Scotland.
A lovelessly prepared fry-up in a Tesco superstore café on a Tuesday morning on
the outskirts of Blackburn, West Lothian. It’s the sh*tter of the Blackburn’s,
which is saying something. It’s also the hometown of Scottish national treasure
Susan Boyle, which is why I was there, in Tesco, dressed in a rented kilt
(replete with long socks and sporran) slumped opposite a teetotal, vegan
photographer who weighs about 25 stone. Which is saying something. Not sure
what, mind.
In
my sporran was a ring, in the car outside in parking zone who gives a
f*ck it’s in no way tangential to the story are a bunch of increasingly forlorn
roses. They cost more than the ring. My task was, on bendeth knee, to give said
ring, roses, and, in keeping with theological convention, my heart and soul to
Susan Boyle. Not because I wanted to, of course. It was in the name of
journalism. I was attempting to exploit the saleable characteristics (learning
difficulties, virginity) of a vulnerable woman for profit. Like I said,
journalism.
And
so it was I found myself bursting into Aberdeen church mid-Mass after being
informed that Susan was due to be singing in the choir. She wasn't. Nor was she
staying with a cousin in one of your delightful Glasgow tower blocks. “Hi.
Don’t Susan Boyle’s in there?” I ventured to the heaving figure filling the
doorframe, gripping a Special Brew, glaring past the teardrops tattooed beneath
both her eyes.
I
prodded my black pudding into a puddle of bean juice and adjusted my kilt.
Today I was to search Blackburn. Best get it over with.
For
info and tickets to Richard's show, see here
