The Homeland of Perpetual Gloom: I'm feeling a bit sorry for the numerous Chinese tourists who turned up in town yesterday. Burdened down with complex looking cameras, rucksacks and portable devices hoping no doubt to get some good shots of the iconic bridges. Alas it was not to be, we were beset by wet blankets and duvets of seasonal coastal fog. The number 43 bus was kept busy returning them to our partly destroyed festive capital, now known as Underbelly Land, where the beers and welcome flow like Bostik.
Unfortunately the fog, like concrete candy floss, drifting slowly up the river for the past few days has landed us straight into Brig o'Doon territory. A mythical place wrapped up in thick, eternal Scotch mist and ancient mystery that can never be truly found, only stumbled upon by bemused American singing stars with perfect hair. During this difficult and eerie time the pubs, cafes and Co-op have stubbornly remained open thanks to benign spiritual guidance and face mask wearing.
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