I got lost in MaryHill the other night. Well, maybe lost is the wrong word. I knew where I was, I just couldn’t find where I was going. Not that that’s anything new – I get lost all the time in Glasgow. And Edinburgh. And Sterling – any UK city really.
Part of the problem is the strange signage they use here, or lack thereof. There’s no norm, no pattern you can depend upon. Sometimes you’ll see a street name on the corner building, sometimes on a low sign on a little brick wall. But no standard signpost with one sign showing the road you’re on, and the other showing the crossing road. And even if you somehow find out the road you’re driving, its name changes every few blocks.
Roundabouts are worse. At least with the intersection you have a chance of finding a street sign, but on roundabouts all you get is either a numbered roadway (B707; A81) or the neighbourhood which lies beyond. If you take the neighbourhood sign, there’s no further sign to let you know you’ve arrived there. Just another inevitable roundabout giving you entirely new names, which means either you’ve just gone through it or you’re lost again. (Or both, which is my usual).
So here I was in MaryHill, my Google printout having directed me to an abandoned lot in the middle of a council housing estate. I was looking for our new rehearsal space. The rest of the band was waiting. I was already 15 minutes late.
MaryHill is not the worst place to be lost in Glasgow, but I can think of better. It’s a sad, run-down section of town, full of litter, boarded-up council houses, closed shops, and zombies. As I tucked my Google map printout back in my pocket, I noticed a mother with a buggy walking towards me. Well, sort of shuffling actually. She had this pinched, weathered look, as if her life thus far had been hard. Maybe I could ask her… but I thought better of it. It’s not that I didn’t think she could help – it was more selfish than that. I didn’t want her to confirm the rapid (and quite possibly unfair) judgment I’d already made of her.
So I tucked the map back in, zipped up my pocket, put on my gloves, and got going again. A tank bag with map pocket sure would help me now. But that’s just more kit you’ve got to secure…
I knew the place was close, I just couldn’t find the street. Up and down the side streets, creeping up on past the traffic at stoplights, frustrated at the interminable waits (this is a problem in the UK, the long red lights due to the separate pedestrian cycle), going up the same street again, down the other one, around and around, U-turns and everywhere the traffic.
Now, I did have their number with me just in case, so I headed back down to the high street in search of a pay phone. More stop and go, but finally, now miles away from where I think the place might be, a phone booth! But traffic is heavy, can’t get across, gotta keep focused – this is the worst time to get frustrated. I visualize what would happen if I lost my situational awareness. Drive enough on two wheels and this morbid visualization process becomes quite graphic. I see three tonnes of metal hurtling into the space that should be empty but is now occupied by me and my bike. I have made a mistake. Here comes the hurt.
I managed to keep my cool and got my bike up onto the sidewalk to park. More time wasted as I take off my gloves to hunt for the phone number and a handful of change. Pen might help – but fuck, it’s in my trousers, under my motorcycle trousers, so I gotta stand there in full view of everyone and unzip myself to get to it. There’s two rough-looking pubs just across the street with a bunch of MaryHill types standing outside smoking, making no pretence about studying my plight. Fuck you. Into the phone box. Wait – the helmet’s probably gonna have to come off… where to put it… Sometimes driving a bike can be a big pain in the arse.
The phone doesn’t work – says credit only. Good! Just what I needed. Ok, there’s another one right next to it, let’s try again. Prop up the helmet, put the change on top, get the pen and paper out for directions, and start again. Nope. This one looks like it’s working but the coins go right through it and the dial tone changes to a shrieking feedback loop. Nice.
Fuck it. Gather my stuff, back in the pockets, close the zips, helmet and gloves back on, find the key for the bike, back to play in the traffic again.
The next phone booth has its coin slot glued closed. Nice neighbourhood. That’s enough – I’ve given up on the phones. I asked a few people but no-one really knew anything or wanted to talk, except for the drunk I tried to avoid: "Whashe go at?" Ah, damn. I don’t want to be rude, so I say, "yeah, she goes pretty quick right enough." Not good enough, he wants to keep at it: "Shagood’un – washe top out at?"
I told him I gotta go, and I did.
It occurred to me that a mobile phone could really save the day here. All sorts of normal people have them, but I long ago swore an oath to remain mobile-free. They’re too annoying. Or rather, their users are. They can be entirely nice, interesting people, but armed with their gadgets they become selfish, rude, and obnoxious. I guess I could give in and buy one, but that would go against my principles. I guess I just like to make life difficult for myself.
By now it was starting to rain, though the sun was shining and what I could see of the sky was blue. The rain is actually falling from clouds several miles away, but the Scottish squalls send it far and wide, resulting in a thoroughly unpleasant horizontal assault. The top of my helmet remains dry; the rest of me is soaked within seconds. Just then there’s a rainbow…
Finally, I was given solid intel from a gas-meter guy in another wrong street. I still managed to fuck it up a few times, but finally, there it was: a shithole of an industrial complex called GLASGOW NORTH. I had found it, and I was only an hour late.
I grabbed my drumsticks and headed in to rock.
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