For some time now I’ve been agonising over how to streamline myself for the more challenging journey ahead. Try as I might, I could only whittle my stuff down to a certain point before there was nothing else to throw out or send to my sisters’ already crowded apartment. I couldn’t possibly part with any of what remained. Then, over the course of the last few days, finally the inevitable happened. It had to come. I think it has been on the cards for a while. No not my collection of volcanic rocks. Nor the stash of porn cards from every European country. No. It is finally time for the kilt to go.
On his last legs
The day has therefore arrived when I have to make a very difficult decision:
A) Send my kilt home and reminisce with it another day.
B) Send it forward to somewhere in S.E Asia to dance again there.
C) BURN IT ritualistically as a sign of maturity.
And so, in echoing my earlier Facebook post and for those dear readers I don’t know yet; I put it to the interwebs out of curiosity and a for little bit of fun. Comments or messages to suggest its fate are greatly appreciated. However, this is not a whimsical, social media popularity attempt. It’s a serious business. So then to some words regarding reasons.
Stuff like this happens more often
I always wanted to travel with a kilt, although my body was born in England; my heart was born in Scotland. My family heritage is Scottish for the most part, and very proud of that I am too. In a charity shop in Oban, close to where mum and dad lived their last days, I found this little beauty. It fit me perfectly (back then) and cost me all of fifteen quid (20 Euro or something). Best money I ever spent. It has been a pleasure and a privilege to wear this national dress in every single country I’ve visited, and there sure are some stories to tell. But it’s not always turned out the way I intended.
Nose busted thanks to kilt wearing delusions of grandeur
Although it predominately gets me what I want (think on that what you will), it also gets me into lot of trouble with as much unwanted attention as wanted. You can’t just fade into the background. If something goes down, you’re not going to be able to disappear easily. You’re always going to be able to spot the guy legging it from a crime scene wearing what appears to be a skirt.
I assure you officer, it was someone else matching this exact description in Serbia
It’s got me into fights, it’s nearly got me into fights, and when I wear it I seem to consume more than my weight in booze than usual for a night out. It’s like putting on Jim Carrey’s “mask”. A Jekyll and Hyde reaction. “SSSSSSOMEBODY STOP MEEEEE!” No seriously. Somebody stop me. Getting my face punched on the floor of a Czech bar while using both hands to try and prevent my kilt exposing my flaccid penis should have told me something. I didn’t learn then. It’s time I did now.
It’s down there. I don’t remember that night, but I know it’s down there
For the most part there’s never an issue with heritage either. Most non-native English speakers don’t bat an eyelid when I say Scotland is home. But woe betide me if I’m wearing the tartan and I meet someone with an accent, or fluent in English. Recently a loud-mouthed, know-all American girl kicked up some amount of stink because I didn’t have a thick Scottish brogue. Apparently blood mattered not. Or wherever you happen to personally call home. I guess I’m getting tired of that. Tired of explanations.
One of the good times
And this is not to mention the amount of cash I’ve drunkenly thrown out of that sporran. Imagine just tickling open your purse or wallet with the lightest of touches; and money, cards, keys, make-up and tamp-doms come flying out at all and sundry. I’m surprised that hooker in Krakow didn’t make off with my life savings when she thrust her hand into my man bag.
(Disclaimer: I wasn’t with her. She was trying to rob me blind as I staggered back to a hostel).
Sporrans. Zero security, but with fur and tassels made from deadly animals like rabbits
Anyway last Friday was something of a watershed. I’d been the bell of the ball in an Irish bar here, until it all turned sour and a number of aggressive types began to accuse me of trying to pick up their women, just because I was having a good time. I was told they were going to “fuck (my) mother; you mother fucker”; “slit (my) mothers throat”; “fuck me up”; “murder (my) family”; et cetera, et cetera. You get the idea. This could have gone very South had I not been in an extraordinarily good mood. I managed to talk my way of it and calm people down. Had I been all but hidden with the anonymity of a pair of jeans – their jealousy not withstanding – none of that would have happened. And it’s not the first time, so it got me thinking.
Chicks dig kilts
Now don’t get me wrong dear readers, I’m not saying this garment is responsible for my actions. But it certainly doesn’t help them. As I mentioned, I’m wilder with it on than without. I’m about to travel through countries where keeping a low profile is advised, and I can’t see myself wearing it at all; not least because I’m three days off the booze and I’m really trying to make this attempt at getting clean the most committed to date.
A drunk and his togs
I watched 4 hours worth of alcohol abuse documentaries last night instead of being on the sauce. I totalled up my weekly unit consumption on drinkaware.co.uk. An “alcoholic” consumes around 30 units a week. I’m coming in at around 100; sometimes considerably over. This is not a badge of honour. This is a problem. And considering I only wear it when I’m getting utterly lashed, shedding the kilt is a statement of intent.
Don’t know any of these people
Lastly the thing’s falling apart. There’s holes in the hose (socks), the flashes (little ribbon things that hold the hose up) are in bits. The sporran has lost its tassels. I’ve had my Sgian Dubh (black knife) stolen and replaced twice (and it’s not even real so I don’t know why people would take it). And finally the kilt itself. Modern Mcgregor isn’t even my tartan; (that’s Gunn, Stewart of Bute or Murray), and it’s slowly but surely ripping to rags. It doesn’t fit me properly anymore either; the booze has seen to that.
Beer pong and kilt. Single handily responsible for my stomach
So it’s giving up the ghost. Again thoughts of its destination will be appreciated, and for your viewing pleasure, included in this post is a small selection of previously unreleased pictures of the nights out we’ve had together that I’m usually too ashamed to share. This isn’t half of the astounding back-catalogue of videos and photos out there of my naked arse gallivanting around some Colombian bar, swishing the pleats about; having a Scottish country dance-off with a Turkish belly dancer; climbing into a street dog pen in Romania trying to make friends, or thinking its power is enough to convince Russian strippers not to take their clothes off. You become a minor celebrity wearing this thing and I’ve done a lot of fucking stupid things in it. Not a good idea in Central Asia.
Incidentally I’m also going to be sending home/giving away/burning my set of hair straighteners. Because a fast approaching 36-year-old man does not need them.
Hair eating. Another side effect of wearing tartan
On a personal note; I’d like to take this opportunity to say…and I might get a little emotional…to say I’m gonna miss you old pal. It’s hard to think that I’ll never force you round my waist for one more night out. Ohhh we’ve had some times haven’t we? Remember when I’ve had you fixed by all those bewildered haberdashers? Oh how we laughed! And how many times you’ve helped me look harder than I really am? Which wasn’t that many at all. Or that time with the penguin? Which may or may not have even occurred? See ya on the other side buddy. Whatever happens mate, I promise I’ll never shit in you again.
The death of the kilt
For some time now I’ve been agonising over how to streamline myself for the more challenging journey ahead. Try as I might, I could only whittle my stuff down to a certain point before there was nothing else to throw out or send to my sisters’ already crowded apartment. I couldn’t possibly part with any of what remained. Then, over the course of the last few days, finally the inevitable happened. It had to come. I think it has been on the cards for a while. No not my collection of volcanic rocks. Nor the stash of porn cards from every European country. No. It is finally time for the kilt to go.
On his last legs
The day has therefore arrived when I have to make a very difficult decision:
A) Send my kilt home and reminisce with it another day.
B) Send it forward to somewhere in S.E Asia to dance again there.
C) BURN IT ritualistically as a sign of maturity.
And so, in echoing my earlier Facebook post and for those dear readers I don’t know yet; I put it to the interwebs out of curiosity and a for little bit of fun. Comments or messages to suggest its fate are greatly appreciated. However, this is not a whimsical, social media popularity attempt. It’s a serious business. So then to some words regarding reasons.
Stuff like this happens more often
I always wanted to travel with a kilt, although my body was born in England; my heart was born in Scotland. My family heritage is Scottish for the most part, and very proud of that I am too. In a charity shop in Oban, close to where mum and dad lived their last days, I found this little beauty. It fit me perfectly (back then) and cost me all of fifteen quid (20 Euro or something). Best money I ever spent. It has been a pleasure and a privilege to wear this national dress in every single country I’ve visited, and there sure are some stories to tell. But it’s not always turned out the way I intended.
Nose busted thanks to kilt wearing delusions of grandeur
Although it predominately gets me what I want (think on that what you will), it also gets me into lot of trouble with as much unwanted attention as wanted. You can’t just fade into the background. If something goes down, you’re not going to be able to disappear easily. You’re always going to be able to spot the guy legging it from a crime scene wearing what appears to be a skirt.
I assure you officer, it was someone else matching this exact description in Serbia
It’s got me into fights, it’s nearly got me into fights, and when I wear it I seem to consume more than my weight in booze than usual for a night out. It’s like putting on Jim Carrey’s “mask”. A Jekyll and Hyde reaction. “SSSSSSOMEBODY STOP MEEEEE!” No seriously. Somebody stop me. Getting my face punched on the floor of a Czech bar while using both hands to try and prevent my kilt exposing my flaccid penis should have told me something. I didn’t learn then. It’s time I did now.
It’s down there. I don’t remember that night, but I know it’s down there
For the most part there’s never an issue with heritage either. Most non-native English speakers don’t bat an eyelid when I say Scotland is home. But woe betide me if I’m wearing the tartan and I meet someone with an accent, or fluent in English. Recently a loud-mouthed, know-all American girl kicked up some amount of stink because I didn’t have a thick Scottish brogue. Apparently blood mattered not. Or wherever you happen to personally call home. I guess I’m getting tired of that. Tired of explanations.
One of the good times
And this is not to mention the amount of cash I’ve drunkenly thrown out of that sporran. Imagine just tickling open your purse or wallet with the lightest of touches; and money, cards, keys, make-up and tamp-doms come flying out at all and sundry. I’m surprised that hooker in Krakow didn’t make off with my life savings when she thrust her hand into my man bag.
(Disclaimer: I wasn’t with her. She was trying to rob me blind as I staggered back to a hostel).
Sporrans. Zero security, but with fur and tassels made from deadly animals like rabbits
Anyway last Friday was something of a watershed. I’d been the bell of the ball in an Irish bar here, until it all turned sour and a number of aggressive types began to accuse me of trying to pick up their women, just because I was having a good time. I was told they were going to “fuck (my) mother; you mother fucker”; “slit (my) mothers throat”; “fuck me up”; “murder (my) family”; et cetera, et cetera. You get the idea. This could have gone very South had I not been in an extraordinarily good mood. I managed to talk my way of it and calm people down. Had I been all but hidden with the anonymity of a pair of jeans – their jealousy not withstanding – none of that would have happened. And it’s not the first time, so it got me thinking.
Chicks dig kilts
Now don’t get me wrong dear readers, I’m not saying this garment is responsible for my actions. But it certainly doesn’t help them. As I mentioned, I’m wilder with it on than without. I’m about to travel through countries where keeping a low profile is advised, and I can’t see myself wearing it at all; not least because I’m three days off the booze and I’m really trying to make this attempt at getting clean the most committed to date.
A drunk and his togs
I watched 4 hours worth of alcohol abuse documentaries last night instead of being on the sauce. I totalled up my weekly unit consumption on drinkaware.co.uk. An “alcoholic” consumes around 30 units a week. I’m coming in at around 100; sometimes considerably over. This is not a badge of honour. This is a problem. And considering I only wear it when I’m getting utterly lashed, shedding the kilt is a statement of intent.
Don’t know any of these people
Lastly the thing’s falling apart. There’s holes in the hose (socks), the flashes (little ribbon things that hold the hose up) are in bits. The sporran has lost its tassels. I’ve had my Sgian Dubh (black knife) stolen and replaced twice (and it’s not even real so I don’t know why people would take it). And finally the kilt itself. Modern Mcgregor isn’t even my tartan; (that’s Gunn, Stewart of Bute or Murray), and it’s slowly but surely ripping to rags. It doesn’t fit me properly anymore either; the booze has seen to that.
Beer pong and kilt. Single handily responsible for my stomach
So it’s giving up the ghost. Again thoughts of its destination will be appreciated, and for your viewing pleasure, included in this post is a small selection of previously unreleased pictures of the nights out we’ve had together that I’m usually too ashamed to share. This isn’t half of the astounding back-catalogue of videos and photos out there of my naked arse gallivanting around some Colombian bar, swishing the pleats about; having a Scottish country dance-off with a Turkish belly dancer; climbing into a street dog pen in Romania trying to make friends, or thinking its power is enough to convince Russian strippers not to take their clothes off. You become a minor celebrity wearing this thing and I’ve done a lot of fucking stupid things in it. Not a good idea in Central Asia.
Incidentally I’m also going to be sending home/giving away/burning my set of hair straighteners. Because a fast approaching 36-year-old man does not need them.
Hair eating. Another side effect of wearing tartan
On a personal note; I’d like to take this opportunity to say…and I might get a little emotional…to say I’m gonna miss you old pal. It’s hard to think that I’ll never force you round my waist for one more night out. Ohhh we’ve had some times haven’t we? Remember when I’ve had you fixed by all those bewildered haberdashers? Oh how we laughed! And how many times you’ve helped me look harder than I really am? Which wasn’t that many at all. Or that time with the penguin? Which may or may not have even occurred? See ya on the other side buddy. Whatever happens mate, I promise I’ll never shit in you again.