No, it's not Chipping Sodbury.
After a heavenly three weeks touring the Scottish islands, earning a much-deserved break after the intensive filming in London of The Hampstead Heath Chainsaw Massacre, I felt it was time to head for home. But not before I had enjoyed Glasgow, a city I knew very little about.
Certainly, the picture above was a forboding welcome to this gritty, grey city. We took the wrong turning off the motorway and ended up in the Red Road area of Balornock with its infamous high-rise flats, making it look like a Siberian hellhole.
However, this was just one side of the city and before long we were driving through the West End, which was as different from Balornock as chalk and cheese. Glasgow's West End - particularly around Kelvingrove Park - reminded me of Bath in Somerset with its lovely terraces, green spaces and lack of hoi-polloi.
Tonight being Saturday night, I was looking for a dress to wear to paint the town red in. One reader completely misinterpreted the euphemism 'paint the town red' and emailed me the following suggestion:
I eventually found an exclusive boutique selling this most divine outfit. I think you'll see that it leaves no doubt as to the intention of the wearer.
I seemed, however, to be having trouble making myself understood by the elderly, frumpish shop assistant. This might be because in Scotland they often speak their own language, which is called Gay Lick (or is it Gaelic). They have words which most English speakers have never heard of, for example 'minger' is a term of endearment used amongst courting couples or a respectful greeting towards an older person; 'bairns' are children; 'haggis' is a sheep's stomach which is eaten with 'neeps and tatties' (apparently a dish of turnips and potato); 'NEDS' apparently stands for Non-Educated Delusional Solicitors, and a 'Glasgow kiss' is a custom among certain quarters usually enacted after a session of binge-drinking all day on White Lightning Cider.
A wonderful souvenir of Scotland - a hot chocolate drinking mug ideal as a Christmas present for your Granny or Aunt.
This shop assistant - bearing an uncanny resemblance to Mrs Doubtfire - did not seem to understand me at all. They probably don't get many Texans this far north.
I did not have a Gay Lick / English dictionary with me, but I've always had a knack with languages (my high school language teacher said I was a cunnilingus - - - or is it cunning linguist?).
"Do you speak English?"I said slowly and clearly. That didn't seem to do it either.
She kept making a funny noise with her mouth, which at first sounded like she was having an epileptic fit, but I then realised she was saying things like
"Och tripe, We've bin skitin' a lot ay whiskey. Th' frock is worth thee thoosain poond, didna see the pricey? Whit ur ye blethering aboot, standin' thaur loch a sodger wi' yer gob open catchin' cleggs. Dorn't fankle me, I cannae be doing with gypos like yae".
I've met schizophrenics who spoke more interesting gibberish than this woman.
We need an interpreter, I think.
It seemed, from the garbled discourse, that she was charging an unsightly amount for the dress.
It was at that point in proceedings that I decided I would steal the dress. Some shoplifters just grab the stuff and walk out with it, but I could see that this beady-eyed woman wouldn't fall for a trick like that. I've also heard that they still burn people in huge wooden effigies in certain remote parts of this country, as evidenced by this picture, so it would be vital that I got away with it without getting caught red-handed, and barbecued like Edward Woodward.
A real life documentary showing life on a Scottish island - The Wicker Man - starring one of my favourite transvestites of the 1970s, Edward Woodworm.
My accomplice in crime on this daring errand is my rainbow-dyed poodle, whom you may recall I christened Mr Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop. Here is a picture of him.
I also opt to go in disguise so as not to be recognised. Here is what I'm wearing:
Returning to the boutique a few hours later, I tie Mr Puffywuffycutesweetgummywummygumdrop up outside the shop and go inside and place several rashers of uncooked bacon draped prominently on an antique vase in the window display, without the bitch noticing what I'm up to.
By now, Mr P is both ravenous and slaverous, licking the outside shop window like a lollipop, especially as he can see the strips of bacon draped enticingly over the antique vase, but cannot get at them.
Moments later, there is a tremendous crash as Mr P slips his leash and jumps straight through the plate-glass window completely unscathed but hell-bent for the rashers of bacon which he wolfs down in several audible gulps, amidst the debris of glass, broken vase and several other smashed and completely destroyed items, as well as the ensuing pandemonium. Mrs Doubtfire is so shocked she doesn't know what to do, she starts screaming about rabid dogs (to which my verbal response is "Pot calling the kettle black, dear"), and runs over to Mr P who jumps on her, knocking her over. At this moment in time, I grab the dress and run, bundling the dog into the back of the car and Juan drives off at high speed.
I call this shop-lifting technique the 'Burqa, Bacon and Dog' method. It's highly effective. Mr P gets a huge reward - four packets of sausages for his din-dins, a pedicure, ear de-waxing and I buy him a very bling, diamante-studded collar with the words 'Mummy's Boy' on it, a mere snip at £2,475.
That night, Juan (wearing pink leather trousers and a ripped muscle top) and I hit the Polo Lounge, Glasgow's most popular and stylish gay club. It feels as if the whole of Glasgow is in there, and both the men and women are all gorgeous. I'm so over the moon with my new see-through slut's dress that I get carried away after one too many vodkas and jump up onto the bar, strip to my French lingerie and perform my latest song, VIP Sex, which can be heard here. Please - ensure you turn the volume way up!