Orphans (1998)

Simply Thrilled: The Preposterous Story of Postcard Records by Simon Goddard (Ebury Press 2014)

In need of cheap soup and rich gossip, most lunch times Alan would wander to the Victoria Cafe, the social heart of the art school, open to students and casual interlopers, where the vain and resplendent gathered in conspicuous segregation according to their different artistic disciplines. Alan and Edwyn's catchpenny clothes stirred scornful laughs from the puffy new romantic posters of  the fashion school, but complemented the surrounding second-hand fixtures and fittings, plucked from an original site in Govanhill which had been due for demolition until rescued and reinstalled by the architecture students. The queen of the Vic was a big Irish woman called Mona, who specialised in assuring all patrons that the soup was vegetarian as she hauled the thigh bone of some poor slain unspecified beast from the same bubbling cauldron, and whose short-fuse hospitality blew at regular intervals in her cutlery-bending yell, 'Get outta ma cafe!'

The aloof fashion fops and their equilateral hair-dos aside, the art-school crowd and those who buzzed around its cafe and weekend discos were a sweet, oblivious antidote to the nice bores Alan had suffered at university. They were funny, nutty, fascinating and, to Steven's barely concealed annoyance, invariably 'greeeeeeat!'

The roll call of human specimens read as follows:

A candied darling who called himself 'Lucy Lastic'; who knew 'they' could never touch him for dragging up Sauchiehall Street as long as he didn't wear women's knickers; who knew no fear when it came to roaring 'fab doll!' at men the size of shipyards; who knew no shame when it came to recounting the gory details of his latest straight-corrupting conquest with his starter for ten, 'I've just been shafted'; and whose ultimate destiny in certain surgical procedures was beyond all reasonable doubt.

Jill Bryson, a pretty polka-dot Alice looking as if she'd missed the bus for Wonderland and ended up in Glasgow by mistake, living on the Great Western Road with her boyfriend and the rampant 'Lucy' in a flat below a dentist's surgery which rattled daily to the sound of drilling enamel.

Peter McArthur, Jill's boyfriend, a photography student and Southside punk who'd first befriended Edwyn at Glasgow College of Building and Printing, and later bewitched Alan with his shared love of Fellini, Pasolini, Cabaret and his unused ticket stub for the Pistols' phantom Apollo show. 

Drew McDowall, a performance poet from Paisley, and his young wife Rose from The Wee Scone Shop. When not surreptitiously handing out free pies to fellow punks under her boss's nose, Ross also played drums in Drew's band The Poems, once joined on stage by Edwyn and James for 'a musical recitation' of the hunting scene from War And Peace.

Gerry Hanley, Alan's usual lunchtime companion, who allowed him to join her cafe table of angry women in boiler suits, monkey boots and cropped hair, who shared a flat with the painter Adrian Wiszniewski and who herself, sometimes, could be coaxed on stage by Alan for a spot of performance art.

The tweedy man out of time called Malcolm Fisher, sufferer of untold allergies and pianist of unending jazz flourishes, who danced with his hands glued inside his raincoat pockets, whose flat, a chintz flock and floral eyesore like something from 101 Dalmatians, he shared with his similarly allergic sister.

And a punk graphic designer called Robbie Kelly, whose brother had very briefly strummed chords for the mythical Oscar Wild, and whose girlfriend, Anne, was usually seen pushing a shopping trolley down the street with a doll sat up front like a genuine baby.

As far as Alan was concerned, his new art school associates' rapturous reception to Orange Juice was an exploding plastic inevitability. He wouldn't be disappointed.

Detonation date was Friday 20 April 1979, as James Callaghan took forlorn stock of his final hours in Number 10 and as Art Garfunkel's 'Bright Eyes' bunny-hopped at number one somewhere above the shaking body of Michael Jackson, the wondering why of Sister Sledge and recently deposed yet eternally resilient Gloria Gaynor. The 1980s were but one catastrophic landslide victory and a few spins of the  glitterball away. The perfect time for Orange Juice, a name so wrong that it had to be right, to yodel their first Lifebuoy-scrubbed 'hello' to the universe.

The Busconductor Hines by James Kelman (Phoenix 1984)

On the platform the two entertainers in red trousers, tartan waistcoats and red bowties, singing a song and accompanying themselves on accordion and rhythm guitar. At the next table Sandra was smiling at something being said by McCulloch's wife; and she smiled at Hines when she noticed him watching. He prised the lid off the tin. The waitress had arrived again, her face perspired; quickly she transferred the drinks from tray to table and collected the empties. Why don't you join the Foreign Legion, he grinned. Either she failed to hear or she ignored him. He reached for the water jug and added a measure to his whisky.

Reilly was talking. He was saying. No chance, they'll never give in without a fight. Look at that last bother we had over the rise; I mean after the autumn agreement it was supposed to be a formality, but was it? was it fuck?

Aye and we're still waiting for the backpay, said Colin.

What they'll do is toss it into us at Christmas week then every cunt'll think they've had a bonus!

Hines laughed with the others.

McCulloch shook his head at Stewart. You're just encouraging them.

Ah you cant escape politics.

Dead right Stewart, but it's no good telling this yin.

What you want to do is get a transfer down to our garage, said Hines, then you'll find out: bunch of fucking houdinis so they are.

They laughed again. Rab's right but, continued Reilly. It's murder polis. You've just got to mention the word strike and no cunt'll speak to you for six months.

No wonder. Union union union, muttered McCulloch.

See what I mean?

Aye well fuck sake if I started talking about the job yous mob'd soon be shooting me down in flames.

Hines frowned. That's actually true.

I know it's fucking true!

The Gospel According to Vic (1986)

Neds (2010)

Hieroglyphics by Anne Donovan (Canongate Books 2001)

Ma mammy thoat ah wis daft, naw, no daft exactly, no the way wee Helen fae doon the street wis. Ah mean she didnae even go tae the same school as us an she couldnae talk right an she looked at ye funny and aw the weans tried tae avoid playin wi her in the street. Ma mammy knew ah could go the messages an dae stuff roond the hoose and talk tae folk, ah wis jist daft at school subjects, the wans that that involved readin or writin oanyway. Fur a while efter she went up tae see the teacher ah got some extra lessons aff the Remmy wummin but ah hated it. She wis nice tae me at furst but then when ah couldnae dae the hings she wis geein me she began tae get a bit scunnered. A hink she thoat A wis lazy, and ah could never tell them aboot the letters diddlin aboot, and oanyway, naebdy ever asked me whit it wis like. They gave me aw these tests an heard ma readin and tellt ma ma ah hud a readin age of 6.4 an a spellin age of 5.7 and Goad knows whit else, but naebdy ever asked me whit wis gaun oan in ma heid. So ah never tellt them.

(From the short story, 'Hieroglyphics'.)

Just Another Saturday (1975)

That Sinking Feeling (1980)

Still Midnight by Denise Mina (Orion Books 2009)

Alex and Danny met on their first day at school. They looked like twins, everyone said so, it was an innocent joke. They were sweethearts for their first term of school but it all ended abruptly when their mothers met at the gates. The most vivid memory of Alex's early life was walkig home through a park, blood dripping from her sobbing mother's mouth onto the grey path. She'd ripped her blouse in the fight and everyone could see her bra strap.
People didn't move schools in those days. Danny and Alex went all the way through primary school together, and secondary. And all the time there was the ever present threat of their mothers fighting, of the other boot falling.

Comfort and Joy (1984)

The Borough by Michael Cannon (Serpent's Tail 1995)

I came here by accident. It took me a while to realise that the Borough was unique, even for Glasgow. It is poor, and yet it lives cheek-by-jowl with the wealthiest districts which ring the University precincts. This is a strange symbiosis. The University surmounts the hill, its Gothic pile silhouetted by day and floodlight by night. The spire is a landmark for miles. Many of the academics live within walking distance. Small mews flats off cobbled lanes now fetch exorbitant prices. People with more money than sense pay for the prestige of living where a horse was once stalled. This is the city's Bohemia. Across the Kelvin immense town houses, built for the tobacco barons when Glasgow was still the second city of the empire, have been converted into student residences.

Strange Loyalties by William McIlvanney (Harcourt Brace 1991)

'Four experts had an appointment with an ordinary man. They needed him to ratify their findings or anything they achieved would be meaningless. As they drove to meet him, they knocked down a man on the road. He was dying. If they tried to save him, they might miss their appointment. They decided that their appointment, which concerned all of us, was more important than the life of one man. They drove on to keep their appointment. They did not know that the man they were to meet was the man they had left to die.'

I wish I had more whisky.

Fresh by Mark McNay (MacAdam Cage 2007)

Fresh chickens to be sold in butchers and supermarkets for the ease of the purchasing public. Fresh chickens you assume have been killed recently. You picture a redbrick farmyard with purple foxgloves growing in a corner. The healthy smell of shite. An old 1950s tractor quietly rusting on flat tyres, only useful to the robins that nest under the seat. The farmer's wife comes out of the door, pulls a chicken from the ground it was idly pecking, and twists its neck with her fat powerful hands. She sits on a stool, places the quivering bird on her lap, and plucks it while it's warm. She sings a song of somebody's lover lost in a foreign war. She stuffs hand-stitched pillows with the feathers and sells them on the local market on a Wednesday afternoon. The plucked and dressed chiken is trussed ready to be hung that afternoon in the butcher's and you walk in and buy a bird whose pulse has barely died in its throat.

The fresh chickens Sean handles are driven to the factory in shoebox-sized containers packed on the trailer of an articulated truck. The driver flicks a roll-up butt out of the window and calls for Rab, who sidles out of his hut and guides the lorry into the loading bay. Strong forearms reach into the shoeboxes and drag their prey into the artificial light and hang them by the ankles on a hook. They fly along, upside down, flapping their wings, trying to escape, shitting down their chests, squawking and pecking at their mates. The hooks drag them into a tank of water where an electric current stops their hearts moments before rubber wheels grind the feathers from their skin.

Garnethill by Denise Mina (Carroll & Graf Mystery 1998)

"Marie was the eldest. She moved to London in the early eighties to get away from her mum's drinking, settled there and became one of Mrs Thatcher's starry-eyed children. She got a job in a bank and worked her way up. At first the change in her seemed superficial: she began to define all her friends by how big their mortgage was and what kind of car they drove. It took a while for them to realize that Marie was deep down different. They could talk about Winnie's alcoholism, about Maureen's mental-health problems, and to a lesser extent about Liam dealing drugs, but they couldn't talk about Marie being a Thatcherite. There was nothing kind to be said about that. Maureen had always assumed that Marie was a socialist because she was kind. The final breal between them came the last time Marie was home for a visit. They were talking about homelessness and Maureen ruined the dinner for everybody by losing the place and shouting, 'Get a fucking value system,' at her sister."

Do They Mean Us? #14

"The Labour Party, Trades Council and the STUC . . . were largely responsible for securing the biggest postwar demonstration in Glasgow till then, at the start of the 1960s. Incidentally, that was the demonstration that produced the slogan to end all sectarian slogans. Just as we were turning round the corner of Sauchiehall Street two grim stalwarts of the Socialist Party of Great Britain were standing heralding the march with a huge banner and slogan which read: ‘This demonstration is useless – You must first destroy capitalism.” [Janet and Norman Buchan, “The Campaign in Scotland”, in The CND Story, edited by Hohn Minnion and Philip Bolsover, 1983, p. 53.]

Dusting down an old series as a stop gap for the blog. Truth is that bloggers block has kicked in as I am too busy wishing that I was at this Conference 3470 miles away. *Sigh*.

I originally read the quote cut and pasted above years ago in an old copy of the Socialist Standard. It's definitely SPGB old skool. How could it not be? What with the incident involving the original 'Cold Water Brigade, Glasgow Branch, and dating from the height of the first wave of the nuclear disarmament, it reinforces all the preconceptions held against us by the 'Do something NOW?' brigade, and also makes our (few) political friends wince in partial recognition.

Part of me would love to pretend that we're not really like this - or that we've mellowed down the years - but sometimes you have to put your hands up to the fact that it's best to be blunt about such matters. Over forty years later and there's three of us doing a stall at the recent Brooklyn Peace Fair, and what's our opening line to the people hovering by our stall?:

"If you want to get rid of war, you have to get rid of capitalism."

The haircuts and the clobber may have changed down the years, but the patter's just the same.

If Chic Murray had subscribed to War Commentary

Hot on the heels of attending the meeting 'Towards a synthesis of Anarchism and Marxism?' at last weekend's Left Forum, where one of the panel speakers, Ruth Kinna, spoke on “Bridging Differences Through Revolutionary Action: Aldred on Anarchism and Marx”, comes news - via a SPGB google alert - of a fascinating article on the anarchist movement in the 1940s in Glasgow that has recently been posted on the LibCom website.

'Anarchism in 1940s Glasgow' contains an interview with Charlie Baird Sr that dates from '77 and the transcribed reminiscences of a roundtable discussion of Glasgow based Anarchists (1940s vintage) that dates from 1987.

Both pieces are fascinating insights into a tumultuous period for radical politics, and, like Ruth Kinna's talk at the Left Forum, it was a blast from the past for me 'cos many, many years ago, I went through a period of reading up on this subject in depth.

Not for any academic reasons, but simply because I was combining my interest in the history of radical politics with my interest in the history of Glasgow. I was reading John Taylor Caldwell's biography of Guy Aldred; Mark Shipway's book on Aldred and Sylvia Pankhurst; Wildcat's mega-pamphlet on the APCF; and Freedom's hundredth anniversary works on their tradition amongst others at a time when I would have been better served listening to Pop Will Eat Itself and getting drunk on snakebite. Maybe in my next life.

PS - Chic Murray? War Commentary? Chic Murray was a brilliant Scottish comedian who is probably best known today - if at all - for playing the headmaster in 'Gregory's Girl', and War Commentary was the name of Freedom during World War II (it's a convoluted story . . .don't ask me now), and Eddie Shaw came across as that sort of speaker even before I spotted the reference in the roundtable expression.

It seems that Glasgow has a history of outdoor speaking that comprised of half polemicist, half patter merchant.

Hurry up and review 'The Last Breath'

Via google alerts for Denise Mina comes a couple of good reviews by the Grumpy Old Bookman blog of the first two Paddy Meehan books:

The Field of Blood

The Dead Hour

I like how Michael Allen (G.O.B) cuts to the chase when writing about 'The Field of Blood':

As an evocation of time, place, and atmosphere, this book is, I am sure, the equal of any Booker shortlisted book, but it is also, fortunately, much more. Because it's a crime novel we have a good strong narrative thread, and we are spared the arty-farty fancypants bullshit."

What the review does not pick up on, and something that I still have difficulty getting my head around is Denise Mina's insistence that the Catholic community in Scotland was still experiencing as late as the early eighties an institutionalised discrimination that was so deep rooted in Scottish society that even Paddy Meehan becoming a 'copyboy' on a newspaper was seen as something out of the ordinary.

I'm not suggesting that such a bigoted culture didn't exist, merely acknowledging that I'm perhaps too young to fully recognise that time and noting how far we've come between then and now.

I'm looking forward to Allen's future review of 'The Last Breath', which has already become my favourite book in the Paddy Meehan series.

Genuine names from Glasgow's 5-a-side league

Hat tip to Will Rubbish and 'SP'.

My favourites have to be Bayern Bru, FC Copenbadly and *cough* Torpedo Belgrano.

I believe that there's a bit of a tussle at the moment between Hajduk Spliff and LSD Eindhoven over the signature of Richie Hart.

Steaua Needarest

Dyslexia Untied

Fatzio

Red Star Bellend

Sporting Lesbian

Grass Smokers Zurich

Hajduk Spliff

LSD Eindhoven

Albion Hungovers

Real Sosobad

Shackthar Senseless

Hardly Athletic

St. Mirnoff

Real Ale Madrid

Fred West Ham

Unreal Madrid

Rapid Viagra

Barearselona

Bayern Bru

Athletico Madras

Deportivo Lack a Talent

Bayer Neverlusen

Borussia Nosobad

Sparka Fag

Graham Rix U16's

Big Bertha Berlin

Inter Masister

Substandard Liege

Torpedo Belgrano

Bayer Leverarchfile

FC Copenbadly

Sporting Abeergut

Dinamo Mince

Red Stripe Belgrade

Fake Madrid

Unathletic Madrid

Outer Milan

Heartbreak Hampden

Or should the post be entitled, 'I Left my Football Boots in Mount Florida'?

Whatever. I'm guessing that there is a connection between this heartbreak and this humping from Sunday: