son, just you take the correct amount.’
“Happy days.”
WE ASKED for your “auld money” stories to mark the anniversary of decimalisation, and Jim Scott in Singapore recalls: “When I was about six, we lived on the top floor of a tenement in Tobago Street, and my gran lived in London Road near Glasgow Cross.
“One day I fell out with my dad, and decided I was going to stay with my gran. So I packed my bag, went all the way down four flights of stairs, out onto the street, when my dad shouted on me from the top floor to come back.
“I thought he was going to give in to whatever it was I was after, so I went all the way back up the stairs only to meet my dad at the door, who handed me half-a-crown and said, ‘Give that to your gran for your keep.”’
AULD money continued. A reader tells us about a shop in Kirkintilloch, days after decimalisation, where a sympathetic shop assistant asked an old customer: “How are you managing with this new money?” The auld fella replied: “Aw it’ll no catch oan in Kirkintilloch.”
AND COMEDIAN Stu Who reminds us that changing the currency has meant many popular phrases were no longer in use. He adds: “Who can forget the legendary, ‘He’s getting right oan ma thruppennies!”’ If you don’t understand that one, ask an auld yin.
REMINISCING about boozy business lunches reminds Gordon Kerr in Stroud: “Back in the 1970s a friend took a rough-and-ready, but extremely rich, builder to lunch at the old Malmaison. When the wine waiter arrived the guest said, ‘A pint of heavy son,’ but was told they did not serve beer.
“Spying The Toby Jug pub across the road, the builder pulled out a fiver and said, ‘They do – just keep bringing them.’ The waiter didn’t bat an eyelid and, bearing in mind it was about 32p a pint then, the tailed waiter crossed with a pint of McEwans on a silver tray every thirty minutes or so.”
WE ASKED for your memories of the boozy business lunches, and John Crawford tell us: “Many years ago my mate sold refuse collection vehicles, and had to entertain a leftwing council leader to lunch after receiving a good order. On being offered the wine list, the councillor chose a bottle each of the most expensive red and white wines, poured himself half a glass of each, then shouted, ‘Corks.’
“The waiters, obviously used to this, brought him the corks, which he forced into the bottles, stuck one in each jacket pocket then ordered two pints of lager.”
WE REMINISCED about the boozy business lunches, and John Gilligan tells us of Big John who covered the south side of Glasgow for Dryburghs the brewers in the late 1960s. He recalls: “One day John was accompanied by a senior manager from England who, after his eighth call to licensed premises, and the eighth alcoholic beverage, asked John, ‘Do you always drink this much during the day?’
“Big John replied, ‘Naw, some days we go fur a bevy.”’
OUR REMINISCING reminds an Ayrshire reader of when his late father, a transport manager with the National Coal Board, was invited with colleagues to the Scottish Motor Show at the Kelvin Hall in the 1960s.
Company reps took them for lunch, then various hospitality events.
Says our reader: “Later that evening, I turned up to collect the old man from the St Enoch Hotel, where an engine manufacturing company had been hosting a reception.
“I arrived to find the Coal Board gang being escorted out, and the old man assuring the commissionaire, ‘We have been asked to leave better hotels than this my good man. Last month in London we were invited to leave the Savoy.”’
WE ASKED for your memories of the Glasgow Garden Festival and Pat Davis recalls: “As a musician in the 1980s, I had the privilege of knowing some of the most skilled work dodgers on the planet. One guy, who busked on the violin outside bingo halls, was already in his mid-thirties and had never had a ‘proper’ job.
“As Thatcherism bit, he was called
“Happy days.”
WE ASKED for your “auld money” stories to mark the anniversary of decimalisation, and Jim Scott in Singapore recalls: “When I was about six, we lived on the top floor of a tenement in Tobago Street, and my gran lived in London Road near Glasgow Cross.
“One day I fell out with my dad, and decided I was going to stay with my gran. So I packed my bag, went all the way down four flights of stairs, out onto the street, when my dad shouted on me from the top floor to come back.
“I thought he was going to give in to whatever it was I was after, so I went all the way back up the stairs only to meet my dad at the door, who handed me half-a-crown and said, ‘Give that to your gran for your keep.”’
AULD money continued. A reader tells us about a shop in Kirkintilloch, days after decimalisation, where a sympathetic shop assistant asked an old customer: “How are you managing with this new money?” The auld fella replied: “Aw it’ll no catch oan in Kirkintilloch.”
AND COMEDIAN Stu Who reminds us that changing the currency has meant many popular phrases were no longer in use. He adds: “Who can forget the legendary, ‘He’s getting right oan ma thruppennies!”’ If you don’t understand that one, ask an auld yin.
REMINISCING about boozy business lunches reminds Gordon Kerr in Stroud: “Back in the 1970s a friend took a rough-and-ready, but extremely rich, builder to lunch at the old Malmaison. When the wine waiter arrived the guest said, ‘A pint of heavy son,’ but was told they did not serve beer.
“Spying The Toby Jug pub across the road, the builder pulled out a fiver and said, ‘They do – just keep bringing them.’ The waiter didn’t bat an eyelid and, bearing in mind it was about 32p a pint then, the tailed waiter crossed with a pint of McEwans on a silver tray every thirty minutes or so.”
WE ASKED for your memories of the boozy business lunches, and John Crawford tell us: “Many years ago my mate sold refuse collection vehicles, and had to entertain a leftwing council leader to lunch after receiving a good order. On being offered the wine list, the councillor chose a bottle each of the most expensive red and white wines, poured himself half a glass of each, then shouted, ‘Corks.’
“The waiters, obviously used to this, brought him the corks, which he forced into the bottles, stuck one in each jacket pocket then ordered two pints of lager.”
WE REMINISCED about the boozy business lunches, and John Gilligan tells us of Big John who covered the south side of Glasgow for Dryburghs the brewers in the late 1960s. He recalls: “One day John was accompanied by a senior manager from England who, after his eighth call to licensed premises, and the eighth alcoholic beverage, asked John, ‘Do you always drink this much during the day?’
“Big John replied, ‘Naw, some days we go fur a bevy.”’
OUR REMINISCING reminds an Ayrshire reader of when his late father, a transport manager with the National Coal Board, was invited with colleagues to the Scottish Motor Show at the Kelvin Hall in the 1960s.
Company reps took them for lunch, then various hospitality events.
Says our reader: “Later that evening, I turned up to collect the old man from the St Enoch Hotel, where an engine manufacturing company had been hosting a reception.
“I arrived to find the Coal Board gang being escorted out, and the old man assuring the commissionaire, ‘We have been asked to leave better hotels than this my good man. Last month in London we were invited to leave the Savoy.”’
WE ASKED for your memories of the Glasgow Garden Festival and Pat Davis recalls: “As a musician in the 1980s, I had the privilege of knowing some of the most skilled work dodgers on the planet. One guy, who busked on the violin outside bingo halls, was already in his mid-thirties and had never had a ‘proper’ job.
“As Thatcherism bit, he was called
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