I was doing some shopping on Byres Road today when a car came down the road. It was one of those souped up (is that how you spell that?) affairs. Electric blue, a tiny wee hatchback with the engine of a monster, so you could hear it coming from miles away. I’ve never understood why neds feel the need to announce their presence half an hour before they actually drive past you. Especially because cars like that must make the worst getaway cars ever. However fast they drive, the police can just play a leisurely game of Marco Polo and catch up whenever they feel like it.
Anyway, this one was filled to the brim with a shower of wee neds. That’s the other thing about teenage boys: why do they feel the need to drive every single one of their mates around simultaneously? It looked like a clown car, I’m almost certain there were limbs and heads sticking out of windows.
(Do I sound as old as I think I do here?)
So the seventeen or eighteen wee hooligans (in for a penny, in for a pound) that were packed into the car looked like the type that’d steal a wedding ring off a corpse. Shaved heads, neck tattoos. I swear I spotted a gold tooth in the driver as he snarled at me.
Apprentice hard men, if you will.
And they were all singing.
The Eurovision song.
The ohwo-oh-woah-oo one.
Abba for the 21st century.
I think they might have been harmonising.
So many questions.
I stood at the bus stop watching them go by, and my legs nearly gave way from laughing. Whoever they are, whatever effect they hoped to have by driving around in a nedmobile singing Swedish novelty pop, they made my day.
Not that that was very difficult, because Craig and I booked our holiday! Two weeks in July. We’re going to Ibiza, but not mad, doof doof, down with the kids Ibiza, we’re going on a surf camp! I am so excited.
I tried surfing once, years and years ago when I was travelling in Australia with Cara in our early twenties. Now, in my defence, there was a storm coming, and the waves weren’t just going into the beach and out again like waves are supposed to, they were crashing and churning about like the wave version of headless chickens. Even the instructor said it was challenging for him that way.
He also said I broke laws of physics with some of my falls, but I’m fairly sure he meant that as a compliment.
He was also, especially for those of us who discovered our hormones with one Scott Robinson, as the Australians say, a spunk. He was even called Jason. Which was the other reason I kept getting distracted and executing a series of weird and wonderful falls. Nothing happened, even though Cara (who refused to take lessons with me, she insists beaches are for sunbathing and reading trashy novels and nothing else) drunkenly tried to shove us together at the bar that night. He was just too dreamy, I couldn’t even talk to him without sniggering and feeling as though I was floating away like helium balloon. I stole his weird wee surfy swimming cap thing as a souvenir. I just remembered that – I must have it somewhere. I feel weirdly guilty writing that! Obviously Craig is hotter.
It’s a semi anniversary trip as well as a summer holiday. We celebrated five years together just after Easter, except we didn’t celebrate it because we both forgot, because that’s the kind of mushy romantics we are. We remembered when we got our diaries out together to sort out a summer holiday and decided to make it a special holiday, so it all worked out perfectly in the end!
I’ve just remembered it’s Jason Donovan’s birthday today. I must have known that for the best part of 30 years, and I can’t remember my own anniversary. Let’s not think about what that says about me… 😉