Return of the Macc
A few weeks ago, TS and I returned to the dark satanic mills of the Glorious North (TM) for a weekend of Sky TV and my Mum’s cooking. Oh, and obviously to see how my Dad is and other considerate stuff like that.
So after a night in a ridiculously over-sized bed, in which it’s actually possible to lose TS if I’m lucky, we made our habitual trip to the Trafford Centre. For those unfamiliar with Manchester and it’s landmarks, Trafford Centre is a giant shopping mall (using American terminology for those who require it) to the west of the city. It combines well-lit glass domes, with some hints of classical Roman architecture. In other words, it’s brilliantly tacky. A recent extension near the food court has the ugliest attempt at marble imaginable! We love it.
The aesthetic oddities don’t end with the building though. While I believe that Manchester is the best city in this country, I have to accept that there are some unusual looking creatures residing in the region. Yesterday while steering TS away from shoe shops, and trying to find clothes that we can both agree would look ok on me, it was like window shopping in a circus. From the chronically optimistic women who don’t realise that their flab is oozing over the tops of their jeans (thus displaying “muffin-top” syndrome), to the local scallies with the most preposterous haircuts since Mr T. I hadn’t seen a genuine mohican for a while, but yesterday I didn’t hesitate to point and laugh at the finely sculpted afro.
This made me think though about the fact that beauty is in the eye of the beholder. Some people, ie TS, are under the delusion that I’m good looking. Without a hint of false modesty, I can’t see it myself… still, I’m not going to argue too much. Anyway, I have to confess to one of the least acceptable things in decent society: I think my nephew is bloody ugly.
Usually, my folks are quite honest about whether babies are cute or look like they were mauled by the stork before delivery. However, the birth of my brother’s kid (the first grandchild) seems to have created some kind of naive prejudice in favour of the little sprog. Somehow, they see this blob of blonde-haired gormlessness and think he’s gorgeous. It may of course be me (and TS) who think he looks like some kind of hellspawn.
There is one thing missing from the North’s ugly folk though, and that’s the variety of beards that are displayed down in the midlands. The other week, we were in the local doctor’s waiting room and I was surrounded by facial bush! old boys were discussing the problems of modern society (which was a very balanced discussion as you can imagine… the cause of the problems with young people is that they are bored, but no-one was ever bored in their day). I didn’t listen for long, as one looked like someone had stuck his face in a candy-floss machine, while the other looked like he was in the process of morphing into a werewolf.
As someone who has had a goatee in the past, and is currently under a moral obligation (or emotional blackmail) to keep a little bit of chin-hair, I often wonder what level of dedication it takes to grow a proper beard. I think though, that it’s a pasttime best suited for the retired gentleman who can mentally devote himself to proper cultivation. Who knows, perhaps many years from now I’ll look like a castaway, and people will be writing a blog about seeing me in the street.
da best. Keep it going! Thank you