Glasgow Happenings

You hear a lot about Glasgow, mostly about stabbing. What you don’t hear about is that it’s really, really pretty.

No, really.

What a majestic landscape.
What a majestic landscape.

I’m sleeping on a bunk bed in a hostel with five other dudes – not in the same bed, of course – and even this place used to be one of the most exclusive hotels in the city. It’s huge in the classic Victorian “just make shit big” style. This area is so classy that the door numbers are in Roman fucking numerals.

Thank the lord for Rocky.

I walked to the hostel like an idiot. It was good though. As lost as I did get I also got unlost and didn’t get stabbed nor did I sob down the phone for a taxi. It’s probably about 20-30 minutes walk from the bus station if you don’t walk every-fucking-where else as well.

Bus ride took me from the ever-classy National Express station in Newcastle (it sits neatly between a strip club and the not-so-gay-any-more gay bar Powerhouse) through the most excellent Northumberland back roads and up to Edinburgh, then across to Glasgow’s Buchanan Bus Station – as immortalised in Aztec Camera’s Killermont Street.

Glasgow is a lot cleaner than I expected. You don’t realise how filthy everywhere else is until you go to a place where either people pick up more rubbish or they put it in the fucking bin. Fancy that.

I got into Glasgow around 6.15pm. I got to the hostel a bit before 8.00pm. This gives you an idea of the special sort of lost I was. I had a good time though. In retrospect.

Glasgow philosophy.
Glasgow philosophy.

With my stuff all locked away (thanks for the padlock, Clas Ohlson!) and my poorly phone charging up I went for a wander around the area. I made a fool of myself several times going into places asking if they did pizza, like some sort of stoned maniac.

I wasn’t, but “Sorry, I’m just really tired,” always seems such a pathetic excuse.

The lights represent potential pizza sources. The darkness represents Sean's blindness to literally everything else.
The lights represent potential pizza sources. The darkness represents Sean’s blindness to literally everything else.

Anyway, I found a chippy that did pizza for a reasonable price only to find that they were offering 50% off.

I ended my night scoffing my beautiful £3.50 pizza on the Kelvingrove granite steps (as featured in Taggart) and flicked a v-sign at BBC Scotland in the distance. You would too.

Actually, I ended my night in bed. That’s just me being poetic and shit. The underside of the top bunk had been graffitied by those who had stayed before me, so I joined in.

Branded like a cow.
Branded like a cow.

Well, it would have been irresponsible not to.

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