Glaswegian Invaders

I went for a ride round town after work yesterday, about 2.30pm. It was a bit like walking through a packed festival, except the drinking was on an industrial scale the likes of which I've not witnessed before. It was a good atmosphere then though - sure, they'd all taken over, and most of them seemed to be urinating wherever they felt like it, but they, and we, were having fun with it. People were high-fiving me as I pedalled, slowly, through the masses; songs were being sung; bus shelters were being sat on; tram stations had dozens of Scottish people at them, instead of trams.

I went to band practice in the evening. Our room is in an old mill about 1/4 mile from the stadium, on the main route between there and the centre of town. I arrived just after kick off and the streets were empty but for a few lost, drunken Scotsmen. When I came out there was a river of people pouring back into the centre. I could tell immediately that the result was not favourable to the Glaswegian invaders.

I considered continuing on my normal route home, which would have meant working my way through the crowds in my car, but stopped and turned around before it got too busy. It was a wise decision - I heard on the radio two minutes later that they were turning cars over just 300 yards from where I turned back.

There were a few solemn faces at Picadilly station this morning, 9.30am. Some still had cans of Tennants being tilted back and forth to them. The streets were a mess though - my bike tyres crunched over broken glass for most of the two mile ride to work and the smell was everywhere. The city stank of piss.