Day ten of the University course asked me to describe a scene. I recently left my husband and son behind in Glasgow as they were going to the theatre to see a Youtube Minecraft Gamer who makes lots of money playing games all day. This guy has taken all of my sons ambition away because he just wants to be like him now. I can’t blame him, this gamer’s making millions. I wouldn’t mind his job, although I’d have to figure out how to work the Xbox controller. As you could imagine, I didn’t fancy going to the theatre that night so decided to get the train home. As with most cities, the colourful characters emerge to embark on their evening shenanigans around 8pm. You also have a few late-night shoppers rushing home, some with sleepy children in tow. I love people watching, so settled in the middle of the station with a nice cup of tea and an open mind.
I wrote a poem to describe what I saw in the station that evening. The first stanza describes a hen party I witnessed (a hen doo). A hen party is a group of women celebrating before the bride is married. I’m not sure how hen parties work in your country if you’re not in the UK, but in Scotland traditionally they go on a pub crawl (to a few pubs) and find men to kiss. Once the poor guy has kissed the bride and sometimes the bridesmaids (if the bridesmaid fancies him), they give the bride money. The money used to be put in a babies’ potty, although most hen parties find this tacky now. I’ve been with boyfriends who have went off to hide in the toilets when the hen party arrived. Most hen parties are more fancy (and extortionate) affairs now with trips to other countries that can span out to days or even weeks. On this Saturday night at Central Station it was the old-fashioned type of hen doo. I had my hen doo in Glasgow, but no kissing or money was collected!
The second stanza describes the teenagers heading out to the under 18’s nightclub. All grown up and cool and often with a few drinks in them for confidence. On this evening, I noticed that Puffa jackets have made a come-back and most girls and boys were wearing them. Some things never change though – sky scraper heels and short skirts were worn by most of the girls.
The remainder of the poem is self-explanatory. Sadly, there was an altercation with a few of the more inebriated and those on drugs. A fight started and most people in the station moved swiftly to avoid any problems. Fortunately, my train was due so it was time for me to go. The police are usually around so I’m sure it would have been dealt with promptly.
A wain (pronounced wayne), is the West Coast Scottish word for child.
Glasgow Central Train Station
Pink sashes, willy balloons
cowboy hats and singing tunes.
Hunt for men to kiss the bride
as startled prey try to hide.
Indenti-teens walk in packs –
poker faced, they put on acts.
Puffa coats and 10 inch shoes.
Swagger on them, filled wi’ booze.
I sip my tea, look around
at late night shoppers, homeward bound.
Weary parents, weepy weans.
Men released from ball an’ chains.
Burger Kings and aftershaves –
each scent comes in pungent waves.
Couples walking arm in arm,
others putting on the charm.
Happy laughter, angry call
“Don’t dare laugh at me wee doll!”
Witching Hour is here at eight
as drunks and junkies congregate.
Shoppers hurry for their trains.
Mums and dads distract their weans.
Sober people rush away –
they want to live another day.
I know the witching hours are usually between 12am and 2am, but in Glasgow that evening it kicked off early. Please don’t let this put you off Glasgow, it’s no different from most big cities. The Commonwealth Games stated “People Make Glasgow” and this is true!