It’s a Sunday, nearly midnight, and I’m in 8 Ball–a dilapidated yet bustling pool hall above the Scotia, an out-of-the-way folk bar in Glasgow city centre. Occasionally a buzzer sounds, signalling someone at the door—it’s the kind of place where the staff need to keep a handle on exactly who gets in, and when. The Dixie Chicks are on the jukebox for the third time tonight. Depending on how friendly the burly, silver-haired barman is feeling, there might be time to get one more round...
