26 FEBRUARY 1977, Page 14

Glasgow belongs to them

Jeffrey Bernard

Not long ago, two or three of the members of the staff of this journal had the mad idea that I should go to Glasgow to record my impressions of the place. I was reluctant. In the first place I didn't want to be dragged away from my own haunts. And then, too late, it occurred to me that my journey would be the equivalent of a Scottish publication sending someone to Oxford Street for the weekend to see what they could make of that. However, we Geminis being famous for our love of short journeys, trying anything for a lark and getting beaten up in the process, I thought—why not?

Well, in the first place there was the getting there. I believe that aeroplanes sometimes fall out of the sky so I opted for the British Rail method of the sleeper. Never again. In my ignorance I thought you got a cabin to yourself. I've since discovered that you can sleep with a member of the opposite sex, but on this occasion I shared with a carrot-headed male Celt who snored in our sweat-box all the way to Glasgow Central. I don't like sleeping in the same room with an unchosen stranger and I got out of the train feeling a little tetchy.

An hour later, walking through the city, I felt as much a foreigner as I've always felt in Ireland. A stranger to Scotland, I'd always imagined it would be very, very like England with different accents, but I felt an absolute foreigner. First impressions, I suppose, were formed having glanced at the architecture of the place and its shops. Unwashed, black and thick stone buildings rang a bell and then I remembered reading Kidnapped and Catriona. They reminded me of something I'd read in RLS years ago.

The place abounds with the Army surplus variety of shop that specialises in camping equipment, denims and cheap anoraks. I kept wandering until opening time. I walked down to the banks of the Clyde and by that time I'd forgotten what a dangerous place Glasgow is supposed to be. Leaning over a rail and gazing into the water r suddenly heard footsteps behind me, turned around and saw two of the most dangerous-looking

young men it's ever been my horror to gaze on. I visibly jumped. Jesus, I thought, I'm in the city where they shove broken glasses in your face for nothing, kick you in the balls for fun and rob you for a living. They came and stood next to me and they too gazed into the water for an age and I realised that they too were waiting for the bars to open. Either that or they were the Spectator 2nd XI.

The first pub I went into reaffirmed that foreign feeling I'd got. In Glasgow they're not so much pubs as Dublin-type bars. I chose one near a newspaper building, thinking it wouldn't be too rough and that I'd physically survive for a couple of hours in it without being cut up. It was ghastly. As genteel as Edinburgh. Two women behind the bar took their time serving me since they were indulging in the great Scottish female pastime of tut-tutting about their best friends.

I knew that back at the Spectator theY were keeping their fingers crossed that I'd get half-killed and—nothing. So I walked to another bar. In there I ordered a drink at the bar and two extremely hard-looking men said, 'You're English?' I owned up, hoping they'd forgotten Culloden. 'Have it with us,' they said. I couldn't get rid of them. They were so nice to me you would have thought that I'd just bought them a toy train set. This is going to be a non-story, I thought —it is, I hear you cry—but what could I do ? We went from bar to bar and all the while they told me how much they liked the English and did I want another? At closing time, 2.30 p.m., the city went into a coma. It was then that I realised what a boring provincial place it could be. I staggered back to the Central Hotel and in sheer desperation read a book review by Marina Warner.

That put me to sleep till opening time and then I followed the advice of my two tame lunchtime companions and took a taxi down to the docks. They'd said I'd see a bit of life there and that with luck, and to please the Editor, something really nasty could hapPen to me. I arrived at a place called Betty's Bar. It was and is all I've ever dreamed of in MY Wildest Hollywood fantasies. Away from the pedestrian precincts in the middle of the City where the few shops of quality that sell kilts, shortbread and, presumably, cabers, are, this waterfront bar nestled under the shadow of a 20,000-ton cargo ship. I was a bit early. They'd only just opened and the clientele had only just started to trickle in.

It was the same story as the lunchtime session. 'What are ye havin' ?' I escaped eventually from the place and took refuge in the bar next door called the Stable. This turned out to be run by a man called Peter Keenan who was the British bantamweight champion at the time I was indulging Other boxers in my face, way back in 1950. We reminisced and then there was a darts match and I was invited to join in. It was nearly closing time by now and not a single Glaswegian had killed me or maimed me. was determined to suffer for the sake of the Spectator and so at closing time I got a taxi back to the Central Hotel and read Marina Warner's review all over again. Tomorrow would be another day.

Unfortunately, A was Sunday. The city was in another coma with only the hotel bars oPening. By now I was tired. Tired of trying to get trouble stories from Scotsmen who all turned out to be charmers. I was so tired I did the last leg in a taxi. The driver took me to the Gorbals, but it isn't really there any more A few skyscrapers, a few unbuilt and desolate weed-strewn strips of ground yawning for yet more skyscrapers. But not much more to see. And then to Blackhill. This is the last tough spot in Glasgow, but they Must have heard I was coming. Nothing. Just streets of tenement houses, some more Shabby than the others, but all of them grim. A. few unrepaired windows, a few lumberJacketed and hunch-backed men walking with their hands deep in their pockets but to Where? The taxi driver told me he was born there and said, 'There used to be a church there but there was no more use for it now.' A grim, cliquish community and I wouldn't !lave had the impertinence, although by that time had the nerve, to ask anyone anything about it.

And so to London and British Rail once More. They lay on a specially packed train at 13.30 from Glasgow. They tease you with a buffet and restaurant to start with and then they disengage it at Preston in Lancashire.

ou then, if you're like me, find yourself travelling the next God knows how many Miles to Euston dying of thirst and surrounded by American students temporarily attached to the London School of Econ°mIcs. One of them, an extremely serious girl whO'd been reading Ibsen during the journey while I'd been contemplating Marina arner again, said to me, 'You English are in real trouble and I just can't understand Why, You don't seem to worry in the least I told her that with us first things come n"se. I said we were all deeply concerned poutthe buffet car being removed at

reston. I'm also worried about Scotland ing removed from England. Glaswegians are too nice to go down the devolution drain.