at you"what?! you're not in the Tigers ? what's wrong with you?"

There are 80 teams in the club. Yep, 80 teams. From embryo' s all the way up to over 90's - men and womens. They have BBQ's at every match, car park attendants, ambulances and live camera crews at the ready. They have a scary president, who gives offical addresses and talks about his annual turn over of 500,000 dollars! To not be doing footie on a Sturday morning means you're an outcast from society.

Jenny was the first person I met who alerted me to the Tigers, your honour.

Dad
An inspirational comment from my dear old daddy. "You're a bit long in the tooth for football are you no' ,boy?"

Whilst nursing fractured ribs and a slipped disc I did momentarily think he might be right.

Note: my dad is Jenny's father-in-law.

Father-in-law
Note - this guy is Jennys' dad and therefore is Jenny with facial hair... give or take a few vital organs etc. Don't think she likes licorice much, either but she is a fan of lasagne.

"I'm thinking of playing football"

"Great. You're good at that, aren't you?"

"Er no. Not really. Might start off in Division four."

"Oh, work your way up to the Division 1?"

"Eh. Don't know about that."

"Well a player of your qualities, Alasdair, can't be kept back."

U7's parents
Having just returned that very morning from a week in San Diego, I agreed to miss William's football grading and stay at home looking after Tom whilst recovering from jet-lag.
An hour later I receive a call from Jenny.

"I've just nominated you as coach for the U7s team."

"Urggh. What do you mean?"

"Do you want to be coach?"

"Urgh. What day is it. Where am I.?"

"Just say yes. Everyone says you'll be great."

"Urghh. ok."

What's she on about now? Coach? Back to sleep for me. Phone goes again ten seconds later.

"Ally. Tarun here."

"Mate."

"Boss, you mean."

"Eh?"

"You're coach; I'm manager"

"What?!"

"Jenny nominated you as coach, I seconded and Melissa nominated me as manager and Jenny seconded."

"Eh"

"What? I'm really coach?"

"Yes, mate. Talk tactics later."

Jas
Me old fave mate and defender extraordinaire from Somerset. Advisor, councellor and general solid chap.

"Central midfield for you, matey."

"Noh, I'm a defender."

"Honestly midfield. Even Jenny agrees."

Incidentally, I met Jas through Jenny being friends with his wife Suzie.

William
"I hate football, dad. I want to do dancing".

I said "gulp."

With this light-hearted ditty at the back of my mind, I joyfully took William along for his first football grading with the Tigers.

His experession was something between a man facing a firing squad and someone who'd just started hand writing twenty copies of the bible. I vowed I'd give him a four week stint and if he didn't like it then he'd be out. I'd get him to sign something saying "my dad took me to football when I was wee but I didn't like it and I forced him to stop taking me. The fact I now have no mates and can't talk footie down the pub or at work with the lads is completely not his fault."

Anyway, did he do me proud or wot? The guy ran his nads off , chasing everything, even decked someone (for which I reprimanded him later but just like I would, he said it was accidental).

Getting him home he wanted to practice football. I nearly died. We did shots together, we did headers, we did Rangers winning the cup.

I was the proudest dad in the continent! Then he comes in and declares to the family, "I love football".

The double highlight for me was when he said he'd like me to be coach..

OK , so you've heard the case...Now these are my chief suspects...

Let me summarise for you.

There's the Malcolm and Seonaid combo, relations of JENNY. Sponsored by Sepp Blatter and advocates of Saturday afternoon trips to local hospitals.

There's my father-in-law, who just happends to be JENNY's dad. With his "Go for it Alasdair. You're good at football" attitude.

Then there's me top old matey, Jas. Who reckoned I could be a midfield maestro. JENNY is best mates with Suzie, Jas's wife.

There's JENNY, who thoroughly enjoys kit washing and affirmed I would be playing football to Seonaid and Malcom, most of the population of Sydney, Wahroonga Tigers coaching staff and friends and family back home.

William: Forcing dad (husband to JENNY) to lead by example and steer him away from a career of Swan Lake and demi plies.

And then dear old dad, JENNY's father-in-law, who commented about my age and abilities making me think I need to prove him wrong.

Well, m' lord. I have heard the evidence. I see the Grant family have changed enormously due this football thing. Jenny has been clearly influencial in every aspect of Ally's endeavours. Indeed one might argue, the poor man had no choice but to play football at least three times a week. However, he also apparantly has no choice but to watch Coronation Street three times a week but he does not.

I therefore find guilty...

Ally

Cos if he didn't like footie he bloody well shouldn't be playing it.

I sentence you to a life of cutting the grass, miscellaneous trips to chiropractors, physios and various other expensive medical treatment centres.

Hanging my head low. I have to agree....

It's all my fault.

'Cos I am fitba' crazy!

Visionary

Inspired by last years Glasto, I’ve been wearing my new spectacles recently. Well, they’re not new exactly. I bought them in March last year but they’re sort of new in the way that you might have a shirt that you bought in America eight years ago that you’ve never worn until one Saturday morning and someone, like your wife, says,

“Is that a new shirt?”

You have a slow think then reply firmly,

“Yes.”

“Oh. Where did you get it?”

You then have to think again. Where did you actually get it? Think it was Macys. No, that’s not right, it was JC Pennys. No, maybe the Burlington Coat Factory.

Not wanting to be wrong you say, “Dunno, love, somewhere in America.”

“What? In America? but we moved back from there 8 years ago.”

“Hmmm. Yeah. So?”

“Well, it’s not exactly new then, is it?”

“But I’ve never worn it before.”

Seemingly a lot of us men are in the “best not use that now as I don’t really need it right now, I’ll save until I really, really need it” category. Often this turns in to a period of a few months or in normal cases, ten years. Bit like my Uncle Jimmy’s collection of antique tinned hams and potted meats. I’m sure he’d have made a fortune on the Antiques Road Show:-

“Well, I do declare I’ve never see such a tin of spam before. If you look at the print at the back there...”

“Aye.”

“It’s hand written in dog blood.”

“Aye.”

“Well, that type of ink was used widely at Marks and Spencer’s in the early 1920s.”

”Aye.”

“Do you have any idea of it’s worth. Have a guess.”

“Och, it’s about two pound twenty three pence for 500g from Marks in Inverness.”

“No. I’ve got news for you. You’re wrong. A tin of ham that old, in such pristine condition, 80 years past its sell by date would fetch you …"

The audience gasp...

"Five pence.”

Women, on the other hand, tend to rip right in and cannot contain themselves with excitement when they buy something new, just like you with a fresh four pack of beer. Often they don’t even make it out of the shop, they must put on their new shoes, frilly knickers or fashionable head scarf immediately.

So, my glasses are pretty much in that vague category of manly new-ness. But they’re not totally new like the shirt ‘cos I’ve sort of dabbled with wearing them now and then at night time. Sort of sneak previews, break the family in gently sort of thing. So, maybe they’re not officially new at all.

Anyway, I’ve started wearing them kind of occasionally. Yep, I know I’ve said that already but I’m wearing them a bit more than I used to. So, it’s in the more occasionally stage but not quite regularly and nowhere near full time. I might do that when I hit like fifty eight or something or maybe seventy when I’ve given up football completely or I’m dead. Or which ever comes first, I suppose. Won’t need them much in a coffin. Mind you, do the myopic dead lose their specs? You know how people can look very odd with their specs off? Maybe they’re allowed to keep them on. Especially if people want to have a quick look at the body before it goes under. You can imagine they wouldn’t want friends and family seeing them for the last time not looking their best. They’d be mortified.

Usually there are whisperings like,

”Oh, she looked so at peace, with a gentle smile on her face.”

Instead you’d hear, “The auld man looked well weird withoot his specs on.”

Now, my glasses are the doggies – at least on paper. They’re the latest designer look from last year. Let me think now, who is it?…ahh Georgio Armani. Good, eh? Cost about 400 smackers. Wow. Should be able to see for miles with that sort of money. They’ve got a Georgio Armani case and a Georgio Armani wiper cloth thing, so it’s all top nicker.

But just like having a set of Ping golf clubs and being crap at golf, they’re not really working.

Everything takes on this curvaceous sort of look, but it’s not sexy at all. I go to pick up a pen and I miss by two inches. I try shaving and lose three pints of blood, cups of tea end up down my neck and horror of horrors, I can’t watch the footie without thinking everyone’s doing banana shots. I can live with this in an uncontrollable way, although driving can be quite thrilling. Still, that lampost needed moving and so did next door neighbours pot plants. Such a shame about Rover, well I did toot the horn. They’d be better off with a cat anyway.

More importantly to a vain man of the 60’s, are my looks. My eyes appear, I think, well I don’t know for definite, do I ? ‘cos I’m looking through the glasses to see what I look like and that might well give the wrong impression. But it certainly looks to me like my eyes have shrunken in size to that of a gerbils or maybe a mole who’s had a very bad nights kip. I’m a cross between one of the Kray twins and Buddy Holly, with a dash of Ronnie Corbett.

The kids are terrified but are quite subtle in their ways of hiding it. Usually they’ll bring the topic up over cereal:-
Pause in munching, “Why are you wearing glasses, daddy?” enquired Katy.

“They help me see, sweetie.”

“Oh.”

Munching continues.

“Can you not see without them daddy?” asked William.

“No, son. Unless I wear my contact lenses.”

“But why don’t you wear them then, daddy” asked Katy.

“Oh, it’s not good to wear contacts all the time.”

“Oh.”

Munch on.

“That’s a shame.”

“Hmmm. Why?"

“Oh, nothing, really.”

“Do you have to wear them outside?”

“Hmm. Could do.”

“It’s just someone might see you”

“What do you mean, Katy?”

“Nothing” desperately trying to back paddle. “They might not recognise you.”

Katy is becoming super smart with excuses and off the cuff thinking these days. I glance at her, or maybe it was William, and think aww, when she was a wee baby, I wouldn’t have had such a remark. Aww, those were the days. She’d probably just’ve farted, puked and then screamed the house down. Tom goes for the direct approach, points at me and gurgles “silly daddy”.
William, being a supportive brother says, “yes, they look a bit funny, daddy.”

“You just need to get used to seeing daddy wearing them”, Jenny attempts to smooth the waters but her smile is a tad too wide for my liking and I’m sure she spluttered on her next spoonful of honey nut cornflakes.

I feel a bit gutted.

The matter is drawn to a close by Katy, “you look really great daddy."

My spirits instantly rise, “aww, thanks, Sweetie. That’s nice of you to say so.”

“But I think you look even better wearing contact lenses.”

“Best buy some” laughed Jenny.

“Thanks a lot.”

“Oh, and darling?"

“Yes?”

“Make sure they’re new.”