Free Strathbungo

The Rum Shack, 657-659 Pollokshaws Road, Glasgow G41 2AB
The Allison Arms, 720 Pollokshaws Road, G41 2AD
Heraghty's Bar, 708 Pollokshaws Road, G41 2AD
Kelly's Bar, 686-688 Pollokshaws Road, G41 2QB
The Salisbury Bar, 72 Nithsdale Road, G41 2AN


I neglect the Southside. Just like some people neglect an unassuming cousin or an earnest columnist. Every so often – of course – a new bar opens and my interest is piqued – for an hour or two. Sometimes longer, if there is a concerted development in an area.

The last time this occurred was over a decade ago around Shawlands Cross, the Southside’s only real nightlife hub. Since then, things have quietened in that particular zone, partly due to the recession.

The most recent scene of activity is further up Pollokshaws Road, at Strathbungo. The Bungo, for instance, on Nithsdale Road is at the forefront of a number of bars, restaurants and innumerable coffee shops opening here in the last three to four years.

Being part of a mini-empire including The Left Bank (Gibson Street) and The Two Figs (lower Byres Road), it has a relatively high profile, a large flexible interior and a downstairs space that has been utilised for a variety of arts events. Add to that the fact that I ate one of the best curries of my life (Goan fish) in The Left Bank and I should like The Bungo.

But it lacks the edge you feel in the best bars, it’s a little too respectable. And it does feel like a West End import. Also, I had an unpleasant confrontation with one of the co-owners when she was a humble barperson at Oran Mor. She took great exception to me exploring the about-to-open brasserie/wine bar. Thus, I am reluctant to ever add another penny to her fortune by imbibing in any of her establishments.

Over Nithsdale Road is The Salisbury. Previously a coffee shop called Cookie, this re-invention is notable for its large selection of gins. Despite the offsetting of the more traditional Titwood and Samuel Dow bars in the same street, some locals regard the area as being under attack by gentrification – more on this later.

If you return to Pollokshaws Road, you look right and see Mulberry, a place that still regards itself as “the Southside’s coolest bar/bistro.” It isn’t. And I’m afraid, even a decade a go, it wasn’t. All-round media man Dominik Diamond was a frequenter in those days – that tells one all one needs.

To your left, are a number of more “authentic” locals, including Kelly’s. It also has a Diamond connection. He claimed in his autobiography that he experienced his nadir when he found himself consuming vast amounts cocaine in Kelly’s toilets, either before or after a Celtic game. Not quite the same as an epiphany in Groucho’s but he has since “found himself” again, this time as a decent God-fearing fellow, I believe.
So bully for him.

The nearest bar to Kelly’s is Heraghty’s. I believe it shares its neighbour’s footballing allegiance but surpasses it in terms of interior. It is well-preserved and has an interesting nook by the door.





A nice wee place, but the most rewarding joint on this side of the street is the Allison Arms. The stone-clad frontage reminds me of the Doublet and the now-defunct Mackintoshes. The use of brick is continued indoors with varied effect, looking scrappy in places. In fact, at first look the whole interior is slightly ramshackle, and it looks like a very basic knock-through extension has taken place sometime in the last 30 years or so, without much effort to smooth the marriage, so to speak.

However, there are a couple of details that made me warm to the place. The wooden gantry is beautifully bowed with age. OK, so there are lots more impressive-looking gantries in this city, but not many that speak of their longevity and of witnessing years of good times quite so vividly.

And there is an original spittoon! It makes my day seeing one of these. There are only a handful left in Glasgow, their presence very welcome despite their present-day redundancy. Spitting in a bar?! It’s almost as heinous as getting drunk.

But if you do want to at least approach that state, you can take your pick from a healthy variety of unusual bottled beers from around the globe – three fridges-full of them. This kind of offering is the best price-efficient way of bars offering a wide range without the cost of putting on draught – showing that the craft-beer revolution has spread its influence very far.

In this kind of bar you can thus have the best of both worlds – a good choice of tasty beers in an environment free of bearded nerds blethering on about cask-conditioning. Did I mention Brewdog?

If I did it is as a contrast to the free house over the road from the Allison Arms – The Rum Shack. This is very much a one-off, especially round here. The name gives it away – a Caribbean experience. And before you groan about yet another themed joint, this place isn’t just another chain tiki bar, it is run by people with a genuine feel for that part of the world and its culture.

In this site used to be Strathie’s and, more famously, The Kind Man’s, and housed a snooker hall downstairs. That same space now holds regular music nights; reggae, soul, blues and ragtime the constituent parts of a body of sounds that rivals that of many dedicated musical venues.

Five minutes into The Rum Shack and I notice the presence of Ford Kiernan. Ho-hum. Five minutes after that, and in comes Bruce Morton, a comedian I’ve always found more interesting than the former chap. They began talking. I tried to eavesdrop. Not ethical but good if you want an edge to your piece with some insider information.

But I couldn’t get close enough, so used my imagination instead. It came up with a new sitcom. Or an agitprop radio series of which you used to hear pretty regularly on public broadcasting. Or just a coming night at The Stand.

I left with my questions unanswered, but with a free magazine in my hand – Art Village Voice – Arts and Culture in the Southside. Later, I read a piece within by Mr. Morton. The article was part of his ongoing satire – the Greater Shawlands Republic, in which he campaigns for Southside autonomy from the market-driven claws of GCC and its encouragement of gentrification.

A funny wee read, from a man passionate about this area – not bad for a guy from Paisley. And his aim is to create what could be described as a funky republic, of which The Rum Shack could be a mini version.

The magazine also features a number of local artists, the most interesting of which, if I can tender my second artistic opinion of this piece, is Brian W McFie – look out for his work.

On the back of the magazine, restaurateur Domenico Crolla showcases his pizzas which feature likenesses of celebs such as Gino D’Acampo, Tom Ford and Jay Z. He describes these things as works of art. I’m sorry, Mr Crolla, volunteering my third artistic judgement - this blog is closer to that definition than your pieces of dough, tomato and cheese.

The Yards of Belfast

The Pavilion, 269 Ormeau Road, Belfast
The National Grande Cafe, 62-68 High Street, Belfast
The Dirty Onion, 3 Hill Street, Belfast
The Spaniard, 3 Skipper Street, Belfast
The Hudson, 10-12 Gresham Street, Belfast

It is now a tradition. We spend Christmas in Northern Ireland. With The Muse’s family. That means rural living for a few days. It makes a nice change from the city, the WiFi blackspots notwithstanding.

But if Belfast calls I don’t take long to answer. I’ve been drinking in its scene for over a decade and I’m always keen on a re-acquaintance. The most recent of these was Boxing Day night with a companion who is a resident of the city. The Muse and BB Junior were heading back further west leaving me with some exploring time.

Our first stop was The Pavilion, nicknamed The Big House, on Ormeau Road. Situated about two miles east of the city centre it can be considered a ‘local’ but it gathers custom from further afield. Part of its fame is its big brother, Lavery’s. That too might have been on our agenda but as things turned out we decided against giving that place or any its relations a glimpse of our greenbacks.

The Pavilion/Big House is housed a red-brick Victorian/Edwardian building of the kind found in the more prosperous areas of the city; an architectural feature that has more in common with England than with Scotland.



The place boasts a public bar, boutique bar, loft bar, pool room and roof terrace. An impressive list. The public bar, on the ground floor, is traditional in appearance with some decent features worth a second look. I was doing just that – having left my friend to order while talking to a fellow he appeared to know at the counter – when a harsh noise made me turn.

A woman was slapping my companion about the head and screaming. Yeah, you read it right. My eyes were thinking they were seeing things, too. And it got crazier. I step in and pull her away only to be told by the fellow at the bar, “If you touch her I’ll kill you.”

Who knows where things would have gone because here the action was brought to halt by the cavalry, sorry, the bouncers. They proceeded to escort US out the premises. But we weren’t worried; the male and female stewards were very reasonable and told us they would check the CCTV before doing anything. Then the head steward arrived – a big, bald chap with an unfeasibly high voice. More reasonableness will follow, I thought.

“You have to get out,” he said. “They’ve been here for hours and you’ve only just arrived.” My mouth must have fallen open. Or if it didn’t, I should have prised it into that position. How else can you respond to such a perversion of logic? The guy would brook no argument. Eventually, we just shrugged our shoulders. I did consider asking him when, exactly, his balls were gonna drop, but decided against it. Within two minutes we had a taxi, and within ten we were over the river and into Belfast city centre proper.



We visited four more bars/clubs that night and three of the four had massive outdoor areas, all well used despite the biting cold. I believe the locals call these “yards”. Even if they don’t, they should. It’s an evocative word that harks back to older drinking days.

But these bars - The National Grand Cafe, Dirty Onion and The Hudson – aren’t old-fashioned drinking dens, they are modern places that attract a predominantly youngish crowd. Maybe a bit too homogeneous on a normal weekend night but on Boxing Day night you get more of a mix.

The latter two bars have yards that are so extensive they merge almost seamlessly with the indoor parts. In The Hudson you walk around the labyrinthine collection of upstairs and downstairs; side room and back room; and yard without really realising where you are, only the slight change in temperature providing a clue.

Amongst these visits we also managed to sneak a quick G&T in The Spaniard, a small bar with no outside provision that, because of its size and warming interior, always has a decent atmosphere. It could just as easily sit in a port in the eponymous country or by a canal in Amsterdam; such is its Europhile nature.



A couple more observations will suffice – Dirty Onion has a section of its yard that is non-smoking. For no reason. Silly enough in itself but even more so the punters standing in this section in the chilly conditions. Why would you?

The Hudson was our last stop. Unusually for Belfast it is open until 2am, the extra hour something we appreciated as we compared whisky with whiskey until last orders.

An hour and a half earlier we had queued for 5-10 minutes as the bouncers regulated the intake. We, and those around us, were patient, knowing that it was only a matter of brief time. A dark-haired woman arrived and immediately walked to the front of the queue and began talking to the door people. She was wearing one of those ridiculous, full-length puffa coats and – admittedly – quite elegant high heels.

She said she was on the guest list and she needed to get in right away. At first the staff seemed amenable but then realised she was on no list on any clipboard they could find. She wasn’t happy and her tone changed accordingly. Very reasonably, the main bouncer told her all she had to do was queue, like everyone else, and she would get in. But if she insisted on being a pain they would have to insist on barring her entry altogether.

Of course, the head doorperson didn’t quite have that turn of phrase, but that was the gist of it. The moral is – don’t try to convince people of your glamour and connections when you look like a penguin in stilettos.

For those of you interested in exactly why my mate was set upon in our first pub of the night – it was to do with ongoing fallout from an ex. No need to say more.

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.

A Commonwealth Crawl - Part 2

The Park, 442 Paisley Road West, Glasgow G51
Montford House, 23-27 Curtis Avenue, Glasgow, G44 4QD
The New Oasis, 57 Dougrie Drive, Glasgow, G45 9AD

Ibrox and neighbouring Cessnock are deprived areas with some disgraceful housing stock. The back streets are lined with crumbling tenements, most of which are owned by disreputable, irresponsible landlords who treat their tenants dreadfully.

Due to council and central government inaction this state of affairs is repeated across many parts of Glasgow and while it remains any money spent on an outmoded sports event is surely frivolous.

I work in the district and have used all the local pubs, I believe, one of a handful of a large office complement to have done so. Almost all colleagues/neighbouring businesses only frequent the Co-Op and two semi-trendy sandwich shops. All too typical of the middle/semi-professional class not to spend their money in places they regard as beneath their status.

The closest pub to Ibrox stadium is The Louden Tavern. A massive blue booze emporium that goes in for hyperbole – “The Most Famous Pub In Scotland” and “The Quintessential Rangers Supporters’ Bar” are just some of the banners used by it and its two sister venues that make up a mini chain.

But for various reasons I couldn’t embark on this crawl during the football season so this particular Louden’s was closed. But only a five-minute walk took me into Cessnock and The Park. Like Louden’s it only comes alive on match days. I visited both last year when the other Rangers – Berwick – came to town and witnessed much singing and drinking but today there was none of the former and little of the latter. “Only early” one might say, but this is the norm for The Park most of the time.



It’s big inside but very gloomy with a bar counter too small for the interior. A pool table does nothing to lighten the mood and the range of drinks is relatively small. Saturday night will be an improvement but only marginally. The pub sits on a corner with waste ground to its right and a sorry, little landscaped garden to the rear.

Space for a decent beer garden, sure, but where’s the money for it? And amidst the decay and poverty of Cessnock the thought of such is almost in bad taste.

There are better pubs around here, The Kensington and the pristine District Bar most notably and I passed them both in the number 9 along Paisley Road West heading east. My next connection was in town – the number 75 heading south from Glassford Street.

But time was getting a bit ahead of me so when I got off the 9 and jogged to the appropriate bus stop I took the chance of gaining some minutes by jumping three buses down to a number 7 which advertised Hampden as one of its stops.

“Great”, I thought, “I’ll make it to the next pub a few minutes earlier than hoped and maybe enjoy the luxury of lingering.” Not to be. I realised this as soon as we forked right towards Victoria Road. Hampden would be a stop but only an approximate one well to the west of the stadium, the wrong side.

It takes a rapid 15-minute walk to get to the right side and to my designated pub, Montford House. There’s another pub almost equidistant from the stadium, The Beechwood but the Montford is closer and slightly more welcoming.

Not to say it’s striking or of architectural note, as you can see. The interior is no more remarkable, generic with carpets and pale wooden fixtures. Both outer and inner were far more impressive when it opened as a free house in the 1960s. Now it’s denuded and owned by Belhaven



It’s meant to be comfortable and conducive to moderate consumption of drink and, more importantly, in this sort of joint, food. Burgers, fish and chips, steak sandwiches, fajitas, lasagne and garlic bread. All selected from laminate menus. Maybe there’s even a curry night?

There’s a split-level with a lounge area up top that is only distinguished from the other area by higher-backed booths. There is more than just plain-fare food and drink marketed here, sport on TV, or more specifically, football on TV. A lot of pubs are the same, some are just more blatant about it.

Today it’s the English Football League Play-offs. But the World Cup pennants are out too, branded with various sponsor logos. The mostly middle-aged men in here don’t seem the type to be turned on by pennants but they are intent on the football.

I order a bottle of beer and a small brandy and settle to watch a bit of it myself. But I’m up on my feet when I remember what I’m here for. Time for a Vox Pop. The first guy edges away towards the window as I take a seat at his booth. His 55-year-old mouth is open and ready with some exclamation but I get in first –
“What you think about The Games, pal?”

It’s as if I’m punching him in the face. Startled pain. “Uh…?” He looks around for help. No-one is looking. I feel like easing his discomfort but know my role. I stare at him.

“What you want me to say?” he blurts.
“I don’t want you to say anything.”
“OK, then.” He is looking relieved. But this is no good. “No comment” isn’t enough.

“What about Chris Hoy not making the effort to compete in his home Games. Any thoughts on that?”
“Aye, well, guy needs to… you know, cash in while he can…”
This bloke is warming to it. Time for more probing.

“Are you a fucking journo?!”
Somebody has been watching me at work. I half turn towards the seating from which the cry has come. “Do I look like a sorry category of vermin?!” I retort, regretting immediately the comparison – sorry, rats and your cousins.

I look fully at the new guy. Him and his two buddies are hard-faced and smiling simultaneously. Disconcerting.

Sliding out from the booth while checking my two drinks are virtually done I walk over to them. Because they are between the door and I. There’s no sound as I leave, only the football commentary at another crescendo.

There is a 75 in less than ten minutes and I’m rattling up into Glasgow’s surrounding hills. As this is a continuation of my earlier route the frequency isn’t a surprise. Glasgow’s travel service is fine for getting into and away from the city centre but for anything else it is quite useless.

Castlemilk is my target now, the closest habitation with a hostelry to the Cathkin Braes mountain biking venue. Near a shopping centre I get off, and down the hill and at the back of it is the New Oasis.



Probably only the locals and John Gorevan, pub historian, know of its existence in this quiet street. But unless you are offended by an OAP hanging about the door in his Adidas tracksuit you should go in if nearby. If you do a big interior awaits and white “butcher” tiling under and behind the counter, put there years before it became trendy.

Whether its most recent refurb was in the ‘70s or early ’80s may be discerned by design experts from the faux gas lamps and disproportionately large fans. The battered look of all the seating confirms that it’s been a long, long time since the pub has been decorated and/or refitted.

But so what? The, mostly, older guys in here like coming, and the trophies on display indicate that it’s a social club as much as a bare place of refreshment. I recall a snooty review of this place on Yelp, or similar parasite site, in which an out-of-towner ripped into the place rubbishing its punters and the smell of its toilets. Ignorance masquerading as refinement. Don’t bother returning, pal.

I was happy to lean back and relax and savour my pint of Special at a point more than halfway through the trek. I didn’t talk to anyone about the Games. They won’t affect anyone in here, even though they will have all paid in at least some way towards the extravaganza.

There could be strong views in here or just indifference. Anyway, life in and around the New Oasis will continue roughly as before.

Once I’ve finished my pint, I linger outside for a couple of minutes, looking north down onto the late-afternoon city. A grand view. The strong sun delineates between concrete and sandstone, wasteland and park, high-rise and tenement. I pull myself away from any sentimentality and start walking towards the main road and a bus downtown to Glasgow’s oldest place of recreation.

A Commonwealth Crawl - Part 1

McNabbs, 1552 Dumbarton Road, Glasgow G14 9DB
Butchershop Bar & Grill, 1055 Sauchiehall Street, Glasgow G3 7UD


Glasgow and sport have a bad relationship. We residents of Scotland’s largest city aren’t bad at watching it but pretty pitiful in actually doing it. For instance, can you name the last professional world-class footballer born and brought up in this town? Kenny Dalglish? No-one since. In 40 years. And in other major sports it’s even longer.

It may be the aim of the Commonwealth Games organisers to increase sports participation and improve these kinds of dire figures but I haven’t seen it particularly emphasised and decisions such as closing Scotstoun Sports Centre from June 27th until August without organising adequate alternatives are indicative of the real priorities of the council and the CG organisation.

But it’s not about action it’s about THE MESSAGE and that is, supposedly, a healthy and wealthy Glasgow of today and the future. A message so transparently bogus and full of bad faith that it needs to be challenged or ignored, whatever one feels is more effective.

For that reason I set about subverting the spin of officialdom with a tour you won’t see in any promotional guide.

The Glaswegian’s default point of contact with sport is the pub, watching it on TV. So, I picked a number of pubs that stand nearest to the main Games venues – Ibrox, Scotstoun, Kelvingrove, Hampden, Cathkin Braes, Glasgow National Hockey Centre, Chris Hoy Velodrome, Celtic Park and Tollcross.

I planned having at least a pint in each bar. Not unlike other crawls I’ve done and described before, only a little longer and this with a more discernible theme. It was completed in a oner but for ease of reading it’s been split into three parts.



Scotstoun Sports Centre will be hosting the badminton and is the furthest west of all the venues thus closest to the new Bar Biographer HQ. A frequent bus service made this first stop easy to reach but things would get harder.

Granny Gibbs is virtually equidistant from the sports centre as McNabbs but I chose the latter because I haven’t yet featured it, even though it is the closest pub to my old abode.

The place has a bit of an unfortunate reputation, unfair even. The first time I asked a local about it he called the place McStabs. When I laughed half-heartedly and asked him why he recounted a tale, possibly apocryphal, of an unlucky punter attacked by a knife-wielding thug. He lay writhing near the counter only to be given seconds by another, seemingly unrelated assailant.

Nasty stuff and a reputation encouraged by darkened, blinded windows allowing passers-by zero view of the interior. But if they were to enter instead of just passing by they would find a surprisingly comfortable interior with plenty of wood finishing. A wee haven of a place entirely unthreatening.

McNabb’s is thus good for a winter’s night when it has the required cosiness but comes even more into its own in the high summer, when the tables go out onto the wide Scotstoun pavement and drinkers and the afore-mentioned passers-by interact with what you could call gusto, if you weren’t from round here.

But ordering a quick half and half in order to get the engines running early – midday – after another, ahem, assignment the previous evening I was surprised to have to twice explain their spirits range to the barmaid. She thought the Jameson I requested wasn’t there despite the infallible presence of the bottle on the shelf over her left shoulder.

Not the first time I’ve educated a bar person and won’t be the last. I don’t mind and I do it for free but it’s minus marks for the bar.



Only one of the reasons, then, that I didn’t linger, the main one being the seven bars – at least – that lay ahead. So, I was onto the number 2 bus, within 20 minutes of entering McNabb’s, heading east along Dumbarton Road.

Sitting directly opposite the reinvigorated Kelvingrove Lawn Bowls Centre on the outskirts of the oh, so hipster Finnieston is the Butchershop Bar and Grill.

I hadn’t been a fan of its name (see my whole post on the of the use of the term “grill” in bars and restaurants) nor its marketing message of beef cuts and hatchets, merely because it had been done many times before.

On the up side their take on contemporary crispness – bare wooden floors, exposed stone walls and other minimalism – does convince more than most. And they have toned down the bovine branding.

I travelled with the intention of an alfresco drink but clouds greeted me and the outside area was unappealing. However, since this visit they have introduced new decking furniture, which is very attractive and will help to draw more attention to the place.

There was no need to educate any of the staff here, they know their mixology but I only felt like a pint of what LJ calls “cooking” lager. Early on Saturday afternoon it was quiet and not a cocktail atmosphere but therein lies Butchershop’s problem because despite its impressive drink list, expertise and good look it hasn’t yet become a destination bar to rival joints like The Finnieston and the Kelvingrove Café.

Location might be the issue but perhaps the Games will change all that and I notice the operators have placed the event at the heart of their marketing campaign.

“Best of luck” I muttered, sauntering away from the bar and towards the door. “Thanks, buddy”, came the reply, unaware of the scope of my good wishes or the journey before me.

The next leg began on the Underground after doubling back to Kelvinhall station. Three stops to Ibrox.