We didn’t have regular holidays like normal people; we couldn’t afford them. But I remember going to the beach at Port Seton for a holiday one year. It might have been just for one day but I know we went. It was a big thing for us to get away from the grey oppressive filth of Glasgow and see the sea. The beaches in Scotland are not like the beaches in Australia though. When we got there I wondered where the sea was and someone said, ‘There it is – that grey bit, between the grey sky and the grey sand.’ No one went swimming; it was way too cold in the water, or out of the water for that matter. What they did do was kick off their shoes and turn up the bottom of their trousers and paddle around. We were on the beach in jackets and jumpers wishing we’d brought hats and gloves with us.
Mum and Dad and whoever it was who took us, went out when the tide was low and came back with a sack of mussels and whelks. We all got to eat as many as we wanted. That day sticks in my mind as one of the great days in Scotland.
We loved mussels and didn’t get them often. You could buy them at some of the barrows (the markets) and the fish shops in Glasgow. We could never afford them but for very little money you could get a cup of mussel brae. I think this was the water that they cooked the mussels in with a bit of salt. But it tasted fresh like the sea to us.
We would stand outside the fish shop in the cold, shivering and watching the guy making the chips.
‘What are you kids doin’? Stop hangin’ aboot ma shop. You’re puttin’ off the customers.’
‘We’re hungry, mister.’
‘You’ll get nothin’ here, now get lost.’
But we would just stand there drooling, breathing in the smells that wafted out of the door of the shop. The smell of mussels being boiled in salt water and chips with salt and vinegar would be driving us crazy.
Sometimes, if we were lucky enough, someone would feel sorry for us as they staggered out drunk from the pub and into the fish shop, and would buy us some chips.
‘You weans shouldnae be standing oot here by yersels. Take these chips and go hame tae yer ma’s.’
‘Thanks mister, can you get us a drink too?’
‘D’ye think I’m stupit? Just take the chips and fuck off before I belt ye.’
Other times the guy running the shop would walk out and give us a wee bag of all the crunchy bits that were left in the fat when they cooked the chips. This was like a gourmet meal to us.
‘You kids hungry? Here, eat this and go away.’
When Dad got really drunk he would sometimes give us enough money to buy some mussel brae. He would stick his head out of the pub door and say, ‘Don’t tell yer ma I gie’d you this. Go and get yersels somethin’ from the fish shop.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’
‘Don’t tell her I’m in the pub either.’
He was probably in there spending all the money that Mum was sitting home waiting for so she could feed us. But when we got to drink mussel brae we felt like kings. Small, dirty, snotty-nosed, cheeky kings. But still kings in our heads.
There were good times in Cowcaddens, too. November the fifth, Guy Fawkes Night, was a great night in Glasgow. I can remember massive bonfires on the spare grounds. It seemed like the only time kids from different streets mixed. Maybe this was because the parents were around but I don’t think so; it was just a chance to forget about everything and be a kid for one night. Whatever the reason, we all loved that night and couldn’t wait for it to come around.
The excitement built for days as the pile of stuff to be burned grew and grew until it was the size of a house. They should have burned a few of the houses too, come to think of it; they were shocking. Everybody brought out old furniture and beds and piled them up with bits of old wood that had come from demolishing the buildings around the area and anything else they wanted to burn. Evidence, bodies – no, I’m only kidding.
We would all stand around and watch the wood and furniture go up in smoke and light up the sky. We would stand and stare into the fires until we were dragged into the house for bed. Then the next day there would be a mound of smouldering ashes lying on the ground, which were blown around by the wind, leaving more shit that never got cleaned up. But for that night it looked spectacular and Glasgow shone – in the eyes of the children anyway.
I felt relatively safe near Mum and Dad, particularly my mum, but when they weren’t around my world would collapse. It hurt to be away from my mum’s side. She was my world, she was everything. My first day in preschool traumatised me. My mum and granny took me to this place filled with strange kids and very cold-looking women, and just left me there. Where were they going?
‘Come back, what have I done? I’ll be good!’ I remember screaming at the top of my voice. But they were gone. There was a playground and a wall around the outside so I ran up a slide to see if I could stop them. But they never even looked back. I was certain that they were never coming back. I thought that I was going to have to stay there and take mid-afternoon naps forever. I don’t think I ever forgave them for that. I hate naps.
But kindergarten turned into school and school turned out to be not so bad. The school I went to in Cowcaddens was called the Normal School. It was sort of clean and every day you got fed a hot meal. For us and a lot of other kids that might have been the only hot meal we got. Most of the kids looked as scared as I did so I didn’t stand out. I was only four going on five, but I learned very quickly that if I made the teachers like me, life would be easier. I was the kid who always had his hand up first. The kid who was always trying to get the teacher’s attention. I would try to be involved in everything the class was doing.
* * *
Around the time I started school I was faced with another challenge. It came from home and a place I least expected it to come from – my mum. She started force-feeding cod-liver oil to me and the other kids. Maybe it was one of those times when all the adults in the country decided that this would be good for their kids. And it might have been, but it was torture to me. It was like tongue kissing a salmon. Not that I’ve ever tried kissing one. My mum had to chase me around the house and hold me down and force the vile liquid down my throat. I would be yelling and sputtering as she force-fed me. And no sooner was it in my mouth than it was all over the floor or even my mum. But after a couple of swift smacks across the legs I soon swallowed it like it was sugar syrup. I know fish oil is supposed to be good for you but that stuff nearly put me off fish for life. It wasn’t until much later that I started to like fish oil – when I discovered caviar. A much better delivery system, I think.
The fish oil probably helped in the fight with the cold too. It was an ongoing battle, especially during winter. Life was tough in the summer but it was brutal in the wintertime. The snow brought another set of challenges. It was beautiful to wake up to a blanket of clean white snow covering Glasgow’s usual dull, depressing shroud of grey. We would look out the window and laugh and get ready to go out and play in it. But with holes in your shoes and not enough warm clothes the novelty would soon wear off.
Quite often the snow was so high that no one could open their front doors and we couldn’t get out even if we wanted to. Sometimes Dad would have to jump out the window from one or two storeys up and dig his way to the pub.
Then the pipes would freeze and there would be no water. Waiting for deliveries of coal was always a worry. If the trucks couldn’t get through a lot of people got very cold. I heard stories of old people and young kids freezing to death in winter. Living in Cowcaddens in that sort of climate was not like it would have been if you lived in a quaint mountain village somewhere. There were no fondues, marshmallows, skis or toboggans where we came from. When the weather turned bad, parents all over Scotland had to work really hard to keep their families warm, lying clothes along the bottom of the doors to stop the wind blowing through. Lighting small coal fires made the difference between freezing or not for most families. For a place that was so sooty, coal was not that easy to get. It cost money – money Mum and Dad never had.
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br /> At least we didn’t have to drive in the snow, because no one could afford a car. None of my family or their friends had a car. I remember seeing them parked in the street sometimes but not for long. No one wanted to get back to a car that had no wheels or the aerial and the mirrors ripped off. The cars I did see were wrecks or they looked quite funny. There were some that looked like bubbles with one wheel in the front and two at the back, a kind of enclosed golf cart. I’ve never seen them anywhere else. But I’m sort of glad that no one had cars when I think about it. That would have been something else to knock people to the ground with. Driving drunk would have been the norm and in the winter it would have looked like some sort of demolition derby on ice.
When the snow thawed, the street sweepers would come through and clean up the slushy black mess it left behind. A mixture of water from the melting snow and dirt and soot, mixed up with broken glass and blood from the gutters outside the pubs. Apparently no matter how cold it got, it was still warm enough to drink yourself into oblivion in Glasgow, and if you were still conscious when you left the pub you could be punched, kicked and stabbed on the way home. That particular sport went on all year round. Glasgow – it was beautiful one minute, a bloodbath the next.
There was a lot of drinking in the house, and with that came a lot of violence and abuse; not necessarily directed at us, but every punch and threat that Mum and Dad threw around hit each of us as if we’d been thrown against the wall. The sound of bottles being opened and voices slowly getting louder always sent us into a panic. Sooner or later a fight would break out and we would hide under the beds and in cupboards, crying and praying it would all stop. Often we’d be dragged out of the house in our underwear, freezing cold, to the sound of Mum and Dad swearing at each other, using us as bargaining chips or hostages. The next day all would be forgiven and the cycle would start again.
The whole world seemed to have a drinking problem. How come the children didn’t eat well or have nice clothes or nice places to live but there was always money to buy drinks? That question always baffled me as a kid. Kids would be cold and hungry but somehow all the adults were drunk and fighting. Maybe that’s how they kept warm.
CHAPTER THREE
Man, that’s ma hobby!
Don’t get me wrong, not all my memories of Scotland are bad. Some are funny. For a start, I think it’s very funny that Scots like to sing. They sing anywhere, any time and as loud as they can. We don’t care who’s listening. Fuck ’em, we want to sing.
I have vivid memories of people standing around drunk, singing about how much they missed Scotland. The best bit was that they hadn’t gone anywhere. They were still in Glasgow. Many a night I fell asleep to the sound of someone forgetting the words to ‘I Belong to Glasgow’ or ‘Bonnie Scotland’. Surely that must have been a sign that if they actually left, they were going to miss the place. But they left in droves and got drunk in new countries and forgot even more of the words and never once sang about wherever they were now. My folks never sang songs about Australia; they didn’t know any and didn’t want to know any.
One song I remember, which everybody sang at the top of their voices, was a song called, ‘For We’re No Awa’ Tae Bide Awa’. It was sung every night in pubs and at people’s homes, normally towards the end of a party. The song seemed to be about not going away from Scotland, and when you didn’t go away you should celebrate the fact that you’re staying by drinking as much as you could. This could only make sense in Scotland.
For we’re no’ awa’ tae bide awa’
For we’re no’ awa’ tae le’e ye
For we’re no’ awa’ tae’ bide awa’
Well aye come back an’ se ye.
As I was walking doon the street one day
I met wee Johnny Stobie
Said he to me will ye take a dram
Said I, ‘Man, that’s ma hobby!’
Even as children we sang this song as loud as we could. It seemed all the songs had melodies that were written to tear at the heartstrings of a drunken Scotsman and break even the toughest man down to a crying, sobbing wreck. Or get him ready for battle. Whoever wrote them knew what happened to a man when he got drunk in Scotland and they exploited it as much as they could. As a songwriter I tip my hat to them; they nailed it.
There were other songs too. Every night at the pub or at home when they got loosened up, they would all sing. Loosened up is Scottish for shitfaced, by the way.
There weren’t many radios or record players at this time and no one pushed anybody into singing. It was as if they all knew when it was time. A strange silence would come over the room and people would stop what they were doing – drinking, punching someone, chatting up somebody else’s wife – and wait for the singer to start.
Someone would look up from their drink and start singing a song like ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’. It would be a beautiful moment, like a lone bagpiper standing on top of a castle wall. Only this would be a bloke with drink spilled down the front of his shirt, standing alone because no one wanted to be too close to him. He would raise his voice to the heavens, baring his broken heart and slightly battered liver to the world. But after one line everyone would join in and sing with him and fuck it all up. Then someone would yell out, ‘Hey, one singer, one song,’ and they would all be quiet again.
This happened song after song. Everyone took a turn singing their own song. Sometimes they didn’t know the words and they just made sounds like the words. There would be a lot of mumbling and groaning as the singer, with tears in his eyes, desperately tried to remember the words to this song that meant so much to him.
Then someone would yell out, ‘Aye, son. Tell us all what ye mean.’
And the room would break out in laughter as the tension was released. ‘Aye, that song makes me cry too.’
Everyone would clap. It might not have been perfect but it was good enough to win over the crowd. No one wanted to see a grown man crying.
If you picked the right song to sing you could have them all crying in their drinks and hugging each other. But if you picked the wrong song, like a song that was someone else’s specialty for instance, then you could end up in big trouble or even hospital. ‘Your Cheatin’ Heart’ was my granny’s song, ‘Heartaches by the Number’ was my mum’s and my dad would sing ‘Mona Lisa’.
Mum had a great voice and liked to sing Ray Charles songs, maybe because they were all about leaving someone or throwing someone out. That sort of thing appealed to her for some reason. My dad had a soft sweet voice and could sing like Nat King Cole. He sang ‘Around the World’ and ‘Walk Away’. Songs that spoke about not staying anywhere and being ready to drift away at any moment, looking for love. I think these sweet and gentle songs showed what he was really like. He didn’t want to be the tough guy life had made him.
Another great time for my folks and all their friends was July the twelfth, the day of the Orange Walk. Mum and Dad and all their friends were Protestants. I know this because for many years Catholics were not allowed into our house. I know the Walk was also supposed to be about celebrating the Battle of the Boyne or something, but for Christ’s sake, that was back in 1690. Let it go. But they didn’t let it go. Scots can hang on to things for a long time – grudges, throats, you name it.
In those days the Orange Walk was a day when the local Protestants could walk through the streets, carrying banners and flags and wearing orange sashes with bowler hats – and get to fight the Catholics. It looked like a sport of some kind, only much more vicious. Like a sport where you were allowed to carry open razors, which seemed to be the weapon of choice in Glasgow. These players liked to leave a mark on their victims, especially on their faces, so people could always tell that someone had got to them – they couldn’t hide it. You see big scars on the faces of a lot of people from Glasgow.
We had to stay indoors while the Walk was on. We would hang out the windows and watch as strangely dressed men walked down the road, acting like they were some sort of royalty. T
heir banners and sashes had slogans from a time when it might have mattered what religion you were or what you had to shout to the world. But these days, it just didn’t matter anymore. Everyone was downtrodden by someone else and the truth was, God had failed us all. Maybe we should have been fighting the church and not each other. But that would have been no fun. Churches don’t scream and bleed. As it was, men could get drunk and act like animals and next day get up and go to work as if nothing had happened, happy knowing they had fought for what they believed in, but not able to remember what that was.
They worked right next to each other too, Catholics and Protestants – working as one. You couldn’t tell the difference by looking at them. They all had the same colour hair and the same skin and they all had kids to feed. They all loved Scotland and Glasgow, but when a drink was had, suddenly it was as if the same guy you worked with had murdered your family. The conversation would turn to religion or football or both and a riot would break out. The hatred was overwhelming; that same hatred that had been passed down to them from their fathers was passed down to their own kids.
I liked the music side of the whole parade. Pipe bands would march down the street and the marchers would cheer and sing along with them. The Scots always like music, any time – at parties, weddings and funerals. When we went into battle, the pipes were in the front of all the troops. The sound of bagpipes makes my heartbeat quicken and the blood surge through my veins. Even as a child I felt like this. All the people we knew would lash out and fight, party or sing when the bagpipes were played. The bagpipes made us believe we could get through anything. We could take on the world if we had to and quite often did. We didn’t know when to give up. That’s something that runs in our blood. It comes from years of fighting to retain your sense of self when all the while you are being stood on and pushed into the gutter.
Working Class Boy Page 3
