The Superstars of Sauchiehall Street
Sauchiehall Street at the weekend is a perfect mixture of Glasgow City Centre and the Wild West. Madness and brilliance go hand in hand. If you’ve ever walked down Sauchiehall Street sober at 3am during the weekend you’ll understand.
Next time you’re passing through Sauchiehall Street, have a little look around and see how many of these Sauchiehall Street Superstars you can spot.
You’ve seen him, the poor guy standing on Sauchiehall Street, staring down at his freshly cooked, face down pizza, that seemingly jumped out of the box straight onto the clatty pavement. His three friends pay their respects by laughing uncontrollably, as the tragic man mourns his pizza more than any actual past, present, or future human relationship.
Of course you’ve seen the bewildered tourists, stumbling onto Sauchiehall Street. After previously dismissing the need for a taxi, suggesting use of their phones Sat Nav to search for their Blythswood Square hotel or the Ibis on West Regent Street. The innocent tourists will instead find themselves participating in the fervent madness of Sauchiehall Street at 3am. Will undoubtedly end up at a non-stop three day house party in Drumchapel.
Every city has them but not quite like Sauchiehall Street at the weekend. Revving and backfiring their engine repeatedly, whilst simultaneously listening to their pre-prepared Saturday Night, Ultra Belter, Tune Mix at full tilt. Although would rather drive six miles outside the city to an obscure petrol station, than venture outside the car to visit Mr News, 24 hour shop for “skins”.
You can’t miss the male PR’s, silver tongued, perfectly coiffured, probably wearing chinos and glow in the dark luminous Topman shoes. The female PR’s tend to look like they’ve sashayed out a catalogue and in the winter will definitely be wearing more makeup than clothing. All girlfriends will attempt to kill the female PR’s with their eyes when they come bounding up to offer free tickets to their club. (Probably work for Garage, Campus etc)
Usually about 10 to the hour, every hour, up until 10pm you’ll see the bar staff of almost every bar on Sauchiehall Street, Free Running down the street to make their shift on time. Barely touching the pavement, bar workers, usually dressed in black, somersault, backflip and sometimes just defy the laws of gravity and propel themselves thirty feet forwards. Always making work with two minutes to spare.
Casino Queue Chess
Shortly after 3am and the closure of the bars. A peculiar game of chess is commenced between customer and casino security. The most orderly queue of drunk people occurs like a natural phenomenon. That guy who at 2:50am was asked six times during Whitney Houston to stop dancing on the table? Easily the most well behaved person in the casino queue. But in the game of casino chess, its all or nothing. Slip up and it’s sayonara, night over.
Army of the Shoeless
Best way to ensure whether the woman walking past are part of the army of the shoeless, is gaze toward their feet, if they have no shoes and their feet have swollen to six times their original size they belong to the army. Other telltale signs will be high heels thrown over one shoulder and people moving out their way as they storm up the street.
All Day, No Way
This familiar sight on Sauchiehall Street involves a group (usually six or above) of high spirited individuals, whose endless optimism slowly deteriorates as they are rejected from every establishment on Sauchiehall Street. Refusal of entry is usually down to the “hilarious” costumes they are each wearing or the after effects of repeated shots of vodka straight into the eye, resembling a generous helping of police pepper spray.
At the weekend, just at the corner of the old DVLA building, usually, but not exclusively after 3am, you will witness the spew crew. Patrons will start at the far side of Sauchiehall Street and yet still find themselves throwing up in the same corner every week. It’s not uncommon to find someone, in this very corner, actually lying in their own or someone else’s sick.
Less than 10 feet from the previously mentioned corner, between Ladbrokes and The Hall lies the b****** bank, a bank so devious we’re pretty sure it charges you double whatever you attempt to retrieve from the depths of its financial cavern. Everybody at one point will have used it and uttered the heartbreaking statement, “how much to take my money out?” Turn to the person behind them and say “b****** bank”.