by Jimmy Cryans
In late summer Hughie and I walked into the Greenhills Bar after work. Standing at the bar was a guy who was to become a huge influence in my life and who I was to become closer to than almost anyone else. His name was Billy Robertson and at that time he was 47. Like us he was dressed in working clothes and I could see traces of cement on his boots and trousers. He said, ‘Here, son, will you do me a favour and carry my drinks over to the table? I’ve got some broken ribs and I cannae manage.’
‘Sure, nae bother. Why don’t you join us?’ And that was the start of a friendship that was to last until the day he died of cancer in July 2005.
Billy stood about 5ft 10in with a lean build but he was as strong as an ox. He had the face of a hard, fighting man and I knew straight away that here was a man that could have a row. I wasn’t wrong. Billy’s broken ribs had been caused by a fall-out he’d had with a group of fellas in a pub in the east end. The fact that there were three of them had been no deterrent to bold Billy and he assured me that he had left them in a far worse condition. I had no reason to doubt him – for one thing, the knuckles of both of his fists were bruised and swollen.
By late 1982 there had been no visits from the law and I relaxed a wee bit, though I was never able to let my guard down completely. My brother Gerald had returned to live in the Thatcham/Newbury area as he had found it very difficult to settle down in Scotland. He kept in touch with us by phone and one night he said, ‘Jim, I’ve got a nice surprise for you. John Renaldi is back in town and he is getting married in a few weeks.’ This was a great piece of news as I had not seen or spoken to John since January 1977. ‘You know the bride, Jim, she is an old friend. Alexis.’
I was over the moon. Alexis and me went back a long way. She was a Londoner and I had even been to her first wedding back in 1975 when she had married a fella I knew called Bobby Malone, a bit of a livewire. I told Gerald that I would be coming down for the wedding but that I did not want John to know. Alexis was aware of my plan and she was absolutely brilliant, almost as excited as me about my surprise for John.
The wedding was to take place in Newbury town hall. This was a wee bit risky for me but we kept our security tight. We waited until all the guests had arrived in the registry office before we slipped in quietly and took seats at the back. Once they had been declared man and wife, John and Alexis turned to have pictures taken and that is when I stepped forward and John saw me. I still have a photograph that was taken at that very moment and John’s face really is a picture! He threw his arms around me saying, ‘Jim, Jim, I can’t believe you are here. Fuck me, this is the best wedding present I could have wished for.’ It was one of those very special and rare moments and fills me with warmth whenever I think about it. Both John and me were quite emotional and there were a few tears shed. Now, it might sound strange to say that about a couple of villains but John and me had a very special relationship and were brothers in every sense of the word.
John very quickly regained his composure and said, ‘Right, let’s get you under cover, Jim, a bit fucking lively. Old bill would have a field day if they spot you.’
John and Alexis had set up home in a lovely two-bedroom flat and that was where the reception was to be held. Alexis knew it would be much safer for me not to be on public display. She persuaded John to have a small intimate do and at the same time managed to keep him totally in the dark about my intention to appear. It takes a special kind of woman to do that on her big day. God bless you, Alexis, you will always have a special place in my heart. Love ya! Unfortunately, Alexis died suddenly in her sleep just a couple of years ago and I was very saddened to her of her death. She was far too young, only in her fifties.
But that wedding is one of the highlights in a storehouse of memories that I have and even though their marriage did not last the course we always remained close. Hughie and I stayed the weekend in Thatcham and on Sunday night John arranged transport for us back to Glasgow. It had passed without the law getting a sniff that I was back on the manor.
I had now been on the run for almost two years and apart from the one visit to my ma’s by the law there had been no contact. There were a few punch-ups in some of the bars of East Kilbride and Glasgow but otherwise I led a relatively low-key lifestyle – well, at least for me. Now I began to look at various bits of ‘work’ and decided to have one or two on my own. These took the form of smash-and-grabs on jewellers and other high-value targets. Smash-and-grabs during the day were sometimes the easiest. A lot of people will be surprised by this but this type of work is carried out with speed and surprise. Even people standing very close are seldom a threat as they initially go into shock and by the time they realise what is happening it is all over. I was never once tackled by any have-a-go heroes. Only once did a fella call out to ask what the hell I thought I was doing and I simply turned to him with a large hammer in my hand and growled. He very quickly tried to make himself invisible.
Booze or cigarettes or preferably both were always a bestseller, even when times were hard – probably more so. I would often stay for a few days at Billy’s house. He had a lovely three-bedroom house in the Greenhills area of East Kilbride that he shared with his daughter Una who had just finished her education. She was 17 and a smashing lassie I was very protective towards. Billy’s door was always open to me and I had my own room. The more I learned about him from other people, the more I liked Billy. A lot of people were very wary but I knew that he was a very loyal friend with a great heart and in my world that went a very long way. We spent almost every weekend together and became known for our capacity for violence.
Billy was not a crook in the sense that I was but he was an old-school hard man who had been born and bred in the notorious Gorbals area of Glasgow. Born in 1936, he had really known hard times and had become something of a legendary figure in the 1950s and 1960s for his fighting prowess. He took part in numerous bare-knuckle fights on Glasgow Green, some of which were organised by Arthur Thompson. I have met quite a few guys who witnessed some of these fights and they talk of him with awe in their voices.
Over the years I had many fights with Billy, usually square-goes, although some of them were quite vicious and on a few occasions we went at each other with blades in hands. I’m just glad that I had never had to face Billy in his prime, but even in his late forties and right through into his fifties and sixties he was a handful and had without any doubt the best left hook I have ever seen or felt. He threw it with lightning speed and accuracy, and I speak from experience.
The first time me and Billy came to blows was in my ma’s house. There was a crowd of us having a drink. Ma had gone to bed leaving us to it and it was about five in the morning as the sun was coming up. We decided to take our argument onto a large playing field at the back of the houses. We stripped to the waist and there were to be no weapons involved. As we stood a couple of feet apart Billy said, ‘Right, daddy’s boy. Noo, when this is finished we will still be pals, whoever wins?’
‘Aye, OK, Billy,’ I said. ‘Of course we will.’
‘Right, son, give me your hand on that.’ Billy held out his right hand for me to shake. As I extended my own right hand Billy grasped it, pulled me on to that perfect left hook and I was on my arse. I didn’t even see the punch. Looking down at me, Billy said, ‘Right, Jimmy boy, that’s the first lesson. When you’re gonnae fight, just fight. Nae talking, nae shaking hands – just get on wi’ it and always hit first. Lesson over.’ Billy helped me to my feet and there were no hard feelings. He had done me as sweet as a nut and I appreciated the valuable lesson. In future I made sure I stayed well out of range of that left hook.
Billy would use anything that came to hand and would not hesitate for a second to bring extreme violence to the table, until guys were clinging to life. The main difference between us was that Billy could burn on a slow fuse whereas I was much quicker to explode. As for levels of violence, it was pretty much a score draw. Looking back now, it is easy to see why a lot of people were very wary of us and kep
t us at arm’s length. But in a fight there was no better man to have by your side. No matter what the odds were or how many guys you were facing, he would be there with you to the death and he could absorb amazing amounts of punishment. I loved him. He was also one of the most generous and loyal men it has been my privilege to know – even if he was slightly psychotic! We only ever had one really serious falling-out when I slashed Billy and he stabbed me, and if it hadn’t been for other people who intervened then one or both of us would have ended up dead. That feud was to last about 18 months until a mutual friend arranged a sit-down and peace was restored.
Billy was also an unconscious comedian and would sometimes come out with things that would leave me doubled up with laughter while he looked on puzzled. I remember I called round at the house for him one Saturday morning and saw straight away that he had a couple of bruises to his face and his knuckles were grazed and swollen. He’d had a row the previous night outside a bar in the town centre with three guys. Billy had flattened one of them earlier and they’d ambushed him. Billy had by no means taken second prize and the three of them had ended up running away, but it was the fact that they had not had the balls to square up to him face on that he couldn’t let go. I said, ‘Right, let’s go on the hunt, Daddy. We’ll do the rounds of all the boozers.’
We struck gold in the first pub we entered. One of them hadn’t clocked Billy and we took a seat in one of the booths and watched. The scene was set up perfectly as there was only one guy serving behind the bar and no other customers. Billy waited until the man went into the toilet and afterwards I asked him how it went. ‘Fucking lovely, Jim. I caught him with his dick still in his hand and I smashed him with a left hook and battered him all around the toilet, then I dragged him into a cubicle and rammed his fucking nut down the pan and kicked fuck out of him.’
‘He’ll be in a bad way, then,’ I ventured.
‘Oh aye, Jimmy boy. They’ll be taking him to extensive care.’
‘It’s intensive care, Billy, intensive care,’ says me.
‘Aye, the state he’s in he’ll be going there as well.’ Billy couldn’t understand why I was suddenly convulsed with laughter. Fucking brilliant!
There were numerous incidents like this, far too many to count, and Billy and me very quickly acquired the reputation of being a couple of guys that it was best not to fuck with. We didn’t consciously set out to achieve that and I really did not give a fuck one way or another. But on the plus side we usually had no bother finding a seat in even the busiest of pubs and clubs, usually because people were reluctant to sit in our company – unless they needed something. This usually took the form of debt recovery or handing out retribution for some misdeed and this type of work was quite lucrative for us.
Sometimes we’d do a favour, as when Billy had gotten word that an old friend of his from the Gorbals was having some grief. This old boy still lived in the Gorbals in a high rise facing the Citizens theatre. A bunch of no good, fucking ne’er-do-wells, who were also junkie bastards, were causing him misery with music blaring all night. There were fights and arguments outside the old boy’s door and he was constantly harassed. Eventually he’d had enough and asked that they keep the noise down, only to be met with a torrent of abuse that culminated with one of these fucking no-use’ers spitting in his face and telling him to fuck off before he got stabbed. Billy was absolutely apocalyptic with rage and wanted to beat the fuckers to death, slowly. We were having a drink in the Pig and Whistle pub in McNeil Street in the Gorbals at the time, a real spit-and-sawdust type of place full of very dangerous characters, both men and women.
It was a short walk to the flats and as we knocked on Billy’s pal’s door we could hear the racket coming from next door. The old fella was so glad to see Billy and made us a nice cup of tea. Billy quickly came to the point and assured him that we were going to take care of his wee problem. He said, ‘After me and Jimmy boy have gave them a wee visit I’ll guarantee you won’t hear another word fae them.’
Our plan was very simple: knock on the door and as soon as it started to open, kick it right in and batter the fuck out of everyone in the place with no exceptions, cut the slag whose name was on the door and finish with a little chat pointing out the error of his ways. And that is exactly what we did, with a little twist. After we had totally kicked and battered the shit out of the four guys who were in the flat, we dragged the head man over to the large living room window which we opened and, taking him by his ankles, put him up and over the ledge where he dangled 14 floors above the street. I assured him between his screams that this would be the last view he would ever see if he and his little gang didn’t pack up and fuck off.
Billy was all for just letting him drop there and then saying, ‘Fuck him, just let the bastard drop, it’ll be an accident.’
I said, ‘No, Billy, this isn’t a killing. No’ yet anyway.’
We hauled the slag back in – he had soiled himself and was incoherent. I took an open razor from my pocket and cut him, slashing his face on both cheeks. Now this may seem particularly brutal and ruthless but I have no conscience over this incident or others like it. When you are dealing with rodents like these there is absolutely no point in trying to be reasonable. They will just think you are a fucking sap and mug you off. No, the only thing these arseholes understand is fear. And this fear has to be reinforced occasionally by handing out some extreme violence and, believe me, a simple slashing was at the lower end of the scale.
All the rodents packed up that very night. Problem solved. To reassure Billy’s old friend we dropped in for a wee chat and a nice cup of tea once a week for the next couple of months. He was a smashing old fella and I would sit listening to his stories of growing up in the Gorbals in the 1920s and 1930s and all the characters who lived there. Fuck me, but those really were hard times which bred hard, tough people. It is amazing how many of them went on to be successful in life, building families and businesses through sheer force of will and a desire to shape their own destinies. I am talking about people who are amongst the most honest and straightforward you could ever wish to meet. They are the real heroes and role models because they succeeded against all the odds. They are Clyde-built. They are the ones who have gone all over the world and carved a reputation for being hard-working, reliable and honest and where to be known as Scottish is worn like a badge of honour and rightly so.
Chapter Twenty-six
By October 1983 I had been on the run for three years. I was not keeping quite as low a profile as maybe I should have been but I was still managing to avoid the so-called long arm of the law. I am still amazed that neither myself nor Billy ever came to the attention of the old bill. Not once were we even questioned, never mind arrested and when you take into account what we were doing it almost beggars belief.
We certainly led a charmed life, but we were made to pay in other ways. Both of us were on the receiving end of some horrific violence. Still, if you are dishing it out then you do not complain when it comes your way. I suppose in some ways it was like an occupational hazard, unwelcome but sometimes unavoidable.
One day I was down in Parkhead doing the rounds and as I left a shop after buying some cigarettes I stepped aside so that two females could enter. As I looked at them when they thanked me, I saw a face that I hadn’t seen in over eight years. It was Ruth Connor and she looked good enough to eat. She looked at me and said in a way that only Ruth could, ‘Hello, stranger. Where the fuck have you been hiding?’
I said, ‘Hi, sweetheart. It’s a long story, but I’m still alive and kicking. You look terrific, Ruth, but then you always do.’ We exchanged phone numbers and I told her I would arrange to meet her later in the week. And so began a brief but very intense affair that was brilliant while it lasted. This was my supernova.
Ruth was back living with her ma in Shettleston. Ruth really was a one-off and I have never met any other female quite like her. She was devastatingly attractive and she had a personality that was as big and as inf
ectious as Glasgow itself – what a fucking woman! I took her to East Kilbride to meet Ma and then later on we went to a party where I introduced Ruth to everyone. She just bowled them all over and everyone fell in love with her. Though the fling we had only lasted a few short weeks it will live long in my memory. It has been quite a few years since we last met but I somehow think that we have not seen the last of each other. I know she’s still living in the east end because my cousin, big Jim Yorke, tells me he occasionally sees her at mass on a Sunday morning and she’s still looking good!
Christmas 1983 was a real family affair. My brother Gerald and my nephew Tony travelled up from England so we were all together at Olive’s and brought in the New Year at Sheena’s. Money was still very tight for everyone and I don’t just mean the family. Almost everyone I knew was finding it tough. The cutbacks and closures of industries by the Thatcher government were having a devastating effect right across the country. But from my own point of view this meant that I was able to sell very easily and people who would previously never have even considered buying anything knocked-off were now having to compromise their principles just to survive. I saw a lot of broken men during this period – proud men who had been honest, hardworking providers for their families all their lives, reduced to surviving on state handouts.
Even though I had kind of gotten used to living on the edge there was no doubt that in some ways it was taking its toll. I was drinking more than I had ever done and more frequently. It could perhaps be argued that this was down to the company I kept, all hard-living, hard-drinking men. But I have always been my own man and nobody was holding a gun to my head. I could have walked away from it at any time. I could have found a job as both my brothers had done and earned an honest crust but I chose not to. Any stress or pressure was quite simply a by-product of the lifestyle I lived.