The Angry Corrie 17: Feb-Mar 1994


Jock McLean

Regular readers will know that yer man here has his opinions on our Scottish licensing laws. How I envy the jolly burghers and caballeros in the Kellers and Cafes in the various villes and stalags what the gauletiers of Glasgow have twinned us with. Franz and Pierre can lounge all afternoon debating existentialism and sipping the vino rojo. By contrast, on Sunday, The Urban Voltaire was turfed from his discreet southside club on the stroke of half two. Left to my own devices I flagged a taxi with the merest twitch of my cashmere sheathed wrist.

Arriving home I flicked on the gogglebox to confirm my long held belief that it is responsible for all the ills that beset society. Strangely, instead of a succession of so called acid house videos, I was confronted with two appallingly emaciated chaps running the Munros. Now yer man here is a wee bit of an expert on the Munros, as it is his portfolio, the minority sports; not just the ones with lassies in short skirts, although as the years go by they tend to be favoured. And one thing I know is that the Munros is a job for life not fifty days. Their sole purpose is to separate man from wife every weekend from the age of 25 till 60 in much the same way as a golf course or a decent boozer. I know it's not correct in the current climate to admit such realities of life, but publish and be drammed is my motto.

So there we had these two chaps from the world of architecture or something, trying to "do" the Munros in under 50 days. The only architect who drinks in Heraghty's is Frank Boyle who broke his ankle parking in Tyndrum, never mind running the Munros.

Anyway, it seemed these chaps burned 5000 calories a day and therefore had to shovel in the same amount in glutinous puddings and hi-tech nutrition supplements at the front end. Your Urban V's staple diet is also a delicately blended hi-tech concoction with about 600 calories a glass. Unlike these chaps though yer man here has never been seen in lycra, far less on a bike. One of the oddest things about the lads was the fact that they were always dressed identically, presumably due to some sponsor's insistence. One thing about the Urban V, no one is ever dressed identically. Why, if Beau Brummel himself was to stroll into Heraghty's he'd more likely be compared with Archie Hind in his donkey jacket than my own resplendent ensemble.

The lads had set out to do the Munros in 50 days, breaking the old record by about 17. I don't know if they did it, nor do I know who held the old record; probably some minister. They were a day behind schedule at the half way point due to one of them contracting a bug and vomiting for a week. I've been known to get a wee bit behind schedule on my way home, but I do have the sense to stop if I sprain my ankle, which is more than these chaps had.

Reluctantly I killed the cathode rays as it was time to hold court again in my favourite howff. I have to say I skipped a little as I crossed Pollokshaws Road, but it was not to test my cardiopulmonary system. It was just to impress a couple of Hutchie girls returning from hockey.


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