Smeat-o Close But So Far

UPDATE: It’s Sorted Out. 1,000 pints are Behind The Bar of the Glasgow Airport Holiday Inn. Thank you all. But What Next? Smeato for a T in the Park appearance. You know it has to be done.

2230 hours. Am just back from a reconnaissance mission to Inchinnan, with mixed news to report.

Starting with a tipoff from a school colleague of the Smeatmeister, I swung by Kelburne Cricket Club. But there was no thwack of cricket bats tonight – just a stark sign. “Kelburne Cricket, Hockey, Squash & Bridge Clubs”. Could this be the place where John first honed his cat-like reflexes and realised where his future lay, as he enjoyed a wee game of Bridge?Where it all began?

A slight bit of confusion

But there was no time to try and figure out the mysteries of the young Mr S. The airport awaited. As I steered the JohnSmeaton.com close support vehicle off the M8, I was greeted by the sight of the Holiday Inn. It might look like a shitey concrete block to you, but to the Smeatonator it’s gonna be like Sodom and Gomorrah in there – especially given how many ladies are now popping a pint behind the bar for their hero.
1,000 pints on THAT bar

But I had an eerie feeling as I clapped eyes upon a stray luggage cart and un-emptied bin. Not on John’s watch, I thought – this sloppiness would not be tolerated.
Not on John’s watch

Entering the building, I interrogated Alec the plumber for the whereabouts of Renfrew’s most famous man. He asked if someone could pledge some pints for him instead. “Not this time”, I sneered. “You’ve got to earn these pups by going above AND beyond the call of duty, Eck”.

Several minutes on hold on the phone at the so-called Information Desk did nothing to advance the cause. I was tortured by the map of the airport on the wall. I knew that that grey bit in the middle was the stomping ground of the Hero of 30/6.
In that Grey Bit, Works John Smeaton

The Masses Wait

BBC News website printout in hand (my get-out-of-jail-without-a-kicking-card), I boldy approached a gaggle of Polis. 8 of them in fact, done up to the nines in black body armour and scowls, and eyeing me up for a trip down the escalator, no doubt. Ready for action, I wasn’t going to mess with these boys.

Haltingly, I enquired – Did they know John Smeaton? Amazingly – they did not. I am sure you are as shocked as I am by this revelation. Where have these people been the last two days? Certainly not sitting on their arses looking at the internet, that’s for sure. Note to Big Willie – you need to start briefing your boys better. What chance have they got if they don’t even recognise the man that saved their bacon just 48-and-a-bit hours ago?
The Polis – Out of Their Depth

What’s the score? I’ve got to get this sorted

Disheartened but still prowling onward, the scent seemingly cold, I chanced upon young Daniel Roddis. The word was that the Smeatster had saddled up and left town for the night. But. Not only did he know of The Man, but he promised that he would hand in to the office the piece of paper that could bring him to this website.

AND THAT HE MIGHT EVEN BE ABLE TO HAND IT TO JOHN IN PERSON IN THE MORNING.

That’s right. The gears are in motion. There is a bit of paper in Glasgow Airport now that has my phone number and name on it. That bit of paper is – if we’re lucky – going to be in the hallowed paws of the Smeatonator in the morning. It’s going to be a long night and this mobile phone battery is going to be charged up to 110% just in case I get THE CALL tomorrow. Cancel all my meetings, take a message (unless it’s the T in the Park people with VIP tickets), keep this frequency clear. It’s on.