It had been a strange 24 hours. It was like he was two different people. One minute the lover, the next a warrior gangster. He thought of all those losers who had love and hate tattooed on their knuckles. But surely this was what life was all about. Love one minute, hate the next. It was a strange combination but a combination that the Gorbals seemed to thrive on.
If he had to choose between love and hate, he certainly knew what he’d go for every time – love.
Back in the house he turned on Radio Clyde and The Beatles were singing All You Need is Love. He thought of it as an omen. Love is what everyone needed but few people actually got it.
Chapter 23
DOLE
It was 8.45 am the next day. There was someone knocking at the door. Johnny was having a shave in the sink and looking out of the window it was a fine day in the Gorbals. Children were scurrying to school, while people went about their daily duties. Cars and vans were going along Crown Street at a steady rate, business as usual! He opened the door and was greeted by Chris, covered in bruises. Two black eyes and a scratch mark on his nose.
Johnny also noticed a lump had been ripped out of his fine Irish red hair. “Can ah come in?” Chis asked. “Aye, certainly big man. “What the hell has happened tae you?” Johnny said in a humorous voice. “Ach, had an argument wi’ two tubes in the pub, it ended up as a bit of a rammy.”
“What, did ye get a kicking?”
“Ah think ah gave as good as ah got, they must be in a state as well.”
Johnny made his pal a cup of tea, they had known each other all of their lives and had no secrets to hide. In a way he looked up to Chris. When he was younger and weaker at primary school, it was Chris who had stood up for him against the school bullies. Chris had even taken “a doin” for his pal a couple of times. When one bully battered into Johnny, Chris promptly intervened and kicked the shit out of him.
The incident did not go unnoticed by the head teacher and Chris was promptly given the maximum punishment, six of the belt with a big leather tawse. But he took his punishment like a man, or rather an Irishman. After getting six of the belt, he smirked to Johnny and his classmates, indicating that the punishment had not been that painful but merely an irritation.
Johnny had been impressed. Chris seemed fearless. The only thing he was afraid of was fear itself. On another occasion, when they were both aged around 11, two scruffy bullies turned up in the backcourts, while they were playing football, and tried to join in. Chris told them to “get tae fuck” which resulted in him getting a beating. But he was used to beatings. His father, a big burly Irish labourer from Donegal, often beat Chris up for one of his many misdemeanours. He got one such bashing after secretly taking money from his mother’s purse – a ten bob note which he and Johnny spent on big bottles of Irn Bru and apple pies. This had happened many times. But on one fateful day, Chris’ father found out and he was given an old fashioned Irish beating.
Chris’ father took his belt off and whacked the boy hard. Ironically Johnny was usually there to witness such beatings. Before another beating, Chris jumped under a big double bed thinking he could avoid any punishment. But his father resorted to using a sweeping bush and pummelled his son that way. To Johnny it did not look like a serious punishment but more of a comedy farce with the big Irishman shouting, “Ah’ll teach ye no’ tae steal money fae your mother’s purse.”
Johnny thought himself lucky. His father and mother had never laid a hand on him. There was one occasion though when Johnny, aged 12, had been too big for his boots and he had sworn at his mother. She threw a loaded purse at him, bursting his nose. But this solitary act of violence made her remorseful. She ended up crying and apologised. But Johnny felt deep remorse as well. He had sworn at his mother, which really was unforgiveable.
His father had once slapped him for being too cheeky and not going to bed when told to, but it was a flimsy slap, “a poofy slap” as some would say. Chris was of a different stock, a different race, a different breed, no poofy slaps at home. Just plain old Irish family violence.
Johnny recalled Chris’s father confiding in him, when he was aged 12, saying, “What am ah gonnae dae wi’ that boy?” But to Johnny, Chris had no faults. If he was a diamond, he would be 21 carat, or as the Cockney’s say, “a diamond geezer.” He took a sip of his tea and said, “So what’s the score man?” Chris put his hand on his head where the clump had been torn out. “Ah’ve got a wee problem. Ah’ve got tae sign on the dole at 11 this morning and wan o’ those guys, ah had a fight wi’, signs on at the same time, so ah need back up.”
“If you are looking for back up, look no more,” Johnny said in his most aggressive voice. The phrase made Chris feel more confident, more at peace with the world. No-one knows where confidence comes from, and no-one knows where it goes. Chris was in a confident, yet naughty mood. Although he had the clump missing from his head, Johnny’s patter had rejuvenated him. The battery might have been running low, but now it was fully charged.
They headed for the dole, in many ways Chris and Johnny felt elated. They always thrived on a bit of drama and a giro at the end of the week was the icing on the cake, man!
When they arrived at the employment exchange in Eglinton Toll there was a long queue of men, some shabby, some well-dressed. Johnny thought of the joke, “What’s green a gets you drunk? A giro.” In the dole queue, a shabby-looking fellow looked over to Chris and shouted in a nervous tone, “Awright, big man?” Johnny noticed that he had several clumps of hair missing from his scalp. He presumed this was one of the fellows Chris had the drunken argument with.
After both had signed on, the guy approached Chris and said in an apologetic fashion, “Sorry about last night, big man, ah was right o’ order.”
Chris smiled and shrugged his shoulders, “So was ah, ah’m sorry as well. It was aw the bevvy, it sent me bananas.” They both shook hands and joked about the brawl. The guy said, “Ah was drinking vodka and coke aw day. By the time we had the barney ah was speaking fluent Russian!” Once again, drink had a lot to answer for. As Johnny and Chris walked towards the Gorbals a pretty woman in her 20s shouted, “Hello, Johnny boy!”
It was Margaret, an old girlfriend. He had shagged her on several occasions, a few years back, but she had met a bingo caller Barney and had got married with two kids. She was now a divorcee. “Awright Margaret?” Johnny said, “No’ seen you since the Pope was an altar boy.” She blushed and it made her look even more attractive accentuating her shiny blonde hair, pert breasts and a smashing 5’2” figure. “Up here tae sign on Johnny, must hurry” she said in a sexy voice that gave him a hard on. “Aye, same here,” Johnny said, “Me and big Chris.” She giggled and made off, her boobs bouncing in an erotic way.
Chris looked on, “Ah’d shag that, eat chips oot her knickers!” Johnny laughed, “Been there, done it, got the t-shirt man!” Chris gave a comical look, “Ah widnae mind that t-shirt.”
As they walked along Eglinton Street, a dishevelled looking beggar approached them, “Hey boys, ye couldnae gi’ me your spare change by any chance?” Johnny always felt sorry for beggars, there but for the grace of God…. He fumbled in his trouser pocket and gave the beggar “two bob”, a shiny ten pence piece. The beggar thanked him profusely, “Cheers young man, you are a saint, or you will be when ah have a wee word wi’ the Pope!”
Chris laughed, “By the way, what are ye gonnae dae wi’ the money?”
The beggar looked at the coin in his hand, “Look, what ah dae wi’ ma money is ma business, so fuck off.” They all laughed at the audacity of the comment. Many people in the Gorbals were short of money but rich with laughter. Johnny thought that if you could bottle such laughter and sell it, you would make a fortune.
Cry and you cry alone. Laugh and the rest of the Gorbals laughs with you. The absurdity of poverty turned many people into comedians.
Chapter 24
GUITAR
It was a cold, brisk Saturday morning. The boys, Alex and Chris, had arrived
at Johnny’s door, as was usual on most weekends. They were up for a laugh and a bit of banter, wherever their feet took them. By contrast, Johnny was a bit subdued. He had not slept well during the night. The nightmare of having a giant machine chasing him had returned. On waking up in a sweat, Johnny pondered what the dark dream actually meant. Surely it was simple enough, the machine represented danger and perhaps signified there were enemies out there plotting against him.
“Hey Johnny boy, fancy a wee donner up the toon?” Alex said in a cheerful voice which led to images of the bad dream fading quickly. “Aye” said Chris, “Let’s have a wander and we’ll turn the patter on.” Johnny smiled, maybe that’s just what he needed, a good laugh at the ridiculousness of life. The three of them headed over the Albert Bridge to the Saltmarket and then into Paddy’s Market. As usual there were hundreds of stalls there with people standing in a dirty lane selling what Chris aptly described as “clatty gear for clatty people.”
Johnny and his pals got a kick out of walking through Paddy’s Market, for this was Glasgow of old. As described earlier, it was an old-fashioned Glasgow that had more of a connection to Victorian times rather than the 1970s. The place was a real living theatre with hundreds of dramas being played out there, especially on a Saturday morning. Chris said, “Look at that poor bampot there!” He pointed to a shabbily dressed man in his 50s who was trying to sell an old battered guitar for the price of a couple of pints. The ironic thing was the guitar, which had definitely seen better days, had only one string. But this did not deter the shabby alcoholic who began to sing “I Belong to Glasgow.” His voice was as out of tune as his single string. “Ah belang tae Glesga, dear auld Glesga toon, there’s somethin’ the matter wi’ Glesga for it’s goin’ roon and roon.”
Johnny and the boys laughed at this comical sight. “Come on, boys,” the man shouted to them, “A rare wee guitar for two quid. It used tae belang tae Eric Clapton.” “Two pounds for Eric Clapton’s old guitar, now that was a bargain! Chris said to the man, “Ok, gi’s a wee shot then!” The alcoholic handed him the guitar. Chris strummed it hard, too hard, the remaining string broke. The scruffy man looked crestfallen, his means to a couple of pints had just been destroyed within a few seconds. “Ya clumsy bastard ye.” He snarled at Chris, “You’ve wrecked ma guitar.” Chris replied, “Aw, sorry about that mister.” He pulled a pound note out of his pocket and handed it to the fellow. The man’s face lit up with joy, now he would be able to afford a bevvy.
He offered Chris the guitar but he replied, “Nah, ye can keep it pal, but can ye do me a favour?”
“What’s that?
“Next time ye see Eric Clapton, tell him ah was asking for him.”
The man laughed and wiped his snotty nose with a large dirty hankie before replying, “Will do, son. Thanks for the wullie hound (pound), much appreciated.” He then made off, guitar in hand, to the nearest boozer. This was human theatre with situations that few scriptwriters could envisage. They went inside one of the dingy tunnels that housed hundreds of stalls. They were selling everything. You name it, if it was knocked off and dodgy, they had it.
One desperate-looking woman was standing next to what looked like a pile of worthless rags shouting, “Babywear” Babywear! A shilling a go!” Johnny noticed another stall that was punting “Old Firm babywear”
There were little vests and pants, green and blue, for babies that presumably would grow up being Celtic and Rangers supporters. He announced to his pals, “Ah’m starving, let’s have a bite before we have a pint.” It was Saturday after all and he felt that he could drop his Irn Bru, antibiotics, charade for at least a day. At the back of the market there was a ham rib cafe. It sold steaming hot ham ribs with mashed potatoes, straight from the pot. The cafe was cheap, around “two bob” (10p) for a giant dinner. It also sold huge plates of “mince and tatties” It was reckoned to be the best value meals, for the poorer working classes, in the whole of Glasgow.
Johnny and Chris ordered the ham ribs and Alex went for his favourite, mince and tatties. The food was delicious. Alex said, “If only ma auld maw could cook like this, ah’d never leave home. She cannae cook, the last time she tried tae boil an egg, she burnt it.”
Chris agreed about the food, “If ye went tae a fancy restaurant like the Rogano up the toon, they’d charge ye a tenner for a plate as good as this.”
Johnny chimed in, “Aye, too right but those snobs who eat at the Rogano, don’t know what they are missing. Give me the nosh in Paddy’s Market any day.”
The three of them headed to The Old Ship Bank pub nearby. The place was jam-packed with singing and dancing old age pensioners. This was definitely old Glasgow, full of colourful characters. It was a cornucopia of amateur singers and street comedians who had patter that would put the professional comedians to shame. As Johnny and the boys downed their lagers, they felt elated. The place was buzzing with singing, laughter and, of course, patter.
On the stage one fellow in his 60s, smartly dressed in a three-piece suit, remarked to the two fat sisters sitting at a table near the stage, “Hey you two, where’s Cinderella?” Before singing My Way, he launched into a joke, “In the Wild West there were two soldiers guarding a fort. One of them says tae the other, ‘Hold the fort for me, ah’m slipping away for an hour. Ah’m going tae the I.R. find an I.S. and take her tae the I.W.’
“The other guard says, ‘What the fuck does I.R. I.S. and I.W. stand for?’ His pal replied, ‘Indian Reservation, Indian Squaw and Indian Wigwam.’ So, the next day he tells his pal tae take time aff and dae the same. But a couple of hours later his pal comes back wi’ a broken nose, two black eyes and all his uniform ripped.
‘What happened tae you?’ he asked his pal.
‘Well ah did what you said. Ah went tae the I.R. met an I.S. and headed tae the I.W. but then the F.B.I. turned up.’
‘What, the Federal Bureau of Investigation?’
‘No, a fucking big Indian.’”
The audience, well tanked up, clapped and cheered enthusiastically. Las Vegas it was not, but to many the entertainment, good old- fashioned stuff, was brilliant.
A few minutes later, an old grey-haired woman got up on stage to sing It’s a Sin to Tell a Lie. The atmosphere changed yet again. Couples who had been laughing a few minutes before now had tears in their eyes.
For a few brief moments, Johnny himself felt a bit sentimental, a trifle melancholy, especially when he thought of Cathy and her missing father. Chris went to the bar and bought back three pints of lager and three double vodka and cokes.
They downed the drinks quickly as a man with a blackened face got on stage to do an Al Jolson impersonation, “Mammy, mammy, ah’d walk a million miles for one of your smiles…” The Jolson fanatic was good, perhaps too good for a pub like this.
Chris said, “That guy should be on the stage… it leaves at 12 o’clock.”
Johnny felt a tap on his shoulder and when he looked round it was Margaret who he had met coming out of the dole. She looked as sexy as ever as she clutched a large vodka and coke and said, “Fancy seeing you here. Ah don’t see you for donkey’s years and now twice in one week. It must be fate Johnny!”
He smiled, “Aye, fate right enough. Ah suppose people are like buses, ye don’t see wan for a while and then three turn up at the same time.” He quite fancied Margaret but he was aware she was a woman in her 20s with a dubious past. A few years back, they had ‘a wee fling’ before she met and married the bingo caller. But Johnny had been told by a reliable source that she had once been ‘a line up merchant.’ But even now he surmised that she was a nymphomaniac, a sex addict, who felt it hard to give up her old ways.
Margaret looked at Johnny in a salacious way and replied, “You say people are like buses. Does that mean ye want tae take me for a ride Johnny boy?”
There was an obese woman on stage singing in a loud voice Bonny Mary of Argyle. Margaret whispered into Johnny’s ear, “Dae ye fancy joining me outside for a few minutes while ah ha
ve a fag?”
He smiled and nodded his head in agreement and they headed outside. They stood in the doorway and she offered Johnny one of her Embassy Regal cigarettes. He refused politely. He hated smoking and used the old Glaswegian cliché, “The only time ah’ll smoke… is if somebody sets me on fire!”
She laughed in a flirty sort of way. The rain began to come down. She pushed her breasts against him and said suggestively, “Let’s stand in that close tae keep oot then rain.” They went into the dark close nearby, in the Saltmarket.
She pushed her hand down Johnny’s Levis and soon they were making love standing up. “Johnny ah’ve always fancied you,” she was moaning. By this time Johnny’s trousers were around his ankles and her underwear the same. But, suddenly, a little old man with an Alsatian dog came into the close. He was one of the residents. Alarmed at what was going on, he shouted, “Get the fuck oot ma close ya dirty bastards ye!” It was no time to argue. Johnny and Margaret quickly got dressed and went back into the pub. Chris and Alex were both the worse for wear. Chris said to the fat lady who had sung Bonny Mary of Argyle, “If singing was a crime, you’d be found not guilty.” But the woman was not short of repartee, “Aye, well, if ah had a face like yours ah’d top myself.”
She slapped Chris on the face and he stumbled, falling onto a table full of glasses. A drunk man, presumably her husband, tried to intervene but Alex headbutted him, sending him flying over another table. Meanwhile, there was a guy on stage in his 50s singing Elvis’ It’s Now or Never. Johnny shouted to the boys, “Aye, it’s now or never, let’s blow before the polis come.”
They left the pub quickly and a few minutes later found themselves outside of the High Court which was closed. There was a group of well-dressed men and women outside, all with middle-class English accents, presumably on a tour of Glasgow. Johnny assumed they were all lawyers from places like London on some kind of legal, academic tour.
The Incredible Rise of a Gorbals Gangster Page 14