Non person in a non place

an underground car park, like a non place in the city wildreness

Every city has its non places. Unplaces, semi places, unseen and unreal.

The city wilderness in underground car parks, motorway flyovers, derelict land, demolished bridges.

The background sounds nobody hears. Traffic overhead, electric pylons, the groaning from the railway line.

Warehouses, underpasses, portakabins, with a function and a purpose that makes them invisible.

If you want to be invisible, you go to these non places too.

There’s never anyone else around, apart from the odd druid drinking mead, getting high, being mindful.

Why do you need to be in the desert to take peyote or mescaline and commune with your ancestral spirits?

This is a sacred environment too, an ancient gathering place, a setting straight from the gods.

Sit here on this discarded couch, on this patch of land, contaminated land. Connect with nature and contemplate your surroundings, the silence, the wildlife, the incredible vista stretching all the way to that broken window.

My flat is becoming a non-place. No one comes to my door apart from the occasional uniformed cop asking about a disturbance in the building earlier that day and did I hear anything?

No, I didn’t. Did you?

Aye. Cheers, Govanhill.

Fearless alien creatures out to take over the planet

a street sign reminding people to curn their dogs

Becoming worryingly sentimental about dogs these days. Wee hairy bastards.

Keep watching canine rescue stories and puppy documentaries on cheap TV and it’s playing with my emotions, man.

Sad eyes, undying loyalty, gentle but mischievousness nature.

I mean, how could a dog resist me?

But I’ve never had a pet before so I asked my sister.

It’s not going to bite me on the arse is it?

Not unless you want it to.

A friend outside my own species, maybe that’s just what I need. They’re famous for catching mice, I know, but is it fair to bring a dog into this world of tenements and stairwells and loud noises and rubbish in the streets?

I’m out at work all day too, then there’s the jobbies and the dog food and the vets’ bills.

Might take my mind off the mice, though. And the cockroaches. Jesus, those bastards. Fearless alien creatures out to take over the planet and enslave humankind, terrorising hard-working families in their own homes for millions of years. I’ve been there, we’ve all been there. Indestructible prehistoric nightmare.

So, anyway, dogs.

Nae luck, Fido.

I go to bed too late and get up too early

A mattress on the street in Govanhill

When a man is tired of Govanhill, he is tired of life, said Johnson, Rab Johnson fae Torrisdale Street.

Well Rab, I’m knackered, mate, mostly because you and Tracey won’t shut the fuck up with the loud music and the screaming all through the night and the people shouting up at your window from the street all day, you know?

I can’t get enough sleep. I go to bed too late and get up too early so you can see the problem. It’s a nightmare.

My bedroom used to be like a Sunday supplement photo spread. Inner-city sun pouring through tenement window on to luxurious double bed. White linen, fresh cotton, soft quilt, firm mattress, good price, flat pack, put it together, did it myself, job done, nae bother.

But then I drank six cans to celebrate and accidentally trashed it and now all I’m left with is this mattress.

Still can’t sleep.

If only there were a sleep industry to solve my problems. Help me with advice and strategies and techniques and, above all, technology.

Machines will save us, as they surely always do.

Like Govanhill, but without the branding

Scary trees beside the pond in Queen's Park

Keep going up Victoria Road, through Queen’s Park, straight across, past the ice cream van and the band stand and the pitch n putt, the boating pond and the tennis courts and the botanic gardens.

You’ll notice a change in the geography and the climate, how people talk differently and have their own customs and traditions.

Do not be alarmed. This is the notorious Langside-slash-Battlefield, the dangerously prosperous and leafy badlands.

Handsome tenements, flowering trees, quirky boutique shops.

They speak fewer languages, make much less noise and there aren’t that many pubs.

You may feel a bit disorientated. And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?  

Head to Young’s Interesting Books, just beyond the park, into Shawlands. You’ll find sanctuary there, time to pause, take stock, browse a little, maybe come away with a rare James Kelman first edition.

Then take a deep breath, step outside, put one foot in front of the other and you’re off, straight on, through the park, heid doon, trap shut, ten-minutes, job done, nae bother.

photo of rubbish in the street in Govanhill

Ah, home at last.

Brammers and bodyswervers

Allison Street in Govanhill, densely-populated, tenement city

I like the internationalist bus stops, whole families browsing in charity shops, the butchers and the greengrocers and all day Saturday along Victoria Road.

I like the chaos of Westmoreland Street, the darkness of Allison Street, narrow and crowded and noisy.

You lose your bearings, forget where you are, don’t recognise the places around you.

Boarded up closes, people at street corners, black Alsatian dogs.

Ooh, it didn’t used to be like this.

Glasgow was always that way. A malevolent city, bitterly cold, stricken by violence and the gruesome humiliations of poverty.

The black smokers of Rotting Row, the rattling junkies in sportswear, the chip pan fires and fatal stabbings.

Maryhill, Tollcross, the Garngad. Kinning Park, Whiteinch, Pollokshaws.

Brammers, bodyswervers, nervous wrecks and clatty bastards.

The blisters, the plukes and the haemorrhoids. Lambhill. Woodside. Kennishead.

Things weren’t better in the old days.

I was there.

I was always there.

It’s all the same.

Cheers, and nae luck, Govanhill.

The one where I punch Chandler in the face

A cooker in the building, which I pretended to use for a barbecue for my hipster friends

So I invited some friends round for a barbecue. Ross, Rachel, the whole gang.

What a fascinating bunch they are, my pals. They are architects or freelance graphic designers or work in marketing. One has an online cupcake business, another runs regular spoon carving workshops.

One of them, God forbid, is a blogger. The rest are changemakers and upcyclists.

They’re contractors, digital nomads even, so they cycle crosstown every morning to their co-working space where they stare into their laptops, maybe grab an Uber Eats for lunch, while devising unexpected solutions to creative challenges.

At the end of the working day they go home and lie down and close their eyes and start banging their heads on the floor and crying uncontrollably until they fall asleep.

But the barbecue went well.

After the cauliflower waffles and pulled jackfruit I drank ten cans and passed out next to a bin bag on the stairs.

Woke up the next morning and started wondering what it would take to become a better person.

I hope it’s jojoba

The wall of a garage in Govanhill. It says 'bodyshop' in spray paint, I'm pretending it's a branch of the Body Shop because I'm trying to be funny....

Great to see a new branch of the Body Shop opening in Govanhill.

At last, seaweed oil aqua boost overnight serum whenever I need it, which is often.

Other vast transnational conglomerates with terrifying economic power recently based their call centres here in Glasgow.

They appreciated our soothing, approachable, non-threatening Scotch tones.

We don’t make things any more, but at least we have a weird way of talking.

Cheers British empire, rapid industrialisation followed by the wholesale destruction of manufacturing as part of the disastrous neo-liberal late twentieth century experiment.

All you’ve left us with is our distinctive accent.

It’s all so vibrant, by the way, how us locals speak.

We are so gallus, ya eejit.

Aye, the Scottish accent is sexy, isn’t it, as long as you don’t mind the alcoholism and psychosis that usually go with.

Oh look, a drunk man puking on his shoes.

Must have put that shea nourishing body butter on his pieces.

Cheers, bamboo charcoal water lotus shower gel.

Billy and his mates go for a kickabout at Queen’s Park recs

Billy McNeill, Celtic Lisbon Lions, European Cup Final, 1967,

Within a few blocks in Govanhill are the Victoria Bar, McNeill’s and the Queen’s Park Café, all pubs once owned by former Celtic players.

The Green Mile it was called, back in the day, not that long ago.

Fearsome left back Jim Brogan at one end, chunky bubble permed Benny Rooney at the other, and in between is Billy McNeill.

Yes, really. It’s Billy McNeill. Cesar. And not only is he pouring you a pint but he’s asking if you were at the game, lads, and you’re awestruck and you almost reply, yes sir, because it’s Billy McNeill, it’s really him, and you’re in his pub and he’s handing you a drink and smiling at you. It’s Billy McNeill.

Here’s Billy leading some of his mates out for a kickabout at Queen’s Park recs.

Emerald green is God’s favourite colour, and that’s a scientific fact.

The mythical origins, the noble traditions, the legendary commitment to truth and beauty.

Nae luck, supporters of any other team.

Cheers, greatest love story in football.

Why Govanhill is just like Hamburg

St Pauli sticker, pirate, in Govanhill

Govanhill is a tourist hot spot with supporters of St Pauli, a football team from Hamburg with a long history of radical players and anarchist fans, squatters, activists, socialists, nutters.

st pauli sticker collage, chucky, cantona, garfield, in govanhill

You see these stickers all over Govanhill, on lamp posts and litter bins and street signs and bus stops.

You can follow the trail all the way down to the Gorbals and into town.

It’s a bit like the West Highland Way, but without the joyless mountaineers from Kent in their Gore-Tex scanties.

st pauli sticker collage, glasgow emblem and che guevara

Went with my brother to see St Pauli against Dortmund a few years ago.

He wore the new away top, I was in the early 80s home strip, all Dom Sullivan, George McCluskey and Danny McGrain.

Foaming pilsner lager, the Reeperbahn, skull and cross bones, anti-fascism, punk girls and fanzines and rebel songs. Best fans in Deutschland.

Standing on terraces in a cage drinking beer. Now that’s what I call football.

Cheers, St Pauli. You remind me of home.

Footprints in the butter

a collage of mice, all over the flat

Mice. Twice. Wee bastards.

Mice keep happening, in the kitchen, on the surfaces, on the floor, terrorising me.

I feel invaded, violated, also a bit bloated because I’m still carrying a little holiday weight right now.

Did they come through the ceiling? They’re like uninvited guests who drink all your bevvy and empty your fridge and just won’t leave.

Wee sleekit bastards.

What’s next, eating my porridge, sleeping in my bed, wearing my clothes, turning up at work pretending to be me, doing a better job than me, getting a pay rise ahead of me?

Wee cowerin bastards.

So I asked Saint Google what to do. Old-fashioned traps with peanut butter are best. Nae luck, vegans.

Also read about a plug-in device which emits an excruciating noise for mice, a bit like listening to the Proclaimers at top volume. Or the Beatles.

Whoah, steady on. Only joking there. Not slagging off the Beatles. Course not. No way. Macca, John and that. Great bunch of lads. Really good at what they do.

Sorry, what was I talking about again?

Aye, mice. Wee bastards.

At least they’re not cockroaches.

Er…