This week has been dark, and this weekend a strange mix of introspection and relief. Having spent the weekend in York, going to pubs serving delicious Belgian brews, cafes selling delicious crepes and waffles, and being around normal people wearing normal clothes, enjoying living - I contemplate Paisley, its run-down streets, the population of neds, and my mind keeps returning to these lyircs (from the Arctic Monkeys):
Though they might wear classic Reeboks,
Or knackered Converse, or trackie-bottoms tucked in socks,
But all of that's what the point is not -
The point's that there i'n't no romance around there
And there's the truth that they can't see;
They'd probably like to throw a punch at me.
And if you could only see 'em then you would agree,
Agree that there i'n't no romance around there,
Don't you know? It's a funny thing, you know
We'll tell 'em if you like - we'll tell 'em all tonight -
They'll never listen, because their minds are made up.
Of course it's all OK to carry on that way.
Over there, there's broken bones
There's only music so that there's new ring tones
And it don't take no Sherlock Holmes
To see it's a little different around here.
Much of Paisley, and the inhabitants within, is depressing - decaying, and as ugly as sin. But that's not all there is to this town - a town which predates Glasgow, in fact. Paisley sits in the shadow of some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever witnessed. And Paisley contains some hidden gems - bastions of what once was, and what might be again. There are still local butchers. There is a picture framer, I recently discovered just around the corner from where I live - a talented, friendly and professional establishment, framing and selling quality pieces. And there's Sandy - Her Majesty's Sculptor in Ordinary in Scotland, based in the University - a champion of romanticism, and a friend of the Nuclear Group.
There is, in fact, hope.
Though they might wear classic Reeboks,
Or knackered Converse, or trackie-bottoms tucked in socks,
But all of that's what the point is not -
The point's that there i'n't no romance around there
And there's the truth that they can't see;
They'd probably like to throw a punch at me.
And if you could only see 'em then you would agree,
Agree that there i'n't no romance around there,
Don't you know? It's a funny thing, you know
We'll tell 'em if you like - we'll tell 'em all tonight -
They'll never listen, because their minds are made up.
Of course it's all OK to carry on that way.
Over there, there's broken bones
There's only music so that there's new ring tones
And it don't take no Sherlock Holmes
To see it's a little different around here.
Much of Paisley, and the inhabitants within, is depressing - decaying, and as ugly as sin. But that's not all there is to this town - a town which predates Glasgow, in fact. Paisley sits in the shadow of some of the most beautiful countryside I have ever witnessed. And Paisley contains some hidden gems - bastions of what once was, and what might be again. There are still local butchers. There is a picture framer, I recently discovered just around the corner from where I live - a talented, friendly and professional establishment, framing and selling quality pieces. And there's Sandy - Her Majesty's Sculptor in Ordinary in Scotland, based in the University - a champion of romanticism, and a friend of the Nuclear Group.
There is, in fact, hope.
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