glasgowboyafoot

[glasgowboyafoot]

The echoes of youth: revisiting Kirkintilloch of the 70s. Life, love and troubled trysts.

Kirkintilloch Cross

Where do I start? I suppose Kirkintilloch Cross is as good a place to start as any. In the early 1970s, it had become part of our ‘cruising’ zone once we had grown out of Bishopbriggs, before we moved on to Kilsyth and, believe it or not, Banton. ‘We’ were my friends and me.

It was the late ‘60s - early ‘70s, I had left school a year earlier than most of my schoolmates, but despite making my own way in the world, I was still naive in many ways. Like many in their mid-teens, I was a bit cock-sure on the outside, unsure on the inside, and despite my demeanour and appearance, lacked self-confidence. This was especially where the opposite sex was involved. I was a bit gobby too, partly to cover up my unease and make myself look confident, and partly because I was in my apprentice stage of ‘your mouth will get you into trouble’ time, as may father often said. He was correct of course but at that time I never realised it.

Being chatty, the smallest of my coterie, and easily led, I was convinced, persuaded, or otherwise manipulated into being the chatter-upper whenever we ventured across young ladies. I had to do my mates’ bidding as they were older, had cars, and a bit more money than me, despite the fact that I was working full-time: £4 per week minus deductions didn’t go far. Without my friends, I wouldn’t have reached Kirkintilloch (aka Kirky) very often.

My task was easy. We (the car and driver, and up to three others including me) would drive up and down the main street of Kirkintilloch, Cowgate and into Townhead, going particularly slowly at the start near the Cross and its shops where young people hung out, and again after the canal which dissected the town. Coincidentally, that was where the local police station sat (now a pub). We sped up slightly in that middle part to make us look normal if there were any police present. How four young guys in a mini, noses pressed to the window on the look-out for talent, ever looked normal, I don’t know, but we were never pulled over. Once past the station we were in Townhead where there were older shops, including a café that was always a useful place to manufacture a stop.

Where do I start? I suppose Kirkintilloch Cross is as good a place to start as any. In the early 1970s, it had become part of our ‘cruising’ zone once we had grown out of Bishopbriggs, before we moved on to Kilsyth and, believe it or not, Banton. ‘We’ were my friends and me.

It was the late ‘60s - early ‘70s, I had left school a year earlier than most of my schoolmates, but despite making my own way in the world, I was still naive in many ways. Like many in their mid-teens, I was a bit cock-sure on the outside, unsure on the inside, and despite my demeanour and appearance, lacked self-confidence. This was especially where the opposite sex was involved. I was a bit gobby too, partly to cover up my unease and make myself look confident, and partly because I was in my apprentice stage of ‘your mouth will get you into trouble’ time, as may father often said. He was correct of course but at that time I never realised it.

Being chatty, the smallest of my coterie, and easily led, I was convinced, persuaded, or otherwise manipulated into being the chatter-upper whenever we ventured across young ladies. I had to do my mates’ bidding as they were older, had cars, and a bit more money than me, despite the fact that I was working full-time: £4 per week minus deductions didn’t go far. Without my friends, I wouldn’t have reached Kirkintilloch (aka Kirky) very often.

My task was easy. We (the car and driver, and up to three others including me) would drive up and down the main street of Kirkintilloch, Cowgate and into Townhead, going particularly slowly at the start near the Cross and its shops where young people hung out, and again after the canal which dissected the town. Coincidentally, that was where the local police station sat (now a pub). We sped up slightly in that middle part to make us look normal if there were any police present. How four young guys in a mini, noses pressed to the window on the look-out for talent, ever looked normal, I don’t know, but we were never pulled over. Once past the station we were in Townhead where there were older shops, including a café that was always a useful place to manufacture a stop.

Heading East in Kirkintilloch Town Centre: The Cruising Zone

On our trips up and down the street, if we saw any girls around our age, the horn would be tooted, hands would be waved, and, at times, the odd wolf whistle or ribald comment would be tendered from a now open window. Dependent on the response, a plan would quickly be put into action using a workable template that allowed for speedy decision making. Usually, I was the plan.

First, we would race ahead of the girls, in the same direction as they were walking. The car would stop about 200m ahead of them, I’d jump out, and my mates would make a somewhat noisy show of leaving me. This tended to involve some rubber been burnt, accompanied by the inevitable screech of tyres, and more toot-tooting… sometimes supplemented by very obvious handwaving again – this time at me. It all had the intention of drawing further attention to the car.

I would then be left, shaking my fist at the departing car. Or, if the girls weren’t near enough to see that, I would disappear into the café to buy some sweets. Either way, I would look lost and forlorn and make very obvious efforts to scan up and down the street as though looking for someone. In fact, this was enacted as conspicuously as possible. Inevitably, the girls would draw nearer. Now; the next stage.

As I ambled into their territory, still ‘searching’ high and low for my mates, I would make my opening gambit, uttering well-practiced lines in a tone that voiced my absolute disdain for my friends:

"Have any of you seen a maroon/grey/blue mini with some guys in it?"

The response was usually an intractable, "Yes," followed by, "they beeped their horn at us." Or similar.

"I know, I was in it at that time," I would state forcibly (to show my annoyance at the car’s occupants). Then I would utter disdainfullly my coup-de-grace, "They’ve pissed off and left me behind."

This latter part was said in the most pitiful manner, well at least in a tone that try to elicit some pity at best, or a laugh or two at worst.

If the conversation continued, well and good. My mates would pass by once or twice, making sure that they and the car could be seen and heard (full-bore exhausts were good for that). This gave me longer to chat about them and extract some pity, or at least pique the girls’ interest. When things worked well, they would be intrigued enough to want to see who these horrible guys were 😊 or at least they trusted me sufficiently to stay nearby when the car finally drew up. This final approach followed a pre-arranged signal from me that all was well (ish). Now, it was up to us all; to be charming, funny, complimentary, and generally nicer than any first impressions the girls had gained of the car’s occupants.

We all had to engage in this ’flirt’ without looking desperate. Not that easy, with three or four teenage lads with raging hormones chatting up some girls. Our hope always was that they would also have raging hormones and act like it, whatever that was. If we were lucky, and sometimes we were, we would ask if they would fancy a drive around.

On one occasion, the one that I will go on to narrate, the scenario played out well. In fact, surprisingly so. I did my bit, got out of the car in the middle of town, chatted to about five girls, of which at least two were still in their St Ninian's High School uniform, waved the car down, initiated the introductions, and then flirted as best as possible. The car owner, who I will call Alex for sake of his anonymity, another lad, who I will call Gordon, and me, were persuasive enough to entice three of the girls in. Actually, I’m ashamed to say that I did most of the enticing as I was the one that the girls had been speaking to for a while, and they seemed to (sort of) have confidence in me. Whatever was the precursor, three of the five girls that I chatted with did fancy a run. Let’s think about this.

A mini of the type that took 6 young adults!

Three teenage boys and three teenage girls is a tight squeeze in a mini car. I was relatively happy with that as I was now in the back seat, and that is where the girls had to squeeze. But it was tight, so tight that one of them had to move into the front seat and sit half in the lap and half off the lap of Gordon. That only lasted a short time before she asked to be dropped off to go and do her homework: A euphemism for get me out of here as I don’t fancy where it is leading. I assumed that she wasn’t sure about the gear stick or whatever it was prodding her leg. Irrespective, three became two.

We dropped her off at the Cowgate end of the main road and then tootled around Kirkintilloch, onto the roads of Kilsyth, upwards to Lennoxtown, and Milton of Campsie, before heading back to Kirky again. We felt obliged to head back as the girls wanted to be taken home, but we were keener that they stayed with us. This made for a slow and roundabout journey. We chatted our best chat but as time moved on the girls definitely wanted to return to their hometown, or safety as they probably viewed it. I agreed with the girls but as yet couldn’t say so. Alex and Gordon were the eldest, more mature than me, and much less keen to go back. Nonetheless, I knew that it was the right thing to do and, in a way that avoided me losing face, I persuaded Alex to drive back towards Kirkintilloch. I think my quickly thought-out rationale was that “… if anything happened, we would be nearer home.”

We dropped the second girl off now as she was playing at being strong while being definitely a bit panicky. The last girl, let’s call her Elle (I know her name but would rather keep it a bit more private here), had been by far the chattiest of the three, the cockiest, the most comfortable in the situation, the most confident, and she liked me. I could tell. Well, she was happy to stay for a bit and we drove back out to the country. The last half-hour will remain branded in my mind until I die, for many reasons.

As we drove into the darkness again, Gordon turned from his front seat to look at Elle, "Are you giving us it tonight?" he said. Even I knew that ‘it’ was sex.

"You’re joking?" Elle replied.

At this point Alex pulled the car over into a quiet farm track and as it stopped, I could feel Elle tighten up as she was still sitting close to me.

"Well, no I wasn't joking. In fact I am thinking that you should cock it or walk it," Gordon said quite straightforwardly.

I went silent and thought that everyone would be able to hear my heart beating, it seemed so loud. Elle also went silent, either through fear, worry, or becasue she was trying to think her way out of the situation.

Gordon said again, "Cock it or walk it," but this time Alex echoed the statement.

Eventually, and to my surprise, Elle agreed but with a condition. She said, "Yes, but not out here. I’m not daft. You’ll just shag me and then leave me out here miles away." I was gobsmacked.

She continued, "I know a place in Kirky. Take me back and I’ll show you where it is."

Alex needed no further encouragement. He started the engine, flicked the lights on, and roared us off, in the direction of Kirkintilloch’s orange luminescence. True to her word, Elle directed us up the Hillhead Road, to a set of garages, if my memory serves me well, about 50m or so from Hillhead Road at the intersection with Whitehill Road or Fellsview Avenue (I’m not absolutely sure). Anyway, it all made sense as I found out later that she lived about 150 yards away in Meiklehill Road. Well chosen, near to her home, secluded, and with some built-in safety; she wouldn’t be left in the countryside.

East High Street. The road we drove along as we headed to Hillhead Road which started just to the left of the photo

We slowly drove into the darkened lane, continued about 25 to 30 yards along to its end, and drew to a halt. Alex cut the engine.

The two boys in the front turned round immediately. They looked like a couple of depraved lechers and were certainly up for it. Me? I was distinctly uncomfortable. Elle had agreed to have sex with us all, but my sensible mind overrode my hormones and I suppose my personal values overrode my natural teenage urges. The set-up wasn’t right in my eyes. First, I felt that she agreed to it under duress. My perception was that the situation could be easily construed as being coercive. It didn’t seem to me that Elle had been persuaded by our wit, glamour, or personality. She had been pressured into agreeing, not quite strong-armed but definitely, in my mind, intimidated into it.

My senses wouldn’t let me agree with this. I also had a moral code, and this was breaking it. Smashing it apart in fact. While sex is what makes the world go around, and I was still a virgin, this wasn’t how I imagined the first time would be. I didn’t want to be part of this. I had to think of a way out of it that would save Elle from a gangbang that I was sure she did not really want and, yet, save my face.

From somewhere, in the recesses of my adolescent mind, a plan was quickly hatched. I was in the back with Elle and so I said to the other two, "Me first. I did the chat-up and she’s with me, so I’ll go first." The two other boys acquiesced, rather ungraciously but still enthusiastically enough as they wanted their turns quickly. So, they got out and gave me my ten minutes. Yes, ten minutes 😊

As the door shut behind the boys, I turned to Elle who was already unbuttoning her blouse. By the time I had made myself more comfortable it was halfway open, and she was sitting beside me with her boobs encased in a plain cream bra staring out at me.

I quietly said to her, "Listen, I’m not up for this."

She asked, "Don’t you fancy me?"

I told her that it was the contrary, I did fancy her but hated the situation. I didn’t tell her that I was also unwilling to perhaps be framed for a sexual assault a few weeks down the road.

"What about your pals?" Elle said. "They’ll still want it."

"Well, we’ll have to persuade them otherwise. You are too good for this." Thinking aloud, I said, "Can you sniffle or cry a bit?"

Elle nodded and obligingly sniffled.

"Good."

I told her to make sure that she kept her head down and tried to cry when we got out, oh, and to keep her blouse undone. That was a masterful stroke as it gave credibility to the next episode.

Opening the door, I got out and she followed me. The boys were at the end of the garages and turned towards us on hearing the car door open. They approached for their ‘turns’. I made a show of fiddling with the zipper on my jeans (which actually wasn’t down), then demonstrably pulled Elle towards my side and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her jacket around her but not closing it. That allowed the guys to see Elle in a state of partial undress and looking upset. Turning her face into me, she sobbed a few times and sniffled, while I looked at the astonished faces of the two guys, shrugged my free shoulder, and spoke into the gloom towards them:

"The minute I touched her she went rigid. By the time I got her blouse unbuttoned and my zip down, she was in tears," I explained.

The boys were still and staring at us both. Our act was having the desired effect.

I then said, "I tried to calm her down but couldn’t." Now for the final thrust, "She needs to go home. I’m taking her across the road to calm her down."

Thankfully, neither of the guys wanted to push it any further, realising (I hope) that it would only lead to trouble.

"‘Wait here for me and I’ll be back in 5 minutes," I said, and with that we were past them and heading out from the garages towards Hillhead Road, me holding the still tearfully play acting Elle close. Or, maybe it wasn't an act.

Just as before, Elle showed the way, but this time she was much more spritely. By the time we got to the main road she had buttoned her blouse and was thanking me for getting her out of that situation, and, as we got near her house, she was definitely more cheerful but still a bit tearful. I remember helping her to wipe away the tears. I like to think that those tear were caused by her realisation that she had met someone who cared, but in truth were probably just through a sense of relief.

We walked slowly along Newdyke Road towards her house in Meiklehill Road, and as we approached the gate to her home, I remember being relieved. A gangbang with a slightly less than enthusiastic 15- to 16-year-old wasn’t part of my repertoire nor my raison d’etre. I was happy the way things turned out eventually. And, I had an ace up my sleeve, or I hoped that I did.

I walked up to her door with her, a little bit hesitatingly in case anyone came out and saw an obviously upset girl with a strange guy. Two and two could easily make five in that situation. Elle assured me that nobody would come out as I wiped her last tears away.

"Are you ok?" I asked.

Elle responded positively and, by way of an additional thanks, grabbed me and hugged me close.

She looked up at me, into my eyes and asked in her husky, and as I noticed later in time, sexy voice, "Will you call me if I give you my number?"

"Yes," I replied. My trump card looked to be working. I was really keen to see her again, not to get inside her knickers quickly, but because I did like her.

At that she opened the door and dived inside, telling me to hang on. She returned with a pen and two small sheets of paper, stood in what I remember was a very brightly lit doorway, scribbled her number on one piece of paper, and handed it to me. Next, she sought mine, wrote it on the other piece of paper, folded it, smiled, and put it down her cleavage.

The journey home was relatively uneventful. I was glad the boys had waited on me as Kirkintilloch is a long way from my home and I had no money on me. Not only that, but the last buses had also been and gone. I was surprised that my mates seemed relatively relaxed about things, albeit that they were full of questions, mainly along the line of, "What the fuck happened?"

My explanation was simple, even if a bit of a fabrication. OK, a lot of fabrication.

I said, "Everything was going well, I had her blouse open and was kissing her and playing with her tits but when I started to open my zip… she started to cry." I paused for some effect.

The ploy of having Elle leave the car with her blouse still undone and her bra on show was truly a consummate ruse as they had witnessed for themselves that I had ‘tried’.

I continued, "She started crying and saying that she didn’t want to do it but only agreed as she was scared that we were going to rape her and dump her in the country."

My story was growing legs, but I stopped to let my last sentence sink in. The other two fell silent before acquiescing with my actions. Now, instead of being majorly upset with me, groupthink was that I had done the right thing to calm her down and get her home. They were sensible enough to realise any other action could have spelled trouble. Or at least it could have if it was true. Elle’s tears and our joint actions (acting) persuaded them that it wasn’t on for tonight. We trundled home in Alex’s mini with my two mates being more upbeat than I thought they’d be. After all, the initial stages showed that the ploy might work with other girls and that might lead to more productive results. Ever the optimists.

To this day, Alex and Gordon have no idea of what really happened that night and I’m not about to tell them.

The next evening. I was no sooner in from my work than my sister told me that an Elle had called and that she would ‘phone me later. I blanched at the thought. Although working and 17 years of age, I was still quite immature. I was fairly bright, sensible, but not experienced with girls. Moreover, I was absolutely embarrassed that my sister and my family might be talking about me being with girls or even having a girl friend. Not even a 'girlfriend.' Boy meets girls is the most natural thing in the world, yet I wasn’t ready to be open about the opposite sex with my family. They were nonplussed but I was majorly unnerved at that the idea of my gradual maturation becoming public knowledge, not to mention any thoughts , my family may develop of me harbouring everyday teenage lust.

True to her word Elle called that night and we had a conversation of sorts. A conversation that went on for a few weeks until Christmas was past. She called again immediately after Christmas to invite me to a New Years Party in her home. I made up some excuse as I truly wasn’t secure about meeting her friends and family as a boyfriend, especially when I hadn’t met them at any other time. I was always worried that people would think of me as predatory, as opposed to being a normal boy. Also, there was a bit of pragmatism in my decision: I had no idea how I would get to Kirkintilloch and back on New Year’s Eve.

Early in the New Year, Elle called again asking if we could meet. I was desperate to do so, therefore, this time I said, "Yes!"

We duly arranged to meet under the clocktower at Kirkintilloch Cross on an early January Saturday in 1972. I had no idea what we were going to do other than perhaps walk around as the Black Bull Cinema across the road was closed.

The Back Bull Cinema in the '70s

Excitedly, I got prepared to go out. Smart but casual. I wore my best navy-blue Levi’s Sta-Prest, a shirt, and a light blue cotton jacket. Yes, light blue! And cotton! Not ideal for a winter’s night in Kirky but it was all that I had other than a suit that I used for work. I also reeked of Faberge’s Brut deodorant; the deodorant that had at last made it manly to smell nice, or should I say smell differently. On reflection, it was overpowering. I definitely overdosed on the deodorant and not aftershave as I still wasn’t shaving much at the time, if at all.

Looking up to the Steeple at Kirkintilloch Cross: The Scene of the Tryst that Never Was

I walked up to Springburn from the house and jumped on the blue bus that travelled out past the ‘Briggs, through the Torrance roundabout, and along Kirkintilloch Road until it deposited me at the top of the hill, close to our meeting place.

At school, I'd had a girlfriend, but that came to an unrequited and probably fortunate end – another story for another time. Other than that, I had only had a few other dates that never came to much; once more, probably due to my lack of confidence/experience. So, I was both excited and nervous at meeting Elle, but salved my concerns with the fact that I knew that she seemed to really like me going by her persistent calls.

Arriving at the Cross, I got off the bus, and made for the steeple. There I waited, trying to look nonchalant amongst the other would-be-lovers who were also meeting there. And I waited, and waited, and waited until there was only me there. I was frozen to the core but wanted to hang on in case she arrived late. She never did. After two hours at the Cross, I walked along the Cowgate hoping to see some of her friends that I might recognise from that first night’s escapades. Nope. I used the local telephone box to call her house, a major step for me, but there was no response. By the time 9.00 pm arrived, I realised that I wasn’t going to see her that night and dejectedly awaited the next bus home. I was deflated. My ego was fragile enough, but now it had taken a bit of a battering. I felt sick.

Alexander's 'Blue' Bus: The Type that Took Me to Kirkintilloch Cross

On my way home, I sat in the bus and tried to rationalise things in the manner of everyone who has ever been stood-up. Why hadn’t she turned up? Was it a mistake? Had she met someone else? Surely not in the twenty-four hours or so since we last spoke. I knew that she liked me, and I knew that she was excited to meet up and show me off a bit in the town. I had no answers to offer myself for why I was ‘dizzied’.

For the next few days, I tried to get a hold of her but with no luck.

A few weeks later, in fact it might have been months later, I answered the telephone at my parents’ house and was met with the still husky but definitely sexier sounding voice, "Hello John?" (not my name but to preserve what little dignity I have, just like Elle, I changed it for the tale). I was taken-aback.

"Hi John? It’s Elle here. How are you?’

I was gobsmacked, remembering the date that never was. Probably a reply of "OK" was as much as I gave.

Elle came straight to the point. "Do you fancy going out? I’m sorry about the last time."

I was doubly gobsmacked. A question about whether we could meet up again, followed by an apology about the previous occasion. The next few minutes were like a scene from a play: a farce to be precise.

I answered straightforwardly, "No."

"Why not?"

"You stood me up."

She replied, "I couldn’t help it."

"Of course you could, or at least you could have had the decency to call and let me know what happened."

She went very quiet. I didn’t. I was in full flow.

"You left me at the Cross. I stood there like a tit freezing for hours. If you couldn’t have made it at least you could have got one of your mates to come and tell me."

She only answered with a much quieter than normal, almost reverent, "I couldn’t. I would have been there if I could have but I couldn’t."

"Don't talk rubbish. You just didn’t and I was left looking like a turd."

Elle didn’t try to counter my claims, just repeated, "I couldn’t make it. I really wanted to but couldn’t that night."

I stuck the barbs in further, "Were you grounded for being a bad girl or getting drunk or what?"

"No, that wasn’t it."

"Well, what was?" I asked her directly.

She said, "My wee brother was in an accident that day and was in hospital."

I thought that I had heard every excuse known to man for all sorts of things, but this was a new one. So, I did what any argumentative, less rational teenager who was trying to show how little he cared to save his damaged ego, would do, I laughed disdainfully and said, "I don’t believe you. That’s a rubbish excuse."

"It’s true!" Elle said in a hurt tone that I thought was trying to get a sympathy vote. "He was in a car crash. He hurt his leg and needed some stitches on his chin."

I think those were the two injured areas, but memories are a bit cloudy, it could have been his nose and ankle.

I just laughed sarcastically.

"I can prove it if we meet, if you come to my house. He has the scars to prove it."

I laughed again, thinking that this was another ruse to get me out to Kirkintilloch again to meet up. Elle never got angry, she just repeated, "I can prove it. Honest."

"You arranged to meet me, couldn’t do so ‘cause your brother was in a crash, had a sore leg and a cut, and that stopped you meeting me? And you weren’t able to get your mates to let me know? C’mon."

I tried to make this sound as sarcastic as I could, presumably as a way of getting back at her for not meeting me. "Come on, be truthful."

"I was in hospital with him and couldn't leave."

"All because he had a sore leg and a cut lip?" I questioned, "That’s a bit much."

"No, he got a badly broken leg in the crash and needed loads of stitches."

The conversation went on for a bit and to me it seemed to get more and more ridiculous as she was putting her side of the story. The injuries moved from a sore leg to multiple fractures, from a cut chin to loads of stitches. I was just unwilling to accept any of it. I thought that I was being strung along.

Eventually I asked, "Who was driving?" Elle had only said that it was an accident, and I was intrigued enough to ask who had caused his apparent mayhem.

Eventually she said, "It was in my dad’s car. He was driving."

"So, what happened," I asked mockingly. "Did he end up with two broken legs?"

Elle was very quiet at the end of the ‘phone, then, with a catch in her breath she whispered, "He died."

"Aye right. That’s a terrible thing to say. Imagine making that up."

"It’s true. He died in the crash. He died," she said.

Her voice now betrayed her emotions as she relived that night.

I was shocked, deeply apologetic, and now wished that the ground would swallow me up. Elle was in tears, not sobbing but enough that I could make out her crying. And, I had no idea what to say. Here was I acting the tough, couldn’t care less guy: an act. But I was now caught like a politician being questioned at a hustings, mentally ducking and diving, trying to think what to say that would be right and proper and not dig a deeper ditch. All I could say was that I was sorry.

Elle was upset, rightly so, and said that she would have to get off the ‘phone now as someone else needed it. I knew then that I had hurt her badly, opened old wounds, and shown no empathy when it was necessary early in the conversation. I wished that I could change things, but I couldn’t.

Like many of us, life moved on, Elle and I continued to speak on the ‘phone at times but things were different. She left school to start nursing (I think at Lennox Castle Hospital) and I was working in Glasgow City Centre and then Govan. Without a car, a relationship would be difficult, and I think we both knew it. She called a few times, regularly at first, and was always polite and never pushy. I remember another New Year being asked if I wanted to go to a party with her. I did, but travel was still the problem for me, or that was what I told myself.

A few years later, I called her and asked if she would like to go to a party in Edinburgh with me and two friends (who were long-term boyfriend/girlfriend). I had every intention of using that party night to mend broken bridges and show her that I cared. The night started well but finished less well. Disastrously so.

I had borrowed my brother's car, picked up my friends, then went out to Lennoxtown for Elle. All was well until we reached the party. Most of the partygoers were university students from Glasgow or Edinburgh, many were my friends. I wasn’t a big drinker but felt that I had to show off to Elle, so I got absolutely rat-arsed before I knew it.

The night was a blur but, at the end, I remember collapsing into a bed with her, and as she helped me to undress, I felt the room spinning, and made a rush to the loo, just in time. I remember cuddling close to her in bed, and apologising for my condition, but also for the fact that in this state there was no way she was going to have any fun with me. I just slept fitfully and awoke the next morning with a hangover from hell. Unfortunately, I still had to drive us all home. It was a quiet journey, and an even quieter moment when I dropped Elle off. We promised to call. I didn’t as I was seriously too embarrassed to do so. I think that she was just fed up with me sort of stringing her along and she needed someone who cared for her more than I had been able to evidence.

The next time that I tried to contact her, she was married and had a child.

This wee story was written in part for some catharsis, to get things down on paper and off my chest. It has helped organise my thoughts and although some parts might be clouded by the lapse of time, for the great part, I have been true to myself, my mates, and especially Elle. If she ever reads this, I’m sure that she will recognise herself and her story in it. If it was being published, I would dedicate it to her. Dedicate it to a young girl’s life blighted by tragedy, exacerbated by her fancying a young boy who was too stupid to reciprocate as warmly or as fully as she wanted.

I hope that you have had a great life Elle. You will undoubtedly have a fabulous story to tell. Go for it but please send me a copy at glasgowboyafoot@gmail.com when it’s published. 😊 If anyone recognises the 'cast' of this story get in touch, it would be of real interest to know how things worked out in the end.

[glasgowboyafoot]

Fort William in the early '70s: Lochaber Games, falling in love, running free, and tumbling down mountains

Fort William of the early 70s

Wild swimming. I suppose that I was a wild swimmer before wild swimming was a thing. I realised this when I was musing about the summer of 1973 in Fort Willliam. For many reasons.

I had arrived in Fort William, the real ‘gateway to the Highlands’, to take part in the annual Lochaber Highland Games. Instead of this being the usual ‘up one day, race, then back home the next day’ round trip… I stayed for a bit.

At this time, I was a wild camper, as were many others in Scotland. Pitch your tent wherever you needed to do so, look after the environment, and in turn there was freedom. I camped on the banks of the River Nevis, close to some trees in a little clearing, albeit a clearing that was hidden from prying eyes or the general public. I returned recently and the place was now covered by thick bushes and mature trees. The self-same trees that were previously the bushes that hid my tent from sight over 45 years ago (below).

The area at the side of the River nevis that I used to pitch my tent. Now overgrown and partially flooded but the bridge is still there.

The ‘campsite’ was convenient being only about ½ mile walk to the town. More to the point, it was only about 100 yards from Claggan Park, the host venue for the Lochaber Highland Games and even closer to the road that led to the Half-Ben course. Ben Nevis accommodated two main races every year – the Ben Nevis hill race aka the Full Ben, that took place usually in September, and the Half-Ben (half of the Full Ben, that took you more or less halfway up the mountain track of Ben Nevis whereupon the athletes would turn and half run, half stumble at speed back to Claggan Park and the finishing line. I stayed at my little haven of a campsite for a few days in 1973.

Claggan Park, Fort William or New Town Park as it is now known. Scene of the Lochanber Games

Swimming there was a means to an end. There were no glamourous facilities. Showers just weren’t available. Toilets were the public loos in the town centre, and the only running water was from the river that passed quite literally on my doorstep. Thus, my wild swimming; how else was a teenage boy meant to keep himself clean? Not that that was a big thing then. However, (hopefully) there were some local ladies and there was always the hope that they would find a clean(er) Glasgow boy more appealing than the local lads. So, the River Nevis became not only a recreational swimming area for me, it was also the location for my body to be cleansed prior to any rendezvous with desirable women - the optimism of youth.

My 1973 swimming spot as it is now.

I should say that this year I wasn’t camping alone. In previous years, I had camped solo, but this year a friend, let's call him John, a Paisely 'buddie' from my athletic club accompanied me for a week. John was a similar age to me, a faster runner than me, better looking than me, and much more confident around the opposite sex than me. His companionship boded well for after the Games when the festivities would start and ritualistic eyeing-up and romancing would begin.

An example of Scottish traditional romancing - not me unfortunately

As luck would have it, we did meet a couple of young women; a bit younger but of a similar age, and with the appealing freshness that only Highland air and the fair skin of youth can offer. They shall remain nameless (although I will call my young lady 'Izzy' as by now they will have have had lives that might have been lived in the local area and it is not my intention to embarass anyone. If they read this, they might recognise themselves, but we all have a history and deserve to have that history stay as private as possible. The two girls were still students at Lochaber High School. Young, but then so were we. 'Izzy', the one that fancied me most and that I liked, was small and slim, came from what I think was the Inverlochy area of Fort William (or possibly Caol, definitely around that area), while I believe that her best friend came from the posh houses up the hill from the town. The two girls invited us to Kilmallie Hall in Corpach for a teenage dance (pic shows Kilmallie Community Centre as it now).

That evening, we duly met up with our dates and walked in the sunshine to Corpach, talking the usual small-talk of young people who are a bit unsure of each other but trying desperately to look and sound cool and still make an impresssion. The girls entered the hall first with us lagging behind. The place was relatively barren, except for some chairs that were dotted around and a congregtion of young lads of about our age in a corner at the top of the hall. They eyed us, and we eyed them. Cautiously. But, the girls assured us that everything would be fine.

'Izzy' told me, "Don't worry. We know all of them." Prophetic words indeed.

Eventually the music started and many of the girls in the hall began to dance, as did John and I. We didn't drink but were a bit high on life at that time and I think it is fair to say that our dancing became (slightly) outrageous. There was plenty of room so we showed off as well as we could, danced with our partners for the night, and anyone else that came along, but always making sure that our partners came first. Meanwhile, none of the other boys were dancing and we became acutely aware that their time was not being spent eyeing up the girls but watching us. And, some of the looks didn't appear too benevolent.

Being the centre of attention, we were still enjoying ourselves when 'Izzy' came up and whispered in my ear, "The boys are looking for trouble. You will need to watch out."

I wasn't too alarmed as we were with local girls and, as they said earlier, they knew everyone and to some extent I thought that would be enough. Naive or what? Dancing the night away, I kept a weather-eye on the boys, many of whom had been disappearing in ones and twos to the toilets where there was an obvious hidden stash of alcohol. Gradually, the atmosphere became more tense as the lads got a bit drunker, until finally, a group of them left the main hall en bloc. At that point I was dancing with 'Izzy' when a friend came up and whispered something in her ear. Immediately, 'Izzy' took me aside and said, "You had better get out of here now! They are away to get sticks. They want to give you two a doing [bashing] for being with us."

Knowing that the boys had gone out of the front door, blocking our path, I asked, "How do we get out?"

"Quick, follow me," and she grabbed and dragged me to a fire-escape, which she then opened. John followed and we bolted.

We heard the clamour behind us as the boys realised what had happened and took chase. But, both of us were comfortable that we could outrun most people and we did, only stopping about 1/2 mile along the road to Fort William. Close escape.

It was still light and the two of us now wandered back to town. With our two partners having to stay behind and quell an angry crowd, we wondered what to do. "I know, let's go to Jimmy's party."

Jimmy Savile (yes, that Jimmy Savile) had been the Chieftain of the Games and as such was hosting a party to which I (posssibly we) had been invited.

To give some context, Savile had been running the Half Ben Race for charity and as he ran around the track before exiting the stadium with the other Half-Benners, he called on me to hold this little square electronic box ‘thing' until he returned. He never knew me from Adam but obviously trusted someone who looked moderately sensible and who was warming up on the inside of the track: I was an ‘insider’ so to speak. Anyway, that little box was it was a sophisticated and expensive Sony cassette recorder, possibly the precursor to the later Walkman that went out on general release. Saville was using this to record conversations with athletes, spectators, and organisers for his next Sunday show, Savile's Travels. I remember Savile saying as he ran past me, ‘Here, can you look after this for me, it’s over £500 and I don’t want to run up the hill with it.' Gobsmacked, I put my hand out and accepted it as he continued, ‘I’ll get it when I finish.’ Very trusting. Had he asked many other Possilpark boys, it might have been the last he saw of it, but true to my nod, I gave it back to him. In return, I was invited to the party that he was hosting that night in the Milton Hotel, sited on North Road on the edge of the town (pic below).

He took the role of Chieftain of the Games seriously, as can be seen on his misspelled gravestone, and this seemed to be his annual Chieftain's Highland Party.

Now in retrospect, it makes you wonder if that was the sole reason that he came to Fort William year after year. Hindsight is a wonderful thing, helped a bit by the BBC shockumentary of his life The Reckoning.

Savile would park his enormous camper van that looked like something from a movie set, in a space to the left of the hotel (see phot), but so far as I was aware he partied inside the hotel; or maybe he partied in the hotel then outside for privacy. We will probably never know unless anyone who reads this has a better memory than me. John and I did go along to the party out of nosiness and a sense of duty, and, having been run out of Corpach we had nowhere else to go. We didn’t stay too long: too fuddy-duddy if I remember correctly and we had other things on our mind: The two girls who we left behind at the dance. We went out to try and find them, but no luck.

Fortunately, on the Sunday afternoon they both came down to 'hang around' the bridge that overlooked our campsite and we spotted them. 'Izzy' and her friend apologised about the behaviour of the boys, but we had already got over that and the four of us laughed about the experience, albeit, it might not have been a laughing matter if the girls hadn't been on our side, looking out or us.

We walked about a bit, talked a bit, showed them our home for the few days in Fort William, our wee tent, but nothing more. Just, four young people enjoying each others' company, but nonetheless, hoping for more.

We parted as night fell, still not even having as much as held hands. Shy or what? Mind you, not before we made arranegments to meet the girls for something to eat and drink in town on the Monday. There was a nice wee café that did a great pie and beans, and it had an ecelctic selection of records on its jukebox. Sophistication indeed. Nonetheless, that was our planned destination for date-night, with a wait-and-see attitude to what happened once our appetites were satiated. Suffice to say, our intentions were not fully honourable. If memory serves me well, the girls’ intentions were not fully honourable either as they had suggested meeting and staying at the tent until they needed to go home. Having already seen the splendour in which we were living, they knew what they would be letting themselves in for.

Spacious and luxurious it was not. In fact, it was rudimentary at best with no sewn-in groundsheet then, just a sheet that was tucked inside the tent, high enough to stop marauding beasties (as if) but low enough not to touch the walls of the tent and let in water in the event of rain (as if). It would have been a tight squeeze. Two young men, and two young women in a two-person tent. But, if nothing else, we were young and adaptable. It seemed like a squeeze was well within any set boundaries.

If I remember correctly, the girls had summer jobs, or at least one of them did, and worked in the morning and early afternoon. That left John and me foot loose and fancy free for the early part of the day. He was happy to mooch about the campsite, catching some rays. Me, I decided to go for a run. Not an ordinary 4- or 5-mile easy run; I took it upon myself to tackle the Half-Ben. It can’t be too hard, I thought, I mean Jimmy Savile had completed it on a number of occasions.

On that Monday, I departed for my sojourn up the Ben. I remember running along a still roadway with only whistling birds for company. This was the selfsame road that the athletes had followed a couple of days previously. At the end of this tarred section, I crossed over a rough patch of tussocky ground that led to the lower slopes. Needless to say, I started steadily as I had no hill-running experience. Not only that, but I also hadn’t run further than six miles previously and this was going to be further than that… and uphill. I was both excited and a bit nervous.

The ascension was no bother. Well, it was but I was young and fit. I ran, clambered, and occasionally stumbled upwards. Apart from the needles of pain that were being hammered into my thighs with the strain of uphill running and my gradually belaboured breathing, I felt stronger than expected. Reaching the turning area, I casually did a 180 degree turn and began the downward journey.

"This will be easier," I thought.

Loping casually downhill as one does, I had some time to glance below me. The River Nevis snaked through the glen, trees on the opposite banks swayed gently in the breeze, and Meall an T-Suid (also known by athletes as the Mellantee) stood proudly in front of me. Idyllic.

A movement below caught my attention.

Some 300 yards away were three runners who had obviously had the same idea as me – a hilly run, in beautiful environment, on a lovely summer’s day were on the same track below me. They had turned earlier and were heading back to wherever their base was. As athletes often do when they see other athletes, my response was to set off off in pursuit. This is when it all went wrong.

I was running downhill fast, skipping with an assuredness of foot that belied my lack of experience on the hills. I felt nimble and able to take quick decisions as I ran and hopped from sound terrain to boulders and back again.

Not me running (Bobby Shields was much better than me)but the photo offers an indication of the terrain in these days

Glancing downwards in front of me, I could see that I was gaining on those below me, so I pushed on. At that same point, I was approaching a bend at speed and too late realised that the stoney path underfoot was very loose. I was beginning to lose traction. Arms flailing, I attempted to regain my balance but the edge was approaching fast. As it loomed ever nearer, I took the immediate decision to ‘deck it’. A fall would hurt but not as much as sliding off the edge of a mountain and falling perhaps 40 to 50 feet below. I was correct. It hurt. Like hell. My right knee and hip took the brunt of the fall and the jarring, tearing pain was immediate. Unfortunately, my thrashing right arm took even more of a bash as my forearm and elbow cracked onto a rock.

I lay prone for a while, shocked, in pain, and slowly running a mental rod over myself, assessing the damage. Hip sore (tick), knee sore (tick), shoulder sore (tick), elbow agony (tick). Gently, I began to move. All working (double tick). My arm was very painful and as I surveyed the problem area, I realised that I was bleeding just around the elbow, and quite profusely too. Deep breaths. Don’t panic.

I knew that I had to get off the hill quickly and seek help. I was only in vest and shorts and between the shock of the fall and my sweat beginning to dry in the wind, I had started to shiver. So, very gingerly, I got to my feet and even more gingerly, I set-off. Seeking the shortest and quickest route, I headed almost at right angles downwards towards the river and a commercial campsite that sat on the opposite bank. I had no idea how I was going to get to the campsite but decided that I would deal with that if and when I made it to the water's edge.

Intuitively, I lifted my arm above my head to try to stop or at least stem some of the bleeding, and stumbled on my way, weaving between large clumps of ferns and even larger boulders. Somehow, I made it to the river, and crossed it. I’m not sure how but I do remember there being quite a strong current and worrying that I might be swept away as I was up to my waist at times.

Entering the campsite, I called for assistance at the first tent I came across. No answer. At the second tent, I called again and fortunately a woman stuck her head out of the door. Her face immediately turned ashen, and she shouted, "My god. Help! Help!”

Apparently, I looked much the worse for wear, with blood having dripped from my arm, all over my head, face, and body, mingling well with the cuts on my knee and upper thigh. I appeared as though a butcher's apprentice had been practicing his carving on me.

The woman’s yells brought others to her tent. My recollection is cloudy with the passing of years but I know that eventually I was wheeched away in an ambulance to the local Belford Hospital where I was met by the A and E team. My main memory was that it was quiet, peaceful, still, and had that disinfectant smell that permeated everywhere and everything.

The treatment was immediate, comforting, and friendly. X-rayed, cleaned-up, bandaged, injected twice (one as a painkiller and the other to apparently ward off potential diseases from horse flies on the hill), and arm in a sling, I was ready to leave.

Belford Hospital, Fort William - scene of my treatment

It was dark as I walked out of the hospital doors and down the few steps to terra firma. John was there having found out somehow that I was in hospital. He had already spoken to the two girls – I think he found out where I was earlier in the day but waited to speak to the girls before coming to look for me. Priorities? Thanks, John.

Despite my travails, I hadn’t forgotten the two girls either, in particular I had been lying on my hospital gurney/trolley thinking about 'Izzy'. John’s actions saved the day and left the door open for the next evening where I could present myself as a brave hero.

We trundled back to the tent slowly, stopping for two fish suppers as I hadn’t eaten since before lunchtime. That journey through the centre of the town and out at the other side, was very uncomfortable. Arm in a sling, sore hip causing me to limp, or was that my knackered knee, and heavy heart from missed opportunities with the girls. Then again, it wasn’t all bad, there was the next night to look forward to. The flutter in my stomach at that thought made me realise that I was a bit smitten by my young date.

Arriving at the tent, I semi-shuffled and semi-crawled on one arm and one knee to almost collapse on my sleeping bag. That night was very uncomfortable as the painkillers wore off. Every part of me hurt, and each time I rolled over, I woke up, wincing in pain. The morning couldn’t come quickly enough. At least I felt that I wouldn’t hurt myself standing up, as much as I did laying down. Little did I know.

Memory fades but I recall meeting the girls in the afternoon of the next day (Tuesday) and went for what was euphemistically termed ‘a romantic walk’. Me limping so badly that I was almost hopping, my arm being jarred with every step/hop, with 'Izzy' showing concern for my condition. John, well he sang. He sang the same lines of a song time-and-time again:

“I'm so alone, my love without you You're part of everything I do When you come back, and you're beside me These are the words I'll say to you”, followed by a rendition of the song’s chorus, ‘Welcome home… etc’.

Peters and Lee - singing for us and the girls

John wasn’t a Peters and Lee fan, but he thought that the words bore a hint of romance and unrequited love: lost times. 'Izzy's' friend sniffled when he sang it and held him closer. Perhaps that was the effect that John was seeking.

It was around tea-time (Scottish tea-time aka dinner at around 6 ish) that Highland hospitality came into its own. 'Izzy' invited me to her home in, I think, Inverlochy (or Caol) area of Fort William for ‘something to eat’. I thought that it was very generous of her and her family, especially as I didn’t know them at all. Now, as a family man, I think that them not knowing me was the reason for the invite. Her mum wanted to cast her eye over the boy, a ‘city boy’, that had seemingly stolen her daughter’s mind and possibly her heart. I seemed to pass muster and 'Izzy' got the nod to go out with me that night. Either that, or her mum took one look at the broken me and realised that I wasn’t in any fit state to challenge her daughter’s virtue. In my mind though, the world still loved a trier. I hadn't given up yet.

Light was fading as we left her house and, lo and behold, our meanderings through the Fort took us, as the song goes, down by the riverside, and along the riverbank to my tent. John was there already with his girlfriend. Now to try to squeeze 4 people in a 2-person tent.

It might actually have worked except for my injured hip, sore knee, bashed up shoulder, and generally damaged body. Especially my now badly swollen, cut, bruised, and otherwise beat-up elbow. We kissed a bit and tried to canoodle, but every time I moved, it was agony. I certainly wasn’t sexually experienced, or even aware enough to propose other options and neither was 'Izzy'. We were flummoxed; well, she was flummoxed and possibly a bit frustrated. I was flummoxed, a lot frustrated, but also in pain. This was to be our first and possibly last night together and it was a disaster. The next day John and I had to leave to walk to Newtonmore, some 45 miles away.

To cut a long story short. The evening was ruined in my eyes, albeit 'Izzy' understood my pain. What she didn't know was that I wasn't as experienced as she thought, and I also had some scruples. By then I knew that she was under 16 (15 and a biggish bit), and even though I wasn't much older, I didn't want to take advantage of her. Although, given her keeness, it might have been her taking advantage of me. We parted after I walked her part of the way home; apologetically if I remember, and she saw us off the next morning. To my deep regret, 'Izzy' wrote to me regularly. Almost weekly in fact. I answered a couple of times. She also ‘phoned me, again regularly. Again and again. This was more regretful as I rarely replied, getting my younger sister to answer for me. I should say that she was not at ease with this role of gatekeeper and was always apologetic to the young woman on the other end of the 'phone. I was both embarrassed at the attention but also too immature to take things further.

To my distress, even now in this present-day, a year passed and 'Izzy', my girl from the Fort, never forgot me. We met briefly the following year at the self-same Lochaber Games. This time, I body-swerved a date, not because I didn’t want to meet up but I really was embarrassed and to some extent a bit disgusted at myself and my actions. As they say, actions have consequences and my ego was fragile. I really wanted to be with her but didn't want to seem too keen either.

Every so often, I think of my life and inevitably this period of time is rekindled in my memory. My experiences of Fort William have been fulfilling and impactful, and at the same time not something to be proud of. We can't always look back and blame ourselves for our past behaviour as a less than mature youth, but I knew that what I was doing was mean spirited. Yet, I did not, could not, do anything about it, other than play and act dumb, and I did that well.

As we all age, opportunities for reflection are provided it seems. At times, I wonder how 'Izzy' got on in life. A lovely girl, in a small town, in a beautiful part of Scotland. The last I heard of her, oddly enough was when I attended another Lochaber Games. Her friend told me that 'Izzy' was engaged to a young man who was the assistant manager of one of the town’s larger hotels. I'm not sure if that was the case or whether her friend was trying to protect her as she had told me previously of how much I had hurt her. I truly hope that she had a wonderful life and forgives the behaviour of a less than mature young man. I guess I'll never know unless we simply bump into (and recognise) each other the next time that I am up in the town, or someone recognises the story or the people in it and get in touch at glasgowboyafoot@gmail.com. Now that would be amazeballs as the kids say nowadays.

Contact: glasgowboyafoot@gmail.com