You Couldn't Make It Up

The Monday morning commuter train. Disembarking off the low level at Glasgow Central, the workbound masses pass a policeman with a sniffer dog. That's a first.

I should add that it was a solitary, middle aged policeman, with a dog that was some sort of beagle I think. In the extremely unlikely event of detecting a would-be suicide bomber, what was he going to do?

Tackle him hand-to-hand? Unleash man's best friend on him? The dog would be more likely to lick a suspect into submission, than savage him to the ground.

He won't catch many suicide bombers in Glasgow, but might have given palpitations to a few of the neds floating around with a gallus quarter ounce in their back pocket.

The Monday evening commuter train. 'We regret to announce this train will be delayed due to a trespasser on the track'.

More precisely, a would-be jumper. Perched over the Clyde on the railbridge leading from the station.

Once that became apparent, the reaction was clear. Shove him off and let us get home.

The train was only ten minutes late. As we edged slowly from the station, a disheveled forty something nutter, crouched atop the bridge wall, was arguing with a bunch of cops, who were observing him from a safe distance.

I couldn't hear what he was shouting, but presumably he wasn't oblivious to the trainload of weary commuters who were observing him. Many openly laughing as they passed.

Given his comical attire, it was hard not to laugh. Sports shorts and thick grey socks. No shoes. He looked like he'd had too much of the sun, and the tonic wine too probably.

So, anti-suicide bomber patrols in the morning, and wanna be suicide nutters in the evening.

Maybe they can do a deal.

Round up one of the former, twenty of the latter and stick them in a bunker with a few pounds of Mother of Satan. Death for the wannadies, the bomber hits the unbeliever quota to qualify for his 72 virgins, and no more train delays.

Everyone's happy. Except the commuters who need to do it all again on Tuesday.