Porto- a drinking game

Rules of the game:

  1. Keep cool heads and warm hearts
  2. Make it a double if you hear fake news
  3. Down a shot on feeling sorrow
  4. Break the rules

Ports poem, John Burnside

I’m just filming the pigeons. I know it looks a bit odd.

Aye. Get her in an ‘aw!, the man says, nudging his female companion. Are ye frae Embra, hen? Dusnae soun’ like it.

Oh, I’ve lived here- Constitution Street- the past few years.

Ah ken, different accent mind. Bonnie day, eh?

Anyway, back to the pigeons. I watch their daily ritual from the crossroads at the Foot of the Walk and Queen Victoria statue while I wait for the street lights to change to amber then green. Fixed as they are on the present, the birds ascend en mass at green without hesitation or doubt. The street surf- a tide of number 22 busses, skateboarders, pushchairs and urban wanderers- surges forward and the birds rise up and away, toward the peaks of an Edinburgh skyline stretched out ahead. The birds swoop south to west then north and east again, always in a clockwise, meditative formation – the beat of their feathers like the tattered rags of prayer flags left to disintegrate on a mountain pass.

But these are no tiny Buddhists. They are old punks. And have seen and heard a lot. With tattooed necks, skinny legs and darts of green plumage illuminating their blackened bodies and darker sky-surround, their look is one of pure, anti-establishment menace and their dance a carefully-staged rave. Guano hails down upon Victoria’s bronze robes. One is not amused.


Mixed emotions as plans unveiled for Port O’ Leith revamp. It played a starring role in the hit film Sunshine on Leith and was a quiet spot where Irvine Welsh drafted Trainspotting. The pub is renowned the world over as it started life as a place for sailors to drink when they docked in Leith.

last night at port

Poppers. It’s only poppers! Will you no try some? Gie you a head-rush.

Nah, you’re alright’, I say. Debbie shrugs. Louise inhales. We’re choosing life. Choosing the Port O’ Leith closing-down party.

One more tune! One more tune! Our heels anchor into the foam beneath the ripped, leather bench on which we sway. Back and forth. Sweat dripping, tears streaming, arms flaying, hair slapping, thirsting, lusting, joy. And sorrow. Sorrow for all that has been before and never will be again. For absent friends. For kindness and beauty. And for the here and now, in between, swaying back and forth, at last orders. Because there won’t be another round.

Sunshine on Leith glow

The good pilgrims and the men

Drunk on a rainbow

Look lads, nae wedding rings!  The lads with the poppers are now taps’ off, lassoing empties with someone’s green and white shirt, checking that we notice their aim and their hit rate.

A trio of old-timers bump and grind against the white-barred window frames to the rhythm of Madness, Our House followed by an obligatory Hey Jude. Sad songs made better. Tourists from Stockbridge stand and gawk in the doorway. One nudges the other open-mouthed. See, told you, this place is something else! I heard the landlady was a lot of fun back in her day. But she must be long dead now’.

Down the walk you see

Scarves like new leaves hung in green

On old skin, and me

A man I recognise as my window cleaner, Dougie, straightens and smooths his long, blonde wig before ringing a ship’s brass bell majestically to call last orders. Soft dancing and hard drinking land on the chequerboard floor tiles. Everything sticks. Half of a ‘no football colours, no trackies’ note is stuck to the side of a table leg. The ladies toilets are stuck on out of order. And then there’s Mary. Elegant and instantly recognisable in a long, leopard-print coat, diamante-studded slippers and coiffed hair, she offers a regal wave to the regulars. Plenty of queens in the pub tonight, she says, winking. Big Kirsty is wide-eyed and greetin’ in the corner. I blow her a kiss and she catches it.

Edinburgh is a UNESCO World Heritage site. Whaling ships from Leith brought the very first penguins to Edinburgh Zoo around 1900. Leith was merged with Edinburgh in 1920 despite a plebiscite in which the people of Leith voted 6:1 against the merger.

[From the comments section of the Evening News]

Are we going to lose one of the few genuine pubs in the area for some fucking interloper gastropub shite?!

But Leith is a different place now and if they’re not making money, what can you do?

Che Guevara flags and Saltires drape the old war horse. Later, knackered and thinned to the bone, she’ll be put out her misery by a squad of renovation henchmen. Hung, drawn and quartered, the limbs of red timber, wonky bar stools and scratched mirrors will be hacked off and seized by the clientele of coffee shops, design studios and pop ups in this, new Leith – gory souvenirs of the morning after the night before.

For now, it’s closing time and outside on Constitution Street, the light is changing and gulls from the docks circle overhead because the stewing dawn belongs to a different type of bird – pterodactyls of a lost, maritime valley. They swoop and cackle; swoop and cackle and gather in number like a marauding army of avian soldiers high on chips and sweet, brown sauce. They are lusting for a scrap outside the pub and point and jab their beaks like accusatory fingers.

You saw it,

You claimed it

You touched it,

You saved it.

Surveying the structural and human wreckage at the end of the night and as we searched for her black, leather jacket, Louise told me that now twenty years’ sober, there was once a time when she hadn’t expected to outlive the old boozer. The jacket was eventually found behind the bar- put there by a neighbour to prevent it getting dirty on the dancefloor. If love means to accept imperfections and to break the rules from time to time, then ma’ head is rushing and ma’ heart is broken.

Cheers.