THE BYRE on a Friday - Circa 1953
A case for prohibition...in Store Street at least!
By Exile
I
suppose it must have been the war,
That
drove the men tae drink,
And
women into places ,
Other
than the kitchen sink,
At
least there was consistency,
The
war aye got the blame,
When
things got lost, like nerves or hair,
Or
faithers frae their hame,
If
life was tough in Stanley,
It
was tough the
whole world o’er,
The
work was hard the pay was low,
They
dare nae ask for more,
It
wasnae any good complaining,
They
just got on wae their job,
Looking
forward until Friday,
When
they’d get a couple o’ bob,
And
they’d spend it far too quickly,
Once
they got into “The Byre”,
Sinking
pints o’ beer in seconds,
As
though their tonsils were on fire,
A
pint o’ beer, a rum and pep,
“We’ll
have the same again”,
“Make
sure that rum’s an OVD”
The
pub would close by ten,
And
so it was, the race was on,
Tae
pour it down their throats,
Standing
cheek by jowl together,
At
the bar like thirsty goats,
Loudly
shouting out their orders,
To
get heard above the din,
They
would reach out offering shillings,
Bringing
pint o’’heavy’ in,
They
would open up their mouths and pour,
Their
throats were just like tunnels,
They
must have a’ had hollow legs,
And
been filled up to the ‘gunnels’,
Due
tae a’ this quick consumption,
The
air would turn fair blue,
Empty
stomachs hit wae alcohol,
Was
a recipe for spew,
And
many’s a time that happened,
An
eruption frae their gut,
Parting
company wae their false teeth,
Wished
they’d kept their big mouths shut,
But
the ‘Byre’ was ‘spit and sawdust’,
Where
hard drinking was the game,
Men
would have their bit o’ glory here,
It
would be different at hame,
Wae
glassy eyes that widnae focus,
On
unsteady legs they’d lurch and sway,
Staggering
homeward through the Pen Close,
Having
spent most of their pay,
And
when we saw them coming,
Just
wee bairns, we ran awa’
For
we knew they’d kick our backsides,
Just
as hard as they’d kick a ba’,
Khaki
“piece-bags” on their shoulders,
Wae
their bonnets at a tilt,
Like
the houses round about them,
They
were tired but solid built,
With
a touch of trepidation,
They
would stagger to their door,
Their
drunken looks betrayed them,
As
they’d hand their money o’er,
That
was always how it happened,
Clarky’s
Bar had done the trick,
They’d
go home and eat their dinner,
Spend
another week on “tick”,
We’re
no proud that these things happened,
It’s
a fact, it must be said,
But
our mothers filled our bellies,
And
we were warm in bed,
We
had nothing, but were happy,
All
the families were the same,
What
we had was scrubbed or polished,
We
were proud to call it “Hame”,
And
while these times were difficult,
More
‘difficult’ than ‘dire’,
You
wonder what we could have had,
If
it wasnae for ‘The Byre’.
COPYRIGHT – Calluna Publishing 1998
