Hardeep Singh Kohli: Yoghurt's really cool in the Land of the Frae

Published on Sunday 26 July 2009 00:32

WHAT'S in a name? I was wandering through London town with my daughter the other day and we happened upon a new shop selling frozen yoghurt. My lassie loves frozen yoghurt so we sloped in and I went to order.

The two handsome young men behind the counter happened to be fellow Glaswegians. Anyway, we got talking and it seemed both lads had been corporate lawyers but had decided to pack that life in to run their own business. From city solicitors to yoghurt salesmen. I wished them well and asked what they had decided to call their new business. He pointed at his t-shirt which was emblazoned

with the word "FRAE"; because they are frae Glasgow.

Genius.

A Rush of blood to the head

Growing up in Glasgow there were very few role models for a kid like me. The Sikh community was fairly small and it was always a bit of a lottery as to which older kid you would bump into at Gurdawara on a Sunday. There were very few older kids that were at all inspirational or aspirational. Very few; but there were two. Kamal and Poppy. Kamal and Poppy were like brothers. Their fraternal bond was drawn on a shared love, a unifying passion, a massive life intersection of music. Kamal and Poppy were mad for Rush.

Many of you may not know who Rush are. They are one of Canada's finest ever musical exports, a progressive rock trio of Geddy Lee, Neil Peart and Alex Lifeson. They were formed in the mid-1970s and had global appeal. They put the pomp in pompous rock and they were at the very heart of the notion of the concept album, indulging in fantastical stories and science fiction adventures in song. I did not know this when I was a ten-year-old: all I knew then was that Kamal and Poppy lived their lives completely and utterly in devotion to all things Rush. And I wanted to know more.

The music was too complex for me, too multi-layered. Unlike pop, which is defined by an instant hook and a catchability of tune, the work of Rush required diligent listening and re-listening. I remember one evening at Poppy's house in Crossmyloof, Kamal and Poppy explaining to me the concept behind perhaps the most famous of all Rush songs, 2112.

Three hundred years on from Tchaikovsky and his overture, the world is a very different place, ruled by the Priests in the Temples of Syrinx. Some 50 years earlier, a galaxy-wide war resulted in all the planets aligning under the leadership of the Red Star of the Solar Federation (with me so far?). In a modern twist on Totalitarianism the Priests at Syrinx had control over all information the people were given and to this end music had been banned from the world.

That was until a man finds, in a small clearing by a waterfall, a guitar. He picks up the instrument and is in awe of the music that comes from it as he plays. For some reason he is naturally melodic and doesn't require any teaching. He decides to take the guitar back to the Priest chappies at Syrinx so that they too can marvel at its beauty. It doesn't end well; they are not impressed and they destroy the guitar; he goes on the run and then takes his own life.

As a ten-year-old this song seemed to have everything I could ever hope for. Action, adventure, science fiction and really loud guitars. It was a brilliant story, brilliant music, and if I liked 2112, then maybe Kamal and Poppy would like me too. Unfortunately it was the only Rush track I managed to connect with, and predictably Kamal and Poppy grew tired of me, no longer seeing any potential in my further learning.

That was 30 years ago. Last week, for some unknown reason I found myself at the checkout of Sister Ray Records asking my favourite assistant Sarah, to sell me a copy of 2112 by Rush. She's normally very good at hiding her surprise when I request the unrequestable, but on this occasion she arched both eyebrows. I hurried home with Rush and played the title track very loud, very proud. Memories of that evening in Crossmyloof with Kamal and Poppy quite literally rushed back.

Tattoo booboo

Sign in Girvan Tattoo Parlour:

"We may not be the best but we are very, very good."

Sometimes it's better not to be totally honest.

I'm flaked out from fighting my head and shoulders shame

I have a very dry scalp. I realise this is information you may not wish to know but I have chosen to share it with you. My adult life has been a constant battle with dandruff. I have tried all and every elixir and potion and shampoo to vanquish the flakes of dry skin that seem to appear with unerring regularity on removal of my turban. No doubt the fact that my hair and my head enjoy very little exposure to the air and sunlight may well contribute to my condition, but also there is a degree of genetics involved.

Other people inherit a wee house in Kinross or some money; I inherited dandruff. There are few things I haven't tried and even to this day my sweet old mum will lovingly rub coconut oil into my scalp to afford me a few days' respite. As I

write this I am trying a brand new, erstwhile untried technique. I have massaged a rosemary and cedarwood lotion into my scalp (rubbing in a tight clockwise direction). I have then (and this is the bit that causes my friends amusement) have to pop a plastic bag on my head for a few hours. The plastic bag is meant to encourage the moisture to remain in and around the scalp. After a few hours I remove the plastic bag and wash my hair.

The only plastic bag I could find in the flat was bright pink. The plan is that after a few weeks of repetition my scalp will be anew. I have to confess that after half an hour I completely forget that I had a plastic bag on my head, so much so that I answered the door to the postie. The big broon fella with a pink plastic bag on his heid moved him not a bit.