Freddie is well known in the political/socialist/Scottish/Irish/International Republican scene. Like lots of his adoring friends we all know and love this bundle of fun and beguiling Irish rascal, but cannot get anyone on the phone in time to give formal details of his life. Janet McGinn, who took to "organising" Freddie, as best she could, after the demise of his beloved wife, Isabel on Burns day two year ago, phoned and was too shocked to remember the finer points of his active life. Janet who valiantly "organised" her husband, the late Matt McGinn has the patience of saint and is in touch with Freddie's social worker, who is also very upset, will help in an article later, which will hopefully do justice to Freddie's life and his contribution to the arts in Glasgow.
Freddie, ironically, served in The RAF when he met his wife Isabel and settled in her native Glasgow, which he took to instantly. His poems, song and plays and indeed his bar room soliloquists all reflect his superb Celtic Charm which managed to blend the best of Scottish, Irish, history, culture and charm in an non, nay, anti sectarian manner. He was in that tradition of the poor rebel poets, such as Fergusson and Sandy Rodgers. His plays performed by the Easterhouse Festival Committee, where he lived, won acclaim. His 'Krassivy', "beautiful and red" poem on John MacLean won an Edinburgh fringe first. His 'Oiney Hoy' had his daring debut in the Great Eastern Hotel, Glasgow and actually obtained a licence in that foreboding hostel, performing tae Glesga Cooncillors and Civic Dignitories in the best Freddie tradition. His radical, humorous political poems and songs are too numerous to mention and many deserve an airing here later. Woe betide the politician who fell foul of his wit and barb. To have a "Holy Wullie's Prayer" directed at you was a fate worse than death. One angry 'Scotia' barman had to go outside and to buy up all Freddie's poems lampooning him and immediately lift his ban. Across the road in the "Stockwell Village", Victoria Bar, he was barred after asking his fare home, ending his night entertaining all and sundry at the barman's expense. When given his bus fare he threw the change over the bar, demanding a taxi and was immediately barred, again, but not for long by public exclamation and fear of being parodied in print.
He is survived by his daughter Isabel and sons Paul and Dermott and will be missed by many in his beloved Glasgow toon and beyond. He died, as he had loved in poverty, unrecognised by the established arts councils and grants givers. He belonged in the age of the Celtic bards, whose chieftains would have patronised such a man and feasted him in the great halls of the clann, as the clann Domhnaill did with the Murphys, or Murchie, McMurchie, Murdoch bards who railed the Sassunach at Bannockburn and mony merr frays. As chieftain of the puddin' race I often offered him a bardship for a' the Andersoons, but he belongs to everybody, the poor, the dispossessed and the homeless.
Donald Anderson, who thankfully did not have a vitriolic sonnet penned for falling out wi' ye, over goodness knows what occasionally, for something I may have done or did not do. Freddie ye're sairly missed and irreplaceably lost to the Scottish folk.
Bloody Write will be updated in about two weeks.
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