Category: Travels

Thoughts On Kirriemuir

Travels

There is an institution in the British Empire countries known as the “rugby song”.  Rugby songs are usually sung in the bus bringing the team home from an away game, or in the pub after the match.  Inebriation is very much a requirement, as most of the songs are inevitably bawdy not to say obscene.

One such song is entitled “The Ball Of Kirriemuir“, of which I shall post but the intro, the chorus and a sample verse or three (all from memory):

“Four and twenty virgins came down from Inverness;
When the ball was over, there were four and twenty less — singing:”

Chorus:
“Balls to your partner
Arses to the wall
If ye’ve never been shagged
On a Saturday night
Ye’ve never been shagged at all.”

Verse:
“The village doctor, he was there,
Scalpel in his hand;
And every time the music stopped
He’d circumsize the band — singing:”

Chorus

Verse:
“The vicar’s wife, O she was there
Lying on the floor;
And every time she spread her legs
The suction shut the door — singing:”

Chorus

Verse:
“There was fucking in the doorways,
There was fucking on the stairs;
You couldna’ see the carpet
For the mass of pubic hair — singing:”

Etc.

I know about a dozen verses myself… and there are another thirty, if not more.  The song is reputed to have originated in the late 19th century.

But that’s not what I wanted to talk about.

Yesterday’s Landscape pic featured a very pretty little bridge over a wee burn near Kirriemuir, taken by Yours Truly when I was traveling through Scotland several years ago.

And that’s the problem.

You see, having been to Kirriemuir, I can tell you that there’s a problem with the song that made it famous.

It couldn’t have happened.

Now Kirriemuir itself is a lovely little village — quite gorgeous, in fact.


(it hasn’t changed at all since that pic was taken)

But let me tell you:  there’s not a single building in the place that would have been large enough to hold a wee bairn’s birthday party, let alone a grand ball / orgy on the scale envisioned in the song. (There are a few industrial warehouses, but they are of very recent vintage and therefore highly unlikely venues.)

There isn’t even a large manor house in the area, unless you count Balintore Castle, which is several miles distant:

…and until quite recently, has been pretty much in ruins for centuries:

You can’t even see Kirriemuir from the castle because of the hilly terrain and perpetual mist.  (#ScottishWeather)

As a friend pointed out, if the ball had been held at Balintore, the song would have been entitled:  “The Ball At Balintore” which is not only alliteratively pleasing, but also slyly suggestive of the evening’s activities.  But it wasn’t.

The only other building of any size in the area — and which is even further away — is Glamis Castle (of Macbeth  fame):

…and you can forget any plebeian shenanigans occurring there.  (#OwnedByTheRoyalFamily)

So much for the ball at Kirriemuir, then.  Wherever it took place, though, I’d love to have been there.  (#RedPubicHair #DisgustingOrgy)

One should never meet one’s heroes, lest one be disappointed.

That Consummation

Travels, Two-Minute Hate

…devoutly wished:

…comes home to roost:

Spanish officials have admitted that a relentless campaign of anti-tourist protests in Majorca is ‘scaring away visitors’ – with locals claiming some resorts are now ‘completely dead’.

With British holidaymakers seemingly among foreigners turning their backs on the island, its tourism industry is in panic mode as officials overseeing the nightlife sector and tour companies warn that guests no longer feel ‘welcomed’. 

The restaurant association president, Juanmi Ferrer, gave a stark warning that the messaging of the protests is ‘scaring visitors away’. 

Ya think?  Then there’s this priceless bit of wisdom:

Miguel Pérez-Marsá, head of the nightlife association, told Majorca Daily Bulletin: ‘The tourists we’re interested in are being driven away; they don’t feel welcome and are going to other destinations.’

Well, yes;  except that those tourists you’re interested in — the hard-drinking, hard-partying Brits and Germans — are the ones who sparked all the protests in the first place.

Rock, meet hard place.

Here’s the ironic part.

I don’t actually blame the locals for trying to end the seemingly-endless summer invasions of their home towns — it’s as true for Amsterdam as it is in Majorca — but if your sole income is pretty much derived from tourists (unlike Amsterdam, for whom tourism is important but not critical), then I guess the full-time residents of the party places just need to endure… or move.

Unsaid in all this is the fact that young people (the partiers and drinkers) are almost by definition going to be louts and sluts when far from home and full of cheap booze, and so of course you can’t expect them to behave themselves.  While older tourists may be more desirable socially, the old ‘uns don’t spend anything like what the kids do — unless of course they’re buying themselves a holiday apartment, thus driving up the prices of local real estate and making the place unaffordable to the locals.

See where all this goes?

Equally ironic is the fact that a huge proportion of the local population are greatly dependent on those tourist dollars to stay alive, whether cab drivers, bartenders, waitresses, tour operators or restaurant owners.  And they’d all be harmed financially — i.e. bankrupted — as well as the rest who reap the “soft” benefits of tourism such as lower taxes and civic improvements, all made possible by the dollars / pounds / euros of the hated turisti.

Like I said, about those rocks and hard places…

Goodbye To All That

Deep Thoughts, Travels

Longtime Readers will be very familiar with my penchant for travel, especially to the U.K. and parts of Euroland.

However, as I’ve been paging through my travel pic folders to find landscapes and cityscapes to post on Thursdays, a feeling of gloom and melancholy is starting to make its appearance.

I’m not sure I want to travel internationally again.

There are several reasons I make that statement, but let me deal with the easier one first.

I’m getting old, and while my overall health is pretty good (according to my doctor, not just for my age but for just about any age), I’m not sure how I’d feel about, for example, climbing up the steep cobbled street from the ferry dock at Meersburg to the town itself on top of the hill.

Hell, it was tough when I last did it — in 2004 — so now, over two decades later… you get my drift.  And I loved Meersburg, with a passion.

Also, when strolling around cities like Paris or London, I thought nothing of walking all day — I mean, for those who are familiar with the cities, from Notre Dame to Sacré Coeur and back to our hotel next to the Sorbonne;  or from the V&A Museum to World’s End at the other end of Chelsea, and back.

Either of those little jaunts would take me two days, now.

Which brings me to my second thought.

Even if I could do those walks, I’m not so sure I’d want to because of the crime that seems to have overtaken most of Europe’s cities.  It’s not that I’m afraid of becoming a victim of some Rolex Ripper on Bond Street or Rue Royale;  I’m not a fearful person by nature — but I can be an aggressive person when faced by thuggishness of that kind, and I don’t want to deal with the possibility of having to explain to an unsympathetic bobby or gendarme why some little scrote is lying there screaming with a broken arm or, for that matter, having to deal with the NHS or its French equivalent when said little scrote hacked at me with a machete because I had the effrontery to refuse his attempt at property redistribution.

And we all know how the Filth in Britishland regard the matter of self-defense Over There.  Nothing puts a damper on the travel experience like having to explain to some judge why you didn’t want to just let the little choirboy take your property and shake your head sorrowfully at your loss.  That you applied your walking-stick to the little shit’s cranium (in lieu of having the old 1911 at hand) would no doubt land you in Serious Trouble, just as your attitude to the cops being more or less on the criminal’s side rather than on yours might also result in the cop’s uniform being ruined by the flow of blood (his).

Altogether, not a prospect worth spending thousands of dollars (which I don’t have) just to visit their poxy paradise.

And then there’s this little nugget, from one of my most-favored places on the planet:

Most famous districts in Vienna are in the heart of the city and during summer or at Christmas season they become overcrowded, which can lead to pickpocketing, mugging and even terrorist attacks.  In these areas frequented by tourists, bus and train stations, people around you need to be carefully watched and your possessions should be kept close to you.

WTF?  Now add to that the chance that some “migrant” takes offense that your female companion doesn’t have her head covered to his satisfaction… do you see where I’m going with this?

Fuck that for a tale.

One might think, given all the above, that the places to visit in Europe would be those which haven’t allowed untrammeled African- or Muslim incursions.  We’re talking here of Poland and Hungary, for instance.

But here’s my problem.  I would love — love — to visit those two countries, but I’m completely unfamiliar with both their languages, and honestly, I’m not sure that my old brain can handle learning even a smattering of either with the facility that used to be one of my strengths.

This really sucks.

So it may be that at long last, I’ll have to trim Ye Olde Bucquette Lyste of the travel items therein, sadly and regretfully.

I think I’ll just go to the range, assuming my eyesight is still up to the task of seeing the sights of a gun instead of the sights of a foreign city.

Bah.

Travel Tip

Travels

…for stupid people, that is:

“Skip the sandals when you fly — seriously.  If there’s an emergency involving fire, broken glass or the need to evacuate fast, you’ll want real closed-toe shoes to protect your feet and help you move quickly.  Sandals slow you down and leave you exposed when seconds matter.”

I always shake my head when I see people wearing flip-flops or the like when they travel.

That said, I’m not a huge fan of wearing sneakers to fly, either — unless they can be easily removed or put on (#VelcroFasteners).

If I’m flying into somewhere cold — e.g. Chicago or Yurp — the go-to are my favorites, L.L. Bean’s Snow Sneakers:

…although I see with some irritation that they currently only offer these to women.  Fucking morons.   It’s a good thing I ordered two pairs the last time I bought some.  Considering that I only wear mine in winter (i.e. those few of non-consecutive days in north Texas when it’s really that cold), these should last me pretty much for the rest of my life.  (My previous pair lasted me well over a decade, and they went to Europe and the U.K. over a dozen times.)

If you’re interested, try another brand, e.g. Propét (although they look kinda heavy):

All other times that I fly, it’s on with the faithful Minnetonka mocs:

I prefer the moosehide type, because once they’re worn in (which takes about a couple days), they’re fantastically soft and (most importantly) they’re not a hassle to put back on at the end of a flight, when your feet are all swollen from the cabin pressurization or whatever.  They also squash flat in your suitcase to save space.

And yes, I always wear socks when flying and rest my feet on my backpack so nothing touches the airliner’s foul floor.  (Don’t get me started about the fools who go to the airliner toilets in bare feet…)

All that said, my chances of flying internationally ever again are becoming vanishingly small.  But that’s a topic for another time.