The winner this week is Bertie whose two picks were so obscure, but also so profoundly weird, that he deserves the post-card solely because he played a risky card. Robert Liston and James Syme were two of the great surgeons of their day - that day being the first half of the 19th century. Liston's skills with the knife have become the stuff of rumor and legend. What would have completed the trifecta of great early 19th century Scottish surgeons would be the inclusion of Sir James Young Simpson, who among other things, was the first man to introduce the medical properties of chloroform anesthesia. Not to mention Bertie's pick of Field Marshal Douglas Haig - Bertie, you get the postcard and are in the running for the special gift at the end of the year.

I am awarding a runner-up postcard this week for Carey Love who complemented my long dead, but beloved dog Bonnie. I literally grew up with Bonnie and when she died, 15 October 1995, it felt like I lost a dear friend. Carey you get a postcard for making me tear up, just a little, thinking of my beloved Scottish terrier. Please e-mail me your address.

However, I would be remiss if I didn’t applaud all of the entries for this week. James Boswell, mentioned by that famed author Anon., plays to a literary quirk of mine, a penchant for 18th century long-windedness. For those of you who have never read Life of Johnson you simply must dedicate two or three months of your life to reading it.

I was surprised and pleased with the inclusion of Mr. Lee, who’s rifle when handled by British troops at the Mons, made the opposing Germans think that they were being fired upon by machine guns and not by well-trained infantry carrying rifles. Good show Lucy!

Norah and Daniel gave pleasing answers in Ramsay MacDonald and David Livingston. In fact, Norah upstaged her father, though I will say in Daniel’s defense that political figures from the interwar period will ALWAYS be rewarded in my book. Rod Stewart was close but his smarminess was just too much to be rewarded. James Barrie is a classic Scot, but was outshone by Peter-The-Great, whose pick of Groundskeeper Willie was creative and especially funny because he doesn’t exist. Or does he . . . this is the postmodern question of our day.

Good work everyone. This week, we’re doing Questions to the Wee Minister: whoever asks the best question, gets the postcard, and the best answer.

Peace Out Homies,

Ian

There is only slight exaggeration when I say that registration nearly killed me. I lost sleep, my heartbeat was like that of a jackrabbit, and I ground my teeth to next to nothing nightly, gnashing away at my mouthguard like it was chewing gum. The end result is that I am registered, finally, and have moved into my palatial postgrad office at 1 University Gardens. This here is a photo of my new workspace.

The best part of registration was the queuing. I actually looked forward to it because I enjoy writing the word “queue” so much and I knew that if I had to suffer through a long queue, I would get to write the word queue, at least several times on my blog. Mission accomplished. Go team.

My first step was to go to the registry office, which is the British term for Registrar, to see if I could register in advance of my registration time. I waited in the information queue, marked “enquiries”, for about twenty minutes. This seemed to be the logical place to wait if you have an inquiry. Those around me had an emaciated pallor indicating that they were either zombies or students trying to navigate the Scottish bureaucracy. After a while I found out that the “enquiries” window on Thursday was only dealing with obscure tax issues. A nice lady told Jansport and I to take our form to the queue across the quad.

There were multiple queues’ to choose from. I picked one that looked friendly enough and I asked a strapping fellow “is this the queue for registration?” He nodded his head. Jansport and I settled in for a nice long wait.

Like the American Nazi in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade, I chose poorly. About thirteen of us realized that we’d been waiting in the wrong queue for a half hour. The queue’s aren’t posted with any signs or the like so it’s sort of a trial and error thing to see if you’re in the right one – it’s like a game – but one where you always lose. So my new compatriots and I moseyed across the quad to what looked like, and was, the correct queue. You see we were in the pre-registration queue when we actually needed to be in the registration queue.

After twenty minutes of waiting outside in our new queue, we were allowed into the main registration facility, which is an open room with a line of chairs stretching as far as the eye can see. After I took my seat I got to participate in what can only been called “registration chair hopping.” Every one minute and fifteen seconds you get to get up from your chair, and shuffle down the line, and then sit back down in a new chair. Most of the time you only advanced a single chair or two. Once, I got to skip ahead six full seats. I loved that moment. At the end of the registration queue you are met by a friendly bureaucrat who stamps your form and directs you to the next queue for payment of fees, only to be followed by another queue, this one to get your ID Card.

I arrived at the registration office at 1:40. I left with my ID card at 4:10. It was fantastic. I never thought I would say this but I’ve had more efficient dealings with Penn Dot.

One more day until the end of this week’s postcard content. Submit your awesome Scot!

Ian

In June, I was told by my university to expect a “welcome pack” in coming weeks. What was in this pack? Who knows. What you may not know, dear reader, is that “coming weeks” is code in the UK for three to four months.

Long story short, when I left on 6 September, my welcome packet hadn’t arrived. Sam got it in Vermont last week. I should have known things would be like this, but one likes to be the optimist, even when dealing with ancient bureaucratic institutions. In said packet was my registration letter. Sam scanned and sent a copy to me here so I’m able to go to registration this week.

In the States it is much the same: universities create a bureaucracy so impenetrable it becomes discouraging, if not downright depressing, for the humble and idealistic student (such as Self, the martyr) who is just trying to get registered for class. There are layers and hoops and all of it designed to make things as difficult as possible. On top of this, my bank in the states still does personal banking with an abacus, so the five international calls I have made to their customer service helpline has led to me wallowing in the corner of my shower, shivering and crying.

It’s a mess – but we Isherwoods know how to stiff upper lip these things. Our coal-black Welsh blood gives us a higher tolerance for foibles than the average stock. Instead of getting riled up on a bureaucrat, we usually take our frustrations out on those whom we love and who just so happen to be around. Jansport is not a happy backpack.

However, I am coping as best I can and soothing my clerical frustrations with countless cups of Cadburys drinking chocolate and old episodes of Friends. The British LOVE friends. When I was last a student in the UK, way back in the 90s in the days of poor personal hygiene and crappy alt. bands, way back then, the British LOVED friends. Now they love Friends in syndication – the same episodes from 1998. It’s like I never left. Ross and Rachel, Chandler and Monica, and Phoebe, don’t even get me started on her. What will they get up to next!

On the upside, when I get my ID card (Thursday – well, hopefully) I can go to the library, and more importantly, join the Research Club, an establishment similar to the Drones Club, only with brighter people as members and without all the roll throwing. Or at least I hope this is the case.

Remember – post your Scot of Distinction! Only four days left!

Pip pip,

Ian

The Results:

This week’s postcard winner was Daniel with this question: “What is the latest you have been out alone in the evening due to your fear of hooligans and hooliganism?”

What makes this a winner? It is funny and it hits at a fundamental truth about Self and Glasgow. This town is full of hooligans and I’m deathly afraid of teenage hooligans especially at night, when their numbers swell, their voices become louder, their actions bolder. In conditions like these I become like Thomas Hobbes calling out for a central government to maintain order on the streets. Needless to say, I don’t like leaving the house in a hooligan infested area without an escort, preferably one with depth charges and torpedoes. No really – the kids here like to stab people with broken bottles. I have a big target practically stamped on my bespeckled face. So I think around 9:30 or so is the latest I have been out by myself.

Daniel will be sent a postcard tomorrow and is now in the running for a special gift at the end of the year. I love making this stuff up. Lucy, Tommy, and Bertie Wooster (anon)’s questions made me laugh out loud.

This is NOT to say that I didn’t appreciate, giggle, or grin at all of the questions posed. It means a lot to have communication from all of you on this site – really – because its good to know there are folks back home who are reading. Clearly you all get what this site is about: making fun of oneself and the culture in which I have chosen to live. Don’t worry – there’ll be plenty of chances for more postcards for your refrigerators. I'll try my best to come up with more awkward moments - you come up with questions and comments.

This week’s question: who, in your estimation, is the most interesting Scot? Obscurity will be rewarded; however, there is a pressing need for you to write a one-sentence justification for your interesting Scot of merit. So give a name and a brief explanation as to why this Scot is superb. “Interesting” is one of those lame words that is almost completely subjective. Post here or e-mail to iaisherwood@gmail.com.

Today was the nicest day in the history of Glasgow. It was sunny with wisps of white clouds overhead and a blazing 65 degrees outside. Of course, this being the most beautiful day on record in the history of Scotland, it was the one day that I forgot my camera before taking my daily constitutional.

The other significant thing today was that I found a flat and make my deposit tomorrow to confirm it in my name. It is a basement apartment with a private garden around back complete with a small tree. There are bay windows overlooking the garden, ample room for furniture (that I don’t have), and it is located literally next to the University. It is slightly bohemian and will be a lovely place for man, woman, and beast to live. I will post pictures once I move-in next month.

I officially register at the Uni this week and meet with folks in my department. The picure today is of the department itself - my workspace is on the second floor. This week there'll be plenty of opportunities for awkwardness and many chances for Wodehousian adventures as I attempt to navigate the bureaucracy of a Scottish University, which is deep, treacherous, and downright dangerous to the soul of man. I will post my foibles as they are bound to happen.

Cheers,

Ian

After my last post, when I derided American shopping malls, I decided today to pip on over to the Buchanan Street Gallery a mall in the City Center of Glasgow. Buchanan Street is closed to traffic. It is a market center smack in the commercial district of Glasgow, stretching four or five blocks, and lined with small shops, eateries, and pubs. It’s like a slightly crappier version of just about any town center/shopping area on the Continent, only without a mustachioed baker with the outrageous Continental accent. Here the bakers sound like Robert Carlyle.

The mall isn’t much: it is three small floors of shops catering largely to the teen and early twenties demographic. In the middle of it is a Boots. At first I was intimidated by the rather rough looking fourteen-year-old girls standing menacingly outside. I watched a show on female hooligan violence last night on one of the British cable channels and it has made me a little wary of getting a beat-down by a pack of teenagers. I gathered my courage and made past them as quickly as possible.

In Boots I bought two kinds of soap. I have become something of a germaphobe since arriving in this city and my Hughes-like hand washing, always a present part of my life but frequently in remission, has come out in full force as I have to touch lots of things in public. I’m exactly thirty-six hours away from touching everything with a tissue.

To get to Buchanan Street, you take the Subway (subway – not tube), which consists of two loops that go around the city. One is clockwise and the other is counterclockwise: it’s that simple. To contrast the simplicity and perfection of the Subway, the Glasgow bus network must have been designed by a toddler. Any logical person can’t possibly figure it out - defies all reason. I spent twenty minutes trying to figure out what buses took me where and I ended up throwing the map across the room and walking an hour in the rain to arrive at the desired location.



After procuring my soap from Boots and strolling a bit in the shopping district, I made my way back to the old homestead. Tonight I have a pint of real ale and a curry on my radar. I will let you know if there are any disastrous consequences.

I wanted to mention Real Ale as an unofficial endorsement by Wee Isherwood of CAMRA, a British organization determined to making us all better beer drinkers. CAMRA is an ugly and sloppy acronym for The Campaign for Real Ale. I won’t post their website, for that would be an official endorsement, but you can google the name and see what you think.

The British and Scottish palate for beers has changed in the last thirty or forty years and has gravitated toward a preference for Continental lager beers. Most of these are mass-produced big names like Carling, Stella Artois, and Carlsberg. They are rather expensive to buy here compared to some of the more famous bitters and stouts.

The mission of CAMRA is to reverse the trend and to get more Britons and Celts consuming real ale made with real ingredients: organic beer as a staple of the diet, how it was before things got all weird after WWII. In premise, I agree whole heartedly with this mission, as it helps small brewers get their products, often superior and much more interesting on the palate, to consumers who otherwise would be wary of drinking the warm and classic ales of yore.

One more day until this week’s postcard contest is finished: post your question in the comments section or e-mail me. The photos are of the Uni and the Kelvingrove Art Museum last night.

Ian

Jansport and I were talking last night and I realized something. Jansport said, “Sometimes you take a negative tone, Isherwood. I’m sorry to have to tell you this but it is rather off-putting, all of this sarcasm. It makes life rather tedious.” Dear readers, I don’t want this to be the case! Jansport and I have embarked on a true adventure here in Scotland and I don’t want you to think that I am not having a good time. I am having the BEST time a man can have talking to his backpack in a foreign country. The coolness of Scotland is found in the simple, subtle, but interesting differences between this country and the US.

Take Tesco, the British Supermarket, as a case in point. At Tesco there are three registers open and one central queue, which is of course a British word for “line” and one that is really fun to spell. Q-U-E-U-E. See how much fun! In the states we have ten lines with ten checkout people at Giant, but here they have one central queue with three tellers. It seems to make sense, though it makes for a longer line. One thing I don’t miss at all is the sudden flush of severe, disabling, anger in realizing that I’ve picked the slowest line in the whole supermarket. The central queue suits the British as they have what I believe to be a hereditary ability to wait in groups for service.

I am no Top Chef. This has been reconfirmed with each trip to Tesco. I don’t know what has happened to me, but without my wife, I am like a lost teenager walking around and buying random items that I think will eventually comprise a meal. I thought I was more self-sufficient that this, but it turns out I’m not, so I buy things like baked beans, digestive biscuits, and mustard. Later I wonder why I don’t have anything to eat. It’s kinda sad. Sam probably thinks it’s a little endearing too.

Anyway, here the hot cocoa (a dietary staple for me) is, of course, “drinking chocolate” and made by Cadbury’s. Is it terrific? Of course, and relatively cheap for the amount of exhilaration that this elixir induces. The pre-made meals at Tesco are pretty good – I have a couple of Scotch pies I’ll be eating later – and some of them look reasonable fresh. There are plenty of pre-made Indian dishes for relatively cheap and they cater to the British and Scottish love for Asian cooking. My flatmate told me that Indian food was the second food of the UK, and judging from the six curry shops in two blocks around me, this is indeed the case.

Here’s my point: so far the only shopping I have done here has been for sustenance. In the States, when we’re bored, we tend to go to the malls or look around shops for something to do, and this can eventually end up with a purchase of something we don’t need. I have been here for two weeks now and except for a book from the Oxfam shop on Byers Road, I haven’t bought a thing other than food. I haven’t even poked about the shops. I don’t have a flat yet, of course, but my point is, I think, that when a place is so fresh, the very act of walking and watching is entertainment enough. Sam and I haven’t lived in a “city” since we first graduated from college, now eight years distant. I think I forgot how interesting a city is to just absorb. And this makes me very grateful to be here.

Okay, no more sappytime. Keep the questions coming for this week’s postcard contest. You can e-mail them to iaisherwood@gmail.com, or post in the comment section. I think I’ll do this postcard thing weekly depending upon the interest of the crowd, so everyone will get a chance to win a “touch” of Scotland for their refrigerator.

Cheers,

Ian

Yesterday was a milestone day. First, I got my mobile set up. It is known as a “pay as you go” phone. We have these in the US but they’re mostly used by drug dealers and not by wee men in corduroy sport coats. Here, this is not the case. For those who wish to call, e-mail me and I will send you my secret number. After all, I am a blog celebrity and I don’t want the world to bother me on my mobile whilst I am gallivanting about town.

Another significant thing happened. Like in the US, here at the University of Glasgow local nightclubs and other event centers have promotions during “freshers” week, or the week of registration for first year students. So on a number of prominent street corners on campus, there were loud, brash, young people distributing any manner of things, like flyers, free cups of tea, sweatshirts, and the like as promotions to get other young people off to their clubs.

Nobody offered me anything. Students around were offering other students things but when they looked at me, they figured I was likely not the kind of fellow who went to nightclubs. One girl even withdrew a flyer she had already offered to me. For this, of course, I am thankful. However, I did find it a touch insulting. I mean, I look youngish, I think. I could pass as a fellow who liked to booty-shake the night away, right?

No, I think instead I look like the kind of person who was likely to ask someone whether they had a permit to distribute flyers. This is the simple nature of my maturation that manifests itself in an outward appearance of moral rigidity.

The other significant event yesterday was that I got thoroughly, completely, absolutely, soaked. I haven’t talked about the rain yet. This is surprising because it rains every day. I am not joking. There has only been one day I have been here when it didn’t rain for at least a few minutes. Today was an all-day annoying drizzle. The kind of rain that makes you feel silly for carrying an umbrella, but if you go for a long walk (as I did), you get soaked to the bone.

So if you visit, bring your wellies and a sturdy coat. Umbrellas, from what I’ve heard, are useless in the winter because of the wind. To combat the elements, like in Das Boot, I am thinking of growing a beard, which will likely come out lopsided on account of my diminished ability to grow hair on the right side of my face and head. I think its because I sleep on my right side, but it could also be because I’m right handed.

I thought we’d try something on Wee Isherwood for this weekend. I would like readers (all 5 of you) to send any question that they may have for me about all of this, for lack of a better word, stuff. I’ve been here for almost two weeks and the honeymoon is slowly wearing off. I don’t know what you want to hear about my Scottish adventure – so – if you post some questions I can try to answer them. ALL questions will be considered no matter how simplistic, mundane, silly, or just plain weird. Respond in the comments section to this posting so all can see. Those who prefer privacy, e-mail me. The better the question, the better my response. Whoever sends the BEST QUESTION, wins a postcard for their fridge from Scotland (oooohhhhh). I alone will judge.

Cheers,

Ian

ps. The picture is of a canon from Stirling Castle. I just thought it was cool.