So I got an email from Govanhill.
Down with this sort of thing. The subject matter is wrong.
We don’t want stories about mice or rubbish or crime.
Well, sit down and strap in Govanhill because a real garden of delight awaits.
Dreamy tales of fluffy pink butterflies and cream cake unicorns, gumdrop buttercups and marmalade picnics, lollipop candyfloss and kisses on the mouth.
Dandelion cake and gingerbread house and bubblegum cottage with liquorice roof and peppermint walls and corduroy grass.
It’s a fucking jamboree, I’m telling you.
My true love and I are just back from gambolling through the meadow with flowers in our hair.
And who shall deny these poor mice the chance to tell their story, the moving story of a life snuffed out too soon, by me.
Same with falling down ceilings and abandoned furniture and the racket from outside. I must bear witness to their truth, their courage against the odds, their heroism, their stories of sorrow and survival and new beginnings. And sudden endings. Nae luck, mice.
And ancient monuments and non places and gentrification and ironic moustaches and Govanhill itself and wee Davy himself and self-improvement and pure shite and utter pish and a schmuck on wheels and cosmic drivel and the Dalai Lama, a brontosaurus and the revolt of the proletariat against the blood-soaked masters of capital.
So nae luck, Govanhill.
Wee Davy shall not be moved.