Late night fighting….yes ME!

I have been totally high on adrenaline all day, wired is how I would describe it. I have a big double page spread in the Daily Record, four big photo’s and a whole article about my book being released. I liked the article and am happy that it turned out ok, as it is always a worry, you think it may trash or trivialise the book and you cant exhale until you actually read it.

After that I had seen my book in the book store and let myself be talked into a ‘impromptu’ book signing by the store manager.

So tonight I am on stage at a lovely wee gig in the Merchant City. It all went fine and I was still a wee bit high as a kite coming off stage, adrenaline flooding my system like sugar rush to a toddler, so I decided to walk home and listen to my IPOD full blast.

Saturday night in Glasgow’s city centre is just an amazing sight.

The late night Kebab run, I call it. There are people laughing/crying/falling/eating/kissing/fucking/pissing/flirting/falling again/fighting/stabbing/singing/shouting/running all in equal measures.

I walked quickly, in time to my music. ‘Born Slippy’ banged in my ear drums as I approached the nightclub ‘Destiny’ queue. Raggle taggle drunk happy young people, the girls all appeared to be dressed in their nightgowns or swimwear, huddled against the cold Glasgow rain, the boys all standing tall or buckled with booze, desperate to off load that weeks sperm store, hair spiked and shirts hanging loose over ‘distressed’ jeans on a stressed body.

I smiled as I passed and recalled when I used to wait to go into discos (God…. did we really call them discos?). Just as I bounced in my Masai Warrior shoes past the top of the line, a young spiky boy in a cheap suit, smelling of excitement and cider, reached over and ripped out one of my IPOD earplugs, laughed and turned to the girls for ‘testosterone’ approval. Surely if he can annoy an old woman he will be good at oral?

Every nerve from the top of my scalp to the inside linings of my kidneys itched. Normally I would bark at him and keep walking.

Not tonight, adrenaline developed a tsunami and ran like a heroin rush through my system, awakening the tight numb skin that lies dry under my fingernails, my pupils hurt as they enlarged and the skin on my back let slip a slow sweat drop that tickled as it snaked from my neck.

I turned and faced him and he saw what I felt, I must have looked like Carrie on her prom night.

“Fuck off fatty” he laughed loudly, but with nerves shaking his voice.

I stared at him, kept a straight face and was aware that the crowd was now craning their necks to see what was going on.

I looked at the girls in a small ring-a-rosy type group and I shouted really loudly “Hey. It’s not my fault you’re GAY”

The crowd sniggered. The boy sneered and his wee pal stepped forward and shouted back “He is not gay ya cow”

I stepped nearer and laughed “Oh look, he has a wee boyfriend”

I turned to the crowd and opened my lungs and belted out

“Ladies and gentleman, please – a big round of applause for Tommy, who chose tonight to come out as a homosexual”

The crowd roared and clapped.

The boy squared up to me, terribly insulted, terribly annoyed, his pimples glowed.

I reached into the back of my head and pulled out of my hair the long steel pointed sharp ‘Bird beak’ spring loaded hair clip. It looks fucking lethal and is extremely strong and comes to a fine steel point.

“Do you want me to stab this into your groin? How embarrassing will it be to die in a fucking nasty hair clip attack?”

He backed off.

I turned to the doormen who were watching and laughing with the crowd.

“Excuse me door staff, I am journalist walking home and customers of yours have just attacked me, are you going to let these vile potentially violent men into your club?”

The door men stared at me looked at the young bucks (who were now very worried about death by hair decorations).

“No” said the baldy headed man dressed in black “No, you are both barred” he gruffly spoke to the two boys.

The queue cheered, the two boys tried to argue but the bouncer only raised his hand up showing his palm to indicate silence.

They waited till I walked away and they were a good few yards down the road and shouted

“Fucking old cow, we are not scared of your hair clip”

The queue laughed loudly. I took a bow and carried on my journey home laughing.

A good night out in Glasgow, the city of STYLE!