An Ode to Glasgow Subway

For years, we knew it was coming. The old subway carriages had trundled through the city for decades, their orange seats worn threadbare by thousands of backsides. The talk of replacements felt distant until, one day, it wasn’t. The last journey came. People lined platforms to applaud. Social media flooded with tributes. One carriage made it to the transport museum. The rest? Left to fade, like so many icons of Glasgow have before them.

Or so I thought.

It was my birthday. My partner and I had just left Kelvingrove Café, warm from coffee and conversation, when I saw them. Six old subway carriages, tucked away in a courtyard near my partner’s barber. At first, I barely recognised them. Graffiti-covered, forgotten.

Curiosity pulled me forward. Two men were working on removing the graffiti. I peered through the windows, standing on my tiptoes. One of them, James, caught my eye. He smiled, disappeared for a moment, then came back with a stepladder.

‘Go on,’ he said, unlocking the door.

I stepped inside.

The air was thick with dust, but beneath it, something familiar lingered. The smell of old upholstery, of metal warmed by years of hands gripping poles; the ghosts of laughter, of arguments, of everyday life. The orange seats, faded but sturdy, exactly as I remembered. The windows, though dulled by time, still bore the faint scratches of initials, tiny, forgotten love stories carved into the glass.

I ran my fingers along the armrest, and suddenly, I was there again. The rattle of the tracks. The low murmur of conversation. The roar of football fans. The sighs of tired workers, finally heading home. A past I thought was lost, flickering back to life.

And then I learned about Joe.

Joe Mullholland is in his 80s. He bought the hidden lane for £18,000 in the 1990s back when it was just ruins. Now, he’s rescued six carriages for a lot more. He refused to let these carriages vanish into history. While the rest of us mourned online, he acted. He saved them. He reminded me that it’s not too late, not for these carriages, not for this city.

Because Glasgow isn’t being modernised. It’s being smoothed over. Its rough edges, its history, its humour, its grit, are being sanded down, replaced with something sleek, something sterile. Another chain café where a family shop once stood. Another venue turned into luxury flats. Change isn’t the problem – cities evolve. But who decides that change? And at what cost?

Glasgow was never meant to be polished. That’s what made it ours.

I stepped out of the carriage, back into a city that feels the same, but isn’t. The streets were busy, but quieter. People moving through a city that’s shifting beneath them.

But I didn’t feel hopeless.

Because if Glasgow is to be saved, it won’t be by waiting for someone else to do it. It’ll be by people like Joe. By people like us.

We can fight for the things that matter. We can keep our history alive. We can choose to protect the things that make Glasgow more than just another city drowning in coffee chains and investment properties.

That was my real birthday gift, not just the chance to sit in one of those carriages again, but the realisation that Glasgow is still ours.

If we fight for it.

And maybe, just maybe, we still have time.

You’ve rumbled through this city’s veins,

Your orange seats wear historical stains.

Underneath the streets, you’ve kept the beat,

The whispers, the rants, the tired feet.

You’ve seen the lot of us, haven’t you?

The late night-drunks, the morning crew,

The love stories, still etched in glass,

The first timers, the working class. 

They’ll call you old, they’ll call you done,

But they cannae strip the years of fun.

Every dent, every scratch, every mark you own,

Is the proof you were Glasgow’s femur bone. 

But even as you rest, tired from the grind,

You wont fade away, or be confined.

You’ll take on new life, not just a shell,

But a haven for new stories to tell. 

You may not rattle tracks or carry us through,

But it’s time for Glasgow to carry you.