I used to cut about at school with a bunch of boys. We were a gang. Nowadays gangs get a bad press but back then there was so much more to gangs than knives and hoodies. It was about being accepted; it was about validation; it was about being men in the making. We boys were defined in our union by the fact that we failed to fit into any other group. That and our daily lunchtime raids on the cafe of the ABC cinema on Sauchiehall Street.

We were not the South Siders Trendies since we were not good-looking enough – being handsome and/or beautiful was a prerequisite of being in the SST. This aesthetic paradigm took precedence in the Darwinistic natural selection of those chosen to be in the coolest gang. The fact that not all of our group were trendy or lived in the South Side of Glasgow was far from the point: we had failed the beauty contest.

Unlike the SST our gang had no name. We had no means of self-reference, no tribal tag. We were simply those who had no reason to be in any other group. Like anonymous itinerants through the hinterland of school we travelled in search of respectability.

For me a gang was important. It was safety, harbour in the constantly changing winds of teenage years. Strangely, as much as brotherhood and esprit de corps, being in my gang forced me to have to put up with certain individuals that I wouldn't ordinarily have chummed around with. But that is both the freedom and the suffocation of belonging.

Okay, we were neither trendy nor handsome, but that's not to say we had nothing going for us. One of our number, Brian Caldwell, was a surfer. Rare enough these days for a Glaswegian school to boast a surfer in its midst; can you imagine the cachet in the '80s? We also had John Davison, whose major impediment in those days was being English. Uber-bright and laconic, he was the first of us to start dating seriously and listening to The Smiths. We also had Jamie Kelly, poor boy. Jamie was my best friend; we met at the age of seven in a playground. Jamie was a good guy but his life was defined by the fact that his entire family worked at the school. His dad was head of English, his lovely mum was school secretary and his wee sister Eileen was an explosion of blonde hair a couple of years below us. Then there was big Mick Donnelly. Mick and I were bonded, quite literally, since we both played side by side in the second row of the scrum. I'm not sure if there's another man who I have spent more time with my arm around than Mick. And Richard Turnock. I bumped into Richard in Edinburgh last week. We were crossing through the roadworks in the West End. He's some high-flying management consultant type thing, travelling the world consulting managements. It is amazing how the years disappear. We sat on a wall and chatted for 20 minutes. And it was just like we were 17 again. So much of life changes around us, so much moves so rapidly. But there is something heartening about the warmth of childhood friendships even 20 years on. The ABC Cinema on Sauchiehall Street may be gone and we might be all grown up and responsible but every now and again it's nice to be reminded of what it was to be young, and in a gang. Good to see you, Richard.

Rip it up record's just not up to scratch

My 10-year-old daughter and I are collapsed in front of the television, flicking through the channels awaiting inspiration. We are wading through the music television offerings when all of a sudden I see Edwyn Collins, right, and Orange Juice singing that forgotten classic 'Rip It Up (And Start Again)'. I become very excited and start singing along to this slice of 1980s nostalgia.

Me: "That's Edwyn Collins. That song was massive when I was young."

My daughter: "Really?"

Me: "Yes. Darling, that is what you call a forgotten classic of music."

She takes a moment and watches the video with the erstwhile pop stars with bad haircuts and equally bad clothes.

My daughter: "Daddy, there's a reason why some things are forgotten… can we watch the documentary channel?"

To sample culinary master-pieces, just use your loaf

Thursday was the day of the sandwich. I ate four times on Thursday and each time I consumed something gripped between two bits of bread. There is a Platonic absolute that enables us all to recognise a sandwich when we see it. My breakfast consisted of smoked bacon and tomato in a ciabatta; lunch was a brie and grape baguette; mid-afternoon saw me snacking on a cheese and pickle bap and the two-hour train journey from Nottingham to London was made shorter by a roast chicken and stuffing sandwich on granary.

Sandwiches are my downfall. I often find my control crashing out of kilter in a crescendo of carbohydrate. My good protein intentions are invariably undone by bread-based bites. No matter how hard I try, sandwiches will always undo me. By way of explanation, I have decided to share with you my favoured fillings, the most celebrated sandwiches I have experienced thus far. (I should note that there are a plethora of bread types and textures.)

1) The all-day breakfast (preferably in a bap): the ultimate meal-on-the-go.

2) Cheese and pickle (a strong cheddar and Branston). NB. The addition of sliced red onion is delicious but optional.

3) (Toasted) ham, tomato and mozzarella with basil. Who needs pizza?

4) Tuna mayonnaise. (This can also be toasted, depending on the bread).

5) Steak sandwich. Requires no clarification.

A heartwarming refusal to accept the autumn chill

It was a little below 17 degrees Celsius on Wednesday evening. As if we needed any further reminding of summer's decline into the past tense and the chill crispness of another autumn. I am a fan of the autumn so I welcome that season with open arms. Growing up in Glesga meant that by blinking one might miss summer; my love of autumn was enforced as much as acquired. Yet I can't help having a grudging respect for those hardy individuals that fight the inexorability of autumn. Especially the ice cream vendor outside the Royal Albert Hall. His faith in the temperature of a September evening ought to be celebrated. But with a coat on.