May 2007 - It All Starts Here

[Sweder]

I undertook admirable rehydration at the Grove, a Glaswegian hostelry for the working man, soothed in the gentle arms of Belhaven Pale Ale, a smooth and most agreeable brew.

Wandering (an advisably generous description of my post-closing time cadence) hotelward I was drawn to the ubiquitous Golden Arches where I joined the flotsam of the hour. Waiting on that hideously neon-flooded concourse for what turned out to be a reasonable facsimile of a cheeseburger I observed the ugly underbelly of local life.

Oh yes, Glasgow remains a City of European Culture ™, replete with architectural adornments from that triumph of a few years ago. But the city remains a mirror for all that’s bad in the UK underclass, an insight into urban reality. I don’t swallow the doctrine hammered out by Mike Leigh and his bleeding-heart cohorts. There must be compassion and sympathy in society for sure; treat those less fortunate that oneself as one would wish to be treated, there but for the grace of God go I . . . except, no, hang on, there I don’t go. The born-again shoulder-chip, the ‘centuries of oppression’ weighing so heavily that one cannot find the heart to paw out a meagre living but one seems entirely capable of draining the pub dry whilst smoking a hectare of tobacco provided via the rock-n-roll and a few dodgy scag deals on the edge of town.

I watched a wheelchair-bound man, perhaps in his late twenties but looking much older, apparently debiliated by sheer girth, sucking on cheap cigarettes alongside his partner/ carer. Both overweight, both prematurely grey, both apparently without self-determinate thought. Their grease-stained shell suits may as well have borne the shabbily embroidered inscription of the asylum; Abandon Hope All Ye Who Enter Here. I have no idea of the personal circumstances of these two maligned night crawlers; who’s to say they weren’t charitable people heading home after a hard days graft in the homeless shelter? I’m to say. I’ve seen it so many times, in so many late night eateries and bars on the edge of the city limits.

Glasgow’s cultural veneer is as thin as the turps swilled by the homeless draped around Sauchihall Street. Culture? The only lasting culture to be found beneath the stained skirts of this nouveau-rich man’s playground belongs in a Petri dish.

Sorry for the downbeat view but I grow weary of the ‘Scots for Quality’, ‘Scotland Way-Hey’ balderdash peddled by the SNP and their ilk, especially in the business community over the years. They’d do well to indulge in a little national introspection before trumpeting a claim to their international birthright. They reach out when the hand best served is held inward to lift those in danger of being left behind in the scramble for political glory.

I well recall taking to a gentleman’s restroom in Aberdeen during what is known locally simply as The Oil Show. Some local wag had added these pearls of wisdom on the lavatory wall:
Here I sit my cheeks a-flexin
Just gave Birth to another Texan
Buy Scottish

The UK participates formally and on a national basis in OTC, the largest oil and gas/ energy related trade show in the world. Except it’s not really the UK. Oh the group consists of companies from Wales, England and Norn Iron, flies the Union Flag above the individual stalls and trades as a unified 'bloc' renowned, collectively, for a history of engineering excellence. But next door, under a forest of brightly illuminated Saltire bearing the tagline ‘Scots For Quality’ stands – yes, you’ve guessed it – the Scottish Pavilion. Separately funded by STi (the Scottish Trade Initiative) this represents one of the earliest public cracks in the 300 year-old Union that binds these isles. Of course all the funding, the trade support that, incidentally, is provided in favour of the Scots by some 25% over their island cousins comes directly not from Hollyrood but from Westminster coffers, and therefore the pockets of the very taxpayers the pinched, whiny descendants of William Wallace publicly purport to despise.

Funnily enough, despite all my misgivings about the nature of Scottish Nationalism and the infinite chippiness of the indigenous Glaswegian, I like these people. There’s something inherently tough about their nature, indefinable, indefatigable.

That, and I’m a sucker for a redhead with a lilting accent.
I’ll get me redcoat.