So I was with my brother in Paddy Neeson’s and I might have been dreaming but I can’t really remember.
Maybe it was the Victoria, or the Café or the Hampden, there’s so many around here.
Penny Farthing, Star Bar, Bell Jar, they’re everywhere.
Heraghty’s, Rum Shack, Allison Arms, know what I mean?
Titwood, Prince Regent, the Bungo, there’s only so much you can take.
Or maybe it was somewhere that’s no longer there, like Kelly’s, Sammy Dow’s or McNee’s.
The Albert, Maxwell Arms, Pandora, remember?
Or even the Govanhill Bar, which was really in the Gorbals.
Wherever it was, we might have been there and we might have been talking that way brothers do.
Got any painkillers?
I think it was my brother, but I wasn’t really sure. He was keeping his distance so I could hardly make him out, you know how it is when you’re asleep or you’re drunk.
You look like a chalk outline.
Like a dead body at a crime scene?
Aye. You’d better get the results to the lab.
The DA will be on my back.
Ballistics will go ballistic.
We both laughed and were getting up to leave when I saw a fat bluebottle throwing itself at the window again and again.
I thought these dafties had six pairs of eyes, but I went over and opened the window anyway.
Here’s your chance, big world out there, go wherever you want.
But it stayed on the inside, banging its head on the glass.
Remember, Govanhill. It might have been a dream.