As I approached Molly Malones on Friday night, suddenly I was transported back in time – 27 years ago to be precise.
In the present, I was there to meet some pals for a night out before heading to Gallery 48 for tapas.
But all I could remember was another evening all that time ago.
Finally 18, I’d got a bar job the moment I could, and I was about to walk into The Globe, as it was then known, for my first shift.
So many memories came flooding back from the six or so months I worked there, before the summer holidays ended and I moved to Edinburgh.
But mainly, I remember the wind ups, of which I was almost always the target.
I think they saw me coming.
Like the time – after I’d been working there a few months – when I asked after the whereabouts of Jim, one of the regulars who popped in for a pint or two every night without fail.
“Dead,” one said.
“What?”
“Didn’t you hear? Heart attack. Killed him straight away.”
I was in shock.
“Jim with the baseball cap? But he seemed healthy and, well, not very old.”
My colleagues agreed it was hard to compute and shook their heads with disbelief.
Alas, poor Jim. Or not?
Then, a couple of weeks later, while pouring a pint (the manageress asked if I was serving them with a cone for my first month there because they had so much head on them) I looked up and my mouth dropped open.
“What’s wrong? You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” someone said, possibly with a smile.
“It’s… it’s Jim,” I croaked. “I thought he was… you know..”
“Dead?” Bellowed Jim.
Everyone burst out laughing.
“There he is, back from the dead,” his friend shouted.
Lots of people (including Jim) were in on the joke as tears steamed down faces, aisles were rolled in, and fingers pointed at my ashen face.
Jim, in case you’re wondering, looked fine – better than normal actually, given he’d had two weeks away in Tenerife.
Then there was the time we all took cover behind the bar while a riot unfolded in the pub, but but that’s a whole other column…
Memories linger in Molly Malones
Back to Friday. The Globe is Molly Malones now and I was worried it would have been transformed beyond recognition.
But the layout was similar – and the atmosphere electric as crowds of pals scooped their pints and G &Ts with festive cheer.
As I said hello to my friends, someone tapped me on the shoulder.
“Hello,” he said. “I’ve always hoped I’d get the chance to speak to you. I knew your grandfather Davie Maxwell. You could write a book about that man. I have so many stories about him.”
The Globe Bar, Westport, Dundee. (1970s) Pic: Retro Dundee. pic.twitter.com/9fJtHydNBp
— PictureThis Scotland (@74frankfurt) April 26, 2020
The man’s name was Freddie Batchelor and he was lovely.
Freddie’s dad had been pals with my Papa – and Freddie had worked with my grandad for a spell at the council as a plasterer.
Freddie probably has no idea how much his chat meant to me.
When someone you love dies, you mourn them. And sometimes you wish you could hear all the stories about them – ask if the myths you’ve heard are true.
Wait till the boys here these stories
Freddie told me my grandad was a great footballer and pals with Bobby Cox.
This I’d heard but to tell my football-daft boys their great grandfather is still remembered like this is everything – to me and them.
My grandad’s pals the two Johns (Kelly and Samson) have always regaled me with tales of the high-jinks tomfoolery that was my grandad’s trademark. And Freddie offered up a couple of new crackers that made me chuckle.
They’re stories I’ll cherish forever.
I’m sure you’ll have your own special people, who are no longer here.
Memories fade and you hear their names less frequently, until it feels like all their stories have died with them.
But I felt like my grandad was there in spirit in The Globe that night with his pal Freddie.
It’s always been a place of memories for me. The Globe. Molly Malones. Call it what you will.
And now I’ve got another special one to add to the bank.
Thank you Freddie.
