Darkness falls and it's a mean, cold night. I am walking through the streets of Govan, sniffing for gunpowder or smoke from a bonfire. Boom! A firework explodes up a close. The dampness of the still air seeps through jackets, trousers, shoes, socks, into the bones. Even if we could find a bonfire, it's too late to get warm at it.
The regeneration of Govan has extinguished one of its hottest winter festivals. Building sites, new housing, fancy landscaped back courts means there's nowhere to build the bonfire and set off the fireworks. Well, there's still the sperr grun at Water Row, but nothin's there for whatever reason. It feels as depressing as a damp squib.
Just before midnight, a dug starts barking like crazy and there's the sound of a scuffle and running and then the polis motors screech along Govan Road - up to eleven of them at one point - with officers running up closes to bring out the bad rascals in a big, bad round-up.
I'm just saying - I might not be right - but I'm just saying, maybe this could've been avoided if we'd had the usual bonfire malarkey, setting off fireworks, burning household goods and so on.