Getting drunk with wee Nicola in Glasgow southside is a political act, a separatist act, a nationalist act.
Me and the First Minister out on the razz in her very ain Scottish Parliamentary constituency.
Wee Nicky is the current manager of bony Skotchland, of course. First team coach of the smallest country in the best world, the countriest world of small bests, the bestest world country of smalls, whatever.
Hoots mon, help ma Boab, haggis, neeps and twatties.
Rabbie Burns and Johnny Walker, Sunday Post and Highland flings.
Bag a Munro, finger a MacTavish, tickle a Corbett’s bollocks.
Makes ye proud to be Skarrish.
But wee Nickla is also every citizen of Govanhill’s very ain elected member.
So we had a few swallies and a couple of goldies propping up the bar in Neeson’s.
Went round to Yadgar for a lamb biryani, Peshwari naan and takeaway mushroom pakora.
Then across tae Rab’s over in Torrisdale Street to score some late-night blaw.
Chap the door, just say Mel Gibson sent ye, aw right, job done, nae bother.
And after that we sat on the pavement to have a wee toke and discuss the issues that matter.
The Westmoreland Street question, the Northern Pollok protocol, power sharing between Cathcart Road and Garturk Street. A wealthier, happier, fairer Polmadie?
Indyref too, how now is the time, like it almost was last time and though the moment had gone here it is again, and how once-in-a-lifetime doesn’t come round very often.
And we both agreed we were Glasgow partisans, Govanhill nationalists, tenement city separatists.
Then I poured wee Nicola into a taxi back to Bute House and she said Cheers Govanhill and I went home to my tenement flat for more bonnie wee national stereotypes.
Yesterday I was tartan shortbread tin laddie. Tomorrow I’ll be kilted hunk eating porridge. Day after that I’ll be bagpiping through the glens.
But tonight I’m solving my problems and making them worse by being drunk and falling asleep on the couch.
Wha’s like us?
Me neither. Me too.