Damnt masks are driving me skite. Of course they’re vital for battling Covid and I’m well hacked off with folk who shun them. But I can’t seem to find one that’s right for me.
You might recall a few months ago, plumping for style over substance, I sent away for half-a-dozen, high-fashion, slinky efforts in thin (so I could breath easily) material. Dis-as-ter. After a couple of wearings, never mind a wash, the elastic went a’ loose.
As a result, it was on for only minutes before it slid (albeit slinkily) doon my nose and on to my moo.
Last time I wore one to the hairdresser, each side got a generous clarting of dye. Constantly shuvvin’ up the mask, I ended up with both hands like I’d been applying creosote withoot a brush … to my deep broon schnozzle.
So I took to those thicker fabric efforts; ones with patterns like tartan, The Saltire, floories and teeth (gads).
Having given up trying to look fashionable, I settled for plain black. Bad decision. Thanks to the thicker cloth, I’d the devil of a job managing to breathe. The jet colour was so sinister, I near tiddled masellie with fright when I first lugged up. Even worse. When when I added my sunglasses and ventured ootski, it suddenly struck me I looked (and sounded) for all the world like Darth Vader. Back to Amazon for your common or garden blue and white, bittie plastic at the top, disposable jobbie.
Dear reader, foo mony times hiv one o’ yer elastic lug-loops pinged just as ye pit it on? Me too. I daren’t face the shops withoot a couple of packs o’ four. And I still haven’t mastered the art of mask-wearing and walking with my specs on.
In a cafe the other day, at a teeny step doon I never spotted, I heitered big time – and damnt near shot heidlang into a wifie’s BLT triple-decker.
At the optician’s, the quine at reception suggested I pinch the plastic tight roon the top o’ my nostrils to keep the mask fae shootin’ up under my specs. If only. Then, during the eye-doc’s examination, I couldna even see the board because every, strangulated breath bunged up the test-lenses.
But I’ll persevere with masks while continuing to silently fume at those reckless, bare-faced gadgies – too much of a feartie to confront them. Very unlike the wifie I came face-to-unmasked-face with at the weekend in my newsagent – outside of which I usually wheech off my specs and ping on my disposable.
She to me, nae-happy: “You should be wearing a mask!” Me, outraged until … hand to face. Black affronted. “Soo sorry. I forgot to put it on!”
Strictly and I’m a Celeb hobble on amid gripes
The annual pre-Christmas crackers from ITV and the Beeb – I’m A Celebrity and Strictly Come Dancing – are both hobblin’ along, doon to a minor parp this year.
They’ve made huge efforts to overcome the major handicap of the Covid restrictions. But the unforgiving British viewing public is still up in arms about various issues, bombarding the telly companies with complaints.
Amid the supposedly ruined Welsh castle, come accusations of a specially heated set being built for the comfort of the slebs. Shane Richie and Vernon Kay have been roasted for bitching about fellow contestants. Fans are booing the trials for being too easy. Sainted Ant and Dec were lambasted for last Saturday’s “highlights” show, instead of real action.
When there’s never been complaints about Jungle highlights.
On Strictly, viewers are obviously narked that hot favourite Maisie Smith had years of dance training, voting her to the last two twice. Peer quine. While diversity-driven bosses at the BBC must have had panic in their breesties when their dream-team of two quines also ended up at the bottom. Fit a relief the pro got the virus.
Meanwhile, Strictly hell broke out when there was no spooky Halloween show. Luuv it, luuv it, luuv it. For cynical al’ armchair critics like me, the ongoing controversies just makes both shows soo much more interesting.
Timely reminder of real comic genius
Thanks to the EE for reminding us it’s 25 years since the last appearance at HMT of the incomparable Scotland The What?
I was there and like many in the audience – as well as “the Boys” – shed a tear for the ending of a supreme comedy legend. Along with producer James Logan, Buff Hardie, Stephen Robertson and musicman George Donald anchored their work in the north-east, highlighting the accents – city and country – and the couthie humour. Their hilarious CDs are timeless and have cheered me up mony a dark day. Cheers also to Buff, who’s still kneipin’ on at 89.