No city for old men

WANDER out into the streets of Glasgow after a whisky-soaked summer evening and it is possible to mistake the place for an unexplored corner of New York. The grand converted warehouses of Wilson Street might be SoHo; the reddish sandstone buildings of the West End were built while brownstone was cheap and fashionable on Manhattan. One difference is the deficit of financiers and surplus of people traipsing around with cello cases, off to play in one of many state-funded concerts. Another is that Glasgow, for all its charms, is sick—and not metaphorically. Glaswegians die younger than other Britons and nobody knows why.