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A nice Muriel

  Fri 16th August 2013

I inadvertently chose to go to Glasgow on the day when twenty thousand Scotland supporters were travelling home after watching their country add another chapter to its long history of footballing crapness. Scores of be-kilted, pissed up East Kilbriders were in my carriage; another party had come all the way from Arbroath, a town which I suspect actually doesn't exist now that James Alexander Gordon has died. It was all aimiable, if noisy.

Walking to the pub for my date with Muriel I saw a big poster for Shelly Nadashi's show at the CCA. I only found out recently that the show Shelley, Giles Bailey and I did together in Brussels was reviewed, somewhat non-committally, in the Belgian art magazine Le Salon.

I greeted Muriel with the one-cheek kiss which I'm glad to observe is becoming standard for meeting new women. She has a deep voice and a rather slow air about her, and as I went to the bar at the Blackfriars to get us a drink, I was wondering if she had concealed the fact that she had mental problems. Back at our table, I asked her to pronounce the name of the small Gordonesque town she's from. It bears only a slight correspondence to its spelling and I found it amusing.

The chat flowed easily and freely, both of us knowing quite early on that it's not going to be repeated. We commented on the excellent standard of beards sported by the arty set who seemed to be in the pub at 5pm. She looked to me to suggest somwhere to eat. I was inwardly alarmed, as that would have broken my budget, so I took her to the Brunswick Hotel and she had a tortilla and I had a glass of cava. She paid, to my relief. As we left, she gave me a kiss which was most peck-like, and jolted my head back a little with its perfunctory force.

On the train back I got moved up to first class by a former colleague on the railways. I drank, dozed, and tried unsuccessfully to read a bit more of Moby Dick, and generally thought it had been a waste of time and money. I thought longingly of Daniella's refusal to let me get home last week without a snog, and I started mentally composing a Valentines card for her which would consist of a series of notecards in envelopes of ever-diminishing sizes, with the messages getting filthier as she opens each one.

I lost my phone so I was unable to text her to thank Muriel for the evening. This morning, I went onto the website on which we met to find she'd deleted her account.


Well, that was a waste of a weekend.

I would suggest that going to Glasgow at anytime is probably a mistake, unless you are a Glaswegian. Edinburgh is much more welcoming.
Melville was difficult. Give David Drake a go instead.
I don’t think Muriel wants to see you again.

Fri 16th August 2013 @ 13:07
Comment from: George Szirtes [Visitor]

The mention of David Drake reminds me of the abridged version of Moby Dick, Moby Duck. Available for bathrooms in yellow. ‘Call me Donald.’

Sat 17th August 2013 @ 09:08
Comment from: furtheron [Visitor]

Yes the lovely Scottish chaps one called me a c**t when I told him you didn’t want to walk from Euston to Wembley. Given how drunk he was then 5.30pm I doubt he saw much of the match!

Didn’t go well then the Scottish trip sadly for you.

Sat 17th August 2013 @ 13:38
Comment from: [Member]

For anyone as puzzled as I was by the waves of literary references here, Moby Duck is a much-praised book in which a man attempts to find the provenance of 28,000 rubber ducks which were washed up in Alaska, a book which was suggested from George’s tripping word-association following the author David Drake, “best known for his Hammer’s Slammers series of military science fiction.”

As soon as I can retrieve my phone from the pub in Glasgow where it is currently residing behind the bar, I’ll send her a friendly text. But yes, I strongly think that she’s not bothered (neither am I).

Mon 19th August 2013 @ 09:56
Comment from: isabelle [Visitor]

To continue the sea-faring theme…..plenty more fish in the sea ;)

( hope you survived the camping )

Mon 19th August 2013 @ 18:12
Comment from: [Member]

Oh dear, Plenty of Fish. I can still remember the woman from Blackpool (what a surprise) whose profile picture showed a wardrobe with glass door with ruched curtains over them. I still don’t understand what that meant, and don’t want to know.

Camping was cancelled, hurrah! It was pouring down.

Wed 21st August 2013 @ 15:08

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