I’ve spent the last few days thinking about Marc Palombo, my friend who died suddenly on Friday 5th June. I’ve tried to think of ways to sum him up, what he meant to me, the things I liked about him, the memories he was part of – kind of a hard thing to do for a bloke who was only in his forties.

Marc was one of those guys who came from between generations. Born in the sixties, he had the cheek and rudeness of a young man our age, but had the calming head a much older big brother might.

Marc was a huge part of my life while I was growing up, but I never really considered it until now. When I went to nursery school I met a young boy my age, one of the first friends I ever had, and his name was Carlo Palombo. We spent the best part of 25 years together as best friends, until some things happened and we drifted apart. Carlo had a big sister, Verna, and an older brother called Marc, and over the years Marc became as much of a friend to me as Carlo – in recent years, more so.

He had several nicknames, most of which I have no idea where they came from. His eternal nickname was ‘Blue’ – a jokey reference to the fact he supported the green and white of Celtic. He was also referred to as ‘Superlube’, an anagram of Blue but with Super stuck in front. Blue’s pal, Hogy, had a couple of belters for him, names which nobody but Hogy could get away with: ‘Fluffy’ was one of his favourites, as was ‘Buffalo Bill fae Maryhill’. You can see why only the bravest or daftest among us would dare. The other was ‘Marco P from the Crazy Y.B.’ Don’t ask me what the Y.B. was, it was funny and that was all that seemed to matter.

Blue was a funny guy with a unique sense of humour; “that’s out of the blue,” we would say when he came out with a cracker. He told jokes and didn’t care what people thought of him, and between the three of us went much prank playing and gags. I remember once locking him out of his own house when he got back from work, and another occasion when we hid the keys to his car. The sound of Blue screaming in anger was as over the top as it was funny – the desired reaction.

I think one of the funniest things Blue ever did was try do defrost a pizza. We came back to the house one night to find the food blender had been moved underneath a low hanging light, with a frozen slice of pizza resting on top. When we asked what he was doing it turned out he didn’t know how to use the oven and was trying to defrost it from the bulb’s heat.

It was Blue who introduced me to The Jam and The Who. He was a bit of a mod back in the late 70s and early 80s, and I still remember a massive Union Flag with The Who emblazoned on the front spread over the wall of his bedroom. Ironic, when you consider his football allegiance lay with Glasgow Celtic.

He was also a big fan of Madness and The Specials, and one of my favourite but most annoying stories, was when he lost the drumstick he had caught at a Specials gig, thrown to the crowd by the drummer, John Bradbury.

But as well as listening to punk music, Blue loved Motown. As he cruised along in his Gold painted car, it didn’t seem to fit his look or image as the sound of The Supremes or Stevie Wonder blasted from his open window. But Blue never much cared what folk thought of him.

It’s common for obituaries to glorify people falsely, and I can’t deny Blue made some horrendous mistakes in his life. One of my earliest memories of him was when he got caught vandalising a phone box during his mod days, and a few years ago he made a poor error of judgement when the local paper snapped him selling less than ethical items out of his ice cream van. But the guy was human, and I can publicly vouch for how sorry he was afterwards.

Ice cream vans played a huge role in Blue’s early life. He had never been much of an academic – he left school at 16 – but he moved into employment working as a van driver for his family-owned ice cream company, Palombo Bros. They did a roaring trade through the 70s and 80s, and as a kid it was an awesome sight to see Blue cruising past in his van.

In those days money from the vans left his family very well off, but the business nose-dived towards the late 80s as the demands of economics changed. In response, the family set up a video rental store with Blue as the man in charge. It did very well until DVDs came along, and that was the end of that.

Blue was never a slim bloke. In fact, he was a very, very large guy, who I often witnessed being ridiculed for his size, but remarkably, never seemed to let it bother him. Another example of his patience, or just his dead pan poker face never allowing you to see his feelings, I was never sure.

His weight, despite the root of it lying with a bone condition in his hips, was never helped by his eating. Thursday nights after the video shop closed was fish supper night, and I often took the drive with him and his brother into Johnstone for a chippy out of Sandro’s.

Whenever I went to the football it was normally in Blue’s car. Every home game and some away, we drove to the match, always with the window down so Blue could smoke. I can’t remember how many people we used to fit in his car in those days; Celtic’s Championship winning game against Dundee during their Centenary year, April 1988, saw about twelve of us pack in with Celtic tops, scarves and cans of Tennent’s Lager.

Blue used to take me, Carlo and Hogy fishing at Newmills Trout Fishery near New Lanark. We hardly ever caught anything, but my lasting memory was when Blue sat down at the side of the lake and his deck chair gave way. He rolled back with his wee legs sticking up in the air, his rod flailing at his side – and us three rolling on the ground laughing uncontrollably.

Blue was a big snooker fan, but despite his patience in other areas, he was always first to lose it when he missed an easy red. It always made for a hilarious moment when his temper finally caved and he slammed his cue down and stomped out the room, taking the rest of the balls off the table as he went.

By 2000 Blue had lost an impressive amount of weight and was getting a lot of exercise and eating all the proper foods. It was paying huge dividends for him as he looked slimmer, healthier, fitter, and more mobile than I ever saw him in his entire life. With that kind of motivation, things were looking good for him.

But things must have slipped. Blue phoned me a couple of years ago to tell me of his Uncle’s passing, but when I looked for him at the funeral I couldn’t find him. I found out later he couldn’t attend because he was bed-bound, and I know how much not being able to attend would have broken his heart. It was a catch 22 for Blue; unable to move because of his worsening bone condition, and the weight piling back on as a result.

Blue had been ill and in pain for the last couple of years, but as his health deteriorated he still kept in touch with me by mobile phone. Often I would receive the odd text or unexpected phone call, and despite me having dropped contact with his younger brother, he still provided a link to some fond times in my life.

When I received the call last Friday that he had died, it came right out of the blue for everyone. It was a sudden and unexpected death and I was totally shocked by it. Blue was only in his forties, too young for anyone to go, but we all hoped he might be able to recover somehow.

It’s so very hard for me to believe that he has gone, and taken with him a huge part of the memories I had when growing up with him. He was a good guy, and I feel for his family, his brother Carlo, and his parents who have to bury him today, Eva and Benny.

What I can’t believe most of all is that I’ve just written Marc ‘Blue’ Palombo’s obituary. It should have been the other way round.

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Long day yesterday.

The alarm on my new phone isn’t shrill enough to yank me out of my sleep, and so invariably I find myself flopping back and lying for longer as I wait for another, stronger spur to get out of bed. Yesterday morning it was the sound of my wife’s alarm clock, indicating I had gone way past my normal and should already have been in the office. Today I did not bad, but only because I set my CD alarm to blast The Specials at me.

Day job dragged but I managed to pepper it with some writing over lunch. I got some editing done on a short story – a relief to be back in fiction-land again – before heading home for more promo work and a dash of freelance.

I’m still having difficulties moving a client over from GNHosting but I made some progress. I managed to get the site up at a temporary domain while I go to war with the hosting company. She’s getting pissed off and it’s hard explaining how it works, which I can totally understand. I thought I was going to lose her as a client but I talked her round and I can’t see me charging anything for this one. I may even offer an overhaul in the near future for no charge.

Today you can find me over at Michelle Miles’ Ye Olde Inkwell, on the latest stop of my STELLA World Tour. And Sage Cohen still has that free copy of STELLA up for grabs. All you have to do is pop over and leave a comment to qualify for the draw – what could be easier?

Speaking of the tour. I’ve added a coupe of new dates. I’ll be a guest at the blog of Cate Masters on the 18th, and this coming Saturday I’ll be the guest writer at Love, Romances & More – not my usual forum, I know, which is why it should make for an interesting day!

View all my other appearances here

Tomorrow is my friend’s funeral so I won’t be posting any of my usual stuff. I have to write his obituary today, which I’ll post tonight for publication tomorrow. I’m not looking forward to it at all. Gail has taken the day off work to come through with me, which I didn’t really expect her to do but I think, in hindsight, I’m glad she has.

Part of my apprehension isn’t just down to it being a friend who has died, it’s also about the living ones I’m going to meet. There will be people at the funeral from long ago in my life, from when I was a very small boy up to my mid 20s, and some of them I have deliberately put distance between for a reason. Now, I will be with them again, and I fear there will be a rush of horrible (and good) memories when I see their faces.

See you on Friday.

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I got up as normal and flicked the kettle on to make some coffee. Then I switched on the TV to wait for Laura getting up to watch Spongebob Squarepants. With a weekend in Glasgow beckoning, I was quite excited and eager to get going on the road.

I took the conservatory keys and as I unlocked the door to go out to feed the animals, I immediately knew something wasn’t right. The rabbits began their crazy jumping around when they know feeding time is imminent, but Millie remained at the rear of her hutch, where as normally she would be squeaking on her back legs, with her front legs up on the railing.

I opened the hutch door and there she was, lying dead. My heart sank. She looked to have been gone for a few hours; the colour was gone from her feet and mouth, though her eyes still open and dark as ever. Even her wee mouth still had that familiar smile to it, but she was dead, and now I had to tell everyone.

Gail took it very easy, and Laura was sad, but not quite as much as I was expecting. It was more a case of, ‘I think this is how I am supposed to act’. Millie was old, after all, so we knew it would be sooner rather than later, but it seems that I am the big softy in the family and not my wife or daughter. Maybe it’s because I was the one who fed and cleaned her no matter what the weather or how I felt. When I went out to feed the rabbits this morning I felt quite choked to see her hutch lying empty. I’m going to miss her waiting for me every day. I already do.

I’ll dig out some photos of her and post them tomorrow.

Glasgow was superb though, and The Dead 60’s at King Tut’s was a great way to spend the evening. It was fantastic to be back in the small, compact venue, scene of Oasis’ discover almost fifteen years earlier. The only downside was being one of the oldest persons in the place, not that I was bothered, especially when one of the promotion girls took a shine to me.

The Dead 60’s ran through their entire album with a couple of new tracks including the new single, but it was all over too quick. One album in two years isn’t good enough if they are going to progress faster. When you consider their first album came out the same year as the first from the Arctic Monkeys, one can start to see who is doing things the correct way round.

Still, it was great to see them though – a small ambition fulfilled – and I’m positive they will move onto bigger and better things with just a bit more support form their record company.

On the Sunday my sister and I went for breakfast to Ludovics and then went to see The Hoax with Richard Gere, the true story of writer Clifford Irving’s faked autobiography of billionaire recluse, Howard Hughes. I’m not normally a fan of Gere’s, but I really enjoyed this one. It was fascinating, brilliantly acted, and a gripping and humorous tale. I’d recommend it to anyone.

Thanks to hundreds of festival-goers returning from the Loch Lomond music festival, I ended up having to ditch my return bus ticket and take the train back to Edinburgh last night instead. This was where my problems were only just beginning because when I got there, I couldn’t find a taxi anywhere (standard Fringe experience). So I waited for a bus – which took ages – and which only took me as far as the bottom of Leith Walk. Within two minutes of me stepping off the bus to walk the mile or so back home, the rain began, torrential rain that formed rivers and lakes in almost every street within minutes. And there was me, dressed in jeans and t-shirt with my light jacket on.

I could hardly see where I was as I trudged home at about half past midnight, and with my glasses steamed up and splattered with rain, it was probably no surprise that I stepped off a kerb and sank knee-high into a large puddle that had formed on a corner thanks to a blocked drain. By the time I put the key in my door, I was soaked to the bone.

In a comment in my last post Devon mentioned my dreams of late. It’s true I have been going through a phase of extremely vivid dreams, but ones that have also been emotionally charged. This is unusual for me and I keep wondering if it is because of something happening in my life. Is it the richness of my work at the moment, or is it that I am happier than I have ever been and so the creativity has nothing to block it, or is it the amount of cheese I eat?

Whatever it is, it’s providing me with some fruitful ideas, especially the last one I was talking to you about. It was on my mind all weekend. It was such a horrific dream, not just in content but in its life-like emotion and clarity, it sends a chill up my back just thinking about it.

Something else that’s been strange of late is my experience on Lothian Buses. They’ve been running early – really early – up to 10 minutes in some cases, which has left me dangling for the next bus to come along. Then this evening on the way home the bus broke down right on the island intersection of Leith Walk and Dalmeney Street. What a palava!

Then as I walked up my own street, I was witness to an RTA, as a parked motor began rolling down the hill and smacked into another car. There I was knocking on all the doors in the street to find out who’s it was in case the two of them rolled away into a bunch of kids.

The drama never ends.

So we headed off to the funeral in the morning at Warriston Crematorium. I reckon there must have been around 70 to 80 people there crammed in to the Chapel for the hour-long service. As funerals go you could say it was a good one in that the eulogy was heart-felt by the female Minister, a personal friend it seemed of the deceased. It was sad, but a lovely celebration of the life of a popular woman. Afterwards we attended the wake then I headed home to get the Wee Barra from school and then we went off to buy some cards for some occasions that are approaching.

I then tidied the house before getting stuck into the task of sending out all the e-mail press releases, adverts, and informational notes. It’s a laborious task, but one I am becoming a dab hand at now I have streamlined the process. The release was put together well in advance as well as all the images and shorter versions depending on where the release was to go.

The other good news was that an e-mail came in from the editor at Wild Child Publishing. They have accepted my short story, On A Monday Morning, for the June issue, subject to a few minor edits. The story was written back in 2005 for a competition, but never win. I submitted to Wild Child in March 2006 and it was rejected with a note saying t needed major surgery. Seven months later and after several re-writes, I submitted it again in March of last year. And now it’s in, I’m delighted.

Spare a thought for all those struck by the severe weather conditions over in the States, both by the Tornado and my friends caught in the storms in New York. I’m thinking of you all.

www.colingalbraith.co.uk/blog

Sorry for the changes over the past couple of days, but this is where you will find me from now on.

Some bits of news to catch up on –

I received an email from Dee Rimbaud whose pastel drawing inspired my flash fiction piece called Spawning. It turns out the drawing was an actual commissioned illustration for a short story which appeared in a Scotland On Sunday supplement, many years ago.

I also received an email from Insidious Reflections, a magazine I submitted a short story to back in March 2006. They were returning it because the magazine has gone into hiatus and were most apologetic about holding onto it for so long. I actually considered it rejected after not hearing from them for so long. Shame they had to close like this.

The aches and pains that have dogged me these past few days are lifting, though my head feels like it is stuffed with mince, my eyeballs don’t fit and the base of my back hurts. I’m on the mending road, which is good to know, but I called in to work to say I wouldn’t be back until tomorrow. There was something that I had to do today.

I boarded the Glasgow train at Waverly at 12:45 clad in black tie, trousers, shoes and white shirt, then made my way out to Partick in North Glasgow, for the funeral of my old pal, Andrew Meikle.

I arrived at Glasgow Crematorium and met some of the family before heading into the Chapel for the ceremony. Such was the turn out of his friends, I found myself standing outside peering into the proceedings, since the small building was packed to the rafters.

A bit about Andy.

ANDREW MEIKLE was born in Glasgow in 1946. He left school early and did a bit of travelling in between various jobs. He returned home and took an apprenticeship in electrical engineering with Balfour Beatty, learning skills that were to see him ending up working on North Sea platforms and subsequently for oil companies all over the world.

I first met him one Christmas holiday around 20 years ago. He was my pal’s famous practical-joking Uncle, and as we grew up we really came to appreciate his brand of humour, love of music and knack for the absurd.

Andy was a huge fan of Sinatra, Martin, and Fitzgerald, though his favourite artist was Tony Bennett. He had seen them all play live, and as we sat around the table or played snooker, he would tell us about the times when he went to see them play. He was probably as big an influence on my own introduction to that type of music as my own father was. It was Bennett’s I left My Heart in San Francisco that played at the end of the ceremony, thought it was Andy’s own version that rung in my mind as I left the Chapel. He used to sing; “I left my heart, in Drumchapel.” (Non-Glaswegian readers – Drumchapel is a reservation on the outskirts of Glasgow).

He was a great source of inspiration for kidding around as well. He was famous for turning up on the doorstep with all kinds of things, and during the eulogy a famous incident was recalled. He was having dinner over at his sister, Eva’s house (my pal’s Mum). She had forgotten to buy potatoes and was worrying about what to do as the shops were all closed. Andy said he was going to take the dog out for a quick walk and when he returned he had a plastic bag full of fresh potatoes. Nobody asked where he got them from, but a few weeks later when the local farmer called to say he was going to shoot the dog if he caught it digging up his crop again, we all knew.

He was famous for trying to nick stupid things from pubs. There was the time in a posh Glasgow restaurant when after an afternoon on the sauce with Eva and her husband Benny, he got thrown out for trying to sneak out with a five foot tall Yukka plant. Only at Christmas there, he got caught trying to walk out the door with a lamp from the local British Legion. He got away with it once before, but not this time. We should have realised he was loosing his touch.

Andy liked a good drink and he loved to recall loads of stories from the “good old days” with us. He talked about all the pranks he would get up to; dancing in the Plaza Ballroom with a fishing line attached to his ankle, dragging around a fake turd as he moved; crawling into toilets with loo roll wrapped around him panting and begging like the Andrex Dog.

One famous Christmas night I was up at the house drinking with them all, and after everyone else had gone to bed me and Andy stayed up talking and drinking whisky. It was at those times you really got a sense of the love he had for his family – he never married himself – and for the pain that he lived through.

I remember vividly when he told me about his memories of the the Piper Alpha Oil Rig disaster of July 1988. 167 of the 226 men on board burnt to death, and five of them were Andy’s best mates.

It’s with regret that I hadn’t seen Andy for a couple of years. Strange to think that he came to my mind only four days before he died when I found myself in a Glasgow watering hole I used to see him in often. But Partick was where he was born and lived and he loved it there.

A spinal injury forced him into early retirement and he would spend a lot of time with his mates down in the pub, talking about everything and anything. It was in the pub last Wednesday that his time was called, a sudden and unexpected aneurism bringing an end to the life of the man that even I referred to as Uncle Andy.

A lot of the stuff I’ve just recalled only came back to me as I was standing listening to the eulogy being given. It’s true to say he was a character; flawed but with a huge appetite for living, family and friends.

He broke the two sides of the Old Firm down, being a Rangers man in an Italian Catholic family after his sister wed. When he laughed everyone else laughed, joining in with his famous wheeze, bouncing gut and glistening moustache.

That night I stayed up talking with him, Eva got up the next morning to make breakfast at 8am and we were still sitting there talking and laughing. Benny was the least pleased – it was his whisky! But it was that night more than all the others that I will remember most. That was the night I really got to know the workings of his mind, how he saw the world and how he saw his place in it.

He was a simple, working class bloke. He knew what he liked and he could tell a cracking story over a good dram. As you read this you might think, “he sounds like half the guys you expect to find in a pub in Partick“, but Andy was different. The turnout of all his pals testament to that.

Andy was 60 years old when he died, too young in my books for a man of that calibre. My only regret is not having seen him much over the past couple of years, but standing in the chapel today brought back the feelings of the fun that can had got from life no matter what it throws at you. It felt like he was there, and I had a large whisky in his honour at the reception in the Sutherlands Hotel.

It wasn’t until I took off my tie and put on a Tony Bennett CD when I got home, that I shed a small tear at the injustice of death, but the beauty of life.

POOLSIDE POETRY

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