“So, what’s the score wi’ the horses, Manny?” Johnny asked his pal.
Manny laughed, “You’ll never believe this Johnny but until today ahv’e never had much luck wi’ the gee gees. Ah was backing losers all the time, until this afternoon. Ah had ten bob –fifty pence – left in ma pocket when ah helped this old Irishwoman to get across the road. She pressed a good luck charm into ma hand, thanked me and made off.” Manny pulled out a little leprechaun from his pocket. “Before she went, she said it would bring me luck. So, wi’ ma ten bob I stuck it on a horse called Irish Beauty at odds of 50-1. It romped home. Aw thanks tae the wee woman and the leprechaun.” The lager continued to flow and so did the stories.
Johnny had never been a betting man but he did have a flutter now and again, especially on the Scottish Grand National in Ayr. He had once won a fiver after sticking a bet on there but that was it, he had never taken a fancy to it. He was aware that gambling could destroy whole lives, leaving families to starve, all because the head of the household “liked a flutter.”
But he loved the punters and their stories, they seemed to have more exotic and interesting lives - like rollercoasters –up one minute, down the next. Manny was one of them and his tales would have made the basis for a good book about gambling.
Manny went into patter mode, “Ah woke up at 3.30 in the morning and realised it was the third of March, the third of the third. Later ah walked to the bookies and there was a horse running called Triple Chance at 33-1. Ah put my life saving on it –£330 quid.”
Johnny smiled, “So how much did ye win?” Manny took a sip of his lager and said, “Nothing… it came third.”
As they were laughing, a big drunk navvy approached their table in his donkey jacket and mud stained wellies.
He shouted, “Have you fuckers been laughing at me?”
Johnny looked up at the red-haired navvy and retorted, “Nah pal we were laughing at a joke, no’ laughing at you for fuck’s sake.”
The labourer seemed to get angrier and clenched his large fists, “These hands will knock ye out – you’ve been looking and laughing at me all night.”Johnny rose quickly from the table. Manny did not feel afraid, he knew his pal could handle himself. The navvy squared up to Johnny and growled, “You’ve be staring at me, dae ye want ma picture?” Johnny replied, “Nah, you’re too fucking ugly.” He punched Johnny on the jaw. It sent him flying across the barroom floor. Johnny got up and promptly grabbed a beer bottle from one of the tables and crashed it over his head. The navvy collapsed on the floor, but no-one said anything. The bevvy merchants had seen it all before and carried on doing what they did best. Manny downed his pint of lager and said to Johnny, “Time tae get tae fuck.” They walked out of the pub as the unconscious man lay on the floor.
They soon bade each other farewell. As Johnny walked the few blocks to Crown Street, he saw a couple of his pals coming towards him with a large carry out. One of them shouted, “Hey Johnny… fancy a bevvy?” There was no escaping it.
Chapter 19
BEVVY
There had to be a solution to this bevvy business. Of course, Johnny could not give up and completely sign the pledge. He thought it would contradict his cool hardman image. A gangster without a bevvy would be like Laurel without Hardy or Francie without Josie. Johnny was sufficiently worried enough about his excessive drinking that he decided to see the family doctor, Dr Mackenzie, who had a surgery in Old Rutherglen Road, not far from Florence Street. He had known the doctor all his life and after 20 odd years he was the medical practitioner who he trusted most.
Doctor Mackenzie was an old Highland guy with grey hair who had a respectable, superior manner. The receptionist said it was his lucky day as soon as he walked into the surgery. Someone had just cancelled their appointment a few minutes before. Dr Mackenzie was a very busy man and during his many years in the Gorbals he had seen it all. Alcoholism, wife and child battering, people with chronic illnesses and even more fatal ones.
But he dealt with it all in an utterly professional and detached manner. He made it a point not to get too friendly with his patients. If they saw a sign of weakness, they might take advantage. Because of his intelligent manner and accent, the Gorbals people looked up to him. Besides, he was the man who knew all the dark secrets about his patients. He knew stuff about people and their families that equalled the secrets heard by a priest in the confession box.
After waiting half an hour, while the doctor treated an old smoker with a bad cough, Johnny entered the doctor’s room. Dr Mackenzie was reading from some notes at his desk and looked up through his gold rimmed glasses to see Johnny standing there. “Oh, it’s you John. Nice to see you. Haven’t seen you for a couple of years since you got injured in that gang fight. I hope you have been behaving yourself, young man.”
Johnny sat at the desk facing the doctor, “Oh aye, doctor, ah’ve been a good wee boy.” The doctor laughed at the impertinent pun.
“How’s the family? Your mother, father and brother?” the doctor enquired.
“Good doctor, all well, otherwise they’d be in here to see you.”
Johnny felt slightly nervous about what he was about to say. There was a pause for a few seconds, then he said, “Well doctor, ah think ah’ve been on the bevvy too much, drinking, and it’s landing me in a lot of bother, like fighting. What do you recommend ah do?”
Dr Mackenzie gave a weak grin, “I get men and women in here all the time with the same story. It’s the Gorbals for goodness sake. Everybody wants ‘a wee drink’ to cheer themselves up. But I tell them it can only lead to depression and even prison. The best thing to do is drop alcohol completely or cut right back.”
Johnny nodded his head in agreement, “I think you are right doctor but if I give up the boy’s might think ah’ve gone aw sissy, gone aw soft.”
The doctor knew what he was on about, there was great pressure on people in the Gorbals to drink and “be sociable.” He looked directly at Johnny and said, “Alcohol is a dangerous drug, if you become addicted. Drinking things like the cheap wine and whisky can cause so many problems both physical and mental. The problem is alcohol may cheer you up in the short term but it acts as a depressant in the long term. People are depressed enough without making it worse with alcohol addiction.”
Johnny asked, “So what dae ye tell the bevvy merchant and winos who have depression?
“I give them a wee sermon. I say, you are lucky to be alive, so don’t waste it with drink. For the tiniest moment in the span of eternity you have the miraculous privilege to exist. For billions of years you did not exist. Soon, you will cease to be once more. It is a short life.”
Johnny was impressed. He had never known any man to impart so much knowledge in such a short period of time. His next question was mundane, “But doctor what do ah say tae ma pals as an excuse tae stay aff the bevvy?”
“Simple,” Dr Mackenzie replied, “tell them you are on antibiotics and you can’t take alcohol. I’ll give you a prescription for antibiotic tablets, you don’t have to take them of course. Show your pals the bottle and they’ll be convinced.”
Johnny rose from his chair and shook the doctor’s hand, “Thanks for the wee sermon and advice. You are a genius!” Dr Mackenzie gave another of his weak grins and sighed, “If I was a genius, I wouldn’t be working in the Gorbals. Good day to you.”
Johnny walked through the packed waiting room. It was full of crying children and people sneezing and coughing. But then his heart missed a beat. He saw Cathy sitting in the corner with her mother. Her mother looked terrible, as white as a sheet with trembling hands. She had lost a lot of weight.
Cathy rose from her chair and walked over to Johnny. They went outside for a few moments.
“No’ seen you for a wee while Cathy, what’s the score?” he said.
She began to cry and grasped his hand, “Oh Johnny, she’s had a bit of a breakdown after ma father disappeared. She’s no’ the same woman and looks like a skeleton. Ah’m here tae
see what the doctor can do.”
Johnny felt deeply emotional, as if a dagger had pierced his heart. “Tell her no’ tae worry, everything will be alright, just wait and see.”
Cathy wiped the tears from her eyes and said, “Oh ah hope so. Anyway, she’s thinking of going down to Ayr to stay with her sister for a bit. The sea air might do her the world of good.”
Johnny nodded his head in agreement, “Aye, a bit of sea air could well be just the ticket for her. Listen, when can ah see you again?”
“She’s away this weekend with my sister and it means I’ll be on my own. How’s about meeting at the dancing on Saturday night, the Plaza in Eglinton Toll?”
“Ideal, Cathy, see you there, remember be there or be square!” She smiled, let go of his hand, and went back into the surgery. Johnny felt tormented – he knew her father was part of the concrete propping up the Kingston Bridge – but like the doctor he had to keep it a secret.
He had just crossed the road when he saw a taxi pull up outside the surgery. Two men got out. One was helping the other – a heavily bandaged man… it was McCoy and his father. They did not see him but he sure as hell saw them go into the surgery. “Those bastards will be seeking vengeance as soon as he’s better,” Johnny thought.
He walked into Angus, the chemists in Crown Street and left clutching a bottle of pills. A group of about 12 guys, all members of the Young Cumbie gang were standing outside John the Indian’s grocer shop. Johnny went over to them, regaining his gallus walk, “What’s happening, boys?” he shouted.
One of them said, “Celtic versus Rangers this Saturday. All the boys are up for it, you tae?”
“Fuck aye,” Johnny replied, “We’ll get aw the troops together for this.” Some of the boys clapped in anticipation. One of them said, “Wi’ you leading us aff we’ll be a real force tae contend with.”
“Hopefully,” Johnny said, “I’ve just bought the ideal weapon for the occasion - a Victorian sword.”
He went to make his way back to his house. One of the boys shouted, “Hey fancy a few pints, Johnny?”
He pulled out the bottle of pills and shook it. “Nah, nae chance. Shagged some bird a while ago and she’s given me the clap. Nae bevvy wi’ the antibiotics.”
In the Gorbals lying was part of survival and Johnny planned to survive as long as he could.
Chapter 20
CUMBIE!
Johnny was the undisputed leader of the Young Young Cumbie gang. How he had landed this esteemed position had involved a long passage of trial and error. The Cumbie were arguably Glasgow’s most feared gang, along with their rivals The Tongs from nearby Gallowgate. Both had similar structures.
At the age of 12 Johnny had joined the Tiny Cumbie which consisted of young guys aged from 12 to 15 years of age. It was in these formative years he learned, first of all, to fight with his hands and feet and then with knives, hammers and open razors.
It was a form of apprenticeship. He also learned how to win at “square goes” – using his head to give a “Glasgow kiss”, and his feet to kick his opponent “in the baws.” But gang warfare meant he had resorted to hitting rival gang members over the head with a hammer and on occasions using an open razor to slash a rival gang member down the jawbone.
He would rarely use a knife, not if he could help it, he saw it as a cowardly way to attack an enemy. After three years, building up a reputation as a young gangster, he eventually became the leader of the Tiny Cumbie. He then progressed to the YYC, a lot of young guys in the Gorbals, aged between 16-21, followed the same route.
These fellows were the equivalent of New York’s wise guys. They talked fast, acted fast and dressed in clothes that made other young working-class guys look inferior. It was image with them, good smart suits, handmade shirt, and classy brogue shoes. The attire changed between day and night – during the day it was handmade Arthur Black shirts with personal logos, bright braces, Levi Sta-Prest trousers and Doc Marten boots.
At night, the suits and shoes went on, making them look like real gangsters. Above the YYC was another division, the Big Cumbie. They were mostly guys in their 20s, 30s and 40s who were considered to be the real deal and some even carried guns. Many of them were involved in dodgy schemes including running illicit drinking dens – “shebeens” – protection rackets, moneylending and even bank robberies. Across the Clyde, the Carlton Tongs had much the same set up, there was the Tiny Tongs, the Young Tongs and the Big Tongs.
The Tongs came into being in the 1960s after the movie The Terror of The Tongs was shown. Young guys rioted shouting “Tongs, ya Bass”, which was short for “Tongs, ya bastard”. As a result, the Gorbals gang began to use the same expletive, shouting “Cumbie, ya Bass.” when in warfare.
Both were Catholic gangs but hated each other mainly due to their geographical differences. Over the Clyde, the Tongs ruled from the Saltmarket, Glasgow Cross and right up the Gallowgate
The Cumbie ruled the Gorbals right up to Castlemilk several miles away. There was a halfway point in the city centre, where the Cumbie and Tongs occasionally clashed - at St Enoch’s Square. Johnny had been approached by a couple of the Tongs at St Enoch’s Square and had promptly hit one on the head with a hammer. On another occasion he had shot several of the Tongs with a Webley air pistol. It all enhanced his reputation as gang leader.
Both the Cumbie and the Tongs could muster around 200 men and boys each – given the occasion. This was usually when Celtic met Rangers, or during the Fair Fortnight when the carnival came to the Glasgow Green in the summer. The rival gangs had massive battles there with many of them getting stabbed or slashed. During these skirmishes, Johnny led the YYC into combat like a general, shouting “Cumbie, ya bass!” as he laid into the opposing force. Indeed, he had often used a sword in such battles but it had fallen apart after much use. Thus, the reason for the new acquisition from Hillhead.
Although the Tongs and Cumbie were deadly enemies, there was another force to be reckoned with – the Bridgeton Derry. They were based a few miles away from the Gorbals in the Bridgeton area. They were all staunch Protestants and rabid Rangers supporters. All three gangs had strong historical connections when it came to rivalry and warfare.
The Tongs could date back to the 1930s when their predecessors the San Toi ruled the area (by the 1970s there was still some guys calling themselves the San Toi but they were considered merely to be an extension of the Tongs.) During the same historical period the Cumbie, named after Cumberland Street, had evolved from the Bee Hive gang which had named itself after a local haberdashery.
The Derry gang were the evolution of the Billy Boys of the 1930s who were led by a staunch Protestant called Billy Fullerton. The antics of such gangs formed the basis of the controversial book No Mean City, which focussed on a “razor king” in the Gorbals. Their names might have changed over the years but 40 years on the rivalry between the razor gangs remained exactly the same.
Johnny knew the big danger for him and the rest of his troops was when they arrived at Bridgeton Cross marching all the way to Parkhead for the game.
Folk singer Hamish Imlach had his finger on the button when he composed the song The Cumbie Boys. The Catholic Cumbie saw Celtic manager Jock Stein as a latter-day Jesus Christ and Parkhead was their new Jerusalem. The Derry Boys ran down the Pope and hated Catholics. Imlach sang when the gangs were asked about religion, they said, “Ach religion’s aw right” but they were only religious when they wanted an excuse for a fight. In the song, people were advised not to wear a green scarf in Bridgeton or a blue scarf in Cumberland Street, “unless you are a heavyweight champion or hell’uva fast on your feet.”
On the morning before the Old Firm match Johnny had every intention of wearing a green scarf in Bridgeton. Looking forward to a battle with the Derry. He put on his large woollen green and white Celtic scarf and then an old Crombie coat. It had thick lining, so he cut a hole in it and put the sword inside. When he put the coat on no-one would have noticed he was carrying a d
eadly weapon.
Johnny went out of his close and looked across the road, it was an impressive sight, 150 guys of all shapes, sizes and ages, all dressed in Celtic colours. This was the Cumbie ready for battle.
There was a group of old men in their bunnets standing outside his close. One of them said to Johnny, “Hey son, you show those dirty orange bastards who the real people are.” His pals said, “Aye Johnny, fuck King Billy, up the Celts and the Fenian cause.”
Johnny smiled, “Will do boys, we’ll teach those Orangemen a lesson they won’t forget.” He and older Cumbie guys led their troops towards Bridgeton Cross. They were a formidable sight – here you had the toughest men and boys in Glasgow going off to battle.
People were hanging out of their windows as the gang walked along Ballater Street towards Bridgeton Cross. Johnny and his troops may have looked brave and gallus but they were secretly apprehensive. But so far so good. It was quiet even when they got to Bridgeton Cross. They were surprised to see none of the Derry gang there. One of the older guys from the Big Cumbie said to Johnny, “Where the fuck is this Derry mob?”
Another gangster guy, wearing a green and white Celtic shirt, said, “The Derry are probably too scared tae face the Cumbie. Sure, our mob would scare the shite out o’ anyone – including those Protestant bastards.” Johnny was not so sure, “Hah, those guys are no’ daft, maybe they are planning an ambush after the game.”
As they walked towards Parkhead they began to sing “Hail! Hail! The Celts are here what the hell do we care…” It was a good day for Celtic supporters, they beat Rangers 2-1, with no 7 Jimmy Johnstone playing a blinder.
The Incredible Rise of a Gorbals Gangster Page 12
