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THE stinking pools of vomit and urine on the floor of the Bellgrove Hotel’s windowless TV room didn’t seem to bother anyone.

Two men were slumped unconscious in their seats – one with a beer can in his hand, the other had clearly wet himself after finishing the two-litre bottle of cider lying empty by his side.

The other occupants drank steadily and rolled cannabis joints while watching a soft porn film through half-closed eyes.

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Smoking even a regular cigarette in an indoor public place is illegal – but none of the laws of the outside world seemed to apply in the Bellgrove.

Everyone in the litter-strewn room spoke with the slur of hardened drug addicts and alcoholics and a member of staff who came and went seemed used to the depressing scene.

A young guy looked up from his booze and roared: “You’re going to f****** die here,” at his housemates, before muttering to himself: “I’m going to f****** die here.”

It was difficult to find a reason to argue.

I had tried to prepare myself for the worst before going undercover at the dosshouse in ­Glasgow’s Gallowgate.

But nothing could have prepared me for the human deprivation and depravity I found in the rat-infested dive.

I arrived on a cold and wet Friday night, with a cover story that I’d been thrown out by my girlfriend and ended up on the streets.

The night manager looked at me for a few seconds from behind a protective grille before inviting me into the office.

He seemed like a compassionate guy who asked me a few questions before agreeing to let me stay, on condition I went to the benefits office on Monday to arrange for housing benefit to pay for my room.

He warned: “It’s not nice here, son. You’re going to find it tough.”

Then he led me into the smoke-filled dirty corridors and up a staircase.

We picked our way through groups of blitzed residents crouched over bottles of booze and stashes of rolling tobacco and cannabis.

Many were barely conscious, while others argued over cigarettes or just stared into space.

The atmosphere was aggressive. One bearded vagrant with a huge lump on his forehead growled: “You’re not putting him on my landing,” as I was led to a door on a narrow corridor.

My room felt like a prison cell, only smaller, more dangerous, and more rundown.

Barred windows opened on to a putrid courtyard covered in fast food containers and empty booze bottles.

Rats could be seen scurrying between discarded scraps of food and, as I looked out, I heard someone being sick – then watched as vomit splattered down from a room above.

Music blared all night, with The Doors song The End appearing to be a fitting favourite.

It was accompanied by the sound of hacking coughs, arguments, threats of violence, moaning, swearing and battering on doors.

My 5ft by 10ft room had a narrow bed with plastic mattress, thin duvet, a sink and a metal wardrobe.

The only other items in the room were a plastic container on the floor marked “rodent bait, do not touch” and two razor blades on the sink.

Suddenly someone was banging on my door, demanding I open up and hand over a “f****** fag”.

Luckily my answer that I didn’t have any was accepted and I managed a couple of hours of uneasy rest.

Next morning, an old man called Jim who told me that he had lived in the hostel for over two years gave me some advice.

He said: “You’ll get c**** coming through your door. When they do you’ve got to batter them right away. It’s the law of the jungle in here.”

Jim said he’d been trying to get a council house in his home town of Blanytre for years but didn’t think it would ever happen.

I asked him what you had to do to get out of the Bellgrove. He answered simply: “You top yourself, or you

overdose.”

The scenes of human depravity all around the crumbling building, where residents are forced to share toilets and a shower room, was staggering.

At the end of one mouldy corridor, a man lay slumped unconscious and unattended.

In the communal toilet block, the floor was soaked in urine and every cistern bore blackened burn marks from drugs being burned and cigarettes put out. In every corner, empty cider and vodka bottles lay discarded and pools of vomit were left to fester.

A rundown off-sales adjoins the Bellgrove so residents only need to stumble a few metres for drink.

In the Bellgrove, there appeared to be two men working the night shift.

While they seemed like good people doing a job few would want, they were woefully ill-equipped to help the 140 men crammed into the building.

Despite the horrendous conditions, there were heartbreaking glimpses of humanity and kindness.

A young guy in the TV room who realised it was my first night shoved a ball of his tobacco into my hand with a few cigarette papers saying: “That will get you through the night.”

A grizzled alcoholic in the breakfast room offered to make me a cup of tea as he openly poured himself a cider and vodka at 8am.

As he drank, he told me: “People in here die all the time. You can get whatever drugs or drink you want as long as you can pay for it.”

Desperate bartering for the next drink or cigarette or hit of drugs was evident everywhere.

In the TV room the night before, the hostel manager had walked in and announced the Royal Infirmary had just called to say a resident called wee Georgie had died.

There was silence for a moment before someone muttered: “I wonder how much he owed when he went.”

Nothing could have felt better than quietly walking out of the Bellgrove to go back to a normal life. But my relief was tinged with pity for the men who I left behind because they had nowhere else to go.

One thing was for sure – they deserved better than the hopeless life on offer in that oppressive building where their chances of beating drink and drugs were virtually zero.

We also deserve better for the £1.5million of our hard-earned cash being pumped into the Bellgrove every year.