Now, a giant television screen seems to dominate some pubs with the clientele all watching some programme or other. If Mac the dog even ventured the slightest growl he would be evicted or, worse, totally ignored.
Sadly, the pub is no longer there. Like its eccentric clientele it is all now history, which is a great pity.
7
Radio Days
Listening to the wireless was a great pleasure for thousands of people in the days before television, especially on cold winter nights, sitting around the fire being entertained by a whole variety of programmes.
Some people listened to the Home Service, which we thought was a bit highbrow. We much preferred The Light Programme.
Mum loved the comedy shows like Round the Horne, Ray’s a Laugh, The Clitheroe Kid and Take it from Here with Jimmy Edwards and The Glums,a family with the most monotonous voices. Mum also liked a comedian called Reg Dixon who signed off his programme with a song called ‘Confidentially’.
George and I adored Dick Barton Special Agent with its creepy ‘Devil’s Gallop’ theme tune. It always ended on a cliffhanger when the announcer would come in with a preview of the next night’s listening with the chilling words: ‘Will Dick, Jock and Snowy escape, and will Kate be rescued from the burning barn?’ At this point I was almost falling off my seat in fear.
On Sundays, we always listened to Two-Way Family Favourites with Jean Metcalfe in Britain and Cliff Mitchelmore in Germany, which played records for families separated by National Service. Young lads sending messages of undying love to their girlfriends and the girls sending back hopes of an early reunion in order to get married.
‘This is a message from Bert in BFPO wherever to Gladys. He’s sending all his love and can’t wait till he gets home in ten months time.’ Then Jeannie would send her love to Norrie in BFPO somewhere: ‘Can’t wait till our wedding next year. I’ve got the dress and everything’s organised and I’m counting the days.’
Oh the romance of it all. I almost swooned at some of the messages.
Mum however was the usual unromantic cynic. ‘Eh jist hope she’s no left wi’ the frock and the cake. Thir’s mony a slip atween the cup and the lip is aw eh can say.’
I decided to ignore her and listen to the next heartfelt plea from across the sea.
The one programme we disliked was Sing Something Simple. There didn’t seem to be any highs and lows in the singing, or any passion. But that was just our opinion.
Another pleasure was going to the pictures. Dundee was well provided with picture houses. I read somewhere that there were twenty-eight in total and I quite believe it.
We had our own little circle that we used regularly: The Plaza in The Hilltown, the Empire in Rosebank Road and the Tivoli in Bonnybank Road.
The Empire had terrible toilets. The wall between the ladies and gents had a huge hole at floor level. How anyone had managed to make a hole this size was a mystery. How did the wall chiseller have time to make such a huge hole? And did no one ever notice him (or her)?
I was always frightened when using them. Mum would come with me and stand guard outside the door, just in case a huge hairy arm grabbed my legs. But in all the years we went to the Empire, nothing ever happened. I guess the hole remained until the building was demolished. Very mysterious.
Mum could only afford the cheap seats which meant, if you were unlucky, you could be sitting in the front row, almost eyeball to eyeball with the film stars and craning your neck in the bargain.
Forever the strategist, Mum had a ploy. The ninepenny seats and the one and thruppenny seats were separated by a thick red cord. If you were quick you could bag two seats right beside this cord and imagine yourself in the luxury of the dearer seats.
Once Mum bought the tickets, I would run ahead like a sprinter and grab two seats. For some reason lost in the mists of time, George never accompanied us. Five minutes later she would come plodding up the aisle while I gaily waved to make sure she saw me.
I loved Betty Grable and all the glamorous Hollywood musicals. Another favourite was Doris Day and my one abiding memory of her is starring in Romance on the High Seas. Dressed in a lovely shimmering dress, she sang the wonderful song ‘It’s Magic’. She wasn’t the only one to think it was magic because I was entranced and since then I’ve been a lifelong fan.
Mum, on the other hand, adored Alastair Sim. I always thought him a bit creepy but that was probably the roles he played in his films.
Betty Grable reputedly had legs insured for a million dollars and they were always on show in the films. I expect the film studio wanted to make money from such a fabulous film star. I used to look at my legs and dream of being another Betty Grable while Mum would shake her head at me.
At the time, I thought everyone in America lived like the film stars, in fabulous houses and with wonderful clothes and food, which, incidentally, no one ever ate. To the wartime masses who had to cope with rationing, this was awful and I used to try and identify every dish on the table, leaving the cinema with my stomach rumbling.
With hindsight it was all a sham. Oh, the stars may have had money and fame but they all had their problems like us lesser mortals. But at the time I was swept away with the sheer glamour of it all.
The picture houses didn’t open on a Sunday so it was back to the wireless. My teenage years were spent listening to Radio Luxembourg.
My favourite programme was the Top Twenty Hit Parade, sponsored by Sta-blonde and Brunette shampoos, and some guy who had a sure fire way to make money with his foolproof football forecast.
However, always keen to have an evening with fear, Mum and I often listened to The Black Museum with Valentine Dyall, a man with a sonorous voice who gave us shivers just listening to him.
One very dark winter’s night, we were listening intently to some blood-curdling tale when Mum decided to put the kettle on. On reaching the lobby, she saw a hand coming through the letter box. Running into the living room, she started pushing me towards the window.
‘Quick, get oot the windae and run for the bobby. Thir’s a maniac trying tae get intae the hoose.’
Of course by this time I was as panic-stricken as she was and the window was now wide open. Pushing me out, she said, ‘Run and get the bobby.’
I tried to reason with her, mainly because I wasn’t a hundred per cent sure the maniac wasn’t waiting to grab me when I was outside, but she just pushed me further out into the darkness.
Thankfully, we lived on the ground floor otherwise I would have been a fatality in the next day’s newspaper. As I crept out through the gate, I saw a figure coming towards me. I almost fainted until I realised it was my brother.
‘Eh’m trying tae get the key,’ he said.
Our door key was tied to a bit of string and hung behind the letter box, but for some reason it had been moved up beside the lock.
The funny thing was, instead of hammering on the door like George, I climbed back in through the window like an idiot.
My mother’s face was a picture when she saw George. ‘Och eh thocht it wis you aw the time,’ she said.
I thought, oh no you didn’t. But then neither did I.
It was more thrilling to think a maniac was on the loose.
My brother looking for the key was most definitely an anti-climax.
8
David Phillips
I never met David Phillips but I could honestly swear I knew him. For years I had read his pawkie stories about Dundee; stories about street life and ordinary people he met on his travels throughout his life and all told in the Dundee dialect, or ‘Dundonese’ as someone once said. In fact, I would say that reading Davie’s articles and books gave me the impetus to start my own writing career.
He was a modest man with simple needs, a painter and decorator before he took up writing, but it is through his writing that we remember the man.
How well I remember laughing out loud at his exploits in his books, Eh Never Fell Intae a Midden, The Lichty Nichts and Meh Dunde
e, also identifying with the gossiping wifies and wee working men and other assorted characters that he regularly put down in print.
He was born in Lochee in St Mary Street and although he loved the bustle of the busy streets, he also loved going off to the hills with his camera, as photography was another one of his talents.
Just after the war, he went off to Grimsby with another painter/decorator, to start up their own business, but after a while he came back to Lochee because his mother wasn’t in the best of health.
He lived in Quarryside for many many years and was a huge help to his neighbours and others who lived beside him.
Every morning he would regularly go around the neighbours’ doors and offer to get their messages and newspapers for them.
This quiet, unassuming man who believed in caring for others, never married, but he was passionate in the good old-fashioned belief of good neighbourliness, kindness and modesty.
He was once asked what he thought was the greatest invention and he laughed when he answered ‘The plastic bag.’ I believe he was never without a plastic bag on his trips to the shops.
Sadly, Davie died very suddenly on 13 January 1987 in the sub post office in Lochee, a very sad day for everyone who knew him; from the people, who lived beside him, editors and staff of the newspapers that published his stories, Jimmy Shand whose biography he wrote, and Douglas Phillips, the artist who had planned with Davie, an exhibition of paintings and photos.
And why did I get the feeling I knew him although we had never met? Well back in the days after the war when he went to Grimsby with a painter colleague, that friend was my Father. I only learned this fact a year or so ago from my Uncle Jack.
I remember the time so vividly when my father was planning on leaving for Grimsby, all the uncertainty in the family and my mother fearful of the hardship it would cost. Davie must have been around us at the time, but there were so many people around in those days that this quiet, modest and very clever man must have slipped under my radar and that truly, for me, is the saddest part of all.
His obituary said he wanted to be ‘a bother tae naebody.’ And he never was.
9
Street Entertainment
Perhaps it was because people lived in small, cramped tenement houses that nearly everyone congregated onto the streets for entertainment, from meeting friends and getting a good daily dose of fresh air.
Mind you, a lot of the air in the city wasn’t that fresh with all the smoking chimneys belching out thick, black smoke. It was, however, a better bet than sitting in the equally smoky and poky rooms that were the working population’s lot.
There was a variety of things do at street level. Sundays in particular were boring with the picture houses and dance halls closed, not to mention the pubs for the older generation, although a lot of people got around this by travelling the required three miles to some hotel as a ‘bona fide’ traveller.
It was the law that this ‘traveller’ had to sign a book, stating where he or she was travelling to and the licensing body must have noted how many travellers decided to visit different places within a three-mile radius of Dundee every Sunday.
On a healthier note was the Dundee Thistle Cycling Club, that had its meeting point in Milton Street. Every weekend the cyclists would gather for their weekly run. My husband had a pal who was a member and when asked where the particular trip had been, he always replied, ‘the Sma Glen.’ The glen between Aberfeldy and Crieff.
This wasn’t entirely true because the club regularly went far afield and often stayed in the Youth Hostels before cycling back on the Sunday with huge bunches of heather tied onto their handlebars.
Willie Keir, who had a baker’s shop in Kirkton where my husband was an apprentice baker, was also a staunch member.
Ally recalls getting a loan of a bike from him during the Dundee holiday fortnight and was told to cycle to Skye before perhaps considering whether to join the club. Ally however preferred to cycle alone and regularly went miles at the weekend to Callander, St Fillans and Crieff.
On this particular holiday, he went to Comrie and stayed with his two uncles, cycling every day. At the end of the holiday he left Comrie later than planned, but he had to get back home to start work the following morning. It was a nasty wet day and he got soaked on the journey back. It was also dark by the time he reached his road end and his mum and dad were standing outside the close, worried about him.
The next day when Ally told his boss he didn’t get to Skye, Willie took the bike back. Perhaps if he had stopped to count up the cycling miles actually done over the two weeks they would have amounted to going to John O’ Groats and back. But Willie didn’t do that and his behaviour was churlish to say the least.
Running was another pastime and the Hawkhill Harriers and Dundee Road Runners’ Club catered for runners of all ages, regularly staging events or having their members winning races in other parts of the country.
On 24 April 1983, the City of Dundee People’s Marathon attracted 1,343 entrants. That very first marathon was a great success with hundreds of people turning out to witness the event. Don McGregor from St Andrews was the winner.
The 1986 race saw Colin Youngson in first place with runners M. McNaught, Sam Graves and C. Ross in the next three places, while my son George Reynolds was seventh. The first woman home was Morag McTaggart.
In 1987, Terry Mitchell won the hard slog of twenty-six miles with Charlie Hasket, Sam Graves and George taking the next three places. The first woman home was J. Danskin. Sam Graves went on to win the 1988 race but by then the half marathon and 10k races were becoming more popular, and this was followed by the Hawkhill Harriers Centenary 10k race on 23 April 1989, which attracted hundreds of participants, including children.
On this occasion George came second and on 14 May in the City of Dundee People’s 10km race, George finished fifth with Peter McColgan coming in first and his Olympic-winning wife, Liz finishing in eighth position.
1989 also saw the Hawkhill Harriers centenary dinner on 15 September at the Earl Gray Hotel. The late, great and very funny writer and comedian George Duffus, who had been a member of the Harriers in his younger days, was the speaker.
My son ran other marathons and finished first at Humber, Wick and Loch Rannoch but he also entered the Miami and New York marathons and other races worldwide. However, like other athletes, he preferred the shorter races.
Sadly, the numbers declined for the full marathon and the last one was run in 1991, but anyone who witnessed these running years will remember the carnival spirit, not to mention the money raised for charities.
The Dundee Road Runners still have races. On a beautiful day last autumn when the trees were a delight of gold and russet colours, my oldest son Alick ran in a 10k race from Templeton Woods to the finishing line above the old Timex factory.
As for myself, well I’ve never been athletic and my only brush with walking for miles was the ‘Monkey Parade’ in the 1950s. On Sundays, crowds of young people would gather and parade up and down the Overgate, hoping no doubt to catch the eye of some girl or boy.
With my four dancing pals, Violet, Zena, Mima and Margaret, I would walk up and down for hours, chattering and having a jolly good time. I can’t recall if they caught any boy’s eye. I know I didn’t.
What I recall best from these outings was my green coat. Mum had let me choose, for the first time, my own coat. And what a coat it turned out to be. I bought it from Grafton’s Fashion Shop in the Murraygate. It was green and almost fluorescent.
Mum said, ‘If thir’s oany fowk on the moon, they’ll see ye for hundreds o’ miles.’ Still I loved it and the only regret I have is that it had gone to the great textile heaven when American astronaut Neil Armstrong landed on the moon.
I remembered Mum’s words and I wonder if he would have loved my coat as much as I did back in the days of the ‘Monkey Parade’.
Also parading the streets during the ‘Monkey Parade’ were a couple of big, burly policem
en who kept ushering us onto the pavements. ‘Move alang now, keep aff the road,’ they said, as we all crowded around the narrow pavements. Although I didn’t know it then, one of these policemen was to be my future father-in-law.
At the time I was always in awe of these big guys as they looked like they took no nonsense from anyone. Later, after I got to know him, I realised he was a great practical joker in his day and he was always full of stories from his days on the beat.
My husband recalls having to go to a cobbler’s shop in the Hawkhill to pick up his working boots and he had to take a pal with him so they could carry one boot each. They were a size fourteen. As my mother would have said at the time, ‘He had a guid grip o Scotland.’
Finally, although never an entrant in the city’s marathons, my husband had the pleasure of a ‘Pram Push’. Before he started his apprenticeship in 1952, he worked for a year as a lift boy in Smith Brothers, one of the large department stores in the city – D.M. Browns and G.L. Wilson being the other two.
One day, the manager asked him to push a large Silver Cross pram to an address in Glamis Road. On reaching the house, the elderly woman was astounded at a pram arriving at her door. ‘Thir’s nae bairns here,’ she said.
A bit of head scratching ensued till they came up with the answer. The pram was meant to go to Old Glamis Road, which lay miles in the opposite direction. Finally arriving at the destination, the pram was duly handed over. We often wondered if this was the only ‘Pram Push’ marathon in Dundee and did the pram wheels need a retread?
Oh those happy, innocent times.
Shall we ever see their return?
10
Travelling the Roads to Dundee
Over the centuries, Dundee has always been a town to which immigrants flocked. My own ancestors came from Ireland in the 1800s to work in the jute mills, as did thousands of other Irish people. They settled mostly in Lochee, probably because of Cox’s jute mill complex.
Teatime Tales From Dundee Page 3
