Hugh Reilly: A ponytail of two cities with the blues

One fine morning, midway through my mesmerising lesson on the work of an MP, my classroom door flew open to reveal an ox of a man wearing a leather box-jacket (I later discovered he was gainfully employed as a bouncer at The Garage nightclub in Sauchiehall Street). His son, one of my pupils, stood next to him. Oddly, my first reaction was to slightly giggle at the sight of this bald man with a ponytail but, rapidly realising I was interfacing with a psychopath, I gave a classic startled look and my knees set to knocking.

"Is that him?" menaced the fight-night father. "Naw, that's Reilly, he's awright," quoth the lad. I tell you this: the notion of pupil assessment of teachers has its detractors but, that day, I became a convert. After a rather curt apology, ie "sorry, pal", the hulk headed off in search of his intended punch bag, Mr Smith, who had upset the boy the previous day by issuing him with a punishment exercise. Being something of a martial arts expert - I have watched all three series of David Carradine's Kung Fu - I fleetingly considered confronting the angry parent but contented myself that Smith probably possessed the necessary soft skills to de-escalate the conflict situation. And if he didn't, the thick pile of the staffroom carpet would offer a cushioned landing.

In my opinion, the bald dome with ponytail look has the ability to make Donald Trump's comb-over almost acceptable to society (the lesser of two weavers, if you will). Historians debate the origin of this nightmarish hairstyle. Some trace it back to drunken Sioux warriors who gave Black Hills gold prospectors a bad hair day by half-heartedly scalping them. But I stand on the side of those trichological experts who believe the first sighting occurred at the inaugural Dundee Blues Bonanza.

Last weekend, I attended my second Blues festival in Dundee. My student daughter has a flat in the city. I say flat but from the shenanigans gleaned from Sue's Facebook page, it's more like a permanent party venue. She was out of town and, as the flat was available, it seemed like a good idea to use it as a base. On entering the apartment, there was a real buzz, which, to my horror, was coming from hundreds of flies swooping at every window. Luckily, I located a can of fly spray to gas the blighters and soon the sills were awash with dead and writhing, nearly dead flies. I delivered the coup de grace by flicking them into the backcourt below, a few insects escaping their fate by feigning death before flying off to feast on the remains of a rotting jumbo hotdog.

At the Duke's Corner pub, the ageing demographic of blues fans was very apparent. Veteran Chicago blues enthusiasts in leather waistcoats, sporting outrageous Tom Selleck moustaches, flirted with grey-haired, middle-aged women with tattooed shoulders.Decades ago, these females were undoubtedly groupies for the bands: now, they looked like fretting carers for the doubly incontinent elderly musicians. One sad follower wore a T-shirt with his favourite singer's 2011 UK tour venues printed on the back. With gigs in metropolises such as Glenfarg and Pitlochry, it would be kind to say the artist is "keepin it real" by choosing the intimate atmosphere of a community hall over the soullessness of a stadium. It must be humiliating, however, to alert audiences via your webpage that you are cancelling your live appearance at the Dunkeld Birnam Institute due to a booking clash with an Age Concern Arts and Crafts event.

Along at The Doghouse pub, an English band called The Blue Kings were outstanding. Not so, the next performer, the headline act from the USA, who indulged in diva behaviour, demanding the sound system be sorted out to her pernickety satisfaction. Unfortunately, the roadies fixed her microphone and the howling mob was subjected to a mundane set of songs. The chanteuse was a trifle irritated when the bored throng failed to enthusiastically applaud a particularly awful assault on their ears. "Where you all at? Ah wuz in the zone!" she chided, her voice eerily echoing that of Hattie McDaniel in Gone With The Wind.

Frankly, my dear, we didn't give a damn. And even the bald men at the front swished their ponytails in disgust.