4. GLASGOW AND GEORGE’S LETTERS TO ROY

 

While George was a teenager his father died of cancer. Seeing him in Intensive Care with tubes going into his arm and nose was an experience George never got over for the rest of his life, instilling in him an absolute terror of hospitals. He told me once he felt guilty because he could not bear to listen to his father describing the pain he experienced when passing water, and found it very difficult to look at him in that condition.

 

After their father died, George and his sisters called their stepmother ‘the merry widow’, she seemed so unaffected by her bereavement. George went to live with his father’s sister, Aunty Rose, and her husband Norrie. Because he had no parents, he did not get the opportunity to stay on at school, obtain qualifications and perhaps go to university. He was to regret this later in life, feeling circumstances had deprived him of the education, qualifications and career opportunities he should have had. Certainly he educated himself to university level in literature and the arts, but without qualifications it was useless to him in furthering his career.

 

All his life George was surrounded by people of a lower intellectual level than himself. This was very frustrating, since he could not debate the finer points of psychology and the arts, which were his favorite subjects. However, he did meet a few people with whom he felt able to discuss such things, and whom he did not consider to be ‘piss-elegant snobs’. After coming down to London around 1959/1960, he used to return to Glasgow for lengthy periods, and during these visits he used to write long, intellectual and very witty letters to Roy, a friend he met in London.

 

Roy is something of an enigma in George’s life. Seemingly a harmless, eccentric character who wore a long, reddish colored wig to hide his baldness and who used to scavenge in skips and dustbins around Notting Hill to find things to sell, Roy also had a sinister side to his nature. He dabbled in the occult and hypnotism, and George claimed he was involved with some revolutionary political group.

 

According to a letter George wrote his sister Betty, Roy was a very significant figure in this group, and George at one point feared for his life. He seemed to think this group was very powerful, the implication being that it had links with the KGB and, along with CND and other mass protest movements and revolutionary groups, George felt it was all part of a Soviet plot to overthrow democracy in this country. This fear grew into a paranoia, which was fueled by the belief George firmly held to his dying day that Roy and others had hypnotized him whilst he slept in order to make him obey the will of this revolutionary group, to do things which went against his nature. Roy also supplied George and others with amphetamines and possibly other drugs, and I have recently read that an ex-CIA agent said it is possible to hypnotize a suitable subject with the aid of drugs and make them do things normally against their nature, even to assassinate someone.

 

In the early to mid 1960s, however, George seemed to trust Roy and had an affinity with him regarding films, books and the theater. His letters to Roy all have a very pessimistic flavor about them, indeed George revelled in a negative philosophy. He wrote things like: ‘I luxuriate in the pathos and tragedy of it all... but... I enjoy these black depressions, but only when I look at them objectively. To quote Victor Hugo’s definition of melancholy “it is the pleasure of being sad”.’ Later in the same letter he writes: ‘If I wasn’t going through the process of self-destruction I don’t know what I’d do. It’s the only thing that keeps me going.’ He had a sardonic wit, exemplified by this statement just quoted, and the following borrowed quotation, which George put in another letter to Roy: ‘I found the following motto in an old magazine (which I extracted from a dustbin) – “it is better to borrow money from a pessimist. They never expect it back.”’  He closes this letter in typical style: ‘I shall be pleased to have a letter from you on the condition that you don’t tell me to cheer up. (Don’t tell a soul, but I enjoy being pessimistic).’ He then gives his regards to two people in London, and finishes up: ‘As to everyone else, send them my indifference.’

 

In a letter to Roy dated March 1966 George wrote: ‘Last Saturday night, an acquaintance told me my sense of humour was perfectly vile and unbalanced, showing symptoms of instability. Of course I agreed with him entirely (much to his confusion) and added that I was quite mad on occasions, and that insanity ran in the family. These remarks produced the desired effect, as I thought they would, and my critical acquaintance soon vanished with a vacuous look on his face, never to bother me furthermore with his tedious monologue of conversation.’ This letter is in a much lighter vein, complaining about Roy’s lack of gossip and scandal in his last letter. ‘If there is no scandal when I return, then I shall certainly make some, even if it means doing something dramatic. After all, one must give the scandalmongers something to talk about. It’s all they live for.’

 

He then complains that the letter ‘is far too cheerful for my liking, and not at all like my usual pessimistic self. There must be something terribly wrong with me today, to feel so gay. If I continue to feel so light-hearted I shall have to consult a specialist, for it is a strange symptom and not at all good for my melancholic and pessimistic personality. I do not feel comfortable unless I’m disturbed or unhappy.’

 

He laments the decline of standards in culture and the arts and the spread of mass culture - kitchen sink drama, TV soap operas, etc.. He writes that ‘The peasants... should be treated as... inferior and incapable of dominating the taste of the generation. Only then can art and culture and entertainment be raised to a higher sphere. Until then, we must bear the mediocre trash which is taken for culture today and suffer in silence.’

 

In a mammoth 39-page letter to Roy dated February 1966, George discusses all sorts of subjects. His flat-mate John in London, films he has seen, and the theater. He had been to see an Ibsen play, ‘John Gabriel Borkman’, at Glasgow’s Citizen’s Theater with Bernard Miles and Freda Jackson in the leading roles. ‘The drama portrays the existence of the three central characters,’ he wrote, ‘ and is set in an atmosphere of gloom, grey shadows and death. (Just the right atmosphere for me.)’ The following week he was hoping to see Tennessee Williams’ ‘The Glass Menagerie’.

 

George writes that he has heard ‘Ray has been in Fortes, making comments about me not working. Apparently he thinks I ought to get a job. Jealousy. Please inform him that "work is the refuge of people who have nothing whatever to do". Kindly tell him I have no time to go to work. I am far too busy with my life to waste precious golden hours of youth in a factory or stuffy office. I am a lover of freedom.’

 

Later he complains about the boredom of provincial life, and says it is too peaceful. ‘I must have conflict in my life, and if I don’t have it, I create it. Preferably conflict with myself... without conflict I am utterly bored. It is essential to me. I prefer conflict rather than security. All this of course is masochistic, and I confess, that after much introspection, I am aware of a deep streak of masochism within me. I like to suffer, but no one can discern this, for I wear the mask of indifference.’

 

A cousin came to see George and asked if he had seen the new James Bond film. ‘I replied that I did not care for fantastic escapades. He told me I was hyper-critical, which is true, but I can’t help that. Criticism is a free form of expression, and I cannot suppress my critical instincts, for they’re part of my personality and essential to my intellectual growth. If I suppressed them, I would be destroying part of my individualism... If we see a fault or defect in something, we cannot obliterate it, or pretend it does not exist, for we have discovered it. We cannot ignore it. It is part of our conception of truth, and so we must point it out.’ This remained true of George all his life, and he suffered for his candidness. People, and especially employers, do not always appreciate having their faults pointed out so bluntly. From George’s point of view he was just giving them good advice, for the benefit of both themselves and others.

 

On page twenty of this letter George describes how a short story he submitted to a publishing competition was rejected. ‘The judge/editor informed me that my work had talent, style, insight, wit etc. and urged me to continue practising as I had the necessary ingredients of a writer. However he added that the story I had written was rejected because I “wrote of things which should not be thought of”. He advised me to turn to more common and conventional characters. I admit my story was of unconventional aspect as it dealt with isolationism, sexual impotence, sado-masochistic fantasies, and mental instability. But my story did have a moral. It gave an insight into how circumstances can mould an individual’s character to complex angles unavoidably. In short what it symbolised was: that it is very hard that a person through no fault of his own, should possess a character, perverse and difficult, which condemns him to an unhappy life: and how he is made unhappier by ignorant, narrow-minded and prejudiced people who persecute and scorn him unjustly. And the editor said I wrote of things which should not be thought of. A writer’s job, in my estimation, is to portray the truth, and that was all I did in my story. I only wrote of what I observed or experienced in life. If what I write is harsh, it is because life is harsh. And how dare they advise me to resort to common, conventional themes. All my characters will be individuals, never members of the herd. Conventional people have always bored me and I could never condescend to write about them, not even for financial gain. I can only write of what interests me.’

 

Going on to discuss his poetry, George admits to being ‘rather shy about my writings, particularly my poetry. The fact is even in my lightest pieces I have put in so much of myself that I am embarrassed to disclose it to a number of people. The themes of my poems and stories are often sombre and they usually end in gloom, loneliness, despair or death. Why? Because that is how life appears to me at the end. Someone once asked me why my poetry was so sad. I could not give an answer, but it is simply this: I cannot paint in a tone of gold what I see in a tone of grey.’

 

Moving on to religion, George refers to an argument on the subject with his sister. ‘What she fails to understand is that I attack Christian hypocrisy rather than Christianity itself. I believe in God, but I find the Bible too paradoxical to be authentic. For example, I was reading Genesis the other day (looking for faults rather than faith). It states that on the first day there was light, and on the fourth day God made the Sun, Moon and stars. Where did the light come from then on the first day?... The most unreasonable aspect of religion, is its attitude towards sex. How much greater would human happiness be if the gratification of the sexual instinct had never been looked upon as wicked. Sexual shame is the most destructive element in religion, and frequently the cause of neurosis. If you despise the flesh, you distort the soul. Sex is a natural impulse, as common as the desire for food and sleep: it must be satisfied.’

 

The next evening, George continued writing his letter. ‘How often have you heard me say that I am incapable of emotion? Well late this evening, alone in my bedroom I was sitting listening to the radio, and heard Rubinstein playing Chopin. It had been quite some time since I last listened to piano music, and the sound of the delicate ballade made me weep like a fool. It is strange how I can surrender my emotions to a work of art, such as a piece of music, a play, or a film, yet in life I am so cold, aloof and indifferent. If only life were a Chopin ballade. It is difficult to describe how a piece of music can affect the senses. Perhaps it was the tender, delicate playing of Rubinstein, together with the sad, solitary expression of Chopin, which made me cry so silently. It sounded so beautiful, it hurt. I cannot remember ever feeling such a profound sensation before, and I don’t think I could experience it again.

 

‘But I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. I seem sad. Perhaps it’s because of a brief encounter I had when I was out earlier this evening. I accidentally bumped into an attractive boy, as I turned a corner on my way home. (It was entirely my fault. I was doing the gallop.) I apologised, but instead of going on our separate ways we remained looking at each other. He fascinated me, especially his eyes, and he was no more than 18. We both knew - and of course it happened. He walked home part of the way with me afterwards and we had a talk about various things. He was particularly interested in London, and he refused to believe I was Scots, because of my Southern accent. Just talking to him made me feel light-hearted. And then we said goodbye, and went on our separate ways. It all seems so like a dream as I look back on it, three hours or so later. How strange it is. We meet, and then suddenly it seems that we must part forever. But that is the way of the twilight world. There is no love. Of course he means nothing to me in retrospect. Already the features of his face have blurred in my memory. But I cannot help wondering what life will do to him. In the twilight world, we call it a gay life. And it is a gay life, yet a terrible one too, because there is no love.

 

‘If only I could be capable of a profound passion, but it is not possible. I am what I am, partly by the circumstances of my life, partly by nature. I am not a social person. I cannot feel a great love for my fellow-men. Convivial amusement has always bored me. I do not like being touched by strangers or by false friends, and I have always to make a slight effort over myself not to draw away when people draw close to me. The hysteria of the world repels me, and I never feel more aloof than when I am in the midst of a crowd. I have most cared for people who cared little or nothing for me (probably another masochistic trait.) When people have shown love or affection towards me, I have been embarrassed. I am incapable of complete surrender. In other words I cannot love. As it is, I will always be a stranger who never feels at home, who does not really want, and is not really wanted, who can never belong, who must always be a little in love with death, since death is the ultimate escape from time. But I have let myself be carried away by a mood of self-analysis. I did not mean to be so egotistical. I have given too many petty details which you will find immaterial and much of my self-analysis will appear vague to you, for only I can understand what I am trying to express in words.’

 

After three philosophical quotations, literature is the next subject George writes of in the letter, having ‘just finished reading “Of Human Bondage” by Wm. Somerset Maugham. It is his greatest work and deserves to be called a masterpiece.’

 

On page 31 George strikes a lighter note as he starts writing about people he knows on the gay scene. In both Glasgow and London George went ‘on the game’, becoming what is now known as a ‘rent boy’ in order to survive. He has told me of the times he earned money ‘on the bash’ in Glasgow to give to his  sister and her large family. On one occasion he bought a couple of rashers of bacon with some money he had earned, and after the kids had been fed and were tucked up in bed, George and his sister Betty fried the two rashers for a special midnight treat. As the delicious smell of bacon wafted through the house, one of the children got up and wandered into the kitchen to investigate the smell, obviously hoping for a ‘piece’n’ham’ (Glaswegian slang for a bacon sandwich).

 

‘Maw, I’m thirsty. Can I hae a drink of water?’ whined the little girl, eyeing the frying pan and sniffing hopefully. She was given the glass of water and promptly chased back to bed by George and Betty.

 

‘I had to wank off an old man for that bacon’, said George to me years later, ‘I wasn’t going to let some spoiled little brat have it. I could only afford two rashers.’

 

George’s London flat-mate, John the lorry driver, was a regular client, and George eventually moved into his furnished room in Belgrave Road, Victoria. In this letter to Roy, George writes about a letter he received from John which said he had put George’s friend and fellow hustler Rose up for the night.

 

‘He said nothing happened between them, which I shall pretend to believe when I write back to John, but I am not so foolish to swallow such a statement’, wrote George. ‘I know John, and I know Rose and I know what happened when he took her back..... If I find out she has been trespassing on my property or offering her services at reduced prices I shall be furious. I’ve no time for ten-bob boots or shuck-ups. Some people will do it for peanuts.’

 

There then follows a description of the Glasgow gay scene and some of its more colorful characters, which I shall quote at length as it is so amusing:

 

‘There are several gay pubs and two coffee-bars up here where the gay crowd congregate, usually at weekends. I know almost everyone in this twilight world, and it amuses them all to hear of how bold the bitches are in London. Of course I tell them about the gay people we encounter in London, such as Rose, Daphne, Mad Myra, Gwen, Fifi, Red Riding Hood and Nellie the Elephant; everyone thinks I’m exaggerating when I describe the behaviour of these bitches.

 

‘Of course, there are several “star personalities” in the twilight world here too, who make their dramatic entrances in the gay circles. Perhaps it would amuse you to have a description of some of them. I shall start with the bitches.

 

‘Dandelion. A bitch about 28 years old, although she pretends to be 24. An acidulous creature, and as vain as Fifi. Don’t ask me how she got her name.

 

‘Glamorous Gladys. A hideous old queen who does drag numbers. A flamboyant extrovert. Of course she and I hated each other instinctively from the first moment we set eyes on each other.

 

‘Arabella. A bitch of 24, who likes everyone to think she is wicked. A regular whore who sometimes hustles in drag, but she is basically a likeable individual.

 

‘Fidgety Flo. A middle-aged queen who is a registered drug-addict. She has a "twitch" and as her name implies, she fidgets frequently. Her movements are nervous and her smile a contortion. Rather pathetic creature.

 

‘Talulah. A twenty year old bitch, who looks “bona” in drag. She has a mouth like a manhole and can hardly stop talking. She’s a good laugh though.

 

‘Gumsy Grace. A vile old queen with no teeth. An alcoholic. Keeps to herself but she’s “all eyes”. Scandal says she’s a copper’s nark.

 

‘Mad Hilda. Aged about 28-30. Egocentric. Lives in fantasy-world of her own making.

 

‘Short-sighted Cynthia. Aged 22. As blind as a bat but she won’t wear spectacles. She has to peer into your face when she wants to recognise you. She can’t distinguish between a handsome young bloke or a hideous old geezer, so she finds it hard to make conquests.

 

‘Every month there is a drag show at the “El Guerro”. This month, three mental bitches did drag numbers. Talulah sang “I’m a Woman”. Arabella sand “I’m the Whore of Paradise Alley”. Glamorous Gladys (that lovely lady) added a bit of vulgarity as she sang “I Love Him On The Whole”.

 

‘What a “drag” show. It was out of this world. The performers looked like 3 painted whores who had dried up. Watching them was like a fantasy in nightmare surrealism. When Glamorous Gladys finished her number I whispered (loud enough for Gladys to hear) “Pathetic”. “You’re only jealous” she retaliated. Imagine me being jealous of an ugly old boot about 60, with the most monstrous mouth on Earth. Later in the evening as I made my exit, I passed her, looked piteously into her face and quoted a phrase from Richard III “Poor painted queen”. She was fuming.’

 

Many years later George started to write a play or comedy sketch using some of these characters, and got me to draw a cartoon depicting his descriptions of them. I did my best, but am no great artist. However, I used to do badly-drawn cartoons for George, my mother and a few close friends depicting situations and characters they had described to me. George once encouraged me to send some of my cartoons up to a gay publication to which he was contributing regular articles. I was brought down to Earth with a bang when my two cartoon strips were returned with a sarcastic note from some evil-minded bitch saying something like I was such a great artist my work should be exhibited in the Royal Academy. They were a damn sight funnier than most of the badly-drawn cartoons they and other papers published regularly, and they also conveyed a serious gay political message.

 

In his letter to Roy, George comments on the Rolling Stones’ latest number one hit, '19th Nervous Breakdown', which he described as 'terrific'. He then makes some closing remarks about his flat-mate John, and George’s possible return to London 'in a few weeks'. He adds a postscript: 'If you happen to see Mad Myra, please tell her that Glasgow is still the same. She comes from here too, and likes to know how things are.’

 

When I first knew George we ran into Mad Myra on two occasions. One was in the Edgware Road by Sussex Gardens, and George hurried me away quickly, and the second time was some years later in “The Black Cap”, a gay drag-show pub in Camden Town. Again George was anxious to get me away from her, and much later he told me he was afraid she would blurt out something about George being "on the game" He was terrified of losing me if I should find out he had once been a male hustler.

 

Apart from the letters to Roy, written after George had already made his permanent home in London, I have very little idea of his late teenage years in Glasgow. He worked for a while in an office of a company which made galvanized corrugated iron sheets I believe, a phrase he remembered because he had written or typed it out so often. He also worked in a solicitor’s office either in Glasgow or when he first came down to London, work which he found quite interesting.

 

As to the gay scene in Glasgow I know little apart from what I quoted above. From the age of 12 or 13 he seems to have met partners in Glasgow cottages, cinemas and other places. It seems he always headed straight for wherever he was warned not to go, whereas I foolishly stayed away from such places and condemned myself to years of teenage frustration, isolation and misery, with the rest of my life to regret these precious wasted years and opportunities.

 

George lived life to the full from a very early age, reading the classics, seeing plays by Ibsen, Chekhov, etc., enjoying classical music and seeing good films. In view of his working-class background in the cultural desert of Glasgow tenements and housing schemes, amidst a family and environment where nobody shared any of these interests, it is all the more remarkable.