The place to be seen in Edinburgh in the summer of 1987 was The Rutland No1 at the bottom of Lothian Road on the corner of Shandwick Place. The security here was provided by Clyde (later Clydeside) Security, run by Cameron ‘Cammy’ Campbell.
Cammy was from Glasgow and singlehandedly revolutionised bar and club security in the capital. He wanted his guys to look more good than tough, dressed like young business executives rather than old face-punchers. With this in mind he had us attired in navy blazers and grey flannel trousers.
My first night working there, he took me aside and gave me the lowdown. “Right big man,” he declared in his deep weegie accent. “Here’s the script. Nae bags ay s**t and nae lumps ay filth get by ye. Any c**t gives ye lip, ye take it. Hands oot yer pockets and yer mooth in gear. Got it?”
I did four shifts a week at the Rutland, and at the weekends a double shift on a Friday and a Saturday night involving an extra shift at L’Attache, the basement bar downstairs that was open from two to six in the morning.
The crew at the Rutland was, including me, made up of Garo, Dode, Big Danny, Big Kevin, Gordon and Brian Baxter. Garo was the head doorman and commanded respect. Big Danny was a game as they come, as were the others, while Baxter was too handsome for his own good and slept in a different bed most nights.
By now I was 20 and supposedly in my prime. It sure didn’t feel like it. Three solid years of late nights, sore faces, and smoke-filled bars and clubs had taken their toll. That said, there was still a lot to be thankful for.
The Rutland attracted the ‘it crowd’ at the time in Edinburgh, which made a welcome change from the rough venues I’d become accustomed to working at. The women here were pretty, the guys trendy, and the music upbeat.
Rick Astley’s ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ competed with Wet Wet Wet’s ‘Sweet Little Mystery’ for people’s affections, the average pint of lager was 92p, a packet of fags around £1.40, and a gallon of petrol £1.50 at the pump, and if you managed to get a job with the post office you’d won the lottery.
On Sunday nights it was 25 pence a drink at Cinderellas and it was there we’d all head after the Rutland closed at midnight for a few drinks, before heading over to Busters. Buster Browns was more institution than nightclub, especially on a Sunday night.
Walking in you’d find the Drylaw mob huddled together over on the right, hatching plans, the Murrayfield Racers ice hockey team next to them, then the giants who made up the MIM basketball team, while everywhere else it was all wee trendy hairdressers from Cheynes, Ian Cameron, and Pattersons et al. running about.
It was also around this time that I first met Kenny. Kenny was Gordon’s younger brother and stood out. While everyone else’s reading material stretched no further than the back pages of the Evening News and the Daily Record, he was reading and speaking Jack Kerouac. While we were listening to Wet Wet Wet he was listening to Aztec Camera.
Kenny was given the job as head doorman by Cammy at Finsbury Park on South St Andrew Street. It had just opened its doors with much fanfare and expectation, but after a few months it was being referred to as Finsbury Flop. This was in no small part due to Kenny’s approach to the role of head doorman.
Whereas the rest of us working for Cammy saw our primary role as making sure people had a good night, Kenny was in the business of ruining the night of everyone he took a dislike to – which was more or less everyone.
Working with him on some random night at Finsbury Park, a perfectly nice couple appeared in front of us. As I smiled and bade them welcome, Kenny took the opportunity to step behind them out on the street and start furiously motioning to me to knock them back.
I let them in regardless, whereupon Kenny said: “Aw John, what did ye let them in for?” “How, what’s wrong?” I replied. “That wee cow knocked me back when we were in primary seven.” Come on Kenny,” I retorted. “You cannae carry out your personal vendettas on the door mate.”
As summer turned to autumn in 1987, Cammy got the contract for a club up in Perth called Electric Whispers. By this point I’d been sacked from the Rutland for starting a brawl over at Biancos accompanied by Big Danny one Sunday night when we were meant to be working. Our punishment from Cammy was being picked to work up at his new place.
At Electric Whispers you could grab yourself a mince pie or a sausage roll from the woman manning the till. The birds rolled their own fags and the tattoos on the guys’ arms were all misspelt.
It was just that kind of place.
One night, miserable while sitting at the back of the crowded minibus bringing us back to Edinburgh at three on a wet Sunday morning, I couldn’t keep it in any longer. “Look us,” I announced. “We’re all f*****g losers.”
Source – Edinburgh Live
