When West Is Not Best; With Glasgow's legendary friendliness in

Just ask Masood Gomroki, an Iranian who fled political persecution and ended up in Sighthill. Part of his welcome to this haven was to be surrounded by a gang of youths, stabbed and hit over the head with a bottle. Mr Gomroki now says he would like to move to a country where he can find peace and safety. He says people in Iran are much more civilised than in the UK.

Meanwhile, on the south side of Glasgow, Mehmet Gezer, a Turkish Kurd refugee, is suing the government's National Asylum Support Service for (pounds) 30,000 damages for making him and his family live in Toryglen. The Gezer family claimed in court this week that when they were moved from London to Toryglen they were afraid to leave their home. The Gezers said that when they did venture out, they were shouted and sworn at, spat on, and threatened with dogs. Their home was attacked by three men who said they would stab Mr Gezer's 13-year-old son, Ibrahim.

This does not make pleasant reading for those of us who cherish the thought of Glasgow as a welcoming city. But I hear of some refugees who have taken a more positive approach to life in the city. They are not supposed to be working but their entrepreneurial skills include buying old bangers at the car market and fixing them up for resale. Then there is a spot of moonlighting at a city factory for under the minimum wage.

To supplement their income, three refugees decided to go into the insurance business. They went into a local pub and asked the manager if he would be interested in some protection. The manager said he would have to refer their kind offer to the owner and asked them to return the next day.

They did so and when they entered the pub, the door was locked behind them and a team of local heavies persuaded the three chaps with the Saddam moustaches that their decision to enter the protection business was not a sound career move. With their matching broken noses, the three left the pub in pursuit of a less hazardous line of work.

My favourite bit of the Oor Wullie or Broons annual was always the last page, which featured a tale about Hogmanay. This year it is the turn of Oor Wullie (Your Wullie, Abody's Wullie) to provide the festive entertainment and there, indeed, is the spiky-haired lad staying up to drink a small tincture of ginger cordial after the bells.

But in the group, along with Wullie, Ma and Pa, Fat Bob and PC Murdoch, is an eminence grise whose presence has changed Wullie's life for ever. She is Primrose Paterson, the woman in Wullie's life.

As well as his normal boyish pursuits of guddling for trout, playing pranks on PC Murdoch, and avoiding maths tests, Wullie has a love interest. He is prone to fits of jealousy when he sees Primrose in the company of another male. He picks flowers for her. He actually can be seen kissing her.

There is a hint of a love triangle as Primrose and some floozy called Margaret compete for Wullie's affections. It's a serious business. Primrose has even knitted Wullie a cosy cover for his bucket.

It really is the end of the world as we know it. And we can't even take refuge in The Broons. Apparently Paw Broon has been spotted in his cartoon strip down the pub sinking pints of heavy.

I have bored you dear readers before about a chap called Ferran Adria, a Catalan chef who is reputed to be the most inventive of culinary innovators and whose El Bulli three Michelin-star restaurant in the coastal resort of Rosas has been described as the best in the world. Senyor Adria's set meal consists of about 30 little delicacies such as Parmesan ice cream or grilled watermelon with basil.

He is also a specialist in deconstruction, reducing dishes to their basic elements. His deconstructed chicken curry got rave reviews in El Pais and his deconstructed paella was equally well received. I have never sampled Senyor Adria's food, since there is an extremely long waiting list for El Bulli.

I was delighted to find that Senyor Adria has a rival in a restaurant just 100 yards from my humble residence in the Poblenou barrio of Borecelona. Juana, the chef-patron of La Verbena in Carrer Taulat, has perfected the deconstructed black pudding.

The individual portions of morcilla, as the blood sausage is called, are cooked in olive oil so hot that the skins (genuine tripas, none of your plastic stuff) burst open. The black pudding deconstructs into the original ingredients: pine nuts, onion, a hint of fennel, and the wonderful offal.

As if this were not sufficiently sybaritic Senyora Juana serves her black pudding with a runny fried egg and ever so slightly greasy chips. So good for you, this Mediterranean diet.

IF the government wants to stem the flow of refugees into Britain it should make better use of the Glasgow factor. A weekend break in Sighthill will have your Afghans, Iraqis, and other international flotsam and jetsam pining for a return to that nice Sangatte camp in northern France.

Copyright 2002 SMG Sunday Newspapers Ltd.
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