The Fortunes of Foggy McGuff

MATT McGINN

The Fortunes of Foggy McGuff

The nickname 'Foggy' was one which John McGuff had picked up as a boy, long before the swollen labour market of pre-war days, and a suspension from the Labour Exchange for what was called ‘not genuinely seeking work,’ caused him to embark on his back-court singing career. The nom-de-plume therefore was in no way connected with his tone of voice, which did, however, unfortunately resemble a foghorn.

The first sixteen days of his remarkable career were by far the most painful he had ever had to endure. He didn't earn a single penny, and, the moment he would enter the back court and open up with something like
Hu-wyeedidernju ma-ha-yake mercuhairr-uh ...
one window after another would go down, until eventually he would be left singing to a blank wall. This was discouraging. His one consolation, in fact, during these sixteen days, was that in a certain pend in the Gallowgate there was a very pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman, who never closed her window upon him, and always threw him over a parcel of brown bread and cheese. Well, the cheese resembled Gorgonzola, which had never been Foggy's favourite, but it was sustaining, and besides that it was gratifying to think as Foggy did think until the sixteenth day, that here at least he had a fan.

However, on the sixteenth day, being particularly hungry, and grateful for the sandwich, he asked a wee boy who was standing in the back-court laughing at him, ‘Would ye tell that woman thanks and God bless her.’ Whereupon the wee boy says, ‘Who? Mrs McKendrick? She's stone deif!’

Well, the blow was more than even the most modest man could endure, and Foggy left the back-court with the half-eaten sandwich crushed between his fingers, and tears trickling down the side of his nose.

A lesser man would have given the whole thing up there and then, but it was then that Foggy decided he would try dancing, and with the aid of a very generous publican in the area - there was oneat that time - he obtained a wooden box and some beer-bottle tin-tops — tinnies - which he fastened to the soles of his shoes, and for four days he toured the area, giving a very commendable performance of what became known locally as ‘The Tin-Shoe Shuffle.’ Now, this proved very popular, in particular with the children, who followed him in their hundreds. Even so, there was no money forthcoming. Certainly, there were other things. For example, there was the half of a cabbage, which Foggy thoroughly enjoyed, but the ferocity of its fall from a two-storey window, and the mark which it left on Foggy's nose, didn't exactly endear him to its donor. He certainly didn’t want him to form a fan club. Besides this, there were eggs, but these, he could tell, as they fell on and around his platform, had lain a wee bit too long to be wholesome. However, they constituted a promise for the future, and on that basis Foggy would have been prepared to continue, had it not been for his varicose veins. As a result of these he collapsed, while in the middle of a performance, to be carried home to his house in the Calton by a scavenger who had nipped into the back-court for a smoke.

In his house in the Calton Foggy would have died, in the first place of hunger, and in the second place of despair, had it not been for that fateful factor’s letter. He'd been getting these letters from MacFadyen for a long time, and recognised the envelope the moment it arrived. He says, ‘That's fae MacFadyen!’ and, thinking it ridiculous that a man with money like MacFadyen had, should be sending begging letters to an unfortunate character like himself, he threw it on the mantlepiece, where it would have lain, gathering dust along with the rest, had it not been for the extreme cold of the following day. It was so cold that Foggy took the momentous decision to light a fire. It was momentous in the circumstances, because of course Foggy had no coal, no sticks, no paper. However, having stuffed the grate with his last bit of linoleum, Foggy lifted the letter from the mantlepiece, to get a light from the stair-head gas, and — heaven knows what made him do it, but he suddenly decided to have a look at this letter. And it was a good job he did, because this was not in the ordinary run of begging letters from MacFadyen. This was an outright ultimatum that he'd either have to cough up or get out. Well, he did cough — and splutter — and flew out in a heedless panic, wondering to himself who he could turn to, who he could tap; there was nobody. He'd tapped everybody.

However, he suddenly began to ask himself: Who, why, what is responsible for all this? Even more suddenly, it hit him like a bolt, that it was the Orangemen. Suddenly he could see that behind every one of the closed windows, the eggs and the cabbage, there stood an Orangeman, who was trying to persecute him because his name was Foggy McGuff. With this, he went blind with rage and he rushed into a back-court in the Calton.

Had he not been blind with rage he could have seen that it was a Celtic supporter's back-court, you know, with the yellow curtains and the green curtains, but as I say, blind with rage he faced up to the windows and he says, ‘Well, I might be down and done for but by God I’ll show them the sort of stuff Foggy McGuffs made of.’ So he opens up with ‘Faith of Our Fathers'…
Faieeuthuvva Fazziayuhzzer…
Well, the people in the houses were horrified at the voice, but they began to ask themselves would it not maybe be sacrilege to close down the window on a hymn like that - maybe we'd better ask the priest if we can close the window on a thing like that. Well, Foggy saw the open windows, and he interpreted these as a sign of the ordinary cowardice of Orangemen, whereupon he decided to double the challenge with the 'Irish Soldier's Song.' Even so, they didn't want to throw him over money, in case it would encourage him back, but they held their windows open. But when Foggy decided to move from that to ‘O Salutaris’…
Oooooo-wah Sal-yuha-tarrisherzaber…
they decided individually and en masse that something would need to be done. It was then that they began throwing him ha'pennies and pennies and threepenny bits. Foggy jumped about the back-court collecting them, going, ‘God Bless Ye, God Bless Ye,’ you know, and he picked up 14/3½d — all in one back-court. He was quite softened by this, you know, and he says, ‘Even though they're Orangemen,’ and gave them a non-Party tune — but before he reached the third note of ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ every window in the place was closed down.

However, it was a different Foggy McGuff that left that back-court. That day he visited nineteen similar back-courts in the Calton, and collected £4/19/23/4d, plus a large number of foreign coins (from which he was able to deduce that there was a big Norwegian colony in the area). From that day onward he never looked back. He picked up the tricks of the back-court trade — he learned the words of ‘The Old Orange Flute’ and ‘The Protestant Boys’, which enabled him to undertake work in the Dalmarnock area, which was infested with Rangers supporters. By singing a suitable song in each place he eventually made a fortune and today he owns a string of picture halls in the Liverpool area.

Regarding his former background he very seldom talks, and in fact he would have forgotten about it, had it not been for his charred finger-tips. These he received at the hands of a renegade Orangeman, who had inveigled his way into a house in the Ham building, through the medium of a mixed marriage. For spite this customer, who had apparently lost the love he formerly had for his wife, used to roast pennies over the gas and throw them out at Foggy. These made Foggy jump so high that on one occasion there was a woman three stairs up who had him arrested as a Peeping Tom. In spite of all this. Foggy holds no bitterness, and it is his hope that one day he will be able to retire, and, to show that he has no bitterness, return to Glasgow, and stand outside Ibrox Park, Rangers end, when Rangers are playing at home, and distribute half-crowns — from a chestnut barrow.

MATT McGINN
The Fortunes of Foggy McGuff The nickname 'Foggy' was one which John McGuff had picked up as a boy, long before the swollen labour market of pre-war days, and a suspension from the Labour Exchange for what was called ‘not genuinely seeking work,’ caused him to embark on his back-court singing career. The nom-de-plume therefore was in no way connected with his tone of voice, which did, however, unfortunately resemble a foghorn. The first sixteen days of his remarkable career were by far the most painful he had ever had to endure. He didn't earn a single penny, and, the moment he would enter the back court and open up with something like Hu-wyeedidernju ma-ha-yake mercuhairr-uh ... one window after another would go down, until eventually he would be left singing to a blank wall. This was discouraging. His one consolation, in fact, during these sixteen days, was that in a certain pend in the Gallowgate there was a very pleasant-faced, middle-aged woman, who never closed her window upon him, and always threw him over a parcel of brown bread and cheese. Well, the cheese resembled Gorgonzola, which had never been Foggy's favourite, but it was sustaining, and besides that it was gratifying to think as Foggy did think until the sixteenth day, that here at least he had a fan. However, on the sixteenth day, being particularly hungry, and grateful for the sandwich, he asked a wee boy who was standing in the back-court laughing at him, ‘Would ye tell that woman thanks and God bless her.’ Whereupon the wee boy says, ‘Who? Mrs McKendrick? She's stone deif!’ Well, the blow was more than even the most modest man could endure, and Foggy left the back-court with the half-eaten sandwich crushed between his fingers, and tears trickling down the side of his nose. A lesser man would have given the whole thing up there and then, but it was then that Foggy decided he would try dancing, and with the aid of a very generous publican in the area - there was oneat that time - he obtained a wooden box and some beer-bottle tin-tops — tinnies - which he fastened to the soles of his shoes, and for four days he toured the area, giving a very commendable performance of what became known locally as ‘The Tin-Shoe Shuffle.’ Now, this proved very popular, in particular with the children, who followed him in their hundreds. Even so, there was no money forthcoming. Certainly, there were other things. For example, there was the half of a cabbage, which Foggy thoroughly enjoyed, but the ferocity of its fall from a two-storey window, and the mark which it left on Foggy's nose, didn't exactly endear him to its donor. He certainly didn’t want him to form a fan club. Besides this, there were eggs, but these, he could tell, as they fell on and around his platform, had lain a wee bit too long to be wholesome. However, they constituted a promise for the future, and on that basis Foggy would have been prepared to continue, had it not been for his varicose veins. As a result of these he collapsed, while in the middle of a performance, to be carried home to his house in the Calton by a scavenger who had nipped into the back-court for a smoke. In his house in the Calton Foggy would have died, in the first place of hunger, and in the second place of despair, had it not been for that fateful factor’s letter. He'd been getting these letters from MacFadyen for a long time, and recognised the envelope the moment it arrived. He says, ‘That's fae MacFadyen!’ and, thinking it ridiculous that a man with money like MacFadyen had, should be sending begging letters to an unfortunate character like himself, he threw it on the mantlepiece, where it would have lain, gathering dust along with the rest, had it not been for the extreme cold of the following day. It was so cold that Foggy took the momentous decision to light a fire. It was momentous in the circumstances, because of course Foggy had no coal, no sticks, no paper. However, having stuffed the grate with his last bit of linoleum, Foggy lifted the letter from the mantlepiece, to get a light from the stair-head gas, and — heaven knows what made him do it, but he suddenly decided to have a look at this letter. And it was a good job he did, because this was not in the ordinary run of begging letters from MacFadyen. This was an outright ultimatum that he'd either have to cough up or get out. Well, he did cough — and splutter — and flew out in a heedless panic, wondering to himself who he could turn to, who he could tap; there was nobody. He'd tapped everybody. However, he suddenly began to ask himself: Who, why, what is responsible for all this? Even more suddenly, it hit him like a bolt, that it was the Orangemen. Suddenly he could see that behind every one of the closed windows, the eggs and the cabbage, there stood an Orangeman, who was trying to persecute him because his name was Foggy McGuff. With this, he went blind with rage and he rushed into a back-court in the Calton. Had he not been blind with rage he could have seen that it was a Celtic supporter's back-court, you know, with the yellow curtains and the green curtains, but as I say, blind with rage he faced up to the windows and he says, ‘Well, I might be down and done for but by God I’ll show them the sort of stuff Foggy McGuffs made of.’ So he opens up with ‘Faith of Our Fathers'… Faieeuthuvva Fazziayuhzzer… Well, the people in the houses were horrified at the voice, but they began to ask themselves would it not maybe be sacrilege to close down the window on a hymn like that - maybe we'd better ask the priest if we can close the window on a thing like that. Well, Foggy saw the open windows, and he interpreted these as a sign of the ordinary cowardice of Orangemen, whereupon he decided to double the challenge with the 'Irish Soldier's Song.' Even so, they didn't want to throw him over money, in case it would encourage him back, but they held their windows open. But when Foggy decided to move from that to ‘O Salutaris’… Oooooo-wah Sal-yuha-tarrisherzaber… they decided individually and en masse that something would need to be done. It was then that they began throwing him ha'pennies and pennies and threepenny bits. Foggy jumped about the back-court collecting them, going, ‘God Bless Ye, God Bless Ye,’ you know, and he picked up 14/3½d — all in one back-court. He was quite softened by this, you know, and he says, ‘Even though they're Orangemen,’ and gave them a non-Party tune — but before he reached the third note of ‘The Last Rose of Summer’ every window in the place was closed down. However, it was a different Foggy McGuff that left that back-court. That day he visited nineteen similar back-courts in the Calton, and collected £4/19/23/4d, plus a large number of foreign coins (from which he was able to deduce that there was a big Norwegian colony in the area). From that day onward he never looked back. He picked up the tricks of the back-court trade — he learned the words of ‘The Old Orange Flute’ and ‘The Protestant Boys’, which enabled him to undertake work in the Dalmarnock area, which was infested with Rangers supporters. By singing a suitable song in each place he eventually made a fortune and today he owns a string of picture halls in the Liverpool area. Regarding his former background he very seldom talks, and in fact he would have forgotten about it, had it not been for his charred finger-tips. These he received at the hands of a renegade Orangeman, who had inveigled his way into a house in the Ham building, through the medium of a mixed marriage. For spite this customer, who had apparently lost the love he formerly had for his wife, used to roast pennies over the gas and throw them out at Foggy. These made Foggy jump so high that on one occasion there was a woman three stairs up who had him arrested as a Peeping Tom. In spite of all this. Foggy holds no bitterness, and it is his hope that one day he will be able to retire, and, to show that he has no bitterness, return to Glasgow, and stand outside Ibrox Park, Rangers end, when Rangers are playing at home, and distribute half-crowns — from a chestnut barrow.