Memories of Glasgow

People think of Glasgow as Scotland's largest and most "vibrant" city:
Now there indeed is a word with a hidden meaning, och aye the noo.
In the first half of the last century this fine city was a hotbed of horror,
A place of wondrous slums, filth and squalor and startling violence,
A bedlam wallowing in acrid smoke from steel mills and ironworks,
Acrid fumes deforming the genes of its lowly workforce of expendables,
But a producer of huge wealth and prosperity to the genteel folks
Living out at delightful leafy Bearsden, away from the noxious pong.

But now indeed the rejuvenated city's merchant quarter is alive,
Alive-O, with expensive boutiques and oh-so-trendy restaurants
Serving pan-fried organic haggis souflés with a Mars bar coulis;
And McStarbucks offering a thousand different flavours of latte.
Aye, everything in this veritable Gaelic wonderland is truly vibrant,
But you have not felt the real meaning of vibrancy until you have seen
Some of the things I, the intrepid Barry Hodges, have observed,
So, dear reader, pin back your claggy wee lug-flaps and listen to my tale.

I was advised by someone who turned out to be a less than good friend
That the finest sights in Glasgow could only be appreciated by night.
Thus I wandered one balmy eve down by the banks o' Clyde,
That mighty river, once Glasgow's industrial watery backbone,
Where the best ship building skills in the world were nurtured.
I was accompanied by my exquisite arm-candy of the moment,
A lusciously large-breasted teenage blonde, Cynthia Twatt by name,
Who was wearing what perhaps an unwise colour combination
Of a green and orange striped mini-kilt plus a nice swastika armband,
Setting off her attractive St George's Cross skin-tight tee-shirt.
We both noticed with much interest the picturesque tramps
And other drug-addled vagrants, supping their unique local cocktail,
A fascinatingly tasty combo of Buckfast Tonic Wine and Irn-Bru,
Chewing away at their sausage suppers at the end of a night's begging,
Before collapsing humorously into the rat-infested, pissy gutter.

After partaking of the refreshingly invigorating air off the river,
Round about two o'clock on that fateful morning we found ourselves
Near the junction of famed Sauchiehall and Renfield Streets,
And how fascinated were we by the gangs of mad young neds,
Smartly dressed in brightly coloured shellsuits tucked into white socks
And steel-capped "killer" trainers, tottering vibrantly if giddily
Out of such famous sophisticated nightspots as Moon and Archaos,
In order to puke up their excess few pints of heavy mixed with bile,
Before settling down to some eager knife 'n' bottle fighting,
Cheered on by their shrieking "hoors" in the traditional Weegie rigout
Of see-through blouse, six-inch skirt, stockings and "fuck-me" shoes.  
Oh what interesting characters they all seemed to our naive eyes!

So enraptured were we with these sights we were less than watchful
And never spotted that a gang of footie fans, or "casuals" as they are known,
Had been following us with less than hospitable thoughts in mind,
Having clocked the delectable swagger on my lady friend's arse,
Her butts juggling like two living lemons bursting to be free.
They leaped on the gorgeous Mademoiselle Twatt, lovely Cynthia,
Pushing me roughly to one side and ignoring my mumbled protests,
And they promptly took it in turns to gi' her a guid fockin' time.

Since I could see there was no mileage in requesting them politely
To desist from their fell activities, I ran away totally fearlessly,
Heading back to my luxurious suite at the Malmaison,
Where fortunately room service was available twenty four seven,
And I could steady my nerves with a twenty year old Islay malt,
Before putting a wee reverse charge call though to the polis.

But, as can be only too readily imagined, dearest peruser of this poem,
By the belated time the boys in blue reached the dread spot,
It was all over, finito, and delightful Cynthia was no more.
Now, 'tis with a tear in my eye that I have to confess to you
That I could barely recognise her battered dial on the mortuary slab.
Ah'll tak' the high road and ye'll tak' the low road is as maybe,
But Auld Glasgae Toon will ne'er see the likes of me again, d' ye ken?
Lang may your lum reek, so the old Scots adage goes, aye, but
Bonnie Cynthia's lum will reek no more this side of Heaven's gate,
But fortunately I have a new wee bird on my arm and (I kid ye not),
She's a totally horny and uninhibited lassie and aye cheap to maintain