Lady Govan "Nihil Sine Labore"

Freezing February

2012-02-01T22:15:00.002Z

Today is a beautiful, icy morning. The sun sparkles upon the surface of the graving dock, wherein flotsam and jetsam have been frozen solid; tyres, cans, junk.

Throughout the day, the temperature never goes above freezing. As evening falls, me and Wee Raberta are in a car, driving outta Govan. Outside the Liquor Barn, a toddler is standing on the cold, hard ground with bare feet and a nappy on and only a wee vest. He's got a bottle and two old men are bending over talking to him.
"Aaaahhhh!" screams Wee Rab, "did you see that?"
"Waaahhh!" I scream too as we zoom onto the roundabout at Golspie Street.
Govan gets more and more Victorian every time you turn around.

An Independent Mind

2012-01-26T22:48:00.002Z

There are those among the general public, passing through Govan's streets, who stand above the rest. Those whose demeanour, patter, dress, attitude, that sorta je ne sais quoi, brings them to our attention and holds them aloft in our gaze.
Mr M. regales us at a corner, a warm-up before his full performance in a Govan hostelry. He is an octogenarian, slim and neat, dapper in a dark grey suit with crisp, white shirt and striped tie. A pressed white handkerchief sits in his top pocket, his black shoes are polished to a shine.
"An' what are you thinkin' aboot that independence nonsense? Eh? What's that aboot? Ah'm tellin ye, that Salmond and Co. are away wi it. Alex's getting carried away wi hissel'. There's nane a them in Edinburgh up to the job, that's the problem. Whit we're needin's Jim Murphy. He's needin tae come up fae London. Aye, we're needin somebody sensible. Jim's needin tae come up and dae a tour a Scotland and tell everybody what's what - Ah mean, me an Alex'll go wae 'im, sort this thing oot."
The Alex he's referring to is a big man mountain thug that Mr M trained in the boxing ring.
I can't help laughing at the thought of this sparse wee gent with his shaven heid minder approaching Jim Murphy to offer their services. Mr M. grins along with us. He's always got a glint in his eye, sometimes kinda evil, but in general good humoured.
"Aye, we'll need tae get a sharp shooter tae get Salmond oot a therr. Get a long distance shooter trained oan'm fae, whit dae ye call that place, Arthur's Seat. Ah mean, it's ok talkin aboot it, but listen, say it did happen, the hale place could be poverty stricken."
I keep a straight face. The only reason I'm hearing this is that I'm in the company of men. Mr M. is old school and doesn't generally address women, apart from a courteous nod of the head.
"Did ye see Margo?" he asks next. "Tryin' tae bring a bill in tae kill everybody. Did ye see'er on the tele, staunin' wi' er two sticks. She's just haudin' oan tae get this through or she'd a done 'ersel' in a'ready. Aye, she'd huv us a' killed"
We're all laughing now and Mr M.'s off and away reminiscing of days past and the old Glasgow gangland. "Aye, it's a' drugs noo. They're no the same, nae characters left. Their heids are a' wasted wi' the drugs."

Boxed

2012-01-18T23:32:00.001Z

Winter coughs necessitate an early evening visit to the Harmony Row Pharmacy. I reach the doorway at the same time as a woman, forty-ish, tomboy-ish, gallus with a white gauze square taped onto her forehead. I hold the door open for her and we walk inside to the warm, medicinally scented air of the Chemists.
Two teenage girls are sitting on a seat in the middle of the floor. They are shifting about, crossing and uncrossing their legs, leaning forward, stretching back, examining phones.
A woman is popping in and out of the white cubicle which has been erected for privacy from prying eyes and ears. Her wee boy, sooking a lolly, is calmly watching her dashing around.
A sign on the cubicle says,
"Only One Person In The Box At A Time".
I have to wait for a prescription.
The woman seems to decide that she is finished with the box for now.
"Ach, listen, Ah'll just come back," she says and the teens look up lazily and one of them says,
"We'll see ye later then."
"'Mon you," and with a scooping motion she ushers the wee boy out of the door.
As she goes out, a young lady comes in and sidles up to the gallus woman with the bandaged heid.
The young lady is neatly dressed in black trousers and high heels with plenty of feminine touches, like giant hoop earrings and a handbag. Standing close, the girl whispers a long tale and when the woman answers, the girl blurts out, in an exasperated whisper, "Shhhhsht Maw, gonnae leave it."
They approach the counter and the young lady tells the sales assistant that she's got a rash and the assistant - who is a mumsy, comfortable lady - says to hold on a minute and she'll get the pharmacist.
A coupla minutes pass before a blonde ponytailed girl breezes down to the counter.
"So, what seems to be the problem?" she asks in loud, disinterested Newton Mearnsy tones.
The young lady and her maw move as close to the counter as they can.
The young lady explains about the rash.
The pharmacist asks to see it.
The young lady pulls up her top to show her midriff and pulls down her collar to show her neck.
This is awkward.
I'm glad when the sales assistant calls on me to pick up the prescription.
They could be doing with the Box.

Off Your Trolley

2012-01-14T21:16:00.002Z

The Winter Solstice has passed and the first signs of new life have been noted after the turn of the year. Children's voices soar up from Govan's back courts and along the riverbank in the lengthening days.

A wee gang of two boys and three girls are running to and fro and stop me as I walk along Clydebrae Street.

"Hiya, where've ye been?" says one.

"Up the town," says I.

"Whit ye gettin'?" and runs away without waiting to hear.

The owner of the trolleycycle has come out of his workshop and is taking questions on Govan's own chitty chitty bang bang. He's speaking in a loud Teutonic kinda accent and the kids are swarming around, one attempting to jump into the basket, another trying to clamber over the handlebars.

A girl and a boy run back over to me and walk alongside. They are nine year olds, with clear, open faces. She has bluey-green eyeshadow stroked patchily on her eyelids and is wearing a pink jersey and pink shorts with woolly black tights under them.

"You've got eyeshadow on," says I.

"Ah no, hee hee," says she.

The boy is wearing a thin quilted jacket and his blue eyes are watering with the cold.

"James, wipe yer nose," she says to him and shivers like she's got the boak.

He looks ashamed and draws the elasticated cuff of his sleeve across his nose and mouth.

"You goat any ginger boattles?" he asks me.

"No, but you're first to get them when I do."

The other children come dashing over, squealing that they're getting a shot on the bike tomorrow.

"Wur gaun ower the squinty bridge!"

And off they go, running and yelling helter-skelter down towards the Riverside.

Indoor Games Near Govan Cross

2012-01-09T20:28:00.004Z

A darkening winter's evening sees me walking briskly along Govan Road. The air is cold but dry and there's a moon rising, illuminating low clouds in a pale blue light.
Now and again I turn to cast a glance over my shoulder, just to keep an eye on who's about. Good practice, as many will agree.
I look around and as I scan the tenements on the other side of the road, my attention is caught by a lighted first floor window. The walls of the room are painted an underwater, mariney green and from the centre of the ceiling is suspended a single bare lightbulb.
This is an unusually long room with two sets of windows set in the dark stone and I just have to stop for a moment to watch a wee boy, aged about 9, wearing only a pair of shorts, who is bouncing up and down, backwards and forwards on a bed. Jumping along to the end, he turns and jumps back again.
I can't see the bed of course, can just see him, up and down, head back, lost in his own imagination, trampoline champion of the world.
And watching brings a thrill of childhood games, bouncing on beds with creaky springs, hide and seek inside dark walnut wardrobes and in den one two three. And this keeps me smiling as I hurry on into the night.

Cold Comfort

2012-01-06T23:51:00.002Z

A couple of wee roly polys, cheery, jokey and jolly are busying with their business at the post office counter. So alike they must be sisters, one has hair of gold and the other is chestnut brown.
Bustling about with benefit books and bank cards, they are in and out of purses and bags, zips zipping back and forward, and button snaps snapping.
"Could you tell me," says the blonde to the p.o. man " did Ah get a Cold Weather Payment in ma account?"
The p.o. man looks at the p.o. woman who is the most knowledgeable of all Counter Staff members.
She scarcely looks round but says, authoritatively, "There's been no Cold Weather Payments. For the simple fact that it's not been cold enough."
The rosy cheeked blonde nods in agreement, "Aye, that's whit Ah wis thinkin'. Ah didnae think . ."
Her chubby sister chimes in, "Naw, but it's just she's wonderin' how she got a' that money in her account. She goat a big whack a money in her account n she disnae know how she got it."
The p.o. woman looks askance.
I take a look at the blonde heiress and wonder about this Cold Weather Payment. Isn't it just for pensioners? She looks no younger than 28 but no older than 40. No way is she a pensioner.
"Naw, Ah wis jist wonderin' who the money wis affa. Naw, it's no been cauld enough, that's right."
"Aye, it's no, sure it's no. Don't know wherr ye goat that."

Epiphany

2012-01-05T17:11:00.003Z

It's cosy in a tenement. A wild wailing gale has whooshed past the windows and battered the roofs, but wrapped in warm red sandstone, you are protected and secure. Govanised.
And in the morning, the gales have blown themselves out and we awake to blue skies and calm. Out in the streets there are plastic bags wedged into railings and branches of trees.

We haven't quite reached the twelfth day of Christmas, but Govan's Christmas Tree has been taken down, by the wind itself! Tipped up and over and, ha ha, has smashed flat the ugly metal grille surrounding it.
For the second year running, the powers that be have seen fit to erect this railing around our festive tree. What for? No need. So, there you go, take that.

And nobody's knocked the lights off it either.

Hogmanay Walk

2011-12-31T20:26:00.003Z

A good start to Hogmanay, I narrowly avoid being the household skittery winter this morning and later when someone suggests a walk in the country, I manage to persuade everyone it'll be more interesting to walk along the River Clyde. And it is, but the more energetic amongst us don't rate it as much of a walk due to very wet, slippery conditions.

Some mad Christmas celebrations have been going on down in this bender. The Community Reparation team who's been clearing sites in Govan over the past week should come here next. Or maybe this is where they were spending their lunch?

A helicopter buzzes up through the air. Happy New Year to us all. Very best wishes for 2012!

Busy, Busy, Busy

2011-12-16T21:06:00.002Z

I have never seen 21st century Govan Cross as busy as it is today. Surging with shoppers, queues like an execution at Iceland where trolleys are filling up with frozen pizza, Indian meals for two, frosty fish fingers, boxes of biscuits and nets of gold coins. Next door in the big bargain shop, every checkout is checking through long lines of shoppers with baskets overbrimming with toys, perfume sets, cards, plants, everything a bargain.
Deans Superstore lives inside the centre now and is packed full of cheap bargains - although the shopkeeper rips off a man buying the cheapest, tattiest Santa hat you've ever seen.
"Much?" asks the man and the shopkeeper says, "Eh, em, eh . . . a pound." And the man actually gives him it. Wow. The man will not be making much of an impression with that pathetic piece of thin red and white felt on his head.
King of Bargains is the shop next door to Deans and sells lots of cleaning materials with no brand name on them at cheap, cheap prices. The contents of the bottles are weak and ineffective, like most of cheap bargains. Also on sale, is a range of Kelloggs cereals. A young mum pushing a pram calls to her mum, "Ma, 'mon, therrs crunchy nuts fur wan eigh'y nine, the big boax."
A few additional Christmas commercial ventures have been set up on trestle tables, including a man selling felt Christmas stockings, baby's first and so on, a table of trackie bottoms and taps, and another of costume jewellery and watches.
Doing a roaring trade is MobiShak, a most excellent emporium for all things mobile phone. It's run by an Asian dude who can supply you with any phone, any phone cover or fix anything - just about - that you've broken on the mobi.
In November, his lordship smashed the glass display screen of his very fancy phone and took it to the big phone shop at Braehead. He was given a quotation of £200 to replace the screen.
I took it to the wise man at MobiShak and it was fixed in 4 days for £40.
Today I'm checking out the phone covers. You can have your name in sequins or a flag or just a pattern, your choice.
Two girls are leaning over the counter whining. "How can somedy brek intae ma internet? Somedy's usin' ma internet. How can they dae that? Can you fix that?"
Mr Mobi is leaning back in his chair, he's a dead laid back guy and he's got a warm smile on his face, "Ye know what ladies, yees must no have a password oan yer internet."
They whine on, "How comes other people can go on ma internet?"
"That's what it is," he is nodding and smiling, "listen, Ah'm tellin' yees, that's it. Nae password."

Wheely Dangerous

2011-12-09T23:06:00.003Z

Just out of the Post Office, I stop to window shop at the Pawn. My reverie is broken by a harsh cry, "Right, that's it. Get the polis! Ah'm gettin you cherged," and even more urgently, voice rising, "Cherged!"
I turn to see the guardian of Govan's Labradoodles, "Subway" coffee cup in one hand, cigarette in the other, storming towards an elderly gent in a wheelchair, one of Govan's double amputees.
A sturdy security man from the offices upstairs puts his hand up to stop her attack and tries, not with much confidence, to quieten her down.
"Naw, naw," she's shouting "He's no gettin away wi' this. This isnae the first time he's done this."
An elderly woman at her back starts to shout, "That's terrible you, leave him alane. He's a disabled."
"Ya sly auld pig," says the dogs' mum, "Ah seen ye, on yer way tae the pub, tryin' tae run them ower -don't think Ah never, an that's you at it again!" and she turns back and charges towards the old man again only to be stopped by the security man, who along with a colleague stands in her way.
She leans over as near to him as she can get, and says menacingly, "Ah seen you, an' am gonny get ye for it."
The old lady is getting frantic now and screeches, "Will you just leave that man alone!"
Now Missis Labradoodle turns her attention to the lady and whirls around yelling, "How would you like it if he tried to run your grandweans doon? Eh, how would you like that? That's whit he's done tae ma dugs. Aye, ye did," she accuses the gent, "Ye're always tryin it," and she speaks now to the gathering crowd, "Don't think Ah've no seen ye, tryin tae hit them - swervin' right intae them when they're tryin tae get oot yir road. Ye chase them on purpose ya wee. . " and here she breaks off as the security guard puts his hand on her shoulder and asks her to move away.
"Naw, leave us!" she wails.
Another old lady, tall and smiling, with curly brown hair is chuckling and saying to the three doggies, "Is that what that old rascal did, ma babies? Did he try to knock yous all down?"
Again, the refrain, "How would you like it if he kep' tryin' tae knock doon your grandweans?"

All the time the elderly man sits in his wheelchair, a benign smile upon his cheery face. He's wearing a furry helmet with ear flaps down, a scarf at his neck and a tartan travelling rug over the stumps where his legs should be. He looks kindly, bemused, calm.
Mama Labradoodle is riled to the limit and brandishing her coffee cup, screams "Watch it you, or ye'll huv nae heid tae go wi' yer nae legs!"

There's An Awful Draught

2011-12-08T17:57:00.104Z

After a politician's blunder of 2010 when Scotland slipped and slid to a halt in the snows, the Department of Transport, the Polis, the Education Authorities, the Cooncils, my Ma, are taking no chances and have all with one voice warned us to stay indoors today as there's a hurricane a-coming.

The wireless is broadcasting an amber alert. Some schools will close at 1pm as the winds will worsen in the afternoon. Then Glasgow decides nobody's to go to school today - except the teachers. (hee hee)
At half eight, a few little figures are blowing along with their wee hoods up and clutching their mammies' and daddies' hands. Inside the Govan Road Campus, there's quite a huddle of children standing behind the glass of the reception area, still wrapped up in their coats, hats and scarves.

Around 1pm a thundering hailstorm sweeps down Govan Road. As usual, I get my camera out after it's passed. Everyone is getting blown to the four winds.

The River Clyde has some mighty waves - good enough for surfing, maybe? It's well choppy!

Down by the dry docks, winds are wailing through the overhead wires and sad little shrubbery is swept left and right. The gates to the dry docks have blown open, and we enter, the wind shoving at our backs, strong gusts almost blowing us over

Even in the sheltered basin the wind violently disturbs the surface of the water.

This home is aptly constructed with a tarpaulin from GHA, Glasgow Housing Association, no less. Although buffetted by the storm, it's flapping wildly but looks safe enough. And what a location -

Just look at Glasgow, so beautiful on this amazing day. The River, ruffled by howling gales, the ever changing skies, the glassy BBC, the shiny Armadillo, the upthrust of the Science tower, all anchored by the city's heritage landmarks; the Finnieston Crane and the Waverley paddle steamer, holding it all together, keeping us firmly on terra firma.

Fires In The Fall

2011-11-29T23:30:00.009Z

First I hear of the fire is a text from London asking if we've seen it. The Co-op Funeral building in Morrison Street is ablaze.

From the dry docks at Stag Street a vibrant hot orange glow is menacing the Glasgow skyline. Black smoke billows up and drifts over the city, and from time to time there is a vicious burst of flames leaping up in a towering inferno. BBC says over 100 feet in the air. Sad about the building but Glasgow's firemen do a great job containing it. A busy month.

Sing a song of seasons! Something bright in all!

Flowers in the summer. Fires in the fall!

Robert Louis Stevenson

The Scheme

2011-11-22T03:10:00.004Z

Here’s a laugh. So, today I am in the queue at the Govan Cross Post Office – where a laugh is often to be had – and there’s young Paul in front of me. In his early twenties, he’s handsome, but sullen and looks ruthless – you wouldn’t want to mess with him. Not the type to hit old ladies or anything, but if you were his age group, you’d be wary. He's dressed smartly in navy joggers, pale grey hoodie.

Behind me are a couple of folks chatting and then in comes a right pair. Chas and Davy, again in their twenties, trackies and trainers, one with the slash mark from mouth to ear, but very chirpy and having a bit of a set-to about a lie one had told the other.

Paul catches one’s eye and nods, unsmiling. They greet him and begin to pull him into their conversation, chawsing each other until he begins to grin and agrees with one.
Someone mentions something about a scheme and that’s Davy off, ranting about that programme on the BBC called “The Scheme”.
“Where wiz that place?” asks Chas.
“Some teuchter dump,” says Davy, “Bunch a neds. Pure out a order man, gies Glasgow a bad name n that.”
“Wisnae in Glasgow,” says Chas.
“Aye,” agrees Paul, becoming quite animated, “they wur bang out a order, stuff they wur daein’. See the state a that guy. Whit wizis name?”
“Em, em, whit wizit? Eh, Marvin.”
“Aye, Marvin,” they all say and join together in a rendition of “Happy as Larry. Could not be happier.”
“See him, shouldnae huv hud a dug, shouldnae a been allowed a dug.”
“Aye, yer right,” Davy says. “See the programme makers, they went n got the dug a new hame doon in England.”
“Aye, Bullet, that wiz its name.”
“Bunch a neds,” Paul says again before getting called up to the counter.

Darkness Deepens

2011-11-08T23:20:00.004Z

Fog has crept in overnight and Govan awakes to a dark morning of swirling vapours. And so it remains all day as the clock advances to noon when the mists grow whiter and then gradually darken deeper and deeper till night falls.
At teatime, business is brisk at the take-away food emporia along the Govan Road with people dashing in and out for their evening meal. In homes, pots are bubbling, ovens roasting and microwaves humming as cooks prepare dinner.
All at once every light on the southside switches off and we are plunged into instant darkness. For a moment there is silence, and then a shuffling and murmuring as attempts are made to check the electricity.
Outside on the streets all is quiet too until sounds of voices can be heard calling out through the gloom.
"Whit happened?"
"It's the electric - who didnae pay the bill"
Loud laughing, a whoop, a scream.
Silence again.
As your eyes adjust, faint shapes of people can be seen holding aloft little squares of light - the display panels of mobile phones.
In tenement windows flickering candles and flashing torchlight cast an eerie glow.
On the street, a woman glides along like a ghost, a burning candle on an ornate brass candlestick in her hand.

An hour or more passes before the cheery lamps are restored and delayed dinner is eaten and we catch up with the evening news and how the world has been doing since we dropped out of it for a little while.

Bonfire Night Re-instated

2011-11-05T22:02:00.004Z

The winter sun sets and the moon rises over Govan. There's a bite in the air as we head out through the streets to see what's goin down in the hood. At Orkney Street the firestation's lit up like a Christmas tree and the big doors are open, revealing firemen swaggering about, sorting all their equipment as they await the call to battle.

We walk briskly along paths, criss-crossing, once crowded with tenements, now lying quiet in the darkness. Brighton Street, Neptune Street, Briton Street, Dunsmuir Street, up and down we go, feeling the chill on our faces, twisting round to see rockets exploding high above us. We are passing new housing, building sites, old tenement buildings, Govan Bowling Club, a school ancient and a school modern, and ground laid to waste. Now on to the grassy field which once was the back courts of Burndyke Street and the Govan Press printing works and the Chinese Seamen's Mission.

Sparklers are twinkling in the darkness and now and again a ground-based firework fizzes up and fizzles out. A dad's voice comes over the backs of Southcroft Street, highly nervous and charged with fear. "Don't move wi' that. Don't go near that. Keep away. Keep back. What have I told you. Will ye keep that still. Do you not know how dangerous these things are!"

Waaah!

Down the field a bit, a firework goes zipping sidieways and slams bang into some kind of structure. What is that, we wonder?

And then another rocket goes off and throws a pyramid of wood into light relief. Yes, it's real. A bonfire of some magnitude, amazingly constructed in the last twelve hours by wood gathered from who knows where!

It's set alight and catches beautifully, golden flames sweeping up to lick the sky.

We chat with a couple of fellas about how the wee lads' wood got snatched away and how industrious they've been in building it back again over the last 12 hours. Resilient, no stopping them in the face of adversity.

His lordship's got his fancy camera at the ready. "Nice gear you got there mate," says one sly man on the fringes of the fire. But that's as far as it goes. Just snap away and feel the heat on your face and the chill of the night at your back.

Fires are greedy and this beauty is fed throughout the evening by a committed band of wee boys who come and go with planks and great big sheets of wood. Where's it coming from? Plantation maybe?

So, here you go, enjoy this pictorial record of the spirit of Govan. Unquenchable.

Disaster At The Eleventh Hour

2011-11-04T22:35:00.003Z

Friday, the 4th of November. One day to Guy Fawkes and while the children are at school, someone has reported the stash of wood, carefully gathered and stored in the middens of Southcroft Street over the past couple of weeks, in readiness for tomorrow night's bonfire.

Two (2), yes, two lorries have been sent by the cooncil and 5 or 6 men are loading up the planks, doors, sheets, logs, timber of all types, stripping this prime site of the fuel required for fireworks night.

Bonfire Night ruined again. How absolutely depressing. All the hard work and industry of the youngsters is snatched away at the eleventh hour.

Hallowed

2011-10-31T23:40:00.014Z

Such a warmth in the air this morning. Everyone remarks on it; how mild it is, what a surprise, it's warmer outside than it is in. The first drops of rain start to fall from Govan skies around 5 o'clock and steadily increase to a dreary downpour.

Hallowe'en. What a dismal evening for the guisers.

The primary school children make it home dry at 3 o'clock in their wee costumes; witches, a nurse, a super mario, a skeleton, a vampire. But by 6 o'clock, the streets are pretty quiet with just a few folks running from one close to another with jackets over their disguises.
At home, we light a few candles and coorie doon to listen to some supernatural tales from old Govan.

Tillie tells a tale told to her by her auntie. It was 1936, a dark, cold January night. In the kitchen in Neptune Street, the kettle bubbled on the black range and the gas lamp cast eerie shadows around the room. You daren't cross by the bed recess for fear of what was lurking in the corners.
Tillie's bachelor uncles were amusing themselves and Peter produced a ouija board he'd acquired. He laid alphabet cards in a circle around the table and a card for yes and one for no. The brothers sat at the table asking questions. Their fingertips pressed lightly on top of a glass tumbler which was propelled by an energy, to spell out the answers.
All of the brothers? Well, no, not all, for Edward sat aloof at the window, smoking a cigarette and looking over disapprovingly.
A few simple questions were asked and answered. Edward tutted and shook his head at each one.
A lot of rubbish in his opinion.
"What is the name of the King who just died?" asked Tommy.
The glass began to whizz and spelled out K.I.N.G. G.E.O.R.G.E. V
"Name the unbeliever in our midst!" cried Peter suddenly and before they could take a breath, the table began to rock back and forward on its legs. The swaying grew more and more chaotic and it began to cross the floor, heading for Edward who had risen to his feet as it clattered crazily towards him, before rearing up on two legs and pinning him against the wall.

On this Hallowe'en, the candles flicker at the window and we look round uneasily and peer into the corners of the living-room.

Now Davy recalls his childhood home, with parents who practised spiritualism. His mother held meetings in their house with visiting mediums and seances in the parlour. Trances and visions were commonplace. At one ouija board session, wee Davy kept tugging at his mother's skirts and interrupting things. L.I.T.T.L.E. B.O.Y. A.N.N.O.Y.S spelled out the spirit. He got put into the kitchen out the road for the rest of the night.
Mrs Scobie was a special visitor of some renown. She was an apport medium and used her power to materialise semi precious gems, which she presented to her host. Davy remembers his mother's treasures included opals, garnets, medallions, a set of five sapphires, to which was added on a subsequent visit, a large centrepiece sapphire of glinting blue.
We wonder what happened to the ill-gotten gains. Davy thinks his ne'er do well brother took them.

Outside the rain in still falling in sheets. The candlelight flickers and we have a squabble about who's to put the kettle on until it's decided that two will go together.

Wood Scavenging

2011-10-25T22:44:00.006+01:00

Be prepared. Govan's boy scouts (of sorts) start bonfire wood collections for the big night. After the disappointing lack of bonfires at Guy Fawkes 2010, things are really looking up! Watch this space - which is Burndyke St, behind The Bells.

One Fine Morning

2011-09-29T22:24:00.000+01:00

It's a balmy end to September, and much of the UK is sweltering in heat with people swimming in the sea and eating pokey hats in the park. The west of Scotland hasn't quite made top temperatures, but is pleasantly mild.

Mid-morning, two children toddle along the pavement, brothers aged 5 and 3. The elder boy is dressed in trackies, t-shirt and trainers but the wee one is wearing pyjamas and has bare feet.
"Any ginger bottles?" squeaks the big brother as he passes the window.

Wow. It's a long time since children roamed shoe-less through Govan's streets.

A Criminally Close Encounter

2011-09-13T23:08:00.005+01:00

I'm cutting diagonally across the road, heading to the close mooth and two men are walking straight along the pavement. They reach the close a wee bit before me and stop in the entry.

If you were casting common thugs for a film or a play, you'd definitely pick this pair.
One is a tall, burly man, big head shaved into the wid, blunt features, a dull, unfeeling expression. He's wearing a leather jacket and drainpipe jeans with a duffel bag over his shoulder and is wheeling a bike along.
The other man is wee-er and also wears a leather jacket. He has more of the latin look, swarthy with the obligatory scar traced from jaw to corner of mouth. And, sorry to say, he's kind of manky too.

As I say, I reach the close just after them and the big one is squatting down, opening the toggles of the bag and pulling it apart to reveal a very fancy camera with long lens. The wee man isn't looking at it though, he's turning round to look at me, with a quizzical look on his face, like, who're you and whatjehinkyerdaein?

The outward me is looking down into the bag of purloined goods and looking up again and then at the wee man and then at the big man, by which time, they're both looking at me strangely. We're all only inches away from each other's faces.

The inward me is thinking, oh mammy daddy, what are you doin'? They've stolen a camera and you've walked right up to them at the very moment of exchange. And what's more, you're staring right into their swag bag.
And I just seem to go on automatic pilot and buzz Wee Raberta's. Open Sesame - I disappear through the escape hatch and ascend to safety, toot sweet.

Green Fingers Fingered

2011-09-07T23:31:00.003+01:00

Nobody's got electricity up ma pal's close. It's on account of the Police raiding the flat of a local market gardener and switching off his lights at the main box for the building. In so doing, everyone else up the stairs has been left without leccy as well.

The botanist has been working away at a little nursery in his home, cultivating leafy Cannabis Sativa, watering and nurturing it till it reaches maturity and is ripe for harvest. Apparently every square inch of floor space is covered by the illegal crop, windows are blacked out, heat lamps are glowing all day and all of the night.

You see quite a few windows with shiny, reflective paper pasted over them in Govan's tenements. They say it's what the growers do to keep the heat in the house for the plants' welfare.
With fuel costs sky-rocketing, maybe we should all try it - the shiny paper I mean.
Ma pal says the plants are insatiably thirsty and need about 70 gallons of water a day - or was that a week? Anyway, if you decide to keep them, you can't be neglectful or they'll wilt.
Apparently when you see helicopters flying low over Govan, that's what they're looking for - signs of heat radiating from flats that have furnaces blasting and roasting hot lamps burning twenty-four seven.

A leaflet posted through your door may tell you to watch out for tell-tale signs: windows blacked out with shiny mirrorlike paper, only sporadic visitors to the house, deathly silence (like no telly). They don't mention the constant sound of running water, but surely this must also be a sign.
If you do notice anything like this, then you should notify the housing association. They in turn will notify the Police, who will come round and break the door down and smash the electrical box in the close and you'll end up with no electricity like ma pal did.

Zombie Wars

2011-08-24T22:43:00.083+01:00

Glasgow is masquerading as Philadelphia this month as Brad Pitt and a Zombie army film a big budget movie, World War Z. The zombie den is in the Big Shed down at Riverside and today, filming has moved from George Square to Clydebrae Street.
On the Govan Road, there's a long line of film unit vans and security men at the top of Stag Street. Queues of luxury cars and mini coaches bring cast and crew into Govan for a day of indoor filming.

At the far end of the street a few ladies from the hairdressers, towels round their wet hair, have walked down to catch-a-glimpse of the stars.

Across the roof of the Big Shed, a man in khaki is tiptoeing gingerly. He dreepies down to the ground, asking if we've seen any big cars driving by.
"I'm Press," he says, brandishing his camera. We cast him a disparaging look. A wee digital snapper hangs round his neck, nothing like the two super long lens cameras the man fae The Sun was carrying earlier.
He continues, "Aye, I've seen right inside the Shed, it's made to look like the Far East. No seen Brad yet," and on further questioning he admits he's the correspondent from Castlemilk's local rag.

Ladies abandon their hair appointments at Scissors on Govan Road, to gaze longingly down towards the glamorous film set of The Big Zombie Shed.

Cast stroll through Govan - yes, it's Brad at the back.

This lad will sort out the zombies

And if he cannae, this wumman wi the dugs will

Brad says Hi as he returns from a trip up to Coffee Joe's.

A while later The Sun's photographer appears again, loooong lenses slung over his shoulders.

"Watch out for a dark blue Audi. He'll be in it," he tells us.

Aw, right . . . we say in our most blasé tone.

Sunshine And Tears

2011-08-02T19:55:00.030+01:00

Another hot bright day.
"Ah'm very sorry," A man stops me, "Very sorry t' get in your way,"
Drunk, I think but stop for a minute.
"D'ye know about the yairds that used to be here?"
I say, yeah, a wee bit.
"Well, ah'll tell ye . . " and he continues with a tale of working life in the shipyards and what he did and what he didn't do and what was here and what was there.
All the time I'm thinking this could be quite interesting if he wasn't sloshed. But as it is, there's a fair bit of rambling.

While he talks, I can't take my eyes off his which are the clearest, brightest blue you ever did see with tiny black pinprick pupils.
"Ah'm sorry if ye think ah'm drunk," he says from time to time. "Ah just have to have a wee bit to help me cope. Ye know ah lost a' ma weans," and his face screws up with ready tears. He gulps in a deep intake of breath and lets it out in a heavy sigh.

Lazy River

2011-07-27T21:29:00.013+01:00

The sun has been blazing in the sky for days now. This morning was fine and the sun waxed in intensity as the hours drew on till noon. Groups gather on the scraggy banks of the Clyde to picnic on Red Biddy and its modern day equivalents. Boys, with no work and no school, congregate in the heat of the day, throw stones in the water and lie on the banks, their faces upturned to the sun.
On a promontory overlooking the gently flowing river, three 10 year olds strip down to their shorts and warily enter the stream, wading in to waist level and bobbing up and down in the waves created by a passing speed boat.

At the graving basin on Stag Street, a few teenagers look prepared to leap into the water far below. Fortunately, they just cast a line into it instead. Wonder what kind of fish would come up out of there?

A Ribbing

2011-07-25T23:17:00.006+01:00

Half four in the afternoon. Smashing weather again and at the little white flats by the river, a group of neighbours, mostly pensioners, are looking up at an open window from whence cometh the screams of a man, "Oh, oh, oh, that's ma ribs, naaaw, ma ribs! AAAAHHH!"

The neighbours look calmly up at the window. Some shake their heads, one laughs and they return to their conversations.

Hide 'n' Seek

2011-07-23T23:41:00.003+01:00

What an absolutely amazing day it's been! Hot skies and sun radiating warmth upon our beloved riverside home.

The blue, blue evening is turning to gold and through the weedy banks of the River Clyde, little voices can be heard, calling in hoarse whispers, "Who is it wur catchin'?" followed by wee feet running swiftly and swishings through the undergrowth.
Further along the bank, a clever whistle pierces the air, signalling some manoeuvre to members of one of the teams in this late night game of Hide and Seek.
All of a sudden, a rush through the tall grasses and just as quickly, silence.

This is one of them long summer evenings when you just never want a game to end.
And as this is the twenty-first century and we're in Govan, there's no danger of anyone getting shouted in.
So, play on weans and enjoy the good weather while it lasts!

Ginger Bottles

2011-07-22T22:49:00.049+01:00

It's the summer holidays. A wee boy kicking about the streets approaches our open door and calls in to ask if we've got any ginger bottles.

He's in luck and as he waits for them to be brought out I look at his slight figure in the doorway; the sun behind him, his short ruffled hair, baggy tee-shirt, shorts, scruffy sandshoes, his face in shadow, eyes darting about from side to side.
And the background music on the radio is the voice of Louis Armstrong crooning, "And I think to myself . . . what a wonderful world".

The wee boy snatches the glass bottles and speeds off and I feel like we could just as easily have been in 1971 as 2011.
Govan's in a bit of a time warp, ya know?

Tillie Tells A Tale Of Childhood Street Games

2011-07-19T22:11:00.019+01:00

School holidays are underway and children are out playing in Govan's streets, as they ever were. Today, on her 75th birthday, Tillie tells another tale from her Govan childhood. Thanks and many happy returns!

My era for street game was from 1942 to 1950 approximately, when I was aged 6 to 14 years.
Most of our games involved running about and a lot of competition; games like Kick the Can and Rounders. Aleevio was where the person who was het had to collect as many others as he could find and place them in a den. Then when he was out looking for the rest, one of the free people could release the prisoners in the den. Most of us children just ran about wild, trying to follow the rules.

After the war the air raid shelters lay open and unattended and children played in them during the day. I was forbidden by my parents to go inside them and being me, I obeyed, but couldn't help looking in as I was passing. They were dark and gloomy and smelled stale and damp. My friend told me that her daddy said that drunk men slept in them at night.

We also played on our roller skates out on the road. The surface was tarmacadam, perfect for our skating games. The only traffic was the odd horse and cart.
In the evenings, my cousin and I used to play on our skates on Edmiston Drive outside the Rangers Football Park and no cars or other motor vehicles ever came along.
We played lots of games on the road. We pretended the road was a river and we had to get across without being caught by some evil being that lived in it. We had little chants which went something like;
Person on pavement says, "Master, Master, may I cross your Golden Water?”
Person in water(road) answers, " How much will you pay me?”
Pavement - "How deep is your water?"
Water – “ Put your finger in and see."
Pavement - " Oh, I've lost my golden ring!"
Water – “Put your hand in and see."
Pavement - " Oh, I've lost my golden bangle!”
Water – “Put your foot in and see."
Pavement - "Oh I've lost my golden shoe!"
Water - " Swim for it!"
Pavement jumps into water and Water tries to catch him. If he does then they change places and the game begins again.

We were never at a loss for a game to play and plenty of children to play with on Govan's streets. Our imagination was boundless.

Pineappled

2011-07-09T21:40:00.000+01:00

Shop local. That's the ethical way to purchase your goods nowadays. Use the shops on the high street, avoid the big chains and encourage local entrepreneurs.
With that in mind, I make my way along Govan Road towards "Govan Carpets", a long narrow shop with pillars of floor coverings lined up against the walls.

At the kerb, the Govan Carpets van is being loaded up by a couple of guys and a wee boy. Standing at the entrance is the proprietor, a slim, wiry older gent, brylcreemed hair and blue tinted specs.
"How ye doin'? What ye after the day? Come on in an have a check of this - it's your chance to give to charity. Ye know the Govan charity, it's on the radio, you know the Govan radio, I've been raising a lot a funds for them. Ah bought 200 pineapples and Ah've been auctioning them for the Govan charity. C'mon in" he says, ushering me through the door, "Here, look at this, it's the last pineapple."
I look down at a puny fruit,
"Just a donation, right, whatever you think, let's say a fiver."
I slip my purse out and unzip it saying,
"Em, dunno if I've even got a fiver on me."
"Right then," says he, "Just give me all yer change, have you got five pounds worth?"
"Em, not sure, maybe about £3 or so. Ah'm in to see about a carpet."
"Right, what you after? See this carpet on the floor, it's a beauty, been down 5 year and look how good it's lasted. A lot of feet in here ye know. What's your measurements?"
"I think it's 3 x 8 metres but I'm not sure exactly. How much is it a metre?"

By a neat sleight of hand, the change in my hand transfers to his pocket, his mouth rattling on nineteen to the dozen.
"Right, ye local? Ok then, he'll go and measure up for ye."
He's referring to a young version of himself who's just come in the door of the shop,
"Come on, you'll take the lady in the van and get her room measured up, eh."
The guy is shaking his head, "Away you go and measure," he says, "Ah've just put ma dinner out."
I intervene, "No, no need," I'm saying, "Just give us a price just now - Ah like the carpet we're standing on."
"Aye, it's a stoatir. Here, get a price for the wumman. Ye can get it in charcoal or broon or, does it come in a cream?"
"Aye." The son sits himself down at a cluttered desk and starts tapping a calculator and spouting out numbers. The old da goes out on the pavement to chat to somebody.
"One point one one nine, times three times - right, Ah can give you that for a hundred n forty pound. Then there's the carpet fitter. He'll dae it for aboot eighty pound."
Before he can continue the old man butts in, "Make that sixty pound, he'll dae it for the wumman for sixty."
The young man shakes his head a wee bit again, "Right, awright, awright, but he'll need a fair bit a glue for that size, it's gonny be twenty pound for the glue. Ye payin cash?"
"Yeah, Ah would be, yeah, cash."
"Ok, we'll dae it for a hundred and twenty."
"Ah'll have to check the size then and come back in," says I.
"You go ahead, " says the old man and losing interest in me, he wanders back out onto the street.
My eye falls on the pineapple and I hesitate, wondering if I should lift it and take it away.
"Auction off yer pineapple for another fiver," I say to the old guy as I pass by,
"Aye, right ye are hen."

Ships On The Clyde

2011-07-02T22:49:00.004+01:00

This day is warm and sunny, white clouds sailing high in a blue, blue sky. The river runs lazily by whilst across on the north shore, the carpark of the Riverside Museum is full of transport and bustle. Flags flutter merrily high on the mast of the tall ship.

A little pickup truck with a tatty wee speed boat atop a trailer is parked on Clydebrae Street. A man, in his fifties, trim with dark receding hair is standing in the cabin, painting it with a mini roller and white gloss paint. A young guy, very trendy in an Eastern European style - tight jeans and t-shirt, shiny shoes - is briskly brushing the royal blue hull.

"Where you goin' sailing?" I enquire.
The older man carries on painting after flicking his eyes up to look at me quickly and away again.
The younger makes a sound like, "Nnnyeah," and then continues, "We perhaps go to, eh, put in, eh, sea, hah, we 'ope."
My companion, His Lordship, is very interested in maritime vessels and puts in a question or two regarding horsepower and suchlike.
The fella answers as best as his command of English will allow.
The older man's eyes flick up and down a few more times, but his face is stern and unexpressive.

"You goin' to launch it over there?" I ask, pointing to the Stag St. ferry.
"Ha ha!" he laughs, "Hokay, nnnyeah, will do."

Kittle Corner

2011-06-24T22:18:00.002+01:00

A corner is always a great place to congregate, and even better, is a corner on crossroads. You have four ways to look up and down, and three other corners to keep your eye on. The dynamics of the corners vary, from darkly brooding to high spirited, from the exchange of pleasantries to bubbling cauldrons of trouble.
It still fills me with wonder when I walk between the tenements of Shaw Street, that an orchard once grew where Govan Housing is now building their skanky flats, all gless and cheap materials.
I read here that the corner of Shaw Street and Govan Road was once called Kittle Corner and that folk were maybes a bit scared to walk by there on account of getting a slagging.
Yeah, I can relate to that. It can be daunting to scuttle past the New Harmony Bar, when the drinkers are standing at the doorways, lighted cigarettes in hand, making drink-addled comments or shouting raucously to the other corners and sometimes at you.

This evening is grey and warm and at the Shaw Street door of the New Harmony, stands a couple of men and a woman chatting together. Another women is further away from the group, standing at the kerb, watching them and sometimes addressing them.
It's been dead warm today and the heat remains in the air, someone actually has a parasol up in the tiny cemented garden in front of their dusty windows.
The woman at the kerb has got on a padded quilty kind of coat, grey-ish white, buttoned up and trousers tucked into a pair of boots. She's in her 50s but her fair hair's pulled back into a high ponytail and she's carrying a message bag.
One of the men at the pub door is wearing long baggy shorts and a red football top and the other is old school, with a shirt and trousers held up by braces. The woman is dressed for summer, barmaid style, strappy top and capri pants.

The women are conversing back and forward and it goes along the lines of, "Aye, did ye well?", "Aye Ah did", "Naw, ye nivver," and so on.
Padded coat starts to walk towards the pub door and the other woman draws up and then boof, padded coat reaches forward and smacks pub lady on the face. All of a sudden there are legs and arms flailing all roads as the young chap tries manfully to restrain the pair, attempting to separate them and keep them apart. Pub lady has managed to grab padded coat by the shoulders and is pushing her head downwards onto the street when another man skips out the pub door and from behind, firmly takes hold of her arms, forcing her to let go. This leaves the first man to deal with padded coat and as suddenly as the attack flared up, it seems to die down with padded coat getting an intense talking to and the pub lady being snaffled quietly inside.

Kittle; awkward, dangerous . . . ticklish?

A Spot Of Sightseeing

2011-06-03T23:58:00.005+01:00

The floats trundle off towards Elder Park and this year lots of people linger around Govan Cross, posing for pictures with the Govan Baby and then promenading along the banks of the Clyde where final preparations are being made for the opening of the Riverside Museum.

Strains of Scots fiddle music from the tall ship soar across the water, where many of us stand with our noses pressed up against the wire railings, keeping us out of the rrrrre-generation of the rrrrriver.

On our way back along Govan Road, we see Ladbrokes glass door has been smashed but all is harmonious in the warm atmosphere of Govan's street corners.

Oh Aye, The Fair

2011-06-03T23:28:00.001+01:00

Hang on, here's the medical side of the Southern team, just let out for the evening.

A Fire Engine from the line-up of vintage vehicles bringing this year's procession to a close. Yet again, thanks for your sterling work in the great chip pan fire of 73,

Wee Raberta got a lucky bag off Sunny Govan Radio. I never, but she let me take a picture of hers.

The Big Vans Can Vamoosh

2011-06-03T23:09:00.003+01:00

We're having a great time tonight. Flags are flying and there's a great atmosphere in the warm sun. Sorry to cast a negative comment, but here goes . . .
This year we welcome Dobbie's Garden Centre, newly opened at Braeheid. So, maybe they haven't seen the Govan Fair before and if not, then ok, fair enough. But, the thing is, it's just not good enough to put in your works' van and leave it at that. We're really looking for the transformation of the back of a lorry, with some kind of theme, connected in some way to your business. Thanks a lot for joining in though and we look forward to seeing your big flower display next year. Something akin to Chelsea.

Same goes for you Asda. No excuse for you, you've got plenty of maddies working for you who could put on a fine show.

Sun Keeps On Shining Over Govan

2011-06-03T23:07:00.005+01:00

Think this is the contractors who are building the Southern General complex or something. I'm not enjoying taking these photos, hopeless at it and can't concentrate properly on who's who.

Great wee footballing club and more unity in the community types.

Pipes And Drums

2011-06-03T22:58:00.000+01:00

A hearty welcome to St. Francis' Pipe Band who visit us each year from their community upstream.

A popular vehicle every year, with caramel wafers hurling out the windows into the crowd. This is a beauriful vintage motor with the fine livery of Mr Thos. Tunnock of Uddingston.

The dance troupe has tripped along in the evening heat and entertained us every step of the way!

It Takes All Sortz

2011-06-03T22:54:00.001+01:00

It was bound to show up, and here it is; buzzword of the moment, Sectarianism. SOS right enough.

Now here's Baldaidh Ruadh, of GalGael, a specimen of the indigenous species if ever you saw one.

And a carnival theme from Dot's Spot, who do themselves proud every year. C'mon wee Govan shops - why don't more of you get involved!

Whatever Floats Yer Boat

2011-06-03T22:45:00.002+01:00

Now come the floats, I dash across the road to try and find pals and see if someone else will take these photos, but nae luck. This shot is looking down Pearce Street. The group is the Fairfield Anglers.

Nice to see the boffins from the Science Centre along the road, but I do think you could have been a bit more inventive. Thanks for comin though.

A Pipe Band, didn't get the name though, got distracted by someone.

Brechin's Is Better

2011-06-03T22:35:00.002+01:00

On towards the Cross, past Brechins where a throng of open-air drinkers spill on to the pavement. I take a quick pic of a shimmering tower of balloons quivering in the stillness.
Suddenly I see Wee Eck, upon whom I haven't laid eyes for, we reckon, 25 years. What an occasion!

The Sheep's Heid solemnly advances.

The Govan Fair Queen, majestic in her carriage. At this point I realise my photos have the hideous Govan Shopping Centre as backdrop, so I race up the road a bit.

Brechin's is better.

The Attendants.

And the Politicians.

There's Nicola, waving her flag - she follows me on Twitter btw.

Meet And Greet At The Govan Fair

2011-06-03T22:27:00.004+01:00

After our Govan Fair dinner, we saunter en masse along the Govan Road. The streets are busy with people tearing about but scant sign of the police who were so very much in evidence at the Fair 2010.

The Black Man gazeth down upon the proceedings, casting a fatherly eye over us all.

Flags wave from a few Burleigh Street windows where folks appreciate their vantage point and enter into the night's festivities.

Likewise, a wave from the great and the good on the balcony of the revered P.I.

The commoners down below catch up with old pals and share gossip and news.

Cheery Bubbles

2011-06-03T22:27:00.001+01:00

Glad to see Harry the Hat, with whom I colluded in a counterfeit racket in day's gone by. He's selling bottles of giant bubbles which he cheerily demonstrates for this year's pic.

Harry has got to be the Govan Fair salesman of the year, every year. He lays out his wares on a blanket on the ground at the end of Harmony Row and makes a tidy turnover from satisfied customers. .

Cheery bubbles Harry, and on we go!

What a balmy evening on which to sit outside Govan Old and watch the world go by. Glorious Govan.

Off To A Bright Start

2011-06-03T22:22:00.041+01:00

You couldn't ask for a better day! Sun splitting the sky and it's warm, with temperatures hitting the hgh 70s! Govan is in party mood and we start off the night with pizza and ice cream up at wee raberta's. Honestly, you could easy think you were in Rome in this sunshine and heat. And talking of Rome . . .

. . St Anthony's has been partially unveiled, revealing spruced up warm honey stone and new copper roof.

Rebirth Of The Govan Baby

2011-06-01T19:59:00.003+01:00

Flaming June, flaming awful weather anyway. The sky is grey and I return for a jacket after setting off to Govan Cross, or as the newly laid paving stones in front of Govan New are to be designated, "The Squerr".
The Govan Market stalls are set up with some high falutin stuff for sale, including all kinds of olives from Provence, vintage jewellery, decoupage cards and handbags, sweeties and the butcher's van.
I buy ma da a dvd of the Centenary Celebrations of Govan High for £6.99, reduced from a tenner.

Me and Hoi Polloi wander about a bit before meeting up with the rest of the clan for a long wait in the freezing cold wind. We stake our place right in front of the baby, who is swaddled today in a red ribbon, ripe for cutting.

No, this isn't a scene from a public hanging. The very tall women in Victorian dress are prancing around on stilts - not sure why. I remember when I was growing up, all the older generation were very short in stature.

Over in the white marquee there are speech makers galore whose voices drone on and on lauding all the sponsors and hailing all the construction companies and agencies involved in this rrrrre-generation. We must hear the same names ten times over. Anyway, we stand our ground and eventually the action moves to the Aitken Memorial Fountain.

Ms Susan Hanlon of the Central Govan Action Plan talks some more.

And then comes this man. Take a good look. Take a good long look. He starts his speech by saying something like, "I perhaps shouldn't say this in this company, but my background is in planning and many, many years ago, I was responsible for the Govan area."
Is that right? You've a cheek to show your face. As if restoring a fountain and sticking down some paving slabs makes up for the acres of homes and community you destroyed and left as waste grun.
Bum on, yer bum's yer ain.

It's chilly for the outgoing Govan Fair Queen on one of her last duties.

The Kirk Minister and the Priest of St. Anthony's tell us about the good Doctor John Aitken, his life and work.

The great grandsons of Dr Aitken approach the very beautiful fountain and cut the ribbon with a wee pair of scissors out of Ikea. Come on, where's the silver ceremonial pair?

Lots and lots of pictures now. A concert's starting over in the marquee but the sentiments of the day thus far seem to be summed up by a big wumman who turns on her heel with the cry, "That wiz a load a' sh**e".

Wee Heidies

2011-05-23T18:47:00.019+01:00

What a wild,windy day today, with gale force winds of up to 70mph! Games of football, which go on all summer long, have to be abandoned - unless you can find somewhere sheltered to play.
Welcome to guest Blogger Dan with an account of his own highly competitive games in the safe haven of Govan's tenements.

It’s probably around 55 years since I last played ‘wee heidies’ in our back court (goodness, that sounds posh – we just called it ‘roon the back’).

Anyway, as an adult, before the building at 571 Govan Road and the whole of Burndyke Street was demolished, I re-visited the scene of hundreds of closely fought (and fought is definitely the right word) encounters – mainly between me and my older brother, Duncan.
On other occasions these contests would include boys who lived locally or school pals who came by after school. I call them contests because we usually nominated the team that we were representing, which of course, would be the favourite team we supported.

The game of ‘wee heidies’ was very simple. We had goalposts and a crossbar painted on two walls facing each other, the space being the width of the backcourt, in this case about 6 yards. Each player took turns of tossing the ball up above their head and making towards the opponent’s goal and trying to get it past him to score.

Going through the close into the backcourt as an adult, I had to bend my head for fear of knocking it against the ceiling just as you entered the back. That was the first surprise. I could remember having to jump up and touch the back close ceiling.
Next, I couldn’t believe how small the back was – the phrase, ‘no room to swing a cat’ was completely apt and had me wondering if I had come to the right address! Everything looked so different to what I had remembered.

One of the main things recalled from my ‘wee heidie’ days was the fact that one of the goals was adjacent to the midden. Up our close - a three storey building with four houses on each landing - there would probably be more than 50 people living. The midden also had to serve the pub, a dairy and a tobacconist on each side of the close, so you can imagine that it got very full of rubbish before the weekly emptying. The main, and messiest, rubbish would be the cinders of ash that each of the houses would empty in daily from their coal fires.

My reason for telling you the contents of the midden is that during a game of ‘wee heidies’ the ball would very often be knocked in the yard square hole through which the rubbish was emptied. Of course, whoever knocked the ball in was expected to go into the midden and retrieve it – only to come out covered in white ash dust.

Very often too, there would be a dead cat or dog in there which had been knocked down on the busy Govan Road and thereafter thrown into the didgie.
Certainly not one of the ‘lucky middens’ that were spoken about by the ‘didgie-rakers’. Those lucky middens yielded up treasures that had been thrown away in the more affluent areas, such as the top end of Copeland Road, or Vicarfield or Southcroft Street.

I hasten to point out that I was never into the midden raking. The only time we went into the midden was to get wur ba’ back, and we had to check that oor Mammy was not looking out the windae, which overlooked the Wee Heidie pitch.

Just Another Saturday

2011-05-14T20:26:00.041+01:00

At the end of a week in which we've been caught up in the brou-ha-ha of tims and huns not getting on, here's a coupla pictures of a Republican Flute Band processing along Govan Road this Saturday morning.

Continental Cuisine

2011-05-13T18:37:00.003+01:00

As is usually the case with bakeries, the best time to visit is the morning when the shelves are stacked with freshly baked goods, some of which have run out if you get there later in the day.

This morning is fine, with a threat of showers, but for now the sun is out and the warmth of spring is in the air.

Watson's Bakery in Shaw Street is well stocked with an impressive display of pies and pastries, cakes and buns. I am going on a journey today so provisions are required for me and my travelling companions and it's so early this morning I am the only one in the shop so far.

"Give's 4 sausage rolls," I say and the shop lady puts them in a white paper bag.
"And a half dozen scones, and can I get 2 coconut icing buns and 2 of the chocolate ones and . . . "

A man strolls in and surveys the counter. After a moment he interrupts.
"Hey, you sell tuna and cheese melt and a chicken baguette?" he asks in a strong eastern European accent.
He's in his late 20s, has a high receding hairline and is wearing a tight fitting sweater and joggies. On his bare feet are flip-flop summer sandals.
I look at him thinking, ha ha, you'll be lucky.

The shop lady stops mid-way putting the icing buns into the bag.
"What is it son?"

He calls in Polish to his companions who are waiting and talking outside on the pavement. A very tall slim girl, whose height is extended further by the high stiletto heels of her over-the-knee black leather boots, is examining a newspaper with another boy and girl. She flicks her long black hair and calls back to him sharply.

"You do tuna melt, huh?" he asks in a surly sort of way.
"Naw son, nothin like that in here," says the shop lady, putting my bags together on the glass counter.

He strolls out and she calls after him, "Maybe try the wee dairy round the corner."

The Big Ship Sailed

2011-05-05T23:19:00.000+01:00

After days of sunny weather, we awaken to grey skies and rain, but are cheered by the news that the Tall Ship is moving down river.

In the evening, we get off the subway and emerge into the light. We walk with mounting excitement in anticipation of the sight which will greet us as we pass Govan New.

Yeeeeessss. we've got a big ship right in our living room! It's so close and looks really amazing.

Shame for Partick. They haven't got quite the same view.

Hot, Hot Property

2011-04-28T22:15:00.006+01:00

The home that had everything is no more. A grim lesson to be learned by all who are wont to smoke in bed.

Fountain Restored

2011-04-26T23:31:00.000+01:00

Gets off the subway late at night and in the street it feels dead strange, like you're actually inside a house, although you're not. Maybe partly due to the weather being so mild? Not sure. Maybe because lots of here's been knocked down and the wee bits that are left feel cosy and familiar? Don't know.

So, crosses the road to have a squek at the beautifully refurbished fountain, complete with Govan Baby. After the disappointment of the stainless steel benches, this is a beauty. Can't complain. Can't wait for the celebration.

Des Res

2011-04-21T00:02:00.001+01:00

"Who lives in a house like this? Who lives in a house like this?"
Lyrics run through my mind as I pass this des res off the Govan Road.

Click on the pic to make it big and you will be as mesmerised as I.
All one's earthly goods neatly packed in a pink checkered shopper. A two seater settee, a double mattress at the back, plus a big screen tv on this leafy residential street make for a prime location . . . only in the fabulous weather we're enjoying at the moment, mind.

Watching The World Go By

2011-04-13T22:12:00.010+01:00

Hingin' oot the windae has been a favoured pastime of many Govanites over the years. On this tranquil evening, there's me and an elderly woman across and one storey up, surveying the street - not forgetting the eye at the top of the pole.

The sky above is a deep warm grey and the blustery wind and squally showers of daytime have died away to a still evening. The neighbourhood's busy tonight. Govan's streets are busy with people of all ages busy busying themselves with the business in hand.

Three wee boys aged about 5 or 6 walk along the middle of the street, as fast as their wee legs can carry them. One of them's got a big stick which is knocking awkwardly on the ground. Three wee men on a mission, one directing the others around a corner out of sight.

At a close mouth two men and two women tumble down the steps and stand for the next half hour chatting. One of the girls is bent double laughing and one of the guys performs a comic dance at the edge of the pavement. They all laugh after that and go on with the chat.

Six boys in their early teens swagger down Shaw Street. They range in height from five foot nuthin to a big six footer. As usual they are kicking something about between them all. This time it's a paper cup, squashed flat. They pass it and when it gets stuck in the gutter, one boy tackles another and scoops the smashed cup up onto the main surface of the road again. They stop for a wee bit of a kick about on the Govan Road and then pass on down Rathlin Street.

A couple pass, hauling suitcases behind them. Hers is bigger than his.

Trundling along in his electric wheelchair goes our elderly pal to the pub, a tartan travelling rug lies across where his legs should be.

A girl in her mid-teens has stopped the traffic on Govan Road as she attempts to cross in front of cars. Her hair is bleached and her makeup is orange with highly coloured rouge on her sharp cheekbones. White jeans and a sparkly top ensures she's seen by the motorists who stop as she flounders in the middle of the road, her eye-lids half shut and slowly opening, swaying a little before lunging at last to the pavement.

Two boys on bikes cycle round the corner and stop on Govan Road. One holds the other's bike till he goes in for chips.

The dull sky seems to lighten to a pearlescent grey and a sheen of blue appears behind the cloud. A last lift before night begins to fall.

A wee boy, aged about 4 - no older than 4 - is cycling up the middle of the road on a bike with rickety wee stabilisers. Up to the Govan Road he goes and then stops and manoeuvres the bike around and cycles back down. On his next trip up he sees an African man with his little boy. The African boy waves and the wee cyclist waves back. It's getting dark now, but nobody's calling the wee man in, so he travels on.

The gang of six have circled the block and returned to the big metal shutter at the corner of Shaw Street. One of them has acquired a large black gent's brolly on the way and is holding it aloft. They stand lined up along the shutter and bang against it for a while, hard as they can.

Light is fading from the sky, the blue is deepening to cobalt. Three girls come out the chippy and stand outside the pub. That brings the boys over and the whole thing ends up in a carry-on with a lot of shrieking and shoving.

Forty-five minutes of life lived and loved in the haven of Govan's streets.

The Forgotten Christmas Tree

2011-01-19T23:40:00.004Z

Just for the record; the Christmas Tree, erected on 17th November last year across from the P.I., still stands in Govan this night.

It is still surrounded by its wire barricade and the lights are still draped around it. It's kept its needles quite well.

I have no camera to record it, and on that note, the lack of camera meant I couldn't get photos of the card shop at Christmas - so the exercise of following the Christian calendar for a year has been granted an extension into 2011.

Did I hear a groan? Or was it the Christmas Tree?

Illumination

2010-12-22T23:28:00.003Z

Christmas lights on Govan Road. A window of twinkly rangers red and blue is enhanced by the flashing lights of that place down the stairs.

Sparkling On Ice

2010-12-17T23:08:00.002Z

So, the Christmas tree arrived in Govan way back on the 17th of November but it has stood in behind its iron railings unlit for a number of weeks now.
On the week ending 3rd December I phoned the P.I. to ask if they knew when the big light-up ceremony would be. Eh, naw, we've no heard, was the reply.
Time passed and every evening the Christmas tree stood with lights in place, but still in drab darkness.
Right, what's going on, we're all thinking. So, this morning, I phone the P.I. again and this time a woman answers and with a bemused chuckle in her voice tells me the lights actually got turned on last night. They didn't have a ceremony or anything - no youth groups were there, or Santa or presentation selection boxes. "Don't quite know who witnessed it," she finishes, "maybe just a few folk standing waiting for a bus."

I nip along to snap a picture of the tree resplendent in its wintry twinkle. There's an added bonus of an outdoor ice rink in the street. Somebody's written HA HA HA on the big electrical box thing - pity they didn't think to make it HO HO HO.

We're dead lucky to have a Christmas tree this year, what with all the cutbacks and recession and so on, even if it did stand for a month with nae lights. What's the big iron grille about though? No need.

O Snow

2010-11-27T17:11:00.002Z

" O snow, which sinks so light, Brown earth is hid from sight."
Snow begins to fall today, casting Govan Road in ethereal beauty.

The Christmas Tree 2010

2010-11-17T23:34:00.001Z

The Govan Christmas Tree has been positioned. Under the watchful eye of the Black Man it stands, protected by a high wire grille.

What Did The Big Chimney Say To The Wee Chimney?

2010-11-16T17:50:00.001Z

A charming glimpse of modern day Govan childhood larks, from new guest blogger, Wee Raberta.

Flippin’, ah was walkin tae ma flat, right, n ah saw wee boys aboot five or six year-aul', riiight, they’d been roon’ the back smoking fags, right.

N then they saw me, riiight, and the wan wi the lighter drapped it under the railings, riiight, n he moans “aw naw, aw naw, who dis that belang tae, ah jist f'un' it”, riiight.

N ah jist shook ma heid n was like, right, see ye later, am away up tae ma scratcher.

Treason And Plot, Without The Gunpowder

2010-11-05T23:58:00.007Z

Darkness falls and it's a mean, cold night. I am walking through the streets of Govan, sniffing for gunpowder or smoke from a bonfire. Boom! A firework explodes up a close. The dampness of the still air seeps through jackets, trousers, shoes, socks, into the bones. Even if we could find a bonfire, it's too late to get warm at it.

The regeneration of Govan has extinguished one of its hottest winter festivals. Building sites, new housing, fancy landscaped back courts means there's nowhere to build the bonfire and set off the fireworks. Well, there's still the sperr grun at Water Row, but nothin's there for whatever reason. It feels as depressing as a damp squib.

Just before midnight, a dug starts barking like crazy and there's the sound of a scuffle and running and then the polis motors screech along Govan Road - up to eleven of them at one point - with officers running up closes to bring out the bad rascals in a big, bad round-up.

I'm just saying - I might not be right - but I'm just saying, maybe this could've been avoided if we'd had the usual bonfire malarkey, setting off fireworks, burning household goods and so on.
Maybes.

Guy Looking For A Bonfire

2010-11-04T15:59:00.002Z

Building sites in Govan, with tight security set in place, means that there's no place to build a bonfire. That takes care of previous sites, such as Rathlin Street and Shaw Street/Golspie Street.

Nothing to see in the landscaped backcourts.

In east Govan, there's no sign of life at the sperr grun sites still available. No wood collections as there's been in the past few years. It was only 2008 when I saw the tallest pyramid of wooden planks I ever did see at Summertown Road. But this week there's nothing. Just dank wilderness and weeds.

Have received word that two boys, about 8, have been collecting penny for the guy at Govan X. The guy being a Sponge Bob thing sticking out the top of a black bin bag. It'll be hard pressed to find a fire to sit on.

Wood Pile?

2010-11-03T15:35:00.002Z

I'm not going out of my way, but I am keeping a look out for signs of wood, kindling and combustible materials being gathered in preparation for Guy Fawkes 2010.

So far, no sign.

Govan's Glamorous Neighbour

2010-11-01T23:45:00.002Z

Doesn't Partick look glamorous by night? Gleaming towers are reflected in the still River Clyde.
And up river, the city of Glasgow burns in the distance.

Wonder how we look? Must take a trip across to the other side and check it out some time.

Spirits On The Streets

2010-10-31T23:12:00.002Z

Ghaists 'n' bogles are fleein' aboot the auld haunted graveyerd o' Govan Auld the nicht.

Hallowe'en's become sooooo commercialised - here we put some of the real meaning back into the evening when spirits roam freely through the world.
Clocks went back an hour last night, so this Hallowe'en sees darkness fall around half past five.

On Govan Road, I see the first pair of guisers of the evening. A couple of 12 year old boys. One is a white boy sitting in a wee nhs wheelchair. On his head is a bald cap with straggly wisps of hair round it. He's being pushed by a black boy who's got a baldy wig on too with a big mohican jagging out the top. They cross over Shaw Street and the wheelchair batters into the kerb, knocking the wee baldy flying. Smokers at the side door of the Harmony squawk and shriek, "In the name a the wee man! Look it ye's!".

After dinner we go for a saunter through the festive streets. Half sixish sees plenty of guisers heading round the doors. Skeletons on Shaw St, fairies, witches floating down McKechnie St. A couple of St. Trinian's lassies zip up and down arm in arm. We catch sight of the baldies once more, the black one still charging along with the white one rattling about in the red metal wheelchair.

Outside the Liquor Barn a skinny scallywag squares up to us. "Gonnae take ma pic-cher?" he whines, out his contorted face on various stuffs.
Back home, the basin of cold water's set in the middle of the living room and dooking for apples begins. Performance of a joke, a song or a dance is required before you get one of Watson's fancy cakes and a handful of monkey nuts.

Hallowe'en Baddies/Goodies

2010-10-30T22:42:00.000+01:00

Midday on the Saturday before Hallowe'en, a mad dash to Watsons proves just too late to purchase a big Hallowe'en cake, but still plenty of scary wee cakes, evil empire biscuits and skeleton gingerbread men ready for the guisers.

the big match

2010-10-26T09:20:00.007+01:00

A bit of football and filosofy from guest blogger, benk, who gives an account of the recent Scotland v Spain game in his own "Broonsian" vernacular.

ye ken whits braw? hindsight. it means that ye can look back in yer minds bead and say whit shoulda been efter it wiznae. it wiz aye like that the other nicht when the spanish invaded. the tertin ermae hud flooded the rePUBlics o czechs on a friday, turned up wi a 4-6-0, nae strikers, and got walloped 1-0. so on the tuesday when the spanish came, we wurnae expectin.

the match wiz a sell-oot and we hud wursels ten tickets. ya dancer. wan mare n we coulda hae'd wur ane team. wee boabjim poached thum and we got aw organised. we'd went afore me an boabjim an whit we noticed wiz that the ticket collecters didnae check yer tickets, so for this ane, he got twa big ains and eicht weans (what do the turkish call their weans? kebabees). that wiz fine whener it wiz twa big ains and eicht weans, awmist, but when aw the wee ains dropped oot and wur replaced wi real big ains, it wiz a worry on the heid. shouldnae o been mind, abidie got in nae bovs. the ticket collecters didnae check.

the crood wiz booncin. flooer o scotland wiz loud as. the first half chancez wir pritty even till david villa shot, stephen whittaker haunbawed, and david villa popped in the penalty. wan nil tae the spanish at hauf time. ten minutes intae the second hauf, andres iniesta made it twa nil, and that we thought wiz that. ootta nowhar, charlie adam pass, kenny miller cross, stevie naismith heider, twa-wan. comebacks on. a few mair minutes, darren fletcher and jim morrison wan-two, cross, pique, own goal, twa-twa. whit it a team. the supporters went wild. it wiz scotland mind, an it wisnae tae be. steve mcmanus did whit steve mcmanus does and the big spanish boi popped it in fir three-twa. we wurnae expectin, and we niver got. it wiz awmist nearies.

getting back tae the govan efter a tidy wee short-cut from a taxi man we parked up. in ma beads a spotted twa o twa o the locals haein a chat, nae doubts aboot the nichts match. we got oot the ker in wur scotland tops, and heided towards wur flat. the locals haid fenished their chat. the baldy ain sez tae iz, 'you at the match?' i says 'aye, it wiz grait, awmist'. he says, 'naw it was rubbish, just like friday.' a turn o events i wisnae expectin. 'i says, naw, they wur guid. they wur unlucky. if they'd played like that on friday they wooda won', usin the benefit o hindsight fae ma minds bead. 'aye eh suppose.' he says, 'eh only seen the last twenty meenits. eh diny hauv that sky, eh wiz listening tae the radio while eh was paintin.' 'awrite' i says. 'its no the same is it?' 'naw' he says, 'see ya later', and we went wur ane ways, usin wur minds bead and constucting wur ane realities oota wur hindsights.

You Can't Go Wrong With A Scone

2010-10-18T19:52:00.001+01:00

In Watson's this morning, I buy half a dozen freshly baked rolls and then ask for two fruit scones and two plain.
"You get six for a pound," says the lady serving me.
"Give me six then - two Paris as well."
"Ye can't go wrong wi a scone," she says, and I nod in agreement. "They'll aye keep to the next day."

I savour the moment; the homeliness of the bakery, the aroma, the wee signs still stuck on the glass counter, though scraping off a bit, the same floor, the same ceiling, the same fittings since ever I remember. And, the friendliness and warmth that makes Govan great.

I go out into the world, full of nostalgia and resolving to show that same couthiness to the next person I meet.

A Running Jump

2010-10-13T19:48:00.005+01:00

It's misty and grey all the livelong day. It's the kind of weather that makes you think of the nights fair drawing in, so when I get on the subway at Buchanan Street and alight at Govan Cross, I am fully prepared to ascend from the bowels of the earth (like the Chilean miners today) into the darkness of a Scottish autumn night. But it's only half five and daylight still reigneth, with a soft brightness.

I reckon that plaza thing in front of the shopping centre is complete now. It's a bit of a let down if I'm honest - ok, better than the giant manky planters full of pigeons and papers, but nothing to ooh and aah over. Just a snaking stainless steel bench; dead uncomfortable, cold, no back on it to rest against. The paving slabs are nice stone though.

Two wee boys are having fun jumping over the bench. They are small, maybe 7 or 8 but they can take a running jump and easily clear the bench, and they race back and forward, bouncing over it before disappearing into Farmfoods, which is where I'm heading myself.

One of them has scaled a refrigerator unit and is gripping on to a ledge at the front door.
His harassed ma shouts, "Git doon you," and then, "Thiv no got yer Jamaican stuff."
An old man with a droopy Western outlaw moustache calls out, "Naw, ther's nane a the gingerbreid in. That's whit Ah'm efter an'a'."

I get a coupla loaves, Hovis, two for a pound and go to the checkout. The wee boys are loading bananas, bread and a big boattla irnbru onto the conveyor belt. The checkout guy takes the ma's money and hands out seven pounds something in change. The wee boy's hand darts forward and snatches the fiver and the coins.
"Riiiiggghhht," growls his ma and he reluctantly holds his hand out for her to lift the cash.

The checkout guy and me have a wee laugh and the ma shakes her head and tightens her mouth. We're only half way through the October holiday week.
The wee boys are off like streaks of lightning, running pell mell along the silver seating.

Govan's Autumn Glory

2010-10-11T23:59:00.001+01:00

Who's getting to live in the new flats on Pearce Lane? Pensioners? Refugees? Unmarried mums? Lucky beggars whoever they are.

I come upon a sweet little scene in Govan's wilderness, in the shadow of the People's Cathedral.
Children playing in the earth, safe in this sanctuary, surrounded by trees arrayed in autumn foliage and warmed by the last rays of a dying sun.

Views Along The Busy River Clyde

2010-10-11T23:12:00.000+01:00

Got a loan of a camera and as the weather is fine I take some photos along the riverbank. The new Museum of Transport under construction.

Plastic carriers holding an assortment of cairry-oot foods and drink tied neatly to spiked railings.

Fancy flats on the north bank. Spare us.

Up river to dear old Glesga toon. Check the sun shining on the rippling current.

Splashing Out

2010-10-11T22:42:00.006+01:00

Launch of HMS Duncan

Govan is so busy today. Crowds are wandering along the Govan Road on their way home from the last traditional launch of a ship into the River Clyde.
HMS Duncan

Everyone seems a bit despondent. Some people are wearing pirate hats but there's no high jinks. Just crowds slowly making their way to the bus stops and the subway, or back to where they've left their cars. Just a bit fed up, in spite of the balloons and the fireworks, in spite of the big splash and the magnificent sight of the ship, in spite of the sun splitting the blue, blue skies.

A Mighty Rushing Wind

2010-09-16T21:11:00.007+01:00

There's a rushing wind through the streets of Govan, just like the day of Pentecost, and the light lifts and falls between brightness and shadow as clouds scud across the sky.

Up the road in Bellahouston Park, the priests are processing and the Catholic crowds are amassed to hear the address of Pope Benedict XVI and listen to the choirs and Susan Boyle sing.

Down in the heart of the tenements, it's as though Summer is snatching a last wild breath of life after a dreich week of autumnal weather.

Out in the back courts, a wee gang of children are playing at tig. They are racing up and over the middens, jumping and chasing, running as fast as they can to get away from whoever's het. I don't think any of them are Scottish children, by the look and sound of them.

Souvenirs Of The Season

2010-09-15T18:15:00.007+01:00

Passing the card shop on Govan Road, I think about the lack of celebrations and reasons to send greetings over the past coupla months. Stock trade of the summer must be birthdays, anniversary wishes or on your wedding days.
Next up will be Hallowe'en, but what's this?
Eid? "Eid Cards For Sale" reads the day-glo green sign.

I take a look inside but there's no sign of the cards. I'm sure it was last week, the boy from the Asmaan told me it was Eid last Friday, the 10th. Just another case of the sign not being taken down from the door.

I walk about a bit, look at the cards and stuff and don't want to walk out without buying anything, so I think - hey, what about the Pope's visit tomorrow. He's coming to Bellahouston Park, so what about a bit of memorabilia for my lapsed Catholic pal fae Wishaw.

The Pakistani shopkeeper and two older ladies are sitting behind the counter.
I ask if they have any souvenirs for the Pope's visit. The owner looks to his wife. She's shaking her head, no, no dear.
"Are you going? Going to see the Pope?" they ask in their Asian-Glasgow tones.
"No, not me," I say.
"How no'?" they respond.
"Not a Catholic - just wanted to get something for my friend. Remember the last time he came there was lots of stuff in the shops - like pictures and mugs and stuff."
"Aye, that's right enough. No' this time though," says the lady, "Nothin in the market this time."
"Wonder how that is?" I muse and have a last look down the shop and up on the walls to see if I might have missed a wee picture of His Holiness gazing down at me.

Movie Magic

2010-09-05T23:32:00.005+01:00

We're sittin and Nat fae Howat Street just happens to mention how he was walking past the Lyceum today and he saw the metal grills open and men taking cinema seats out and loading them into a van.
"Whit?" I shout excitedly.
He gets a fright and wonders what he should tell me when I start pressing him for full information.

"It was Pakistanis. They had a van and they were carrying seats out to it."
"And could you see inside the Lyceum?"
"No, not really. Just down a dark corridor."
"A-ha, but there was a corridor - and what could you see down it?"
"Nothing, it was dark."
"Yes, but there must be some kind of hall behind the front of the cinema - for them to keep the seats in. And were the seats red velvet?"

"Em, yeah, they were."

Just what is going on here?

All The World's A Stage

2010-08-25T08:41:00.000+01:00

The Lyceum Cinema

The mystery of the disappearing cinema. Click on the link and see what you think.
Choose "Aerial" and then "Bird's Eye View".

How odd.

Through A Glass Brick Darkly

2010-08-24T21:56:00.006+01:00

So, me and the pips are having an argument about the inside of The Lyceum. She says there's nothing behind the facade.
"Yes, there is," says I.
"No there isn't, she insists. You can look down on it and it's just open ground. You can look yourself on google maps. Check the aerial view."
"No way," I say.

We are walking past it and the sun is out and shining.
"Look up there," she says, "you can see the clear air through the bricks - the see-through glass bricks."
I am looking and looking, trying to see through the screen which portrays the old Lyceum of yesteryear.
"Where? Where? I can't see that - I can't see any clear air. I'm telling you it's a cinema in there. All dark red velvet."
But then, my eye suddenly focuses on the glassy brick which clearly shows light blue air behind it.

I feel downcast and low. What happened to the cinema? Have I been walking past it all this time and it's just been a front?

pb and celtic's big night oot

2010-08-20T00:03:00.002+01:00

Hi again to guest blogger, benk. Newly come to Govan from the north-east, benk is quickly realising that the natives are friendly.

the other nicht on ma late night jaunt tae the g-side wyclef jean was on that radio sproutin aboot his bid tae be el presidente of haiti. i parked up and wuz listening tae him. as i wuz listening ma beads spotted twa lassies walking doon the street. the taller wan had on the bumble bee celtic tap wi trackies and her wee pal had a white pb jaiket and them cut-aff jeans. in her arms celtic was cradling a bottle of budwiser, a packet o cribs and a pot noodle. i watched them walk by, just having a listen tae president wyclef.

suddenly, a turn o events i wisnae expecting. celtic stalked back, looked in ma windae, then walked awa again. i was confused. oot a nowhere, back she came, peeked in the windae, and walked awa. i didnae have a clue. ma confusion turned tae astonishment and bewilderment whenever she stalked back, looked in the windae and opened the door. ma jaiket fell oot on the street. she reached oot her grubby and picked it up. 'that'll need a dryclean' i thought. 'oh expletive' she said, 'sorry pal'. i said it wuz ok. she said, 'ah didnae realise anywan wuz in here, i thought somewan had left their radio and i wuz gonnae shout up 'somewan's left their radio on, the battery will go flat''. 'thats very good of you' i said, as she shut the door and walked awa. i thought tae maself, 'what a wee lovely, it jist goes tae show ye'.

The Funeral of Jimmy Reid

2010-08-19T22:55:00.002+01:00

Our roving reporter, Dan, is on the spot for today's celebration of the life of Jimmy Reid, Shipyard Worker and Trade Union Official who was one of the leaders of the famous "work-in" at the UCS Shipyards in 1971.

Well, it wouldn’t be Govan – and I don’t suppose it would have been Jimmy Reid either - if we didn’t have a bit of ‘Govanitis’ controversy. Yes, even on the day of someone’s funeral.
As the cortege passed along Govan Road, there, on the busy pavements, outside the Old Govan Arms, Jimmy Reid was being given his blessings from one irate ‘punter’ shouting at the cortege, accusing the dead man of deserting his ‘class or class-less’ roots, when he defected from the shipyards and became a political pundit for The Sun newspaper and the old Glasgow Herald.

Ah well, you can’t please everyone -- and the contrast, I’m sure, would have been evident to Jimmy, lying there in his coffin as he made the journey from his home in Rothesay, on the ferry across the Clyde, up the road alongside the Clyde estuary, and thence to Fairfields’ (now Upper Clyde Shipbuilders), where around one hundred shipyard workers, yellow helmets in hand, bowed as the cortege passed the yard door.
Of course, most of the workers were not around at the time of the ‘sit-in’ which had taken place almost forty years before – but the legend lives on.

I did meet one man who was there, retired former Fairfields’ man, John Cassells who had come along with his wife, to pay their respects, as did many others who had nothing to do with the shipyards – but were unstinting in their praise of ‘the Committee’ who had organised the ‘work-in’.

The praise was also, very much in evidence at a ‘Celebration of Life’ for Jimmy Reid, held in Govan Old Parish Church.

The place was packed out and the speakers included many famous friends, such as fellow-Govanite Alex Ferguson (Sir, mind you – and Manchester United manager), Alex Salmond (Rt. Hon. don’t forget – Scotland’s First Minister, and proper ‘punter’), some prominent Trade Union people and Billy Connolly (I don’t think he is Sir yet, although he is a neighbour and good friend of The Queen, up there at Balmoral).

Billy seemed sad that he could not claim to have been Govan-born, but had been educated at St. Gerard’s School, in Southcroft Street, Govan.

The Service (or Celebration) lasted for one and a half hours, with loads of laughs, emotion and mighty tributes, re the way that Jimmy Reid had lifted himself, from the Whitefield Road days of his birth and youth, to become a raconteur, after-dinner speaker and writer – much of his learning self-taught, from countless hours spent in the Elderpark Library in Govan from age fourteen. Jimmy is survived by wife, Joan, three daughters and grandchildren.

David Scott, a former Television presenter, and long-time friend of Jimmy’s conducted the Proceedings and recalled how Jimmy had told him of an incident from his shipyard days – when one of the workers had dreamt-up a ‘scheme’ (or scam), whereby he would take a load of grease up to the greyhound racetrack (‘the dugs’) and grease the floor of four of the five traps – leaving trap number three, allowing a ‘safe –passage’ out of the traps for dog three.

Of course, all of the workers were told of the idea and there was an unusual amount of bets on number three dog in that particular race.

Number three dog won, and Jimmy said that the only things faster than dog three that night were the punters going to collect their winnings from the Bookies before they held a Stewards’ Enquiry.

We know that this story will be told again, as will other countless stories, fact and fiction – about Jimmy Reid and his accomplishments. I’m glad I was able to attend his funeral, the feelings of respect and some distant admiration I had felt beforehand -- for what he achieved were endorsed by those who had known him, up close.

Shady Gets Frostied

2010-08-06T23:05:00.005+01:00

For many years, folks have come from all over the country, in fact, from all over the world to live in Govan. Today's guest blogger, benk, joins our happy riverside community from Scotland's north-east. Thanks for yer mad story.

having made the late night trip from casa de fun fun tae govan aboot a dozen times now, the only incident worth noting has been a run in wi the secret police in their wee red bucket spy car asking if i wur mental fur moving tae the g-side. normally it's quiet and a bit deid, possibly due to the big dirty camera which patrols ma sector. on a normal i would come oot the car, lock ma doors, utter a silent prayer of protection ower it and shuffle off tae the close.
the other night however as i was parking, i noticed a shady hanging aboot the close, drinking his four litre bottle of frosty jacks. i wondered whut he was dain and had a wee think to masel, 'here. we. go'.

i collected ma stuffs, got oot, locked ma doors, said ma silent prayer, and shuffled off toward the close. as i got nearer i could hear voices, but couldnae tell how many there wuz, or whut they wur doing. it was raining a wee bit, so i thought 'they might just be having a shelter'. as i got closer shady stepped oot, hudding his frostys. 'ya aw rite?' i said, shady said 'yeh'. 'just having a shelter?' i enquired and shady replied 'aye'.
while conversing with shady i noticed that there wuz only one other voice and it belonged tae a lassie, and i assumed she was shady's. i opened the door. 'see you later m8' i said, and shady said something, but i wisnae listening anymare tae shady. i had ma beads on his wee lass who wuz saying see ya later tae shady and telling him she was going tae wait at her door while coming in the close wi me. this wuz a turn o events i wisnae expecting.

the door closed and i started to shuffle doon the hall when shady's girl nearly fell on iz. 'hen, im engaged' i almost blurted oot, but she beat me to it with 'thank goodness'(almost), as it dawned on iz she wuznae shady's at all, but ma neighbour. 'ive been terrified' she continued, 'he came up to iz and said i was part of the govan young team now'. 'hahaha', i laughed. looking back it wuz prolly the wrong reaction considering the torment she'd just been through, but in ma defence, it wuz funny.
'you forget yer keys'? i continued, asking the obvious, you know, just in case she'd been oot there enjoying shady's company and sharing his frostys. 'yeh, they're at ma work, ma boyfriend is bringing them to me.' 'oh, thats good,' says i, relieved that she would get in her hoose, and espesh that she had a boyf, i wuz safe.
'how long have you been out there?' i continued. 'half an hour, ive been rully scared' she said(kind of), 'i thought to masel, if i just stand in the close, noone will see iz and someone will come and let iz in, and i'll be fine, but i was oot for ages'.
then i felt a bit bad.

i got to ma door and said ma goodbyes to the not shady's girl and went into ma living room tae spy on shady. him and his frostys had moved tae the close directly across and he was tapping on the bottom floor windae, but getting nae response. he went into the close and was aboot tae relieve himself in the corner, when a young black chap interrupted him. he enticed him intae a conversation, and cadged a smoke aff him. whenever wur ethnic buddy moved on, shady relieved himsel. i considered calling up ma friends in the wee red panda spy car, but decided i couldnae be bothered wi the hassle.
i went aff to get a washing, then had a check on shady. he wuz across the road, ootside the solicitors (the irony), having a sing and swiggin his frostys. on the groond he noticed an empty glasser and picked it up. he put it on tap o the bin and tried to roundhouse kick it aff. frostys had worsed fur weared him so he missed, and i wondered if he'd clocked that karate kid film at the cinemas earlier in his night. he tried again and this time he caught it, but a bit rubbishly and it toppled off. he took up his chanting again, and had some swigs.
i shuffled off to ma bed wondering if shady had any pals and what would become of his night.

Don't Bank On It

2010-08-04T23:56:00.007+01:00

So, that's my bank stuff been lost again.
I've got nobody to blame but myself. Even when I was handing over all the forms et cetera, I got a very strong feeling that they were all going to get swallowed up in the Files of Oblivion, deep in the vaults of the bank at Govan Cross, and I still did it.
Anyway, I think about getting angry, cos this is the second time this has happened to me inside a year. Not to mention it's the done thing nowadays to get furious with the banks for the flamin mess we're all in. But, here I am. Just standing waiting, with a sort of smile on my face. Like, I knew this was gonny happen anyway, so, why should I get angry when I knew as I handed my forms over that they'd all get lost.

The bank teller's gone away on a hunt with a sort of half-hearted energy. I'm pretty sure he's the one I handed the form into and he's probably not bothered to process it and the application's lying in his drawer.
Anyway, I'm left standing at the glass for a while and I get to remembering the olden days, when there was just a wee bit of glass at the bottom with a hole to speak through. Is that right? Then they got in the full length glass from the ceiling to the countertop.
Wonder if there was a time when there was no glass between the money and the Govanite?

I'm still waiting.
Two lassies come in and one has got on a pair of pyjama bottoms for trousers. They are pink wth a darker pink vertical stripe and sparkly silver, metallic stars. They're loosely tied at the top with a white cotton string - like pyjamas. Well, they are pyjamas.
"Ah've lost ma pin," says she. "Ah can't remember it."
Number, I think she means.

It's quite interesting waiting here. Now I'm thinking of the bank in times past when Stella worked here. There was a guy who looked like Hen Broon and was a right sobersides. One day, he didn't come into work and it turned out he just stayed in bed. Put the covers over his head and stayed there for six months. Stella told us that.

Still waiting.
Now a handsome young man comes to the teller and says, "Ah've been inside eighteen month and Ah've come out an' Ah've got charges on my account but Ah can't have cos Ah've been inside and what would Ah be charged for?"
The teller looks at his statement.
"Your card's been used and you've went into a overdraft."
(That's what he says, 'a' overdraft).
"But how can there be when Ah've no been buyin anything?" says the young ex-con.
The teller examines it further.
"Your card's been used here and here, on this date and that."
"It was just my ma that used it," says the boy. "I gave her permission."
"Well, you can't do that," says the teller, taking umbrage.
"How can Ah no'?" the young man retorts. "Ah wis inside and Ah told her she could."
"You can't. That's fraud. And anyway, she's went over your overdraft and that's how you've got charged."

Oh me. Here we go. It's going to get heated and just at that, my teller comes back to say that they have no record of having received my form and they don't have another in this branch but if I pop into any branch up the town, I can pick one up.

There's a lot to be said for keeping what money you have under the bed, in the back of the clock, in the biscuit tin.

Dig At The Bogs

2010-07-29T22:50:00.000+01:00

Look at this! It's the lavvies at Govan Cross uncovered.
Recent archaeological activity exposes the layout of the public conveniences with fancy glazed white bricks.

On the left you can see a row of urinals and is that a row of sinks?

So, this must be the Gents'. Where is the Ladies from here? Is that the area at the back?

You know the sad thing, like all the sad things about Govan? They're going to fill it in permanently and as the railings aren't listed, they'll be going in to storage and may be used in Govan elsewhere, some time or other. Aye . . . know what I'd like to do wi the railings.

Doon the Watter

2010-07-16T09:59:00.002+01:00

Rain is pelting down. It's the Glasgow Fair. The streets seem quieter. or maybe it's just my imagination. It's not like people still set off on their annual trip doon the watter, as they did in yesteryear.

Here's a glimpse of the Glasgow Fair holidays from Mary F. born in Kinning Park in 1905.
"We used to go down to Dunoon and get a house for 25 shillings. The eight of us children would go down for a fortnight. We'd get on the boats and we were so poor that my mother would buy two tickets - one for herself and one for one of us and the rest would hide.

We used to go away picnics everyday. At night walking home, we'd go through hedges and pick turnips and potatoes and get the fish from the boats coming in at the pier. Mother would send us to the place where they smoked the kippers and we'd get the broken ones.

The last week of the holidays we'd go scouring through the shops for jam jars and then collect all the raspberries and mother would make jam. Then we'd have 30 or 40 pounds of jam to take home. Sugar was only about a penny a pound and the railway would deliver your hampers home for a shilling."

Smile For The Camera

2010-07-07T19:28:00.010+01:00

Making my way along Langlands Road to the shopping centre at Govan Cross. It's dead warm again and relaxing. My walk slows down to a leisurely stroll. On my right is the centre's carpark with only a couple of cars in it. On my left is the chapel hoose.

Two African men are taking photos at the edge of the pavement. One has his shirt off and is striking a pose, head and shoulders back with hands on the belt of his trousers. Behind them, in the empty carpark two 10 year old girls are circling on bikes along with a younger boy of 7 or 8.
I remember that easy, fluid movement of cycling in the warm freedom of the summer holidays. The girls look smug and satisfied, dreamily tracing figures of eight around each other. The wee lad is taking an interest in the photo shoot and stops in front of the two men to watch. This attracts the girls' attention and they ride over and watch the men too.
Before long, one girl pipes up, "Gonnae take oor picshurr, gonnae. Gonnae take his," motioning to the wee boy.
This keeps up for a bit, craiking on and on about taking their pictures and then the men must decide to give in or they'll get no peace, and so they agree.
The wee ginger heided boy with his wee national health specs gets in a pic alongside the shirtless black man with his sort of rippling muscles. Then the two girls cycle up on either side of him and sit all gallus on the saddles of their bikes and the man takes a couple of snaps of them all together.
The Africans start to pack up their camera and the one puts on his shirt and buttons it up.

"Ah hate yous," says one of the girls as she starts to cycle again. For no apparent reason, she just calls out, "Ah hate yous two."
The black man says in surprise, "Hey, hey, what is all this?" and he's laughing at the same time.
She stops a bit and says in a sharp wee whine, "Ah hate you, right!"
The men are walking away and one turns and says over his shoulder, "Yeah, we hate you too," but he's still laughing.
And then she shouts, "Yer a blackie. Ah hate yer black face."
The men don't even look back. Just keep on walking.
The cycling resumes in lazy circles of 8.

Gie's A Brick

2010-07-06T23:45:00.000+01:00

Blogger Dan is strolling past the site of the Gentlemen's Lavatory at Govan Cross and takes a moment to watch a couple of workies digging in the hole.

"Can Ah get a brick from the cludgie?" he asks.
"Aye, here," comes the reply, then, "Whit ye gonny dae wi' it? Hope it's no goin through a jeweller's windae?"
"Well if it is, Ah'm no worried," says Dan, "It's got your fingerprints on it."

And he receives the brick into his swank-leather-driving-gloved hand.

The glazed side of the brick which has been painted. I'm going to restore this to its former glory in my workshop/kitchen.

Looking Flush

2010-07-02T09:45:00.003+01:00

Now the public conveniences are the site of an archaeological excavation. (Apparently this is how it's going to turn out)

Above is a view of the lavvies taken from Water Row, and a wider view of things below.
This picture is taken from the sperr grun behind Govan New. Great - they've demolished that hideous grey pebble dash wall with the charity sponsored graffiti all over it.

Public Convenience

2010-07-01T22:06:00.004+01:00

A coupla foties taken in July 2009 - yes that's right, July. I'm surprised too, looking back, to see the windswept autumnal leaves gathered round the Govan Cross cludgie.

The Public Conveniences for Gentlemen and Ladies were underground and surrounded by charming wrought iron palings. Now the entrance is covered over by a sheet of iron.

Don't know when they closed. Wonder what they were like inside. Can't remember ever being in them. Can you?

A Garden Beyond Paradise

2010-06-23T21:44:00.006+01:00

I've seen some beautiful flowers,
Grow in life's garden fair,
I've spent some wonderful hours,
Lost in their fragrance rare;
But I have found another,
Wondrous beyond compare.

Caddigan & Brennan

A garden paradise in the dusky red canyon of Luath Street. That's the beauty of a ground floor flat.

Govan (Re) New

2010-06-08T17:45:00.006+01:00

A sneak peek at the lifting and laying going on outside Govan New.

The Govan Baby fountain is away, getting reborn I suppose.

Govan Fair Festivities

2010-06-04T23:58:00.004+01:00

What a magic night - thanks for another great Govan Fair. Long may it continue! Spot the Labradoodles - never ones to miss the fun.
The festivities go on well into the wee hours with plenty of shouting, drinking and general running about daft, thanks to the warm temperatures and good humour of the Govanites, 2010!

The Bill of Fair

2010-06-04T23:51:00.002+01:00

So, who is the best represented group at this year's Govan Fair? Well, on reflection, I'd have to say it's the Polis. Before the night's even started, they're making their subtle presence felt.
Two constables stand at the corner of Shaw Street and the Govan Road, below the all-seeing eye of the camera on the pole next to them. It swivels around all night, watching proceedings, east, west, north and south.
In the warm summer night, a young gent helps Police with their enquiries.

The heat gets more intense in this blurry photo of the sid, dressed in black leather jaikets. In the close mooth, they question a chap, one talking into a walkie-talkie and the other writing in a wee notebook. The interrogated is thin as a stick, skin like parchment stretched to its limits over his face.

A poliswumman on a bike.

An Asian policeman walkin'.

The meat wagon does its rounds after the fair.

This one always gives me the creeps.

N.B. Mounted polis were in also in attendance but they were down at Howat Street and too far away for ma camera.

Life Saver Brigades

2010-06-04T23:43:00.001+01:00

Life is precarious, so thanks to the following for extending a lifeline to us all in times of need.

The Sufferin' General. Love it or hate it, most Govanites owe it their life.

The Fire Brigade - thanks again for saving us in the great chip pan fire of '73.

And how many times have you been saved by a Caramel Wafer or a Tunnocks Teacake. Me as well!

Merr Floats

2010-06-04T23:28:00.005+01:00

Boffins fae the Science Centre come along to educate us on the wonders of kettles, the universe and specs.

It's a Pirate's Life for this group - can't remember who they are.

Floats

2010-06-04T22:19:00.002+01:00

Someone says the Fairfield Angling Club are the simpsons tonight. I don't know cos, as you may know, they're banned in my house. . . not the anglers.

Some mellow crooning from Galgael. The girl on the sax is giving it her heart and soul. Great sounds btw.

Everybody's Off To See The Wizard

2010-06-04T22:01:00.000+01:00

What's with the Wizard of Oz this year? Is it some kind of anniversary or something?

Two different groups put it on and they both had the rainbow of balloons across the top of their van.
Who copied who then?

Dancin' In The Streets

2010-06-04T21:08:00.000+01:00

Keeping a bit of rhythm in the procession are this year's array of dance troupes.

The Bands Played On

2010-06-04T20:51:00.002+01:00

The skirl o' the pipes from The Renfrew Church Pipe Band and St. Francis's.

With old time Govan favourites, The Sally Army.

Right Royals

2010-06-04T20:40:00.001+01:00

As Govan Fair Royalty approaches, a loyal subject salutes.

And now the Sheep's Heid advances carried proudly aloft.

The Queen sits pretty on the horse drawn carriage,

and her attendants manage a wee wave now and again whilst tucking into chocolate, crisps and ginger in the back of their limo.

Didn't catch sight of Nicola tonight, but here are some dignified ladies to make up for her.

Rock'n'Roll

2010-06-04T20:15:00.001+01:00

Music from the Sunny Govan Radio roadshow blares out and Govanites dance, . . . rock on,

have a good old family brawl,

and chase bubbles floating in the warm evening air.

Get Ready - It's Comin'!

2010-06-04T20:11:00.002+01:00

The Govan Fair is a great night for catching up with friends you've not seen for ages. Much better than meeting up at funerals. Meetin' n Greetin' is going on all along the Govan Road.

Everyone's in party spirit and the kids are having fun buying balloons, bubbles and flags to wave when the procession comes.

Our pal Harry, native of the Wine Alley, has set out his wares on a sheet on the ground at the end of Harmony Row. He's doing a roaring trade, as usual. Harry will be 80 years young on his next birthday he tells us.

Govan Fair Build-Up

2010-06-04T19:45:00.000+01:00

Flags out in Burleigh Street, heralding the Govan Fair Procession which will soon pass by. Nice window box missus. Scaffolding obscures the front of the P.I. as work is being done, I know not what.
Balloons at Brechins - all sorts.

Govan Fair Warm-Up

2010-06-04T19:30:00.008+01:00

Amazing weather for our favourite festival. No cards to mark it, but it's the top day of the Govan calendar.

The Govan Fair, Glasgow's oldest Procession, instituted in 1756 by the Govan Weavers.

From early on, Govanites are anticipating the big show, grabbing a ringside spot on the electrics box at the end of Shaw Street.
Whooping it up at the edge of the pavement while their mum's in buying chips, are two wee dancers. The wee man's intently following his sister's every move, whilst sooking his dummy, which as we all know, aids concentration.

Archaeological Find in Govan Road!

2010-05-28T14:33:00.000+01:00

Hey, so I'm walking by Boyds the Jewellers on Govan Road and notice the front door shutter is pulled up and the front doorstep lies in its original glory. I remember my recent description of the Govan Printing Works front step which is now covered up - and lo and behold, the very same step is here! Quick fish in the bag for the camera. Snap!