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About Glasgow

Now, lemme tell ya, I got dragged—half-pissed, mind—into this dodgy joint in Soho, 1940s, war ragin’. Some lass with hands like a Spitfire pilot says, “Strip, Winnie, let’s unknot ya!” Blimey, I’m redder than a Tommy’s coat, but them fingers? Magic. Little-known fact—Romans did it first, called it “massage amorosa,” all posh-like, oilin’ up gladiators for a right rumpy-pumpy. Surprised me socks off! Them ancients knew how to live, eh?

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Then, I head to the Portlethen Community Centre. They were having some event, and I thought, “Why not?” I walk in, and it’s a bingo night. I’ve never played bingo in my life. But hey, I’m here for the experience. I sit down, and the lady next to me is super into it. She’s shouting numbers like she’s at a football match. I’m just trying to keep up. I didn’t win, but I did make a new friend. Her name’s Margaret, and she’s a hoot. We bonded over our mutual love for bad sweaters.

Portlethen Station: The peculiar opening, closing and reopening of a rural railway halt