Are you the driver or a passenger?

He, took a different path to me
Left his worries and beliefs
Breaking faster than the scene
Of a slow and sinking sun
Now it’s done

Why, do the good ones have to die?
In the long and by and by
We’ll find out how to live
And forgetting how to cry
And a meaning of a life

Life carries passengers
Life is a train
Life goes into the ground
Till we meet again

He, was always such a friend
But when did that friendship end
When I wouldn’t share a line
When he said what’s mine is mine
A secret in time

Why, when the parting is so sweet
And the knot is incomplete
That the message never came
And the moribund remains
Stole the meaning of that call

Love, carries passengers
Life bears the strain
Bones go into the earth
Never seen again

When does it ever end
Why won’t the fences mend
I am a lasting friend

I, carry passengers
I don’t feel pain
Life is now manifest
Then we meet again
One day we’ll meet again

An open letter to Glasgow City Council and Commonwealth games organisers;

My earliest memory of the Red road flats was, shockingly enough, hanging over the edge of the roof of one when I was about 8 or nine. Me and my brothers were wild and if we weren’t running around the playground that was, ‘The Blackie’ (a disused quarry complete with a bing not long stopped smoking and a torch and battery) it was at the Atlas works, a disused factory from the long gone locomotive industry that was once the life of Springburn.

The Red Road flats were once an exciting, vibrant microcosm of a city that scraped up into the sky and made you dizzy if you looked up standing next to one.

Next, they descended into a ghetto that people were scared to enter unless you were unlucky enough to live there.

Another age in the life of the flats and the introduction of the concierge system, with sealed entry, fob keys, CCTV cameras and an intercom in every house.

Lastly and probably saddest of all, when it became a dumping ground for every disparate family from Europe and beyond.

Now that they are all but empty and a few less, thanks to Dem-master, comes their final humiliation. Turned into a carnival and a cheap publicity stunt made into farce by a council who would stoop at nothing to make a cheap buck (Georgie square a prime example)

Through all my life the flats have stood on my doorstep, like some friendly monoliths that guided me home to Barmulloch.

I for one was glad when they eventually started to become a part of Glasgow’s history. But this final injustice to every person that lived there, to turn it into a circus is beyond any shred of decency.

For every family, single person, asylum seeker, immigrant, jumper (and there were many) have some decency, Glasgow and let the locals say goodbye to their history without having the world, looking on, laughing, staring, pitying and mostly, scratching their heads wondering what the fuck blowing up buildings has to do with some athletic games.


Boab Millar

Barmulloch resident who has lived under the shadow of the Red road flats for nearly fifty years.

On a cold dark day and December sky
On a well worn trail in the by and by
I turn my back to the cold and driving rain