Take the Money and Run

NAMES / PLACES CHANGED TO PROTECT THE INNOCENT/ NOT SO INNOCENT

TAKE THE MONEY AND RUN

PART 1

By

Jim Gardner

SMASHWORDS EDITION

*****

PUBLISHED BY:

Jim Gardner on Smashwords

Take the Money and Run

Copyright © 2019 by Jim Gardner

TABLE OF CONTENT

PART ONE

IN THE BEGINNING

1 Sticky finger

2 Blood brothers

3 Sheep

4 Drummer boys

5 Fanny

PART TWO

NO PRISONERS

6 The Bar-L

7 Scoring for Scotland

8 Mushrooms

9 Arab or Jew

10 Photo’s of the Queen

11 Taking the piss

12 Hun or Tim

13 Eddie the Eagle

14 Jungle Jake

PART THREE

WORKING IT!

15 Sharp dressed man

16 Dangerous ground

17 Thunder

18 Houston we have a problem

19 Judas

20 One fight in Bangkok

21 A better man

22 Good Boy

23 The Milky bar Kid

Prologue

‘Listen you little runt, I’m not going to tell you again, if you don’t stop kicking that ball off that wall I’m going to belt you with this brush and tell your mother; now bugger off! Before I do some damage to your scull’ ‘Mrs Wilson it’s raining, if I play in the rain my mam will kill me!’ My pleas fell on deaf ears; the old witch and her broom were already heading my way with purpose, it was time for a sharp exit. I scampered out of the back entrance of the dreary tenement building, thinking only of the damage she might do to my head with her broom and in my haste jumped straight into a puddle, oh! Shit! I’d two reasons to be terrified now; I was 5 yrs. of age at the time.

Chapter 1

Sticky Fingers

The Second World War had been over for nigh on 12 yrs. and I guess I’d been the result of the so-called ‘baby boomers’ era. Did I get a better deal than most? I suspect so; mind you when you are a mere nipper, living with a workaholic, psychopathic mother and an alcoholic father, I guess you don’t quite see it that way.

Home was a shabby 1st floor apartment in a 3-story tenement building, in deprived area of Glasgow and our accommodation consisted of one small bedroom, with a short lobby leading into an area that doubled as a kitchen/ living room.

Three families shared a landing of the tenement, giving a grand total of nine households. Living on our particular floor, (apart from us) was Mr Robertson; a reclusive old man of around 60 yrs. and next to him ‘the Christies. Mr Christie was a tall, gaunt looking man of around 50yrs of age and Mrs Christie small, slightly rotund and around the same age. Both kept their own council, careful to remain on nodding terms with their neighbours, yet unwilling to venture to the next level.

The Christies had two children; a red headed boy named Stewart and a tall, developing Amazonian blonde girl Ina, who it has to be said, was blessed with a pair of legs that seemed to go on forever. Stewart was a painfully shy individual who, despite my encouragement, struggled to connect with any of the kids on the street. Not that I was being a Good Samaritan, truth is he was my direct link to Ina.

As often as not, I’d seek out Stewart in the hope of clapping my eyes on his delectable sister and through a measure of time it became apparent we were attracted to one another. The fact that she would playfully push, punch and kick me at every available opportunity, simply confirmed my suspicions. Not surprisingly I returned the compliment with interest, by pulling her hair, nipping her bottom and teasing her mercilessly. I guess history will confirm Ina as my first love and who knows maybe it would have remained that way if she and her family hadn’t moved to an unsavoury area of Glasgow, known as Drumchapel.

Staying directly above us on the top floor was Mrs Jackson, a widow of whom I knew very little, other than she had a penchant for the abundance of Frenchmen infiltrating the area at the time. From what little I knew, ‘Onion Johnnies’ as they were affectionately known, were French refugees, who for one reason or another had arrived in Scotland and relocated in a variety of areas in and around Glasgow. Sporting traditional berets and handlebar/ twirled up moustaches ‘Onion Johnnies’ were easily identifiable and each day en route from school I would sneak a peek inside their small, dilapidated shop they’d filled from top to bottom with, yep! you guessed it; onions!

Monday and Friday afternoons were their chosen days for peddling the streets, however, as we all know, the French, as a nation are more renowned for ‘their ardour’ than ‘their onions’ and this motley crew lived up to their reputation. Blessed with dark skin, chiselled jaw line and an accent guaranteed to melt the frostiest ice maiden, our Gallic friends had more notches on their belts than Billy the Kid and it’s my strong suspicion Mrs Jackson occasionally succumbed to a little ‘horizontal hokey koky’ whenever the notion took her fancy.

Next door to Mrs Jackson was the Simpson’s. Sally Simpson was an attractive, young clippie (bus conductress) who, it has to be said did little to dispel her promiscuity. A short, tight skirt, beehive hairstyle and heavy make-up were the order of the day and all as much a part of a clippie’s identity as their uniform. Designed as an act of defiance, the clippies constantly chewed gum in an antagonistic manner and Sally could chew with the best of them. Husband, Harry also worked for the Glasgow Corporation. Ironically, he was a bus driver; a rare event for an indigenous member of our society, given the job was menial, low paid and generally considered only suitable for Pakistani’s, Indian’s and Asian’s.

Bizarre at it may seem, back then all dark- skinned people came under the same ‘Darkie’ banner. Whether they were Pakistani, Indian or Afro Caribbean we naively described all as ‘Darkies!’ No one ever corrected or chastised us for using, what is now universally considered a highly derogatory term; as far as we were concerned ‘Darkies’ were ‘Darkies’!

Next to the Simpson’s were Charlie Allen and his beautiful daughter Sandra. Charlie was a hapless, scrawny little man, whose wife had run off with the coal man, leaving Charlie with the thankless task of raising daughter Sandra on his own. Sandra was a stunner; tall, slim and blessed with the most gorgeous almond eyes ever known to man. Problem with Sandra was that ever since Charlie had decided to send her to a private school she’d developed ideas above her station. While the rest of us were running around in hand me downs; she was strutting her stuff in her colourful school uniform and speaking as if someone had just stuck their finger up her bum. Despite efforts welcoming her to the fold Sandra refused to have anything to do with us. Transpires she preferred her father’s company. Word on the street was that something a mite unusual was going on between father and daughter.

The importance of maintaining clean stairs and landings couldn’t be underestimated in those days. Dirty stairs and unkempt landings were associated with minority groups, consequently when the stairs and landings needed cleaned, women did it with rigorous endeavour.

Most evenings were spent kicking a ball, running wild in the park or playing street games, until it reached the dreaded dinner/ homework/ bedtime routine. Fearful of being dragged in for the evening, I would yell up in the direction of our kitchen windows, Mum Don’t want dinner, can you just throw me down a sandwich? and minutes later a grease-proofed package would come hurtling from the window like an Exocet missile. The contents of the package were, without exception a sandwich known as a piece ‘n’ butter, accompanied by a couple of soggy biscuits. It may not have been much by way of calorific value; it did nevertheless stem the hunger pangs until darkness descended, at which point I was hauled upstairs, stripped naked and told to get in the sink. Scrubbing over, I’d then be handed a mug of tea and a slice of toast and 10 minutes later unceremoniously frog marched to bed.

With living space at a premium, I was forced to share a relatively small bedroom with my parents. Necessity being the mother of invention meant my sleeping quarters were confined to a small, homemade bed built into a recessed alcove, whilst my parents slept at the opposite end of the room. A huge curtain strategically hanging inches from the end of their bed afforded them what little privacy they may have enjoyed. During the winter nights, if the temperature dropped below freezing, my father would bring out his army overcoat and toss it over my bed. The only problem with the coat was it so damn heavy it left me pinned to the bed, unable to move.

Although a working-class area, Partick boasted terrific amenities such as football parks, swing parks, shops, safe streets and the Public Baths. The baths were a particular favourite of mine; a never-ending source of fun and a great place for fun and frolics; the added attraction being the recently introduced ‘Duke of Edinburgh lifesaving scheme’.

The idea was to encourage young kids from deprived areas to take part in a lifesavers swimming course and by way of encouragement they; i.e. the council, offered an incentive. If a boy or girl took part in the training, passed the exam and became a proficient lifesaver then he or she received a Duke of Edinburgh lifesaving swimming certificate. The certificate itself was no big deal; the cherry on the cake was the attached card, which when produced at the counter, entitled the holder to free entry to the swimming baths for 1 whole year. Needless to say; before very long every kid in the neighbourhood became lifesavers and aspiring Olympic champions.

Within the confines of the swimming complex, we also had the Turkish Baths. I had no idea what a Turkish bath was, the only thing I understood was Turkish Baths were strictly off limits to anyone under the age of eighteen. According to rumour, the Turkish was the regular haunt of local perverts and if I, or indeed any of my friends were found anywhere near the Turkish we were guaranteed a severe roasting, followed by a size 10 boot up the bum from our parents.

In actual fact the worst place for finding perverts wasn’t the Turkish, the perverts, believe it or not were more prevalent in the regular swimming baths. I vividly remember one of my mates pinching his old man’s binoculars and inviting us to ogle the girls from the upstairs changing room, only to come across a known pervert, who, on realising the spotlight was on him was only too happy to fiddle with his penis. Only later in life did I discover the fiddling pervert was masturbating! ‘Wankers’ apart; upstairs was the perfect place for us little voyeurs to check out the female changing rooms in the off chance we’d manage to ogle a breast or two. Once or twice we came upon girls who, despite being eyeballed by walking hormones seductively removed their wet costumes and provocatively pulled on sexy cotton knickers and titillating woolly vests! Ah! those were the days!

Finally, within the confines of the complex we had ‘The Steamy’ or as the posh people would say the ‘Wash House’. The Steamy was the place where women from the surrounding deprived areas would congregate to use industrial washing and ironing facilities, which in my Mother’s situation was a chore best suited to a Saturday morning.

Around 8 am the family pram was loaded to the hilt with the previous week’s dirty laundry and pushed to the steamy. In reality, back then most people hadn’t set eyes on a washing machine, let alone own one; consequently, if a woman didn’t visit ‘the steamy,’ her only real alternative was to slog it out over the kitchen sink. Most families didn’t even possess an electric iron, relying instead on a flat block of metal with a make shift handle, which when heated on the kitchen stove was used to iron shirts, skirts and trousers.

In the winter, if too cold to play on the streets many kids would volunteer to push the clothes laden pram to the steamy for no other reason than it was a comforting, cosy place to be. Apart from ‘The steamy’ and the swimming baths we also had the wonderful nirvana that was Partick Park; where only requirement for fun was a couple of jumpers for goal posts, a vivid imagination and a football.

Our area was predominately Protestant with around 65% of the population being Huns (Protestants) and the remaining 35% Tim’s (Catholic), as they were more commonly known. Within the confines of Partick it was perfectly safe for kids to wear the blue of Rangers, however further afield, particularly in the poorer areas it was a different story.

To wander inside unknown territory wearing a Rangers strip was to take your life in your hands! If for example a stranger stumbled into a predominantly Catholic zone, you could bet your bottom dollar he’d be cornered and asked the all-important question and I quote, hey you ya cunt! Are you a Catholic cat or a Proddy dog? a loaded enquiry if ever there was one and one with no more than a 50/50 chance of success. Depending on the origin and persuasion of the questionnaire the outcome could be a ‘thick ear’ swiftly followed by a quick ‘boot up the arse,’ or alternatively, an affectionate slap on the back and a fond farewell. Despite being raised in a bigoted environment I don’t recall my own parents having at any time differentiated between Catholic and Protestant. They either very cleverly kept their views under wrap, or what seems more likely, they remained oblivious to their surroundings. Whatever their views; religion, racism or sectarianism seemed to play no part.

Under no stretch of the imagination could anyone describe my parents as being social animals, quite to the contrary. Seldom did they venture outside for a night out, preferring instead to stay at home and partake of a ‘Kerry oot/ carryout’ which, for the uninitiated, is quite simply booze procured from the local Off-Licence/ store. Fathers ‘carryout’ consisted of a couple of bottle of beers and a ¼ bottle of whisky. However, if not quite so flush, he’d settle for a half bottle of Buckfast; the cheapest dessert wine known to man. As I say my parents seldom socialised, nonetheless there were odd occasions when we were honoured by the presence of visitors and if they had children of a similar age, my mother would adopt her Mary Poppins persona by encouraging me to take the child fishing.

Complete with string handled jam jar we’d toddle on down to the local hardware shop to buy, what was in essence a length of cane, with a piece of mesh at the end, more commonly known as a fishing net. Net in hand we’d meander to the park and spend the afternoon at the boating pond, fishing for tiddlers!

On the basis that the park gates closed at 8 pm, we’d call it a day around 7, 30 pm and head back towards the metropolis known as Bodwyn Street. Often as not, our visitors, in keeping with my parents, also enjoyed a ‘drink or 10!’ and on approaching the entrance to the tenement building my ears would occasionally perk up at the faint sound of my mother singing her rendition of the old Englebert Humperdinck number ‘Ten Guitars’. Problem was, my Mother couldn’t sing for toffee and could only deliver the song in the familiar parodic manner made famous by Billy Connolly when he sang Tammy Wynette’s classic, ‘d- i- v- o- r- c- e’. Mother, having finally and thankfully finished murdering ‘Ten Guitars’ would then look to my father to redeem the situation, which he duly did by singing a half decent rendition of the Perry Como song ‘Magic Moments’, a misnomer if ever there was one.

During the summer months, when my buddies were off on holiday I’d wile away the hours, accompanying the girls to the park under the guise of a day’s relaxation and picnicking. A couple of cheese rolls, a bottle of iron brew and a cheap packet of biscuits did the trick. I recall with fondness two girls, twins no less, both of whom had a reputation for ‘giving’ and for that reason, quite naturally, top of my invitation list. Being raised in what was effectively Glasgow’s answer to the Bronx saw the emergence of a survival of the fittest mentality and hidden agendas soon became a way of life. On this occasion my self-interest was pursuing ‘sticky fingers’ let me explain.

Most kids my age were aware of the sexual connotations surrounding ‘sticky fingers’ few, however had experienced it. Now and again some of the older boys would brag to the masses that their girlfriend had given them ‘sticky fingers’, and on the rare occasion it happened, they were demi gods. I desperately sought the same accolade and figured a picnic in the park would be the perfect opportunity to do so, therefore one sunny Sunday the girls and I set off into the blue yonder, whereupon on arrival at a remote area of the park the girls began giggling in anticipation of playing doctors and nurses. Blanket duly spread on the ground we began taking down each other’s particulars! Even though, if truth be told we had no idea what the hell! we were doing.

We couldn’t have been more than10 years of age, and in those days 10-year olds were neither sexually aware, nor as physically mature as today’s kids. Apart from having very little or no breasts, most girls were tremendously naïve. Some even believed that if they kissed a boy lying down, it could lead to pregnancy! The boys fared little better, all they had to offer was an awkward fumble and a quick peek of their chipolata! What I achieved from playing doctors and nurses. Heaven only knows. As for the twins; the mind boggles.

Chapter 2

Blood Brothers

As previously touched on, playing street games was high on my agenda and ‘kiss, cuddle or torture’ my personal favourite. The outcome of the game was always rigged to achieve the desired result with torture! never high on the agenda. My girl Ina was actively encouraged to take part and rest assured for the duration of the game the girl could easily out run me.

Once or twice, if fortunate to get hold of some cigarettes, the boys and I would head for the park, find a quiet spot and light up. Smoking at the age of nine or ten was considered by our peers a tough thing to do and keen to remain one of the boys, I was up for it. The problem with having a fag wasn’t only our feeble inability to master the art of inhaling; we regularly singed our clothes whilst coughing up the contents of our guts.

Unbeknown to me, my days of smoking were about to come to an abrupt halt when me and a friend were caught red handed by his older brother. Big Bro! had just finished playing football and was on his way home when he spied us swaggering through the park with a Capstan full strength in our gobs. From out of nowhere he grabbed us both by the scruff of the neck and let fly. Almost simultaneously, we both hit the deck in excruciating pain as his size 10 boots connected with our arses and his fists simultaneously cracked our heads with the accuracy of a ‘Wayne Rooney penalty’! At this point (for reasons that remain unknown to this day) I was singled out for preferential treatment, thrown against the railings and ‘nutted’ (head butted). I’d never experienced extreme pain before and boy it hurt. Apart from the pain, the thing I remember most about my hammering was the weird sensation of warm fresh blood as it rushed from my nostrils and onto my vest, before splashing to the floor. On my knees, drenched in my own blood I raised my head in acknowledgement that I’d had enough, only to catch a quick glimpse of his size ten’s once again connecting with my rib cage. My assailant obviously disagreed with my evaluation! Thankfully, having received another blow from his size 10, big brother decided to call it a day and departed, leaving behind a chilling warning that should he ever find us with so much as a cinnamon stick in our gobs, we’d be dead meat; I never did light up again.

Although not bad kids by any stretch of the imagination, we did on occasion get embroiled in mischief. Petty shoplifting, running gang fights and annoying old folk were all-important learning curves. Very often, if a neighbour had the audacity to report us to our folks for being disrespectful, we’d single them out for special attention. First, we scoured the backcourts in search of large dog poo! On selection of said poo, we’d scoop it onto a piece of cardboard and cover it with a piece of newspaper. Ammunition prepared, we’d scurry excitedly to the selected tenement, climb the stairs and strategically place the turd outside the unsuspecting victim’s front door. On the count of three we’d set fire to the paper, kick the door a few times and scarper down the stairs, giggling and falling over one another in the process. Of course, the disgruntled punter, having been subjected to the noise pulled on their slippers and came to investigate. With the front door now ajar and faced with what looked like a full-blown fire, the tenant’s natural reaction was to extinguish it by stamping on it! I guess the phrase ‘oh ! shit’ comes to mind.

In those days of abject poverty, ‘ginger’ or lemonade bottles were a valued source of revenue and searching for them high on our list of priorities. A handful of lemonade bottles easily scored a bag of broken biscuits from the greengrocers, a bag of chip scraps from the chippy, or if so inclined a couple of Woodbine singles, therefore quite naturally much of our leisure time was spent scouring the streets in search of lemonade bottles.

Another regular source of revenue for street kids was the traditional ‘wedding day scramble’. A scramble normally took place outside the Church or Chapel, after the happy couple, having been joined in holy matrimony were about to speed off in their limo. Back then it was tradition for the groom to toss handfuls of loose coins from the car, leaving the waiting masses to literally fight tooth and nail for the ‘booty’ and believe me, the ensuing melee was not for the faint hearted. Occasionally, when the happy couple chose not to enter into the spirit of ‘scrambles’, they drove off to loud choruses of rusty pockets, rusty pockets ringing in their stingy ears.

In the early days of television, programmes such as ‘The Lone Ranger’ and ‘Popeye’ were all the rage, indeed when Popeye first appeared on the screen I vividly remember thinking that the spinach he ate must be wonderful. Stood to reason, if a skinny little runt like Popeye could knock seven bells out of big bad Bruno after guzzling a can of spinach, then spinach must indeed be magic. According to the programme, a tin of this stuff miraculously produced huge muscles, induced supernatural strength and gave one the power to kick ass and if it said so on the telly! then it must be true. Figuring it was worth a go, me and my buddies rounded up a few ginger bottles, headed for the grocers and bought a tin of spinach, only to discover that not only was it disgusting to taste, it had absolutely no effect on what puny little muscles we may have had; leading us to conclude that the geek in the sailor’s uniform had conned us. More importantly it taught us, at a very early age, never to believe anything we saw or heard on the telly.

Life in a close-knit environment had many positive attributes and at the risk of sounding clichéd the old world of yesteryear seemed more caring than the one we inhabit today. Back then, protestant kids were automatically expected to give up their bus seat to the elderly and assist with carrying their messages, not something you’re likely to witness these days.

In times of trouble, a family could always rely on a neighbour for a comforting word, assistance in matrimonial refereeing or something as futile as a cup of sugar; it’s the way it was. Borrowing was commonplace and though surrounded by petty crime, wife beating, alcoholism and gambling, we were oblivious to these murky goings on. Like most kids, we only focused on what we were doing and if we were having fun, then everything else was irrelevant. Almost every parent fought with one another, neighbours and relations; as I say it’s just the way it was.

On the many occasions my own parents came to blows, my Mother, in a state of torment and anxiety usually dragged me along to the local cinema. I guess the semi-darkness and the anonymity afforded inside the Cinema was a cathartic release for a woman in distress and to be fair it was occasionally no bad thing. The reason I say occasionally is that more often than not I was forced to sit through girly movies such as ‘Pollyanna’, which, for those who have never heard of it, was torturous