Xanadu on Morrison Street was once owned by a Chinese man named Mr Ma. I found myself working the door there five nights a week, from eight in the evening until two in the morning throughout 1986.
The music scene was dominated by the likes of the Communards, Diana Ross, George Michael and Boy George, while the 1984-85 miners strike had become a distant memory. Edinburgh at that time was a city where ambition was a ticket to belonging.
On three of those five nights at Xanadu – Tuesday to Thursday – I worked solo, but on Fridays and Saturdays, Rocksteady would send me a partner for back-up, each one different from the last.
Some memorable characters included Horizontal Wullie, who earned his name from constantly getting knocked out; Ray from Dunfermline, a self-proclaimed powerlifter with a backside so large it could’ve warranted its own postcode; and Daft Donald from Auchtermuchty, who once got stabbed in the face with a cigarette by a woman he’d been flirting with after making an inappropriate comment about her cleavage.
To say Xanadu was rough would be an understatement. It was almost expected that you’d have a blade on you upon entry (a joke, but barely).
During those long, solitary nights, I became familiar with the notorious figures of Edinburgh’s underworld. Their names and reputations were legendary, as was the sense that anything could happen – and it often did.
Edinburgh’s nightlife scene was buzzing with hotspots like Lord Toms at the top of Lothian Road, the Rutland at the bottom, Biancos at the West End, Styx and Mad Dogs on George Street, Cinderellas in Stockbridge, and Buster Browns on Market Street for a Sunday night out. I’ve had my stint working at most of these iconic venues, except for Cinderellas and Biancos.
But let’s not get sidetracked.
It was during my time at Xanadu in late 1986 when I first encountered Chris Sneddon – or Figs, as he’s also known. He walked in on a chilly Tuesday evening with his girlfriend, sizing me up with a look that got under my skin.
“Who the f**ck’s he? ” I remember thinking. They left after about half an hour, and I watched as he stopped her on the pavement, turned back, and approached me with a question: “Eh, scuse me mate,” he said, walking back in.
“Do I recognise you from the Y-Os? ” The Y-Os was slang for Young Offenders, and no, he didn’t know me from there. However, that initial encounter sparked a friendship that nearly landed me behind bars more than once.
Figs, as it turns out, was a former member of the Livi Skins – a notorious and extremely violent skinhead gang from Livingston in the early eighties. He’d just served a five-year sentence for serious assault and was quite literally off his rocker.
Within a few weeks, I’d introduced Chris to Mark Hamilton at his Greenside Place office and before you knew it, he was working alongside me at Xanadu on a regular basis. We soon started gallivanting around town together in one of his many beat-up cars.
The upside was that whenever there was trouble, you couldn’t ask for a more reliable person to have by your side. And that’s not even considering the guys he introduced me to from Craigshill in Livingston, where he hailed from.
With Chris, I found myself in too many sticky situations to count, but luckily I managed to come out unscathed. Besides Xanadu, we also worked together on the door of the Lord Darnley at West Port, the Gay Gordons in Gilmerton – where a full-blown riot broke out on our first night – and also at Lord Toms.
Back then, a one-bedroom flat in Gorgie would set you back around twenty-six grand, and the police were cruising around in Ford Escort RS Cosworths.
Back in the day, after finishing a weekend shift at the pub with Chris, we’d often head back to a Grassmarket flat owned by his friend, Flori (not her real name), who Chris claimed was an advertising executive. It later transpired that Flori was actually an escort and Chris was her protector.
Chris had developed a cannabis habit during his time inside, and at Flori’s he would light up a joint, sit back, and share tales of his wild escapades as part of the Livi Skins. He also spoke about his prison life and the various characters he encountered there.
Sadly, Chris passed away over the Christmas period in 2001 from a massive heart attack. In retrospect, he wasn’t a man destined for old age.
I’ll never forget him, particularly how he cared for me after I broke my neck in a car accident in northern Mexico in 1992. But that’s a tale for another time.
Bissets Bar, now Thomson’s Bar, Morrison Street, 1985. Picture: Ingve Halvorsen.