FEAR AND LOATHING IN GLASVEGAS

 

We were somewhere around Falkirk on the edge of a trading estate when the referendum began to take hold...  we started seeing cars racing past with saltire flags fluttering oot the windy, and by the time the airport bus arrived at Buchanan Street you could feel the electricity in the air and my attorney, Dr Gorbals, a 49-kilo Scotsman, was screaming about bats.He had previously been boasting of how peaceful the whole run-up to the referendum had been, no violence, all very civilized.  And he was right. As we approached George Square we stepped aside to allow a guy in a T-shirt to pass, bent double between two Glasgow polis.  I checked into the hotel and as I closed the door behind me the fire alarm went off.  In our drug-fuelled paranoia we thought it was us, and the whole hotel started to evacuate.  One woman was walking calmly towards the exit in her dressing gown and bare feet.  We slipped out the front door just as two fire engines screamed to a halt in front of the hotel, and melted into the crowd before they could arrest us for wasting the fire service's time.   So far, so surreal.

We had been sent to cover the Scottish Independence Referendum.  The town was awash with over-excited  kids waving blue and white saltire flags, and soft-spoken Glasgow polis with big tasers telling them to do their shoelaces up.  The kids were convinced they were going to win.  The polis looked like they already knew the result.

We had to go and interview a bent lawyer who had voted "no" and was holed up in a safe house somewhere in the Merchant City under the pseudonym Saul Goodman.  It was pretty sordid.  There was not enough alcohol and no food in his fridge.  The interview took forever.   Dr Gorbals was on best behaviour, most uncharacteristically, considering he hadn't eaten for 24 hours and he knew the pubs were open all night on this historic occasion.  We finally got back to the hotel around two and my attorney was immediately on the phone to room service, ordering four large bags of chips, four deep-fried Mars Bars, a bottle of Grouse and nine cans of Irn-Bru.  "Girrrders", he explained. "It's made with girrrders."  I tried to stay awake until the first results came in but only made it as far as the first three, which were "No", "No", and "No" in that order.   By 5 a.m. I was fast asleep and George Square was full of weeping teenagers wrapped in saltire flags having their shoelaces tied gently by motherly polis officers.The next day all was quiet.  You wouldn't know it was anything other than a normal Saturday in Glasgow.  The shops were open, people were going about their business.  I was impressed by the high-end restaurants and bars.  Glasgow had certainly gone upmarket.  The only indication of anything remotely bizarre was that I kept seeing the Tardis here and there.  Still strung out from the night before, I could not decide if they were an art installation or if Peter Capaldi was going to emerge from one and beam me up.  I kept an eye out for a cheap towel shop.

That evening George Square was invaded by about 50 bull-necked shaven-headed beer-bellied tattooed Rangers supporters brandishing union jacks, one with the slogan “NO SURRENDER” emblazoned on it.  They were chanting “Rule Britannia” and “God Save the Queen”.  The polis formed a circle between them and a bunch of timid YES supporters wearing very little in the way of colours.  A few silly kids waving a saltire ventured up to they bad boys to provoke them.   The polis were on top of it immediately.  We could sense the tension building and drifted away to meet a contact in an Irish bar full of yessers.Around 10 p.m. word drifted back from the Square that it had "all kicked aff" with the "Scotland Says Naw" brigade.  A bunch of tattooed shaven-headed neds stood around on the street shaking their heads and muttering how they were ashamed to be Scots.  It couldn't have been for my benefit, I hadn't opened my mouth up to that point.  I tried to soothe them with my dulcet Walford tones, and pretty soon was deep in conversation with a man from Govan who was more interested in what was going on in Albert Square.  I told him that nobody would judge Scotland on the incidents tonight, that the goons with the union flag didn't represent anyone, least of all the "no" voters, and that I, personally, thanked the people of Scotland for giving the Westminster establishment the shake-up it so richly deserved.  "Aye," he grumbled, as he stomped back into the pub, "I'll tell 'em.  I'll tell the Scottish people that.  Every one o' them.  Individually."   

It was too late for a restaurant by the time we rolled out of the Irish bar, so we repaired to the Buchanan Street chippie for a time-honoured jewel of the Glaswegian culinary arts, the battered sausage supper.  The batter was like deep-fried emulsion paint, the anaemic sausage contained no meat, but the chips were delicious and full of nutritious carbs.  We sat on the street like locals and ate our supper, offering words of consolation and the odd chip to the occasional tired and emotional yesser who staggered past.  I felt a bit of a fraud, being quietly relieved as I was that the union had been saved.  Not that I am against the idea of independence, you understand.  I just felt that it was not the moment for it yet.  Too many unanswered questions.  Not least of which was, what the hell was the name of my hotel?

The next morning in my hotel room I heard a distant muffled thud at 3-second intervals.  I assumed it was road works and switched on the shower.  By the time I was dry and dressed, the thumping was still going on, and now I could hear the faintest hint of a penny whistle.   

 

Intrigued, I leaned out of the window overlooking North Hanover Street from which I had a view of one half of George Square.  A smartly-dressed brass band in military style attire was playing in the square.  Now you all know how I like a brass band.  But there was something a bit odd about this one.  No-one was standing around to  listen, for one thing.  The Glasgow Orange Defenders Flute Band was pissing into the wind.  Having failed to annoy anyone, they marched off down George Street and Glasgow rolled over for another Sunday morning snooze.The rumour mill was in overdrive by the time I hit Lauder's in Sauchiehall Street later that day.  A wee lassie had been "done over and taken to hospital" the night before.  There had been "200 arrests".  When the news filtered through on BBC, there had been 11 arrests (fewer than at a standard Celtic-Rangers match) and no records of serious injuries.  But never one to let the truth get in the way of a good story, I filed my copy liberally splattered with tomato ketchup from the chippie and signed off "Your correspondent on the front line of the Glasgow riots".