Rain splattered across my faint reflection, against a dull, blurred grey backdrop. My head rested heavily on a cupped hand, an elbow scrambling to find a home on the narrowest of ledges. On the outskirts of my existence, two tracksuit-clad teenagers were having some kind of spat that involved excessive use of the words " cunt", "chib" and "slash". The distinct aroma of Marijuana emits from their position.  As if on cue, a severely intoxicated man enters the proceedings. He staggers down the aisle of our packed bus, the whoosh of the doors closing behind as its veteran occupants slant instinctively away from him. An epidemic of strained faces breaks out on his travels while he sings earnestly about the reason Protestants are apparently not as sexually active as Catholics. His eventual destination lands him clumsily beside a clean living (looking, at least) middle aged lady who now sports a beady-eyed stare forward that most hamsters would find envy in. Her transfixion seems to stem from the front portion of our bus, where I can find nothing more interesting than a graffiti-stained poster. I make that face where one raises both eyebrows and pouts their bottom lip to portray a ‘ puzzled but not concerned' look, before returning to resume my study of all things grey and blurry. Welcome to Glasgow.

 

 For the intrepid traveller, Glasgow is a cultural feast to behold, a conglomerate of the finest architecture populated by the most unique but blissfully unaware people. A grand river snakes through the city, creating a magical centrepiece that many other cities have endeavoured, but ultimately failed to reproduce. Its friendly inhabitants are keen to welcome you with open arms, a warm smile and offers of a shared alcoholic beverage in many of the bars, pubs and clubs that pepper the streets. Yes indeed! Make Glasgow your choice of destination! Book today!

 

I was born here.

 And although my parents relocated me to Abu-Dhabi and then later the Isle of Arran, I somehow found myself back searching for an education and a bit of cash along the way. Glasgow was only a couple of hours away from and seemed like the smart choice. And it is. For a time.

And it really isn't that bad.

Glasgow has a lot going for it.

 Really.

Look, come clean. Just what have you heard?

A steady evolution has seen it almost shed the coat of insipid that stems from its early shipbuilding days. I have been hard pushed to find an individual that looks back on those times with any fondness, particular liking or affection. Glasgow was neglected in almost every possible way in favour of the nearby capital Edinburgh, whose streets appear filled with jaunty atmosphere and infinite romantic potential. Glasgow on the other hand seemed very bleak in comparison.

 It was very bleak in comparison. Edinburgh feels like a city embraced by its citizens. With a backdrop of a spectacular castle that overlooks winding cobbled streets, it is rarely a dull prospect to explore as a visitor and discover some of the historical delights that may lurk around a corner or over an admittedly gut-busting hill. While I'm wary of this conclusion at times (I'm wary more or less all the time. It's that feeling of things usually always turning out too good to be true), I can't help feeling a little envious of the Edinburgher (oh please let that be the term) with all of this on his or her doorstep. I was actually up there recently visiting friends on one of the sunniest days in March there may have ever been, car bound and passing by a park that I was reliably informed to be called The Meadows, watching families eating picnics, dogs playing with Frisbee's (with their owner's of course), young couples walking and everybody having the most glorious time of it. I remember sitting back down and trying to recall a time in a park in Glasgow where I wasn't either so preoccupied with avoiding dog-shit that walking on grass becomes a series of deft-dance movements (first time for that, my girlfriends will confirm) or constantly aware of the aerobic sock wearing fleet who may or may not be following you.

Which brings me to my next port of call.

The single biggest shit streak on the crotch of Glasgow's Y-fronts, the pus-filled pluke on a potentially congenial face and the one reason why shell-suits are still being manufactured.

Neds.

Dress code from top to bottom: Baseball cap (angled, visor sitting at 45 degrees), Assorted gold chains around neck, sovereign rings on fingers, Berghaus "Mera peak" Gore-tex jacket, tracksuit trousers, several pairs of aerobic socks (trousers must be tucked in to socks), classic styled sports shoes (white). In 2001, the word ‘Ned' entered the Concise Oxford Dictionary, defined as a hooligan or petty criminal, a stupid or loutish boy or man.

(Side note: Neds are identified with several different names depending on your geography: Scally, scallies, lad, lads, scallys, scal, scalls, scall, scals, charvers, charver, chorea, charvas, charves, charv, chav, chavs, radgie, radgies, radgy, radgys, johnnos, johnos, jonnos, smiker, smikers, steek, steeks, spide, spides, nackers, nacker, knackers, knacker, styge, styges, stige, stiges, scanger, scangers, skanger, skangers,
 Milly, Millys, Millies, Blads, Whapners (?!), Kev, kevs, pikey, pikie, pikies, pikeys, rudeboys, geezers, geezas, gazzas, trevs, Barry, Barriers, Barrys, townies, towny, townys, gadge, gadges, gadgie, gadgies, gadgy, gadgys, trevs, trevvs, trev, puffas, puffa, bam, bams, spide, spides, chor, chors, chorver, chorvers, chorber, chorbers, trendy, trendies, trendys, barrys, barriers and blads.)

Residents of Scotland who have visited Glasgow for perhaps an innocent spot of shopping have come across its' particular species of Ned. They have brushed past a Ned related episode in their past, almost guaranteed. Perhaps an inter-gang scuffle. More often than not it is a glimpse of incident as we hustle ourselves free from range of the incessant nasal tone that is utilized to pepper the fracas with "fucks" and "bastar'ts", daring only to dart eyes fleetingly to its direction in order to quench standard curiosity. This, of course, is going against everything your mother ever taught you about looking for trouble and is expectedly met with a short, sharp burst of "Flight" adrenaline, prompting your walking appendages to age forty years in a matter of seconds. They become just that little weaker and less capable of lugging you round that corner yards away, to safety, a cuddle and perhaps, a hot mug of cocoa. This is all before the conflict may have escalated by the one occurrence that silently proclaims war upon your being.

 Eye contact.

In the unwritten rule of the streets, nowhere is it more universally recognised that locking peepers with a male (or female) who is dressed as if fully prepared for an aerobic workout and a heavy rainstorm on Ben Nevis, is a justification to momentarily deposit his forehead upon your nose, than in Glasgow.

I have witnessed this infamous act in train stations, bus stops, nightclubs and bars.

Neds love it.

 If there was ever a time when a Ned might actually find a job and had to list any extra-curricular activities on his application, I'm pretty confident he or she would check that box. In my viewing experience, "The Glasgow Kiss" is more often than not performed on those in the 8 stone and under category, making the ensuing battle, if there is one, to be at least even. And that is something that has always puzzled me. Neds are commonly thin as rails. Their ensemble hangs from them as if they had just stepped out of the sea, exposing a frame that Pee-Wee Herman would giggle at. And whether this is down to a strict diet of "Buckfast" wine (a particular cheap tasting alcoholic tonic) and a jovial selection of drugs is something I do not know or particularly wish to discover. The dress code that implores its followers to place his or her tracksuit trousers into their aerobic socks is not, I have recently discovered, so much an act of fashion (at first at least) than a manner of shoplifting apparatus. The simple tuck round the ankles ensures that any attempt to pilfer items becomes simplified seeing as you are actually wearing your swag bag. The fact that you may look like an idiot never comes in to play.

 

Interestingly enough, the troublesome subject of Neds wandered its merry way into the Scottish Parliament in June 2003 when the Scottish Socialist Party's Rosie Kane described the term as, "hurtful and disrespectful to young people".

 The former youth worker in the Drumchapel area of Glasgow wanted the parliament to condemn its use, comparing it to ageism, racism and sexism. Thankfully, this insanity was nipped in the bud when Communities Minister Margaret Curran piped up to suggest, "Much better that rather than blaming the people who use the term, you try to resolve the problem." She then added, "With all due respect I think you have a very strange sense of priorities. I'm quite happy to tell my constituents, the elderly women who are mugged, the hard-pressed families whose car tyres are slashed on a regular basis, that the policy of the SSP is to say to them be careful how you describe that because you might hurt their feelings."

 The Labour Party's Duncan McNeill clarified that the word Ned was used to refer to young criminals rather than all young people, wryly adding, "What are we supposed to call them - the guys that hang about the streets? Tracksuit ambassadors? Shoplifters as ‘Retail Stock Relocation Operatives'? Drug dealers as ‘Independent Pharmaceutical Consultants'? What are we to call them?"

 

Even in the World of Politics, where verbal etiquette is usually paramount, the subject garners little thought before being treated with cynicism.

 

Having lived on the south side of the city for the majority of my time here, you come in to contact with your fair share. Now, thankfully and for the first time, I reside in the West End where life seems infinitely better. No longer must you feel the need to continually validate the landscape over your shoulder for a pack of teenagers looking to carve off your face for the purposes of relieving monotony.

 Well. Not quite as often anyway.

Somebody once told me that living in the West-End of Glasgow is like always having five pounds. Living in the south side is like always being fifty pence short.

So, with all that and the tedium of routine, I wanted out. I wanted change. I wanted to go to places where drizzle wasn't the official climate. I wanted adventure, I wanted to be able to recall tales of dastardly behaviour just like those friends of friends you meet in pubs that you don't catch the name of, but who seem infinitely remarkable. It is an inherent feature of a student's itinerary to go travelling and that is exactly what I was going to do.

 

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Chapter 2

 

 

My finger was engaged in scanning mode, peripatetic across the glossy paper, through the continents, across the seas and oceans before conclusively resting with a series of scratches on my scalp. Exhaling and flicking through the Student travel magazine for the umpteenth time had got me no closer to my decision.  There were plenty of destinations that appealed to me. New Zealand, Australia, Africa and South America all jumped out as prospective winners. I threw the magazine on the table for the last time where it spiralled momentarily and exchanged it for a now almost chilled cup of Starbucks coffee.

I released another dissatisfied lungful. I had to think practically about this. It was after all, my first venture in to the world, at least by myself, where I would have to be fully self-sufficient. Did I have the financial capabilities to whisk myself to these exotic destinations?

 Who the hell was I kidding? I was a contemptible sports student (easily the worst kind) with scarcely the financial capacity to fall out of bed in the mornings. The sole reason that I was still able to turn up and prolong agony for my College lecturers lay squarely in the naive palms of the Student Loans Company, God bless them. It was their final instalment of £1300 that was going to see me finish my course, buy my gear needed and keep myself animate in the big wide world for as long as was necessary.

"Europe." Said Gilbert.

"Heh?"

"Europe. Lets be honest, you have neither the funds nor the gumption to push the limits of known exploration at this juncture in your life."

He was right. As I left the flat earlier that afternoon I was concerned if I had the funds or gumption to return there within a fortnight.

"Humph", I expertly snapped back.

I picked the magazine up one more time.

 

                                                **************************

Sports students, as you may already know, are generally regarded in the same academic light as those kids at high school you rarely see, but knew took their class in an adjacent portakabin. As I looked around my own class, every face told the same story: McDonalds just wasn't hiring that day. This morning's topic of incomprehension was Scientific Basis of Performance; a curious blend of academia that I suspect was purely concocted for the spectacle of having sixteen young people staring blankly ahead like a collection of baffled Easter Island statues. Our lecturer was attempting to clarify the relation between Adenosine Tri-Phosphate and Creatine Phosphate by gesturing wildly with his hands and occasionally treating us with an overhead slide on which a playful little cartoon would be fighting for attention in the corner. Those cartoons would be pretty much all I ever recall from subjects like this. Not that I didn't try of course, it's just that God has blessed me with a brain that was clearly designed to simply switch off when highly detailed dialogue is thrown at it, only to roar to life when a high score requires beaten on Alien Versus Predator 2: Primal Hunt.

 And quite frankly, who am I to question the plans of the Almighty.

 

The two-hour lesson scraped noisily by, the lecturer interrupting my concentration on several occasions as I was carefully determining the colour of the paint on the outside wall. Eventually, the sudden low rumbling of moving bags and chairs indicated that it was time to go home. I said my goodbyes to friends for the day and headed out the door, eyes glazed from the merciless onslaught of facts that I couldn't quite bring myself to care about at the moment.

And, in the end, I figured it to be ‘Taupe'.

 

Months poured past me in handfuls, Glasgow's seasons doing its best to permanently coat its skin grey.  From roughly October onwards, give or take, any journey that dares the elements is made with noses periscoping tops of shirts or sweaters, shoulders contorting to become level with scalp. People who have a taken the bright liberty of carrying an umbrella discover after several lumbering steps they have only increased their own mass thus decreased their chances of making it to the end of the street within a calendar month. Even the most expensive mountain jacket on the market finds it a virtually impossible task to keep the Glasgow wind and rain from infiltrating some area of your tortured existence. If the first bluster doesn't get you, you'll find it whooshes off to regroup for several seconds before charging at an impossible angle, forcing several unscheduled stumbling steps towards complete strangers and, inexplicably, freshly chilled genitalia.

 

Arriving back at the flat, which despite its carpet being made up entirely of rice, pasta, cereal and something unknown but of a lively shade, seemed warm and welcoming. I slumped on to the sofa in a way that only students can and looking around me, I could deduce that a) the dishes had still to be done and b) we had adapted to this predicament over the weeks by ingeniously re-using the Pot Noodle containers. This meant two things; firstly that Gilbert's girlfriend hadn't been round in ages and secondly, that we were out of Pot Noodles. Lying in my traditional face down manner allowed me to notice a Ragu-stained magazine on the floor whose front cover sang the travelling joys of Europe in the summer.

 There she was again.

 Almost all of my thoughts on this troublesome destination subject had been of the ‘Far-Flung' variety, with treks through Thailand or Camping in New Zealand making common appearances. I struggled with the unsung adhesive properties of Ragu sauce for a few moments longer than expected (which may I just say here, could very well hang paintings) and peeled on to the appropriate page. There I found a full spread on all 29 countries of the continent with a star rating for ease of use aimed towards backpackers. It charted the boundaries of Europe (for which it seems no-one has a definitive answer) from the Ural Mountains in the in east, the Atlantic coastline in the north and west and the beautiful Mediterranean in the south.

I could continue but for the purposes of truthful accounts I will simply admit that I passed out and awoke hours later with the magazine all but wielded to my face.

 

The very next day I decided to head down to the college library for some information. What I found on the continent astounded me. Spreading a map across the table and taking noted from no less than 14 different travel books uncovered a realm incredibly diverse in culture, architecture, landscape and language. Radical changes in the environment over short distances ensure any journey to be short on boredom. From towering Dolomite Mountains to the broad fertile plains of France, the scattered lakes, forests and castles of Germany to the intricate architecture strewn in every major city, Europe was an adventure just to read about. This was eye candy from start to finish. Politically and ethnically it is just as assorted. The Slav race, I was reliably informed, extends through central Europe from Poland in the North to Serbia and Bulgaria in the South. Europe's northernmost region, Finland, has a language that is somewhat similar, not to it's immediate neighbours (Scandinavia) but instead that of Hungary, a country over 1000 kilometres to the south. Really?

Who gives a toss? When you go travelling, you want iconic landmarks, deserted beaches, terrifyingly loose women, drinks with reputations, life threatening situations and stupid decisions.

 And ill just bet you didn't know this: In certain parts of Switzerland there are still inhabitants that choose to articulate in a tongue not unlike that of Latin. With an excited step I left the library and dashed across town to the nearby STA travel company (where most students seem to go for travel needs) and burst heroically (fell over the step) in to the room, causing the girl behind the desk to jump and the two brochure reading couples sitting behind me to whisper to each other and stare from the tops of their eye balls.

I made a mental note to remind myself to Cringe in Excruciating Embarrassment sometime in the future before proceeding, incident-free, towards the desk.

 

"Ah, hi....".

"Yes, can I help?" She responded earnestly, having just witnessed my entrance.

"I'm looking to, uh, travel next summer, and was thinking of doing Europe. What kind of things have you got on offer?"

She bent to the side and reached under the desk to reveal a batch of brochures piled as thick as an encyclopaedia, which she handed to me. I thanked her and sat quietly beside the established brochure flickers, who had ceased flicking since my arrival and instead had transfixed themselves on my every move.

 

 

 

 

 

 

4am.

The chokingly humid day had given way to misty cold morning that bit in to my skin as I stepped from the door. My backpack sagged heavily on my shoulders making my neck ache. The taxi, bound for Prestwick airport, slowly glided to the kerb with the crackle of grit under tyre and spouted a diminutive, chubby gentleman from its innards. His sudden presence seemed to be intruding on the still, black atmosphere.

 

"Well, here we go," I muttered, hoisting the ridiculously large satchel from atop my creaking frame and passing to the waiting cabbie who then fed the gaping mouth of the trunk.

"Fucksyougointhere?!?" he barked.

 Before I had a chance to answer, he was dusting off his hands while making a smiling return to the steering wheel, content in his snarling quip. My eyes were lethargically functioning, all but audibly complaining about the task of finding the handle to open the door. When they did, I slumped in to the backseat and shut down. The forty-five minute journey from Glasgow to Prestwick was mercifully free of Cabbie Chat, meaning that I could get down to the undertaking of last minute panicking.

 Did I have enough money? Clothes? Tent all there? Toiletries? Were my shoes adequate? Tickets? Sense?

It is a given that you must freak out a little before any trip anywhere. This being my first real solo effort meant that there is a sense of foreboding as I approached the point of no return. Well, at least not for a month. ‘Just a month', I kept repeating confidently.

 Butterflies ran riot at the possibility of a forgotten ticket or passport. ‘This is me' I kept repeating under my breath. ‘Something must be missing.'

 I ran through the list of things I had packed, carefully separating them from the items I had wanted to pack, but never made the final cut thanks to judgement of friends and family (In retrospect, that car Hoover was probably better off at home).

 

Prestwick Airport was host to much of the low-cost airline boom in Scotland and now as I approached the terminal, apparently low-cost architecture too.

 In my experience, arriving at an airport anywhere in the world has always held an exciting atmosphere. Ceiling bound monitors flash competitively as far as the eye could see, boasting ridiculous destinations that your parents had no intention of visiting, at least not with you and your sister in tow. Marble floors shimmered for miles and invited proud moments for Mum and Dad as, while they were sorting out tickets at the check-in desk, you and sibling would use your backsides as a highly efficient buffing tools. The two-note glockenspiel-playing lady with a shrill voice would contribute a soundtrack, informing you and the entire airport of the need for Mr. Rodgers immediate presence at the information desk. ‘What could they possibly want with good old Mr. Rodgers?' I pondered during those long gaps between flights. It felt suitable to call him ‘Good Old' by now because by the fifteenth call out there was a definite sense that I knew him well. We at least hoped he'd found his way out of the WH Smith and was traipsing his weary legs towards the desk. My imaginings took me to Mrs. Rodgers waiting impatiently, foot tapping, fisted hands on her hips and wearing a frozen scowl that was to instantly reanimate upon the approach of her long suffering husband.

Meanwhile, when I wasn't trading blows with my sister, we would be racing trolleys down the gleaming floors that were pre-stacked with our own baggage, making the momentous weight an impossibility to stop for a skinny 9-year-old boy. The sole responsibility of braking lay at the shins of random passers by, many of whom must be thanked for saving me from career threatening injuries. Trolley surfing became the only respectable pastime for a kid of my age, and although the penalties were high (one 40 yard surf = 10 minute thrashing) for both competitor and spectator, I was always drawn back for one more shot at glory upon each terminal visit.

However, at this particular terminal on a cold dark Prestwick morning, fun of any sort was apparently strictly outlawed. Upon handing over enough money to the taxi driver that could see him comfortably retire, I heaved my bags over my shoulder to and proceeded towards the airport entrance. The first warning sign lay at the doorway. The ever-fascinating infrared slidey doors that were the cornerstone of every airport the world over had yet to find their way to Prestwick. Pushing through the heavy glass opened up a world of nostalgia for anyone hitting the back end of seventy. I felt overwhelmed at the lack of typical airport hurriedness and atmosphere that filled this building. Granted, it was 4.45am, but still, there was nobody. This was July and I couldn't see a soul. Besides that, I was also bemused to see the people behind the Sinclair ZX Spectrum had gone about supplying the Information Screens, while all lighting and fittings appeared borrowed from none other than my Gran.

 My body, now bending like a sapling in the wind, made its way over to the nearest seating where my rucksack was discarded with disgust and exhalation. My arm, which sported a wrist watch at its end now draped at my side as if it were bearing the weight of a small child. I heaved its way to my field of vision informing me my adventure had so far lasted just over an hour. Further squinting at Mr. Sinclair's monitors educated me that I had one hour and fifteen minutes before the check-in desk showed any interest in my attempts in reaching another country. Until then, I was very much on my own.

 

 The intermittent rumbling of countless passing trolleys awoke me 45 minutes later as the entire of Scotland appeared to have decided to embark on their summer holidays simultaneously. Families stood in collective bunches all over the place, against the backdrop of towering bags, their fathers checking passports, mothers wiping milk stains from little Billy's mouth while he goes through the end stages of a tantrum.

 I gradually noticed that I was being given disdainful glances from pretty much everyone that trundled by, and so decided to sit upright and remove the cheek-drool with my sleeve. Peering through frosted glass eyes I could see my check-in desk that just under an hour ago was as derelict as a Baghdad palace, but now had a queue that seemed to noisily spiral in to the horizon. I sighed my way through a good forty-five minutes of queuing, checked in the bigger of my two rucksacks and was handed my boarding pass. This was it.

 

I ambled bleary-eyed down the aisle where upon checking my boarding pass I was secretly excited to find I was in possession of a window seat, my body seemingly previously conditioned from years of sibling turf war. In my experience as a child, The Window Seat has become as necessarily sought after and fought over in a style that could rival, say, Jerusalem. Attaining this holiest of seats means that for the duration of the trip there is a kind of spiritual inner calm, a Zen-like achieving of peacefulness that seems to be physically related to an inane smug grin. God forbid that you were the poor kid who lost the toss/race/brawl and were confined to eight-hours of windowless tedium. Any attempts to stretch across my sister and discover the cloudy delights that lay above 32,000 feet were met with a lightning quick fist-reflex that saw my head ricochet against the seat in front, making it jerk forward and alerting my father, who of course was enjoying his own Window Seat Adventure. The unusually ominous click of a seatbelt undoing and the rustle of a newspaper being removed from lap would spawn a high-pitched, "It was HIM!" appeal from under this colossally looming shadow, ready to dish out some serious punishment around the head of his first born, had it not already looked as if someone, literally, had beaten him to it. Not that my father was in any way a violent man of course, but there is an unspoken understanding between parent and child that states there is minimum room for misbehaving on holiday, and that the road to thrashing is a newly laid tarmac expressway.

I placed a laughably small pillow behind my back and hauled my rucksack to below my knees. Unzipping the smaller top pocket I placed my hand inside to double check my passport was there. It wasn't.

 

I'm joking of course. What kind of idiot would forget his passport?!?

 

I delved deeper for more. And deeper still. In fact, at the point where my delving activities reached past elbow and hit armpit, a feeling of dread swept in to my toes, fizzed through my legs and shivered through my upper torso with a harsh unforgiving thud. No train ticket.

 

No.

 

Fucking.

 

Ticket.

 

 

Cold sweat. Increased heart-rate. Jittery movement.

 

All three were bypassed in favour of straight panic-induced death. Handfuls of objects that I had carefully packed in order of importance, bottom to top, now lay strewn on my lap, the chair beside me and the floor. I stuffed the oh-so handy elasticated pocket that sits on the back of the seat in front with so much bag-content that it dribbled over its greedy lips. I was so engrossed in my quest to find the one flimsy piece of cardboard that was going to make this trip more than a brief jaunt around Charles De Gaulle that I almost didn't realize that An Extremely Fat And Sweaty Man ^tm had plonked himself next to me.

My peripheral vision sent alarm bells ringing. Not only have I lost my fucking Euro-Rail pass that cost me two hundred and fifty pounds but now, now, this spit-chinned perspiring twat had declared war on the most holy of commercial aircraft's grounds. The armrest.

It was an ugly sight to behold. Wrinkly skin ground against wrinkly skin as the fight for dominance began. I had paused my searching duties to turn my attention to the injustice that was being tried on for size, right here, midway down my arm. An emitting of noise poured forcefully from the back of his throat, something like a rat being dragged face first over sandpaper, as chubby fingers scuttled to a firm grasp if the end of the rest.

"Fuck", I whispered, for I knew he had won the first battle. Like a twist of the wrist in an arm wrestle, he had taken the founding steps to victory. In a seamless motion, the rest of his arm had followed the lead and now, would you fucking believe, there was undoubted pressure against my upper arm and shoulder.

 

Christ!

 

The next ten minutes were a blur to me. I tore off my seatbelt with a swift movement, stood up with what space I barely had and wrapped the black nylon around his tree trunk neck, forcing his head down to an open food tray where it was crushed repeatedly in an over zealous bout of "safely securing". His death was painful but instantaneous and invited a clambering to the top of this still twitching corpse to roar like a primate in heat.