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Nov 05

I blame Franz Ferdinand

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I have no great distaste for the people of Glasgow, individually. And possibly even collectively, when they take time off from posing like boho-art-school-scenester-clones or squandering money on designer costumes to squash their oh-so-ample irn-bru and tunnocks tea-cake fueled curves into or smelling of drink and wee at 11 in the morning, that is. BUT why oh why oh why oh why is it that when descending on board their hornby 00 trainset of an underground railway they can’t be arsed to hold on to their tickets so litter them across the turnstyles, the station concourse floor, the steps down, the plaform, like an outrageous slug trailing a rancid secretion of flimsy cardboard. Is it because they are too cool for tickets so want to pretend they have not bought one and are breaking the law (rebels!)? Because the nasty nasty brown and orange colour scheme is not sufficiently retro (or the wrong retro?) for their razor-honed fashion sense? Is it just because they are lazy as fuck and putting a ticket in a pocket or a bin would deplete their valuable energy reserves?

(Also: mystery, why is their underground so sodding small? Because during the night it secretly doubles as transport for gnomes? Because the council ran out of money when digging it? Because the average height of a Glaswegian is several feet below the UK average due to poverty, poor housing and monstrous inbreeding?)

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