Geef de kiezer iets te kiezen

Glasgow. De tiener die je wilt versieren.

Sauchiehall street op zaterdagnacht om 3:00 is een 21 ste eeuwse versie van een schilderij van Breughel. Een krioelende massa laat tieners en vroeg twintigers die hoe langer je kijkt hoe meer spektakel biedt. De clubs waar de straat van barst zijn net gesloten en hebben hun inhoud over straat uitgespuugd. Links volgt iemand het voorbeeld, maar dan met de inhoud van zijn maag. Rechts staat een stelletje uitgebreid een voorspel te bedrijven. Waar je ook kijkt zijn meisjes in strakke, glitterende, glimmende, kleurrijke, en vooral korte, jurkjes. Schotse meisjes, dus de jurkjes zijn rijkelijk voorzien van randjes vet waar het jurkje niet op bedacht was. Hun nepwimpers zijn te zwaar geworden voor hun oogleden en hangen dus halfstok. In hun handen hebben de meisjes hun schoenen – het gebruikelijke voortstrompelen op metershoge hakken is op dit late alcoholgehalte teveel gevraagd. Blootsvoets zwalken de meisjes verder, hangend aan de schouders, of de tong, van al niet stabieler ogende jongen...

Night out

No matter she'd already been in Scotland for two days. No matter I'd already explained the rules of Scottish dress code . No matter she'd already seen Glaswegian evening life. The Saturday night queue still had friend A.'s eyes attempting to leave her head. But even though in the church-turned-pub we seemed remnants of the past by relatively looking like nuns, we were still two women in a pub featuring drunk men. Such as an American whose goodbye to Scotland consisted of donning a kilt and talking to women. Or the guy kindly asking our permission to spend time with us because the party he was with unexpectedly included his ex. Or the man too busy being funny to remember what drink he was supposed to get his girlfriend. Or the ever grinning guy who used the fact that shoulders are close to ears to lean on the one while shouting in the other. Or the guy who explained that our bodies produce vinegar when drunk. Which explains a lot.

bored in Beauvais

At the time of booking, having a stop-over of 5hrs in "Paris"-Beauvais (Ryanair's planners mustn't have done well on their geography exams) seemed a small price to pay to a) fly back home on the desired day and b) do so without spending a month's salary. I had already taken one car, one ferry, one bus, two trains and a plane to get there, but was nevertheless determined to take two more bus rides to waste my time in Beauvais - which I was sure would be better than sitting around an airport lounge. And that was before I saw the airport. Beauvais-Tillé airport (Ryanair's planners mustn't have done well on their reading exams either) is about the size of my living room. This is exemplified by the screen which lists 'arrivals terminal 1 (here)'. Too bad, then, that they try to cram about a hundred of my birthday parties into it. These planes full of people must then spend their time between the worlds' most depressing food court (and that is sa...

gLausGo

Search This Blog