SAE this is whit it aw comes doon tae. As the hale democratic project o the Scottish left threitens tae collapse like a Willie Rennie publicity stunt, an the unduin wark o baith oor pairliaments scales the waws like piles o auld newspapers, it’s stairtin tae feel like aw there is left for us tae dae is plank oorsels doon in a cosy wee neuk o the couch on oor iPhones an left-swipe awa at wan nutzo Tory policy efter anither. “Yes”, bi sma degrees, has turnt intae “Naw” – the belief that Scotland can, should an maun be an independent kintrae noo a negative proposition, its supporters driven bi dour horror o the Unitit Kingdom raither than honest howp aboot the possible alternatives.

We’re aw guilty o it, an it widnae tak Columbo tae suss oot the reason that we’re no fawin ower oorsels tae talk aboot oor post-independence plans. We’re feart o whit we micht find oot aboot the fowk we’re mairchin wi in this grand coalition o oors. That we’re mebbe no the weel-iled machine we like tae think o oorsels as, mair a jury-rigged contraption held loosely thegither bi Scotch tape an snotters – the kind o thing Mr T wad come up wi tae get the A-Team oot o whaever’s garage they’d got locked in that week.

But there’s still that much that’s up in the air aboot an independent Scotland, an ah dinnae mean whit currency we’d uise or whit colour oor passports wad be. Ah mean the basics, likesay – oor system o government. Oor hame address. Ilka twa-three years, some newspaper or anither posts an opinion poll on whit Scotland’s national anthem should be, an we aw agree that Flooer o Scotland is the warst sang since Agadoo. Yet when it cams tae the question o oor capital cíty, it seems like the hale issue is tied up that neat there’s nae pynt even discussin it. Six centuries an hunners o millions o poonds hiv went intae keepin Embra at the tap o the heap, an we’re still nae nearer tae spierin whether it’s jist been guid money flung efter bad. The closest we’ve cam tae a national conversation on the subject is questionin whether Glesga can even be trustit wi oor national fitba team, never mind the keys tae oor parliamentary institutions.

Weel, the past is a haird proposition tae argie wi … An it’s true eneuch that Embra is Scotland’s history writ in stane; its castles an its moniments auncient catalogues o aristocratic abuises. Nor is there ony dout that Embra is the cíty o Scotland’s futur, or o the futur as we’re currently chairtin it – a luxury Caribbean cruise cawin at aw ports en route tae Darien, oor ain neoliberal, late-late-capitalist tribute act tae the auld British Empire. Aye, wance ye’ve grantit tae the Athens o the North baith the futur an the past, aw that’s left for Glesga is the present – yon scabby, disreputable skelf o time that’s nanetheless the anely hame that ony o us will ever ken …

Richt eneuch, it maks sense that Embra should be the capital o Scotland, an that fact alane should pit the place richt oot o the rinnin, the same wey that onybody that leuks plausible weirin a rosette should be instantly sine died fae ever seekin office. Wi Edinburgh as its capital, an independent Scotland wad fit richt in wi the big boys o international finance, a lesser but still uisefu jaiket-hauder in the global stick-em-up job that passes for austerity. But conjure noo a Scotland in which Glesga is whaur it aw happens. Think yer local Tory gets an easy ride? Aye, nae dout. But imagine if the doors o Pairliament opened no ontae the commemorative dolls hooses o the Royal Mile, but the Barlanark bus stap on George Square. Imagine that when Theresa May cam skulkin alang tae shak hauns at some thoosand poonds a heid luncheon, she wis daein it ten meenits doon the road fae the Barras. An imagine, ah ask ye, the psychic difference tae oor conception o oorsels as a nation if the nervous centre that linkit us awthegither, Dundonians tae Doonhamers, Falkirk Bairns tae Paisley Buddies, wis the radge, hobbledehoy wunner that is the dear green place.

Durin the Cauld War, Richard Nixon built his hale diplomatic strategy aroond convincin the Soviets that he wis legitimately aff his heid, mental tae the pynt that he’d hit the reid button wan o these days for nae guid reason at aw. Weel, wi Glesga in the driver’s seat, Scotland widnae even hiv tae kid on. Reason, ye ken, is a gallus thing, an aw that sets us aff fae beasts – but it’s naethin for onybody tae be feart o. But wi Glesga as oor capital, ilka morn Westmínster an the warld wad wauk up tae a Doomsday clock that wis anely ever stoppage time awa fae midnicht, wan cooncil by-election fae cowpin ower the entire capitalist jingbang.

Glesga is the cíty whaur the rich hiv yet tae push oot the honest, whaur the corporations are still on the back fit tae the creatives. Glesga is the cíty whaur whit’s richt is still mair important than whit’s alloued, an whaur the rules were makkit bi the menyie, no bi the lawyers. If this aw seems like glaikit sentimentalism tae ye, weel, hauns up. Glesga mebbes has yet tae develop a haird hert or a thick skin, an sae much the better. Guid luck tae aw these toons that are built on waws, but Glesga has nae need o sic ornaments. As Willie McIlvanney wance said, the waws o Glesga are its people.

Glesga remains oor last, best howp for a connection wi oor past, an no jist the pairts o oor past that’s Gemme o Thrones wioot the dragons or the guid guys … Ah’m talkin aboot the past that’s John Maclean an Mary Barbour an the rent strikes at Red Clydeside, Hampden Pairk an McIlvanney an thoosands o bairns wi chibs an catties, stakin oot the Necropolis in search o the Gorbals Vampire – the past that’s deid, but still alive. It’s nae coincidence that when Hollywood came tae Embra Waverley, it wis tae pack the station wi superheroes, but when they pitched up ootside Glesga Central, they stowed the streets wi zombies. Glesga awready has aw the heroes it can uise, an naethin there is ever deid for lang but the ghaistly dreams that stalk the closes, thirstin tae live again …

Och, but mebbes it’s aw true, an the hale foondation o the Scottish left is on the ootskirts o fawin intae bits, the duct tape waggin like auld grey tongues, the washin lines that bind it snappin wi the twang o piano wires … Aye, mebbes sae. But whaur else tae stage oor modern day reboot than here, in Glesga, the cíty o the cast-aff, the second cíty o the second-haun, the cíty o the weel-makkit makkin dae … Glesga, braw an gorgeous Glesga, whaur fowk hae ayeweys got alang wi jist whitiver they had – an whaur, ye wunner, if this is whit fowk made wi jist sae little, whit micht they mak wi jist a little mair.