A reputation is an easier thing to obtain than it is to
be rid of. This fact has caused much unnecessary displeasure to many
a person and establishment with good reason to wish to be relieved of
some stigma of a bygone day. But of course it can also have its advantage.
That is if the reputation is a good one which the person or establishment
finds difficulty in continuing to justify.
Such is the position with a certain public house in the Partick area,
the name of which we shall not mention for the very simple reason that
any additional publicity might lead to the loss of the licence due to
overcrowding, for already the proprietor finds difficulty in catering
for the large clientele which flocks thereto from every corner of Glasgow
and indeed the globe in search of a certain medicinal wine believed
to be procurable therein.
The origin of the legend is an interesting one but in view of the great
satisfaction obtained by many a person in every airt and pairt through
the belief in the myth, we hope that the reader will take the story
no further. We ourselves would never have divulged it but for the need
for historical accuracy regarding Sylvester McQuigley. For as the reader
will possibly have guessed, if he or she be above average intelligence,
the wine, the legend and Sylvester McQuigley's misdeeds are closely
associated.
There was a time during the war when Sylvester had a quarrel with his
Granny. She quite justifiably accused him of drying up her supply of
whiskey. He argued, quite correctly, that funds were low and in any
case she had been drinking too heavily recently. Angry words were spoken
and his Granny suggested that he should leave her house for a period
in order that he should be taught a lesson. Sylvester, with a sad heart
and a troubled conscience felt that the punishment was fair in view
of this, his one and only breach of his religious beliefs, and removed
himself.
He endeavoured unsuccessfully to find digs in the East End but failed
for the simple reason that the people there know him like a bad ha'penny
and they certainly know a bad ha'penny when they see one. He travelled
further afield into the Gorbals, Govan and elsewhere but alas his reputation
had preceded him and the doors were closed on Sylvester. It was then
that he decided to try Partick and there he found shelter with an elderly
widow who, be it known, was somewhat short-sighted and eccentric and
insisted on the regular weekly payment of the rent.
He would have probably been happy in that area as his room window looked
down upon the works gates of a number of factories and yards and thereby
afforded a worthwhile view of thousands of men and women going to and
from their work. This would have given him many a pleasurable hour as
he had always, since he was very young, liked to see men going to their
work, but unfortunately there were those in the vicinity who had other
ideas. We refer to a number of Broo Clerks in the area who had received
a full report on Sylvester, seeing as how he had to transfer to their
Exchange.
These evil schemers had prepared a plot which would force the unfortunate
McQuigley into employment and thereby reduce taxation and assist in
the war production drive.
It was a warm day in September when, as the Gallowgate man innocently
entered the Exchange unsuspecting and whistling one of his Granny's
favourite tunes, hell broke loose. The four clerks vaulted the counter
and thrust handcuffs on their unfortunate victim who was then carried
bodily and screaming, ‘I’m no the only wan!’ which
in any case was perfectly irrelevant and buttered no toast with the
berserk clerks who were only interested in keeping the labour market
supported.
Understandably attracting the attention of the local populace who rent
the air with a great cheer when they learned the identity of the captive,
Sylvester was thus transported to a public house nearby. The same public
house referred to above.
Shaking the sawdust from his clothes, he was placed in the hands of
the burly chargehand whose shortage of labour was in no way attributable
to the fact that he paid the lowest wages in the district, although
he did. The burly barman was much more pleased than was Sylvester with
the contract of labour which was then enacted.
McQuigley was to be employed as a cellarman, barman, room-tender, sweeper-up,
bottlewasher and odd job man, and the chargehand assured him that as
long as he kept good time, did his work and everything he was told,
he in turn would repay him by not lifting his hand too often. This was
at least a consolation but even so, Sylvester was unhappy and miserable
and wished he was back with his Granny. But all his pleadings with the
burly barman were to no avail. The contract was struck and couldn't
be broken — or so said the barman.
But of course the indomitable Gallowgate man was not to accept defeat
so readily and soon he recovered from the severe shock of his abduction,
and his brain, which was the only organ in his body which had ever worked
until then, was quite soon active and like the genius he was he concluded
that the barman must be induced into a dismissal.
He decided he would try being lazy. This effort gave him little trouble
as in any case he was a person inclined towards leisure and it first
appeared that he was meeting with success as he lounged around the bar
and the chargehand gave him many an angry look hoping that this would
be sufficient to scare the unfortunate Sylvester into some kind of activity.
He would of course have taken a much sterner attitude had his custom
and clientele which already stood at a very low ebb been thereby reduced.
But the strange turn of events was that the clientele increased. This
was because the pub began to take on the appearance of a real lounge
which was an improvement in those days of continuous hurly burly and
excitement. The pub attracted hundreds of sufferers from stomach ulcers
who enjoyed the leisurely spectacle of the lazy waiter, and the barman
grew pleased and smiled on his protegé.
Sylvester decided on a change of tactics and his next idea was stimulated
strangely enough while waiting for a car one evening when his toil was
over. He noticed a car travelling westward with the indicator informing
the public that it was headed for a district near Partick known as Whiteinch.
It struck a bell and he decided on his next manoeuvre, the whiteinch.
Until then the procedure for pouring the beer was simple enough. The
measure was filled to the brim with beer and topped outside of the glass
with a thick rich froth which could be scooped off with a stick provided
for the purpose. Sylvester altered the position so that the froth became
part of the pint, the actual beer ending one inch from the brim. The
remainder became known as the whiteinch.
But alas, this effort proved futile. For few of the customers took any
notice of the innovation and, of those who did, some were sufficiently
patriotic to attribute it to some new wartime restriction which one
must naturally accept in the interests of victory, while others who
might have complained took note of the burliness of the chargehand and
held their tongues. There was also the fact that the takings increased.
For the saving of an inch a pint amounted to a barrel in a week and
this pleased the chargehand who was quite struck by the ingenuity of
Sylvester whose attempt to obtain the sack only ended in his being promoted
to 'second hand' which meant he was now superior to the weekend man
who was the only one to show displeasure at the whiteinch.
In desperation Sylvester tried watering the whiskey in order to drive
off the custom and provoke the chargehand but he proved so expert at
this that he was given the job steady. It was then Sylvester, in a fit
of complete and utter despair, decided to have a consultation with a
certain chemist acquaintance with a dispensary in the Plantation area.
Sylvester composed a cock and bull story for this chemist whom he had
told he had a stable of forty five horses, all suffering from constipation.
He asked his advice. The chemist was most sympathetic and only charged
Sylvester eight shillings and tenpence for the two laxative bottles
he concocted. Sylvester returned to the pub a much happier man and at
the first opportunity dislodged the contents into three casks of wine.
His next step was to chalk up an 'Out of Order' sign on the toilet door
and, in case any of the clientele were short sighted, to change the
key which always hung behind the bar for one which closely resembled
it but of course was not quite the thing. This done, he waited for the
eruption and indeed an eruption there was, the like of which Partick
has never seen.
Doctors were brought in from surrounding areas to deal with the epidemic
and for some time panic prevailed during which the burly chargehand
dismissed Sylvester for he thought there was something suspicious in
the smirk he wore. Sylvester found his way back to the East End and
his Granny, who welcomed him with open arms, agreeing that he had endured
sufficient punishment.
As for the sufferers, they quickly recovered and from that day to this
they have not uttered a single complaint and swear they never felt better,
a fact which they attributed to the medicinal wine.
This then is the origin of the legend.