People. Make. Glasgow.
Ah dinnae ken wit bugger came up wi that but by Goad ah’ll tell ye they had me in mind. Forty year ah’ve been knockin my pan in up and doon this beat. Grey frae the street tae the sky an aye pishing doon, but ye’ll always see me oot. Ye see, it’s ma joab, under his majesty’s employ, tae pick up your rubbish. Sweep yer streets. Kick yer leftover chunks of kebab meat into the drains on a Sunday morning. But ah see it as mah duty, naw, ma calling in life to serve a higher purpose, that bein Glesga hersel. An ah dae this in a way only ah could.
See, when am humphin a stinkin bin bag o’er ma shudder up Sauchiehall Street an ah see you stamp oot yer ciggy on the groun, ah dinnae run tae ye wi ma wee snappy picker. Ah’ll catch most of it. Ah’ll no see a wummin scale her bairns buggy o’er a mountain a dug shite an broken glass, but ah’m no a bastard forensic in my cleaning either.
See, yer modern cities are aw fuckin spotless – they huv tae be. Ye cannae stick on the front-page ae a tourism brochure ‘stunning sights, riotous nightlife, and the bokin smell a pish roun every corner.’ There’s nothin wrang wi embdy venturin up here for a gander roon the picture galleries, wee walk in the park, and a slap-up meal, ye ken aw the tourist pish – or folk comin frae far and wide tae start a new life here. Ah jus dinnae want this to be a toon whaur ye cannae walk doon the street fir fear a yer ankles gettin clattered aff some hawfwit yank an a trolly case as wide as his arse.
Ma beat is Sauchiehall Street and surrounds, but ah’ll generally wander ma arse aw o’er the joint. Wee spit polish on Donald Dewar’s shoes first thing keeps the burd shite frae hardening too quick. Six in the mornin ye’ll get a few folk cutting about on their way tae work but generally this is the hour a the same-clothes-as-the-night-before crowd. Crawling out of some poor lassies flat, every second button done up on yer too-tight gon oot shirt, hair lit Ken Dodd on yon maid a the mist. Straight on the bus hame back tae yer ain bit jist when I need ye to bring the tone doon. Ah’ll trail masel up the length a that road past yer trendy wee coffee shops and up along by the art school, in between fires, then doon an cross tae near Finnieston but no actually make it there – some places are meant tae stay totally boggin.
It’s no’ a toon like many ah’ve ever seen. Ah’ve been aw o’er the map, seen aw the places an met aw their people, frae the sheep shaggers tae the knuckle-draggers, but there’s nae a place nor a people like the yins that hail frae ma hame toon. Whaur a crabbit shower, an we love a moan about this fair city, but it’s oors and deep doon we love it jist the way it is. Frae ah wis a bairn this has been a toon wi a hard shell but a soft interior. Lit a wee pear.
Ye’s willnae look at me, ye’ll certainly no spend the length of time from your chip poke leaving yer haun tae hittin the groun tae consider the six loads a pills am on breakin ma back tae pick the bastards up. Ye’ll never thank me either. Ye’ll never realise ma master plan in action. Ah dae what ah dae for us aw. Ah dae it tae keep your rent on the lighter side of the whit-ma-fucking-paying-that-fir scale. Ah dae it tae stop pints frae bein ten quid, and every second shop frae hawkin skip hats, shite tablet an every-an-all clothing garment emblazoned wi a westie or a thistle o’er it. Ah keep Glesga the way it is, the way it always should be – ah keep it a bit shit.
Basically, ah just dinnae want us tae be Edinburgh.
