A Brief History of My Social Failings By Paul Francis McVey
Having spent 9 months kicking back and relaxing in the laid back suburban bohemia of Hyndland Road, Paul Francis McVey was due to be born on Christmas Day 1983. Sharing a birthday, however, with anyone named The Messiah/ Lamb of God/ Jesus Christ is enough to give a guy a complex and so I hung on for a couple of weeks and ended up sharing a debut day with someone a bit more my level. Squealing my first squeal on the 8th January allowed me to steal the limelight from Gracelands favourite son, Mr Elvis Presley.
An early realisation at school that I was more egg and spoon material than 100 metre dash was a temporary dent to the confidence and my first taste of romance ended abruptly when a gift of marzipan breasts proved to be a tactical error on Valentine's Day. A chance encounter with the best of The Kinks proved much more fruitful and further forays into my old man's vinyl record collection threw up such gems as Aretha Franklin records, The Pointer Sisters, Marvin Gaye, The Temptations, The Specials, The Beatles, Led Zeppelin and countless other white label beauts. A preoccupation with motown, soul, disco and well dressed dandies would follow.
A 1 year dalliance with engineering proved only to train me in the art of dealing with hangovers and a quick sidestep to the arts, with its much more favourable gender ratios, was certainly more agreeable, although a first serious relationship ended rather inevitably as the poor girl's remarkable efforts to tolerate my inadequacies eventually took their toll. Fortunately this time, there were no marzipan body parts involved.
Taking a job in a bar to accomplish the twin goals of paying the bills and meeting the opposite sex, the early years of the millennium proved to underline my general lack of organisation and tardiness. Strathclyde Uni put on a procrastination workshop to help those with similar afflictions to myself. Unfortunately, I thought about it too long and the class sold out. Seriously. Outrageous good fortune and a little charm were enough to ensure I didn't get sacked and a number of emotional relationships with famous poets and writers, most of whom were dead, or gay, or both, occupied my time. I have a particularly long running affair with W. H. Auden.
A Masters degree at Glasgow Uni allowed me to further pursue these invented relations while simultaneously enjoying a classic west end lifestyle and trying the patience of a bonnie lass, who in a momentary lapse of concentration became my substantially better half. A momentary lapse which, to my constant amazement lasted some time. Eventually however, I made a pigs ear of that one too.
A preoccupation with clothes, music and travel has ensured that my monthly repayments to some evil credit card companies will continue for some time, but I very much hope that you will help support my new venture, the soon to be fabulous Hillhead Bookclub. My very humble aim is for this place to be the new home of good honest food, great value quality drinks and great music from the past and the near future. I also hope to continue to meet agreeable members of the opposite sex. Or the same sex. They don't even need to be that agreeable. Whatever really.
But no marzipan breasts. I promise.