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.

Lesson #1: Racism exists

Our lesson on racism takes place in the lovely city of Lisbon. The Portuguese capital is chock full of delicious food, beautiful sunsets, and a fancy bridge that isn't quite the Golden Gate. Apparently, these are pretty big draws for tourists - regardless of their cultural beliefs. I imagine this is true in many (quite possibly all) of the cities you'd like to visit.

It was around midnight and I was having a drink and chatting in the common room of a hostel with two American girls, Caitlin and Casey, and an Australian whose name I can't remember. For now, I'll refer to him as Rebeca because that is the only other Australian I know. Also: to make the story more interesting for female readers lets assume that Rebeca is super hot. Because he is super hot. Possibly even sexy. Because he is Australian. I was also pretty hot in this story but I'm not from Australia so, honestly, who gives a fuck.

G'day ladies

I was having a lovely time talking to everyone. I'd known Caitlin and Casey for a couple days already so we were pretty much bestest travel buddies ever. Rebeca was just incredibly attractive - you don't even know. So chatting with him was good too. I had also been travelling with a friend from Canada, Meghan, but she decided to call it an early night because apparently she is too lame for racism and thinly veiled threats.

So, the four of us were having a grand ol'time just relaxing and talking in the common room when these two Arabic guys came into the common room and sat down. Arab #1 (Who henceforth shall be known as Racey Bin Allah Racism or just Arab #1 for short) sat down next to Caitlin while Arab #2 (Quiet McRacistpants) was beside me.

They weren't wearing traditional clothes or anything; just two normal guys hanging out in the common room. For the most part they listened in on our conversations but talked amongst themselves a little bit in Arabic. After about 20 minutes of them sitting there half listening to us Arab #1 spoke up. Arab #2 sat and listened, never talking.

"Are you guys from America", Arab #1 asked; a perfectly reasonable and normal question to be asked in a hostel full of people from all over the world. Caitlin was all over answering it,

"We're American", she said pointing to herself and Casey, "He's from Australia (and is just a total heartthrob) and he's from Canada (he's pretty cool too I-I guess?)"

"Oh" Arab #1 nodded and then briefly paused to consider all the logical and socially acceptable things he could say to follow up his question. Then he decided 'FUCK THAT IDEA' and said this instead,

"You know, in my country, we kill Americans"

Pretty much my reaction too

My initial thought was that he was taking the piss. I laughed a little. It might have been a nervous laugh. It seemed like he was joking, but he also seemed pretty serious about it. Dry humour maybe? Who knows. There were nervous glances going around the room. We were trying as a group to, without words, decide if Arab #1 was joking or if he was a crazy racist. He broke the silence before we could reach a decision.

"Yeah, if there is an American tourist or reporter", he paused and then, because he didn't want to discriminate, added, "or Canadian or Australian. We kill them".

More nervous glances. Caitlin asked the question we were all thinking. No, not "What the hell is with this guy?". She asked that other question we were all thinking.

"Where are you from?"

"It doesn't matter."

"Actually, it does. I'd like to not go there if you kill Americans."

"It's okay, we're in Portugal now."

"Okay. Portugal. Neutral territory, right", Caitlin asked hopefully. Instead it just upset Arab #1. He snapped back

"NO! It's not about territory. It's about bloodlines"

Genocide: The other thing that Tiggers do best

At this point, nervous glances were starting to become a pretty big part of my life. However, Arab #1 must not have filled his 'nervous glance' quota for the evening because he just plowed straight ahead on the Racist Train to Crazy Towne.

" I think that in ten years there will be yourobia"

His accent made that last word hard to understand.

"Yourobia?", we asked for clarification.

"Yourabia"

"Yourabia?"

"Eurabia"

"Oh, Eurabia!", I was excited that I understood. Then I realized what he meant by 'Eurabia'.

"I - really, all of Europe?"

"Yes", he nodded, "And I don't know, maybe America too. Definitely in twenty years America will be Arabia. You know, we have nukes; America has nukes. I think we will probably fight soon. Americans don't have god anymore. They just get drunk and have parties".

Casey, who has never been drunk and never plans to be drunk, took objection to this,

"I think that maybe you have a stereotyped view of Americans. Most of us aren't like that".

Arab #1 simply shrugged and ignored her objection. Probably because she was a woman. I, however, being a man decided to see if he would answer a question I was curious about.

"What about Canada? Will it be Arabic?"

He considered the question carefully before giving his answer,

"Hmmm... No. But they will be poor".

Here is where my breaking point was met and I finally let out a proper laugh. Everything was too fucked up and scary and weird not too.

Arab #1 wasn't quite finished yet though. He decided he was going to bring Rebeca into the conversation (who, I'm not sure if I've mentioned it, is a pretty good looking guy).

Pointing at Casey and Caitlin, Arab #1 asked Rebeca, "Does it bother you that they aren't wearing burqas?"

Rebeca laughed. My heart swooned (because he is so rugged and sexy).

"No. I like this better".

"You know, Australians and British, they have depressive blood. It is in their genes. They are depressed".

"Uh, okay". Rebeca smiled. I'll never forget that smile.

Finally, Caitlin had had enough, "I'm going to bed". The rest of us jumped on this opportunity and decided to go to bed too.

At this point, it is important for me to tell you about the layout of the hostel. It consisted of two buildings. The one we were currently in was the main building. The room I was sleeping in was in the other building a block away. The common room was on the second floor so I went down the stairs to go outside. Halfway down, I hear footsteps behind me and, oh goodness, the crazy racist Arabs are right there, following me outside. Luckily, there was a bathroom right beside the exit so I darted in there.


After waiting for a few minutes I went back up to the common room. Caitlin, Casey and Rebeca (the pretty one) were all still there. Apparently they stopped being tired after the Arabs left. Or maybe after I left? Those bastards. Everyone had a different reaction to my return

"Oh good! You're alive!", said Casey.

"Where are they sleeping", asked Caitlin

"I'd like not to be dead in the morning", said Rebeca.

It turned out that Casey, Caitlin and Rebeca were all staying in the same room in the main building. I told them that they'd be fine, that the Arabs were staying in my building. Then a thought came to me,

"I hope Meghan's not dead", I shrugged.

A bit more chit-chat and then we decided to go to bed for realsies this time. I went back downstairs and outside, dreading the walk to my bed. All the tiny alleyways and doors were hiding spots concealing knife-weilding-freedom-hating-Arabs. Luckily though, I lived in Glasgow, and was fully used to the idea of being stabbed at any moment. In fact, it was almost comforting.

Pictured: Business as usual in Glasgow

I made it back to the hostel alive. However, odds were pretty good that the Arabs were in the building . I snuck quietly into my room. No Arabs there. Meg was sound asleep and also still breathing. Both good things. All the bunks in my room were occupied. Since the door locked, sleep seemed like a safe thing to do.

Next morning I got up early for free breakfast and adventures. There were no signs of racist Arabs or of murder anywhere. None of us ever saw them again. They just disappeared into thin air. I am of the opinion that they were ghost crazy racist Arabs.