Friday, 6 June 2025

Jarlath Regan - In Bits, Pavilion Theatre, Glasgow Friday 6th June, 2025

Since I retired, my inner Victor Meldrew has bloomed. Take tonight, for example. I had tickets for an accomplished Irish comedian, who was playing the Pavilion. We headed into Glasgow early but got stuck in traffic, most of which was probably heading to see Kylie at the Hydro. I'd have liked to see Kylie, but the tickets were expensive, and I'd already bought tickets for this fellow. That doesn't mean that my missing Kylie didn't fester deep within me.

We get a drink in Walkabout before the show. I need to pee, so I use the gents, only to find they have a bloody attendant sitting beside the sinks handing out sheets of toilet paper for us to dry our hands. I don't use any of the aftershaves or deodorant he's cluttered around the sinks, but still feel obliged to give him some change. I'd only intended to spend a penny, but it ended up costing me a pound (note to self, don't empty out your wallet of small change). 

The gig is fine. Jarlath performs two sets, with a brief interval, allowing the venue to sell snacks and alcohol. The chap next to me buys a pint and a mini tube of cheese and onion Pringles. Their whiff makes me boak. Seriously. It turns my stomach big time. I have to resort to sucking a Werthers Original to block out the noxious vapour. (Yes, I'm so old I carry Werthers now) I want to get back at him but my farts are silent but not deadly. As ineffective as my rage. 

The theatre is warm, despite not being full, so I feel a bit sleepy. Jarlath's style of comedy is conversational, with a touch of blarney. His material is predominantly Irish-centric, discussing the energy of an Irish Mammy and the beauty of an Irish Goodbye, among many topics. There aren't many huge laughs, but the humour is consistent. He's charming and funny, and I enjoyed his comedy. He might not have had the big production values of Kylie's show, but I bet she wasn't prepared to greet whoever wanted to meet him in the lobby afterwards. He had a queue waiting by the time we got out, and I doubt any were there to ask for a refund.

We headed back to where I'd parked the car. The police were having an issue with an obstreperous youth in a Celtic top, who signalled an incorrect football score to them with his middle fingers (in tonight's friendly, Scotland lost 3:1 to Iceland - I'm assuming the country, not the supermarket chain, but you never know). The youth drunkenly refused to walk on, despite being telt. We missed what happened next, as my wife doesn't enjoy such forms of public entertainment.  

Sauchiehall Street now has more benches packed along its pedestrian area than shops. Is this the City Council's new approach to addressing the homeless problem? With fewer shops and therefore fewer doorways, these benches may be intended to provide an alternative sleeping location for the homeless. If only they'd thought to give the benches a solid seat, the homeless could have slept under them to keep dry when it rained (which is usually a lot).


This message is on every bin.
People Make Sauchiehall Street... 
Answers on graffiti, please.

We return to my car to find this...

Mine is the grey car behind the BMW. I've erased his five-digit private number plate from the image because I'm sure it was his second choice, after C4UNT was unavailable. He'd boxed me in so well that it took me six turns to edge past him. Thank Ford for parking cameras and sensors. I was not best pleased for the remainder of my journey home. Another BMW cut me up on Renfrew Rd, overtaking from behind me despite me indicating I was changing lane. 

My long-suffering wife, who had thoroughly enjoyed the comedy, having a thing for the Irish accent, asked me, "What does it matter really?" 

I kept quiet. 

What I was thinking was, "It matters because they think they're better than me in their flashy, expensive, fast cars. They think they can drive all over me with impunity. And I know they can, because the only response I've got is a toot of the horn or a flash of my headlights, maybe a rude gesture directed at their rear view mirror. Big deal.

When we got home, the stress continued when Poppy, my puppy, got in on the act. My wife handed me my slippers, and before I could get my foot into the second one, Poppy ran off with it, hiding from me behind the sofa. I get no respect from anyone.

If only I'd gone to see Kylie, everything could have been so different. 

I should be so lucky.

Ticket Price: £32 x 2 plus £3.95 booking fee = £67.95 from Trafalgar Tickets

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