We went to the Glasgow Grand Ole Opry.

Arguably the biggest country music club in Britain, I hadn’t seen the old girl in a while. She hasn’t changed much. Maybe a little scuffed around the edges, but as friendly, as charismatic and eccentric, as she ever was.

We saw great bands, we danced and drank whisky at frontier town prices amid cowboy hats and jackets with fringes, big belt buckles and western aliases. Glaswegian voices bantered under the flag of the Lone Star State. I wore a bootlace tie.

Is this really Glasgow? Is it escapism? Is it some intoxication still from some night when Glasgow folk sang the songs of Merle Haggard? All of the above?

Who knows? I’d wager though, that the regulars don’t give a damn what you think. Just like Glasgow doesn’t give a damn what the rest of Scotland thinks. For we are not like Scotland. We know this and raise a glass to the difference, to the maverick and the outlaw, to the character that would not conform.

For the Glasgow Opry at large, imagination is king and romance more important than fact.

The Opry gives a keek at a real Glasgow: garrulous and beaming and offering a light. There’s another real Glasgow, of course: one expressing allegiance to flags less distant than those of the American South, that somehow still cares about the history of Ireland and of Dutch kings. For them, though, imagination is dead and malice more important than love.

I don’t know the reason for the interest in Americana at the Opry. I don’t really care. But I know this: the sight of the Dixie flag on Paisley Road West is preferable to the sight of Union Jacks and Irish Tricolours. It’s just a bit more Glaswegian.

Keep it country, y’all.