Welcome to Glasgow, a sun-soaked, Riviera-inspired haven - Susan Morrison

A typical Glasgow street scene!

Apparently it's a partnership with the ‘luxury champagne brand, Veuve Clicquot’.

In effect, it’s a bunch of tables, chairs and a sun brolly, largely useless. This is Scotland and the pavement in question being almost always in the shade.

The marketing blurb notes that this new venture was inspired by the al fresco bars of the South of France and they hoped to create a "sun-soaked, Riviera-inspired haven in the heart of the city centre".

I’ll just repeat where this haven is. It's on a pavement outside Central Station on Gordon Street.

Last time I checked, Riviera views involved a deep blue sea sparkling in the sun, millionaires yachts and scantily clad lovelies sashaying about.

Gordon Street is a fairly narrow street bang slap in the middle of a huge, blusting city and really not trained to be a stunt double for the promenades of the South of France.

For one thing, it's Glasgow, and that means a bampot population on an industrial scale. Don't get me wrong, Edinburgh has its own population of the wild-eyed and wanting, but Glasgow is in a different league, always has been. In fact, Gordon Street saw the only time in my childhood I recall actually encountering a man begging on the streets.

One warm summer evening, Mum, Dad, the pest (AKA my wee brother) and I passed the hotel. Back then the Central Hotel was slowly decaying, her glory days far behind, her resurrection far ahead. A man called out ‘Hey, Jimmy!’ Dad knew what he wanted. The homeless huddled outside the station on the hot air vents. He sent us on ahead and then caught up a moment or two later.

Mum ticked him off gently for being a soft touch, but my dad laughed and said he’d told a good story and so he’d bunged him a couple of bob for a pint.

The Pest and I immed-iately started working on sob-story scripts in an effort to increase our pocket money.

That encounter took place exactly on the spot where Veuve Clicquot have pitched their pop-up. There were Glaswegians at the tables, sipping the fizz and taking in the view. Well, it was really more like street theatre, starring a chap fully fueled on fighting juice.

Given the evidence in the carrier bag, I’m guessing the classic combo of mega-strength lager and Buckfast. He’d been enjoying the sunshine. He was, of course, taps aff. He should have used sunscreen. Those shoulders looked raw.

A taxi had irritated him, possibly by doing something unexpected, like trying to join the row of other taxis on the rank.

Our bold boy swung a sudden one-two onto the bonnet, and then swung around to the champagne poppers and delivered an impassioned speech about the perfidious nature of Glasgow’s black cab drivers.

Had it been shorn of two words constantly used on repeat, it would have been shorter, but as it stood it was a shoo-in for Creative Scotland funding, and on that note, he finished by attempting to pan-handle the fizz crowd.

I bunged a bob or two in memory of my dad. I’ve seen worse performances at the fringe.