Balfour Street

Number ten Balfour street ! The address forever riveted in my memory. We referred to it as Ten Downing street or just number ten. It was next to the chapel which made it handy for Paddy on a Friday night and we'd go there most weeks, Harry and Paddy and me .
We'd each buy our half bottle of 'Eldorado'. Cheap South African sherry with a bite like a dog and swagger with the hip flask shaped bottles in our inside pockets towards Balfour street and the sanctuary.
Oblivious to the edged wind off the wide Clyde we walked like giants among the mere mortals of Port Glasgow , acknowledging only the wide eyed anticipation on the faces of other weekend revellers.
Dressed like kings we were and smelling of dad's Old Spice'. Velvet cuffed jackets a la Rolling Stones. Cuban heeled Beatle boots which forever lost their heels and left you dancing with nails sticking through and an anxious partner. And we hummed of Old Spice. Pin striped pants and customized waistcoats. We paraded through the littered streets of our town towards the new hope of another Friday night.
Stopping on the way always at a less holy place , it seemed to us then than number ten. At the Catholic chapel where we lost Paddy for ten minutes to deeply guarded secrets of papacy and confessionals.
Our gang , an anomaly. The Dubbs Road Boys. The initials D.R.B. were tattoed on the hands of both Protestant and Catholic. Me and Harry being the only 'blue boys' and bigoted though we were, we loved and feared and hated each other as true brothers.
Jauntily down the church steps Paddy , his sins forgiven, his slate clean for a moment in time at least and me and Harry strangely patient , smoking purposefully, part of the protocol. Joining us, no words said . Striding together . Products of the Vatican and the Reformation in step on our way to get blotto.
Harry would pass Paddy his bottle which he had kept for him. Struck me as an gracious act for Paddy not to take the bottle before the priest....
Boy did we have class!
Swinging into Balfour street, determined we three. Me and Paddy and Harry and a little scared. A quick look around for 'the law'. None in sight. Cuban heels clattering up the stone steps. Laughing. Confident now. Deserving the very air we breathed. Echoes reverberating up and down the deserted stairwell. The close. Beautifully tiled walls of Art Noveau flowers. Rich greens with brilliant monotonous patterns. Unnappreciated. Smelling of urine and booze.
The brown varnished flaked door wide open. Welcoming. More stale smells.
Delicious like Friday night.
A ring we made the three of us around the fireplace. Always the same. Paddy closest to the window, Harry in the middle and me closest to the bed recess. Our sandstone castle.
A shiver of uncertainty. The first element of the Eucharist. Brown paper bagged, smooth like a shingled stone . The wine ! Sometimes Gilbey's Old England, sometimes Lanliq but usually Eldorado. Unsheathed. Plastic screw cork lovingly removed, held high in shipyard hardened hands. A toast to every poor bastard who had the misfortune to be born here and now and tipped, gushing, splashing down our Friday night throats. Burning. Bringing sharp focus to ourselves and each other. Drink half of it. Sometimes when the madness hit we'd drink it chug a lug without stopping ....
Boy we had talent!
Looking out the windowless frames I'd survey the courtyard of other derelict dwellings. My kingdom out there, the threshhold of the weekend and Harry and Paddy talking girls and pretty soon when the alcohol took hold we'd be unafraid, even of them.
The Adams fireplace half filled with broken brown glass. Glasshenge. The standing stones of our youth. And soon enough three more bottles chucked with elan and a warrior's cry would join them.
The second element , chewing gum. Chicklets to mask the smell but not the glassy eyes and the lunatic behaviour.
Surveying our secret lounge for the underaged. Four layers of wallpaper hanging uncertainly for the next boy to rip some off. Unnacountably pots and pans still left, rusting beneath the broken sink.
Final element. Light up a Player's and flick the wooden matchstick among the glass rubble.
Back down through the abandoned beauty of the tile maker's art. Twenty minutes at the most in and out. The first effects of the cheap wine wouldn't hit till we were half way to the dance hall.....
Boy we were alive !

Written by Mr K Horn

This page last modified on Monday, March 10, 2003

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