My gran would have said they were “the height of nonsense” and there are six of them. It’s two minutes before kick-off at James McGrory Park in the north-east of Glasgow, home to St Roch’s Juniors, who are known universally throughout the Garngad as ‘The Candy’. These young lads, barely out of primary school pitch up to the turnstiles all piss and vinegar, clad in black hoodies and wearing green balaclavas. One of them carries a drum. And is that a wee firework peeping out over a pocket? Behold the Candy Ultras.
For the next couple of hours, they’ll provide an incessant timpani of raucous support which includes each of them taking turns to bellow into a megaphone like they do on the continent. Their favourites will lose 2-0 to Darvel in the quarter-final of the West of Scotland but they’ve given a good account of themselves against well-funded opponents who defeated mighty Aberdeen two years ago in the Scottish Cup.
It was worth the trip alone to this jaggy, Glasgow-Irish enclave just to see the St Roch’s winger Lewis McCracken. This smashing wee player treated us to a display of old-fashioned wizardry during a first half in which he faced a swirling wind and a pair of hefty Ayrshire defenders. Even the sweet, heavy effluviam from a few herbal preparations and a dozen Buckfast bottles wafting from the back of the home shed failed to slow him down. It’s 2pm and I’m almost at the halfway point of a 24-hour odyssey in my home city.
Read more:
The Future of Glasgow – Find all articles in the series here
When The Herald and Glasgow Times were making our plans to produce a week-long series on the city and all its triumphs and challenges I was invited to spend a day taking its heartbeat. This might be a love letter to the city that has welcomed and sustained five generations of my family. But it’s probably more a personal witness of what it means to be Glaswegian; a testament to Glasgow’s insistent optimism over the course of a day spent among its people and its communities.
In these pre-dawn hours there are still excursions and alarums. Some are coming from groups of refugees from Friday night bacchanals, still leathered and howling with the drink. Others are from wee jaikies conducting their shouted conversations across entire streets. At the apex of Sauchiehall Street, just before the fences and trenches near the GFT one of them sidles up to me and asks me for a cigarette. He apologises for doing so. “It’s just that the shoaps urny open yet, chief,” he explains.
As I fish out a couple of Bennies for him, he bellows at the oncoming approach of his chum. “You get yersel’ tae fuck, you. The boy’s no’ here jist tae give the likes of you fags.”
And then to me: “Ye need to watch that yin: he’d have the shirt aff yir back if you’re no’ lookin’. Whit you daein’ up at this time anyway. Love yir Howards, by the way.” He delivers this entire soliloquy at ramming speed with no spacing in about 2.7 seconds. Howards are shoes, by the way. Howard Hughes: shoes.
From there, I walk down to the Clyde Walkway and the spot at Custom House Quay where the statue of Dolores Ibarruri (La Pasionaria) sits, hero of the Spanish Civil War who fought Franco’s Fascists. Her words are inscribed underneath: “Better to die on your feet than live forever on your knees.” It could be Glasgow’s motto.
And then: “The City of Glasgow and the British Labour movement pay tribute to the courage of those men and women who went to Spain to fight fascism 1936-39. 2,100 volunteers went from Britain. 534 were killed, 65 of whom came from Glasgow.”
Read more:
- The narrative of decline in the city is absolutely false
-
It's time to get off the sidelines and show people make Glasgow
-
Glasgow Commonwealth Games bid to shed 'Europe sick man' tag fails
Not far from here is Nelson Mandela Square. The great anti-apartheid warrior never forgot that Glasgow was the first city to honour him, even as he remained in captivity and even as Margaret Thatcher was still denouncing him.
The sun’s now rising over Glasgow Green to the east and it’s time, I think, that me and Gordon the photographer head for the Kaffateria café beside Queen Street for bacon rolls. The gent sitting outside hails us in the unmistakeable lilt of the Western Isles. “How are you, Mr McKenna: I read your articles.”
In my experience this greeting from strangers is a double-edged sword, often accompanied by: “You don’t half talk some shite.” But this man comes in peace.
This is Kenny MacLeod, convenor of Comhairle nan Eilean Siar, the Western Isles council, who’s catching the Edinburgh train, en route to Methil and East Fife’s game against Peterhead. By the time he returns to Lewis tomorrow evening, East Fife’s most committed supporter will have been on the road, rail and plane for three days which includes a stop-off to visit his sister in the west end of Glasgow. The road from the Highlands and the islands to Glasgow is one well-travelled and my city seems to retain a special place in the hearts of Highlanders.
Mr MacLeod loves this city too, but there’s a catch. “It’s not looking its best right now,” he says, “It just seems a bit dirty and neglected.” It’s an observation I’ll hear throughout this day, expressed with sorrow. Having spent some time with Susan Aitken, leader of Glasgow City Council, the previous day, I want to tell them all that it won’t be like this for much longer. That it’ll be looking brilliant again soon. “Just you wait and see.”
Yet my colleague, Alison Rowat’s point in The Herald was well-made, that the inordinately long time that the repairs around Sauchiehall Street are taking now risks defining the city’s character.
“We get people from all countries passing through here,” she says and when you talk to them they always say the same thing: that they’ve rarely experienced such friendliness and warmth.”
Look, I love my city, but sometimes the ‘warm and friendly’ schtick (and I’m as guilty of this as anyone) must grate a little with people from other Scottish cities: that Glasgow somehow has love and affection woven into its DNA: that the compulsion always to be sunny and upbeat must be exhausting at times. That we live to hear people say we’re brilliant.
And yet, I’ve been hearing the same sentiments for many decades from all of those I’ve met who visit here. That, though we might not possess the same levels of architectural splendour as other cities, visitors keep returning because they’re made to feel that they’re not just paying customers to be fleeced as much and as often as a four-day break will allow.
The Scottish Labour Party is holding its annual conference down at the SEC and it would be rude not to pop along for a wee while to say hello and tell the delegates for once that I’m not here to chastise them or chisel the speakers. But when I find that a model railway exhibition is happening next door, I make my excuses and leave. If someone had told me about this a bit earlier then I’d have shelved my Day in the Life of Glasgow for another time. What is it about miniature locomotives chugging in and out of tunnels on cardboard fields that still mesmerises older men?
Next door is a wedding exhibition and I try to gain ingress there too, but the security are making it difficult and I retreat, vowing to skelp them in print later. And then I take a look at myself. In that hall are some very beautiful men and women wearing top quality apparel. I’m, well … wearing the outdoor ensemble of middle-aged Glasgow man: robust black jacket; woolly jumper, no-nonsense trousers and Doc Marten boots. In the circumstance, I’d left the doormen with no other option but to decline my entreaties.
Read more
- The country town that became home to Scotland's most expensive street
-
I visited Scotland's thrifting capital - it's vintage shopping heaven
-
All life is here: Last train from Glasgow Central on a Saturday night
Before heading for the craggy realm of St Roch’s and the Garngad, I walk over the river to the Glasgow Gurdwara on Albert Drive, the main temple of the city’s 3500-strong Sikh community. The Glasgow Sikhs are different class and they portray the city’s big heart. Rajwani Kaur Lalli Gil and three generations of her Punjabi family have lived here for 43 years, after moving from Yorkshire, “We wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else now,” she says.
“We started on Glasgow’s south side where all the ethnic minorities lived and, of course, at that time it could be a little rough when you look different in a white area. But as soon as people got to know as us a family and as individuals we were welcomed into the heart of the community. As Sikhs, we ensure our door is always open and that hospitality is given freely and without question.”
Her dad, Sardar Singh Lalli is a towering and respected figure in this community, having once been President of Scotland’s four Sikh temples. At 84, he remains vigorous and there’s a twinkle in his voice as he talks about being a Glasgow Sikh who takes no nonsense. “Glasgow is such a great city,” he says, “and we’ve always felt at home here, but you also need to learn to look after yourself.” Mr Lalli and his wife, Manjit Kaur invite us to join their community for lunch.
If you were to eat in this place a few days a week you’d add about another ten years to your lifespan. Lunch consists of samosas with diced spicy potatoes, peas and coriander. It comes with a mint and cucumber yoghurt and there’s a carrot and onion chutney. Everything has coriander, herbs and spices and I’m already getting a wee buzz out of eating so responsibly. Then there’s a saaj (a dish of plain spinach plus “every green vegetable we can get our hands on” according to Ms Gil). And did I mention the chickpea dhaal and the sweet rice with the coconut, almonds and raisins and the chapatti to scoop it all up? Ron Mackenna would be composing one of his Saturday symphonies to this place.
And everyone needs to know this too. Anyone can pitch up off the street with no prior warning and be fed like princes and princesses here. And I mean anyone. During Covid, these people filled thousands of bags of food and left them on trellis tables in their car park for any passing stranger to take home.
Mr Lalli said: “Hospitality and sharing whatever we have is a big part of who we are. It’s not a duty or an option. It’s how we choose to express ourselves. It’s who we are and it makes us happy.”
There’s a notion expressed by our council leader and some in the hospitality trade that fewer young people are coming into Glasgow’s city centre. This, they say is a consequence of outlying neighbourhoods such as Shawlands and Dennistoun becoming desired destinations for a decent night out and that an older crowd more able to afford the stiffer drink and food bills are replacing them. On the evidence of this Saturday night in the city centre, though, the young team are not quite ready to quit their territory yet.
I head for the Garage nightclub, the big yellow lorry emerging from its roof as kenspeckle as the Duke of Wellington's pokey traffic hat. There’s an American band on tonight called Four Year Strong who are described as a pop-punk band. This makes them seem something like the Pet Shop Boys or Franz Ferdinand. Pop-punk my arse.
I got to see them as they battered through the last songs of their set and the paint was beginning to blister. This wasn’t exactly death metal, but maybe evisceration metal where you feel your insides beginning to rattle. There was a mosh pit beginning to form which looked like a Viking initiation ceremony where someone would be sacrificed at the end of it.
The Garage’s main arena was absolutely rocking and big Donald MacLeod the owner was looking at me and saying: “Be honest, you miss this, don’t you?” And I’m looking to see if I’d look out of place too much if I ventured down into this apocalypse where bare-chested stewards are handing out vodka shots to the fans in the front row.
The Garage has been the mainstay of this stretch of Sauchiehall Street for more than 30 years. The names of more than 1000 bands are etched onto the walls. If you haven’t heard of Mr MacLeod you’ll have seen him popping up on night-time politics programmes or heard him on the radio getting utterly tore in to the Scottish Government and the city council, both of whom he accuses of mismanaging the night-time economy by imposing a green agenda that discriminates against young, working-class Glaswegians and hospitality staff.
He asks me where I’m heading next and I tell him I was thinking about a wee nocturnal pilgrimage around the necropolis from whose sepulchral depths the sound of Four Year Strong seems to emerge. He bids me gently good night. “You’re aff yer heid,” he says.
And so to Glasgow’s gorgeous, terraced graveyard which provides a sepulchral and peaceful end to my day in the city, there to walk among the tombstones of its people. I pray that eternal rest is granted unto them all and for protection for all those who have ventured out tonight.
And I say aloud once more St Mungo’s prayer. “Lord, let Glasgow flourish by the preaching of His word and the praising of His name.”
Kevin McKenna is a Herald writer and columnist. This year is his 40th in newspapers. Among his paltry list of professional achievements is that he’s never been approached by any political party or lobbying firm to be on their payroll
Share