By public demand, I now feel safe, and psychologically sound of mind
enough to tell the tale of Mr McQuillan and I's adventure into the great
unknown which was New York City.
I have been asked several times in the last two years to publish the
incidents which occurred, the madness which ensued and never seemed to
stop, the highs, the lows, and unpublishable remarks, currently pending
FBI investigation.
The trip took a long time for me to recover from, not because it was at
all bad you understand, but because of the coming to terms for me of the
many things I saw, and scale of the things seen. After all, for a boy
from the relatively tiny island of Lewis, Glasgow was, to me, a massive
place. On my annual trips to the big smoke I used to marvel at
buildings more than 3 storeys high, pillar boxes (which were
skyscrapers), and double-decker buses ("look maw, a hoose with wheels").
Lewis of course never possessed anything "big", mainly due to the
violent gales which come in from the Minch and will batter anything more
than 5ft tall to a pulp, hence the rather stunted growth of the locals.
This also explains why there are more sheep than people in Lewis - they
are born survivors, and more importantly, short, born survivors. I
once saw a bumper sticker in my local village saying the immortal line
"so many sheep....so little time".
So the date was 1st February 2001 - the day of our big trip. I was
excited, but a tad apprehensive - understandable, as this after all was
only my second trip abroad, and I'm a nervous flyer. I was always a
terrible stickler for timekeeping and Andrew, well, isn't. First point
of conflict. I can't be late even when I try - Andrew can't be early if
he lived next door, put his clock 5 hours early, and had someone
sticking a red hot poker up his backside at regular intervals.
The whole idea of venturing over to New York started off as pub talk,
developed into possibility, before merging into a distinct probability,
and finally before I knew it the dates were booked - no way back.
Andrew had some friends over there, in particular Paul Skivington, from
South Uist, who used to share a flat with him in the east end of Glasgow
back in the mid-nineties, so accommodation was sorted. All we needed
was the merchandise to pay for the accommodation - the merchandise being
2 bottles of buckfast tonic wine and 4 ounces of Golden Virginea
Tobacco, both apparently completely unobtainable across the atlantic -
these Americans have never lived, quite frankly.
The meeting time was 9.30am, under the escalators at Glasgow
International Airport. I was there for 9.20. McQuillan was there for
9.45. An occasional, albeit habitual weekend smoker, I had managed to
stop, without any real effort, for a month and a half. If truth be told
at that moment I never wanted a fag so much in my entire life. Andrew
in fact looked like a fag, with his ginger stubbly head and bleached
denim jacket.
Panting, shuffling towards me with his giant rucksack, he spluttered,
"Chris, mate, what can ah say? Mah bloody freezer broke down and there
was water pishin all over the floor - it's a bloody disaster area ahm
tellin ye!"
Whether it actually happened or not didn't really bother me. It was an
original enough excuse not to question anyway, so without further ado we
battered on to the check-in, and headed for the bar for the regulation
couple of pre-flight pints. Our first pint. During that first pint
Andrew amused me with stories from his previous wacky adventures across
the pond, which also made me feel rather uneasy, God knows why.....
One such occasion he got so wrecked he ended up fighting with his
brother, causing a stramash, and raising hell just like a good Celtic
supporter should. Fortunately for them, there was apparently a couple
of Norwegians several rows in front who were causing a riot of their
own, only much worse, and their subsequent restraining and tieing down
by 6 stewards took the heat off the brothers McQuillan - for the time
being anyway.
On the same trip Andrew, once again rather disorientated, got a bit
mixed up when completing his temporary greencard, and the NYPD at JFK
were rather miffed at having to deal with a "Mr Andew United Kingdom",
from McQuillan Street in Dalmuir, Clydebank. How he actually was
allowed into the United States, twice, was beginning to perplex me.
That was not for us to worry about - well, not for the time being
anyway. I (rightly) suggested we fill in the green cards at that point
rather than 6 or 7 beers down the line, when even a simple question like
"address?" can prove to be on a par with a University Challenge brain
drainer. This was duly done, and I felt rather proud that the situation
was under control. Rumours about the foaming Mad Dog McQuillan appeared
completely unfounded.
3 or 4 pints later, without further incident, we were on the plane, a
rather nippy little beaut courtesy of Icelandair. The trip, as
suggested by the name of the airline was to be made via Rejkavic, where
we would change onto the flight for JFK in New York. The atmosphere was
one of excitement, and it seemed to be affecting some more than others,
none more so than Andrew, whose veins appeared to be straining to burst
out of his head. If adrenaline came in human form, that would be it.
I though a wee kip would be the order of the day, but not for Andrew,
who magically produced a half-bottle of Famous Grouse whisky, before
roaring to me (and the rest of the passengers) "RITE CHRIS, THE HOALIDAY
STARTS HERE!", ripping off the bottle cap and took a healthy swig, just
like Popeye when he eats his spinach, only without the funny hat. How
he got the bottle through security remains a mystery to this day.
(added note: he actually told me a couple of days ago he ordered his
taxi to stop off at haddows on the way to the airport - smooth operator
that he is).
Well what could I do, it would be rude not to. Checking the coast was
clear, I took a sip of the monkey juice and any pre-match nerves about
flying began to disappear. Andrew, however, was beginning to feel the
effects of air-sickness, and we hadn't even bloody taken off yet. He
looked across the aisle, and couldn't help but notice two ladies sitting
opposite - who almost immediately on sensing some mad person was glaring
at them put on their earphones. This didn't put off our intrepid hero
however, who unclipped his seat belt, and stumbled over to the vacant
seat next to the lucky ladies, who began to shift uncomfortably.
"Awrite?" he said to one of them, who turned, nodded and smiled weakly.
Or was it a grimace. Clearly the old McQuillan charm wasn't working -
how can any charm work when both the ladies in question were wearing
earphones? He overcame this minor inconvenience by tapping the nearest
one on the shoulder, again uttering, "awrite?" before giving the
universal "thumbs up" sign to the poor woman, who was becoming terribly
interested in the wing design of the plane. Andrew then suddenly hit
one of his waves of tierdness, and promptly slumped forward unconscious
into the back headrest of the seat in front. The poor women dodn't
know what to make of it all.
This was only for a minute or so, when he woke up with a start, looked
around, and came back to his seat next to me.
"Chris, I think you're in there by the way", he said winking, rather
chuffed he'd "sorted me out", as I was single at that point in my life.
He took another healthy gulp of whisky, when he was caught by the
steward. "Where did you get that from?" enquired the friendly
Icelander.
"Where the f*ck do you think!" roared McQuillan.
The flight to Rejkavic was a relatively short one - a couple of hours,
but enough time for more bedlam and beer, before we touched down at the
small airport in Iceland.
Relieved we were on land again, we stretched our legs, stretching them
all the way to the bar, and ordered two more lagers. By this point our
intrepid hero was on top form - talking, cajoling, arguing,
pontificating with anyone who would give him the time of day.
His attention then turned to two bearded gentlemen, who turned out to
be two women, with rather furry visages, and sets of thighs you could
crack walnuts with. Now let it be said that I'm no rocket scientist
myself, but these two were definitely batting for the other side, don't
ask me how, I just knew. Perhaps it was the manner in which they held
hands, fondled each other, I just don't know - either way the sight of
them was putting me right off my beer.
Andrew to my horror began a conversation with them and somehow agreed
(oh yes, I was involved in this too) that we should all meet up in New
York and have a night out. Phone numbers were swapped, followed by the
sharp exit of Helga and her fellow bearded friend. As it happens, we
never spoke to them again. Funny that.
Following this incident, and whilst launching into another tirade about
some other subject (you have to listen close to keep up with the guy),
Andrew somehow allowed his bottle of beer to slip from his grasp. In
apparent slow motion, the green bottle took one bounce on the tiled
floor, before succumbing to the second bounce and shattering into a
thousand pieces.
"Aw f*ck", said McQuillan, holding his shiney head in his hands, before
turning to the barmaid and asking for another beer. The veins were
making an appearance again, I noticed.
The barmaid replied, in broken but understandable English, "no we vill
not give yo any more beer, bekaas you is too drank", to which Andrew
replied, screwing up his features, "whit?".
Another argument ensued, although frankly this was a non-starter, cos
when a barmaid says no, you've little or no chance of turning the
situation around. Still, when you live in the world of Andrew, nothing
is impossible, so whilst launching into another tirade of abuse we were
saved by the bell - the announcer - almost sensing the iminent trouble -
boomed across the tannoy that our plane was boarding - thank f*ck.
We boarded the new plane with another surge of adrenaline - next stop
New York. We decided after not-lengthy discussion we needed more beer.
The beers were about the size of a can of coke, and athough tasted ok,
weren't really that strong - we must have downed about 10 in the first
two hours, so we were both feeling a little tipsy. Cancel that - I was
tipsy, Andrew was heading for planet oblivion, and making no sense
whatsoever.
His many and varied conversations (colourful in language and oscilating
in volume) ranged from hurling abuse over the size of my c*ck, to the
flabby nature of my belly. He also tore into my mothers good name,
although this was pretty standard stuff for Andrew - he has a go at
everybody's mother, especially the ones who drink gin. By this point
the stewardesses were bypassing us altogether with the drinks trolley.
After about an hour, it was slowly dawning on us that we were being left
out of the party, as the other passengers seemed to be getting regular
top ups and we weren't even getting a lemonade.
Cue an incensed Andrew to storm his way to the rear of the cabin and
threaten a steward into giving him a couple of beers. "Well, if you
don't ask......" as he rightly pointed out later.
Another conversation ensued, this time with an Icelandic lady sitting
directly in front, who was very nice looking indeed, and whose husband
was a professional footballer playing in America. Her two kids, around
about 5 or 6 years of age sat with her, and the conversation was thick
with swearwords - and I don't mean from the kids.
Rightly, the lady brought this up. "Look", she reasoned, "I know you
guys is having a good time, and so you should, however can you please
stop the colourful language - this is not good for the children, yes?".
Andrew instantly responded, " listen aw f*ck, I'm really sorry - didn't
realise I was f*ckin swearing so much". At least he meant it genuinely
- I'm sure he did, but there didn't seem to be much control between,
brain, bladder ar*e and gob by this point in the proceedings.
He also had a tendancy to wander, and decided to go some twenty rows
further up after noticing that a two year old kid "looked just like his
Charlie", and insisted on telling this foreign parent, not a word of
English, exactly that.
As we entered the final hour of the flight, I was knackered and my
nerves were shot. I'd had just about enough, and we weren't even there
yet. I tried to reason with Andrew - straighten things out, you know.
"Andrew, I have to say, quite frankly, I'm a little p*ssed off at what's
happened today - you've been abusive to me, to the passengers, the
stewardesses, who have been really patient, the bar staff, and those
bearded women at the bar in Rejkavic. Well cancel that last one, I
don't care what you said to them, they deserve everything that's coming
to them, but why don't we both have a coffee and sober up a bit?".
"Why don't you suck my c*ck you fat c*nt" was Andrews bracing reply,
before clambering all over me to try and get a better view of the lights
of downtown New York.
It was spectacular - we had (finally) arrived, and against all odds,
neither of us had killed each other.
