It was 1979, I was just eighteen years old and this was my very first time. People had told me it gets easier the more you do it, but I wasn’t too sure.

 

But how hard can it be… running a bar on your own?

 

My boyfriend’s dad George took me down to this old pub he owned in the Calton area of Glasgow. The ancient pub was on the corner of the main London road. It had a huge crumbling brown tenement above it and the walls on the outside of the bar were pretty dire. The whole place looked rundown.

 

The streets were so dark; there were a few jagged remains of demolished buildings on the other side of the road peering out through the last shafts of the dying sunlight. It was like being in a foreign land.

 

George took me by the hand into the pub, he opened the door that lead behind the bar, let a blonde woman out and locked me in and said ‘Goodbye’.

 

I tried to run after him but the wee wooden door was locked and I couldn’t fiddle with it fast enough, I saw him through the pub window. I was shouting “George don’t leave me here” but he carried on walking.

 

He got into his car with the blonde and drove off.

 

I slowly looked around the pub.

 

There were two really old men standing at the long part of the L shaped bar and one big fat hairy arsed biker slumped at the bottom on the counter, fast asleep.

I gulped and smiled.

 

I didn’t know where anything was, I didn’t know the prices or how to work the till. What the fuck was going on? I was only eighteen years old, I was scared.

 

The biker slowly raised his head and smiled a big toothless grin and slumped back down again. His enormous baldy head made a scary thump on the bar.

 

It shook his beer glass that lay next to his head and the liquid went foamy with the vibrations. ‘Well that was one way to get a head on your beer’ I thought to myself.

 

Just then a loud screech came out of the ceiling and a three legged cat leapt onto the bar and ran up to me, its hobbled gait was really horrifying and it was all scabby and tufty.

 

“That’s Tripod” said one of the old men “It’s because it only had three legs” then he threw his head back and his big gumsy mouth fell wide open and let rip a big raspy laugh. It sounded like a steam train slowing down in a station as his smoky lungs forced out a noise.

 

Then the two old men looked at each other, and then looked at me.

 

“Say press up” the smaller elderly man hissed.

 

The two old guys had faces like melted buckets, their chins were bent up towards their foreheads, and there were deep wrinkles all over their wizened faces. Neither of them had teeth, nor any facial bones by the looks of it. Soft squishy sock puppet faces, was all they seemed to posses.

 

“Say PRESS UP” the taller man shouted.

 

“Press up” I whispered.

 

The two old men fell to the floor disappearing behind the wooden bar counter. I had to jump up onto the bar to look to the floor to see where they had gone. The three legged cat jumped with me, its tail flicked.

 

The two old boys were on the floor doing press ups “One Two Three” they were shouting.

 

I was aghast. They must have been 80 years old a piece, they will die doing press ups!

 

“Stop!” I shouted.

 

Just then one of the old guys flopped on the floor and the taller one jumped up to his feet and ran around screaming “I won”

 

“Now I get a whisky” he yelled as he thumped his grizzly hand on the bar.

 

The biker lifted up his fat head and whispered “He wins, you have to give him a drink” and slumped back down again.

 

I gave the old man a whisky. The other elderly bloke was still on the floor; I was hoping he wasn’t dead.

 

Just then at the other end of the bar the biker sprang to life; he stood up and I noticed he was wearing really tight clothes. Either he was wearing the same clothes since 1975 and grew too fat for them or he just like wearing too tight clothes. His blue tee shirt was right up past his fat belly and his jeans were literally garrotting his waist!

 

“I am GAY!” he screamed. He threw his beer on the floor, he knocked over a chair and ran for the door, the three legged cat ran after him hissing! He kicked the main bar door open and ran into the street, the cat still in chase with its hobbled run.

 

At that moment, another scream came from the floor in front of me.

 

The old man on the floor sprung to his feet and wrestled his elderly mate for the whisky. They punched and struggled and ended up spilling the golden liquid over each other and fell back to the floor. Kicking and spitting at each other.

 

I was so frightened I didn’t know what to do next….so I ran and grabbed the old pay phone. I pulled a 10 pence piece out of my pocket and quickly called my boyfriend.

 

“Help! This place is mad!” I screamed as he answered the call.

 

“Let me guess, did two old boys do press ups and fat biker scream that he was gay?” He asked laughing.

 

“Yes, how did you know that?” I said.

 

“That’s ok, that’s a Tuesday” he laughed back “I will be down there in twenty minutes to help before the old boys start drinking petrol and show you their fire eating skills”

 

That was my first time. People are right; it gets better the more you do it.

It was 1979, I was just eighteen years old and this was my very first time. People had told me it gets easier the more you do it, but I wasn’t too sure.

 

But how hard can it be… running a bar on your own?

 

My boyfriend’s dad George took me down to this old pub he owned in the Calton area of Glasgow. The ancient pub was on the corner of the main London road. It had a huge crumbling brown tenement above it and the walls on the outside of the bar were pretty dire. The whole place looked rundown.

 

The streets were so dark; there were a few jagged remains of demolished buildings on the other side of the road peering out through the last shafts of the dying sunlight. It was like being in a foreign land.

 

George took me by the hand into the pub, he opened the door that lead behind the bar, let a blonde woman out and locked me in and said ‘Goodbye’.

 

I tried to run after him but the wee wooden door was locked and I couldn’t fiddle with it fast enough, I saw him through the pub window. I was shouting “George don’t leave me here” but he carried on walking.

 

He got into his car with the blonde and drove off.

 

I slowly looked around the pub.

 

There were two really old men standing at the long part of the L shaped bar and one big fat hairy arsed biker slumped at the bottom on the counter, fast asleep.

I gulped and smiled.

 

I didn’t know where anything was, I didn’t know the prices or how to work the till. What the fuck was going on? I was only eighteen years old, I was scared.

 

The biker slowly raised his head and smiled a big toothless grin and slumped back down again. His enormous baldy head made a scary thump on the bar.

 

It shook his beer glass that lay next to his head and the liquid went foamy with the vibrations. ‘Well that was one way to get a head on your beer’ I thought to myself.

 

Just then a loud screech came out of the ceiling and a three legged cat leapt onto the bar and ran up to me, its hobbled gait was really horrifying and it was all scabby and tufty.

 

“That’s Tripod” said one of the old men “It’s because it only had three legs” then he threw his head back and his big gumsy mouth fell wide open and let rip a big raspy laugh. It sounded like a steam train slowing down in a station as his smoky lungs forced out a noise.

 

Then the two old men looked at each other, and then looked at me.

 

“Say press up” the smaller elderly man hissed.

 

The two old guys had faces like melted buckets, their chins were bent up towards their foreheads, and there were deep wrinkles all over their wizened faces. Neither of them had teeth, nor any facial bones by the looks of it. Soft squishy sock puppet faces, was all they seemed to posses.

 

“Say PRESS UP” the taller man shouted.

 

“Press up” I whispered.

 

The two old men fell to the floor disappearing behind the wooden bar counter. I had to jump up onto the bar to look to the floor to see where they had gone. The three legged cat jumped with me, its tail flicked.

 

The two old boys were on the floor doing press ups “One Two Three” they were shouting.

 

I was aghast. They must have been 80 years old a piece, they will die doing press ups!

 

“Stop!” I shouted.

 

Just then one of the old guys flopped on the floor and the taller one jumped up to his feet and ran around screaming “I won”

 

“Now I get a whisky” he yelled as he thumped his grizzly hand on the bar.

 

The biker lifted up his fat head and whispered “He wins, you have to give him a drink” and slumped back down again.

 

I gave the old man a whisky. The other elderly bloke was still on the floor; I was hoping he wasn’t dead.

 

Just then at the other end of the bar the biker sprang to life; he stood up and I noticed he was wearing really tight clothes. Either he was wearing the same clothes since 1975 and grew too fat for them or he just like wearing too tight clothes. His blue tee shirt was right up past his fat belly and his jeans were literally garrotting his waist!

 

“I am GAY!” he screamed. He threw his beer on the floor, he knocked over a chair and ran for the door, the three legged cat ran after him hissing! He kicked the main bar door open and ran into the street, the cat still in chase with its hobbled run.

 

At that moment, another scream came from the floor in front of me.

 

The old man on the floor sprung to his feet and wrestled his elderly mate for the whisky. They punched and struggled and ended up spilling the golden liquid over each other and fell back to the floor. Kicking and spitting at each other.

 

I was so frightened I didn’t know what to do next….so I ran and grabbed the old pay phone. I pulled a 10 pence piece out of my pocket and quickly called my boyfriend.

 

“Help! This place is mad!” I screamed as he answered the call.

 

“Let me guess, did two old boys do press ups and fat biker scream that he was gay?” He asked laughing.

 

“Yes, how did you know that?” I said.

 

“That’s ok, that’s a Tuesday” he laughed back “I will be down there in twenty minutes to help before the old boys start drinking petrol and show you their fire eating skills”

 

That was my first time. People are right; it gets better the more you do it.

I have decided to stop smoking and get fit. Yes…I know …it’s that time of the year when we realise that we are going to be fat and old for another year. This time I know I need to do something about it as I am about to turn 47 years old in January.

This is a really important birthday for me as it was the age my mother died at.

She was murdered in 1982 at age 47. Her boyfriend back then was called Peter and he took her a walk along the River Clyde and she never came home, but her body was found floating four days later. He never got charged for her killing but often boasted about doing it to anyone who would listen for many years later.

I thought back then that my mammy was an old woman at 47, I was so young and never realised that one day I would reach that age and now I am about to hit that date- I don’t feel old. So I need to feel better about myself.

My mammy was called Annie, she never got to do or see much in her lifetime. It bugs me and lately I had been feeling very strange about my mammy’s untimely death.

Have I done enough? Would she be proud of me? Would she have loved my book? Would she hate me spilling out the family secrets? Would she read my column in the Scotsman newspaper?
I know she would hate me spilling the big dark secret about her brother David Percy sexually abusing me.

I don’t regret speaking out about the abuse, so she would just have to deal with that one!

I wish she had done more in her life; she never got to fly in a plane. She never got further than Yorkshire on her travels. She never got to stay in a five star hotel or eat in a decent restaurant. She never went into to town and got to buy herself wonderful clothes or decent shoes.

She never had much. Yet she never complained much either. She accepted her poverty and pain the way people like her too often do.
Her life was her lot and she took that on without much comment. We lived in a dirty flat; we were penniless and lived hand to mouth from week to week. Everyone was in much of the same mess.

I always wanted more; I never wanted to live like that. I challenged how we existed and dreamed of a better life. I never once accepted that living in poverty was an acceptable situation. I hated everything my mammy represented- yet I didn’t hate her. I got annoyed that she never wanted more or fought against the shit she lived in.

Maybe she was beaten a long time ago?

I never wanted to raise a child in poverty, or live on benefits. I know that’s its not easy for people to get out of that trap and it can be so bloody difficult to try to, especially when the government make it harder.

My way out was easier, I suppose. I married a man whose father owned bars, so I automatically walked into a career. In actual fact I got paid less than the staff who weren’t family! Work that out! But I stuck that out for 15 years.

I never wanted to be a barmaid. I hated everything about it, but I knew if I worked there I could save up and get my child into a private school. So I shut up and carried on. I saved and saved for years. I never got new furniture or fancy clothes, I never owned jewellery, and I never drove a fancy car.

I saved every penny I could.

I realised whilst writing this that I have achieved something’s I promised myself from way back then. When I was young and living with my mammy, I swore an oath to myself that my child would never worry about the electricity getting cut off, being evicted, being dirty or being poor.

I have achieved all of those things. I am proud of that and I know that my mammy would be proud of that too.

Ashley has never been poor or hungry or dirty. She has always been secure and safe in the knowledge that she would be given shelter, love, confidence and a belief in her.

I did that.

I just wish my mammy was here so I could that for her as well.

I am going to be 47 years old soon and I will be ok.

Well it was a tiring day for us. I was awoken by at least five calls and ten text messages beeping on my phone. I am not annoyed, I have friends!

 

I got up and staggered through to the living room half asleep and realised it was 1pm. It was the middle of the bloody day, what is everyone doing still asleep?

 

Ashley was tucked up tight and husband was snoring. I recalled the days when Ashley was up at 7am to rip open gifts, but now at 21 years old, she no longer needs stuff that much. She knows Santa is the Scottish name for the Visa card.

 

Ashley finally got up and started preparing dinner, we were eating at 7pm as opposed to lunch, and we don’t eat that early. Husband stayed fast asleep.

 

Ashley gave me my gifts which included an extensive selection of body scrubbing materials; I may have flaky skin and smell too much if these gifts are any way representative of why gifts are given in the first place.

 

Husband got his usual favourite DVD’s that Ashley buys him every year.

 

Husband and I never got each other gifts as we agreed not to in advance.

 

It was a nice day, husband got out of bed, Ashley’s friends arrived and we all had a big giant feast of a dinner. I am stuffed and I am sure my knickers are about to burst under the strain.

 

So there we have it another Christmas come and gone.

We all sat tonight in the flat, me – husband and daughter. The tree is up the gifts are wrapped and Ashley has been boiling apples, pears and some cinnamon cocktail for a compote that she is serving tomorrow. The house really does smell like Christmas.

 

She is making some elaborate dish involving her famous panna cotta as a dessert and there is beef or lamb in the main course. I am lucky to have such a gifted child.

 

I washed all the dishes and cleared out the kitchen in preparation.

 

It reminded me of my first ever Christmas with my husband as a couple. We weren’t married, we were just engaged and it was exciting to be together.

 

We lived with my old grandfather and his wee kitchen hadn’t seen a Christmas dinner cooked there for many years. I made roast chicken and vegetables.

 

I had cleared the big table in grand dad’s living room and husband (who was then my 17 year old boyfriend) came through to the small kitchen to get the cutlery. He pulled open the drawer and there was nothing there…not even a teaspoon.

 

I was baffled, I had just acquired a whole set of good cutlery from boyfriends dad’s local pub that he owned. I had great sharp knives, loads of spoons and a beautiful unusual white handled cutlery service. I started searching the tiny flat for the cutlery and finally asked my granddad if he knew where it may be.

 

“You’re Auntie Rita may have borrowed some of it” he muttered.

 

His daughter Rita was my mum’s sister and she lived with her father in law, husband and brother in law not far from our street. I put the oven down low and went running out of the door and headed down to Rita’s flat.

 

My head was full of questions, what the hell was she thinking of taking my cutlery?

Did she really have my cutlery? Why would granddad say such a thing?

 

So finally I arrived at Rita’s door and after a good banging she opened it. Her face was surprised but in her right hand she was clutching my entire canteen of cutlery!

 

“Rita, that’s my cutlery, why do you have every single spoon, fork and knife that I own?” I gasped.

 

Rita looked at it then said “No they are mine, I got the cutlery as a wedding present” She pointed the clutch of cutlery at me and shouted “This is mine!”

 

“Rita, they are white handled, I got them from the bar my boyfriend’s dad owns, they are mine and you know it, we are sitting up there without a fucking spoon to stir our tea, and your dad can’t eat his Christmas dinner with his fingers can he?” I shouted back.

 

She just held out the cutlery to me, shoved them into my hand and slammed the door!

 

I laughed my ass off and ran back to the flat to explain the mystery of the missing forks.

 

My boyfriend was bamboozled as to what kind of family he was marrying into, who are these people that steal each others cutlery on Christmas Day?

 

We sat in our bedroom with dinner on our knees, granddad was drunk as usual and I didn’t want to eat with him.

We were so happy, just him and me eating a hot chicken dinner on Christmas day.

 

Sometimes when you have so little in life you appreciate it more. I seem to have everything I need today, but something is lost along the way.

 

I miss the hungry years.