2 am, Saturday night, Central Station, Glasgow. I didn’t realise at the time, but Friday was a Scottish Holiday, and the Monday is a holiday unique to Glasgow. Also, it’s half term.
The first wave of revellers is spilling out of the bars and restaurants. It’s noisy, there’s laughter. Gregg’s is open for pasties, as is Newsbox, a 24/7 newsagent with a super friendly man running it. He knows his customers. It’s drunken and happy. There’s a DJ with a rig on a trolley creating a mini block party out of the monumentally sized taxi queue. The taxi marshals are super efficiently getting people into cars home. “Nae bother”, they say as they pack another taxi with happy, drunk people thanking them. Street pastors are handing out flip flops to (mainly) girls who’ve removed sky scraping high heels and are walking barefoot. It’s bawdy, it’s boisterous, the weather is mellow and mild. Everyone is friendly and chatty, playing up for my camera. There’s no way I can do that fly on the wall reportage style here. Everyone wants to be in the picture. I don’t want to go home.