The Star Bar: Adventures in Eglinton Toll.

For thousands of Glaswegian bus users, Eglinton Toll is nothing but a bloody pest.
Buses halt there for up to ten uncomfortable minutes, whilst the drivers do their change overs, warning each other about the pesky ticket dispenser that has been jamming, laughing about Big Alec who got disciplined for driving past the pensioner at Bridge Street at a high speed, and discussing the transfer market for Sunday nights weekly Bus Driver quiz night. Who will get 'Speccy Tam' on their team this time?
Meanwhile, most passengers tut-tut, glance at their watches every five seconds, and stare at the dandruff collecting upon the black jacket of the foul smelling Neanderthal sitting before them.
Not I, for years when faced with this bus hiatus, I looked out the window and dreamed.
I dreamed, not of the Saw Centre that graced one side of the window, for they are ten-a-penny, but out the other window, because there was a building shaped like a slice of Grans chocolate cake, a place with signage that boasted about upcoming performances of legendary vocalists, virtuoso guitar players and Karaoke nights that would put hairs on your chest.
The most prominent sign was one that was one faded, from what I presume is the endless flashing of cameras that have captured it over the years, it stated staunchly 3 Course Lunch for £2.50.
This was The Star Bar, somewhat of a mirage in the Southside, as it was often seen but never reached.
I move to Friday night, while enjoying a large glass of wine and running a few bampot ideas through my brain of what Saturday may bring, an idea came into my head. I am still not sure if it was the Shiraz making me bold, or perhaps I was just inquisitive regarding the wife's reaction, but I exclaimed with a hint of authority that "Tomorrow babes, I am going to walk through those doors of the mysterious Star Bar".
There was no response from the missus, she probably figured it was just a careless whisper, a pipe-dream or perhaps due to Celebrity Big Brother being on the television, she hadn't listened to absolutely anything I had muttered for the past hour. But I meant business.
It was a restless sleep, thoughts of what lay beyond the entrance whirred around my head non-stop.
Will there be a jukebox?, a pool-table?, a finely polished dance floor? Perhaps even the biggest HD/3D screen in Glasgow that very few folk even knew existed, showing the days football with Surround Sound?
10:30am on Saturday, I found myself rummaging through the wardrobe, trying on different outfits, wondering what was acceptable to wear for such an occasion .
As I walked into the living room, in a new pair of Tesco jeans, a freshly ironed Clash t-shirt and a clean pair of Dunlop trainers, my wife looked stunned. "Honey!" she stated, eyes wide open, "You are looking swish, where the fuck are you going?" Obviously she never listened to a word I had said the night before. "Out" I replied, with my nose firmly out of joint.
I boarded the number 3 bus, stomach churning with the heady mixture of excitement and nervousness that I imagine Ernest Shackelton or Edmund Hillary must have experienced before their adventures of a similar magnitude.
The bus meandered through Shawlands for what seemed like a lifetime.
Finally it stopped opposite my Antarctic, my Everest. The bus drivers were indulging their 10 minute gabble to each other, and passengers were tut-tutting and looking at their watches. But enough about those cowards, this was MY time to shine.
I stood and walked towards the bus doors, ensuring I had a little wink and knowing smile to each and everyone in the packed bus, cleared my throat loudly and abandoned the safety of the vehicle and swiftly walked towards the Star Bar doors. It was now or never.
As I opened the door, I was stunned.
The bar was positioned on a completely different wall that I had ever imagined it would be. But there it was, 4 or 5 taps of draught ales, and two fridges of bottled beers and soft drinks.
Behind the bar was a man, not any man, but a legend who in my eyes, ruled this place. He was the barman.
It was now 11:00, the barman had his back to me, setting up the till whilst nodding his head, and doing a quaint toe tap to Michael Jackson that was playing at a pleasurable volume on the wireless next to him.
I took a look at my surroundings. Indeed this place was magical, the nooks, wee corners, copper topped table tops and the complete lack of any other punters were the first things that came to mind.
I reminded myself it had just opened, and just as my eyes began studying the carpet-clad sides of the bar, the legend turned around.
"Sorry Big Yin" he said, as Michael Jackson mixed perfectly into John Parrs classic St. Elmos Fire on the Sanyo wireless, "Didn't notice you there, what can I dae fae yer?"
By now I was a mess, "Don't run Hemi, don't run" I thought to myself. Composing myself, I asked for a pint of Lager.
My request surprised me, I don't drink lager, I am pretty much exclusively a Stout bloke, but the pressure was on, and I didn't plan on correcting myself before a man who had utter control of this establishment.
"Nae borra biggie" he said whilst pouring my pint, before requesting the sum of £2.95.
Handing the pint glass over, I realised this is could get very uncomfortable very fucking quickly.
Here I am, alone, in the Star Bar, the Mecca of Eglinton Toll, and I am about to converse with a bloke whose duties I would place above that of the leader of the UN.
"You a betting man?" he asked while rummaging in his top pocket for an item at that stage I didn't know what.
"I got a winner yesterday" he continued, "and am just gonna bolt across the road to cash it in and put oan a footy coupon, want me tae put anything oan for you?"
Jesus Christ! We were mates now, possibly best friends forever!
"Nah, you are alright, not much of a gambling bloke myself, but cheers fella" was my reply.
He looked at me suspiciously and then stated these words, words that to my dying day will fill me with pride. He said while extracting a Lambert & Butler cigarette from a fresh packet, "Nae borra, I will be 5 minutes, you will be OK then?"
"Yup" I said gleaming with pride. For here I was in the Star Bar, Eglinton Toll, alone, with the absent barman as my new pal. These 5 minutes are going to be special.
It lasted 2 minutes. The door opened and in walked a bloke with a sense of purpose.
He gave me a glance, and muttered something about his wife "Doing my fucking nut in, the stupid bitch" and opened a door to a small room and began slicing French rolls.
Yes my friends, this here was the Chef of the famous £2.50 three course meal. The magician.
I looked at the clock, it was 5 minutes to 12. My mind sprung to that faded sign outside.
Food will be served between 12-2.
Well crivvens, I don't know if the locals stalk the Chef as he walks to work, no doubt grumbling to himself, or this time of the day in these parts this is religion, but 30 seconds after he walked through the door, they came. In masses of different sizes, ages, but the same common smell of anticipation (amongst other things).
This Chef was indeed the Pied Piper of all beings ravenous.
Unfortunately, I was not one. I had decided well before my arrival, that I will watch these folk eat, just to ensure all is safe. Just as the bushmen of the Kalahari Desert spy on birds eating wild berries, making sure they are not harmful for human consumption.
Out came the first course to woops of delight. Nestled in a ramekin sized bowl arrived a soup I believe to be Lentil. This was scoffed and scooped up with the French Bread without conversation, but the slurping noises made no secret of its quality.
I counted out £2.95 for another drink, thinking it best to stick to the Lager in case I was asked by my new barman pal if there was anything wrong with my first pint, and why I would want to change it to Stout. The second course was coming up, and if I had to witness that, I could not partake in any talk whatsoever.
I supped this second pint, and waited. Orders were taken, and before my own eyes, out came the main course.
I have seen many major sporting events and attended many stadium Rock Concerts, (none involving Bon Jovi mind,) but never have I seen such a flurry of fanatics in such a frenzy, as these folk as they scrambled for the Salt and Pepper shakers.
I stood aghast as they devoured their Macaroni Cheese, or their single slice of ham and salad, each accompanied with a mountain of chips like tomorrow would never come.
Two minutes later I realised why, tomorrow did come.
It was in the guise of a table laden with a very large square Tupperware container filled to the brim of Tinned Fruit Salad, alongside a medium sized bowl of orange or green (I honestly can't remember, and anyway, it doesn't seem like one of those types of pubs if that's what you are thinking Weegies), and a gravy boat of single cream.
Each serving was placed in a metal bowl you used to get in the 1983 when you ordered a Prawn Cocktail.
I don't know if you have ever heard the sound of two slimy Eels shagging in a pool of mud, but I have, and had forgotten all about it until I heard the noises coming from the VERY grateful punters and this apparent treat.
I turned around, amazed at the 10 minutes of wonder I had witnessed, had a wry smile to myself and took a sip of my pint.
When I turned around again, the place was empty. Fucking hell!
My barman pal decided it was now time to put the Football on.
"Yaaas!!" I thought to myself, remembering my dreams of the biggest screen in Glasgow.
I presume you can guess the outcome, it was like watching the game on your elderly aunties vintage telly, except the commentary was in a language I doubt anyone would understand.
With this disappointment, I downed the dregs of my pint, did that best friends forever handshake, (you know, with thumbs intertwined), and bid my farewell. My adventure was complete, and I doubt I will have another quite the same for some time.
On the downside, I returned home, and within an hour, my toenail fell off.
I am unsure if this is at all related to the magical, mystical Star Bar, but then, who knows that establishments true powers?