The Dowager Duchess Daimler having being reupholstered at considerable expense I ventured south to view 'A Christmas Carol' with my sister and my flame haired (and capable of throwing up in any vehicle, however magic carpet the ride quality) nephew Connor at the Glasgow Imax in splendifirous 3D.
Driving home I encountered the coach decamping jaywalking hell that is Govan on a Saturday when the Gers are playing at home. Sectarian chants, bottles of buckie, and the great redbrick edifice that is Ibrox looming like a cross between a place of incarceration and a temple of worship. Deja vu.
The strange thing is that I wanted to be one with them. Not healthy I know, but there is something undeniably attractive about being in a group with one mind. At one time I would have been on one of those coaches, but today I prepare to observe rather than commune.
You can't help but notice the incongruity: the echoes of a proud shipbuilding community laid low obvious in the boarded up pubs and the shabby shop fronts, but also the shiny newness of new build flats ('Buy to Let'- Ho Ho Ho), and the shiny temples of modernity and leisure.
The roads signs where fucking rubbish; Connor was touching cloth so we had to detour to Asda, and there was a monsoon on Loch Lomond. The latter, believe me, is not a pleasurable experience when you have a pimple nosed twat in a baseball cap tail gating you in his dodgem car.
All in all, it was a good day.
5 comments:
So ginger runs in your family?
Alistair Sim was the only Scrooge worth the candle.
I have never been part of a tribe, except on the odd protest, where even there I have been the odd one out - aka not a hippy!
But I don't complain. I would have nothing to talk about with most tribes anyway. Tis the price of being an individual.
Agree with you about the modernist hypocrisy in the face of the truth - ie joblessness and hardship for many.
F*****g B******e B*******s
My Dad's memory of Ibrox Pk in the 50s: trouble high up in the back stands, cops sent in and their dogs thrown flying out onto the pitch shortly after.
My Dad's memory of Ibrox Pk in the 50s: trouble high up in the back stands, cops sent in and their dogs thrown flying out onto the pitch shortly after.
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