Perils & Pints

Part of Glesga's proud history since 1921

To me, there was never anything really disrespectful about the term “being born a Catholic”. To my knowledge I wasn’t born a Catholic, I was born naked, wrinkly, and greeted solidly for the first three hours until I found succour back in the arms of the mammy.
Religion was later foisted upon me like great gloop’s of pigeon shite atop a standing statue. The only true God I ever worshipped wore the green and white hoops of my beloved Celtic.

During my infancy years, my brothers used to go across to the neighbouring schemes to watch the ‘other lot’ drape themselves in the Union Jack flag, and hurl apples down upon the Catholic mothers taking the weans to school.
We didnae understand the reasons behind the hatred of our parents chosen religions. Neither did we comprehend the violence aimed quite literally at ourselves and other wee bairns by people of the same age group as our parents.
We just loved collecting the fallen apples aimed at the ‘Taig’ divils.

It was not something we ever took much notice of until much later in our lives. To this day I can brush off many insults without so much as a fluctuation of pulse, but use the word ‘Taig’ in my direction at your own peril. Sadly, two lesser bloggers fae across the water like to use that particular word out of ignorance. It speaks volumes to many when they read these poorly penned attempts at humour using their self confessed knowledge of the whole Irish/Scottish/English situation.
It would be like me commenting on that 'George Washington' fella, you know the one... he was a wood cutter.

It’s a good rule to learn in life... sometimes an ignorant mouth can break your own nose.

One of the brothers left a lucrative business in Glasgow’s famous Barrowlands in the mid seventies after being slightly heavy handed with an individual involved in shouting the word ‘Taig’ at the mammy when her illness was about her. I believe the bigoted gentleman in question may have had the toes on one foot removed with a shovel as a reminder that sectarianism can be extremely hazardous.

It’s incredible how so many accidents can happen in market places in Glasgow under the cover of darkness.

Sadly it came at a time when the Strathclyde polis were under pressure to cut off (pardon the pun) all vigilante behaviour fae the Gallowgate area, and return to the beats. The ‘Barra’s’ has traditionally since 1921 always been an excursion into the more ‘colourful’ world of the Glesga underbelly.
To this day it is still notorious for selling counterfeit clothing, hastily copied CD’s, re-routed alcohol, and not forgetting a dazzling array of designer watches, all for under a tenner, and a lifetime guarantee of at least an hour.
The words ‘flea market’ is rather apt in this particular case. It's still one of the best places to visit for a pint!

The Chief Constable of Glasgow himself paid a high profile visit to the market one Sunday morning in June. He took along with him a legion of press photographer's, political administrators’s fae the council offices, and for some mysterious reason he also invited along a gaggle of visiting diplomat’s fae Tokyo.
All was well as the locals delighted and amused the visitors with their pure Glesga charm and patter. Trinkets were purchased, haunds were shaken, and the Chief Constable announced to the group of assembled press that “Glasgow was no longer a city of vagabonds and rogues”

I believe that the remains of his car were later found burnt out in the Black Hill area, just around the corner fae where the local kids were selling the covertly liberated luggage, video cameras, and even the tyres off of the Tokyo visitors coach. There wasnae a tree house or a den within a five mile radius of Provanmill that didnae have a designer leather coach seat adorning its interior after the CC’s famous visit.

They never did find the coach driver...

Such was Glesga... deeply dangerous at times, but always somewhere, the laughter and patter was never far fae the front of all activities. To the outside world it was a city divided by religion and bigotry. In reality it was a community rebelling against poverty, hardship, and striving to survive without stretching out a haund for the government’s free social security.
Proud people living through hard times, often make the most interesting of companions. When you lay down with dogs, you do have to expect a few fleas.
Times change, but people and habits do not.

My labour enforced exile will soon be at an end, the unquenchable draw of my city makes me hungry for hame. Just like small stray dogs in big dry shelters, the feeling of security overwhelms me with the desire to belong once more to my Glesga. Even the grimy back streets painted grey with the rain... the beauty is in the memories, the fire and the passion remain within the internal walls of our own laughter filled minds.

Hare Today

Heaven Scent. click to inflate

Fur and skin as far as my child’s eye could see. The tiny trickle of dried blood still visible as it dries at the nostril of the hare on the mammy’s table. A fraudulent catharsis, a psychological purging of complexity is about me as I spy the Trojan Judas carrots being prepared alongside their prey.


The smell of paraffin as the lamp swings back and forth in time with the broken air marking time with the mammy’s chopping. The steamy pan of succulence sends tantalising patterns of vapours upon the parlour mirror face. The coquette aroma of the broth already encourages the backbone of my hunger to run in rivulets down the sallow flesh of my five year old face.

It’s the Friday night supper after the mass. The men are back fae Hogan’s bar, and even big Danny O’Malley has taken up the invitation and joined the faither at the table with its oul wooden bowls. Danny O’Malley has on his big worky-man jayket, complete with leather patches at each of his mighty elbows. It’s rumoured that he once fought the divil for eight hours straight with nothing but his bare haunds... and won.

Out come the best glasses, the ones that Mrs Heggarty fae Cork gave to the mammy on her wedding day all those years ago. It was oul Mr Heggarty who lost a leg back in 1918 fighting with the English, and still cursing the perpetual ringing in his ears after the bomb fell next to his foxhole out by the barbed wire. He came back fae the war with the fingers on his left hand all but missing save the thumb and little nub he had christened ‘Stumpy’.

Liberated Glasgow whisky fae the Protestant grocer in the Kilbowie Road is poured in generous measures, and it’s not long before the songs were about them all. The mammy even stopped her stirring of the pot long enough to join in the chorus of ‘sweet Molly Malone’. The colour of the flames under the blackness of the kettle changed their hue as if to show union with the craic going on in that parlour kitchen.

Mossie Sheehan poached the best hares in the county, and his name was toasted as the big yin’s bounty was served in large steaming bowls afore the men folk at the oak table. The table was of fine stout wood which had been bartered for sacks of sugar and the coal down at the dock last winter gone. A port-sodden landowner in Amerikay was no doubt missing his recently ‘misplaced’ acquisition.

We laughed as our faither with his twinkling wonderful eyes would bring a real feeling of well being to our hoose after the drink had taken hold of his singing voice. It was the first time I had seen him kiss the mammy in front of the childer, and the flush in her cheeks was the beginning of our sister Siobhan.

I remember the grimace on his grizzled cheeks as the mammy poured on top ‘o’ the hare, the borrowed alter wine fae St. Eunans in Gilmour Street. The richness of the gravy depended on the potency of the wine. I was never to meet a priest without the knowledge of fine wines in his kirk. It was the Bishops themselves who insisted that the finest of the fine was put away for those special celestial visits after taking the confession on a Monday.

There was many a sin to be heard after the weekend of the drink in Glesga.

There was always a full kitchen for the cooking of the hare by the mammy. Even the Aunties would lay down their washing and skedaddle ower when the lop-eared wans appeared fae Mossie Sheehan. There was never a moment’s guilt when it came to the filling of your belly on Glesga’s finest poached hare.

It was known that men would leave early fae the shipyards just to get an extra nose of that wonderful bubbling beauty on the parlour stove. Even the polis would drop in for a wee dod of soda bread and a bowl of the gravy and bits for their supper. It got so that the wans who committed crimes began to take note of what the mammy had planned for the supper on the Friday neet. Every peeler and guard in Drumchapel took an interest in our parlour when Mossy’s hare was abound.

Hope always grows best when it’s viewed on a full belly of stolen hare fae the Laird.

After the meal the men would gather around the fire and fill their long pipes, and discuss the best length and shape of a Lurchers leg. It was to be a long while before I was auld enough to join the men and their talk. Sadly it was long after the faither had left us that I took his place by the mantle; drink in one haund, a great piece of sugary bread in the other.

It was a time of infinite poverty, but the richest people in the mammy’s parlour were those who still sported the redness of gravy upon their shirts. That hare still ran fast in our stomachs, and its intended freedom matched that of our own. Our family of men would get away with the drunkenness on a Friday, if only for the peelers to find grace at the parlour table.

It was the alliance of hunger that brought both sides together. It was a cold hard polis gaol floor waiting those addled by the Friday drink, but not one of our own... the cooking of the hare saw to that.

“I’m terribly sorry for your troubles” said the grand-mammy to the protestant widow on the eve of her mans demise at the haunds of the tans. “Is it the hare you would like to partake with us the neet?” she would once say. There was no religion in that parlour kitchen... merely the bubbling of juices and the promise of heaven fae that beautiful oul pot with the heavy wrought iron lid.

Tonight I raise my glass to the days gone by, as we search the streets of London for food that disnae come served with chups and a bun. Oh Mossie... where are you now?

The Big Issue

She had given up going to confession. She had given up going to mass. In fact she had given up on the whole Catholic faith. Weeping virgins, divils, alter wine, but most of all the guilt.

That was the best thing she said. That and my Glesga accent of course. She could tell I was a divine soul. (You can imagine the sniggering fae my work pals within earshot of the bar at this point)

For the first time in her life she could live her life without fear of reprisal fae the lawd, and be totally free of the all consuming feeling of guilt!

Or so she said.

All is well... apparently, for nearly a month before the repugnant shadow of religion again reared its ugly head. This time.. it's even uglier. It's Buddhism!

She takes another puff of her cigarette, as I look up at the large 'no smoking' sign, and another large gulp fae her bottle of over-priced beer as she continues with her tale of impending woe.

The Buddha is her only Master, these days, no the Pope.

She can now take refuge in the Buddha, the Dhamma and the Sangha.
She will now accept the Four Noble Truths, namely Dukkha, the arising of Dukkha, the Cessation of Dukkha, and the path leading to the cessation of Dukkha; and the universal law of cause and effect as taught in the pratiitya-samutpaada (Conditioned Genesis or Dependent Origination).

Reincarnation is the biggy though!

Everyone, and everything is reborn in a different form... and that’s where her problems really began. During her twenty three years on this planet, she has killed thousands of flies, bugs, spiders, and even mowed down the odd rabbit or two.

Guilt... it’s already starting to come flooding back to her. If only she could go to Friday Mass and talk to her priest. He would know what to do.

If only I would lend her some money, or 'buy' her 'free' magazine, things would begin to improve, and her religion would benefit fae my donation.

London... You meet the strangest of strange people in the bars down here.

Glesga... oh how we miss your drunks, heid-the-baws, numpties, nutters, and most of all... real lager.

Ten days and counting until we return hame fae the mad-hoose that is London.

Ten long days...

The Strange Carnard of Father Hugh

Joseph Toomey never did make the journey into hell, even though the church had assured him that he would do. No, Joseph Toomey went onwards until he crossed the water and sailed all the way to Australia. After the ship had left that great stinking harbour of rats and foulness of men, Joseph found himself shaking off the great sadness he had about him for the first time since that last drunken night in Glasgow.

After the shameless state of the dirty filthy glasses in Brendan Tierneys saloon bar, Joseph and Jimmy left for the short walk up to O’Hanlons in the High Street. It wasn’t the fact that the glasses were cleaner in O’Hanlons, but more to the point that the porter came thick and fast on the tap of a coin, and the mere nodding of a head would bring on an oul tune.

Sitting at the bar in the top corner by the log fire, was that insipid little feck Father Hugh. Not known for his congeniality towards heathens like ourselves, Father Hugh made great show of sniffing loudly in abhorrence when we announced our arrival with our favourite song, “The Divil Is Dead‘’.

For the love of God we couldnae think why.

Joseph was well known in O’Hanlons ever since he had beaten Pádraig Doherty in a one-off bout of bare knuckles the previous year, and was £20 richer for his troubles. So it was with no surprise that the fellas gathered round to chap his back and marvel again at the tales of the famous slaughter of your man Doherty.

Fifteen minutes into his widely stretched tales, Joseph called for drinks for the bar, and again his back thundered as the dust flew fae the chapping of his entourage.
Everyone loved to hear Josephs grand tale, as it was told with great gusto and a few roaring fibs abound.

It was no surprise when Father Hugh and his empty glass decided that heathen porter tasted as good, if not better, when it was on the cuff of a couple of Drumchapel boys, with a pocket of cash and stories to tell. Being a man with no real malice about him, Joseph made good the Fathers glass, and even turned a blind eye when the porter turned to whisky without so much as a hair.

God helps those who help themselves by all account.

It was the back of three before we had drunk our fill, and our thoughts turned to the choice of bed, when the fast approaching rays of the morning sun would light our way hame. It was more the sight of the bottle of Powers in my pocket that prompted the Father to invite us back to sleep off our pints and whisky in the Sacristy.

The sacristy is not blessed or consecrated together with the church, and consequently is not a sacred place in the canonical sense. Just the place for a pair of drunken heathens to sleep off the drink without disturbing the Lord at slumber, within his own hoose.

Now whether it was the boyhood memories of other shameless priests, and their ungodly urges that shocked Joseph into waking with a start. Or it was the clammy haunds of the frocked one, as he clasped his greedy fingers around the Powers beside our sleeping heads. We’ll never know for sure.

It was with a mighty smite that Joseph brought down upon the head of Father Hugh, the biggest candle that had ever threw its light upon the world. The snot flew, and the wax spattered the waiting piles of alter bread as the world of Father Hugh turned black. It was the way the body fell that suggested it might be time to leave for the great metal ships sailing fae the filth of Port Glasgow.

It was nearly 25 years later when Joseph Toomey returned home to his native Glasgow. He stepped onto the tarmac a changed man and no mistake. Gone where his drinking ways, fighting stances, and dirty oul boots. Instead stood a man with great shoulders encased in safari fawn, hair so grey, and shoes like that of a city man. Joseph had done right for himself during his time away, even giving half his wealth to the church for his terrible sin.

It was a man in shock who heard the news that Father Hugh had healed himself with a root ginger poultice and the hair of the dog on his return to consciousness. It was a man in despair who mentally totted up the cost of his loss to the kirks coffers over the years in atonement for his sin.

“Is it any regrets you have about you these days Joseph”, I asked him.

“Aye Jimmy there is at that” he said. “I wish I’d fecking killed him now”.

Glasgow Ink

No for me... definitely no for her

Fashion, I am reliably informed, is not only confined to those poor wee skinny lassies who stagger down the catwalk in Rome, Paris, and Milan. No. Fashion it seems now extends to something called skin art. In my day they were called tattoos. In my mind... nothing has changed.

So it is with some dismay tonight I have discovered that my youngest teenage daughter has decided that she is looking to have ‘something tasteful’ designed upon her dainty foot. Her reasoning behind it is that it will be a nostalgic reminder of her youth when she reaches a more mature age.

Was I this fluffy-minded at the age of seventeen? I think not.

Most people meeting me for the first time might imagine that because I am slightly battle scarred in appearance, I am going to be as rough as a slate layers nail bag, and a Neanderthal who cannae think two words let alone write two words on paper. Therefore, due to my assumed lack of grey matter, I would no doubt condone, if not encourage the misuse of such a precious human canvas, and allow my princess to alter what nature created so beautifully.

They couldn't be mare wrang!

Although I do not condemn anyone who wishes to express their opinions through body art, it’s just no gonnae happen under my roof, and definitely not to my wee girl. So for the time being and at least until the next fashion fad appears on the horizon, her daddy will remain fully in the proverbial dog hoose.

I remember the days when bringing home a hamster was enough to make me her hero again.

Bloody fashion..

Spam Gremlins

It would seem as though some eejit has taking a shine to my email box, and is currently getting past my security. The auld email address will no longer be in use as of immediate effect. My apologies to those who have already sent me email today.

You can now find me here. jimmyglasgow@ymail.com

Miss X

This morning I made a very discreet phone call to a remarkable and very professional woman who is quite well known in certain Glasgow circles, and of late, amongst my fellow golfing pals. Miss X came highly recommended, and has a reputation for leaving a married man feeling very happy indeed. Sometimes this feeling of satisfaction can be achieved in a mere 30 minutes or less whenever she weaves her magic on a man.

We spoke about intimate body parts, likes and dislikes, and many suggestions were put to me in a very professional, but sensual fashion. Lastly, we got round to discussing the all important factor.

The price!

Within the hour I was alone with Miss X, where she proceeded to dazzle me with silken items of a very corporeal nature. After fifteen minutes she had exposed many secrets of her vast array of lingerie, thus making me extremely hot under the collar. I left shortly after, some £250 lighter, and hurried back to my work before I was discovered in the company of Miss X.

This evening I presented my beautiful wife with a ‘just glad I have you’ pressie, containing some very tasteful, not to mention perfectly fitting designer underwear. All items are courtesy of the wonderful Miss X and her excellent very well known lingerie boutique in Glasgow.
It is a wonderful, above board service where the menfolk can ensure that the embarrassment of purchasing dainty frillies for the missus is not akin to a trip to the dentist for a double root canal.

You know the score... you’ve just pawed a pair of skimps of the rack at the local La Senza, and out pops that awful missus McFadden fae the Post Office, bad hair, clacking tongue, and that toe curling neer-do-well look upon her pinched face.
Nae mare is this a problem. Nope. These days it’s all done over the phone. Sizes are relayed, cup sizes are accurate, thighs, hips, bum cheeks, all perfectly accurate, not to mention better fitting than if the missus had gone herself.
Miss X even takes into account hair shade, complexions, boudoir colours, and even favourite dresses etc etc.

The charge for this wonderful service?

£20!

That equates to little more than one pound per minute of total un-red-cheekness, not to mention total discretion when ordering the items which will inevitably lead to such blissful pleasures after such extravagant purchases are accepted.

Worth every penny indeed, and all done in the best possible taste.

Working the Door

Stock photie courtesy of 'the' auction house. (Click to inflate)

One or two of you will already have seen my various auld household purchases over the last few years, and will appreciate my fondness for period pieces both Edwardian and Victorian. Most of you will be aware that my days of tenement dwelling are long gone, and these days my humble abode is a converted chapel nestled discreetly alongside a well known loch roughly eight miles West of Glasgow.

My good lady is always on the lookout for 'additions' to the hoose, and although I have the odd groan about the sometimes outlandish fees attached by the various proprietors of Scotland's reclamation and salvage yards, I do silently admire her ability to locate some real gems.

She found the above door on the trusty wonder-web for a more or less reasonable price, and today we made the journey to collect my latest fancy. There isn’t much information available other than a guess-timated derivation of circa late 1700’s. Sadly no provenance was on file as to the identity of the church itself, but if I had to hazard a guess I would say it was not Catholic.

... no scratch marks on the inside fae those wishing to escape into purgatory gave it away.

It is ever so slightly too small to be modified into the front door, but with a wee bit of delicate stonework rejigging, it is very soon to become my side kitchen door.
Some previous repair work has taken place, possibly around 1830, and two of the oak panels are reminiscent of the wooden spars used in the interior of the oul tall ships once seen navigating the world’s oceans.

The wrought iron attached is medieval in design, and the intricate lattice still contains a form of cyanide in the lead paint, so no licking your haunds after you chap my door!
An additional keyhole was introduced in the early 1900’s possibly to prevent theft of valuable chapel artefact's. Unfortunately the main key for the original lock was not available.
Not every ones cup of tea, but I cannae help but feel drawn towards its historical significance, and natural beauty.

A Heathen like me living in the house of God, admiring the significant religious history is somewhat hypocritical, but hey... lets just keep it between us, reet?

Now... I don’t suppose anyone has thirty or so 17th century matching flagstones knocking about in their garden shed by chance?