Post Thirteen: Enter Victor (not literally)

So, in Post 12, Tim and I took a sojourn to our old high school, which turned out to be a Bond-esque adventure of the highest calibre. I realise that after reading it you may have thought, ‘Why, that mirthful tale has enriched my life beyond belief, and I shall tell everyone I’ve ever met about this little blog! However, it doesn’t have much to do with dating and things, now does it?’ 


Well,  yeah, you’re right. But my love-life wasn’t the only thing that I wanted to improve; I wanted to “broaden my horizons”, get out of a rut, go out and do stuff, and pretty much change my outlook on life. Visiting my old high school was just a fun little part of that. Plus it was good having a new anecdote to tell people. It’s just a shame that the place was torn down before we could go back with more of our high school mates, like Mike. I couldn’t wait to tell Mike, he’d have loved it. I was looking forward to telling him all about it over a beverage or two.

But a few days after our adventure, Tim came to see me at work. And he had a Good Idea.

‘Let’s not tell Mike about going to the school,’ Tim said.

‘Eh? Why not?’ I wanted to tell everyone.

‘Because I was thinking that it’d be really funny if we went around Glasgow taking pictures of that plastic snowman, then e-mail him a different one every week from an anonymous e-mail address. Just to see what happens.’

I looked at Tim for a moment. Then I decided that he is brilliant. It was the best idea involving ornamental snowmen that anyone's ever had.

We convened at mine later on that week to formulate a plan for Operation: Let's Send Mike Pictures Of A Plastic Snowman And Drive Him Mental.

 ‘Right, okay, first things first,’ I said, trying to get the ball rolling.

‘What?’

‘I don’t know.’

It was not the best start.

‘He’ll probably know it’s us,’ I said.

‘Yeah, I know, but let’s do it anyway. We’ll need an e-mail address.’

We registered a purpose-built e-mail address:

riddlemethis3003@i’mnotreallygoingtopublishthishere.com.

‘Done,’ I said.

‘Right. Now we go into town, take maybe 3 or 4 photos , and e-mail Mike on the same day at the same time every week. Next week we can take another couple of photos, so we'll have 6 or 7 weeks' worth.'

‘Brilliant,’ I said.


Things were falling into place. The snowman was clearly enjoying the plan, as he sat there with a cheeky smile spread across his face. He does love a bit of mischief.


‘Eh... Should we name the snowman?’ I said, looking at him. He deserved to have a name, I felt.

‘Victor. His name is Victor.’


I did not question why.

‘Right,’ I said. ‘Let’s do this. Where to first?’

‘I don’t know. Somewhere that looks nice?’ said Tim.


‘Eh… The Art Gallery, maybe?’ I said.

‘Aye, sure.’

We set off, and headed for the Kelvingrove Art Gallery, which is in the West End. There’s a popular myth that the Art Gallery was accidentally built back-to-front, causing the architect who designed it to commit suicide. I don’t know if this is true or not, but I can tell you right now that it is definitely true.

Tim parked the car a street or two away. We walked towards the art gallery, me with the snowman and Tim with his camera. We were into April now, and the night was still a little cold. Not cold enough to be playing with snowmen, I suppose, but  that’s what we were doing anyway. Take that, society!

‘Whereabouts should we put him?’ I said.

‘Let’s go to the main entrance,’ said Tim  as we got closer. I walked up the steps and placed Victor outside the front door. Tim took a few photos, and then laughed a bit, so I knew we had a good ‘un.

That's him there, at the front.

We looked at the photo. It was brilliant. We both laughed and must have looked very odd to anyone that saw us.

‘This is amazing,’ I said, because it really was.

‘I know!’ said Tim. ‘And look at him, with his cheeky smile. He’s so proud of himself.’

‘Right, that’s one in the bag,’ I said. ‘Where to next?’

‘Eh, George Square?’ said Tim. ‘That’s right in the middle of everything.’

‘Okay doke.’

We set off towards the city centre, but not before taking a picture of Victor standing next to a road sign. Just because.

Victor, standing next to a No Left Turn sign. Can you spot him?

‘We should go further afield with each picture that we send,’ Tim said as we got into the car.

‘Totally! We could even go to his parents’ place in Tighnabruaich, take pictures in the pub, outside his house and in his bedroom,’ I said.

‘Brilliant! We’re going to drive him mad!’

We laughed, because it’s brilliant to drive your mates mad. We drove off, with silly grins on our faces.

We got out at George Square, which was a little busier than the Art Gallery. This meant people looked at us in an odd way. They clearly didn't understand the appeal in taking pictures of plastic snowmen.

‘Right,’ said Tim, ‘how about we put him on that bench there?’

‘Sounds like a plan,’ I said.

I walked over to the bench and placed Victor on top of it, just as a teenager on a skateboard zoomed past. He gave me a look. I was surprised teenagers were still into skateboards, what with the internet and all that.

I looked at Victor, sitting there on the bench, is face a picture of contentment.

‘How’s that?’ I asked.

‘Yeah, fine,’ said Tim.

My placing-Victor-on-a-bench skills are impeccable.

Tim took a few photos as I stood out of view. I hope no-one  runs over and kidnaps him, I thought. Victor hates being kidnapped, unless it’s by two mates who take him out of derelict high schools.

‘Brilliant,’ said Tim, looking at the photo.

He's the one on the bench

And it was brilliant; there was something inherently funny about an ornamental snowman sitting on a bench. (I should say now that these photos are of a much higher quality than what you can see here; Tim is a very talnted amateur photographer. I’m learning how to use editing software as I go, so apologies if they look a bit naff. Also, I’ve had to crop them a bit too.)

‘Right, where to now?’ Tim asked.

‘What about the Donald Dewar statue?’ I said.

‘You sir, are a genius,’ Tim probably told me.

Donald Dewar was a Scottish politician who became the First Minister of the first Scottish Parliament in 300 years. He died in 2000, and a statue was erected in his honour in 2002. So it seemed only natural to take pictures of him with a snowman.

‘There we go,’ I said, taking the snowman and standing behind the statue. The stairs to the Royal Concert Hall were directly behind me, and there we re people sitting there. I could feel their eyes on my back.

Tim took a few pictures, then decided on one he liked.

That's him there, behind the statue

This was more fun than it ought to be.

Where else can we go?’ Tim said. ‘I reckon we get one more in, then head off.’

‘Yeah, okay.’

We thought for a moment. The possibilities were endless. I wanted to take Victor all over the world, and have him pose in front of the Eiffel Tower, the Statue of Liberty, the houses of Parliament and the Sistine Chapel.

‘What about the Armadillo?’ Tim said. ‘That would look pretty cool. We could go over the bridge and take it from there.’

‘A tremendous idea, young Tim.'

We set off. “The Armadillo”, as you may be wondering, is the nickname for the Clyde Auditorium, a concert venue near the River Clyde. It seemed like a good place to take a picture.

 ‘This should look pretty cool,’ Tim said after we reached the other side of the river.

‘Of course it will. Victor loves the Clyde Auditorium.’

As the Armadillo came into view, Tim said, ‘Let’s do something a wee bit different.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Let’s have Victor look over to the Armadillo, instead of facing us. You’d like that, wouldn’t you Victor?’

Victor smiled.

‘Okay doke,’ I said.

After some manoeuvring, and dodging joggers (who looked at us as if we were the weird ones), we had Victor sitting, looking over the river.

That's Victor, in the blue hat.

We looked at the photo with the smug satisfaction two young men who were taking photos of Christmas ornaments in the middle of a city. We smiled. Another one was in the bag.


‘Should we go then?’ I said.


It was getting dark, and cold. And I needed to pee.

‘Yeah. Let’s go home.’

I was enjoying this, going around Glasgow, having Victor pose in front of things. It was good to focus on something silly, because opportunities for some harmless tomfoolery don’t come around much any more, not when you’re in your mid-twenties and thinking about careers and relationships and stuff like that. And when it’s difficult to get out your own head, which is very much the case with me, taking pictures of a plastic snowman with your mate is very therapeutic.