The Glesga Banter

Had an American complain to me about the weather in the West of Scotland today, but cheerfully say that global warming will sort that out. When I pointed out that the effect would eventually mean the gulf stream being deflected south and Britain having a climate like Greenland she seemed less than enthused. Mind you, she is from LA, where, as Bill Hicks pointed out, they don't have weather.

The foul weather isn't the worst thing about Glasgow, though. Since moving back to live here after many years elsewhere, I can't help but noticing a certain arrogance has crept into the place. Like those people who try so hard to be cool and then tell everyone about how cool they are, it's all a bit, well, uncool.

Last year there were Mockintosh banners all along the length of Great Western Road advertising Glasgow as "Scotland with Style", annointed with some stick thin bimbo in black dress who probably has never experienced the delights of the Stonner Supper , branded the most dangerous meal in Scotland. Something in this smug, self serving little slogan riled me, way down inside, like a freshly swallowed thistle, as it fluttered from a lamp-post in front of that temple to fashion that is Wintersgill's Saloon. Perhaps it was the usual gathering of tubercular smokers gathered at the door, heaving up vast gobbets of lung tissue onto the spattered pavement as they wheezed on their stylish Regal King Size. Perhaps it was the shameless display of catwalk panache displayed by the young gentleman in this season's must have shell suit as he whipped his boaby out in the doorway of a nearby close and sprinkled some of that stylish pish onto the steps (or should that be "pishe?").

I am all in favour of civic pride. But fuck me, this was just like getting reminded that you didn't have the most stylish set of trainers at school. Some dreadfully trendy ad executive is sitting somewhere trying to appeal to even more dreadfully trendy little wankers who will flock here to populate more dreadfully trendy wank emporia playing bad music and selling unpronouncable beers at unforgivable prices. Afterwards they will all go home to their hideous rabbit hutch homes in Glasgow harbour where they can gaze out over the handy moat of the Clyde at the run down streets of Govan and listen to the folk upstairs playing happy hardcore through the gyprock ceilings as the sun sinks slowly behind the high rise prisons.

We are all being sold another lie, just like in the 50s and 60s. Only this time, the slums have got plasma screens.