It was on a Tuesday night in October 1956 that Margaret Harrison showed up at the Locarno alone. She was shy but determined to find the handsome bloke she had been admiring from afar on the dancefloor. As chance would have it, Duncan McPhie was at the ballroom with his two sisters.
Duncan and Margaret locked eyes and he asked her to dance. Less than a year later, my nana and papa were married. When I first moved to Glasgow nearly a decade ago, I remember staring up at the bright yellow cab jutting out over Sauchiehall Street.
I was awe-struck that the venue I could thank for my existence was still open, albeit operating as The Garage now. I had just finished a double shift in a city centre restaurant and a few colleagues had invited me out for post-work drinks. Determined to make friends in the city, I obliged.
It was a time when midweek nights out in Glasgow were electric. After over 10 hours of waiting tables and 30,000 steps tracked, discussing a day spent in the trenches of the service industry over £3 Black Russians at Sleazy’s was mandatory, I learned. Margaret & Duncan, date unknown (Image: Marissa MacWhirter) As shift workers, midweek was typically our weekend.
A few drinks might lead to a boogie somewhere on Sauchiehall Street. Or you might end up shoulder to shoulder with the city’s other hospitality workers in Max’s. We spent our days dealing with complaints, scraping half-eaten plates into the bin, smiling as well-dressed punters made derogatory comments ab.
