“Not tonight, lads.” The bouncer on the door at Cinders disco near the Kelvinhall subway was having none of our nonsense. This was the admonitory ukase most favoured by Glasgow’s night-time stewarding fraternity. It was a warning, but conveyed a measure of affection; care even. He’s telling you that while you’re clearly too hammered to be permitted entry you’ll still be welcome at another time. It rendered any further discussion futile.

The bouncer’s refusal had occurred in 1981 during my first term at Glasgow University when a few of us had attempted the subway challenge: to have a drink at the nearest bar to each of its 15 stations. We’d begun at St Enoch, but had begun to encounter choppy waters on double vodkas around Byres Road before bailing out at Kelvinhall.

Within a few years of daily commutes on those Clockwork Orange carriages, I became only an infrequent user. Gradually, over the last few months, each of the old orange carriages have been replaced by these brand, spanking new ones.

These have been well-received by industry experts and by Britain’s transport bloggers. Some passengers though, have suggested they’re slower and that the shoogly quotient has risen.

And so, on Saturday afternoon I journeyed to Govan to ride the entire circuit and check out what we’re getting for the £288m that’s been spent on our behalf. What a grand way though, of touring your city for £4.30, chivvying out some of its unheralded treasures and getting among your own folk.

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The shoogle factor has definitely increased, so that you feel the momentum as the trains negotiate a route that’s more sinewy and twisty than the UK’s other underground networks. This is no bad thing, though. Less so perhaps, after a night on the batter.

Across from me, three young female students are planning the day’s activities like battlefield generals. Should they have something to eat now? Shame the nearest shop is a Co-op and not Waitrose. But they’ve got some left-over halloumi and there’s some discussion about wraps. Kale is mentioned. Does the party start at 6pm or 7? Where’s decent for a drink?

I alight at Kelvinbridge, the place where I disembarked on my first-ever hurl on the subway in 1981. I meet Phindu and her son, Oma. They’d also got on at Govan and want to do some shopping on Great Western Road before travelling onwards.

“It’s a bit bumpy,” she says, “but that’s okay. It’s not unpleasant and we’ve had a nice journey. And the carriages are very clean.” The gunmetal grey iron railings with their fleur-de-lis motif are still there. Today, they’re garlanded by the green and yellow livery of two Buckfast bottles. This is about as far west as I’ve ever caught sight of the Aff It’s Heid Mead.

At Buchanan Street, a wee bloke gets on bearing plastic bags. You sense he’s encountered more challenges than you in his life. He’s eager to talk to people and the women sitting across from him, sensing perhaps his vulnerability, are happy to engage with him. They ask him about his day and where he’s going. When he leaves they tell him to look after himself.

Now, we’re approaching Buchanan Street with its familiar elevation as you emerge from the tunnel. A young mum in a green sweater bearing the legend Toujours l’Amour is teaching her four-year-old how to pronounce the names of the stations. “Cooow-caaa-dins.”

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This is the busiest station on the circuit because it sits beside the busiest stretch of retail outside of Bond Street. At the top of the elevator an elderly, well-dressed man in tweed jacket, tartan tie and polished brogues is looking around as if seeking his bearings. “Can I help you,” I ask.

“You’re okay, son,” he says, “I’m just wondering if I’ve got time for a couple of halfs before I need to be somewhere.” His name is Alex and he remembers his first journey on the old system back in the 1960s. “I love the subway,” he says. “I live in Partick and have hardly ever needed to use my car.” He tells me he even used it get to his own wedding. “Did you know it’s one of the oldest underground systems in the world,” he asks. He tells me to cherish it.

It’s on this tour that you get to see the city in all its multicultural splendour and to feel its heartbeat. All human emotions are written on these faces.

At West Street, just over the river, Moira (“I’m a southsider”) tells me she’s pleased with the new carriages. “They’re definitely better than the old ones. And there’s more space for wheelchairs and prams.” She tells me of the woman the previous week who had come down from Shetland to see the new trains and who spent her entire journey taking pictures of them.”

At each station, the whip of cold air from the tunnel announces the impending arrival of the next train and I’m back on Byres Road in 1981. As the afternoon proceeds towards the Bacchanal Hours you must take care to observe the golden rule of avoiding eye contact at all times.

Opposite me, a young couple display the tell-tale signs of fledgling courtship. The conversation proceeds jaggedly and a demure six-inch space separates them.

At Shields Road, the Scotland Street museum provides the one depressing image of my sub-terrestrial peregrinations. There it sits amidst a line of once-handsome buildings, wrapped in scaffolding and wreathed in weeds and graffiti. We’re told a major refurbishment is planned for this magnificent Mackintosh building, but judging by how it’s currently looking this won’t be happening any time soon.

At Cessnock, off the Paisley Road West, there are gems I’d never previously visited. This is another perjink and historic Glasgow neighbourhood that was slashed and burned to make way for the M8 as it continued its path of destruction through several other working-class neighbourhoods.

The entrance to the station sits right underneath Walmer Crescent, one of Glasgow’s most handsome boulevards, built in the 1850s and designed by Alexander ‘Greek’ Thomson. It’s a conservation area and home to Category A listed houses. To my shame, I’d known nothing of this street before I embarked on this journey.

In these places, part of Greater Govan, there are those ‘old man’s pubs’ with horse-racing on the telly where you can get lost in daytime drinking adventures, making lifetime friends you’ll never see again. On some corners there are the remains of what once were banks. It's as though, having bled the locals dry with criminal interest rates and dodgy business loans, they’ve now moved on to new killing fields.

Back in Govan, I emerge beside Mary Barbour’s statue and cross the road to check the progress of our Partick to Govan Bridge, now nearing completion. The Pearce Institute is just down the road, adjacent to Govan Old Parish Church with its ancient kirk-yard and its early medieval carved stones, another of Glasgow’s unheralded wonders and perhaps the most important historical site in the city.

Govan is a glorious neighbourhood and it’s coming into bloom once more because someone has decided it just needed a little love and tenderness. When that bridge is in full spate this place will be buzzing.