Student Memories: Adam Stafford

Adam Stafford on the dangers of student life on Sauchiehall Street.

Feature by Adam Stafford | 14 Oct 2009
  • Adam Stafford

Randalf Spyra* and I had had our nights, granted, but he was getting progressively worse: what started out as a bit of innocent snorting of purple diarrhoea powder on the tables of rock clubs was now turning into being thrown out of establishments for accidentally punching women whilst dancing and shiteing himself in his sleep. Not that it mattered: he lived in Baird Hall, The Chelsea Hotel for students and degenerates in Glasgow, right bang in the middle of Sauchiehall Street (and now fancy pantsy "executive villas").

The Bairdites could be seen every night enjoying the rancid squalor of The Garage, and that's where Randalf and I would inevitably end up most evenings, me sulking in the corner while he danced with his eyes closed – fists blaring – to Wyclef Jean's Perfect Gentleman. One night we ended up in the "Indie Club" upstairs, sitting in a booth, actually being quite civilised for once, when we suddenly realised we were surrounded by bouncers. We thought nothing of it at first but then a gaggle of women was heard laughing loudly and whooping from the booth behind us. I peered over and that's when, to my horror, I saw Chud* surrounded by Glaswegian students and bouncers. He drank a shot, nipped the bridge of his nose and ushered over a member of staff.

"How can I help?" said the staff member meekly, standing in front of the blonde rockstar, a man who's seen the bottom of every bottle.

"What the fuck is this crap they're playing on the fucking stereo, huh?!" he snapped. Even the Weegie groupies were shocked. "I requested Van Halen! Fucking Van Halen! And if that lame-ass DJ doesn't shut the fuck up and play Eddie Van Halen I'm gonna haul him off the podium and play Van Halen myself!" He got up and stormed off, the bouncer following him to the toilet. Chud waited outside while the bouncer went in ahead of him and chucked everyone out of the WC. Then, Chud went in while the bouncer manned the toilet door, stopping anyone from entering.

"You know who that is don't you?" I quivered, sensing this could be a great opportunity for Randalf to publicly destroy a famous MOR rockstar.

"Yes" replied Randalf, sipping his drink calmly, "Yes I do".

"I think you should say something," I said and right on cue, Chud emerged from the toilet and came back to the booth – chatty and charming like the seedy hyena's fart that he was. Randalf quickly finished his drink and got up. I knew this was it.

"Hi! My name is Randalf Spyra!" he exclaimed, sticking his neck over the booth in such a polite manner it could never be construed as intrusive. "I am big fan of your, uh, band, y'know, I have all your records, even the b-sides... quite a fan." It was at this point that I realised he was shouting in a comedic Bolivian accent. "Cool, thanks..." said Chud slightly suspiciously, and he turned his attention back to the groupies.

"My sisters and I like to fuck to your records." Chud pretended not to hear, but a few groupies snickered. He said it again, louder: "My sisters and I, we like to fuck to your LP. And the dog too. Me, suspended on plastic harness in the corner of the room – they whip me with a wasp's nest on the end of a pole to your fabulous music!"

The whole group was now listening to Randalf's revelation. Chud stared through him, seeeeething. "Shut the fuck up man before I cane you!" he barked and the bouncers started to move in.

"Can we arrange that your sister whip me too while I piss on her? PISS ON HER! AND YOU! IN YOUR MOUTH! UP YOUR ASS!" The bouncers were throwing us out, down the stairs, out onto the street, Randalf screaming all the way. The last image of Chud: him being held back by the bouncers, flipping the bird, and the whole upstairs club laughing.

Suffice to say that night we went to The Shack (pre-fire) and I woke up in a bus stop with no shoes. My advice to students in Glasgow would be to stay away from such establishments and other such turgid little holes. And stay off Sauchiehall Street at night. It's just full of brutal maniacs and cock-headed rockstars.

*Names have been changed

Adam Stafford is a filmmaker and musician. He is also in the band Y'all is Fantasy Island