The Incredible Rise of a Gorbals Gangster
Page 1
THE INCREDIBLE RISE OF A
GORBALS GANGSTER
Colin MacFarlane
Contents
Chapter 1 Big plan
Chapter 2 Alibi
Chapter 3 Robbery
Chapter 4 Wanted man
Chapter 5 Ferry
Chapter 6 Favour
Chapter 7 Jo Jo
Chapter 8 Cathy
Chapter 9 Trial
Chapter 10 Headbanger
Chapter 11 Pun
Chapter 12 Slums
Chapter 13 Mugger
Chapter 14 Club
Chapter 15 Woman
Chapter 16 Gangsters
Chapter 17 Poshland
Chapter 18 Nutcase
Chapter 19 Bevvy
Chapter 20 Cumbie!
Chapter 21 Date
Chapter 22 Love
Chapter 23 Dole
Chapter 24 Guitar
Chapter 25 Carnival
Chapter 26 Recovery
Chapter 27 Aberdeen
Chapter 28 IRA
Chapter 29 Adventure
Chapter 30 Tony Curtis
Chapter 31 Rats
Chapter 32 Pish
Chapter 33 Ice cream
Chapter 34 Flames
Chapter 35 Tunnel
Chapter 36 Lucozade
Chapter 37 Changes
Chapter 38 No Surrender
Chapter 39 Goo Goo
Chapter 40 Surprise
Chapter 41 Problems
Chapter 42 Plans
Chapter 43 Rave on
Chapter 44 Sawmills
Chapter 45 Wedding
Chapter 46 Baws
Chapter 47 Midget
Chapter 48 Facade
Chapter 49 Deceit
Chapter 50 Business
Chapter 51 Swimming
Chapter 52 Apprentice
Chapter 53 Archibald
Chapter 54 Narcotics
Chapter 55 Control
Chapter 56 Bawheid
Chapter 57 Future
Chapter 58 Recovery
Chapter 59 Purring
Chapter 60 Quiet
Chapter 61 Return
Chapter 62 Bombay
Chapter 63 Storm
Chapter 64 Heat
Chapter 65 Bobby
Chapter 66 Prison
Foreword
During the 1970s I was a leading member of the notorious Gorbals Cumbie gang. Our battle cry was “Cumbie ya bass!” We feared no-one but many people feared us. It was a ten year odyssey of gang fights, square goes and madness. The main character in this book, Johnny McGrath, is based on a conglomeration of other wild members of the gang. One such member, also a guy named Johnny, was the gamest guy I had ever seen and often led the Cumbie into battle against other gangs like the Tongs. I can remember him vividly waving a sword during one such gang fight against the Tongs in the Glasgow Green. The guy, like Johnny McGrath, was also aged 21 and had style – Arthur Black handmade shirts and other gear that made many of his contemporaries look like tramps by comparison. Like the main character in this book, the real-life
Johnny had style and a gameness which really stood out amongst the other gang guys. Believe it or not, many stories in this book actually happened and the prominent characters involved actually existed. Those in the know will recognise them immediately.
Many of them are now dead but many are still around and for legal reasons I have had to change the names of the still living characters slightly. Sadly, during the course of writing this book over three years, my great friend and soulmate Pam Cadden passed away. Another inspiration was Mick Murray of Clydebank who is no longer with us. Being part of the final days of the old Gorbals, and a Cumbie gang member, was an amazing experience never to be repeated again. Oddly enough, now and again, I still have the urge to shout “Cumbie ya bass!” if only as a reminder of the old days in the Gorbals.
Many thanks to Philippa MacFarlane for editing the book, actor Steven Berkoff for providing the brilliant Gorbals photos, and design consultant Norman Faulkner. Also Helen John, an extraordinary proof reader - a great gang of people!
Colin MacFarlane.
colinmacuk@yahoo.com
Copyright © Colin MacFarlane, 2020
All rights reserved.
In memory of Pam Cadden of Bury, Manchester. An incredible person.
The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there – L.P. Hartley.
Prologue
“Down these mean streets a man must go who is not himself mean, who is neither tarnished nor afraid. He is the hero; he is everything. He must be a complete man and a common man and yet an unusual man. He must be, to use a rather weathered phrase, a man of honour—by instinct, by inevitability, without thought of it, and certainly without saying it. He must be the best man in his world and a good enough man for any world. He will take no man’s money dishonestly and no man’s insolence without a due and dispassionate revenge. He is a lonely man and his pride is that you will treat him as a proud man or be very sorry you ever saw him. The story is this man’s adventure in search of a hidden truth, and it would be no adventure if it did not happen to a man fit for adventure. If there were enough like him, the world would be a very safe place to live in, without becoming too dull to be worth living in.”
― Raymond Chandler
Chapter 1
BIG PLAN
Standing on the corner on a Saturday night,
Up came some bams who wanted a fight
Ah pulled oot ma razor as quick as a flash
And shouted, Young Cumbie, Young Cumbie,
Young Cumbie ya bass!
Gang song
DOWNTOWN GORBALS 1970s
Johnny McGrath, 21, leader of The Gorbals Cumbie razor gang had just got out of bed and glanced into the mirror, by God he looked handsome. He lived at the top of a three-story tenement in the heart of The Gorbals, Crown Street, which had originally been built for the toffs in Victorian times. This made him slightly superior to the other tenement dwellers in the area. Many of them lived in rat infested, damp slums, and had to share a stairhead toilet. Johnny’s family had the luxury of a small inside toilet which was no more than a glorified claustrophobic cubicle. But even this made them feel a cut above the rest.
He combed his thick black hair and thought to himself that he looked like a young Elvis Presley. He left the top floor flat and walked down the stairs of the tenement. On the second landing there was a homeless drunk lying crumpled in a ball. The lobby dosser lay there like a piece of discarded human rubbish. Johnny stepped over him and proceeded outside, there were children singing in the backcourt:
“Does your maw drink wine?
Does she drink it aw the time?
Does she get a funny feeling when her diddies hit the ceiling?”
As Johnny stepped out of the close, he realised that The Gorbals had come alive. It was thronging with people on this fine Saturday morning. Nearby there was a crowd of wee women, clad in floral headscarves exchanging gossip and banter. One of them, a fat lady in her 50s, was saying “Have ye heard about her up the road? She’s a right jezabel, been carrying oan wi’ that coalman fella while her man is in the army. When he finds oot, there’ll be hell tae pay. He’ll probably shoot the pair o’ them wi’ his big effing rifle.” The other women tut-tutted and nodded in agreement.
The thing that kept the Gorbals alive was the seedy gossip among the women and patter among the guys. Outside a nearby bookies, a team of old guys, wearing bunnets, who seemed to have been there forever, were exchanging patter about the day’s racing. Johnny addressed them in a friendly tone. “What’s the tip today boy
s?” One old guy was quick to reply, “September Virgin, 7-1 running at Ayr”. His pal chimed in “Ah’ve never met a virgin in September.” His comrade laughed, “You’ve never met a good-looking woman in September or the rest of the year, you ugly bastard, ye.”
The guy put on a comic grimace, took a draw of his Capstan Full Strength before replying, “Whit dae ye mean? In ma early days ah wis the Gorbals answer tae Errol Flynn. The birds thought ah wis a right Casanova, ah can tell ye.”
“Aye, look at ye now, an ugly auld geezer without a pot tae pish in.” His crony retorted, “Yir no’ like young Johnny here. A good-looking fella who’s got the world at his feet and aw the birds chasing him.”
His pal agreed “Aye, yir right enough, he’s almost as good looking as me when ah wis 21. And ah had aw the woman chasing me.”
His mate laughed heartily. “The only time you had the woman chasing you was when you were a handbag snatcher.” Johnny felt embarrassed at the compliments he was being given. He could feel his cheeks warming into a red colour. “Ach,” he replied, “Ah suppose everybody is good looking at 21.”
One of the old guys contradicted him. “Are you fucking joking? Ye should see that big fat cow o’ a sister o’ mine. She was pot ugly at 11, even uglier at 21 and now at 51 she would give the Hunchback of Notre Dame a run for his money.”
“Hey, that’s a bit cruel tae the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Mind you, ah did hear that yir sister has a job at the Glesga Green shows, on the ghost train frightening people.”
Johnny felt uplifted by the patter of these cronies. He saw a reflection of himself in a nearby shop window. He looked immaculate, dressed in a casual sort of way. Tailor made Arthur Black shirt, braces, Levi Sta Prest trousers and Doc Marten boots. He was dressed to kill in more ways than one. In his trouser pocket he had concealed an open razor.
The pensioners looked at him with stares of admiration. One of them said, “Look at young Johnny here, he looks like a male model. Has his shirts made by Arthur Black in St Enoch Square. That is class compared ta aw the scruffy young mob ye see hanging aboot the street corners. They’re like tramps.”
The old guy was right, Arthur Black was known as the tailor who dressed all the young “game guys” of Glasgow. The “gallus” razor men who led the gangs in the City. Being the leader of the YYC – The Young Young Cumbie – the junior division of the gang – Johnny was a regular customer of Arthur Black with various demands for different styles of shirt which he designed himself.
The cream coloured shirt he was wearing certainly looked ostentatious by street standards. It had three pleats at the back, button down collar, with two front pockets.
To show a bit of class, Johnny had the initials J.M. embroidered in gold thread on one of the pockets.
The shirts were not cheap – around £10 at the time – some working men were only earning up to £20 a week but Johnny saw the shirts as worth every penny. They separated him from the other mugs who looked like vagabonds in comparison.
They heaped more praise on him. “Aye, look at Johnny’s gear, that’s what ah call smart.” His mate agreed. “When ah wis your age Johnny ah wis a real man about town – ah had plenty of gear.”
“Aye” his pal retorted, “The problem was it was aw… bunnets!”
Johnny felt mildly amused and moved away, waving his hand shouting “See you auld bastards later, there’s six billion people oot there and ah’m gonnae meet some of them!”
He walked through the shopping throng in Crown Street turned into Clelland Street and then into Thistle Street. He saw a group of young boys playing and singing. “Bum tit tit, bum tit tit, play your hairy banjo.” One of the young boys pulled out his small penis and began to strum it like a guitar. He must have been aged around 10 and was clad in the uniform of poverty, soiled jumper with snottery marks on the sleeves, wrinkled and stained short trousers, with his arse sticking out a hole the back. A couple of young lassies who were playing peevers nearby giggled at the sight of the boy’s penis. One of them shouted to him “Put your wee sausage away.” The young flasher ran off to kick a ball with his pals.
Johnny shook his head in amusement, what he saw on the streets of the Gorbals never failed to surprise him. The whole thing seemed ludicrous, it was as if he was living in a huge, run down, crumbling asylum, and he was one of the inmates.
It was a fine day to walk. The sun was beating down and there was a slight Spring breeze in the air.
In the sunshine outside of a pub three young Cumbie gang members were drinking out of a bottle of strong Four Crown Wine. It was cheap but very potent. They were all around the same age as Johnny but not nearly as smartly dressed.
There was a sign of fear and respect in their eyes. One of the boys, Big Wullie, shouted to him,”Dae ye fancy a wee swally?” Johnny stopped and grinned. He had known Wullie since they had been at primary school together. They had other cultural reference points: Wullie’s mother often went to the Palace Bingo Hall in Gorbals Street with Johnny’s mother. “Aw pals at The Palace” as they would joke.
Johnny shook his head and declined the generous offer. “Nah, never touch that stuff at this time of day, ye’ end up getting lifted by the polis.”
Another boy, Fat Archie, laughed as he glugged the wine. “Aye you’re right enough, we’re easy meat for the polis drinking this stuff.”
Johnny nodded and smiled in agreement but then a third guy, who he did not recognise and had never seen before, shouted with wine dripping from his mouth, “What’s the matter man? Are ye scared of a bit o’ wine, are you a poof?” Johnny reached into his trouser pocket and felt his cut throat razor. If anybody’s throat needed cut it was this guy. Cheeky bastard!
He looked angrily at the fellow who had made the insolent remark and replied “Aye, I am a homosexual… ah like ma sex at home.” He pulled out his open razor and waved it about, “Any more of that patter and your face will be a jigsaw puzzle.” It was a worthy reply. Wullie came over all apologetic, he had seen the good and bad sides of Johnny and played it safe. “Sorry Johnny, he disnae know who you are. This is Joe McCoy, he’s just moved in from Bridgeton. He’s no’ a bad fella really, but the wine gives him a big gob.”
Wullie looked at McCoy and scolded him. “Aye keep your mouth shut McCoy, ye can get too cheeky wi’ that electric juice going down your neck.”
Johnny glared at McCoy and realised he had taken an instant dislike to him. McCoy gave a brief wine sodden smile perhaps sensing he had overstepped the mark. Johnny shrugged his shoulders and said, “See you bampots later, that’s if the polis don’t see you first.”
As Johnny headed towards Gorbals Cross he felt angry and irritated that he had not set about, and even slashed the McCoy fella there and then.
But in reality, he would not have slashed him for showing disrespect. A head butt or “a kick in the baws” would have sufficed. He had an inkling though that it had been a mistake to let McCoy off so lightly. He had shown weakness when he should have shown strength. Gorbals lesson number one, never give a sucker an even break. Especially a sucker like McCoy. He instinctively thought that because of his apparent weakness McCoy would be a problem in the future.
Johnny arrived at Gorbals Cross, two policemen spotted him, and came towards him marching in synchronisation. The taller of two, a real teuchter with a West Highland accent and beady eyes, said to Johnny, “You’re no’ looking for trouble are you pal?” Johnny mocked the question with laughter, “You sound like Elvis – if you’re looking for trouble, you’ve come to the right place! Nah just having a wee stroll, a gander, just like you two.”
The shorter of the two policemen grinned, “McGrath we all know where your wee strolls end up – putting some poor bastard into hospital wi’ a slashed face.”
Johnny gave a laugh of disdain. He hated the police and he knew they in turn hated him. He mockingly said, “Can a man no go for a stroll around the Gorbals without a couple of bampots like you pestering him?”
The two policeme
n looked annoyed. The taller one said, “Bampots? That’s breach of the peace patter. Any more of that and we’ll have to arrest you.”
Johnny sighed, how the hell did these two idiots become policemen? To him, they had the combined intelligence of a small goldfish. Suddenly, out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Cathy McGee standing on the other side of the street.
She looked beautiful, perhaps one of the most beautiful women in the Gorbals. A working class Venus.
She was the same age as Johnny, 21, 5’8”, long red hair, perfectly formed breasts and lips, and wearing a floral skirt that accentuated her shapely legs. He had to get these two annoying policemen off his back and talk to her as soon as possible.
“Look, officers,” he said in a mild, almost soothing voice, “I don’t want any trouble. As Buddy Holly sings, you go your way and I’ll go mine.”
The policemen looked baffled at the quip. Johnny crossed the road and approached Cathy in a gallus manner. “How’s it gaun?” he said in his most confident tone. She blushed and her blue eyes fluttered. It was clear she had a thing for Johnny but she was good at concealing her emotions. It was part of the Gorbals psyche.
“Aye, no bad, Johnny boy. But ah’m a wee bit fed up that ma mother hisnae been well recently.”
“Sorry to hear that, Cathy.” Johnny replied with true consideration in his voice. “What’s the matter wi’ her?”
“As you know, Johnny, she hisnae been herself for a while. Ah put it down tae aw the fags she smokes – twenty to thirty a day. “
Johnny grinned slightly, “Twenty to thirty fags a day! She should put a chimney on her head.”
Although she had heard that pun a million times before, Cathy laughed and stared at Johnny. She knew she loved him more than she had loved anyone else.
Johnny suddenly felt shy. But he knew that he loved her. It was an unusual feeling. A tingling, a flush and part erection. He wanted to screw her there and then. But she was not that kind of girl. Besides, when he thought about it, he’d rather love her than screw her.