Amazonian Goddess

We’ve all been stung by a rash, ill-advised internet purchase. Last week, I purchased a ‘moon lamp’ that looked roughly the size of a goldfish bowl. In reality, it was the size of a snooker ball. I wrote this in protest!

The Amazonian Goddess

You promised me the world, that you’d always deliver
Whispering sweet nothings, making me quiver
Targeting my weak-spots, my romantic notions,
Yankee candles and sweet-smelling potions

You promised me the world with your mesmeric eyes
Told me I was special, unlike, other guys
Enticing me in, promoting this and that,
A stash of capsules to reduce my body fat

You promised me the world and I fell for your charm
Despite my misgivings, I thought, what’s the harm?
You flashed me some leg whilst fixing your stockings
Frankly my dear, your behaviour was shocking

You promised me the world and what did I receive?
Inaccurate photos, a desire to deceive
That confident swagger, your hand on your waist
Ravenous for you, I longed for your taste

You promised me the world the stars and the moon
But I’ve seen the light, not a moment too soon
Our romance is on its knees, this is no rom.com
Call that a moon? More like a bath bomb!
The cheek, the audacity, yes there’s truth in the rumour
This isn’t the moon! it’s the size of a satsuma!

You promised me the world, my Amazonian goddess,
I fell hook line and sinker, I have to confess,
But it’s over, I’m done, I know I’ll be fine,
Stick your beguiling goods, where the sun doesn’t shine

The Size Of A Cow

The Size of a Cow

Willie Savage was aptly named. An amateur boxer. Professional lunatic. I have the misfortune of calling him my friend. For now. While I regard our friendship as a noose round my neck, he boasts that we’ve been through everything together. From nursery to secondary school—doing time together in Barlinnie next, he jokes. Sad thing is, I really think he’s being serious.
Willie has numerous annoying habits but the one that he terrorises people with, especially me, is when he reigns blows down on an unsuspecting victim’s cranium, shouting, BANG. BANG. POWER. POWER. No warning. Proper pot-shots. He never deviates. Never one BANG and two POWERS. Always two of each. Anything or anyone could set him off. Willie and I have only just left school—I turned up for my exams, Willie didn’t. ‘A don’t need qualifications,’ he raises his hands, closes his fists, adopts his stance, ‘these are my qualifications,’ he tells all and sundry as he fires blows at them or into fresh air depending on his mood.
It was the summer holidays. Willie and I, were taking his neighbour’s greyhound for some exercise. His neighbour, Malky Baker, runs greyhounds at the local track, but he’s a stranger to physical exercise is Malky, instead, he’s assembled a network of boys to take his six greyhounds for a walk, every day, during the summer holidays. Willie prefers to stay hands-free so he can launch into periodic bouts of shadow boxing, so he hands the leash to me. We’re heading for the rolling fields of our posh neighbours. Willie had the idea that instead of walking for miles around the scheme, we’ll let the dog chase rabbits in the fields that looks down on our scheme, not just geographically. ‘She’ll be as fit as fuck after aw this,’ he boasted to me after our first trip to the fields. The following week when the dog that we’d walked won its race, Willie, began to fancy himself as a trainer of greyhounds.
Cutting through the woods that separated the green-fingered from the light-fingered, Willie pierced the quietness with one of his trademark questions. ‘See when I turn professional Des, guess what my song will be when I’m entering the ring?’
‘Wake me up before you go-go, as yir lying knocked out sparko,’ I laughed. I’ll never learn.
‘BANG. BANG. POWER. POWER. Willie Savage dizny get knocked out,’ he shouted, as he peppered me with four rhythmic shots as he yelled each word of his calling card.
That was another of his annoying habits. He’d started to talk about himself in the third person. ‘God sake Willie, ma ear is fucking ringing after that. It’s red raw. Yir lucky I didnae let go of the leash. Dae that again and I’m off.’
Willie was bobbing and weaving as he began to sing, ‘So please stay off my back or I will attack and you won’t want that. I’ve got the Power. I’ve got the Power. I’ve got the Power. I’ve got the Power. It’s getting, it’s getting kinda hectic. Wit yae think Des. Pure class eh?’
‘Aye, that’s dynamite Willie.’
‘Tellin yae, a feel like the guy that wrote that knows me or something, it’s like he’s written it fir ME,’ he said, patting his chest.
I bit on my bottom lip knowing a burst of laughter would lead to another assault. I decided to adopt a different approach. ‘Many fights yae had now then Willie?’
Willie was throwing punches at overhanging branches. ‘Thirteen, wee man.’
I looked at him out the corner of my eye, ‘Many yi won?’ I felt Willie’s eyes studying me. I waited on an answer.
‘Canny mind. It isnae aboot winning. It’s gaining experience. Preparing me fir the Pro’s.’
I was getting my jollies out of this. My equivalent of landing blows on his head and ears for a change. ‘Don’t know about that Willie. The promoters in the Pro’s won’t fancy taking on a guy wi a record of five wins and eight defeats. That disnae look too clever.’
‘Uch, I don’t go in fir aw the statistics shite. I’m a boxer, a warrior, tailor made for the Pro ranks. The big gloves and heidguards are holding me back. I’ll take it by storm Des. You keep yir nose clean and I’ll mibbe let you in ma corner. You could be ma bucket man. Can jist see you Des, wearing my gear, dead professional looking, my name emblazoned err the back of your t-shirt, Willie ‘BANG.BANG.POWER.POWER’ Savage.’
Leaving the confines of the woods I commented on the contrast as we emerged into the brightness of the summer’s day. ‘No way, this is like when yir getting off the plane when yi just land on yir holidays and the heat and light jist hits yae.’
Willie popped a Wrigley’s Juicy Fruit in his mouth.
‘Sorry, I’m forgetting, you’ve never been abroad have yi Willie?’
Willie shook his head vigorously. ‘Na, never fancied it. Too many fucking foreigners. Better get used tae it though, I’ll be flying aw o’er the shot for fights when a turn pro.’
‘Wit yae gony dae until you turn pro then,’ I asked.
He looked like I’d asked him for the answer to six across in the Times crossword. ‘Sign on, wit else is there?’
Staring at him, I waited on a laugh or a punch-line. Realising he was deadly serious, I said, ‘Eh, mibbe try and get a job?’
‘Fuck that Des, I’m gonnae be employed in dishing out pain. Knocking any character oot cauld that’s mental enough to get in the ring wi me in the first place.
I shook my head. ‘Wit age d’ya reckon yil turn pro?
‘Eighteen.’
‘So, for three years yir jist gonnae fanny aboot?’
‘Al be preparing. Laying the groundwork for my career in boxing. A don’t know if a like your attitude the day by the way. Wit u gony dae then smart-arse?’
I was hoping he’d ask me that question. ‘I’m gony start college in September.’
His laugh did nothing to back up the hard man routine he tried to convey. Like an oompah-loompah that has been sucking on helium. ‘That’ll be shining bright Desmond…you…college!! Are yi fuck! Wit yi doin Hair and Beauty or Travel and Tourism!’
‘Computers are the way forward. I’m gony dae Computing. Don’t see wit’s so funny about me going to college. You stick tae yir boxing and I’ll stick to ma plans.’
Willie stared at me like I’d told him I had a weird fetish. I was glad we’d arrived at the fields. ‘Right, stick yir feet on his barbed wire and lift this bit so I can get in Willie.’
He made enough space for me as he held the dog’s leash. When I was safely through, Willie unclipped the leash, then lifted the dog, passing her over to me. She shot off like she was being pursued by a Chinese butcher waving a machete.
We watched the Black Maria sprint off into the distance hunting for prey. Barely ten yards were covered when Willie piped up with another of his stupid ideas. ‘Right Des, this is perfect, aw this space, a want yi to run as fast as yi can but darting in different directions. No straight lines. Think of yirsel as the chicken in Rocky when Mickey gets Rocky to chase after it.’
Now, normally I’d have told him to beat it but I knew there was no chance of him getting near me. Willie cannae run properly, his co-ordination is rank. He runs like his legs need oiling. So a decide to join in. ‘Aye, good idea Willie. I’ll count to five. Take it easy on me now, give me a wee starty. I shoot off buzzing one way then the other as if a farmer is taking pot-shots at me with his gun. I look behind me and Willie is just running in a straight line, awkward as fuck, as if he’s trying to avoid land mines and he’s still nowhere near me. ‘Right, that’s enuf o that roadrunner,’ he shouts at me. I stop and turn around and he’s bent over trying to get his breath back. I walk over and pat him on the back, ‘You’ll need to work on yir stamina Willie, nae mare of those wee daft three times three-minute rounds in the Pro game. ‘Don’t need stamina when yir heavy handed like me,’ he uttered whilst trying to catch his breath. ‘Mon get this mad dug,’ he added.
We walked slightly uphill to the crest of the field and spotted the Black Maria in the distance, involved in a face off, trying to stare out the solitary cow at the bottom of the field.
I looked at Willie. He was like a cartoon character. You could almost see the speech bubble coming out the top of his head. I knew he was up to something. Nothing could prepare me for what. ‘C’mon Maria, c’mon girl he shouts, patting his knees.’ The dog turns and looks at him, ears cocked. Willie pulls a packet of cold meat from his pocket, rips it open and starts waving slices of wafer-thin chicken at the dog. Less than ten seconds pass before it’s snaffling it from Willie’s hand. ‘Get the leash Des,’ he orders me. I stick the leash on the dog and hold onto it. ‘Wit u up tae Willie?’ He ignores me and starts walking cautiously towards the cow. It isn’t even looking in his direction. Oblivious to his presence. Willie is a matter of strides from the cow when he stops and stares at the cow. I follow him, still treating the dog to slices of chicken. Willie turns to me and comments on how it’s the first time he’s seen a cow in the flesh and how big they are. I’m getting a bit jittery cos Willie is up to something, I know him like the back of my hand.
‘Right, we better head Willie, the farmer won’t want people and dogs round about his cows.’
Willie takes a step forward. The penny drops. I watch him adopt his stance and he plants a right hook on the cow. The cow doesn’t even bat an eyelid. It looks like it’s meditating on a single blade of grass yards away. ‘Yir a durable bastard al gie yi that,’ Willie compliments.
‘Jesus Willie. Wit you doing, that’s rotten. Yi canny go about punching cows on…’
BANG. BANG. POWER. POWER. He’s rattled the poor cow four times but again it doesn’t flinch. Willie looks seriously offended. ‘Mon Willie, this is bad news. Totally out of order. Mon up the road.’
He ignores me. ‘Aaaww, a get it, need to soften yi up a wee bit, go to the body.’ He peppers the cow with several left hooks to its body like Barry McGuigan in his heyday. ‘Sumdys getting a right succulent steak by the time am finished wi yi,’ he shouts. The cow just lets it out a Moooo-oooo. To me it sounds like, ‘Gies peace, ya pest.’
‘I’m no watching anymore of this Willie. Am away,’ I let the leash go and walk away.
I’ve walked ten yards and I turn around to see the dog following me as if it is disgusted with Willie as well. I take hold of the leash. ‘Mon get you up the road, Maria, that’s no way to treat animals, is it girl?’
Maria looks at me with her big sad eyes. I look around one last time and see Willie is on his knees, trying to get a breather. He’s staring upwards at the cow like he’s engaged in a Hindu ritual dedicated to showing reverence to the divine creature.
I make a commitment to end our friendship before the summer ends.

Leftover Lisa

Leftover Lisa

Lisa had no luck when it came to men. Her fingers hadn’t been burnt, they’d been blow-torched by a welder with sado-masochistic tendencies. ‘Men seem to find my little foibles difficult to live with,’ she complained, to her best friend, Molly.
Molly attempted to be diplomatic. ‘Lisa, put yourself in their place, a grown man doesn’t want to be sleeping in a Pillsbury Dough Boy duvet and pillowcase set. And the dough boy’s face even lights up in the dark. I mean, you even pretend you’re pinching his cheeks before you give him a kiss goodnight. Can you imagine what that does to a man’s ego? Second best to a character representing a selection of baking products that aren’t even for sale anymore in the UK.’
Lisa didn’t see the problem. Pillsbury Dough Boy was her ideal man. She loved baking, she loved the dough boy. Any man that comes into my life has got to deal with it, she thought. Lisa possessed an amazing talent at turning any conversation towards baking or cakes or anything loosely connected with either. When she complained to ex-lovers about soggy bottoms their minds would wander to a similarly titled porn DVD they owned.
Deciding to go down the path that always seems to be the first port of call for someone determined to find love, she joined a club. Broaden your social horizons. Lisa joined a book club. She was politely asked never to return. On her first appearance when the group discussed Balzac and The Parisian Ladies of The Night she turned the conversation to the complexities of Tarte Tatin. Gloria, the organiser of the book club put it down to first night nerves. At the second meeting when the group discussed Herman Melville’s masterpiece Lisa navigated the conversation towards the variations of Spotted Dick. The final straw came when it was her turn to introduce the group to ‘one of the classics.’ Standing in front of the group she proudly brandished ‘Pastry by Michel Roux.’ Unable to understand their lack of enthusiasm for a book she believed to be the crème de la crème of cookery books but unable to abide confrontation, she left without making a scene.
A different approach was required so she abandoned her luddite like attitude. A quick google search brought up something that caught her eye. For lovers of baking & eating A Facebook/Tinder hydrid. Premier Dating Site for singletons with a passion to cook for love and to look for love. Face-cook. Lisa swiped like a malfunctioning window wiper. For her, this was akin to being let loose in the Pillsbury Dough Boy Factory. Men after men after men who shared her passion. She found Colin, nice friendly face, loves food, desserts are my weakness his profile stated. Lisa rubbed her hands in anticipation. ‘You’ve come to the right place big boy.’
A date was organised. Work commitments meant that a nice afternoon tea somewhere was out of the question. Colin organised for them to meet at a pub halfway between them. Lisa had doubts as to Colin’s suitability when she arrived. The pub was in the middle of a housing estate. A monstrous eyesore of a building. The windows looked like they’d be fitted in the wrong place as though designed to allow the local drug-dealers to make a swift escape when necessary. Arriving early, Lisa sat with a tomato juice, trying to concentrate on reading Baking Heaven magazine. Her nerves started to get the better of her, so she reverted to type, picking up her handbag, opening it to look at her small-sized bag of Pillsbury Dough Boy flour that went everywhere with her. Just looking at his wee face calmed her. As she placed her bag back on the floor, her mouth dropped. Colin walked towards her, she vaguely recognised him. To say that his profile picture was up to date and accurate would be to say that the World gasped in shock at Barry Manilow’s recent press release. Colin, the real-life person in front of her looked as though he’d undergone a gastric band REMOVAL. It was painfully obvious that desserts were his weakness. As was misleading prospective partners or doing any form of exercise.
As Colin introduced himself she was thinking of an escape plan. Then, she spent five minutes babbling on about Pillsbury Dough Boy which seemed to go down like a poorly executed soufflé on Masterchef. Colin didn’t look happy. Lisa excused herself. She stood in the toilet cubicle with her hand on her temple. ‘What will I do. The cheek of him. Sitting there with a right face on him when I’m speaking. You can’t go back out there and confront him. Bloody Leftover Lisa that’s what you are. Boring. Vanilla. You’re the vanilla slice that’s sat on a plate all alone, nobody wants it. Even a big greedy shite like Colin doesn’t want you. He’s got his fingerprints all over you but he’s changed his mind. He’d rather do without.
Think Lisa, think. A smile appeared .This will teach him a lesson,’ she giggled, as she placed the toilet pan lid down, then climbed on top of it. She picked up the vase that sat on the wooden ledge ABOVE THE CISTERN and placed it on the floor. Opening the window a few inches she peered downwards and saw that it was barely a few feet from terra firma. She opened the window fully, sat on the ledge, her legs dangling out the window. She dropped her bag to the concrete, then like a caterpillar, she nudged herself slowly forward bit by bit. As her feet landed she giggled at the thought of BIG Colin sat in the pub waiting on her. Placing her handbag over her left shoulder, she looked to her right. ‘Oh, this just gets better and better. YOU doing a bunk on ME!,’ she screamed. Colin’s head and chest were lodged between a window ten yards away. His space-hopper of a head was red raw, drenched in perspiration. Lisa strode angrily towards him, fiddling about in her hand bag. She pulled out the small bag of dough boy flour, ripped it open and emptied the contents of over Colin’s immense sweaty face. ‘Ironic Colin don’t you think, I was hoping for a bunch of flowers tonight but instead it’s you that got the bunch of flour. All over your face. Haha. D’you get it. I can add GSOH to my profile after that one eh.’ As she turned to leave, his strained voice called out
‘How did you know about my nickname?’
‘What are you talking about?’ Lisa snapped.
‘Pillsbury Dough Boy. How did you know it was my nickname at school?’
As the words left his mouth Lisa stopped then turned to face him. ‘I didn’t know you….’ She never finished her sentence. Looking at his humungous flour covered face, she put her hand on her chest, feeling a little flushed, she strode towards him, grabbed his cheeks then planted a big kiss on his doughy lips.
‘Let’s get you out of there big boy and start this date again. This could be the start of a beautiful recipe…..I mean relationship.’

Fancam

Fan-Cam

Cammy meandered towards the city centre clutching copies of his CV. His wife had seriously been on his case recently about his bashfulness towards paid employment. ‘Jeeso Ali, you single me out as if I’m the only person without a job. There’s another 1.6 million of us in the country. Listen, I’m gonnae start going out every morning to hand out ma CV,’ he pleaded. Cammy was gambling on this promise depositing some much-needed goodwill into the marital rewards scheme. Cashing in at the weekend in the form of a trip to the pub with his mates. His wife had given him the look, making it perfectly clear that she was tired of his guff. She scanned his CV. ‘Works well as a part of a team. Aye, sure yi dae!! Can’t say I’ve seen any evidence of that in ten years of marriage. An attentive listener!! You’re full of it. Worse than a politician. Oot ma sight.’ She threw his CV towards him. ‘And take yir Camifesto wae yi.’
Cammy loved being unemployed. The only downside for him was the mid-morning garbage on the telly. He felt the need to escape the noise pollution of Jeremy Kyle and the fear that one morning whilst watching Kyle, he’d witness a family member of his embroiled in a complicated DNA case that would effectively take a chainsaw to the family tree he’d painstakingly completed. So, he came up with the pretext of pounding the streets handing out his CV’s to prospective employers which would enable him to partake in a little mid-morning stroll while appeasing his wife into the bargain. It was on these little jaunts he became aware of the changing demographic of the average city centre street. Things had changed. Specific kinds of businesses were now exerting their power. The local independent butcher or baker were fast becoming obsolete. Turning down one of the main arteries of the city centre he prepared to play a game that he created based on the changes he’d witnessed. Fantasy Football On The High Street. The Bookies V The Pawn Shops/Pay-Day Loan centres/Charity Shops.
Cammy began to daydream about men in exotic parts of the world playing his game. He thought about Lagos. The reason for this was that he was engaging in email correspondence with a Nigerian called Azumah Adefunke. He pictured a wee Nigerian guy swaggering along Lagos Grassmarket playing his version of Fantasy Football. The mobile phone shops V The International Fraudsters. This Adefunke character had sent Cammy an email explaining that his mother, Patience Adefunke, was seriously unwell and needed $20,000 US Dollars for medical bills. If Cammy paid in the $20,000 dollars it would result in the release of $100,000 dollars straight to Cammy’s bank account seventy-two hours later.
Cammy wasnae daft. He’d been to Turkey five years in a row. Fancied himself as a bit of a haggler. He regaled his mates in the pub with stories of overseas haggling escapades. Twirling his beermat between his fingers, he said, ‘Lads, lads, listen tae this. Picture the scene. I’m in a market in Gumbet. I’m decked oot in ma yellow speedos, ma trusty leather bumbag and ma flip flops. Av got ma big tennent’s lager beach towel over my shoulders cos they’re burnt silly. I wisnae wearing sun tan lotion cos that’s for wimps. I’ll tell yi wit a should have been wearing though…….. a mask. Cos there was a fucking robbery committed lads. Make no mistake of that. A had this wee poor wee Turkish guy called Ugur’s breeks at his ankles. Av haggled him silly. Mesmerised him wi the auld Glesga patter. FIVE kappa t-shirts for 20euros! Naw, listen… it gets better. TEN. AYE. TEN pair of Speedo Swimming Shorts for 20 euros. Can yi believe it? Cammy battered through Nothing to Declare as HE FAILED TO MENTION to his mates that when he got home, after only one wash, the kappa’s shrunk to such an extent that the large Bear Factory teddy bears on his daughter’s bed were now neddy bears decked out in Kappa t-shirts. HE FAILED TO MENTION that when he took the Speedo shorts out their wrappers the world-famous brand name emblazoned across the shorts was missing the letter S.
Despite his current financial embarrassment, he emailed his new Nigerian acquaintance trying to get him down to $6365 & 50 cents. According to his calculations this was £5000. Less than sixty seconds later, Cammy emailed again, this time posing the question, ‘Adefunke ma man. Why you dealing in Benjamins? When you know a live in Scotland?’
Cammy ruminated on the complexities of the deal. ‘Mibbe it’s hard to shift the auld Scottish tenners err in Lagos…. AYE…..That’ll be it. It’ll be the same as Blackpool, they look at yi like you’re a fucking alien when you hand them a Scottish Tenner. Mibbe Adefunke’s busy. The guy’s got a lot on his plate. His auld dear isny keeping too chipper.
Adefunke didn’t reply.
He was roused from his daydream as he passed a William Hill Shop. This signified the blowing of the ref’s whistle. Cammy had tried to procure one of those discreet headsets that important looking busy people use when talking into their mobiles, however, beggars can’t be choosers. His purchase from Poundland, made him look like a deranged call-centre worker who had absconded from the office having been hung up on for the hundredth time that day.
‘This is Cammy, reporting from Union Street. A whirlwind start to this early kick-off. It’s 1-0 to the bookies, William Hill’s gamble to arrive late at the back post pay’s off as he nods home…..And…..it’s another!!, They’ve made it two, a towering header from big Paddy Power,’ he announced, as he walked past one of the aforementioned marketing genius of an Irish bookmakers shops. Cammy tried to avoid eye contact with his fellow pedestrians as the strange looks sometimes put him off his game. ‘The next goal is vital. And the comeback is on as The Pawn Shops/Pay Day Loan Centres/Charity Shops get one back through Robert Biggar aka Goldenballs. Passing a shop that provided the embarrassed Pawn Shop user with an alibi of checking how the pound was faring against the dollar in the event of being spotted entering by a friend or family member, he screamed into his headset, ‘And it’s all square, thanks to Ramsden’s tap-in. Cammy then committed the school-boy error of looking up at an elderly couple walking towards him…. the elderly man pointed straight at him, brazenly shouting to his wife, ‘Uch that’s a shame Marjory, that yin there, look, he’s rabbiting away to himself, he’s shouting random shite oot loud, he’s goat that roulettes syndrome.’
Cammy shook his head in disgust, but ever the professional, got back to business, ‘The punters are getting real value for their money here, the comeback is complete as the triumvarite take the lead as the big cheque centre……forward cashes in on a slip to make it 3-2.’
Now, Cammy wasn’t sexist in any way. He knew that women’s football had come on leaps and bounds in recent years but even he was surprised when the diminutive Sue Ryder sneaked in at the back post volleying home from close range following some charitable defending just before the final whistle to make it 4-2. ‘A classic, we won’t forget this one in a hurry,’ he shouted into his headset.
Exhausted, he took a seat, one by one he rolled his CV’s into a ball throwing them towards a bin providing a running commentary as he did so. When finished, he pulled the slices of bread he’d packed earlier from his Helly Hansen jacket pocket and began to feed the pigeons. ‘Aye that beats those boring nil-nil draws when I’m walking through the posh suburbs or that poncy Finnieston. In they areas there’s mer chance of spotting Robert Carlyle than Robert Biggar.