Once-plush seating sags and moulders. Discarded light-fittings slouch in corners. Issuing from unseen quarters, the young women ebb and flow through the dancehall, disappearing through a heavily-curtained doorway. I follow and find myself in a brilliantly lit bar. In addition to lights, there are cameras and action, of a sort.
Thick smoke billows.
A barman repeats the same snatch of conversation, over and over, with a sozzled patron. Actually, we are within the debased grandeur of Glasgow's George Hotel, a Marie Celeste hewn from smoke-blackened sandstone in Buchanan Street. May. Selections from it will undoubtedly figure on tonight's menu when the band play at Glasgow's Garage, kicking off at 7pm. I'm looking for. We want to show that there's a thriving UK creative community, people like John McFarlane, trying to make the leap from pop videos and 10-second TV ads for Irn Bru to proper films.