Arthur Wets His Pants, and Other Stories

In a slight departure from my usual reports, and as I'm nearing the end of what has been a varied, interesting, stimulating, entertaining and eye-opening time in Edinburgh, I thought I'd just record any interesting incidents over the course of a weekend to prove to myself (and you) that stuff just happens in Edinburgh.

Photo: the pier at Kilgreggan, near Glasgow, looking across towards the Gouroch to Dunoon ferry

It happened to be the weekend that my good mate and former boss (so he thought) Pete was up to visit. I'll stick to my principle of not writing in detail about anyone who is likely to read the blog, but here are a few anecdotes from the weekend (and a chance to get in a few really bad puns).

Stretching Credulity

Walking across the Meadows into town to meet Pete off the train I was approached by a guy riding what looked like a tandem with just him on it. As it passed me I realised it was a normal single-seater bike, with an extended chassis. It took me a few moment to process this, but I then realised I'd just seen the first example of a stretch bicycle.

Sporran Peace

I stopped off for a quick snifter at Sandy Bell's on the way to the station. There was the usual collection of hairy folkies, suits and students in there, and a guy leaning against the bar wearing a kilt (which is quite a common sight in Edinburgh). A few minutes later there was an almightly clang, and everyone spun round to see the kilted gent apologetically picking his sporran off the floor. I have no idea what there is in a sporran that could make so much noise, and I guess I never will, but it must weigh heavily on him.

Turkish Delight

We had our evening meal at a Turkish restaurant off George Street. It was, to say the least, very average. Edible, but dull. The manageress came over to clear our starter plates and asked us whether we'd enjoyed the food. I answered honestly (should I say frankly), saying it was ok, but I'd expected more herbs and spice (aka flavour) in the meze. She was slightly taken aback, but thanked me for expressing my opinion. "The chefs are all Turkish," she said, slightly defensively. "Well," I said, also slightly defensively "You asked my opinion and I gave it, but I'm not complaining." "Thank you. I'll pass that onto my husband," she replied, slightly frostily. Gulp. Her husband, predictably, was the head chef, who appeared later in the evening, but fortunately seemed to take it all in good spirits, and we were even given directions to Jools Holland's club around the corner, which enabled us to listen to some live music into the early hours.

Well Stuffed Taxi Door Me

We made our way home from the club around 1.30. I wandered up to George Street and quickly hailed a cab, which pulled up beside me. However, when I opened the door the cabbie said he was already stopping for the two gents behind me. Fine. I'll wait for another. I held the door open for the first guy, who walked straight past me into the cab without so much as a word. "Thank you very much," I said, addressing myself quite loudly, "That's no problem, have a good night!" I continued. "F*** off, you f****** t***" replied the guy. His mate also piled past me muttering "F****** t***" in my direction as I held the door for him. Lovely. I smiled sweetly at them and walked off, my soul and conscience clean.

Arthur Wets His Pants

Saturday morning started off with brilliant sunshine falling on the city. I donned my Eric Morecambe reject shorts and set off to meet Pete at the Scottish Parliament building. Our mission was to climb to the top of Arthur's Seat. We took the path round Salisbury Crag, taking in the spectacular views of the city, and noticing as we did the rain clouds heading our way from beyond the airport to the west. It looked at one stage as though we were going to escape with a light sprinkling as they veered off to the south, but at the exact moment we reached the summit and touched the cairn, the heavens opened and we, along with the other 20 or so people there at the time, were utterly soaked to the skin. So much so that Pete had to go shopping to buy some dry clothes to wear in the evening. As he pointed out, there are two rules when shopping at H&M: 1) don't shop at H&M and 2) if you do, buy clothes 2 sizes larger than you think you need.

Egged On

For Saturday night's meal Pete chose a Japanese restaurant he'd passed in the taxi, and which I'd been past several times on the bus. We went for the Teppanyaki option, which means sitting round a large communal table with the chef performing theatrics in the middle, cooking the food on a large steel plate in front of the guests,and generally fooling around with 6 foot flames, frightening looking blades, and raw eggs. At one point during the meal he asked us if we wanted to play a game. The game involved putting on a plastic jacket and a chef's hat, then standing in the middle of the table and flipping an egg into the hat, preferably without it descending down the back of your neck in a slow trickle. Good fun, I'd highly recommend it. Oh, and the food was delicious as well.

What's the Point?

We were bombarded throughout the weekend with menus featuring vegetarian haggis. Pete couldn't get his head around this, and I can see his point. There is nothing less vegetarian than haggis, so why would a vegetarian want to eat something that looked, felt and tasted like it? There is no answer to this question.


So this was my last chance to sample the delights of the city for a while, and we made the most of it. I wish I'd discovered the Jools Holland club much earlier in my stay. I did finally get to visit the Jazz Bar, climb Arthur's Seat, and do the Mary King's Close tourist thing. I also, for good measure, cracked the back of my business plan, and found the rightful owner of the turquoise cardigan that had appeared in my washing basket, and which I had wrongly assumed belonged to Margaret, but when it came to it and I offered it back to her, didn't (a slightly awkward moment). It was Sophie's ("Oh My God!!! Frank!!!").

And for good measure, with Click being away following her diploma lunch on Thursday (no, I don't know yet how she or anyone else has done, but you will be informed once I do), I confirmed my suspicions that the missing glassware has once again magically and mysteriously migrated into the drawer in her bedroom, despite her being (when I asked her just the other day) completely unaware of it being there!

Onwards and upwards we go (I used to work with someone called Anne Upwards - seriously).