Vince Lumsden 1932—2025.

The last carry-out, carry-in and carry-on, Vince got was in the Goldenhill at the end of September 2025. Betty’s great-grandson. Wee Arnie’s Christening. The latest addition to the McCann family. One comes in. One goes out. Vince wasn’t drunk—although he had a couple of whiskies—but the wooden stairs outside the pub were as steep as a ladder propped against a cliff. Vince was 93. His legs were older than his head. He’d become the dead spit of David Attenborough as most men that age do. Youngsters asked him for the truth about global warming and what was it like to cuddle a kestrel? Vince had all the answers.

Sean Connery’s Goldfinger a tuppence tramcar ride away. Vince had a bit of ‘Shaken not stirred,’ in his retail empire building. Carpet fitters’ knees go before their back because they kick with their knees as they push forward to stretch the material. Axminster, Wilton, twist pile, and felt-backed carpets and bog-standard linoleum, good for the lobby and kitchen in tenements near Partick Cross where he lived and worked. Measuring and fitting as a combined service. Samples available in his shop front for the young wife, the old wife, the great and the not so crooked.  Lots of work in local pubs, settling up and talking up business with fellow men. Off books. On books. Shake-of-the-hand dealings. Cash only.

Two men working under him with a Bedford van. Sliding doors convenient for pavement delivery. Most convenient for moonlight flittings. Checking the petrol gauges from one week to the next, Vince cut them a bit of slack, but he made sure they were walking to work from them on in, because he too was an entrepreneur.  

Rio Stakis as the top of Byres Road. Vince was friendly enough with the millionaire owner. He’d done a bit of work for him. When the hotel started losing money, Vince paused to let that sink in as he talked. Because as a businessman he knew what came next. The hotel inexplicably burned down, and Stakis cashed in on his insurance.

The Godfather, Arthur Thompson, was always a gentleman with Vince. He called him Mr Lumsden and offered to move tables or chairs they were sitting on and playing cards in the new casinos they were running. Sometimes Mr Thompson would excuse himself. He had to go and personally take care of business. But he’d always weigh in Vince with a pile of notes before he left. He might even ask him to do some work on his house called The Ponderosa on the East End. You didn’t say no to Mr Thompson.

Betty had a part-time cleaning job in Reid’s of Partick, she’d also help out with meals and functions. Vince had a couple of pubs in which he was a regular. He’d retired at sixty. When they got chatting they’d a lot in common. Vince was divorced with four sons. Betty was separated from Benny, with two sons and two daughters. A chuckie-stone of difference because their children were all the adults they were going to be.

A pub regular, which used to be called The Grapes, was a local butcher. His passion was boxing and the dogs. And he was good for a few tips, in a nudge, nudge, wink wink, dog-knobbled race way. Because he was bald and flat as a beach ball with thin bowly legs, nobody remembered he was a flyweight boxer when a youngster. But when the pub blowhard cut in to give him grief, Vince said his mate didn’t do one of those windup punches you see on TV. He hardly moved from his chair and whacked him like a ploughshare. One punch. Knockout. He lifted his pint, had a draw on his Capstan, and continued with their conversation as if nothing had happened.     

Vince was born in the hungry thirties. Two shipyards on the Clyde shut. Ship Number 543, 40 000 ton liner for the Cunard White line, later called Queen Mary, was one of the last orders on the books of John Brown’s shipyards  50 000 rioted in Glasgow Green and in running battles with police looted shops. 10 000 demonstrators met outside the City Chambers in George Square. They demanded councillors petition the government to reverse the dole-cut decisions. It was touch and go whether authorities would bring in the army from Maryhill Barracks—with six tanks as they’d did at the end of 1919, after the battle of George Square, when the government feared Red Clydeside meant revolution.    

Bikes were rationed, like everything else during and after the Second World War. Vince told us he’d his eye on one as a teenager. No frills. He’d counted his cash and saved up. It was a bit cheaper than most bone-shakers because it was made of wood. Robin Hood had given it to Little John, who’d got too big for it, but not before the Sherriff of Nottingham had arrested him for spooking the horses with this devil on wheels. The chain wasn’t wood, of course, but chain-link. Vince wasn’t as big as Little John. So he had to stand on the pedals to sit on the wooden saddle. But he said that bike lasted him a lifetime. He still had it. Stashed in the attic of their old house on Whin Street.

‘You want to see it?’ he asked.

‘Aye,’ I said. ‘That’d be great.’

He shook his head. ‘Too much hassle.’ And Betty wouldn’t let him use the ladder to get up to the loft. ‘But maybe next time?’

Aye Vince. Always. I bet the bike is still pristine and ready to go on his final journey. RIP, 14th January, 10.30 a.m., Clydebank Crematorium.