Mirror, Man!

When Steve Clarke was manager at Kilmarnock I’d often see him as we both made the daily commute from north to east Ayrshire. His pristine, glossy black Porsche Cayenne would ghost up behind me in the fast lane and I’d pull back into the slow lane, deferring to the superiority of both his mode of transport and his effortless man-management skills, skills that would see my team finish 3rd in the league while regularly beating both big Glasgow teams in the process. I was always desperate to catch his eye, give him a wee thumbs up by way of thanks from all Killie supporters who’d had little to cheer about since winning the League Cup in 2012. The closest I got to this was at the end of the bypass one morning, at the Moorfield roundabout on the outskirts of Kilmarnock. I’d pulled into the left hand lane and he’d pulled into the right, the turn-off you take for Rugby Park, the home of the Killie. Glancing right to check for traffic, I realised we were side by side. The thing was, he was also looking right for oncoming traffic and all I could see of him was the back of his tactically astute head. With no chance of catching his eye, my chance was gone. I never did get to show my appreciation, until

…a week or so ago. I’m driving back home from Kilmarnock this time. I’m in the process of overtaking an artic lorry near the crematorium when a large car appears out of the flood of late summer sunshine behind me, clearly on a mission to break whatever speed limit is in place, clearly with no time for any car in front of it. I look more closely in my mirror, ready to stare out the arrogance of the big car driver behind me, when I spot the wrinkled, perma-angry scowl of Steve Clarke. Even behind his mirrored sunglasses, I knew it was him. The deep and cavernous brow lines that curved above the sunglasses like a topographic map and the salt ‘n pepper beard set in a face of stone cast no doubt on the matter. As soon as there was a safe distance between myself and the lorry, I pulled back in, heart a-pounding. You don’t get in the road of the Scotland manager. Especially the best Scotland manager we’re maybe ever likely to have. As he pulled past me, I glanced to my right. His stoic face was looking straight ahead. Damn! He’s got a new car, but the personal licence plate confirmed the identity. An opportunity lost again. And this time I’d planned to offer up a double, McCartney thumbs aloft too, one for Killie and one for Scotland. It was not to be though, until…

…I reached the Morrisons roundabout a couple of miles up the road. Unbelievably, he was just in front of me! And, oh man! He was pulling into the straight ahead lane, just as I was filtering into the right hand lane. This time, he’d be looking in my direction! And, as we waited for the cars to clear, he did! He looked right at me. My mind a-scatter, I forgot all about the pre-planned double thumbs acknowledgment and instead I did what any self-respecting Killie//Scotland fan would’ve done. I gave him a proper left hand fist-pump, acknowledging his greatness with each exaggerated, shaken pump. Clarke looked away, looked back, stared at me. I was still fist pumping like a maniac when it dawned on me that the scowling Sir Steve thought I was shaking an angry, road-rage fist at him. Or maybe even, (oh no!) a wanker sign. As his squealing tyres moved onto a space in the roundabout that wasn’t really there, he sped off aggressively towards Saltcoats, no doubt wondering who the angry driver in the Vauxhall was.

Gutted.

I was double gutted a few days later when I stupidly reversed into my neighbour’s car. Parked awkwardly at the end of my drive, I was sure I could turn without much bother.

Bang.

It turns out I couldn’t.

An expensive lesson, as it’s proving to be, in having good spacial awareness.

It gets better.

A few days after that, with the bump in the hands of the insurance companies, I was sitting in the car in the hospital car park, early for a routine appointment and in the process of actually replying to the guy whose car I had reversed into. Suddenly there’s a thud and my car lurches forward. I look in the mirror. It’s not Steve Clarke this time. It’s an old lady reversing into me…and right into the exact spot that’s already a mess of ragged plastic and foreign paint.

I get out and signal to her. She rolls down her window.

“You’ve just reversed into me.”

“Naw ah didnae son.”

“Eh…you did.”

She gets out and looks.
“I didnae dae that!”

“You didn’t do all of it, but you’ve made it worse than it was.”

“But I didnae dae onyhin’ “

“You did! You reversed into me!”

We look at her car. Not a mark on it. Not one.

“See. I didnae hit you.”

“You did though.”

“You’ll need to speak to my husband.”

Forget it, I said. Don’t worry about it. You couldn’t make it up. You really couldn’t.

Adam & The Ants – Cartrouble

Here’s Adam & The Ants Cartrouble. I’m not so certain it’s anything much to do with bumps and breakdowns and more a metaphorical musing on the lack of bedroom activity, but it’s a great single. Not yet blessed with the Burundi beat, the Ants jerk away like a knock-kneed XTC, all crisp guitar lines and fluid hooks, in itself a metaphor for the crisp and fluid passing game that Steve Clarke has instilled in the Scotland national team this last wee while.

Anyway, check your mirrors. You never know who’s behind you…