Category Archives: Work

court in the act (part 1)

By George Cheyne: Glasgow March 2021

It was the same ritual every Monday morning in that summer of 1976, ever since the “train incident” traumatised my mum.

She’d look me up and down as I was leaving for work, her eyes pleading with me once more… but this time with feeling.

“Make sure you’ve got your spare jacket and cap with you,” she’d say. Every-Bloody-Monday.

Admittedly, this piece of sage advice as I was heading out the door was hardly up there with: “Make sure you’ve got clean underwear on – you might get run over by a bus.”

But it meant everything to mum. She needed to know I’d packed the extra clothes as I headed off to Dumbarton Sheriff Court on Mondays to do my job as a 17-year-old cub reporter for a local newspaper.

This was the halcyon days of All The Presidents Men, the true-life movie about how reporters Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein helped bring down the Nixon administration following the Watergate scandal.

However, mum’s inspiration for making sure I had a spare jacket and cap tucked away, lent itself more to 1960s Cold War spy dramas than a film about a 1970s newspaper exposé.

She had been jumpy ever since I was threatened by two thugs on the train back from Dumbarton after covering a court two months before – and insisted I take this cunning disguise along to avoid any repeat.

Monday mornings at the sheriff court was a regular gig for me because there were plenty of good news stories to be picked up for The Clydebank Press back then.

Anyone who had been banged up over the weekend in Clydebank would be taken to Dumbarton Sheriff Court for a plea hearing. Plead guilty and you were dealt with there and then, plead not guilty and a trial date was set.

I would go down there, ferret around in the clerk’s office to see what relevant cases were coming up and then take my front-row seat to watch the wheels of justice turn.

This particular day my two fellow train travellers had been in court to see their brother sent down for six months after a vicious street assault and had obviously been for a few cocktails to mull things over.

So far, so normal. But then fate put the three of us in the same carriage for the train journey back to Clydebank.

I recognised them straight away but thought no more about it as I began scribbling away in my notebook.

In hindsight, this wasn’t the smartest move I’ve ever made.

Two stops later the brothers sidled over to my seat and, with obvious intent, one slipped in beside me and the other across from me. Neat pincer movement, huh?

The one opposite said: “I know you…you were in court this morning. What paper do you work for?”

By now – too late, of course – I realised the folly of using my notebook on the train, so I plumped for my best completely-baffled look as I tried to convince them they had the wrong guy.

“Don’t gie’s it – I recognise yir jaiket,” said my interrogator, “Who do you work for?”

The jacket reference threw me. Why did he pick up on that..did it stand out that much..what was wrong with it..did I still have the receipt? So many questions, so little time.

I’d run out of wriggle room. In my head, I was going to say: “Bob Woodward, Washington Post…how can I help you?” But out my mouth came: “Clydebank Press.”

The glance between the two brothers told me I’d made a big mistake giving out this information so freely. What was I thinking?

Anyway, it became pretty obvious what the two of them were thinking. “We don’t want that story about our brother going in the paper,” said my opposite number as he casually flicked a Bic lighter on and off.

I considered putting across a measured argument about freedom of the press, how we were the eyes and ears of the public and how justice had to be seen to be done – but that self-righteous stance only lasted about a nano-second.

Understandably, thoughts of self-preservation kicked in instead and I mumbled something about how that decision wasn’t up to me.

“Aye, but if you don’t write anything then it cannae  go in,” came the reply.

Trust me to get accosted by two guys who seem to have thought the whole thing through to a logical conclusion. Woodward and Bernstein never had to put up with this shit.

The stand-off – and I use the term loosely because in reality it was two twenty-something hard men going up against a teenager who had no aces up the sleeve of his distinctive-looking jacket – ended when the train pulled in to Dalmuir Station.

They were getting off and I was staying on. There was still time for the obligatory last word from the so-far silent brother: “No story, right! Remember…we know where you work.”

The point was rammed home as he jabbed my arm for every one of the last five syllables. 

Message understood. I got off at the next stop, trudged into the office and unloaded the whole dilemma to my boss.

Only he didn’t see it as a dilemma. This was the 70s, the publish-and-be-damned era, so he said: “We can’t give in to these people, George. Write it up big.” Then an afterthought: “Mmm, I can see how the jacket gave you away.”

That jacket again. Clark Kent never had to put up with this shit.

The story went in the paper that Friday and I spent a lot of time looking over my shoulder whenever I left the office – but thankfully nothing ever came of the threats.

Two things happened after that.
I passed my driving test a few months later so that meant I could hightail it out of Dodge every Monday in safety…and I never wore that bloody jacket again!

bish bash bosh

(Post by David Bishop, from Oxfordshire, March 2021)

Control tower at RAF Lossiemouth, and Lightning aircraft.

I left Bearsden Academy in June 1974, shortly after trouncing somebody in Athletics’ and winning the Sports Cup. I was surprised I was even allowed to take it home for the night – never saw my name engraved on it; never seen the Sports Cup since!

I made the decision to leave school in my 4th year and follow my dream to become an Air Traffic Controller. I was too young to join the National Air Traffic Services (NATS) or as an Officer in the Royal Air Force (RAF) as you had to be the minimum of eighteen. The next best course of action, was to be an Assistant Air Traffic Controller in the RAF, then become an Air Traffic Controller, so that is what I did!

On the 27th August 1974, I swore allegiance to the Queen, her heirs and successors at the RAF CIO on George Street and departed on the 28th to RAF Swinderby via Glasgow Central Station. What an eye opener it was to become.

During my time at Swinderby, I learnt the importance that was placed upon discipline, teamwork and self-reliance. Not forgetting the dreaded Gas Chamber, to give us confidence with our respirator. Okay, it was only CS Gas but it is a great cure for a cold. I went in with a cold (respirator worked), we had to walk about the Chamber, then we had to take the respirator off and give our full name and Service Number, as per the Geneva Convention then we were allowed out – we ran for the exit with streaming eyes, runny nose, and feeling like death, but after blowing my nose, my cold had gone!

What they did not tell you was amazing. I learnt how to make a bed pack out of 3 blankets and 2 sheets wrapped in a bed sheet. If it wasn’t good enough, then out the window it went, no matter the weather. Also, how to clean shoes… The toe caps were like mirrors and you could shave with the crease in your trousers, this was discipline. I could relate so many ditties, but you don’t have a sandbag!

The other notable point that I can print, we had one lad who was a constant fidget, the bugger would not keep still. This ‘upset’ our Corporal Drill Instructor, so he was called out and nailed onto the grass with 6 inch nails. After a couple of hours he was ‘released’, much to our amusement.

An interesting point about our Corporal Drill Instructor, his nephew, he told me, was a couple of years below me at Bearsden Academy! So, if anybody knew a Cpl Smith, later Warrant Officer Smith, Station Warrant Officer at RAF Abingdon, let me know.

Years later I met him at Abingdon, on a liaison trip from Brize Radar (we did the Radar for them) when booking in my car at the Guardroom, he was there… He actually referred me as ‘one of his boys’. I was so pleased I had a haircut that weekend! Sadly, he committed suicide years later, somewhere in Scotland. If you know where he died and his last resting place, let me know please, quite a few people are interested.

Rest in Peace W.O. Smith, you taught us well.

After eventually ‘Passing Out’, I went on a week’s leave. All my mates were at School and really, we had nothing in common then. So I departed again, this time to RAF Shawbury for (at last) my Trade Training.

All this was completed in 6 weeks and quite a few evenings. Pressure, pressure, pressure was the name of the game. Unfortunately no printable funnies, but I did have a few under age pints. Oh yes, to escape the pressure, I watched on Sundays, the series ‘Planet of the Apes’.

On the Monday we were due to finish, we filled out a sheet, as to where we would like to be posted too. This was referred to as a ‘Dream Sheet’, you will find out why soon enough. Being an Englishman from the South Coast, I put down Manston in Kent, Northolt in London and Thorney Island on the coast in Hampshire. So when I was posted to RAF Lossiemouth, near Elgin it came as no surprise to me!

Christmas came 2 weeks after and on New Year’s Eve, a mate suggested I join him at the Bookies. Reluctantly I agreed, I had nothing else to do. As I waited outside while he put his bets on, I noticed a horse called ‘Bishops Serf’ running, odds were 33/1… My mate said, “it had no chance”, so I put my last pound on to win. It actually won… I received more money than my monthly pay which was £28…

RAF Lossiemouth

The last recollection that I can print, which related to my visit with my girlfriend in 1989, when I did a tour of the Highlands to remember where I went to on my 1st posting.

Well the hotel bar I used to frequent, I should say now, the hotel lounge bar, had changed quite a bit over the years. This place was my Elgin bolthole, I never ever took any of my girlfriends to this bar and this place was mine, so over our drinks I related this story to Carol. ‘One evening drinking with the lads about where we are sitting now, one of my mates said, “Hey Bish is that not so and so?”

“Bugger yes it is.” I said.

I said “Hi” to her, as she was with some friends, I didn’t invite her over and then my worst nightmare happened. Not one but two of my current girlfriends walking in, all in their various groups. So in the same place and time, we had the three (3) women I was going out with at the time, in a bar that I have never taken any of them too, together at the same time within 10 feet of each other. My first action was to leg it to the toilets to appraise the situation and see if could get out without being seen by the other two.

No chance the windows in the toilets were barred and no way out apart from walking through the bar. Bugger, bugger, bugger, no way out without being seen, thankfully one of my mates comes in and said “what’s your plan then mate?” I blankly stared back and he said “you are so screwed!” So I went back to join my mates at the table and try and wing it out of this situation I was in. All I could think of was just to grab my coat and sneak out. The best laid plans always go wrong, first one girlfriend, then the second and finally the third joined me at our table. A little scene happened with each woman saying how do you know him? He is my boyfriend, no he isn’t, he’s mine etc. and all I could do was try and slip under the table. Trouble is I failed, one slapped my face, the other slapped the other side and the third chucked my pint at my face, saying something like, “that’ll cool your face down”! The whole bar burst out into laughter!’

At that point, Beverley was in fits of laughter as well; and sprayed me with her drink… I then politely reminded Beverley that people are looking, but not as many as on that fateful night and I had not finished the story yet. ‘As I knew the manager back then, he chucked my shirt into the tumble dryer and gave me a towel to dry off. He said the bar and residents have not had such a good laugh for years!

********

(A few of the Aircraft I worked with: Shackleton, Jaguar, Gannet (849 NAS), Wessex, Chipmunk, Devon, Jet Provost Mk3 & 5, Phantom, Lightning, Tornado, VC10 and Tristar (L101). Not forgetting countless Civvy aircraft.)

Shackleton

are you being served? (part 2)

(Post by John Allan, from Bridgetown, Western Australia – February 2021)

Previously, I regaled you with tales and musical memories of the characters that accompanied me at J.D. Cuthbertson & Sons Ltd. musical instrument department from the winters of 1975 to 1978. Winters were always coming in Cowcaddens. But there are more bit players and stories to tell.

Across from instruments was ‘electrical’. Radios, TVs, hi-fi and the like, led by the very dapper SNP Man and his trusty man servant Hopalong George (he had a false leg –  PC was the polis back then !)

The Scottish National Party were very fringe in the mid 70s and not always taken that seriously, but SNP Man was on a crusade.

Resplendent in his dark pin stripe suit, he always seemed to be campaigning for something – local government perhaps – and be shaking hands with customers engaging in small talk and kissing babies (which Mums must have found a bit disconcerting when you’ve only come in to look at the range of blenders).

Above the cacophony of our department, the strains of “Flower of Scotland” by the Corries could always be heard and SNiPpy and George could be seen staring soulfully at the Hacker radios bottom lips a quiver.

Around the dog leg were ‘records and cassettes’ and ‘bookings’. Margaret the Mole lived in a glass box and sold theatre tickets to tacky variety shows from her booth. That stunted troglodyte was the prototype to many of the ‘Lord of the Rings’ characters I’m sure.

‘Records and cassettes’ divided generationally between the young Bohemians and the menopausal. Old Mrs Cassette especially seemed to constantly have the troubles of the world thrusted down open her shoulders requiring numerous Askit powders within the working day. Who knew cassettes sales could be so stressful ?

The younger crowd were good fun and an after work drinky poo often ended up in a late night rage (could you rage in the 70s ? ) at some flat in the West End. Van Morrison’s “Warm Love” for you girls, know what I’m saying ?

Up one floor and you were in ‘piano and organs’ and ‘sheet music’ (I realise, dear reader, if you are reading this to your grandchildren – or even children – you have  probably spent the last half hour trying to explain to them what a cassette is and now I hit you with sheet music. I feel your pain)

This was the lair of Clipboard Ken and Sleazy Organ Guy. ‘Slog’, as we’ll call him, is a fellow gigger although he trolled the working man’s social clubs of central Scotland.

He had a totally unique sense of rhythm were he could stop mid verse to adjust various stops on his organ reassured in the knowledge that the rhythm machine would plough through regardless.

“Tie a yellow rib – chicka boom chicka boom – bon round the ole oak – chicka boom – tree. It’s been three lo – chicka boom – ng years, do you sti – chicka boom chicka boom – ll want me ?”

Fortunately he worked solo. There he would be,four nights a week, working the room of old dearies dribbling their advocaat and Babycham, stinking of  Lilly of the Valley and stale urine, raking in the spondilux !

Clipboard Ken (Assistant Manager – or so we thought) would bounce about between departments, clipboard clutched to his breast always looking preoccupied. If at any time you tried to engage in conversation with him he would give you that ‘sorry, but it’s out of my hands’ grimace, point to the clipboard and bounce off like a startled fawn. It wasn’t until he suddenly and unexpectedly passed away and we were discussing the tragic loss of such a dedicated and loyal assistant manager that the manager piped up.

“He wasn’t an assistant manager, he was a sheet music salesman !”

Then there was Old Jim the blind piano tuner. I spent my lunch hours with him making sure he took all his plates off his tray before casting it aside. Many a time Old Jim’s increasing tunnel vision let him down and bowls of scotch broth or eve’s pudding and custard would fly through the air of the Littlewoods staff canteen.

In his younger days, Jim had been a top notch trumpeter and arranger in Glasgow’s big band scene of the 40s. Legend would have it that at one gig, the brass section had a 32 bar break. Jim put his trumpet down, picked up pen and paper and jotted down a whole new brass arrangement for another song while the band played on. Then picked up the trumpet again exactly on cue. (I hope more than the musical among you can really appreciate the total respect I had for this wonderful man)

I saw him shuffling past the hi-fi ‘lounge’ one day and he stopped, changed direction and went into the demo area for the top end gear. I was going to go over because I thought he had become disorientated but then I saw his head nodding, imperceptible at first, but rhythmically moving. This 70 plus year old man was getting into the groove of  George Benson’s “ This Masquerade .” Legend.

Finally the Manager. The Littlewoods plant. (Littlewoods had bought out Cuthbertsons in the early 1970s with the intention of running it down which it did but never admitted to).

We had little to do with the man other than keep an eye open for him on the few occasions he came down to the shop floor.

Out of boredom, one of us had rolled up some end of sellotape and cast it aside. Someone else came along and added more tape to it. After a few days we had something the size of a football and many of  it’s qualities (the stationery budget must have been huge that month)

In quieter moments games of  ‘keepy uppy’ ensued until one day someone (probably me) lost control and the ball rolled over to the foot of the stairs leading up to the offices. Before it could be retrieved, Manager came bounding down the stairs and stopped, staring at the offending object littering the thoroughfare. We all thought ‘that’s it, that’ll be our cards for sure’ but manager looked up, gave a half smile and blootered the ‘ball’ skimming our heads and crashing into the expensive Gibson guitars hanging on the wall.

He then came over, chatted casually about football and Liverpool, where he was from. He was just a regular guy sent to do a job away from his family.

The store closed soon after.

And what about the punters ? Where do I start.

“ Do you have a flute for an 8 year old girl ? ”

“ We have a flute for a 7 year old boy ”

“ OK, thanks anyway “

Customer walks away.

“ Got any mulk ?”  Cuthbertsons Dairies are in Ibrox. Stares at numpty for 30 seconds. Does a slow 360 degree turn taking in views of various guitars, amplifiers, drum kits etc. etc. Fixes stare on annoying urchin.

“Nup”

We had our fair share of stars and celebrities. Billy Connolly signed many a cheque for me. Midge Ure was a regular. Turned up with the rest of Slik one day in baseball strips straight from a photo shoot.

Frank Ifield wandered in when the shop was near deserted and all the staff quietly hummed or whistled “I Remember You”.

Q. Did Devo purchase a Firebird copy guitar and proceed to saw bits off it ?

A. Yes. I got the saw from the workshop for them.

Charlie Burchill from Simple Minds, Brian Robertson from Thin Lizzy, Quo’s Alan Lancaster – lovely fellows all. No egos, no divas – except….

There was a certain Scottish entertainer – let’s just call her Lena Martell – who would come in silk scarf around her head and sunglasses askew and stop at the top of the stairs, hands out stretched, as if waiting for her “da daah” moment. Leaning heavily on the banister she would descend. Obviously she had been at the cooking sherry all morning. One step at a time sweet Lena. She would stride purposely to the cassette department. Looking for an Askit no doubt.

You couldn’t make this stuff up……………………………………………and I haven’t !

Would I have liked to have been one of the first Bachelor of Arts graduates of the jazz course of  the Leeds College of Music ? (assuming I passed the audition and stayed the course).

Certainly.

Would I give up the life experiences and friendships gained as a teenager in the late 1970s on the shop floor of one Glasgow’s iconic music shops ?

NEVER !

***************************************

are you being served? (part 1)

(Post by John Allan, from Bridgetown, Western Australia – February 2021)

There was a plan. The neatly dressed careers officer lady at the Clydebank Job Centre and I (apparently), had mapped my future in one 20-minute meeting. I was to work for a year until I was 18 then audition for the newly created Bachelor of Arts jazz course at the Leeds College of Music. Careers lady set up 2 interviews. One at Listen Records the other at J.D. Cuthbertson’s Ltd. Incidentally in Cambridge Street, Glasgow.

It was decided that I would leave school in spring 1975 at the end of 5th year. Another plan by teacherdaddy and me (apparently) as I had failed my 4 highers and ‘only’ obtained an A pass in ‘O’ grade music. I would have liked to have taken music earlier in my schooling but that wasn’t part of the plan. English, French, Maths, Arithmetic, a couple of sciences, and the choice of history or geography (gee, thanks Dad). Music and techie drawing, which I actually enjoyed, were not on the agenda. Stick to the plan.

My first interview was at Listen. I had feverishly swotted up on obscure artistes and albums by thumbing through as many NMEs and Melody Makers I could find.

I went for the smart but hip look.

The first part of the interview about music industry knowledge was OK, but they stumped me with some arithmetic type questions like “If an LP travels at 33 and a third rpm and costs £3 and fifty pence, and a customer gives you a fiver, would there be Blood on the Tracks, how much change would they get and who pays the Zimmerman? ” – or something like that.

The second interview was for Cuthbertsons.

I went for the smart but smart look.

“Can you be nice to customers and sell stuff ? You’ve got the job.”

And so it was that I started my first proper job away from my Bearsden cocoon. Clocking in on my first day was quite a thrill which quickly waned as the offices and tearoom were on the 3rd floor and the lifts were a bit dodgy.

My work mates in the musical instrument department were boss man Freddy, Malky, Jim and Tommy – a motley crew from all corners of greater Glasgow.

On the surface, Freddy appeared like a quiet, unassuming bloke – hid his plectrum under a bushel – but he was a bit of a guitar legend and had the respect of many a prominent local musician.

“Your pal Jack seems like a nice bloke, Freddy. What does he do? ”

“Not sure these days but he used to play bass with a band called Cream ”

Mr. Bruce had just left the building and I barely acknowledged him!

Freddy had a wicked sense of humour. A customer got all tongue tied and couldn’t say the word ‘guitar’.

“Can I have some gistar strings……sorry gistar. I’d likesome gistar……….no gistar strings”

“You say it and I’ll give you them” said Freddy with a deadpan face.

Freddy ordered a pedal steel guitar for the shop and proceeded to teach himself it with the help of the Lloyd Green Pedal Steel Book. Within a couple of months he was creating some lovely sounds and playing it regularly with his band Foxy.

Listening to Steely Dan’s “Brooklyn (Owes The Charmer Under Me)” always reminds me of Fred.

Most of us played in bands of some kind and there was an occasion where Freddy’s band and my band Souled Out were double billing at the US Navy base at Faslane.

When Souled Out played our version of blue-eyed soul and funk, all these black dudes with garish suits and hats would strut their stuff on the floor and when Foxy played their soft, country rock, all the white home-boys with crew cuts, checked shirts and cowboy boots would be boot scooting across the floor. Great gig.

On the long drive home on empty early morning roads, Freddy’s band’s van would come out of nowhere and scream pass ours then we would overtake them. Just when we thought we had lost them, their van thunders past again windows open with a pimply bare arse sticking out ! That was Freddy.

I caught up with him a few years ago. He tells me he’s traded all his guitars and equipment for golf clubs. Doesn’t own a single plectrum.

Malky was the only one of us who did not play in a band although he played a bit of guitar. He would often sit in the corner and pick one the better acoustics (Martin, Gibson, Guild) and tinkle away. The Beatles “Blackbird” was his party piece.

Malky always wore this suede bomber jacket and had his hands in his pockets.

Being next to City Bakeries there was always a bit of a mice problem hence various mouse traps were set under the window display.

Someone (probably Fred) decided to put a dead mouse in Malky’s pocket. He had a day off and on his return we thought there would be hell to pay, but no, Malky was as cool and laid back as ever. Eventually, someone asked him what he kept in his pocket.

“Just my keys on this lucky rabbit foot key ring” (which he constantly fondled when walking about). He had found the rodent !

Revenge was sweet. Freddy was strapping on his Les Paul at a gig a few days later and was about to strike a power chord when he saw a wee dead mouse head sticking out from between the strings !

Malky loved a flutter and being central Glasgow there was always a bookies nearby. He would nip out 3 or 4 times to place a bet. One day I noticed a slight smirk on his face.

“Any luck” 

“I’ve just won £800 ” 

This was mid 1970s. It was a fortune ! He had 4 more bets that day – £200 each bet. He lost the lot. A few months later he had another big win, put in his notice, joined up with some overseas government volunteers and headed off to the middle of Pacific – Ellis Island – now known as Tuvalu. He married a local girl and has 2 stunningly attractive and successful children. His wife is a friend on social media. Good bet Malky.

Jim was a lad. Think The Offices David Brent. He played guitar in a wedding band and probably earned more than the rest of us put together. 3 or 4 nights, regularly, he would pump out “ Uno Paloma Blanca ” or would wait for the response and arm salute ‘hay, ho silver lining’ to his ‘and it’s’ but deep down I think he was a bit jealous of us in pub bands but he had a wife and kid to support.

He thought himself a bit of ladies’ man. On bringing out the plectrum box to a young female customer,

“Would you like plastic or do you want felt? “

I think he invented the ‘bare arse /smarmy bastard’ game. As a customer approached the counter, your colleague would whisper ‘BA’ or ‘SB’. BA or bare arse was when you had to be as rude and disinterested in your customer as possible. Plenty of tutting, eye rolling, heavy sighing and head shaking. SB or smarmy bastard was polar opposite were you had to be the most snivelling, servile and obsequious to the point of dry retching as possible. Silly I know but it passed the time.

Jim left to sell televisions. I don’t think he sold too many as he popped into the shop most days. Poor Jim. Even for the late 70s he was a bit of a relic.

When I started at Cuthbertson’s Tommy was nearing the end of his french polishing apprenticeship until the company did the dirty on him and closed down the workshop. I can’t remember how many people were put out of work but for the younger ones, working on the shop floor was the only option.

Tommy lived in a high rise with about a dozen other family members in a place called Hutchesontown which was what you called the Gorbals when you didn’t want people to know you came from the Gorbals. These days it’s probably quite trendy to say you come from the Gorbals as opposed to Hutchesontown I wouldn’t really know. In the 70s though it didn’t appear in many travel guides.

We sales folk were generally none too shabby – shirt, tie and jacket – and the blokes wore something similar. Tommy was different. Tommy was groomed within an inch of his life. Not a hair out of place, a trace of stubble or wayward nose bogie and that was during the working week. Come the weekend he positively glowed. Immaculate tailored suit, a shine on his shoes that could power a small hamlet, he oozed style like a south side Bryan Ferry.

He would lead his posse at the start of the evening to the Rogano – a pretty up market town centre restaurant, visit many a fine dining (and drinking) establishment through out the central metropolis before ascending the steep hill to Glasgow’s Mount Olympus, Maestro’s. Mere mortals like myself would wither at the slightest sneer of the bouncer but Tommy was in. Tommy was “The ‘In’ Crowd” take it away Bry !

Then they would all stagger home, scrape the kebab juice and dried vomit from their suits to be dry cleaned and then repeat the process the following night. I don’t know how he did it.

His pal Aldo decided to buy a second-hand Jaguar, even though he couldn’t drive, so Tommy took over the driving duties. The cruising element added a whole new dimension to these young guns hunt until the enforced sobriety got to Tommy.

The Jag (or what’s left of it) could be seen perched on stacks of bricks parked outside the Hutchie flats 6 months later.

What about me ? I turned 18 and barely noticed. I never went to any audition. I was too busy having fun, revelling in the camaraderie and earning money. My song?

Earth, Wind & Fire “Happy Feeling”

J.D. Cuthbertsons & Sons Ltd. got swallowed up in 1978 by its parent company Littlewoods in 1978. I moved on to McCormacks but that’s another story.

And there are plenty more stories to tell, bit players to introduce if you’re interested and have the time.

“I’m free”

a rite of passage.

(Post by Colin ‘Jackie’ Jackson, of Glasgow – February 2021)

A bullet ant

 In the Brazilian Amazon, young boys belonging to the indigenous Sateré-Mawé tribe, mark their coming of age when they turn 13 in a Bullet Ant initiation. Collected ants are sedated in a herbal solution by tribe leaders and then woven into gloves with their stings pointed inwards

An hour or so later, the ants awaken. Needless to say, they are not in best humour. The poor youngsters who must wear the gloves for a period of ten minutes, feel the full force of the searing stings. The pain has been described as, ‘like walking over flaming charcoal with a three-inch nail embedded in your heel’ but crying out would be a sign of weakness, so the suffering is endured in silence.

In Kenya, young Maasai boys attain ‘warrior’ status by spending the night before their ceremony in the forest. The following morning they return to the village where they sing, dance and gorge on a mixture of alcohol, cow’s blood and milk whilst also packing away huge amounts of meat.

They are then ready to be circumcised, making the official transformation into a man, warrior, and protector. Of course, to flinch or cry out would again be a sign of weakness, bring shame upon their families and question their warrior spirit.

Coming of age traditions, are as varied as they’re commonplace the world over. In 1970s West of Scotland, for instance, the transformation from ‘boy’ or ‘girl’ to ‘young adult’ was marked by ‘getting a paper round.’

In the summer of 1970, I turned twelve. I started secondary school and made lots of new friends, many of them older than me. They had ‘stuff.’  ‘Stuff’ that I aspired to. A whole new, exciting life beckoned. But ‘stuff’ costs money and my parents were rather disparaging of it.

“You want it? You pay for it,” was the usual reply when the subject of a new Subbuteo team, or burgundy coloured platform shoes arose.

So when an advert appeared, stuck to the window of our local bus shelter, looking for boys or girls to deliver morning papers around the town, I was right in there – especially as the job paid the princely sum of just under two whole pounds a week. That sounds ridiculous now, I know, but it’s the equivalent of around twenty-five pounds nowadays.

Back in those pre-internet days, just as commercial radio stations were beginning to woo advertising money from the print media, eighty percent of households bought, or had delivered, a daily newspaper. Big business then for those who had shrewdly set themselves up as distributors.

Of course, a small army of delivery kids were require to deliver the papers each morning before the householders left for work. The only stated prerequisite for the job was that you provided your own means of transporting the papers to your allocated ‘run.’ For most of us that mode was bicycle, though some did simply walk, dragging little trolleys or bogeys behind them onto which the papers were stacked.

The collection point was by the town station, about one and a half miles from my home. Being a kindly soul, Mr Forrest, the distributor, initially gave me a run local to my own address. So, a round trip of three miles plus delivery, finishing up in my own street – just over an hour, tops. Time for a quick breakfast, grab my school bag and off for the bus to school. Job’s a good ‘un.

Except! Except, we had not long moved into that address. I was not as familiar with the street names as I thought and for the first three days I mixed two of them up. Job wasn’t quite such a good ‘un after all – less than a week in and I was already visiting the boss’s office.

Fortunately, I was allowed to keep my job, and several months later, I was given a run right next to the collection point. Though I’d never heard the names of Ledcameroch Road and Camastraden Drive, I was told they were just the opposite side of the railway station. This obviously meant less distance to carry the papers to their delivery addresses. I’d cracked it.

Or so I thought. The morning I first collected my run order, I noticed the majority of deliveries included the heftier broadsheets of the day: the Times; The Telgraph and The Financial Times. There was dearth of Express, Record and Mirror. My bag was crammed. And ultra heavy.

As I tentatively found my balance on the bike and started towards my first address, I was sure I could hear some sniggering from the kids still sorting their papers.

It didn’t take long to realise why my so called friends found it funny I’d been given that run – the houses were all huge mansion types, with driveways that seemed to go on forever. No skipping over the hedge to pop the neighbour’s paper through their letterbox. The neighbours were almost a bus ride away!  And to make it even worse, most had letterboxes at the foot of the door – every paperboy / papergirl’s nightmare.

Even more challenging was that several of these huge homes had guard dogs, or at least just very protective canine pets, that roamed off leash. Deep, crunchy gravel paths led to the front door which would alert the dogs to my arrival while also hindering my getaway as the back wheel of my Raleigh spun round and round in frantic and futile search for traction.

After several days I realised the best method to adopt was to leave my bike and paper bag at the entrance gate and quietly sneak over the lawn and flower beds to the door. Quiet as I could, I’d post the paper through the letterbox. I then had a twenty second window of opportunity to make my escape before an irate Doberman or the like would come racing round from the back of the house.

It’s no great surprise that I honed my athletics skills on that particular run – ‘run’ being the operative word.

As I got older and stronger, I was allocated runs further and further from home, until I found myself delivering papers at the opposite end of town, some three and a half miles away. As a now experienced delivery boy, I was offered the privilege of double rounds. Double rounds / double money. I’d have been a fool not to, right?

Yeah, it sounds attractive, and sure, the money came in handy. But cycling that distance, invariably through any combination of wind, rain, hail or snow, with two great big heavy bags of newspapers across my shoulders, whilst dodging the early morning commuter traffic …

I was now reaching the age when the attraction summer jobs was preferred to year-round daily slog, having to brave the vagaries of a West of Scotland micro climate. But those paper rounds taught me the values of the age-old mantra by which I live to this day: work hard, play hard.

(More of that later, perhaps.)

My legs were weary from pedalling; my shoulders were hunched from carrying abnormal loads and I had a perpetual chesty cough from working in the cold and damp early morning air.

But I had graduated from boyhood; I had earned my rite of passage. And while I may have been saddle sore and chaffed, at least I emerged with my bits intact!  

career opportunities (the ones that never knock.)

(Post by Paul Fitzpatrick, of London – 2021)

I left school in June 74 and was neither sad nor ecstatic, I was ready to move on.

I liked school for the sport and the camaraderie and for the subjects I enjoyed, but I wasn’t disciplined enough about the other subjects to have any kind of academic future, and you had to be a pretty smart all-rounder or a very good specialist to go on to Uni in those days.

I do remember the career adviser coming to our school in our final year though.

He sat across from me with my academic results in front of him. Results that would have portrayed someone who was half decent at English, History and Modern Studies, but hopeless with any type of numeric/scientific based topic other than basic arithmetic.

Oh, and equally useless with their hands.

I was once told by the woodwork teacher, to the amusement of the class, that my single funnel boat in woodwork looked more like a crucifix than the Queen Mary.

With such a lop-sided résumé I’m not sure the career advisor knew what to say to me…. most people he saw naturally filtered into a convenient category….

Good at woodwork or metalwork, you’ll get an apprenticeship and learn a trade.

Good at home economics, you’ll go to catering school

Good at one of the arts, then you’ll go to a specialist arts faculty.

Bit of an all-rounder and decent at maths and English, you could have a career in banking or the civil service.

Very bright, straight A student, you’ll go to Uni learn how to drink and debate, you’ll get a degree and then it’s up to you…

So, devoid of ideas the chap did the only thing left open to him and asked me what sort of career I foresaw for myself.

Scrambling for an answer and with the urge to get away sharpish so I could catch the school bus for my daily fix of Crossroads. I immediately thought of David Hunter the debonair General Manager of said establishment who swanned about the place in smart suits chatting up the staff and charming the guests whilst breaking hearts and drinking sherry…. so I blurted out the only logical thing that came into my head – “Hotel Management”

I could see the guy trying to work out how he could shoehorn my skillsets into any type of management position and I’m sure he was looking at me thinking I was more Benny the hapless handyman than David the dashing GM.

Nonetheless he made the right noises and duly produced a leaflet about Hotel Management courses, which I didn’t even know was a thing, but I thanked him for the great advice, stuffed the leaflet into my bag and legged it for the bus.

Suffice to say, I never made it to catering college or discovered a penchant for Spanish fortified wine made from the Palomino grape, although I must admit, other fortified wines did find a way past my lips back then.

I left school with some decent skill-sets, a load of good mates and some great memories which was good enough for me.

I don’t recall anyone I know ever claiming that they were inspired or ‘pointed in the right direction’ by the career-guidance guy, so maybe my response to the chap when he quite literally asked me a question that he was being paid to answer himself, should have been –
‘Maybe I can do your job…… properly!’