Glasgow (33 page)

One day I was pulled out of line for having tight trousers and locked up in the punishment cell. They took the trousers off me to act as
evidence, giving me an ill-fitting pair to take their place but I refused to wear them. When the time came for me to go in front of the Governor for a breach of discipline I went in my shirt tail, refusing to dress. He sent me to solitary for seven days but I still refused to wear them. While I was in solitary confinement I was opened up three times each day to slop out my chamber pot and I would walk to the toilet naked. After doing this for some time the door opened and my old trousers were thrown in. When my punishment was completed I was taken in front of the Governor and told that I was being put on Rule 36 for subversive activities. I was informed that Rule 36 is not a punishment but that I was being segregated from the other prisoners as I was a bad influence on them. I was taken to a cell at the far end of the hall above which was the Hanging Cell, and outside the window were the unmarked graves where the condemned men were buried.

* * *

Stabbings amongst prisoners were common occurrences and there was never any great hassle or upheaval over them; the prisoners took them for granted. Prison stabbings are usually well set up events and those carrying them out would take pride in doing a neat job. I did one of these and it was against a guy from my district who had been causing some trouble amongst our group. In things like this the done thing is to make a hit and make it quick because everyone weighs these things up and if they see people getting off with things then they think you are soft. So I set this deal up while walking through the corridor, the main ‘hit' place, as the prisoners walk single file through dark corridors. It usually takes about four to do it, with the guy who is making the hit carrying the knife, with two in front of the victim and two behind. The guy walks up, makes the hit, then passes the knife to the guy in front of the victim and this was what I did. Before the screw can notice that someone has been hit the guy is well away, and only the victim is left, the weapon concealed by this time in a pre-arranged place. When getting to work there is a discussion as to whether it was a good hit or not. In this context, you have the art of violence in which the manner of its execution is very much appreciated just as works of art are appreciated in another culture. People in the art world understand what art is all about whereas in my world we think it's a load of balls, a big con; just as people in most sections of society view our cutting and maiming each other as hideous. The fact is that this is how we lived and if someone were to cut my face I wouldn't like it but I would accept it, knowing it was a hazard of the life I was leading. I would be intent on
getting back at whoever had done it, but on the whole slashing, stabbing, shooting and death are to be expected amongst those of us who live like this.

‘KING BILLY', 1963
Edwin Morgan

Edwin Morgan (1920–2010) was one of twentieth-century Scotland's greatest poets and its first Makar. Born in Glasgow, he lectured in English at the university from 1947 to 1980. As prolific as he was inventive, he combined humour with experimentalism in such poems as ‘The Loch Ness Monster's Song'. Glasgow was an endless source of inspiration. ‘King Billy' appeared in his collection
, A Second Life
(1968)
.

TEETH TO TEETH, 1963
Jack House

Known, not exactly fondly, as ‘the English comics' grave', the Empire had the kind of reputation that made performers turn to jelly. Built in Sauchiehall Street towards the end of the nineteenth century, it had a capacity of nearly 1,700. Among those who felt appearing there was akin to the fate of Christians facing lions in the Coliseum were Morecambe and Wise, whose first two appearances were greeted in silence. When on their third they received a smattering of applause, a stage hand told the pair: ‘Aye, boys, they're beginning to like you!' The Empire closed in 1963
.

The Empire was undoubtedly the best-known Glasgow theatre in London. This was because so many Southern comedians spread the myth that the most dangerous thing you could do in the music-hall business was to appear at the Empire. One even described how he fainted on the stage at the reception he got the first night on Monday. The dangers of the Empire were even chronicled in books by authors who should have known better.

I'm not suggesting that the Empire audiences were angels. They could cut up rough if they didn't like the show on a Friday or a Saturday
night, when you might find characters who had been on a pub crawl before they arrived at the second house. In all my visits to the Empire I never once saw an act get the bird. I did, once or twice, see players get a rather cold reception. But I saw much worse at the Pavilion and no English comedian ever said a word against it.

Indeed, if I have a criticism of Empire audiences, I would say it was the other way round in its latter days, when American acts appeared with monotonous regularity. They all received what I can only call mindless applause.

Laurel and Hardy, for example, were at the end of their tether but possibly their reception was an expression of sympathy. Jerry Colona, whose only attribute turned out to be his loud voice, had a rapturous response from the Empire audience. It was more muted for Sophie Tucker, who had seen better days, but even then the night I was there a gentleman in the front row of the stalls stood up as she took her curtain and threw a bouquet of flowers on to the stage. Maybe he had accepted her invitation to come up and see her some time.

I have, of course, been describing shows at the last of the Empires. I was fortunate enough to see the Old Empire, a smaller and more attractive theatre. It had started as the Gaiety Theatre in 1874 and the name was changed to the Empire when the new owners took over. I first went there with my father, 69 years ago. I had taken up conjuring as a hobby and, having read all I could about the art, decided that the greatest magician in the world must be David Devant. The Empire, incidentally, seemed to specialise in conjurers and I should think every top performer in Britain, from the Continent and some top men from the United States, including the great Chung Ling Soo, appeared there.

Not that Chung Ling Soo was American, or even Chinese. He was a Scotsman named Robertson who had emigrated from Aberdeen to the USA. He was tall, not to say majestic, and during his entire act he never uttered a word, which was perhaps just as well. He was killed on stage when performing his famous trick of having a marked bullet fired at him and catching it between his teeth. To this day nobody knows whether it was an accident, murder or suicide.

Of the many American stars who appeared at the Empire, I place one high above the rest. She was Lena Horne and I have never seen or heard any singer quite like her. Teeny-boppers, thank God, didn't exist then or, if they did, they didn't bop in the theatres. Lena Horne was listened to with love and, can I say it, with respect.

In my opinion the finest American comedian to appear at the Empire was the great Jack Benny. I've never seen such immaculate timing in my life. He was assisted by a trio of gigantic Negresses and, as they
galumphed about the stage, all Jack Benny had to do was to look at the audience and lift an eyebrow and the audience roared.

One last memory of the Empire before it disappeared forever more. We were alerted that a new English comedian who had been doing well in the Provinces was to get his big chance in the Scottish Palladium, otherwise the Empire. I was asked to meet a top theatre man from London who had come up specially to see how the famous (or infamous) Glasgow audience would treat him.

I met the entrepreneur at the Empire for the first show on Monday. The place was half empty and we sat well back from the stage so that Ken Dodd wouldn't recognise anybody. From the moment Ken dashed on, I was for him. I'd never seen such energy on the stage from any performer except acrobats. He just bashed the audience into laughing.

I felt he was the funniest man I had seen for a while and I laughed a lot. The great man from London did not laugh once. At length he delivered wisdom, shaking his head the while. ‘He'll never last at that rate,' he said.

Ah, well, we can't all be right. I had a picture taken with Ken, ‘teeth to teeth', for I have much the same occlusion as Mr Dodd has. The only marked difference is that his front teeth are insured for some enormous sum. Mine are not. In fact, they're not even mine nowadays.

WHERE IS THE GLASGOW?
c
. 1965
Adam McNaughtan

In the iconoclastic 1960s Glasgow, like many other cities, took a terrible bashing, losing many familiar landmarks. But as Adam McNaughtan laments, it wasn't only buildings that were disappearing, it was a way of life
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