As J stared out of the side window of Lush on Glasgow’s Buchanan St. banners were being unfurled by a noisy protest group. A nosey crowd was beginning to gather round as the protesters began to air their grievances, their faces now disguised by black scarves and headgear. Within seconds wave upon wave of bright yellow appeared out of nowhere cutting the would be marchers off from the expanding crowd, slowly squeezing them into an ever tightening space in the side street.
The BNP activists hurled (what J describes as disgusting – so I didn’t enquire further) abuse at Glasgow’s finest as the noise of their protest increased markedly in volume. But they hadn’t reckoned on Buchanan Street’s secret weapon. The polis were merely a diversion. The killer punch was delivered by that most devastating of all enforcement agencies…
The horrible wailing began as a hitherto silent bagpiper inflated the tartan whoopee cushion, while some 20m away the up until now invisible celtic drummers wellied into a cacophony of pounding beats, the cumulative racket effectively overpowering everything within a half mile radius. No contest.
A case of the unpalatable drowned out by the unspeakable.