Hughie has
prophesied that the new Govan Road layout is an accident waiting to happen.
“Never any problem in the past 47 year Ah’ve been here,” says he, “n noo ye’re
gaunie see the results a bad plannin’.”
Here’s my eye
witness account of the prophecy coming to pass on this May Day holiday.
Govan's holy
terrors congregate outside Coffee Joe’s. In
their late 40s, they’ve earned a status by keeping vows of violence. Snarling and laughing raucously between themselves, they present a blank countenance to the world.
Unexpressive, unapproachable. You wouldn’t dare.
They’re
chatting back and forth with a pal in a black hatchback, parked in the new bays
at the roadside. Suddenly, he pulls a U turn into the oncoming traffic and
honestly, just misses by half an inch, a professional cycling man, with all the
gear. I draw in breath in short, sharp stages, ah, ah, ah, ah, ah, and hold it
there as the bike goes skidding sideways towards the tarmac island that’s risen
up out of Govan Road. The car speeds off towards Govan Cross. Five men and twa
dugs stop at the corner of Stag Street to watch. The cyclist skilfully stops
himself crashing completely to the ground. It takes a moment, with a line of
cars behind him, but he manages to get the bike upright and then turns his
gnarled face to glare at the men on the kerb. Is he going to roar in a rage? Is
he going to charge over, in his cycling shorts and shiny helmet?
Two of the
men are unconcerned with him, sorting each other out with a light. The third,
with massive dome, slits for eyes, and downturned mouth, stands solid and
staring till the cyclist, with a curse, pushes down on his bike pedal and flees
Govan.
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