13.23. I was desperate to get to Hamilton for 13.28. Not a sentence you often read nor the premise for a great action movie. But let me set the scene; 73mph on the M74. The PMiaV (our nameless protagonist; handsome, athletic, improbably full head of hair) must have coffee and a cinnamon bun. It’s Sunday, he’s desperate, been driving the van hard, slinging boxes around and wowing suspiciously attractive customers since dawn. 13.23. Cadzow Bakehouse closes at 13.30. The jeopardy: after 13.30 the only alternative will be Hamilton Services. Nay cinnamon buns there pal. Now that’s what I call a setup. Get Jason Statham’s agent on the phone. Oh, she’s calling us! Statham wants in. Jason is a big fan of your blog. The hair? He’ll wear a syrup. Jason loves your work, he wants to ride shotgun in the van and understand your ‘journey’ for real, see what makes you tick, understand the real PMiaV. He’ll bring the shotgun.
After scattering traffic cones and reckless overtaking, Statham screeches to a halt round the back of Cadzow Bakehouse. He parks his black, tinted window van and pays 30p for 15 minutes rather than blowing the parking meter away with his Glock. Checking the www.pickymaninavan.com site (this shot is a contractual obligation) on his phone Statham pouts manfully. Making the face that means he’s realising the odds against him are impossible. He’s going to do it anyway. In a long shot behind Statham an inferior, likely Vauxhall Vivaro white van disgorges the heavily armed baddies. They’re in cinnamon cold turkey. They want Jason’s buns. No chance. Statham lays down a fusillade of shots. The Vivaro van explodes. Good riddance. The depreciation was shocking anyway and the cab is nasty. Statham sprints towards Quarry Street…
Quarry Street Hamilton is not where retail dreams are made or a cinematic fantasy land. But to me, Cadzow Bakehouse was a beacon of hope when I reached it at 13.28. Alas, there was nothing left on the shelves or in the glass display cabinet. Both the highly amenable staff apologised. There was no food left. I ordered a coffee. I must have looked crushed. ‘Oh, hold on’, said the friendly assistant, ‘I’ve got a couple of these. For some reason they didn’t sell today’. She turned round to reveal the back of her T-shirt: Death squatted with a scythe, considering a large, spiralled cinnamon baked goodie. Naturally, the text read: ‘Buns of Anarchy.’
Hold on, these original staff duds are even better than the ‘Lovejoy Division Unknown Pleasures’ T-shirt a large man was sporting in the Cadzow Bakehouse Bothwell branch on my visit there (see previous PMiaV review). I complimented her. ‘Our manager does the designs and makes the T-shirts and totes. She’s really good,’ she said, handing me a weighty box. ‘Have these for free. They won’t keep ‘til Monday’. This was so kind.
Back at the van I opened the box. It contained two huge, Cadzow Bakehouse-style cinnamon buns. Statham will probably find a bomb, blinking digital timer counting down and then realise the box is coated with a superglue linked to his DNA. But I prefer my happy ending.
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