Glasgow (38 page)

THE MOST FOREIGN TOWN IN BRITAIN, 1973
George Gale

Few journeys have been more often reprised than that taken in 1773 by Samuel Johnson and James Boswell. Two centuries later, English journalists Paul Johnson (1928–) and George Gale (1927–90) set out to emulate the odd couple's ‘Highland Jaunt', travelling by car rather than the more rudimentary means of the eighteenth century. Johnson took the part of Boswell while Gale attempted to emulate the other Johnson's sourness. They encountered a city in a state of flux, with many old buildings being torn down and many new, high, ugly ones being put up in their place. ‘We drove through most of it,' reflected Johnson, ‘on a great concrete bridge, spanning demolished sandstone slums. This grim and beautiful city . . . was nobly conceived in the first fine flush of the industrial revolution, a vast classical artefact carved in stern local stone; now they are nailing upon it a high superstructure of fast roads, as in any large American town of the Middle West. It will soon be nothing more than a visual incident – a flash of urban scenery – on a rapid thrust to the hills and lochs.'

We drove partly around and partly above Glasgow: the huge motorways through the city and across the Clyde were not then quite completed.

‘This,' I said to Paul, of Glasgow, ‘is the most foreign town in Britain.'

‘Yes, and they cleared the slums and put motorways in their places.'

‘The tenements of the Gorbals are fine buildings. They look ugly to us because we think of the Gorbals as being ugly. Glasgow's slums are fine architecture. Its council is corrupt. Look at this motorway!'

‘Look,' said Paul, ‘we're in the middle of the lunch break. Look at all those shabby works buses.'

‘They are not works buses. Those are Glasgow Corporation buses. And it is dinner, not lunch.'

* * *

Scottish national newspapers are parochial in the way that English local newspapers are parochial. Scotland possesses a pride in itself which constantly requires replenishment. Scotland, too, is aggressive about its Scottishness in the way that little men, when drunk, sometimes seek fights with bigger and stronger and sometimes sober men. The Glaswegianality of Glasgow is different: Glasgow is a big fellow who has made himself ugly; a handsome man of almost classical features, disfigured by an inherent wildness, a propensity for violence and disaster.

Glasgow is a city built in stone; and although it may be difficult to build modest domestic apartments of stone, it is almost impossible to build ugly buildings in dressed and unpainted red sandstone. Glasgow is built of such stone, which seems to enforce the dignity of decent proportions on the windows and doorways of the great tenement blocks. Their tiled passageways are different. The ugliness or beauty of anything depends partly on what it is and partly on what it looks like: it is what they are much more than what they look like which makes the ugly parts of Glasgow ugly.

They drink heavily and fast in Glasgow, conscious that it is never far from time being called; and nastily, mixing lemon juice with whisky, and pouring their ‘heavy' beer or their draught lager on top of the whisky. Belfast is Glasgow's daughter, or twin, city; and Belfast apart, no other city in the kingdom has so much the feel of vehemence. It is the most foreign and potentially the most frightening (which may be saying the same thing). There are plenty of places in Glasgow where it would not strike me as ridiculous to be given the advice the metropolitan magazine
New York
gave to its readers – ‘Walk along the curb of a sidewalk and avoid shadowy doorways or building recesses . . . If you think you're being followed and your building is not served by a doorman, keep on walking . . . Have your keys ready when you enter your building . . . Organise tenant or street associations . . . If you are mugged, don't resist . . . Don't hesitate to help someone in distress.' I do not mean to say that Glasgow
is
a dangerous place. I mean that it is a place I could imagine becoming dangerous, like the Chicago I imagine, or the New York which I know and liked. It is Glasgow's capacity to produce such imaginings that makes it the most foreign of towns I feel not lost and abroad in.

GANGS, 1973
Anonymous

Gangs have been a fact of Glasgow life for decades, perhaps centuries. Historians record that the Penny Mob in Townhead may have the claim to be the city's first gang. The period after the First World World is reckoned to be their heyday, when gangs such as the Redskins, the Norman Conks, the Billy Boys and the Antique Mob ran amok and caused grievous bodily harm, usually to themselves and their rivals. What was their point, other than to defend themselves and their territory? Who knows, but they certainly struck terror into otherwise peaceful neighbourhoods. Here a 15-year-old boy explains their appeal. A gemme was someone who was ready to fight whatever the odds, ‘even if defeat or physical punishment is inevitable'
.

‘Most of the Gangs in Glasgow are Gemmies. I think if you are in a Gang you just go for the fun of it. When you are in a Gang it is very easy to get birds whereas if you're not you don't get so many because most of the birds go for boys in Gangs because it makes them feel big. I go about with a Gang called the Possil Uncle; it used to be called the Fleet, then Border Troops, the Rebels and the Possil Pigs. The Maryhill Fleet boys go about with us. Sometimes we go to the Granada dancing or go up to the Milton to fight the Tongs or the Thrush from Kirkintilloch. I get a lot of fun going about with a gang because we smash aw the bam-pots up that try to get fly when they get you by yourself with their mates.'

CONNOLLYMANIA, 1973
Colin MacFarlane

The impact Billy Connolly (1942–), otherwise known as ‘The Big Yin', made when he metamorphosed from a folk singer to a stand-up comedian is incalculable. With his flowing locks and beard, he had the appearance of a Glaswegian Merlin. Unlike other comedians of that period, he did not tell jokes. Rather he spun tall stories which grew more ridiculous and surreal the longer they went on. Often they were concerned with bodily functions, drunkenness and religion. He seemed effortlessly to cause offence which, in turn, made him all the more popular. He had worked in the shipyards and, as a consequence, had a bottomless well of anecdotes to draw upon. Regularly touted as one of the greatest comedians ever, he is also a notable actor, starring in many
films and television programmes. Here, Colin MacFarlane remembers Connolly shortly before his career went into another orbit
.

When I was out seeing Charlotte [his girlfriend] in Carfin one day, she said to me, ‘There's a new Glasgow comedian performing at a hotel just up the road. Do you fancy going?'

‘Whit's his name?' I asked.

‘Billy Connolly.'

An article in the local newspaper said that he was to perform at the Tudor Hotel in Airdrie and that the gig would be recorded for a live album. When we turned up at the hotel the following night, the place was jam-packed and the performance was a sell-out. There was an absolutely incredible atmosphere. Even before Connolly appeared, it was electric and when he arrived on stage he did the most hilarious sketches I had ever heard. One of them, about the Last Supper taking place in the Gallowgate rather than Galilee, had everyone falling about laughing. When I listen to the album, I can distinctly hear my own laugh during a couple of the sketches.

The
Solo Concert
album went on to sell more than a quarter of a million copies. After its release, Connolly's rise to superstardom began in earnest. He even had his own comic strip in the
Sunday Mail
called
The Big Yin
written by him and artist Malcolm McCormick. It was an instant rival to
Oor Wullie
and
The Broons
. In one such strip, Billy's uncle comes down from Uist and is told, ‘If ye're jist gonnae sit scrounging bevy, ye can away back where the animals run aboot an' streams run doon the slopes.'

‘Ye mean Hampden?'

Connolly's big achievement was to make the Glasgow dialect something that people loved, appreciated and found hilarious not only in Scotland but the world over. Some people, though, were not amused by his strong language and sketches about religion. Connolly recorded a religious-affairs programme for BBC Scotland in which Moses said things like, ‘Nip hame and git yir people . . .' And short jokes like the following did not endear him to Christian fundamentalists: ‘Whit are the three most unnecessary things in life? A nun's tits, the Pope's balls and a round of applause for the band.'

Religious zealots such as Baptist minister Pastor Jack Glass started to mount demonstrations outside his shows. Connolly wasn't surprised, and shrugged. ‘Ah, well, it's not every day you get a demonstration in your honour', adding that the pastor was ‘an ass'.

He had other detractors as well. Tony Blackburn, a Radio 1 DJ at the time of the
Solo Concert
's release, told his millions of listeners that he
couldn't see anything funny about the Glasgow patter merchant. But Connolly's management said that Blackburn slagging off the album was one of the highest recommendations a comedy record could get. Others found Connolly's humour too lavatorial for their liking, while many people in Glasgow believed that their patter was just as good and that Connolly had made it big only because he was lucky and had a pushy manager. He even got poison-pen letters.

Connolly mocked the typical Scottish reaction to success in a joke about the Second Coming: a man rushes down the street to tell his neighbours, ‘He's here! He's here! He's come!'

‘Who has?'

‘Jesus Christ!'

‘Aye, Ah kent his faither.'

But Connolly was quite adept at dealing with hecklers during his shows. He'd say things like, ‘The last time I saw a mouth like yours, pal, Lester Piggott was sitting behind it', or ‘The more I hear of you, the more I believe in birth control.' When one heckler shouted ‘IRA!' in Dublin, he replied, to rapturous applause, ‘Aye, you're very brave down there in the dark, pal. Try shoutin' that in the middle of Ibrox Park some time.'

Connolly was slightly different from other Scottish comedians around at that time as he had been influenced by the outrageous story-telling of American comics like Lenny Bruce. A story that had a big impact on Connolly was about Lenny Bruce on stage in San Francisco. There were policemen in the audience waiting to arrest him for using obscene language. Bruce got up on the stage and explained to the audience that because the police were there, he'd use alternative words. For example, when he wanted to say a four-letter word that started with C and ended with T, he'd say ‘tulip'; when he was going to say a word that started with F and ended with K, he'd say ‘daffodil'; and the word that started with B and ended with D would be ‘rhododendron'. He checked with the audience to see if they'd got the code – tulip, daffodil, rhododenron. Then he started off, ‘There was this Mexican c***s****r . . .'

There is a poster that hangs in the People's Palace museum on Glasgow Green that sums up the city's attitude to its comedians: