“Come to Glasgow. . .”

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My mother grew up in Renton, on the banks of Loch Lomond. During the Clydeside Blitz she was in an Anderson shelter, tending to her younger brothers and sisters and doing her homework. Later during the war she was a telephone operator in Glasgow. Although I’ve never been to Scotland, I’ve always considered myself kind of a Glaswegian-by-proxy. My mother, grandmother, and all my aunts and uncles on my mother’s side all grew up within 15 miles of Glasgow, and the Glaswegian patter sounds natural to me.

So take a listen to Glaswegian John Smeaton on why and how he subdued one of the jerks who tried to blow up Glasgow airport. It’s poetry. “Glasga doesn’t accept this. This is Glasgow. We’ll set about ye.”

Those Scots are some tough hombres. Like Mr. Smeaton said, The British people have been through worse than this, and they stand proud. I only wish my late Uncles John and Tommy could have seen this. How they would have laughed, and how they would have loved to raise a pint in his honor.

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