INN Deep isn't just the most appropriately named pub in the West End, it's one of the hippest and most photogenic.

It has everything.

Entering down a steep, twisting staircase, it feels like you're descending into the bowels of some stuffy, cavernous crypt.

I half expected the Brunswick Cellars' dank, dungeony vibe until I muscled my way to the end of the bar and found the terrace overlooking the River Kelvin. I imagine it's delightful on sunny days and I intend to find out soon.

With the main event a Poetry Slam, the pub was absolutely stuffed with characters from across the literary spectrum.

There were beat poets: intense, restless types, like modern-day Kerouacs.

There were standard hippies: all dreadlocked and reeking of Glasgow Uni.

Sub Club dub kids and Libertine-era Pete Doherty (himself a teenage poetry champion) worshippers mingled at the bar.

It was a fantastic atmosphere: a coming together of creatives.

I felt a mild panic as I compared my poetic abilities to those on the mic: journalistic training teaches you that short sentences are key.

No flowery language.

If one of these guys engaged me in conversation, or even worse - wanted to take me on - I would be a laughing stock.

Mercifully that never happened, and I was able to catch the contest's finale unchallenged.

As the crowd dispersed and headed for spots with later licenses, I stopped on the Kelvinbridge, got the notepad out and went to compose a verse myself.

Out the corner of my eye I saw someone approach me with interest - a fellow writer looking to compare notes?

A concerned citizen trying to talk me out of jumping?

I pretended I was deep in thought until my new friend sidled up beside and asked… "Can ah borrow a pound, mate?"

As always in Glasgow, the reality of the city is never far away.