A voice calls to me from the roadside and here's the man himself, tormentor and runner over of dugs, chariot racer on the King's highway between Summertown Road and The Old Harmony Bar on the corner of Shaw Street; Govan's very own granda. He never passes by the war memorial without tipping his Russian hat, he tells me, in memory of the men of Govan who gave their lives in combat wi' the gerries. "Take ma picture if ye like. Hoy!" he shouts out with a punch of his fist as the Fire Brigade shoot past with a honk.
"You weren't fighting in that war, were ye?" I ask, sure that he's not old enough.
"Aye," he replies.
"Is that how ye lost your . . " my voice trails off but he's onto telling how he gave his grandson a thousand pounds for his birthday. Gives him that every year. Everybuddy's shocked when he dishes out a thousand pounds, but that's just his way a doin things.