‘The Hall’, where Magdalen’s scholars are fed daily is an immaculate and well-organised room of dark wood panels, long tables and dim lamps, under which tomorrow’s ladies and gentlemen sup in sophistication.
Glasgow’s Glorious Grime
Iain and I left York late afternoon, for Glasgow, with ample time to catch our train, which arrived already heaving with passengers, all eager to make their weekend getaways. Even the floor space that linked the carriages was occupied. Five or so 18 year olds crowded the space aside our carriage, bellowing vulgar rhymes. They transported packs of tall Stella cans through the carriage, intermittently, as if on a one way conveyor belt. The hours went by, inspiration brewed, they produced a guitar and rich harmonies echoed through the carriage. Brash as they were, their clear voices sung with fervour, reflecting my own excitement for my first Glaswegian weekend.
We settled in quickly at our hostel with a Tennant’s lager, brewed locally, and found our way to the part of the West End favoured by students. Lured in by the Friday night music, we entered a clubby kind of bar, where a dreadlocked DJ enticed his crowd. Wandering through an archway led us to an altogether different scene, a vibrant and well-kept pub adjoining its sister club. Feeling more at home on this side, we watched the commonplace pub bustle. Its young crowd created a different feel to the London counterparts I had frequented. The guy sitting alongside us at the bar counter started chatting, almost instantly, asking where we were from, making small talk. ‘Fuck England’ was emblazoned across his chest in red. The unspoken borders we had crossed became ever more clear. Continue reading Glasgow’s Glorious Grime>>
