IT'S been about 15 years since I enjoyed the experience of two wheels. Having spent most of my childhood surgically attached to my purple Raleigh Chopper haring around the avenues and alleyways of Bishopbriggs, I eschewed that form of self-propelled two-wheel transport in favour of the internal combustion engine.
I had a brief dalliance with the bike again in adult life when I tried to cycle to work. The mistake I made was that I chose the wettest and coldest October of modern cycling history to return to my bike. I think I lasted all of three weeks. My aband
oning of the bike seemed to have a finality about it. But having popped on to one the other day for a laugh, memories came flooding back. The wind in my face, the manoeuvrability, the sheer joy of cutting through traffic. That is before one considers the ecological benefits of cycling and the fact that I could do with shedding a ton or two of fat.
Thus inspired, I am now on my way to a bike shop to purchase myself some steel and rubber, and again I will again be that 12-year-old. Motorists, you have been warned.
No Michelin stars without a spare tyreI've been filming for the last few weeks for a food show, and have the better part of three weeks tasting food from around the globe. Apart from well-known and beloved cuisines such as Japanese, Italian and Greek, I have ventured into pastures new, acquainting myself with the food of Korea, the Philippines and Poland. It's been quite a journey.
While I manage to eat three full meals a day in the ordinary scheme of things without any trouble at all, I found even my not insubstantial appetite challenged by a day that required me to stuff my face with four meals. Four meals. Apart from trying my love of food, there is the very real concern about my ever expanding girth. The gym doth beckon. It's inevitable. But I just don't look right in a gym. There are a trinity of places I feel I will look utterly out of my element: the ski slopes, the beach and the gym. Apart from not being able to dress appropriately for exercise, it doesn't help that I'm a bit lardy and so self-conscious. I would rather sweat playing football than watching MTV while mindlessly cross-training and trying to look cool. There is a bigger picture: I must learn to embrace unsexy, badly-dressed sweatiness if I am to improve my health and well being. My name is Hardeep Singh Kohli and I weigh 17 stone. Watch this space.
To absent friends and loversLuke is getting hitched. My best friend has found that special someone and they're in love. It will be my first civil partnership ceremony and I have already started looking for new shoes in anticipation of my Best Man duties. It's strange when your best pal meets their life partner. Alex is absolutely adorable and he and Luke make a lovely couple. I am really happy that my best mate is settling down, of course, but there is another side of me that is a little sad. I feel I'm losing Luke. But my apparent sense of loss was very much put into context last week. I was working with a 40-year-old gay man, Mark, and I was moaning about this feeling of loss. He told me that he used to hang out in a group of a dozen guys in the Eighties and Nineties. They worked and played and partied as young men. One of them became his boyfriend. Life was good. That was then. Of those dozen or so only Mark still lives. The rest were taken by HIV Aids. Imagine, all of your closest friends and the love of your live dead, gone. It put my sense of loss into context. It also made me realise how much life has moved on in this country for our gay communities. Perhaps we are guilty of not keeping HIV high enough up on the agenda, but at least we have afforded every member of our society the right to make a public affirmation of their love for someone. The one thing I am sure of is that love knows not the sexuality of the person it visits; and neither does loss.
Why it always rains on meAs a man with a turban and a love of purchasing raincoats I have never felt the need for an umbrella. As an earthy, rain-loving Scot, I have always viewed the umbrella with contempt and suspicion, considering it an icon of the English-styled London gent. That is obviously a stereotype, but a strong enough image to put me off ever purchasing the rain-shielding accoutrement. Growing up in Glasgow, the European City of Rain, that I have managed to avoid owning an umbrella for nearly 40 years is impressive. I became very skilled at 'close-jumping'. This is a form of street dance; it involves the participant ducking in and out of various closes while trying to avoid getting caught in the rain. I once close-jumped from Anniesland all the way to Partick, remaining almost bone dry all the way. What need do I have for a brolly?
That was until I heard of handmade Italian umbrellas in stylish colours, with leather handles, stitched with love and care. How can I not have one of these hand-crafted objects of beauty? Quite easily: they cost two hundred notes each. I'd rather get soaked.
Donald, where's your… cravat?"Evening Smart" it said on the invitation. I was planning on wearing one of many kilts. They are officially Smart. And can easily be worn in the Evening, if sufficiently "smartened up". Unlike the kilt and sweatshirt or trackie top look I have been enjoying over the years, which is anything but smart. I do happen to think kilts look great worn in such a street way. But a street look could never be construed as "Evening Smart". A bow tie would be too much surely. The invitation would have instructed such a requirement. What is left? An open collar shirt? That would feel incomplete. I struggled to find a way to make my kilt work as an "Evening Smart" look. And then I happened upon the notion of a cravat. What could be smarter of an evening than a kilted man with a cravat. Exactly. Nothing.
The full article contains 1098 words and appears in Scotland On Sunday newspaper.
