What's it called?

Obviously I'm not an Expert.

There’s a giant metal sculpture of a mermaid outside my hometown of Cumbernauld in Scotland. Called Arria, she reaches out to the sky over the M80 - the road running between Glasgow and Stirling. Constructed with thousands and thousands of small pieces of metal, she is as magnificent up close as she is from a distance. Though, as I told my kids this week, you’ll always find someone commenting on the size of her arse.

I took Mark and the kids with me to the LA screening for Chicken Run 2. They were tense because they knew they’d have to do the red carpet. I told them the truth, which is that really absolutely nobody likes red carpets. They suck. They’re like glamorous tax returns.

There are various points in life when you have to be accountable for what you've been up to. That’s what a red carpet is. Show up, smile, get over it, and get on with your life. Loads of people work on a film - not so much a village, but a town. On a carpet, you're there on behalf of everybody.

In LA they have red carpets for just about everything. Somebody invents a new style of coffee and they’ll have a red carpet for it. Business event - red carpet. Someone’s having a Birthday/Christmas/Anniversary…

In Los Angeles you'll find a ‘photo opportunity,” at a party in the same way that back in the old country you're likely to find egg sandwiches. And just like with the egg sandwiches, I have a knack for avoiding them.

I might sneak by behind the cameras, or say I just have to use the restroom and will be back in a moment, or point to someone famous who's entered the room - because in LA there’s always someone much more famous. But some of them have to be done, and Dawn Of The Nugget was one of them.

We had a pep talk in the car going to the event. I told them that all you can hope for is to be the best version of yourself on any given day. Don't stress it, that some people might want you to be shorter or fatter, thinner or taller, younger - always younger (because aging is apparently a thing that only happens to bad people). It is how it is, and judgment comes with the meal. Keep your ego in check reminding yourself you’re there for the village that made the film.

And actually the Chicken Run screening was lovely. Sure it had the red carpet thing but it was mercifully fun, and even the whole stand and smile and try to look natural, when you don’t really feel that natural and your shoes are hurting, wasn’t too tricky. Mark and the boys were brilliant at it, and made me genuinely proud.

The only awkward part of the event was when someone impressive asked me where I was from, and I said Cumbernauld and she said “What’s it called?” and I laughed hilariously. She looked at me blankly - slightly concerned - like I’d just had a seizure. Then I had to explain to her, that for the longest time, the slogan to sell Cumbernauld was “What’s it called?” and I’d laughed because I thought she knew that.

Still eyeing me warily like I’d had some kind of episode, she nodded. Then she asked what I thought about growing up in Cumbernauld, and I said, “It was pretty good all in all.”

When I got home after the event, I kicked off my shoes victoriously, put on my pajama trousers, and poured myself a Mai Tai. I took the notion to find out online if Cumbernauld had a marketing slogan now.

I didn’t find one because I was distracted by a news article - from a British broadsheet explaining how their ‘team of experts’ had deigned Cumbernauld to be the ugliest town in Scotland.

Again.

The style of jokes I least like to write are generally deemed ‘drive-bys”. They’re where you need a punchline to a setup, and rather than think of a proper twist, you throw in a person’s name to make it work.

My watch is so smart…… I’ve called it Albert Einstein.

There you go. Not particularly HaHa HeeHee but you get the idea. That’s the structure.

Generally though, drive-by set-ups are not positive.

My watch is so old, that’s why I call it….

There was so much fat on my steak yesterday, I renamed it….

Drive-bys are easy because there are always targets. Pick someone who's having a hard time in the tabloids, and throw them in at the end of a setup line, and eight out of ten times it’ll work. I’m not saying there aren’t people who ‘deserve’ it, or I haven’t ever written those jokes. I have. But I stopped, because I don’t like myself when I write shit like that.

Anyway, somewhere along the line, Cumbernauld has become the drive-by joke. This time it was a team of Experts from the Telegraph.

"Cumbernauld retains the unwanted distinction of being the only Scottish town labeled Scotland's 'most dismal' twice."

Here's the thing: People in Cumbernauld know it's not a pretty town. It was built that way. It’s the home of Brutalist architecture and clearly not to the taste of everyone. (The clue is in the name.) But it was built to deal with the overspill from Glasgow.

When my parents moved there in the late sixties, it was because they were able to bring up their kids in an actual fucking house with an outdoor space, rather than all of us crammed together in one room and kitchen in a tenement. (Sorry if that’s not a pretty enough story for you, Experts). I’m sure they would have loved to have a three-bedroom semi-detached in some leafy cul de sac in Surbiton, but that was not a choice at the time.

And yes, Cumbernauld has issues with funding and investment, and there are things that could do with improvement. And guess what? The people there know that. They navigate it. They pay their bills. They’ve dealt with the Pandemic and the economy taking a tanking, and job insecurity, and they watch the news and worry about the world imploding like everybody else. And they also have to deal with this shit.

These Experts-of-all-that-is-Tasteful obviously never called in at my sister's house - for undisputedly THE best cheese and tomato sandwiches in the world. Or joined my Aunty and her pals at their book club. They never popped into Uncle Andy’s to hang with Lyndsey and Karin and laugh uproariously about the ridiculousness of life.

I guess they completely forgot to nip round to the care home where my mother spent her last days. They never got to speak to the nurse who would take time to manicure my Mum’s twisted arthritic hands, because she wanted her to feel some kind of beautiful through all the hurt.

They never walked through Cumbernauld Park in bluebell season, or took a wander down Wilderness Brae in the snow, or stood alongside Arria as she reaches out to the sky, her arms outstretched to all of life’s possibilities, as the cars on the motorway drive by.

You know, I have been to a lot of pretty places in the world and found them to be kind of ugly. But I suppose that’s because I’m a ‘beauty comes from the inside’ person, and I’m obviously not “An Expert.”

I would be totally fine if this recognition came with funding, or help, or anything positive. Still, I’m sure it gave some people in Surrey something to giggle about over their cornflakes and to remind themselves how superior they are, so that has to stand for something.

Can we be done with the ugliest town in Britain thing unless it comes with an investment prize to change it?

The problems of Cumbernauld come from lack of investment, and bad planning, and incompetence by officials who always manage to avoid the blame. Unless the Experts plan to do something about that, maybe it would be better if they turned their esteemed attentions elsewhere and took up a hobby. Cumbernauld isn’t on some prissy frickin’ red carpet. It’s a place where people - real actual decent people - live.

You know, growing up, my house may not have been pretty by architectural standards, but my parents were proud and taught me manners: Be the best version of yourself. Nobody is above you or beneath you. If you don’t have something good to say, don't say anything at all. (Admittedly, I always struggle with that one).

It’s what I told my kids when we were in the car heading to the screening. They grunted in a ‘heard it’ manner, and carried on playing on their phones.

When the car pulled up to the movie theatre, I said, “Try to enjoy yourself. Remember why you’re here. Oh and steer clear of any of those people who take this whole sparkly, pretty shit, way too fucking seriously. Those jerks are empty inside.”

Like I say, I struggle with the ‘If you can’t say anything good, don’t say anything at all,” thing.

Till next week.

xo

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Hello there NFTV kitchen pals

I took these photographs the last time I was in Cumbernauld. I went out