Chat GPT translated my post to Scottish………
Gawn tae the library’s usually sound, right? Quiet, calm, books, aw that civilised shite. But having tae drag masel through the shoppin centre first is like being marched through purgatory by some twisted cosmic bailiff. You’re no even two steps in the door and you’re surrounded by this aimless herd of wobblin bodies, aw movin at half-speed, like they’ve been tranquillised for everyone’s safety—including their ain.
They waddle aboot, these units, drifting intae ma path every five seconds, sniffing for snacks like bored pandas. Half of them are already eatin as they walk, toppin up the calories like they’re worried they’ll collapse before they reach the car park. Oversized water bottles clutched tight—pure “hydration queens”—but you just know the contents are ninety-eight per cent sugar and one per cent self-delusion.
Then there’s the fashion. Christ. Lycra stretched so thin it’s practically screamin for help. Moo-moos everywhere—massive polyester tents billowing like somebody cut up a cargo parachute. Probably aw ordered from the same three quid warehouse in the arse-end of the Internet. Curtain department might’ve had a sale, right enough.
Baggy shorts hangin halfway doon their arses, like they’re lettin the baws get some airflow. Fair play, though—summer humidity in this place is like bein slow-cooked in a human stew.
And of course ye cannae get through the mall without the charity bairns tryin tae save the planet through pure optimism alone. Wee shiny-faced zealots bouncin up tae you:
“Do ye care aboot polar bears, sir?”
Aye pal, but I also care aboot payin the leccy bill, so gie’s a break, eh?
But the best tribe, the one that really brightens your day, are the walking canvases. Every inch of skin blasted wi ink, declarations tae the world that they’re “unique” even though every one of them looks like they were tattooed by the same blind apprentice on his second day.
There’s this guy on a scooter—midlife crisis on wheels—covered head tae ankle in tattoos. Except the forehead and a wee patch under the beard, these weird islands of pasty flesh like unfinished paintwork. You’re lookin at him thinkin: mate, did the artist run out of ink, or did you lose consciousness halfway through?
Now, I dinnae hate tattoos. Some of the Yakuza stuff? That’s art. Proper mythic, deep stuff. Ritual. Craft. Meaning. But this? This mall shite? Looks like half these folk got hammered, passed out in the tattooist’s chair, and woke up lookin like the back page of a 90s sticker book.
Then there was the lassie—Christ almighty. Full body mural. Skin absolutely rammed wi dark ink, every inch scribbled ower like a notebook belonging tae an angry teenager. Nose pierced wi some gold dog-bone thing, like she’d robbed the pet aisle. Handy for snot, maybe. I could never go near it; my nose produces enough mucus tae fill a paddling pool. Ren & Stimpy once said ye could “surf the backwash”—aye, that’s me on a bad day.
Finally made it tae the library, sanctuary of the sane. Picked up Irvine Welsh’s The Long Knives—same characters as Filth, so I’m expectin blood, filth, moral corrosion, the usual cheery stuff. I’ll no spoil the opening scene, but if ye’ve got a weak stomach maybe read it near a toilet.
Dropped aff Dead Men’s Trousers anaw—breezed through that one, sittin up half the night till ma eyes went blurry. Proper page-turner.
But the real highlight? The wildest part of the whole trip? A steam train, an actual steam train, chuggin through the heart of the shopping centre like it missed its turn at 1910 and jist kept goin. Folk barely looked up. That’s the modern world for ye—steam locomotive in the mall and everybody’s too busy crashin intae each other tae notice.











































