Scotland's Homecoming 2009, A Headstart

Where should one go to experience real Glaswegian society: the theatres, the opera, the art galleries?

Be honest: fighting, drinking, swearing are what are truly associated with the one-time City of Culture, and the city’s Sheriff Court is the best place to commune with the Petri dish of life.

Sitting at 1 Carlton Place on the south bank of the Clyde, within easy reach of Argyle St station, the court was designed by architects Keppie Henderson, the Assistant Estates Manager informed me, and was opened in 1986 (despite what it says on the plaque at the entrance) and is a Brutalist monolith in the Northern European style. The interior reflects the exterior – stark straight lines and harsh angles made of polished Derbyshire sandstone – this is a building that screams authority.

That authority introduces itself at the front door: airport style security manned and ladied by uniformed guards who are either smiling and friendly or frowning and foul. Don’t let them put you off; the happy women on reception will see you right. I was chatted through what was happening in the busiest courts in Western Europe. The most exciting sounded like the custody court (arraignment court to you fans of Boston Legal).

Once I settled myself into the public gallery, I really began to take notice of those passing through the dock. The accused had all been held in police custody the previous night, and their clothes told a story in themselves. One lad, dressed in shirt and smart trousers, with a black eye and swollen lip, had been arrested for drunk and disorderly conduct in the city’s Sauchiehaull St. He was bailed. The next chap had been arrested for carrying heroin in Rutherglen, and was wearing a torn, dirty shell suit and looked like he hadn’t slept a wink. He was remanded in custody and looked relieved to hear it. The cases are dealt with quickly and promptly: the Sheriff scans the paperwork while listening to the prosecution, the accused’s solicitor then has his say, mitigating his client’s alleged actions. The Sheriff then makes his decision – bail to return to court, or off to the gaol to await trial. All life passes by: drug dealers and users, thieves, burglars, drunk drivers and a graffiti artist. It can all become a blur.

To revive myself, I decide it was time for a bite to eat. The basement canteen is spartan, although on this cold, crisp day, the tables at the window offer a great view of the riverside development on the North bank of the Clyde and the Catholic Cathedral. Despite the Healthy Living Awards posters, the menu is strictly traditional Glaswegian: chips, beans, pasties battered fish and sausages; and for dessert - crisps and chocolate. In the canteen everyone seems to be a bit more relaxed. This is the place to see the accused (those not held in one of the more than two hundred cells) and their families. Tender moments between mothers and sons (the few fathers appear to abide by a strict rule of showing that they care by giving their sons cigarettes) everyone becomes real. They become our neighbours, commuters who we share a carriage with, people we share looks of exasperation with in long, pointless queues. Normal people in difficult circumstances.

Other than food, another vital function is toileting, as my mother-in-law says; ‘never pass a loo, you never know when the next one will come along.’ The Sheriff Court is well supplied. I can only vouch for the gents but they are clean, although the odour of ammonia can bring tears to the eyes of the unprepared. The stalls offer an insight into the past proceedings of the courts: ‘Jamesy is a grass’, ‘Campbell is a nonce’ and: ‘****** Hill gives the best head in the Bar-L’ are some of the literary works that mean any visitor to the Glasgow Sheriff Court can save space in their bag where a book would have dwelt.

All in all, the Sheriff Court offers the visitor to Glasgow a view of the city that few non-residents get to see. The people who pass through the court system are there for a number of reasons: they’re mad, bad, stupid or unfortunate. But you, the visitor, should never forget you are privileged. Your destiny is in your hands, like the tricoteuses knitting at the guillotine, you can choose to go home at the end of the day.

If this is all too real, try visiting this amazing building during its annual open day, usually the first Saturday in September, details available via the Glasgow Building Preservation Society. But beware, this is the time that you risk the chance, however slim, of bumping into Sir Sean or any number of the other tartan-to-the-core exiles back visiting the country where their hearts lay, while their bodies and bank balances reside in sunnier climes.

Not so much Artistic but Autistic

Near the Tamazepam and super-cider infused heart of our shabby-chic area is a council owned designer art space with an attached café. That should read – for its number of attendees – a café with art space attached (I know that you know I was going to write that) where the local yummy-mummies and their Howies-clad Finlays and Foccacias frolic and gambol gaily.

In this designer middle-class oasis where Edwina and Mhari sip skinny mocha-pocca-chinos and nibble on organic carrot-cake, they sit secure in the knowledge that appreciation of art and design can enhance their lives and lives of their little treasures.

This enclave of harmony and beauty is surrounded by an area significantly populated by the chemically coshed and unassimilated, unenfranchised immigrants.

These preening parents are a symptom of - and creating an entrenched - class who believe they are artistic but who are truly autistic.

Cold can Kill

There used to be two old boys who wandered the streets around here. They were part of the street scene, shuffling around a small orbit of a quarter mile.

Southside’s Vladimir and Estragon - threadbare macs, battered trilby hats, dirty, stained trousers held up by string and second hand shoes worn without socks.

They were a pair - a couple matched in their style of dress and mannerisms. They collected cigarette ends; their shaking, brown-stained fingers grasped up likely looking butts to be deposited in filth-edged pockets for later. The couple carried themselves with dignity, maybe not dignity, but an aloofness that defied their decrepitude. The local kids, the wannabe gangsters and members of the young team steered well clear of what would ordinarily be an easy target. Since moving here I have always thought that it was their very scaberousness that acted as a shield.

The pair leaning against the wall of the local lowlife boozer, sharing a packet of Mayfair, a blue plastic bag stretched around a bottle of sherry or Buckfast denoted pay day.

Like Beckett’s Boys they seemed to be waiting, but it’s clear what they were waiting for: a one way trip to the Infirmary. Clean linen, hospital food that will go cold and congeal without being touched, the disdain of pressed and fragrant nurses, a clean sheet for a shroud, followed by a cheap pine box.

But now there’s only one.

Is it Vladimir, or is it Estragon?

I don't know, I never asked their names.

After a brief absence, the remainder still wanders the same route. For a few days each fortnight he still clutches his blue offie bag. He still gathers the butts. He still waits.

After this particularly cold snap I wonder whether our little area will lose another part of the scenery.