People sometimes ask me who the hell I think I am and what the hell I’ve ever done for Govanhill and I’m like ffs, calm doon, I only came in to buy fags.
But let me think about it.
I don’t sit on any committees, it’s true, nor any board, working group, task force, or forum. I was on the panel for a while, but that’s a different story.
I’m not an entrepreneur or a social enterpriser either.
Landlord, stakeholder, partner, investor? Aye, right.
I don’t even like hanging out with my dog, listening to true crime podcasts or baking.
I am nobody, unknown nobody no one knows.
The only places I’m a regular are the pavement, Celtic Park and my living room.
But I’ve walked the streets of Govanhill more than ever before. I’ve appreciated it, written about it, painted its pictures, sang its songs. Endured it, stood up for it, taken the piss a little.
Also howled at it in the middle of the night, slapping my forehead, gnashing my teeth.
I’ve never shut up about Govanhill, to be honest.
You were always on my mind.
Because I’ve always been here and always will be, for ever and ever, amen.
There was never a different time or a better time, only this time.
I was there back in the day, the old day, in black and white photos of old Govanhill, how clean it looked before car ownership and home ownership, fast food and disposable culture, austerity politics, social media, gig economy.
Remember the wee guy picking his nose and staring at the camera?
I haven’t changed a bit.
I wish my fishmonger were still alive and that mass unemployment had never been invented.
If only the dry cleaners hadn’t closed down and people worked reasonable hours and had nice homes and a pension.
Where is the haberdasher and how come my phone knows everything about me?
I just want to go home.
But you are home.
Yes. I want to go home but I don’t know what that means, where it is, or if it even exists. It must be a place in your head you can always come back to, like a dream or a never-ending story.
Sorry, what are you talking about?
Ten club king size mate.