Hazy memories of Glasgow City

“Aww man, it’s like a home away from home”… This is how I have heard countless Celtic fans describe the city of Glasgow; their big, black, saucer-like pupils dilated with love usually seen only in the eyes of a new mother.

“I’m telling ye man,” they say, embracing you in a vice-like headlock of drunken affection, their lingering Scottish inflection unaware that they are back on John Street, “there is no place like it. You’ll have to get over for a game sometime, man.”

And, despite the creek in my neck and the spittle on my cheek, I always agree when this recurring offer comes around.

“Aye,” I muffle into their damp, green armpit, “I will come over for a game some time, surely.”

However, these offers, on account of their retrospective nature, are very difficult to take up.

Come to think of it, I cannot remember ever being invited to a game that is still yet to happen.

The most notice I have ever been given to share in the magical experience that is a match at Celtic Park is about seven hours after the final whistle has blown, usually under the affable arrest of a returning Hoops fan, as he holds an aggressive embrace upon the broken boulevard of John Street.

But, one cannot always wait for a hand to hold; a man must make his own destiny; plow his own furrow; fashion his own bow and fix the flight of his own arrow.

So, in an act of self-determination, last weekend, along with a fella that used to work in here (the ‘Herald), I boarded a ferry in Belfast, and set sail for even greyer shores. We were Scotland-bound.

Here is the heavily sanitised, condensed, redacted, re-sanitised tale of the trip. The first part will be informed by detailed notes I made during the early part of the weekend. However, from the point of the first pint, I have no source material other than my hazy, unreliable, broken and beaten memories.

To begin, the ferry there was great.

For those that have not travelled by big boat, I advise that you give it a go. Aside from the corpse-like colour of the food they attempt to pass off as a breakfast bap, it is a lovely experience – provided that the ebbing equilibrium does not bring on motion sickness, nausea, and incessant, over-board boking.

When you arrive on the Scottish shores, you would be forgiven for believing you are standing along the black, crumbling cliff-line of Donegal.

It is all piled stone walls, sheep, and a grey icy sea that, at a glance, makes loose skin shrivel into a protective shell.

On this particular day, everything was an almost stereotypical melancholic Scottish grey.

After two hours on a bus, we arrived at our very cheap hotel.

Bags were deposited in our minimalist chamber. We headed towards town.

We visited a museum. The displays within were either of zero artistic merit, or of such high sophistication, that it went over my head. I can never tell.

With our obligatory high-brow cultural excursion done, we went to taste that which every palate can appreciate. Pints.

The day at once grew brighter, then foggier, then wobblier.

Simultaneously, the day grew to evening, then night, then morning.

I awoke with an grim feeling inside me. A hangover with symptoms without precedent. All the usuals, plus sore legs, involuntary shivering, and compulsive vomiting; the sort that happens with such regularity that you end up regurgitating the lining of your guts.

This happened every half hour, for the rest of the day, and well into the early hours of the following morning.

So, that was that.

I welcomed the arrival of Sunday like the dying man welcomes the final bullet. The bus. The ferry. The drive home.

My brains exploded upon the pillow when my weary head eventually hit it.

I know what happened to me was neither the fault of James nor the city of Glasgow, but I do not think I will want to see either of them ever again.

I would like to end with the scathing, self-loathing, anti-Scottish monologue spewed by Trainspotting’s Mark Renton, as he rebuked the romantic, airy-fairy patriotism of his friend Tommy, but, unfortunately the words of Irvine Welsh would not sit well upon the pages of the UH. It would be like walking into your granny’s house, and finding Johnny Adair in her armchair.

So, suffice to say, whether my Scottish experience was slain by drink, bug, or food poisoning, my memories of that city will be forever marred by a cloud of boke, and busted bloodvessels.

Lovely people, though.