Wing Night

Tonight I was invited into the fold. I bore witness to a ritual which was so primitive, so animalistic, yet refined and calculated. Like Moses, the Sports Cafe on Sauchiehall Street provides- for those with faith and the ability to turn a blind eye to quality- sustenance for those lost souls wandering the wilderness.
From nothing. The Miracle of Food.
20 chicken wings for 2 pounds.
12 flavours to choose from.
In a pub with very little going for it (though more appealing than The Clyde at 4pm when the Young Liberals have moved from South Lawn to serenade their bigot comrades in arms). The handbag-lipstick-blusher-necklace façade above the mirror in the girls toilet bespoke of either a painful design bungle/naivety of 'lady bits', or the fact that I was the first woman to enter the toilets and look above my eye level.
It wasn't the décor that drew us there. It was The Wings. After a day of starvation it was now Thursday Night. Wing Night. We ran into Dave on the walk in from home (Metal Dave/Ponytail Dave, not Romanian Dave/Little Dave/Goatie Dave). The boys were able to shoot the breeze for only so long before the Wing Want was too much. 60 wings: 20 fajita, 40 cajun (??). A pint of Tennents, a bowl of chips and some blue cheese sauce. The boys were born again. The chicken certainly was not born again- if you could get over the feathers you'd do alright. And eat we did. 20 wings, 2 pounds. Brilliant.