Cheers Govanhill is a semi-fictional blog about inner-city weirdness from Glasgow’s unruliest neighbourhood. Everything in it is true, although a lot of it might have been made up. The narrator laddie, Boy David, explains where to buy brontosaurus cutlets, how New York stole all its ideas from Govanhill and what gentrification means for the filthy habits of west of Scotland dead men. 

Will cauliflower waffles help with collapsing ceilings? Are his bicyclist days really over? And the guy who’s on loan, do you think he’ll stay at the end of the season? 

I can’t wait to see what happens.  

Why Govanhill is just like New York 2 

First there was the building on the left, at Eglinton Toll. 

Then, mysteriously, the building on the right appeared in New York City. 

Coincidence? 

Getouttahere.

Also, Queens sounds a lot like Queens Park, doesn’t it? And so does Central Park, yeah? 

Quit trying to rip us off, Noo Yoik. What’s next, Govanhill Street Blues?

Forgetaboutit.

At least Govanhill has its own cutting-edge financial district, just like Wall Street. 

See these shop signs in Allison Street and Pollokshaws Road. 

Not just citywide or regional or national or pan-European or international but global, man. 

That these shops are being consulted on software and practising accountancy on a global scale blows my mind, literally. What’s next, the Wolf of Westmoreland Street?

So, yeah. I willhave a nice day, buddy. 

Don’t you worry your sweet ass about that.

Brontosaurus cutlets 

Don’t you just love Lidl? Oil paints, chainsaws, nuclear reactors.

I popped in on the way home from the game. Rhinoceros balls, yeti burgers, brontosaurus cutlets. 

The checkout guy is pleasant and chatty. He sees the scarf, asks pleasantly if I’d been at the match and I chat.      

Yeah. One–nil. Pretty ropey. 

He asks who scored, how the forward play was, what about the defending, that left back is a dud, are we still giving away goals, I don’t think that winger will ever be fit, hope we keep the midfielder though, he’s some player, but is the manager the right man for the job, and the guy who’s on loan, do you think he’ll stay at the end of the season? 

As I say, pretty ropey. 

I place my items in the bagging area. Telescope, ski mask, Royal Navy frigate. 

I think about how lucky I am that I don’t shop at another supermarket or support another football team. 

Govanhill never sleeps but I like to 

This a mad street I live in. Post-pub shouting and singing, yelling and screaming through the evening, kids running up and down all day. 

It feels like their only power, the only way to convince themselves they exist, is to make as much noise as they can. 

Know the feeling, kids.

But then I remember going to visit a pal last year in Penilee, a pleasant wee suburb on the south side. Neat council houses, trim little gardens, mature trees and wide pavements. Sitting in the back garden with a can of beer, peace and quiet, lazy summer’s evening, this is the life. 

Got dropped off on Victoria Road later that night and the place was bouncing. People on the streets, talking or in groups, on their way to the pub or the off-sales. Fruit shops still open, crates on the pavement, the colours from the street lights and the traffic lights, the smell from the takeaway joints and restaurants, the pizza place and the chicken shop. The laughter, the chatter, the way everyone was moving. 

The toddlers in the back court will be inside the bins again tomorrow. 

But tonight, cheers Govanhill. 

To read more from Peter Mohan, check out his blog.