~ When Lions Roared ~
The three of us stood outside the motel’s big plate-glass doors. At seventeen, I was the youngest of the trio, as well as the wee-est and skinniest. We were feeling sober and dejected. Everyone had told us that the Hogmanay Staff Party would be brilliant, but it was over within half-an-hour of the Bells, and all we had been given to drink were two glasses of lukewarm, fizzy stuff, which was hardly enough to give any of us a buzz. Now we were debating what to do. Should we just call it a night and go home? Or should we scour the streets for a party? But if we did find a party, how welcome would we be without a carry-out? Imagine, three members of the motel’s bar staff gatecrashing on New Year’s morning without a carry-out!
We were coming to the sad conclusion that we would be heading home soon when the glass doors slid open and a bevy of the waiting staff, led by Big Jimmy, the Head Waiter, stepped out into the night. Since hardly any of the waiting staff lived locally, they all set off immediately for the car park. All, that is, except Big Jimmy and one of his assistants, who hung back to speak to us. Big Jimmy was a Glaswegian in his forties, built like a brick shithouse. He was as obsequious as fuck in the presence of the General Manager or the Undermanager or when dealing with the guests, but otherwise he was a cheerful, down-to-earth guy.
“Well noo, boys, yous are lookin’ awfie glum. Whit’s wrang? Nae pairty tae go tae? There’s a big pairty oan at ma hoose. Yous kin come if ye like. Ah’ll make sure yous get hame efterwards.”
He didn’t need to ask twice. Without another word, we followed Jimmy and his mate to the car park and sat in the back seat of his car. The car was halfway across the road bridge before Jimmy spoke again.
“By the way, this handsome chap sittin’ beside me is cawed Billy. What d’yous caw yersels, boys?”
“Brendan,” I piped up when it came to my turn.
I swear the car swerved slightly when he heard that.
“Brendan, is it? Aye, Brendan. Fine name.”
I swear, too, that I caught him winking at Billy when he said that.
Not far from the other end of the bridge, we drove into a scheme of newly built houses and parked in a cul-de-sac. Years later, when I worked for the Scottish Special Housing Association, I learned that the scheme had been built by that organisation as part of the Government’s Glasgow Overspill programme. Which explained why on that Ne’erday morning a quiet wee cul-de-sac in Fife suddenly turned into a noisy Glaswegian enclave.
The party in Big Jimmy’s house was in full swing. As well as lots of back-slapping of Jimmy when we went into the living room and shouts of “Haw, Big Man!” and “A Guid New Year!”, there was singing. The worst kind of singing. The Sash My fucking Father Wore kind of singing. My heart sank.
In the midst of the shouting and singing, Jimmy introduced his three young guests in turn, leaving me till last.
“And this dark-haired stranger is Brendan,” he called out with a twinkle in his eyes.
The reaction was immediate. The singing stopped. The “Guid New Year” shouting stopped. And a different kind of shouting took over.
“Fuck sake, Jimmy! What you daein’ bringin’ a Tim intae yer hoose?”
“A fuckin’ Pape? Get the bastart oot!”
“A Left-Footer fur a First-Footer? Ah dinnae believe it, son!”
But Jimmy simply laughed off the protests and waved his arms.
“Shush noo,” he demanded. “Oor guests are gonnae huv tae sing fur their bevvy the night.
“You first, Wee Man,” he added, suddenly snatching me up and placing me, still standing, in the centre of the dining table.
“Sing! Sing! Sing!” the crowd bayed, slapping their palms on the table in time. “Sing! Sing! Sing!”
There was no getting out of it: I was going to have to sing. But sing what? I knew the words and tunes of the Clancy Brothers’ songs on the LP’s my Irish mother played at home. I knew the Irish Rebel songs we sang on the Celtic supporters’ bus. And the ones we belted out at the Celtic matches. But none of them would go down well with the crowd, who by now were roaring like a pack of ravenous lions. That was when I remembered what my mother once told me when I was a wee boy.
“Never forget that your Confirmation name is Daniel. Whenever you’re in trouble, whenever you need courage, just think of Daniel in the lions’ den.”
So I did. And with my newfound courage I decided that if they could sing The Sash, I could sing A Soldier’s Song. Thus resolved and standing as tall as I could, off I went:
Soldiers are we
Whose lives are pledged to Ireland.
Some have come
From a land beyond the wa–
But I didn’t get far before the threats began.
“Shut that Fenian bastart up!”
“Get that wee Pape cunt aff the table!”
“Get him aff afore I ca’ the legs fae him!”
Laughing heartily, Big Jimmy put an end to the threats by wheeking me back down to the floor. As soon as he did, the man who moments before had promised to “ca’ the legs fae” me ruffled my hair and said, “Well done, son. Ye’ve got baws, so ye huv. Fenian baws, mind, but baws aw the same.”
“Aye, well done, Brendan,” Jimmy added. “By the way, dinnae tell any o’ these eejits, but that wis a grand song tae pick. It honours a load o’ brave men ‘n’ wummen, so it does. Noo, that’s yer initiation ower. Awa ben ‘n’ get yersel a drink. Ye deserve it.”
As I headed for the kitchen, he called after me, “Remember, son, we’re aw Jock Tamson’s bairns here!”
We were coming to the sad conclusion that we would be heading home soon when the glass doors slid open and a bevy of the waiting staff, led by Big Jimmy, the Head Waiter, stepped out into the night. Since hardly any of the waiting staff lived locally, they all set off immediately for the car park. All, that is, except Big Jimmy and one of his assistants, who hung back to speak to us. Big Jimmy was a Glaswegian in his forties, built like a brick shithouse. He was as obsequious as fuck in the presence of the General Manager or the Undermanager or when dealing with the guests, but otherwise he was a cheerful, down-to-earth guy.
“Well noo, boys, yous are lookin’ awfie glum. Whit’s wrang? Nae pairty tae go tae? There’s a big pairty oan at ma hoose. Yous kin come if ye like. Ah’ll make sure yous get hame efterwards.”
He didn’t need to ask twice. Without another word, we followed Jimmy and his mate to the car park and sat in the back seat of his car. The car was halfway across the road bridge before Jimmy spoke again.
“By the way, this handsome chap sittin’ beside me is cawed Billy. What d’yous caw yersels, boys?”
“Brendan,” I piped up when it came to my turn.
I swear the car swerved slightly when he heard that.
“Brendan, is it? Aye, Brendan. Fine name.”
I swear, too, that I caught him winking at Billy when he said that.
Not far from the other end of the bridge, we drove into a scheme of newly built houses and parked in a cul-de-sac. Years later, when I worked for the Scottish Special Housing Association, I learned that the scheme had been built by that organisation as part of the Government’s Glasgow Overspill programme. Which explained why on that Ne’erday morning a quiet wee cul-de-sac in Fife suddenly turned into a noisy Glaswegian enclave.
The party in Big Jimmy’s house was in full swing. As well as lots of back-slapping of Jimmy when we went into the living room and shouts of “Haw, Big Man!” and “A Guid New Year!”, there was singing. The worst kind of singing. The Sash My fucking Father Wore kind of singing. My heart sank.
In the midst of the shouting and singing, Jimmy introduced his three young guests in turn, leaving me till last.
“And this dark-haired stranger is Brendan,” he called out with a twinkle in his eyes.
The reaction was immediate. The singing stopped. The “Guid New Year” shouting stopped. And a different kind of shouting took over.
“Fuck sake, Jimmy! What you daein’ bringin’ a Tim intae yer hoose?”
“A fuckin’ Pape? Get the bastart oot!”
“A Left-Footer fur a First-Footer? Ah dinnae believe it, son!”
But Jimmy simply laughed off the protests and waved his arms.
“Shush noo,” he demanded. “Oor guests are gonnae huv tae sing fur their bevvy the night.
“You first, Wee Man,” he added, suddenly snatching me up and placing me, still standing, in the centre of the dining table.
“Sing! Sing! Sing!” the crowd bayed, slapping their palms on the table in time. “Sing! Sing! Sing!”
There was no getting out of it: I was going to have to sing. But sing what? I knew the words and tunes of the Clancy Brothers’ songs on the LP’s my Irish mother played at home. I knew the Irish Rebel songs we sang on the Celtic supporters’ bus. And the ones we belted out at the Celtic matches. But none of them would go down well with the crowd, who by now were roaring like a pack of ravenous lions. That was when I remembered what my mother once told me when I was a wee boy.
“Never forget that your Confirmation name is Daniel. Whenever you’re in trouble, whenever you need courage, just think of Daniel in the lions’ den.”
So I did. And with my newfound courage I decided that if they could sing The Sash, I could sing A Soldier’s Song. Thus resolved and standing as tall as I could, off I went:
Soldiers are we
Whose lives are pledged to Ireland.
Some have come
From a land beyond the wa–
But I didn’t get far before the threats began.
“Shut that Fenian bastart up!”
“Get that wee Pape cunt aff the table!”
“Get him aff afore I ca’ the legs fae him!”
Laughing heartily, Big Jimmy put an end to the threats by wheeking me back down to the floor. As soon as he did, the man who moments before had promised to “ca’ the legs fae” me ruffled my hair and said, “Well done, son. Ye’ve got baws, so ye huv. Fenian baws, mind, but baws aw the same.”
“Aye, well done, Brendan,” Jimmy added. “By the way, dinnae tell any o’ these eejits, but that wis a grand song tae pick. It honours a load o’ brave men ‘n’ wummen, so it does. Noo, that’s yer initiation ower. Awa ben ‘n’ get yersel a drink. Ye deserve it.”
As I headed for the kitchen, he called after me, “Remember, son, we’re aw Jock Tamson’s bairns here!”