Lesson #2: Don't take the last train on a Friday night.

Glasgow is a very strange city. Some of the friendliest people you'll ever meet in your life live there. However,  it is also the knife crime capital of the UK. There's a joke that people like to tell about Glasgow - yes, someone might stab you but they'll also call the ambulance and wait with you until it shows up.
Generally, just having basic common sense will keep you safe but there are a few other good things to know about the city that aren't exactly intuitive to newcomers. Things like: Stay out of Kelvingrove Park at night, don't go wandering about Maryhill when it's dark, don't go to Ibrox if you're wearing green and white, and don't egg on neds. Here is a picture of  neds:

It's difficult to explain

This is a story involving trains. Specifically, the last ones on Friday nights.

Part I

I was going to Spain. Or at least, I was going to be going to Spain. It was 11pm and I was at Glasgow Central train station, on the last train to Prestwick Airport. This time tomorrow, I'd be in Malaga. First, however, was an overnight stay at the airport. Unfortunately, the cheapest flights always leave before the trains to the airport start.

My mate Pete had walked with me down St. Vincent to Central Station. It was December 20th and we'd just gotten the first snowfall. Being Canadian, it was brilliant. Christmas needed some snow - even if I was going to be in Spain on actual Christmas Day, I just had to see some first.

Of course, there was also the obligatory snowball fight which was had between myself, Pete, Ignas - a Lithuanian, and Seán - an Irishman.

It was night now though and Pete walked with me all the way to the train station and waited - standing outside the train, waiting for me to disappear forever. He was from New Zealand and due to go back there after touring Europe a bit. I wouldn't see him again so he waited, right outside my window, until I left.

Looking about, I realised that I was the only sober person on the train. The car was packed right full of people. Some of them were all posh looking - obviously on the way back from a Christmas party. Others were just slaggy -coming back from a Christmas pish up. A huge backpack and basic motor skills made me the odd one out on this train.

In front of me sat the only other sober person in the carriage. A businessman who looked to be about in his thirties. Beside me was a bloke only a few years older than myself - completely pished who had his feet up on the other seat and looked rather neddish. This is where the problems started.

"Move yer feet mate", said a man in his late thirties/early forties - also very drunk.

He was ignored. So he just moved the feet himself and sat down.

"Wid ye put yer feet up like that at yer maw's"

He shrugged. To be fair, I felt that the younger one was being a dick having his feet up and probably deserved a telling off.

"Ye've nae got any respect fir anyone ye cunt. Whae'd ye think ye are?"

"Dunno"

"Whole train's full ay people n ye put yer feet up"

"Aye"

At this point, I was having a really difficult time deciding which one of these two fine men I despised more. On the bright side, I figured there was a good chance they would beat the living hell out of each other. This also meant that there was going to be a fight right next to me. I traded an exacerbated look with the businessman in front of me.

I decided that it was about time I gave these fine gentlemen names. It was decided that the cunt with his feet up would be called "Feet Cunt" and the talking cunt would be called "Talking Cunt".

In Scotland the word 'cunt' is used in crude slang as a replacement for the word 'person'. I am using the word strictly by it's North American definition. Just to clear things up.

"It's cunt's like you are why this generation is shite."

Feet Cunt didn't like this. However, he seemed very much to like Talking Cunt's throat because he leapt across and started squeezing it. Talking Cunt wasn't fighting back at all. I figured I should intervene - but not right away. Counting to five in my head seemed like the best idea.

One.

Still choking.

Two.

Still no fighting back. I found this part really strange.

Three.

Talking Cunt was turning a very pretty shade of red. It wasn't quite crimson which is the colour that faces always turn in books when they are being choked. I decided to call it True Crimson.

Four.

I would watch that film: True Crimson. Ralph Fiennes would have to be in it though.

Right before I reached five, Feet Cunt backed off and sat down. He still wanted more though.

"Ye fucking start wi' me?"

Unsurprisingly, Talking Cunt was apologetic,

"Naw fuck man. Jist leave it, fuck it, naw is awright."

I figured that was the end of the altercation and that we could all just wait out the rest of the train ride in silence - like how Londoners do it. My assumption was very flawed. I had no idea how thick Talking Cunt actually was.

Nice guess!

After about five minutes of peace and quiet (as much quiet as a train full of drunk people can offer that is), Talking Cunt started right up again being a talking cunt. Big surprise there. I cursed myself for being so good at naming people.

"Ye eywis so disrespectfaw"

The business gentleman in front of me decided to try to intervene. As much as we both knew Talking Cunt deserved it, it would be unpleasant if we had to watch him get his head smashed in.

" Let it go mate. Jist drop it. He's goat the idea"

"Youse gitting started oan me now?"

The gentleman (who I will refer to from now on as 'The Gentleman') sighed and looked out the window.

Now arriving in Irvine. The next stop is for Barassie.

Good. Irvine. That meant after Barassie, there was only the stop in Troon before the airport. I might actually get off the train before a fight breaks out.

Both Talking Cunt and Feet Cunt had gotten quite at this point. I exchanged a glance with The Gentleman. Maybe they'd both calmed down? Maybe Talking Cunt had realized that he was pure going to get fucked? Maybe Feet Cunt was satisfied with his brief choking? Maybe I didn't believe a single one of these scenarios was even remotely true and that shit was going to go downhill fast.

Now arriving in Barassie

Feet Cunt leapt across and started giving out a proper swedgin - three shots to the face before I was up and hauling him off of Talking Cunt, nearly pulling us both into the slags sitting across the aisle. Surprisingly, Feet Cunt was nonchalant about me intervening and simply left the train instead of directing his fury at me.

I sat back down. Talking Cunt had left too.

Shrugging, I looked at The Gentleman,

"Happy Christmas"



PART II

I was going to Ireland. Or at least, I was going to be going to Ireland. My flight to Dublin left at six in the morning so I would be staying overnight at the airport first. I was going to be away for awhile this time - 20 days - so I had spent the night having some drinks with my Cairncross mates. This is why I was on the last train to the airport. On a Friday. Again. I should have known better but an extra hour spent sitting in an airport when I could have been in the kitchen with friends was just not worth it. Even when that slight possibility of having the piss beat out of me was taken into consideration.

Pictured: Fifteen things worth getting
punched for

Plus, today was March 23rd. There is absolutely no reason for hordes of people to be out drinking on March 23rd and so only the usual amount of drunkards would be on the train - which I hoped would be manageable.

I took that walk down St. Vincent street again to the train station - this time alone. We had been watching a film in the common room so I simply snuck out when it was time to leave.

I was right in my assumption; the train was nearly empty. No worries here. I closed my eyes and tried for a wee nap.

At the first stop, in Paisley, six neds got on. In case you've forgotten, these are neds:

Such upstanding members of society

I didn't think much of it. They were standing at the opposite end of the train from me - clearly drunk but not belligerent. Still no worries. I went back to trying to nap.

Just after Kilwinning, I was snapped out of semi-consciousness. Two of the neds had gotten into an argument. I couldn't make out what they were saying. Not because they weren't talking loud enough but because they were talking in Glaswegian Ned. For the record, you've a better chance of understanding someone who doesn't speak English than a Glasgow Ned.

I watched them closely. The other four neds were hovering around the altercation but they seemed to be heavily favouring one over the other.

Now arriving in Irvine. The next stop is in Barassie.

The one ned started getting pummelled. Punches from every direction. He fell and scrambled out of the train. I thought it was over. The neds hadn't had enough though. They followed him out of the train and started wailing away - kicking and punching as he fell to the ground, rolled and started to run.

Now they were satisfied. They were also getting back on the train, just as the doors were closing.

Shitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitshitfuckcuntass.

I briefly thought about the pocketknife I had stashed in my backpack. Then I realize that these are neds and they've each probably got a chib - if it came to that. Worst idea ever. So I simply hoped that it wouldn't come to that and that they'd leave me alone.

The train got to Barassie and the neds got off - thank fuck.

From here on I was never going to take the last train on a Friday night ever again.