don’t know which way
but the boy
with three beautiful Bakelite
Bush radios for sale in Meadow’s minimarket is
buttonpopping stationhopping he
doesn’t miss a beat sings along it’s easy
to every changing tune,
Yes today we’re in love aren’t we?
with the whole splintering city
its big quick river wintry bridges
its brazen black Victorian heart.
So what if every other tenement
wears its hearth on its gable end?
All I want
is my glad eye to catch
a glint in your flinty Northern face again
just once. Oh I know it’s cold
and coming down
and no we never lingered long among
the Shipbank traders.
Paddy’s Market underneath the arches
stank too much today
the usual wetdog reek rising
from piles of old damp clothes.
Somebody absolutely steamboats he says on
sweet warm wine
swigging plaincover from a paper bag
squats in a puddle with nothing to sell
but three bent forks a torn
calendar (last year’s)
and a broken plastic sandal.
So we hadn’t the stomach for it today.
We don’t deserve a bargain then!
No connoisseur can afford to be too scrupulous
about keeping his hands clean.
There was no doubt the rare the beautiful
and bugle-beaded the real antique dirt cheap
among the rags and drunks
you could easily take to the cleaners.
At the Barrows everything has its price
no haggling believe me
this boy knows his radios.
Pure Utility
Suddenly the fifties are fashionable
and anything within a decade of art deco
a rarity you’ll pay through the nose for.
The man with the patter and all these curtain lengths
in fibreglass is flabbergasted at the bargain
and says so in so many words.
Jesus, every other
arcade around here’s
a ‘Fire Surround Boutique’ –
and we watch the struggling families;
father carrying hearth home
mother wound up with kids.
All the couples we know fall apart
or have kids.
Oh we’ve never shouldered much.
We’ll stick to small ikons for our home –
as long as they’re portable –
a dartboard a peacock feather
a stucco photoframe.
We queue in a blue haze of hot fat
for Danny’s Do-Nuts that grit
our teeth with granulated sugar.
I keep
losing you and finding you –
two stalls away you thumb
through a complete set of manuals for
primary teachers in the thirties
I rub my sleeve
on a dusty Chinese saucer
till the gilt shows through.
Oh come on we promised
we’d not let our affection for the slightly cracked
trap us into such expenditure again.
Oh even if it is a bargain
we won’t buy.
The stallholder says we’ll be the death of her.
She says see January
it’s been the doldrums the day.
And it’s packing up time
with the dark coming early
and as cold as the river.
At the bus-stop I show you
with the inlaid butterfly and the broken catch.
You’ve bought a record by the Shangri-las
a pin-stripe waistcoat that needs a stitch
it just won’t get and a book called ‘Enquire
Within – Upon Everything’.
The raw cold gets colder.
There doesn’t seem to be a lot to say.
I wish we could either mend things
or learn to throw them away.
LATIN OR FRENCH? 1981
Alasdair Gray
In this extract from his novel, Lanark (1981), Alasdair Gray describes an experience familiar to many Scots of his era. Few children today are offered Latin at school and even French is regarded as increasingly recherché.
Whitehill Senior Secondary School was a tall gloomy red sandstone building with a playing field at the back and on each side a square playground, one for each sex, enclosed and minimised by walls with spiked railings on top. It had been built like this in the eighteen-eighties but the growth of Glasgow had imposed additions. A structure, outwardly uniform with the old buildings but a warren of crooked stairs and small classrooms within, was stuck to the side at the turn of the century. After the first world war a long wooden annexe was added as temporary accommodation until a new school could be built, and after the second world war, as a further temporary measure, seven prefabricated huts holding two classrooms each were put up on the playing field. On a grey morning some new boys stood in a lost-looking crowd near the entrance gate. In primary school they had been the playground giants. Now they were dwarfs among a mob of people up to eighteen inches taller than themselves. A furtive knot from Riddrie huddled together trying to seem blasé. One said to Thaw, ‘What are ye taking, Latin or French?’
‘French.’
‘I’m taking Latin. Ye need it tae go to university.’
‘But Latin’s a dead language!’ said Thaw. ‘My mother wants me to take Latin but I tell her there are more good books in French. And ye can use French tae travel.’
‘Aye, mibby, but ye need Latin tae get to university.’
An electric bell screeched and a fat bald man in a black gown appeared on the steps of the main entrance. He stood with his hands deep in his pockets and feet apart, contemplating the buttons of his waistcoat while the older pupils hurried into lines before several entrances. One or two lines kept up a vague chatter and shuffle; he looked sternly at these and they fell silent. He motioned each class to the entrances one after another with a finger of his right hand. Then he beckoned the little group by the gate to the foot of the steps, lined them up, read their names from a list and led them into the building. The gloom of the entrance steeped them, then the dim light of echoing hall, then the cold light of a classroom.
Thaw entered last and found the only seat left was the undesirable one in the front row in front of the teacher, who sat behind a tall desk with his hands clasped on the lid. When everyone was seated he looked from left to right along the rows of faces before him, as if memorising each one, then leaned back and said casually, ‘Now we’ll divide you into classes. In the first year, of course, the only real division is between those who take Latin and those who take . . . a modern language. At the end of the third year you will have to choose between other subjects: Geography or History, for instance; Science or Art; for by then you will be specialising for your future career. Hands up those who don’t know what specialising means. No hands? Good. Your choice today is a simpler one, but its effects reach further. You all know Latin is needed for entrance to university. A number of benevolent people think this unfair and are trying to change it. As far as Glasgow University is concerned they haven’t succeeded yet.’ He smiled an inward-looking smile and leaned back until he seemed to be staring at the ceiling. He said, ‘My name’s Walkenshaw. I’m senior Classics master. Classics. That’s what we call the study of Latin and Greek. Perhaps you’ve heard the word before? Who hasn’t heard of classical music? Put your hands up if you haven’t heard of classical music. No hands? Good. Classical music, you see, is the best sort of music, music by the
best composers. In the same way the study of Classics is the study of the best. Are you chewing something?’
Thaw, who had been swallowing nervously, was appalled to find this question fired at himself. Not daring to take his gaze from the teacher’s face he stood slowly up and shook his head.
‘Answer me.’
‘No, sir.’
‘Open your mouth. Open it wide. Stick your tongue out.’
Thaw did as he was told. Mr Walkenshaw leaned forward, stared then said mildly, ‘Your name?’
‘Thaw, sir.’
‘That’s all right, Thaw. You can sit down. And always tell the truth, Thaw.’
Mr Walkenshaw leaned back and said, ‘Classics. Or as we call it at university, the Humanities. I say nothing against the study of modern languages. Naturally half of you will choose French. But Whitehall Senior Secondary School has a tradition, a fine tradition of Classical scholarship, and I hope many of you continue that tradition. To those without enough ambition to go to university and who can’t see the use of Latin, I can only repeat the words of Robert Burns: ‘Man cannot live by bread alone.’ No, and you would be wise to remember it. Now I’m going to read your names again and I want you to shout Modern and Classics according to choice.’
He read the list of names again. Thaw was depressed to hear all the people he knew choose Latin. He chose Latin.
A STRANGLED PEEVISH HICCUP, 1982
Paul Theroux
After eleven years living in London, the American novelist Paul Theroux set out to travel clockwise round the coast and find out what Britain and the British are really like. It was 1982, the summer of the Falklands War and the royal baby. As is the way with day-trippers, Theroux’s views were snapshots, but no less valid for that. Of Aberdeen, he wrote: ‘The food was disgusting, the hotels over-priced and indifferent, the spit-and-sawdust pubs were full of drunken and bad-tempered men – well, who wouldn’t be bad-tempered?’ Dundee, he discovered, had well-earned its reputation for dullness, while he barely spent enough time in Edinburgh to blow his nose. Nor did he spend much longer in Glasgow . . .
After my days being menaced by Belfast’s ugly face I went by boat and train to Glasgow and found it peaceful, even pretty. It had a bad name. ‘Gleska’, people said, and mocked the toothless population and spoke of razor fights in the Gorbals, and made haggis jokes. Yet Glasgow was pleasant – not broken but eroded. The slums were gone, the buildings washed of their soot; the city looked dignified – no barricades, no scorchings. Well, I had just struggled ashore from that island of antiquated passions. In Ireland I had felt as though I had been walking blindly into the dark. But Scotland made me hopeful. This sunny day stretched all the way to Oban, where I was headed.
On my way from Glasgow Central to Queen Street Station, I fell in with two postmen. They asked me where I had come from. I told them Ulster. They said, ‘Och!’
‘It’s full of broken windows,’ I said.
‘Aye. And broken hids!’ one said.
The other man said, ‘We got our Catholics. Ha’ ye nae heard of the Rengers and Celtics fitba matches? They play each other a guid sux times a year, but there’s nae always a riot.’
No alphabet exists for the Glaswegian accent – phonetic symbols are no good either without a glottal stop, a snort, or a wheeze. I met rural-dwelling Scots who told me they could not understand anyone from Glasgow. The Ulster accent took a moment to turn from noise to language: I heard someone speak and then in the echo of the voice there was a meaning. But this did not always happen in Scotland: the echo was meaningless, and in Glasgow it was a strangled peevish hiccup, sudden and untranslatable.
LINGUA GLESCA, 1982
Stanley Baxter
Before visiting Glasgow it is recommended that tourists become acquainted with a few phrases to assist them in their negotiations. The following list of the more obscure Glaswegian words and phrases with approximate definitions in ordinary English may be of some use to non-Scots who visit the great cultural melting-pot on the Clyde. Stanley Baxter (1926–), the renowned comedian, was born in Glasgow, and, ably abetted by journalist Alex Mitchell, produced a series of sketches and books aimed at enlightening the ignorant in the city’s patois. Their model, apparently, was the BBC series Parliamo Italiano. In one justly famous scene Baxter approaches a trader at a local market and asks: ‘Zarra marra onna barra, Clara?’, which he translates as ‘Is that a marrow on your barrow, Clara?’.
SHURSEL, HULLAWRERR, YURTHERR: Words of greeting.
GOARRA, used in various contexts, as follows –
GOARRAMADRI, an acute thirst has assailed me.
GOARRAFAGOANYE, a request for a cigarette.
GOARRAHELL, used when declining to give the importunate person a cigarette.
Various terms are used by the natives when discussing the vagaries of the weather.
SWAARMRADAY, the temperature has risen.
RASUNZOOT! a miracle has taken place!
SPELTINARAIN, we have returned to normal climatic conditions.
SELLUVAKOLNOO, the temperature has now fallen.
MASPUDZIZFROZE, my feet are extremely cold.
Many Glaswegians seek their holiday pleasures abroad. Foreign doctors might find it advisable to acquaint themselves with some of the terms used in describing the symptoms of various ailments.
MADIALZBEALIN, some skin is no longer adhering to my face.
MACHAMPURZIZBROON, even my dentures are sunburnt.
AVAHEIDANAHOF, the modestly-priced wine is stronger than I thought.
AVASERRKYTE, I am suffering from stomach pains.
AMOFFI PEELIWALLI, the large seafood meal I ate has made me somewhat frail.
ASATOANA DAUDAGLESS, I failed to notice the broken wine bottle before I sat down on the beach.
On their return from a sojourn in mainland Spain or Majorca many Glaswegian natives display their snapshots with pride. Expressions that accompany their photographic exhibition are –
WANNISEE WURPHOTIES? Can I induce you to suffer an hour of extreme boredom?
ERRMAMURRAPAIDLIN, that is a study of my mother seeking a sea-water easement of her painful corns.
WEEFELLA BELLAFELLINWI, a small gentleman who took Bella out in a pedalo which capsized.
RAWEANFLIN SAUNABOOT, the child merrily throwing sand about.
SKELPINFURRAWEAN, father cutting short the child’s enjoyment.
MAWYELLINHURHEIDAFF, my mother has inadvertently sat on a bee, wasp or hornet.
Foreign students of our language are surprised to find that it contains words which are apparently of Japanese origin. A common greeting is –
HEHYU or HIYU
Other words borrowed from the Land of the Rising Sun are –
OBI JINGSAM WABBIT, I am exceedingly fatigued.
WANNA SUKAT, as in the hospitable invitation ‘Do you want a suck at my orange?’
GONNIGEISHASANG? Are you going to favour us with a ballad?
UCHAMSHI, I am somewhat diffident.
WHITWUNNA THREETHURTI? A request for racing information.
OMI WHITATUMMI, a comment made on observing a gentleman’s pendulous stomach.
SAMURAI BUNGFU, a lady’s rebuke to her bibulous husband, Sam.
THE WOMAN IN GOVAN LIBRARY, 1983
Jimmy Reid
Jimmy Reid (1932–2010) came to prominence in the early 1970s when he was one of the leaders of the Upper Clyde Shipbuilders work-in to try to stop the Conservative Government from closing down shipyards. In a speech that is regarded as one of the most powerful he ever delivered, Reid told workers: ‘There will be no hooliganism. There will be no vandalism. There will be no bevvying . . .’ Born in Govan, Reid was an autodidact, an avid reader of G.K. Chesterton, George Bernard Shaw and George Orwell. The speech from which this extract is taken was delivered without notes at a Scottish Library Association Conference.
Libraries played a very important part in my own education, if you can call it an education. In terms of formal scholastic qualificat
ions I have none – not even an ‘O’ level. Not because I was a total ‘bampot’, as they say, but I left school at fourteen and, to tell you the truth, we did not take exams at that time. I passed my eleven plus. We still had the eleven plus in those days. I think it was out of 150, and I got 148½, which was not a bad pass mark. I am not indicating anything here, because I did not think about the eleven plus at that time. When I grew to maturity I thought even less about it as any kind of guide for measuring the intelligence of human beings, because people, particularly children, develop at different levels.
Anyway, I passed the eleven plus. I don’t know what it is now, but they streamed you in those days, and in Govan we were streamed into the academic stream that was based on Oxford and Cambridge. I did Greek, French and Latin, but my expectations never involved higher education. I did not know anybody who went to university from the streets of Govan. You normally assumed that at the first opportunity you were out to work. I must confess I never found the smattering of knowledge about Latin verbs of great assistance in the shipyards, but do not knock it for that reason.
I must also add that I have no recollection of my formal education, particularly at secondary school, stimulating or generating the slightest interest in any subject, in any subject at all, yet at the age of twelve or thirteen I was a voracious reader and pestered the life out of the woman in Govan Library. She swore blind that I could not be reading all the books I was taking out! Now, I was not exactly a bookworm – I used to play football and do all the other things with the lads. The truth is that for whatever reason, I started reading and by the time I was thirteen or fourteen had read every thing that Shaw had ever written, including his novels (which were not very good), and, to this day, I am still a voracious reader.
The importance to me then was considerable. But there is another factor which I want to raise with you which I think is important. The best way of raising it is to ask you to jump forward in time to about 1972–73. I went down to London to do a literary programme for London Weekend Television and Jonathan Miller was there. I introduced the question of the decline and fall of the novel. All the evidence suggests, in my opinion, that that particular art form has gone over the apex of its development. I am saying that now, more in sorrow than in joy, because to me it has made a colossal contribution to human knowledge. Anyway, we went into this in detail and after the programme, having a drink, he said to me, ‘Where did you study English Literature?’ I said, ‘Govan Library’, and he said, ‘Ah, come on. The library?’ And I did realise then that because I had not been reading in order to increase job expectations, or career prospects, or to pass an examination, there was a catholicity in my reading for which I am eternally grateful.