Hogmanay just isn’t the same these days. If it wasn’t for the usual tv programmes, would we even know it was the last day of the year? Everything sounds too civilised on the streets of Southside Glasgow. Could be any normal Friday night. But it’s not, it’s Hogmanay. Barely any whiff of a party the week before. People just can’t be bothered going into town with all the queues and the hassle of getting home. It’s all a bit low key these days. It wasn’t always like that.

I remember the years I spent living in Castlemilk in the 60s. The new housing estate was built in 1958 to accommodate over 30,000 people from overcrowded areas such as the Gorbals. The houses were a big improvement on previous living conditions and tenants were, on the whole, happy with their lot. We moved into Machrie Road in 1965 and what a friendly neighbourhood it was.

Back then, the streets were jumping with kids. Playing football, just plain old bouncing balls on the back walls, there was always someone out to play. In the heady days of summer, we would buy chalk and draw tennis courts on the main road, inspired by a few weeks of Wimbledon.

Come the end of the year, though it was a different story. The week leading up to Hogmanay would be spent with hours of industrial style cleaning. Every nook and cranny would be wiped down. Every cobweb would be gone. You could eat your dinner from the kitchen floor, so they said. The cooking would start the week before too. My gran would cook a dumpling a few days beforehand. No microwaves or air fryers to speed up the process then. The other thing my gran would make would be tongue. A great big pot of boiling tongue. While not great to look at, once it’s cooked and served, it makes the best sandwich filler with chutney. The only time we see tongue now is in sealed packs in Marks and Spencer’s though apparently any good butcher will be able to source one for you.

The table would be set by 10 and hell mend us if we took an early bite. There would be enough to feed us for the week. We would wait patiently till the bells then wipe a tear from our eyes as we said goodbye to the previous year and welcomed in the new year. The neighbours would wait a civilised 15 minutes and then the doors would start to open and close. Everyone left their door open so that anyone could just walk right in. We would all congregate at my gran’s, partake of her fine cooking and then move next door to Cathie’s. An hour later, we would end up at Mrs. McDonald’s on the ground floor and there the party would stay till the wee small hours. Songs would be sung, drink would be drunk and we would be doing the same the next Hogmanay. Happy memories.

Deborah Portilla