Stood in a sombre line at the dull grey business hotel I seem to be staying in: the queue for breakfast, at 8am. This is not what I need.
As I stand there, gently swaying from an equal mix of overindulgence and sketchy sleep, I put forward a debating motion to myself that the whole experience here would be better for everyone if we formed a conga line, working our way around the hot plates and around the pastries, via the toaster and the coffee machine.
If you need tea, you go around again while it brews; same for toast.
Am I still feeling the effects of a late night last night, I wonder, as I debate this silently and consider in detail the rules of engagement – such as a maximum of three go-arounds, no return within the hour, etc – while working my way through at least one example of every item available from the hot side of the breakfast buffet.
On the way out I pick up a feedback card, but then back out of making my groundbreaking suggestion, mainly for fear that they might take me seriously and I’ll end up in endless meetings and pointless focus group sessions.
I escape outside into the city streets, to find droves of people all moving in different directions, for no clear or obvious reasons.
I go to GoMA – a dead old stately home, or a bank, or a gallery, or a library; it all depends on which century you have arrived here in, and what you smoke.
Someone told me last night the locals smoke fish up here, to which I commented “That’s weird!” and they immediately threw me a strange look. I spent a good half hour theorising on the best way to roll a small fish into a joint before realising what they meant.
By 10am I’m walking past the Duke of Wellington who of course has a traffic cone on his head, because everyone knows that’s how he always went into battle.
Around him, discarded home-made placards and trod-upon horse-shit politics.
Inside, I walk beneath the glitterball and straight into the cancelled exhibition … and I think “Ha! This is not a cancelled exhibition at all! This is art! This is a cunning ploy to make me think … what is art?!” as two employees walk around the edges of the large empty room talking loudly about soup.
Upstairs, near the circular balcony, lurks Stephen Sutcliffe. He is an anxious man – as we all are on a wet morning in a foreign country.
His boss can only say ‘no’, many times over, in a long drawn-out affair on a chalkboard. We the chin-stroking punters smirk and wriggle around in our minds and bodies simultaneously.
And I think, this could have been me if I’d have gone ahead and filled in that feedback card with my breakfast conga line proposal … a stern-looking man in a pinstripe suit telling me “No” repeatedly, to the point where I revert in my mind to a sobbing child, inconsolable.
I edge solemnly into the other rooms, but after the impact of the Sutcliffe show everything else becomes annoyingly meaningless: a video of a car advert, some Shrigley scribbles, a Warhol can of Campbells (!), a collection of brightly-coloured interlocking plastics that look equal parts engineering project, children’s toy, hot air.
The exit down the stairs to the gift shop lifts the spirits, by enabling me to create space on another level. Although mainly on my smartphone.
Across town, George Square … I knew he was.
And statues of lions, a concrete pillar, an erect column, a Caffe Nero.
A collection of Very Big Buildings in a perpendicular arrangement.
I’m easily led to the centre for religious art; or as some would call it, a centre for random thoughts – some of which caught on.
It’s surprisingly entertaining and enlightening, all the more so because there’s no mention whatsoever of all the division and suffering which religion of all kinds inevitably brings. It’s all ‘happy-happy-joy-joy!’ and I find myself more than happy to go along with that for a good half hour.
Inevitably, on the way out, I have to stop in the café for tea and a large slab of homemade cake – which is my kind of religion.
Everything good begins and ends with cake, and faith in humdan goodness begets cake, and so on and round and round, often with a buttercream filling.
Beyond the museum courtyard is the cold, dark sanctuary of the cathedral. Plenty of hiding places for us the sinners.
I figure it’s all Mungo jumbo, built around a tomb down below.
From the darkness there it’s a hop, skip and a jump to the Necropolis, a hillside brimming with phallic symbols of lives well lived and credit well spent … predominantly on neverending defaults of mausoleum rent.
What shady secrets do the neglected tombs hold, I wonder? And does the gravedigger in the distance have all the juicy gossip?
As a cold wind blows through, I can sense the residents are getting restless and can’t wait to get rid of me, so I creep on down the hill when no-one’s looking.
At the bottom, I’m looking for the brewery but end up on a housing estate. I meander on through like I own the joint.
I walk in a full semi-circle around the tenement blocks and straight back to the road I was originally on, to find the brewery staring me in the face.
For a brief millisecond, I question if this has just been built within the last ten minutes, before filing that thought along with the smoked fish episode from last night and resolving that yes, I did just walk straight past this enormous brewery building, clearly as blind as a bat.
In the market hall, indepedent traders and expensive objects and recycled furniture with large price tags for folk who know no better.
Me, I’m off the hook … I’m busy sending telegrams back to the early 1900s with the help of a very large and dusty book.
From the bar I take a lager, and sit outside under an apple tree. Surprisingly, no fruit fall on me, or are thrown at me – which makes this A Good Day, I surmise.
Eventually, I go West, to the other brewtap – this one in a former carpet factory modelled on the Doge’s Palace … which at least makes it more difficult to miss.
Another drop, another planet.
German purity laws are in full swing and I opt for a cloudy pint of Heidi Weiss, with a schnitzel side.
And while I diligently observe the three-barks-and-you’re-out rule, not everyone does. Disgraceful behaviour, this … seems like the dogs are well in control around here.
It’s all we can do to wag our tails excitedly, as we’re brought more beer.
Glasgow Green is a park by a river in a city that I’m in.
And here are the usual suspects – the forgotten monuments, the shit-upon statues, the hidden fountains and towering gateways, the lazy trees; all passed.
Overlooking the oranges and browns and the People’s Palace, which is half a building and more than half a greenhouse, I catch a British Racing Green display around the roundabout; a Mini Cooper revolution in doughnuts and handbrake turns.
In fading light, I suddenly realise that time has gone on ahead of me, and I struggle to catch up, as I don’t know which route it’s taken through the one-way city streets.
It’s pointless asking anybody if they know where time went, I reason.
Thankfully I catch up with it, slightly out-of-breath, at the hotel I’ve paid for on credit, and it allows me a quick pitstop and costume change before throwing me out onto the streets again, via the fire escape.
Down the road, The State serves me up some sanctioned drugs in the form of a pint of brown ale I didn’t want. I’m on number 3. I have no idea where numbers 1 and 2 are – presumably busy collaborating in a nearby lavatory.
Need to keep my wits about me the next time I visit a WC.
Once I’m done with making up conspiracy theories about non-existent drinks, I head over to the ABC, which tonight is presenting itself as a giant barn complete with things flapping around in the rafters, which remain in the shadows and unidentified for the remainder of the evening.
I get my kicks from PINS, who serve up a wildly energetic performance delivered with tambourines, one-piece outfits, considered moves, and a compliant bass drum.
My main course is The Breeders, which by now is a futile exercise in trying to keep still at the back, by the mixing desk, damn near melting into it when they play ‘Drivin’ on 9′.
At the start, no-one knows where Jim is. Keeping everyone waiting, he ambles on when he likes, to bang his drums repetitively.
When he’s done, I go home.
I live NE of the city.
An Outside World 