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Glasgow Traditions No 1: The Random Attack

Car full of mates driving along
the road Tuesday afternoon
and seeing a random man
wi his messages walking as if he
owned the street. Seriously,
one could hardly just drive by

as if this was Sleepy Hollow; No,
one would mount the pavement
confirming, Yous aa tooled up?,
the packing status was ‘Situation
Green’, screech to a halt, leap out

entertaining the nearby shoppers
with an unprovoked Friday night
style attack on the said man with
various sporting implements and,
this being Glasgow, a chib; which
was naturally in one’s waistband.

The victim called for handers but
none responded except a local
Rottweiler who got confused as to
who was what and joined in the attack.

Police came later with a nice visit
to hospital and ignoring traditions,
and despite assurances from the
victim that he hadn’t planned
anything other than to nip in
for a pint on the way hame, reached
the brilliant Sherlockian conclusion that:

The clubbed and stabbed man may have been the victim of a planned assault.

A similar conclusion reached by
his ‘ither hauf’, who suspicious
of the delay wi the messages
(there no bein a biscuit
in the hoose and her waiting
on the same) was not sympathetic

to him having a face that had
been used as a fitba (scaring wee
Sammie into hiding in the corner!)
and that he was feeling like
a Neerday hangover.

Everytime ye go oot something like this happens.
I’m beginning to think you plan it.


Admittedly I’m there too
so obviously no heavy judgement
is implied on fellow café culturistas,
but I am seriously bemused
by this group of frighteningly civilised,
ten pounds overweight at ten,

boys enjoying mochas and muffin
swapping texts and sharing
a tablet (no, not that sort of tablet)
that keeps them up to date in their
world utterly at home with the sofas
and the toasted Bucheron ciabattas.

Seeing one ordering another mixed
round of coffees and smoothies
with pleasant authority at the counter
I see my pals, ten pounds underweight
at ten, spotted from the landing windae,
with the same naturalness as if too

standing at a coffee shop counter,
rake the midgie bins for swadgers
having just been told by Dougie’s mum,
He’s oot, Son. He’s been oot since seven.
And then myself here now, as the third
vertice in a triangle beyond understanding.

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