Wednesday morning doon the Volley

I attract bizarre situations. Always have done.

Last night, after the Metallica gig, I couldn’t find the guys I was there with so started walking back from the SECC, through the Anderston area of Glasgow to get to Queen Street train station. About 10 minutes into my walk, I spot a marginally inebriated guy contemplating taking a piss against the concierge station of a block of high rise flats.

Now, I don’t want to see the guy get lifted so I proceed to warn him that his makeshift urinal is in fact full of security guards and that he would be better employed having a tinkle in the bus shelter further down the road.

Him: “Cheers pal”

Me: “Nae Bother”

So far so good.

Next thing, he’s right in my face, reciting a passage from Trainspotting. The novel, from what I can gather, rather than the film. Leaning right into me and keeping pace with my walking speed.

“Picture the scene. Wednesday morning in the Volley. Me and Tommy are playing pool. No problems, and I’m playing like Paul —-ing Newman by the way. I’m giving the boy the tanning of a lifetime. So anyway, it comes to the final ball, the deciding shot of the tournament: I’m on the black and he’s sitting in the corner, looking all biscuit-arsed. Then this hard —- comes in. Obviously fancied himself. Starts looking at me. Right —-ing at me. Trying to put off, like, just for kicks. Looking at me as if to say, “Come ahead, square go.” Well, you know me, I’m no looking for trouble but at the end of the day I’m the —- with the pool cue and I’m game for a swedge. So I squared up, casual like. So what does the hard —- do, or so-called hard —-? —–s it. Puts down his drink, turns around, and gets the —- out of there. And after that, the game was mine.”

At this point I’m thinking that it’s not beyond the realms of possibility that he’s going to hit me as soon as he reaches the end of the quote. In Scotland, you can receive abuse from wee neds hundreds of times and be fairly sure that it’s never going to amount to more than handbags at ten paces. The guy who will stick a knife in your ribs is the one who comes at you quoting Chaucer or Shakespeare. That’s the true bampot.

Anyway, I decide to front him out. He’s got about ten pints on me to start with. His co-ordination isn’t the best. Besides, he may still be harmless, just doing the trainspotting bit because I am from Edinburgh. But I’m braced.

But it all ends as bizarrely as it begun, with him wandering out into the middle of traffic on the Clydeside Expressway and two cars blaring their horns whilst I crossed the road to the other side of the street.

Regardless of his intentions, it was a fair feat of memory. I’ll give him that.

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