Parly Road: The Glasgow Chronicles 1

by Ian Todd

  “So, whit dae ye think, Crisscross?” asked The Sarge, wance that fat arse hid twaddled aff intae the horizon behind them.

  “Aboot whit?”

  “Doos, dookits, egg boxes and St James Road?”

  “Ah don’t know, bit let’s hiv a wee shifty roond aboot and check it oot, eh?”

  3.15 P.M.

  “Who the fuck ur youse?” asked Tiny, who wis staunin guard oan the door ootside the pub tae stoap nosey basturts being nosey at aw the coming and gauns.

  “We’re the group.”

  “Ah thought it wis Country and Western?”

  “It is, we ur, we’ve arrived,” announced Gareth, as Blair let oot an imaginary drum roll behind him.

  “T’chish!” Blair said tae Tiny, using that wee heid ae his as the cymbal.

  “Whit the fuck’s wrang wae you, ya eejit, ye?” Tiny snarled, glaring at Blair as he stood aside tae let them pass.

  “Oh, er, nothing. Ah’m jist practicing ma stick roll.”

  “Ah’m the roadie,” Sarah May said in the passing.

  “And Ah’m wae her,” Michael, oan bass, added.

  “Right, ye’re o’er there,” Tiny said, nodding tae the far right haun corner where a wee stage hid been set up. “Ye’ve goat hauf an hour.”

  “We’ll need mair time than that. We’ll need tae set up aw the gear first before we even sta...noo, where the fuck did that midget jist disappear tae? Ah wis jist talking tae him,” Hank Williams asked, glancing o’er the tap ae the bar.

  “Gareth, shut yer arse and start setting up. Blair, ye better get ootside and get that drum kit ae yours in before some wee snottery nosed tea-leaf runs aff wae it. Ah think yer best pal, the midget, jist booted it aff the pavement,” Sarah said, as the crashing sound ae the drums came thundering in through the aff-sales hatch.

  “Excuse me, sir,” Blair shouted at Tiny, followed by, “Hoi, ya dirty wee shites, leave they drums alane,” tae the two wee boys who wur knocking fuck oot ae his good snare drum and the flair tom skins wae a couple ae stanes they’d picked up aff the street.

  Elvis wis, meanwhile, staunin in the centre ae the bass drum, yelping tae nowan in particular, as it lay oan it’s side in the middle ae the street.

  “You get the snare and the flair tom, Blair, and Ah’ll get the bass drum,” Sarah said, gieing the laughing gnome, staunin at the door, a dirty look.

  “There’s isnae much room, is there?”

  “Aye, well, jist watch oot wae that bass heid if ye’re swinging it aboot, Michael.”

  “Where’s the cables and mics?”

  “In ma shoulder bag by the bar.”

  “Boys, boys, girl, great tae se...whit the fuck? Whit’s that youse ur wearing?” The Big Man demanded.

  “Whit?” they aw chorused.

  “That gear youse ur decked oot in.”

  “Whit’s wrang wae it?”

  “Youse ur supposed tae be Country and Western singers, no fucking target practice fur hauf ae the shooters in Glesga. When hauf the eejits in here the night get pished, they’ll be bloody aiming fur they bull’s-eyes oan yer shirts.”

  “Bit it’s oor good ‘Who’ tops. We’re Mods.”

  “Ah don’t gie a flying fuck if ye’re fucking cods fae the fish and chip shoap across the road. Ye’re no wearing they shirts the night. Ah’ll lose aw ma street cred. Where the hell ur yer cowpoke hats?”

  “They’re no shirts, and oor cowboy hats don’t go wae oor ‘Who’ tops.”

  “Ye’re bloody right there, pal. Youse hiv goat two and a hauf hours before ma guests start tae arrive. When Ah come back in an hour, Ah don’t want tae see anything that resembles a fucking dart board or something aff the wings ae a spitfire anywhere in this pub. Ah want tae see a bunch ae cowboys and a nice wee cowgirl oan that wee stage in that wee corner at seven forty five sharp. Hiv ye goat that, amigos? Noo, where the fuck is that Sandy Shaw when ye need her?” The Big Man snarled, walking towards the swing doors.

  5.15 P.M.

  The street hid started tae get crowded roond aboot hauf four. At first it wis jist aw the weans in the area alang wae Elvis and his pals. Then aw the maws arrived, followed by some ae the das who’d met their payments oan time and didnae still owe The Big Man that week’s money. Tiny started tae arrange the brass pole barriers either side ae the door across the pavement tae the edge ae the street, tae the sound ae ‘oohs’ and ‘ahs’ fae the crowd, who wur congregating, watching everything that wis gaun oan wae interest. The red ropes being looped through the hooks ae the poles goat a similar response. It wis when Tiny disappeared and arrived back two minutes later, humphing a red runner carpet oan his shoulders fae the direction ae the stables and started tae roll it o’er the piles ae dug’s shite sitting in the middle ae the pavement between the pub entrance and the kerb, that the crowd started tae clap and get aw excited. A wee snottery-nosed lassie nipped under the rope and ran across and flattened a lump ae shite wae the soles ae her sandshoe that could be seen raising the carpet up like a wee red molehill, tae the appreciated cheers ae everywan oan either sides ae the ropes.

  “Father O’Malley, if I’m not mistaken, isn’t that our good red runner and brass stands that were stolen from the chapel entrance two Sundays ago, just before Cardinal O’Flynn arrived to take mass?” exclaimed Sister Flog, twirling her crucifix aroond oan its long beaded chain in her left haun.

  “Yes, I believe that is the very runner, Sister Flog. God certainly uses mysterious ways to help out our neighbours, to be sure.”

  “So, what are we going to do about it?” she demanded, hitching up her long habit, as Elvis and a scabby mongrel dug brushed past her, in hot pursuit ae a snottery-nosed five year auld who’d been tormenting them wae a melting iced orange Jubbly in his haun.

  “I’m sure God will make sure that it arrives back, via the City Cleaners, of course, once I’ve spoken to Pat’s mother at mass tomorrow.”

  “Oh, oh, here comes the competition. Don’t look now.”

  “Faither O’Malley…Sister Flog, how ur ye baith daeing the day?”

  “Oh, fine, Sally. How are things with yourself now?” Sister Flog asked, surreptitiously making a sign ae the cross behind Sally’s back.

  “Ach, fine and dandy, apart fae Ah’m oan a mission tae try and recoup ma losses.”

  “Yes, we heard that you had an unfortunate break-in.”

  “Aye, well, jist another ae God’s wee challenges that he throws oor way every noo and again, eh?”

  “So, what brings you and the other lady Salvationists up here?” the priest asked her.

  “Well, we knew there wid be a crowd ootside, so we wanted tae make sure the good people hid their chance tae contribute tae Africa’s loss.”

  “Wonderful, I’m sure they’ll give with glee.”

  “So, ur youse invited tae the bash the night?” Sally asked them.

  “No, Mrs Molloy was hoping Father O’Malley would have got an invite from her son, Patrick, but we believe that it’s mostly close family members who are attending tonight. And yourself?”

  “Naw, Ah’m in the same leaky ship as yersels. Ma Crisscross put in a word fur me, bit as ye said, it’s a full hoose. Ah’m gonnae nip doon later oan, jist as the group goes oan tae try and blag ma way in wae that wee can ae mine. Ye’re mair than welcome tae join me, Sister Flog. Ah hear they’ve goat a really famous Country and Western group belting oot aw the auld wans.”

  “Really? Er…oh, I don’t know,” she said, doubtfully, looking at Father O’Malley. “I don’t have a can of my own.”

  “Don’t ye worry aboot that, hen. Ah kin supply ye wae wan. It’ll show everywan that we’re aw working thegither in God’s work and whitever we get, Ah’ll split it wae ye. We kin hiv a wee competition tae see who raises the maist, eh?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Sister Flog said, hesitantly, looking at the priest. “I would need a bit of time to think about it, Sally.”

  “Well, Ah’ve heard the group ur oan jist before eight. Ah wis plannin
g tae hit them jist efter that, so if ye change yer mind, ye know where Ah’ll be,” Fat Sally Sally said, walking aff tae accost wan ae her flock who wis staunin argueing wae himsel, pished as a fart.

  6.00 P.M.

  People wur getting themsels intae a fair auld tizzy. There wis a buzz in the air by the time two photographers, accompanied by two reporters, arrived at a quarter tae six. Aw the weans wur shouting tae them tae take their picture. Maws, staunin aboot ootside, started tae touch up their hair and tuck loose strands intae their heidscarves. The wummin who wur still wearing curlers sent the weans aff hame tae come back wae scarves or rainmates, or whitever else they could get their hauns oan first. Tiny hid changed and wis staunin there in a black suit, white shirt and black bow-tie.

  “Hing oan a minute, Swinton. Ah need tae get a photo ae that wee penguin, staunin oan the door. It’s no fancy dress, is it?” asked Slipper, the photographer fae The Glesga Echo.

  “Naw, Ah think he’s the bouncer,” Swinton Maclean, journalist wae The Evening Times volunteered, looking aboot at the crowd.

  “Ur ye Pat Roller, Jimmy?” wan ae the maws asked Harold Sliver, fae The Evening Express.

  “Naw…Randolph Hearst, missus.”

  “Oh,” she said, disappointed.

  “Is Pat Roller coming then?” her mate, Foosty, asked him.

  “Well, Ah shouldnae really be telling ye this, bit Pat Roller isnae a real person. Pat Roller stauns fur ‘patroller,’ as in ‘roving aboot’. So there isnae really anywan called that. Whenever somewan comes up wae a story aboot street crime and the gangs, it gets shoved intae the paper under the pseudonym ae ‘Pat Roller.’”

  “Nae wonder nae tit believes anything anywan reads in the papers nooadays, Jackie. Did ye hear the dinger he’s trying tae hit me wae?” Foosty said, turning tae her pal.

  “Aye, Ah heard him, the lying toad. He must think we’re aw daft aboot here or something.”

  “Right, everywan, gie’s a big smile,” Slipper shouted, as Tiny stood in the middle ae the red carpet, hauns clasped in front ae him, wae hauf the weans and maws in the Toonheid stretching o’er the sides ae the ropes, trying tae make sure they goat their faces in the picture.

  Hovering aboot behind Tiny, The Goat, whose job it wis tae take any cars that guests arrived in and park them roond the corner in Stanhope Street, wis trying his best no tae scare aw the weans by looking directly at them. It wis also noted amongst the bystanders that this wis the first time in living memory that anywan hid ever seen Tiny smile, even though it came across as a constipated grimace.

  6.45 P.M.

  They wur running late. The first car tae draw up alangside the carpet wis a big Austin Princess A-Wan-Three-Five, driven by Charley Chip. Beside him, his famous buxom blonde wife wae the big paps, face hauf hidden by the sun visor, wis applying fresh ruby red lipstick. Blondie goat oot first. She hid oan a skin-tight, wan-piece sequinned ootfit, wae a silver fox stole wrapped roond her neck and shoulders, confidently striding forth in six inch stilettos oan her size nine feet. If it hid been night time, she wid’ve lit up the street wae the flash bulbs bouncing aff ae her, insteid ae hivving tae make dae wae rays fae the sun which wis still belting doon.

  “Hellorerr…how ur ye aw daeing?” she purred and pouted tae the crowd, while Slipper and Flash Robson fae The Evening Express clicked away.

  Charlie slid aff the four cushions he wis sitting oan behind the wheel and disappeared oot ae sight fur a few seconds before reappearing, wearing his trademark cheesy grin, oot ae the same door as his big tall wife. The crowd erupted intae applause.

  “Charlie, o’er here!”

  “Gie’s a song, Charlie!”

  “Charlie, darling!”

  “Gie’s wan ae yer funny wan-liners, Charlie!”

  The Big Man appeared at the pub door, jist as The Goat disappeared wae the Princess roond the corner tae the wee scallywags who wur getting a tanner each tae keep their eyes oan the cars and tae stoap wee toe-rags like themsels jumping aw o’er them throughoot the night.

  “How ur ye daeing, Charlie? Aw, ye’re looking as big and beautiful as ever, Gina.”

  “It’s a pity it wisnae night-time, Pat. This sunshine disnae dae ma dress any justice. Ah knew Ah shouldnae hiv listened tae short-arse here,” she said, through a big smile, tae the clicking ae the cameras and the admiring tongues hinging oot ae the mooths ae the local men-folk.

  “Ah’m fine, Pat, jist fine,” Short-arse said wae a cheesy grin, while waving tae aw his fans.

  JP Donnelly managed tae drag himsel away fae the bar jist in time tae nip oot and get in the photo wae Gina, Charlie and The Big Man.

  “In ye come and we’ll get youse a wee drink,” The Big Man beamed, hoping Gina wis gonnae be oan her best behaviour and no start her usual antics ae trying tae get aff wae every man in the pub jist tae noise up that wee man ae hers.

  Efter that, the cars queued up alangside the pavement, waiting tae disgorge their occupants. There wur Consul Cortinas, a couple ae auld Morris Sixes, Riley Fours, and a Mercedes Two Thirty SL.

  “How many photos did ye get, Flash?”

  “Aboot a dozen.”

  “Aye, same as masel. We’ll probably get a couple ae good wans oot ae them. Wan fur the morning paper and the same wan fae a different angle fur the evening.”

  “Did ye notice anything peculiar?”

  “Whit?”

  “Aw the wummin turning up wur wearing foxes wrapped roond they necks ae theirs.”

  “Aye, the smell ae moth balls wis making ma eyes water at wan point, so it wis.”

  “There must’ve been a fire sale at the end ae the war or something.”

  “Jist like The London Palladium,” wis the general consensus ae everywan ootside the pub that night.

  7.30 P.M.

  Inside, people goat a free drink as they sat doon at the tables that Kirsty and The Big Man hid allocated tae them. The bar wis in full flow wae Tam the Bam ensuring everywan’s glasses wur refilled as soon as they’d emptied.

  “Aw, ye’re looking jist beautiful, hen,” aw the wummin wur saying tae Kirsty.

  “Aye, it’s ma Sandie Shaw look.”

  Withoot any warning, hauf the lights in the bar wur suddenly switched aff and the stage lights lit up as Charlie Chip took tae the stage tae loud cheers and whistling.

  “‘Ma mother-in-law’s an angel,’ said big Hector. ‘You’re lucky, mine’s still alive,’ replied wee Rab,” Charlie Chip drawled, deidpan, starting aff the evening, tae loud laughter and applause. “Whit’s the punishment fur Bigamy? Two mother in-laws. Did ye know that behind every successful man is a surprised mother-in-law?”

  “Gaun yersel, Charlie, ma darling,” Fat Marge, the Assistant Cook, wae the sideburns and wee goatee beard, fae the primary school dining hut, shouted oot.

  “He’s bloody shite, so he is. Ah’ve heard aw them before. Ah hope he’s no getting paid fur this, Pat,” Jimmy scowled in disgust, looking across at The Big Man.

  “Ach, the auld wans like him.”

  “And they nineteen-canteen jokes?”

  “Jimmy, sit back and enjoy it…it’s a lovely occasion. Ye need tae relax, so ye dae,” Helen reminded him.

  “Ah’m sorry, bit Ah agree wae Jimmy, Helen. If Ah hear another shite mother-in-law joke oot ae that wee fairy, Ah’m gonnae take a run and jump at him,” The Big Man’s maw, Daisy, threatened.

  “Wee Betty’s in a shoap up the Parly Road. ‘Kin Ah try oan that dress in the windae?’ she asks the sales assistant. ‘Ah wid prefer if ye used the dressing room like everywan else, hen,’ replied the salesman,” Charlie quipped tae mair appreciative laughter fae his fans.

  “See, he must’ve heard ye, Daisy. Right, who’s wanting a wee drink as Ah’m aff tae the bar wae Granda’s money?” Jimmy asked, staunin up.

  “Aw, ye’re a wee stoater, so ye ur, Jimmy. Ah’ll hiv a wee Babycham in a wee glass ae sweet stout,” his mother-in-law said.

  “None ae that pish fur me, Jimmy. Ah’ll hiv a lime
and soda water. Whit dae ye want, Da? Bill?” Helen asked.

  “Pint ae heavy.”

  “Same fur me.”

  “Daisy?”

  “Port and brandy, son. Ah wis gonnae hiv a wee stout and Babycham masel, bit wance Ah start oan them, Ah cannae stoap masel fae farting.”

  “Pat?”

  “Nothing fur me the noo, Jimmy. Ah’ll hiv tae go and dae the roonds ae the tables in a minute.”

  “Right, Ah’ll be back in a jiffy.”

  “Big Tam’s wife asks ‘Hoi, is that you Ah hear spitting oan ma mother’s good vase oan that mantel piece, Tam?’ ‘Naw, hen, bit Ah’m fair getting closer aw the time.’ And oan that happy note, ladies and gentleman, Ah wid jist like tae wish Daisy and Bill another forty glorious years thegither and sign aff wae a wee song Ah know they baith like. Please feel free tae aw join in. ‘Oh Danny boy, the...’”

  7.45 P.M.

  “Good evening, Toonheid. Good evening, The McAslin Bar. Ma name’s Sarah May Todd and Ah’m joined oan the stage the night by the Broncin’ Bucking Burr brothers, Gareth and Blair…the wans in the cowboy hats and the frills oan the sleeves ae their jaickets. And oan bass, we’ve goat Michael Massie, ex-Danny Crevice and the Pyles, bit noo wae us…and thegither, we’re Sarah May and the Cowpokes. We’ve goat a good selection ae songs fur youse aw the night and we’re gonnae start aff wae a wee Billy Ed Wheeler song called ‘Jackson’ that Gareth, oor guitarist, is gonnae sing alang wae me. We hope ye like it as much as we dae...‘We goat married in a fever, hotter than a pepper sprout, we’ve been talking...”

  7.50 P.M.

  “Is that The Val Doonican Show Ah kin hear?” Johnboy asked, sitting in the dark wae the boys, sooking oan their frozen Jubblys.

  “Naw, that’s the group.”

  “So, when ur we getting started then?” asked Skull, who’d awready finished his before the rest ae them wur hauf-way through theirs.

  “When we’re finished, Skull.”

  “Well, hurry the fuck up, ya slow basturts. We’ve no goat aw night.”

  “So, everywan knows whit they’re daeing then?” Tony asked, peering at the faces aroond aboot him in the darkness ae the loft.