There are those among the general public, passing through Govan's streets, who stand above the rest. Those whose demeanour, patter, dress, attitude, that sorta je ne sais quoi, brings them to our attention and holds them aloft in our gaze.
Mr M. regales us at a corner, a warm-up before his full performance in a Govan hostelry. He is an octogenarian, slim and neat, dapper in a dark grey suit with crisp, white shirt and striped tie. A pressed white handkerchief sits in his top pocket, his black shoes are polished to a shine.
"An' what are you thinkin' aboot that independence nonsense? Eh? What's that aboot? Ah'm tellin ye, that Salmond and Co. are away wi it. Alex's getting carried away wi hissel'. There's nane a them in Edinburgh up to the job, that's the problem. Whit we're needin's Jim Murphy. He's needin tae come up fae London. Aye, we're needin somebody sensible. Jim's needin tae come up and dae a tour a Scotland and tell everybody what's what - Ah mean, me an Alex'll go wae 'im, sort this thing oot."
The Alex he's referring to is a big man mountain thug that Mr M trained in the boxing ring.
I can't help laughing at the thought of this sparse wee gent with his shaven heid minder approaching Jim Murphy to offer their services. Mr M. grins along with us. He's always got a glint in his eye, sometimes kinda evil, but in general good humoured.
"Aye, we'll need tae get a sharp shooter tae get Salmond oot a therr. Get a long distance shooter trained oan'm fae, whit dae ye call that place, Arthur's Seat. Ah mean, it's ok talkin aboot it, but listen, say it did happen, the hale place could be poverty stricken."
I keep a straight face. The only reason I'm hearing this is that I'm in the company of men. Mr M. is old school and doesn't generally address women, apart from a courteous nod of the head.
"Did ye see Margo?" he asks next. "Tryin' tae bring a bill in tae kill everybody. Did ye see'er on the tele, staunin' wi' er two sticks. She's just haudin' oan tae get this through or she'd a done 'ersel' in a'ready. Aye, she'd huv us a' killed"
We're all laughing now and Mr M.'s off and away reminiscing of days past and the old Glasgow gangland. "Aye, it's a' drugs noo. They're no the same, nae characters left. Their heids are a' wasted wi' the drugs."