by Rikki Brown
All they did was stand en masse and chant, ‘Strike … strike.’ I don’t think there were any actual demands, other than the right to gather in the playground to shout, ‘Strike … strike.’
Winker and myself were amongst the strikers and our pals were watching events from the ground floor Biology class. The Headmaster was out with most of the teachers, including McConnell, and they were writing down any pupils’ names they could identify. Much in the same way today’s police videotape protests and strikes to identify the ringleaders.
Winker and myself got lost in the crowd, watching and listening as the Headmaster’s pleas and actions were becoming less patient and more animated. The Headie eventually gave up, locked the school doors and phoned the police who came in fleets of vans at high speed across the playing fields.
As they approached, those fast enough to escape got off their mark but they did manage to make a few arrests. During the melee we climbed through the window into the class and Mr Smith, rather than making a big issue out of it, just said sarcastically, ‘Nice of you to join us.’
But … while McConnell was out in the playground in short sleeves playing Herr Kommandant, Eddie had gone into his classroom to find his jacket and belt he’d left on the back of his chair. This allowed Eddie to nail McConnell’s belt to his desk, after which he sawed the legs off his chair and as a nice finishing touch he wrote, ‘You’re a big bastard,’ on his blackboard with an aerosol.
He also, just for good measure, signed his handiwork on the blackboard with ‘MM rules’. This led to every pupil with those initials being questioned and threatened by McConnell who was determined to extract a confession from someone, be they innocent or guilty. Eddie Beattie was never even suspected as the initials on the board stood for Mad Mental.
While the interrogations were going on after normal school hours, Eddie also let the tyres down on McConnell’s car. McConnell went ballistic and the next day he belted (with a new belt of course) anyone who was seen striking the previous day.
He punished each pupil as though he was the culprit who had worked him over. The pupils union was abolished the day after it started. The education department had brought in their version of the army in the form of General George Patton McConnell. McConnell never did find out who was guilty but from then on he regarded every pupil as though he’d done it and treated him accordingly.
13
SO WHERE DO YOU HANG A WET CROMBIE?
That summer we had a heatwave and we’d go down to the park to watch the girls sunbathing, trying to get as close to them as we inconspicuously could without being accused of peeping.
We were into girls in a big way and by this time we’d each had a girlfriend and knew the basics of the female form, which for a long time had been a bit of a mystery.
Now we knew that females enjoyed a winch just as much as we did. It had taken a lot of trial and error to discover this. We thought they fought us off because they hated it. Now we knew it was because they didn’t want to get a reputation or get pregnant. They more than likely didn’t know how to get pregnant and a pretty high percentage probably thought they’d end up with child if they rubbed a ball of baby pink wool and a knitting pattern for a baby cardigan together. Getting off with someone was done in a ritual manner, which had to be observed at all times.
We would position ourselves in easy view then hang around like a bunch of James Deans, the girls would walk past about ten times and be ignored for the first five. By the sixth we’d make inane comments, which they wouldn’t acknowledge until the eighth, the acknowledgement generally came in the form of ‘what are you looking at, ye want a picture?’ By the tenth we were conversing quite freely and only then could the courtship commence.
When I say courtship, it was more like walking around the streets until it got dark enough to persuade them to go round the back of the close for a winch and a fumble. I got to know more females than my mates because I was dead sneaky. Whenever anyone passed who was remotely attractive I would approach them with the ploy ‘my pal fancies you’. They would ask who and I would point out Wilco sitting there in his NHS glasses and plukes visible at fifty paces. They would look at me as though I was mad and say, ‘Him? He’s an uggo.’ Now that I’d made contact with the girls I would subliminally sell myself to them and about 10% of the time it worked.
Wilco was oblivious to the fact I was using him to break the ice and he thought I’d amazing bottle when it came to the fairer sex. On Wilco’s glasses, he claimed that they weren’t NHS jobs but John Lennon specials, to which Ally answered, ‘Well, John Lennon must be a prick as well then.’
The nights seemed endless and the days just rolled into one another. We had no school and no worries, in fact the only weed in the garden was lack of cash. On a Saturday we’d all jump on a bus and go into the city to wander round the shops, record shops and boutiques (there’s a word from the past). We could neither afford records nor clothes and all we could do was crowd into a wee booth in the record shop and try to listen to the latest releases on a single set of headphones or try on clothes way beyond our price range, which was zero anyway. We didn’t really go into the shop to try clothes on anyway, we went into the shop because that shop was the Crazy House in the Gallowgate at Glasgow Cross. On Saturday the Crazy House had scantily clad go-go dancers in circular cages giving it laldy to the hits of the day and you weren’t allowed simply to go in and watch them. No, the bum and boob shaking was solely a perk for customers, so the place was mobbed with, I reckon, one actual customer who intended to buy something and about a hundred other people just trying something on.
The Crazy House specialised in what I suppose could have been termed mod/skinhead gear. They sold Levi’s Sta Prest, Ben Sherman button downs, Skinner jeans and Crombie coats. Crombie’s were expensive, heavy, all wool coats and as one of the go-go dancers had large nipples I heard a fellow audience member/fake shopper say, ‘Jeez oh, look at them man, you could hang a wet Crombie on them.’ A phrase that was both very descriptive and incredibly accurate. I’d love to say that the go-go dancers were exotic, but they weren’t. They were Glaswegian go-go dancers and if there’s words that shouldn’t appear in the same sentence it’s ‘Glaswegian’ and ‘go-go’ and ‘dancers’. They were a bit dumpy is what I’m saying. Think Lulu back in the sixties when she had the baw face and the fat legs and that’s about the strength of it.
Our weekly sojourns were a welcome diversion. We didn’t mind weekdays because we’d have been at school anyway but shouldn’t we do something even more special on a Saturday than simple window shopping? Going into Glasgow, or the town as it was put, was and still is a Glaswegian ritual. Most of the time it’s just to wander about aimlessly, a ritual that’s lasted for years and will continue I’m sure for many years more.
The money problem was overcome when we went out and found ourselves jobs as paperboys and milk boys. With a bit of cash we decided we’d have enough to go to a disco in the city centre once a month.
Not that we knew much about discos but we wanted to find out.
You see we believed what we’d seen on the telly and thought that every nightclub was like the ones Simon Templar – the Saint – went to. There would be lots of girls in yellow plastic miniskirts dancing on tables and everyone would be kissing each other.
So, with cash in pocket, four shiny-faced kids set off for the bright lights on the number 41 bus. We got off the bus at the old Buchanan Street bus station and made for the first pub that caught our eye – The Trianon in Sauchiehall Street. The first obstacle was the bouncers but they were both involved in chatting up a couple of girls so they just glanced in our direction and nodded us in.
This pub was unlike the only other pub I’d visited. It was lively, loud and full of people who looked roughly our own age. Ally went away and got three lagers and a coke. The coke was for me as I remembered my first alcohol experiment and didn’t want a repeat performance. Ally said we should position ourselves next to the ladies toilets as s
ooner or later every girl in the place would have to go wee wee, that way we could check out the talent without wandering about bumping into people and looking like desperados.
No one even looked at us and, disappointed, we left as last orders were called at a quarter to ten. The Scottish Parliament go on and on about binge drinking and the causes of it. What caused it then was everyone tanning whatever they could shove down their neck to get blootered before the pubs shut at ten o’clock.
The only disco we knew of at the time was Clouds, which was situated six floors above the Apollo. We got to the door and casually sauntered in. We’d got about three feet when a large Neanderthal stepped into our path.
‘Whit age are ye?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Any ID?’
‘Any idea of what?’
‘Look yeez arenae eighteen, piss off.’
Usually when you weren’t in possession of ID they’d try to catch you out by asking you your date of birth, which you’d taken three years off to make you eighteen and memorised. We must have looked so young that even knowing the exact date of our fake date of birth wouldn’t have made any difference. I don’t know why the entrance age was eighteen because Clouds wasn’t even licensed to sell drink.
Crestfallen, we went outside. Ally was all for going back in to challenge the bouncers to a square go. Winker just said, ‘Aye sure.’ At least he wasn’t shouting what I’ve heard many people shout since, which is, ‘I pay your wages.’
‘Cannae get in eh?’ A half drunk guy who must have been in his early twenties approached us asking what happened.
Ally informed him, ‘The big fat bunter stopped us.’
The guy went on to give us his advice.
‘Aye well yeez shouldnae go in mob handed cos the bouncers don’t like too many single guys in ye know. Look, whit yeez dae is go roon the corner, swop yer jaikets and get a haud of a couple of bints and ask to go in with them, that confuses the bastards nae end.’
‘What’s a bint?’
‘You know burds, touche, nanny, fanny, know.’
We’d nothing to lose so took his advice and went round the corner and swopped jackets. Once done we pleaded with any passing girls to get us in and Ally and Wilco had success first and strolled in by the bouncers with girls on their arms.
‘Christ sake it works, mon, here’s two coming noo.’
Two girls were heading our way from about forty yards down the street. They looked quite small from so far away but with each step towards us they got taller. Once alongside us they were both about a foot taller than Winker and myself. They both looked like a couple of whores in distress but what did we know.
‘Hey missus, gonnie get us into Clouds?’
‘Who you calling missus?’
‘Sorry can you get us in?’
‘Whit age are youse?’
‘Eighteen.’
‘Yer arse, I’ve done farts that have been aboot longer than you.’
Her pal, silent until now, took pity on us.
‘Aw come on Isa, gie the wee boys a chance.’
Isa looked at us.
‘Aye awright then, but if yeez get papped don’t blame us.’
So they took our arms and we headed back round the corner, I caught sight of our foursome in a shop window and the scene looked ridiculous. The arrangement looked hopeless and on entering, the bouncer put his arm out and stopped us.
‘Aye right.’
We thought our chances were zero but Isa came to our rescue.
‘C’mon Erchie ye were young yersel wance, gie the boys a chance.’
But Erchie still said no.
‘Come tae grips man, the place is full of under-agers anyway, so what difference is another two gonnie fuckin’ make.’
I’ll say one thing for Isa, she had a certain je ne sais quoi about her.
The bouncer dithered a bit, then looked straight at us.
‘Aye all right. Just this wance but any bother and I’ll toe yer arses all the way oot.’
We thanked him profusely, paid the entrance fee and got in the lift to take us the five floors up to the club. On the journey Isa told us, ‘Right we got yeez in but don’t start pestering us up here awright, we don’t want any of oor pals tae think we hing about wae afterbirth, awright.’
Once in the club we hunted down Ally and Wilco and found them standing self-consciously at the bottom of the stairs leading to the dance floor.
‘Yeez got in then,’ said Ally very half-heartedly as his confidence and sparkle had disappeared.
‘What’s up wae you?’
‘We’ve been standing here watching everybody go down to the dance floor.’
‘So?’
‘Well the place is hoaching wae posing bastards wae all the best gear and haircuts. I mean look at us. I’ve got a suit on that doesnae fit me, Joe 90 here is horsed before he starts and youse two look as though ye’ve shoplifted your clothes out of Oxfam. We’ll never get burds in here, we’ve nae chance.’
Wilco then said something he must have read on the back of a matchbox: ‘Faint heart never won fair lady.’
Ally looked at him as though he was going to belt him: ‘Shuttit fannybaws.’
Winker was a bit more constructive.
‘Well Ally, ye can stand here if you want but I didnae pay one and a half quid to hang around the bottom of the stairs, Christ I can dae that at the bottom of the close for nothing.’ He beckoned to me, ‘Come on.’
I looked at Ally and Wilco, shrugged my shoulders and followed Winker into the club. The music was deafening and one minute the floor was totally illuminated and the next it was pitch black, disco lights apparently.
The dancers were grouped in the middle of the dance floor and we stood at the side watching. Those not dancing were wandering aimlessly in a circle round the dance floor.
‘How come everyone’s walking round and round?’ I asked Winker.
We soon found out when a bouncer appeared at our side.
‘If you’re no dancing boys ye’ll need to keep moving.’ He then ushered us to join the circle. I still don’t know why everyone had to walk round and round and can only assume that the bouncers didn’t like loitering.
After about ten laps we decided it was time for a dance. We spied two girls dancing alone. Winker headed towards them, stopped for a second and shouted in my ear above the din. ‘Right we’ll start with a couple of howlers and work our way up.’
I followed him and tapped the girl on the shoulder. She turned, didn’t even acknowledge my presence and started dancing facing me.
Winker’s choice did the same.
We’d have been as well not being there as they both gave the best impressions of someone dancing alone when they have a partner that I have ever seen.
The record seemed to go on forever and neither Winker nor myself could think of a lead line to break the ice, the record finished after what seemed like an eternity and the two of us left the dance floor at high speed.
‘No exactly friendly up here are they,’ said Winker.
I could offer no explanation so I just nodded and said nothing.
He went on, ‘At least at the school dances we’re popular. Maybe Ally’s right, we are out of our depth up here.’
Right on cue Ally appeared with Wilco in tow. He was excited.
‘Wait till you see this, it’s fucking brilliant, mon.’
He led us up the stairs and up to the balcony. Clouds had a balcony right round the dance floor, which was full of intimate alcoves.
He led us round and each alcove housed a couple giving it mad winching.
‘So what,’ said Winker.
‘Naw, roon here a bit, just look but for fucks sake don’t stop, just keep going.’
We reached the alcove that Ally was talking about and found a couple actually engaged in the sex act. We hurried by at a snail’s pace and out of earshot of the couple Ally asked the obvious question.
‘Did you fucking see that? Fucking hell.’
‘Aye, mon let’s go back round again.’
We made four more passes and on the fifth they’d finished and were sitting smoking cigarettes.
The show was over.
‘Christ sakes,’ said Winker. ‘Let’s go downstairs and find some mad shaggers.’
As luck would have it the Alcove Don Juan must have acquired the only rampant nymphomaniac in the place, but we did leave the disco a lot older and a lot wiser than we were two hours previously.
We walked down to George Square to catch the one o’clock late bus home. It was our first apreès midnight visit to the Square and we were astonished at some of the sights. Drunks lay everywhere, people were fighting and yelling gang slogans and swearing at each other and car loads of posers were driving around and asking girls if they’d like a lift home. There were a lot of policemen around but they were just standing in groups talking to each other and ignoring everything happening around them.
The atmosphere reeked of violence and intimidation. One drunk started shouting abuse at the cops and that’s the last thing you want to do to members of Strathclyde Police Force. He was yelling, ‘Calton Young Team, come intae me,’ at the police. The Calton Young Team were a big gang, but no matter how many members the Calton Young Team had, the biggest gang in Glasgow was and still is Strathclyde Police Force. Their motto is Semper Vigilis, which is latin for ‘We’re More Mental Than You’ll Ever Be’. Eventually though the cops got fed up with listening to the drunk Caltonite and he was grabbed and thrown head first into the back of a Black Maria and taken off to the police station, where no doubt the next morning he’d have awoken covered in black and blue bruises caused by him accidentally falling down the stairs in the police station a few times.
We joined the bus queue and tried hard not to catch anyone’s eye as we wanted to remain as anonymous as possible. When the bus did arrive there was chaos. The buses then were still open backed and everyone rushed to get on it. People were pushing and shoving, and swearing and when it did eventually leave it was carrying twice the recommended passengers. Even so, latecomers were running after it still trying to board even though there was absolutely no room to even get a foot up on the back end platform. I’d seen footage of the last days of the Vietnam War with people on the roof of the American Embassy trying to get on helicopters. That’s what the late night number 10 bus looked like – the Glasgow version of the last chopper out of Saigon.
