A Commonwealth Crawl - Part 3

The Pig & Whistle, 68 McNeil Street, Gorbals, Glasgow
The Oak Bar, 774 Springfield Street, Glasgow G31 4HL
The Bells, 990 Tollcross Road, Glasgow G32 8UP
The Waverley, 1034 Tollcross Road, Glasgow G32 8UW


The target this time was Glasgow Green, the piece of parkland designated for use by the city’s inhabitants for centuries. And in times of general squalor and overcrowding a very welcome relief and place to breathe.

For the Games it is the National Hockey Centre at the east end of the Green that is the focus and thus the nearest pub is in the Gorbals. The joint in question is the Pig and Whistle. To get to it I got off the 75 just before it crosses the Clyde and walked east for five minutes along Ballater Street.

The tenements have almost all been razed from the Gorbals and this pub is housed in a low-rise building that looks, at most, 50 years old, in a street unrecognisable to old Gorbalites.

I was joined at this stop of my journey by LJ and 48-Inch Chest (44 isn’t very impressive these days). We expected to find a hybrid of various styles adapted, modified and deleted, so to speak, over the last three or four decades. Instead there is a coherent, traditional interior of dark wood with a long counter in the main body of an upturned L. At the far end is a seating area and around the corner a wee snug.



What appeared to be the aftermath of a funeral or some other cross-generational gathering was drawing to a close this early evening as we ordered and moved along through towards the back, leaving space for those around the bar.

About to take a seat there I noticed another set of doors that led to a great little enclosed and sheltered outside area. It still being pleasant out we settled down for our smoke of choice. Soon we were joined by two attractive ladies in their early 30s. They entertained us with various anecdotes of recent holidays in the sun, specifically Magaluf.

Not that they were actually talking to us, their voices were that loud and close that even eavesdropping – a skill of mine – wasn’t required. All of it is unrepeatable but it was of research value for my two companions who before this were looking for ideas of where to spend their summer holidays. Both assured me, later, they would be onto their travel agent first thing Monday with a definite destination in mind.

Another voice joined in – a pal of the girls – from beyond the fence enclosing this mini beer garden. Declining to come round through the pub and join us she chatted for ten minutes to the two of them about various things – bling, make-up, plans for the night ahead.

When she left one of the girls beside us said, “She’s a real cow, that one.”
“Backstabbing bitch,” agreed the other.
To be honest I wanted to stay for the next episode but my two friends reminded me of the task still to complete. So we left.

Initially we had intended to get a taxi east but we began walking anyway, hoping to hail one as we moved. Over the Clyde and into Bridgeton, in the sunny remnant of the day we strolled, after ten minutes forgetting the taxi idea.

Bridgeton isn’t a thriving district, hasn’t been for decades, and a sign of this is the complete absence of any kind of hostelry apart from the main artery, London Road. We reached that road sooner than expected and kept going towards Parkhead.

Even a small Orange march didn’t stop us. We had the time to detour through Dalmarnock and look at the area that’s been most affected by the Games.

The athletes’ village, The Chris Hoy Velodrome, the Emirates Arena and various new roads are all here and at much cost to the locals. Apart from the massive loss of housing and residents moved from streets they’ve lived in for generations, those that are left have had local shops and services closed meaning a long walk to Bridgeton.

Even more serious is the closure, to make way for the Village, of the Accord Centre for vulnerable adults and their carers. But don’t worry; they have these shiny new sports centres to use for their recreation. Unfortunately, unlike Glasgow Green, they are far from free



As mentioned above, those two new centres are key Commonwealth venues, as is the neighbouring Celtic Park. So I should really have picked three pubs but Turnstiles, The London Tavern and The Springfield Vaults were closed, either for good or because the main football season was over.

So, we walked halfway up Springfield Road to the Oak Bar, this being the only bar within 500 metres of any of these venues. The Oak would sit near the top of most people’s lists of forbidding exteriors and there was some reluctance from my pals to entering.

However, there was no more than five seconds of lingering looks from the folk inside, and within a minute we had our pints in our mitts. We were in the Lounge Bar area but never have I seen less of a distinction between that and The Saloon Bar, which you walk through to get to the Gents. The only difference apparent being the younger ages in the saloon.

Those toilets are very basic but I’ve seen far worse, particularly in coastal resort bars in France or Spain. There is a wee bit of stained-glass partitioning on the wooden bar counter in the lounge but this nice detail is undermined by the counter being a two-tone affair, as if it’s been repaired numerous times after a hatchet attack, heaven forbid. Ignore my flights of imagination, there will be another, more boring, reason.

Some folk might also dislike the stone floor but it fits with the pub and is far better than carpet, which hardly ever works in any decent bar. LJ and 48-inch chest were enjoying their time here and were more reluctant to leave than they had been entering earlier. But I insisted on the time schedule. It was after 8.

Once we had left the Oak Bar they even suggested another in The Five Ways or The Anchor Bar just up the road on Gallowgate but here we split. They were off to meet some others in and around High Street while I was going further east.



Near Parkhead Cross, the 61 arrived at my stop. The last of the these roads was the route to the last Games’ venue – Tollcross Swimming Arena – and its nearest pub, The Bells.

Reaching there just before 9 I ordered quickly in a pub that was moderately busy. With the light only beginning to dwindle what features are of note could be seen clearly. These include what looks like a decently-aged gantry, stained glass booth partitions and a well-maintained wooden floor.

The Special was off so I picked the John Smith’s instead, a bad choice. I moved around the interior looking for some more interviewees, despite the earlier strife in Montfords. In doing so, I noticed the space outside to the back. Enough space for a beer garden but not capitalised upon.

While I’m still looking around, an old guy nudges me and asks – “Do you work over the road?”
“I work over some road, yes.” I grin.
But he ignores my glibness and continues – “In that swimming place. We get some of them in here occasionally.”
“Very occasionally, I’ll bet.” He sort of nods and takes a sip from his dark pint.

“A quiet lot.”
“Mm.”
“But they were handing out all their leaflets and shit. Smiled at us and left.”
“Unsociable bunch, then?”
“Yep”, he sniffs. “This kind of life is beneath them.”

I don’t know how to beat that. He’s summed it up. But I try.
“You know their boss is a Yank wrestler?”
He nods. “I’ve thought about that. We can’t even trust one of our own to run the damn thing.”

“Aye, David Giffen is…
“I’d have that cunt on that shiny floor and show him wrestling. I’d thrash him easily, he’d be weighed down with those saddlebags full of cash – fucking cowboy.”

I tipped my hat to the fellow and he kept me amused for another three quarters of an hour with his anecdotes, most of which I can’t repeat for fear of the libel polis.

That was the best of Bells for me – it got busier but it was a mild evening and I wanted a bit of alfresco. I’d overheard chat about The Waverley along the road and its area out back.

It was only a hundred yards away – a bigger bar with a younger clientele. The main difference is the outdoor facilities – loads of tables filling an area of about 200 square metres. No greenery but an abundance of fresh air.

Everyone else knew each other it seemed, but being the only stranger isn’t new to me so I drank in the atmosphere as the light and the adventure faded into a gentle haze. I had a few more and listened a bit longer – to the nearby conversations and my thoughts.

There had been eight (or was it nine?) bars and a great day/night out. I’d covered west to east, via the south and traced experiences possible to any Games visitor seeking refreshment near any venue.

A special day, then, but also really no different than any random cross section I could have taken to reveal the relationship between Glasgow and its pubs. And only one of millions of such tales of revelry across generations of Glaswegians. A sense of one’s own insignificance is invaluable for any reviewer/writer.

That last realisation prompted my departure. The number 2 bus, another cross-city traveller, sat with its engine idling a few streets away. It was ready for me and vice versa.


POSTSCRIPT

The Games are finished and the sports centres are open again. Leaving that revealing dichotomy aside, it can be said that the consensus is the XVI Commonwealth Games were well run and those involved had a memorable time. In those narrow terms, then, it could be called a success for Glasgow.

And Games’ grandees trumpet the achievements of regeneration, greater sporting participation, the enhancement of the city’s tourist potential and a myriad of other benefits detailed in their press folders.

However, many respected analysts dispute the scale and veracity of these achievements and other of us wonder why it needs a sporting jamboree to do these things that the city needs?

And why, in the process, were Glaswegians from some of the poorest areas of our city decanted from their homes and/or deprived of vital community facilities? As the husband of Margaret Jaconelli put it during the final throes of their eviction from the family home in Dalmarnock – “It takes them 40 policemen and chainsaws and this is what they do to Glasgow citizens just so some idiots get to run around in shorts for two weeks.”

He put it better in those few fraught seconds than I have in over 4,000 words.

2014 And All That

2014 AND ALL THAT

In this big year for Glasgow and Scotland with the Commonwealth Games and the independence referendum, here’s a look at these events and their impact upon the nation and the licensed trade.


This piece began a few weeks ago on the rural back roads of Northern Ireland. I was lost, it was raining and my recently re-heeled boots were somehow letting in. The car and my companions, including even The Muse, had abandoned me an hour earlier as I insisted on finding an elusive and secluded watering hole of yore and of some repute.

I had mislaid the directions received from a bloke on the ferry from Cairnryan but I was determined to find this place, even if it meant getting wetter and colder and the roads/lanes getting even narrower.

At a bend, just under an arch of dripping ash trees, something struck me. No, nothing solid. Nothing automotive. A thought. More than that. An internal command. Stop searching for the past. Look ahead.

Simple. Straightforward. And it is an easier action, really. We’re made to look forward, our heads face that way. Yes, there is comfort in the past but it is often illusory and involves a re-writing of one’s history. So, while in this progressive state of mind there is no option but to examine 2014 and its promise.

It could be a big year, so they say. The biggest in 300 of them, or 700 if you look at it another way. Aye, the Referendum. This is not the forum to discuss it other than to observe that in 1707 the Parcel of Rogues sold Scotland for money and now, according to latest research most of the population would “sell” or “buy” independence merely on how it affects their pocket. No mention of national pride, self-determination, or allegiance to past martyrs to the cause. Very sad.

And Glasgow hosts the Commonwealth Game, meaning it has its hands on the biggest sporting event here for… er… 28 years. Put that way it doesn’t sound as impressive, does it?

We have been told that the Games will benefit the city in many ways. The health of the population will drastically improve, world status will be bestowed, total East End regeneration will occur and tourist money will pour in - in trillions. That’s it. Nothing more than those pretty modest objectives.

Six months from takeoff and even those limited ambitions look, well, ambitious. Agreed, Glasgow will receive more global attention than in a normal year but with the status of the Commonwealth Games as a whole diminishing and its very continued existence placed in real recent doubt, a well-funded and imaginative marketing campaign could have achieved that increased attention on its own and at a far lower cost.

Glasgow has a record of relatively successful self-promotion from innocent efforts such as Glasgow’s Miles Better to morally dubious re-brandings such as The Merchant City. There has been a too heavy emphasis on high-end retailing as if Buchanan and Ingram Streets can be enough to drive a whole city while the rest is neglected. Meanwhile, aspects of our culture that didn’t quite fit with Glasgow’s shiny remade image, such as our traditional pubs, were neglected or purposely sidelined. Glasgow and Scotland do bars and hospitality well, yet the powers that be felt that our drinking culture should be hidden and certainly not celebrated.

Things may have improved since politicians finally realised that alcohol “problems” were fuelled by home drinking not in pubs and clubs but I have yet to see a decent, coherent, campaign promoting Glasgow licensed venues during or before the Games’ build-up.

In this absence I’m intending to do my modest best with a couple of ideas to help the still-beleagured industry. Watch this and related web spaces.

As for East End regeneration, Dalmarnock, the district with the most Games’ building work, has been eviscerated leaving wide-open spaces adjoining the massive new arenas. Some of what has gone is no great loss but the local community have lost a number of amenities and have to travel to Bridgeton for essentials such as a Post Office.

The Emirates Arena and Chris Hoy Velodrome (yeah, the same Chris Hoy who, with impeccable timing, retired just before his “home” Games) are to be used by the public after the Games but charges will have to be reduced before locals can experience them. And the Athletes’ Village ability to form housing after August may have been compromised by the, allegedly, cheap plumbing.

The tourists will need places to eat and drink while in the East End but – correct me if I’m wrong – no new cafes, restaurants or pubs have opened. The pub bit isn’t surprising when you remember the council’s restrictive policy on new licences. Meanwhile, the restaurant owners in the Merchant City lick their lips at the thought of inflated takings. Not to mention the hotel chains poised to raise their tariffs by percentages running into the thousands.

Money will be come, undoubtedly, but to the wrong people. To the same people as before. Rebirth of neglected areas will be stillborn without a radical midwife, prescribing redistribution. Not only financial, but of opportunity – educational and social.

And there’s more sport… A golf event up in leafy Gleneagles in which some generous people have volunteered their labour to help out holding scoreboards, raking bunkers, corralling the crowd… wait, I hear they are having to pay for the privilege. Paying to work?! Run that by me again. They are paying to… Alongside the 24 golfer millionaires who won’t pay for a thing.

But it’s not all doom and inequality. I look forward to new bar openings such as Hyde (wait a moment, I mentioned this last year too) with its daring sun terrace, one of the very few that have been purpose-built. And any other new pubs that are similarly exciting or do something a wee bit different.

I continue to hope that we allow ourselves to celebrate our drinking culture and tradition instead of our usual self-flagellation and that pride in what we are translates into a burgeoning hospitality sector for Scots and tourists to enjoy, whether this September sees independence or not.

And on that fateful day and night I have another choice to make - other than the private one in the polling booth – the bar to pick in which to celebrate the new age or drown in sorrow.

The Parkhead Shuffle

O'Kanes, 174 Westmuir Street, Parkhead, Glasgow G31 5BS 0141 550 3154
The Prince Charlie, 89 Westmuir Street, Parkhead, Glasgow G31 5EU 0141 554 0420
The Old Black Bull, 1318 Gallowgate, Glasgow, G31 4DR 0141 551 0400

I was halfway through my journey. From one train station, Shettleston, to another. The trip had had its interest already, some new places surveyed, and some old re-visited. They had been on and around Shettleston Road, now I was on Westmuir Street approaching Parkhead Cross. It was late afternoon and the light was going. A decent half-mile walk had got me here and now it was time for my next stop.

O’Kane’s

O’Kane’s the name of the pub. Punter power got this pub returned to its original title after a name-change to the Two Bells. A plain exterior and the first pub I’ve entered through a front fire-door, the actual main door seemingly out of use.

As in most East End bars there’s not a huge range of trendy drinks like craft beers, obscure malts or exotic spirits but there tends to be a good selection of draught beers, lager to heavy to special to light and with a Sassenach like John Smith’s thrown in.

I went for a half of 60 shillings or light. Lighter in colour and strength and very smooth and drinkable. A drink hard to get in the city centre. The half got a raised eyebrow from the lady host and I almost took out my medical diagnosis to explain my wimpery. But what was the point? I just admired the extra shiny beer pumps instead. Quite remarkable they were, “like fucking mirrors,” as Billy Batts from Goodfellas said before he got stamped to a pulp.

The interior in O’Kane’s is a square room roughly sectioned, with a few tables mostly against walls. Over to my left as I stood at the bar were tables near to a wall. Seven or eight folk sat at them. They looked like an extended family, because there wasn’t much chat but they were comfortable and content with each other.

What was strange though was the way they all sat with their backs to the wall, all of them in a row together, not facing each other, but all facing out towards the rest of the room, the bar and me. I retired to the toilets and here I discovered a business opportunity. Supplying U-bends to Glasgow pubs. This was the third pub today with a leaking U-bend, the dirty drips ending up in a old bucket underneath. Not very nice, but where there’s muck there’s brass…

The Prince Charlie

I left the happy family to it and crossed the road to the next beckoning lights. The Prince Charlie. Significantly with no Bonnie. A wider frontage to this one with a deep lounge-bar half to it that was deserted as lounges often are. The other half was reasonably busy for the time of day, demographics mostly in the 54-63 grouping (honestly, I’m not looking to get in to marketing).

Another long counter here, on the left as you look from the door. Long, because I reckon in a traditional bar like this and most of the rest in the east end, quick customer service is the priority over any ideas of style or maximising floor space. The longer the counter the quicker the service, as long as your staffing is adequate.

At this time of day, 5ish on a weekday, speed of service isn’t an issue, the drink in my hand within 30 seconds. Vivid green seating grabs one’s attention in here, a sheen off the leather. This mainly because of the harsh strip lighting that’s been a common denominator in pubs all day. Pub operators should know by now that bright lights and imbibing don’t go together. A far cry from around 100 years ago when bar designers actively factored in the effect of lighting on their interior and elegant fittings.

This wasn’t going to be a long stop. A welcoming enough place but things were happening elsewhere, I was sure.

Parkhead Cross

Out on the street again, walking up towards Parkhead Cross. I paused, thinking about turning left onto Tollcross Road, an area with a couple of unvisited joints. Instead, though, I kept going west. Parkhead Cross like many old meetings of the way in the East End has seen better days, the tenements frayed a little and shops mainly consisting of take-aways, beauty salons, solicitors, bookies etc The pubs, so far, the handful there are, are also well past their heydays.

Round onto Gallowgate I peeked into the Anchor (very quiet) & The Five Ways ( a reference to the amount of roads that meet here), whose claim to fame is that John Gorevan, Glasgow’s pub historian, describes it as “still the clattiest pub in Parkhead”. Quite an accolade.

The Old Black Bull

I crossed to the other side of Gallowgate and entered the famous Old Black Bull. A pub of this name has been here since 1760, but despite this it does not qualify as Glasgow’s oldest because the original was demolished.

Most pubs, no matter how ‘traditional’ will have had refurbs of sorts at some point in the last 30-40 years but in here, even though this is the ‘new’ Old Black Bull, I don’t think so. The red beams seem to have been here from the start, and the layout is completely unaffected by any recent trends, just a long counter on one side of the room.

Quite a few locals were in, including an older chap with three Asda bags clinking together unmistakeably. Probably getting in a draught drink before the real session later with the contents of his bags.

Off to my left, sitting at a table, a younger guy, rather dishevelled, was holding this big blue board. It looked like a wibbly, bendy thing you could play tunes with a la Rolf Harris. But to make sure, I whispered a question to a guy on my right, asking what the board was. “A dominoes’ board” was the answer. This showed up my lack of knowledge on pub games, a gap certainly. My guess, apart from the musical one, might have been shuffle, sorry, shove ha’penny.

A few minutes later and I was down to the dregs on another of my half pints. I Needed to check out the toilets, for the U Bend survey, and a review isn’t complete without this aspect.

Walking past the cubicle I nudged its door, I have to check out every inch you see. It gave a little, obviously unoccupied.

I did my business at the trough, washed my hands, observing an intact U Bend and moved back towards the toilet exit. This time I pushed open the cubicle door fully, to check on the plumbing and cleanliness.

There was the guy, the board fellow. Trousers at ankles. With maybe another kind of shuffling going on. He didn’t seem to register my presence, me probably getting more of a shock than him.

I was out of there like a flash, mortified. Because I hadn’t even apologised to the guy. No stopping either for the last of my drink, out the door and into the night. I had more work to do, you see. Bridgeton Cross was next. The walk ahead a long dark mile. I would spend the time thinking of a business plan and a name. How does BBUB Plumbing Services sound?