The generation before mine used to say that "in Govan the people knock the cars down". In other words the people were feisty, gallus, defiant, wouldn't wait for something so mundane as a car or a bus, or even further back, a tram or a horse and cart to pass before they could cross the street. A 'wha daur meddle wi' me?' mentality. No surrender.
The Govan Road is perhaps quieter now since so many of the shops have closed but there's still traffic. And today some of it is quite entertaining.
I can hear a throbbing bass in the distance as I pass the defunct public lavatories by Water Row. There is a high metallic wailing and a staccato rat-a-tat-tat soaring above a deep, rhythmic boom boom boom. It draws closer and I wonder what the devil the noise is, knowing all the time it will be a boy racer with the windows down and the music up full blast.
However, when the sound pulls into view, I see we are a step up from the regular mobile youth; all cheap spoilers and fancy hub caps, the driver and four passengers jerking around as they shoot off and screech along the road in bursts of high speed.
Here instead, is a gleaming silver sports car with the top down, low and sleek. Its driver is young and has streaked blonde hair. He's wearing shades and an earring and he is tapping his fingers on the steering wheel in time to the very loud, pulsating beat.
He has stopped at the pedestrian crossing for an elderly Govanite who has lost her nerve and is relying on the green man to get her over. He is casual and relaxed, enjoying the sun glimmering on his golden locks and enjoying too the attention from a crowd of spectators standing at the corner of the Job Centre. The music is throbbing but above its howling squeal the voice of one young man resonates from the pavement group. He is dressed down in a navy blue tracksuit with a grey stripe down the side of the leg and a peaked cap is set jauntily back on his head.
"Ex-cuse me," he calls out with exaggerated politeness.
He stands with his feet apart, leaning slightly back and his hands are stuffed into his pockets.
Louder again he shouts, "Excuse me, by ra way . . . D'je know yer music's oan?"
The driver does not look round, although he will have heard. I can hear and I am on the other side of the street.
Everyone laughs raucously and turns away.
The driver maintains a cool exterior but roars off at excessive speed as the ear splitting music cries out, look at me, look at me, look at me . . . are you impressed?