We hear the Rangers supporters celebratin again in the away stand. We dunno wit’s happnin n there’s a confusion again. The players ir lookin tae the coaches at the touchline. Big Eck McLeish is wavin his arms, signallin tae his players tae keep playin n don’t stop. The game isnae finished. They’re lookin aboot fur the ref’s whistle tae end play. Alex McLeish and the Rangers coaches start huggin at the touchline n goin nuts themselves, cos the news hus come over the wireless tae the bench. The split screen pops up again and the sound switches tae the Celtic n Motherwell game on the lounge projector n big speakers.
Another chance for McDonald! He’s in the box. Can he do it?
McDONALD?!
HE’S SCORED!
McDONALD HAS SCORED AGAIN.
IT’S ALL OVER!
MOTHERWELL TWO, CELTIC ONE!
THE TITLE IS GOING TO IBROX!
The Orange Hall goes absolutely fuckin bananas. Grannies ir kissin cunts on the cheek and grown men ir huggin like wumen n greetin wae happiness. Pints ir flyin through the air like fountains n packets ae nuts ir flyin aboot like confetti. We aw burst intae song in unison as if it hus been rehearsed.
‘ALL TO-GETHER NOW!
THE CRY WAS NO SURR-ENDER!
SURR-ENDER OR YOU’LL DIE – DIE! DIE!
WITH HEART AND HAND,
AND SWORD AND SHIELD,
WE’LL GUARD OLD DE-RRY’S WALLS!’
The seconds tick ever onwards. Everybody’s on their feet waitin, hopin, prayin and dreamin. There’s cheers ae MON THE GERS fae the lounge n the rest ir nervously waitin. Aw the men ir up oan their feet n some shuffle aboot tae the toilet n the bar. Celtic need tae score twice tae take the title. There’s nae time fur that. The game finishes at Fir Park: MOTHERWELL 2, CELTIC 1. It’s aw over fur them but we’re still playin, the final minutes n seconds. A draw up there wid cost us the league. Kin it be? FULL TIME EASTER ROAD! RANGERS 1, HIBERNIAN 0. It’s aw over. The commentators go mental n the lounge erupts. The Rangers’ travellin support invades the pitch up in Edinburgh n floods the green grass wae a sea ae red, white, blue n orange.
ABSOLUTE SCENES AT EASTER ROAD.
FANS GO WILD, RUNNING ON TO THE PARK.
THE POLICE ARE TRYING TO KEEP ORDER …
RANGERS ARE THE CHAMPIONS!
We fuckin float oot the club, singin like fuck n still buzzin. There’s me, Big Eck, Broonie, Addison, Toffey n Carlyle. We’ve aw git Rangers taps on. Big Eck’s git a Union flag tied roon his waist n the orange Diadora shirt. A’ve git an Ulster flag wrapped around mine n ma eld blue Diadora Rangers tap on, long-sleeved, wae the lions n the collar. The rest ae the boys ir wearin the new lightweight Diadora taps. We’ve git our bottles ae wine planked roon the side n bounce roon tae grab them oot the bushes. We’re walkin doon the middle ae the road, aw swaggerin, singin n gawn mental. When the Old Firm plays aboot here there’s radio silence and the streets ir apocalyptically quiet, naecunt walkin aboot n nae traffic on the roads. After the game cunts would flood oot hooses n yi wid see the place come back tae life wae a bang. We’re still in the middle ae the road n aw singin the-gither. (Tae the tune ae ‘Winter Wonderland’.)
‘THERE’S ONLY ONE NACHO NOVO,
HE SAID NO – TO THE PROVOS,
HE SAID NO THANKS, YA BUNCH AE WANKS,
WALKIN IN A NOVO WONDERLAND!’
The place is buzzin, totally alive. The streets fill wae cunts wearin colours n motors start appearin on the road. Normal life kin resume n it’s as if some wicked spell hus been lifted aff everycunt. That static charge in the air seems tae earth n we leave three hundred years n ninety minutes ae religious conflict behind us. At least until next season or the big walk in July, where tensions wid rise again n grown men in Celtic taps would spit at yi n call yi a wee fuckin Orange bastard. It’s a momentary division, superficial here really, despite everycunt’s best act that it isnae.
Down the shop, we see the Republican half ae the Young Team comin fae the other pub, where they aw congregate in when we’re in the Orange Hall. They’re aw draped in Irish Tricolours n green n white n yella Celtic taps. We’re still singin n geein it laldi. They’re awready shoutin abuse n IRA slogans up at us.
‘YA FUCKIN ORANGE BASTARDS!’
‘Tiocfaidh ár lá, ya dirty hun cunts!’
We’re no geein a fuck n we’re singin our songs over them. Big Kenzie is at the front, then Wee Kenzie, Danny, Briggy n Finnegan, wae a khaki balaclava n a Tricolour wrapped roon his waist, n Wee Gunny. They’re shoutin the odds n singin their own songs ae tradition n rebellion.
‘By a lone-ly prison wall-ll,
I heard a young man calll-ing,
“Nothing matters, Ma-ry, when you’re free!
AGAINST THE FAMINE AND THE CROWN,
I RE-BELLED, THEY CUT ME DOWN!
Now you must, raise our child – with digni-ty”.’
We’re standin on opposite sides ae the road geein each other abuse. Motors ir slowin doon tae look n residents ir hurryin by. They think there’s gonnae be a riot. There isnae but n the fitbaw is practically forgotten, apart fae our colours n flags. The YT always took precedence over any sectarian divide. Big Kenzie n Eck bounce in fur a healthy cargo n we aw start walkin doon the park.
There’s nae park really, just skeletons ae swings n the remnants ae other climbin frames n shite. The place is forgotten but it’s ours. A’m lookin aboot as we bounce through the gate n start joggin doon the ash path. A watch as ma troops jump the fence, wae our blue cairy-oot bags swingin tae the beat, aw bammin each other up aboot the game n chattin shite. Big Kenzie n Eck ir at the back, pushin each other n wrestlin as they walk. Me n Toffey n Danny ir walkin next n Finnegan n Addison n the rest ae the younger wans ir up ahead. ‘Dae yi want a chicken supper, Bobby Sands?’ Eck is shoutin, steamin. Big Kenzie’s yellin back tae him. ‘Aye, gee him a bit ae yours, ya fat fuckin proddy cunt!’ We’re aw laughin at them. Big Kenzie’s got Eck in a heed-lock n they’re tryin tae sweep each other then rollin aboot the grass fightin.
The fields further doon ir showin signs ae the comin summer noo. The air’s changin. Yi noticed that in the countryside up here. This summer wid be some buzz. The wans previous, yi hud been just the wee guys kickin the dust n tryin tae git the odd bit fur a joint or a few stolen cans. This year wid be different. We’re the main troops noo n our time hus come. Six weeks ae madness lay in store fur us. Yi end up skint n back kickin that dust desperately seekin adventure n listenin tae tunes on The Box wae yir maw’s windaes flung open, lettin these new tunes fill the street wae the colour ae trance n teenage rebellion. The big Orange walk fell right in the middle, which practically guaranteed madness. Long as we got a few burds n a few mad aw-nighters, A wid be happy. Yi kin see it comin wae every night that stretches n holds on tae dusk a wee bit longer. Yi kin be oot wae the troops tae eleven o’clock in the light nights ae the summer up here. Aw sittin roon a wee fire at the log, drinkin yir bottles until the darkness creeps in around yees in the woods. The endless nights ae summer n eternal youth.
We reach the bridge n Big Kenzie is handin the cans oot. These ir the hazy dayz, chilled oot material. We sit n roll a few joints n drink our bottles, still draped in Union, Ulster n Irish Tricolour flags, n forget aboot division n the afternoon n the days slippin away. That doesnae matter but cos time is on our side, the summer stretchin oot before us wae a million possibilities ae love n war, high dayz n fuckin adventure on the Lanarkshire Frontier. The wind picks up n sweeps roon the eld railway bridge n an amber sunset fades behind the Campsies, leavin a dark silhouette in their stead. A’m standin lookin at them as A crack a fresh bottle ae wine n neck it. They’ve seen it aw come n go n yi feel small in their mighty presence. Ma granny used tae say that the hills looked over yi, blue n expandin forever, beyond the cemetery n the rollin green fields behind. The sky goes dark n aw yi kin see is the orange tip ae a joint gittin passed between eld pals n the Cumbernauld streetlights that come on in the distance.
PART II
Galvanise
d
Murder and culpable homicide rates across Strathclyde have jumped by around 40 per cent, according to the latest figures from Scotland’s biggest police force.
Chief Constable Steve House said that at least 47 of the victims were known to their alleged attackers, and said cheap drink and the rise in the number of house parties were also significant factors.
Deborah Anderson, Evening Times
A Strathclyde Safari
2008
Strathclyde Park, known tae us as ‘Strathy’, is where yi go a spin when yi pass yir test. It lies between Hamilton tae the west n Motherwell tae the east. It’s four kilometres squared ae roads n wee car parks centred around Strathclyde Loch. It’s home tae M&Ds, Scotland’s biggest theme park wae aw the rollercoasters n the Kamikaze. A think that’s away noo right enough. The Kamikaze wis two big cages swingin roon, like two fixed grasshopper oil wells yi see in America. They swung adjacent tae wan another n when the first cage reached the tap, it wid pause, leavin yi suspended upside doon fur a minute. It wis then yi heard everywan’s money n phones flyin intae the cage, n A even seen somebody spew n watched a candyfloss n cheese burger mix makin the same trip back tae earth. A preferred the wee shows wae the daft shootin ranges wae the eld 2.2 rifles at Burntisland n aw that. A wis always no bad at that. As an elder teenager yi wid be slopin aff wae the local burds tae the beach n tryin tae git fags n a bottle ae wine. Yi wid sit on the wee rocky bit wae aw the troops n git a swally n hope somebody hud a CD player wae batteries fur beats. They wur the fuckin days.
The local shows wur run by gypsies n yi always ended up fightin wae them. A few ae the big parks in our town n doon Coatbrig became home tae travellin fairs a few times a year. As soon as dark fell n aw the weans left it wid be time tae tango. The gypsy boys wur mental cunts, pure tough made. They wid be standin in a group, makin sure naebody wis thievin or bumpin the rides. Then the young teams ae the town wid attack them n you’d huv full-on square-goes, fights breakin oot everywhere, amid the incessant whine ae the bells n whistles, the muzak n eld dance tunes bangin oot. Even a few high-vis security cunts couldnae stop a rampagin young team meetin the gypos in the middle. If yi wurnae boxin, yi wid just drink a bottle ae wine n jump along fur the ride. Loads ae wee tidies wid be wanderin aboot catchin yir eye wae dirty looks. Cunts bouncin aboot on eckies starin at the flashy lights wae a carnal lust.
‘Aw wit, mate! She’s a fuckin beauty!’ Danny says.
‘Mate, you’ve seen it a hunner times!’ A say, laughin.
‘Aye, she’s a slick beast!’ Broonie says, polishin the bonnet wae his sleeve.
‘Wit aboot Addison in the fuckin new Astra? 1.8 SRI? Your maw n da ir mental geein yi that.’
‘It’s aboot the bottle, no just the throttle!’ Wee Kenzie says.
‘Where we gawn the night then?’
‘Falkirk cruise!’
‘That’s only a Thursday or suhin, man. Wit aboot Strathy?’
‘Aye, yi need tae go tae M&Ds when yi pass fuck!’
‘Place is hoatchin with polis but!’ Addison says.
‘So fuck, Azzy’s just passed n he’s chokin tae go a good spin. Git a Maccy Dee’s n that,’ Danny says. He sees ma expression. ‘Nae mess in Azzy’s shiny new brief, troops! Or they’ll be death in the camp!’
‘Right that’s that then. Strathy it is, boys,’ Wee Kenzie says.
‘Wit aboot the lassies? Think they’ll come a run?’ Danny asks us.
‘Aye, A says tae Gemma tae come but she’s no replied,’ A say.
‘You’re fuckin Gemma in the brain, mate,’ Wee Kenzie shoots back.
‘Say tae hur then tae git the rest ae them oot fur a spin – better wae the lassies oot fur a laugh n a swatch!’
‘Aye, Finnegan’s just wantin another pump at Toni!’ Broonie’s shoutin.
‘A’ve no fuckin went wae Toni, awright! Telt yees a hunner times!’
‘Fuckin baws, Finnegan! Two ae yees ir always sittin gittin a wee swally or a few joints or a wee munchy box! Yir full ae shite!’
‘We’re just pals, Kenzie! Fuckin swear doon!’
‘Aye, pals wae benefits!’
‘Naw, more like pals on benefits!’ Kenzie shouts.
We aw fuckin buckle again. Even Finnegan manages a smile. The night’s sorted. A wee run doon through Strathy, a Maccy Dee’s at Hamilton retail park, then back up the road.
Danny boy’s smilin away, leanin in ma driver’s windae. ‘Wit yi fuckin lookin it, fanny baws?’ A say tae him.
‘Nuhin, mate, just weird tae see you drivin! Always is when somebody passes their test.’
‘Aye, nae baw hair, Tokyo Drift,’ A shout tae him as he gets in his ain motor. He hud passed aboot two month ago, the cunt.
The tune blastin through the system is Michael Woods, ‘Solex’. We’re aw racin doon the Whifflet, then past the Shawheed flyover n fleein left ontae the Bellshill Road, doon past the Hilton hotel n the business park. The limit is fifty but we’re rallyin it dain eighty. Addison’s away oot n by like fuck in his Astra SRI. Finnegan is in an eld gold Peugot 306, pure nineties brief. Kenzie’s in Danny’s wee 206, the turquoise wan. Ma wee Corsa C isnae the fastest, but it looks no bad, black SXI wae lowerin springs n white 17" ten-spoke alloys. Fuckin spot on fur ma first wee shaggin wagon. The last cunt who hud it hooked it up fur beats n there’s red translucent wires leadin intae the boot fae the bonnet n tucked under the plastic door trims. Big Kenzie donated an eld 1200 watt, green Fusion sub n amp fae his eld Golf tae the cause ae tunage. That’s hooked up in the boot n bangin, dancin tae the vibrations ae the beats n makin yi feel the bass in yir chest n heed.
We’re drivin in the Bothwell-end gate, turnin aff fae the big roundabout. Past the entrance n intae the park wae the steel skeletons ae rollercoasters fadin in the darkness. We’ve still git the windaes doon wae Marcel Woods, ‘Lemon Tree’ pulsin through the motor as we’re cruisin through. There’s two polis motors sittin outside the main centre n we roll by casual, hidin the joints in the ashtrays. Yi go straight up fur half a mile, on a wee road through the park n the woods wae the loch on yir right-hand side. Then after that, as yi approach the Hamilton side, you’ve git a network ae wee car parks at the waterfront, aw appearin at different points doon the road. At night these could be full ae unsavoury characters n of course, the polis. Loadsa drug deals went doon here n a few lassies hud even been raped. It’s miles n miles ae dark woods, roads n secluded car parks filled wae the young teams ae every scheme in Lanarkshire. Yi huv tae keep yir wits aboot yi. Forget the scene ae Scottish beauty through the day, the loch n feedin the ducks n aw that shite – at night, these woods became a jungle. The night, ma first legally drivin a motor vehicle, we’re on safari.
Our convoy is still passin through the park. The car parks ir full the night, motors hidin behind the darkenin trees. The sun is almost doon noo n it’s that mad dusky pink light. A kin make oot Rangers n Celtic taps through the trees n dafties still bouncin aboot, some wae taps aff n the familiar green n yella ae Buckfast bottles. Broonie’s rollin a joint in the motor’s handbook noo, crunchin the grinder, n A’m scopin the scene, seein where we kin pull up n sit. A hud been doon here in elder cunts motors when A wis a wee guy n kin always mind it being jailbait. The polis wid park at the top ae the wee car parks n go doon n search everycunt. If yi get caught wae a grinder full ae green, yir fucked. A few times when the polis hud appeared at the motor, A’d crunched a full fuckin joint intae a wee baw n stuck it doon the front ae ma trackies, folded the book away n swept up the tobacco tae avoid a drugs charge. The grinder is the only thing yi cannae git tae fuck quickly. It’s hard tae deny a solid metal cylinder wae half quarter ae ground-up stinky grass n a bumblin Broonie in charge ae the surreptitious destruction ae evidence. Yi huv tae be quick n smooth no tae git busted, then play it cool under the duress ae questionin, melted oot yir nut.
We pull intae the next car park wae only a wee blue Saxo VTS sittin in it. There’s a few lassies in the motor n nae dafties. We aw park
across fae the burds n slide aw the windaes doon so we kin talk across the four motors. Addison is wae a burd we didnae know, Amy. Finnegan’s wae Wee Toni, as per. Danny is wae Amanda n Kenzie in the back n A’m wae wee fuckin captain chaos, Broonie boy. Amanda’s leanin oot the windae talkin tae me while she lights a fag. ‘Where’s yir burd the night, son?’
‘She didnae want tae come oot. Fuck knows wit’s the matter wae hur,’ A say.
‘She pissed aff at yi fur suhin?’
‘Aw fuck probably!’
‘Yi probably deserve it! Gemma’s no been aboot much lately, right enough. She’s oot wae hur new pals in the town n aw that. They aw go tae Tunnel.’
A hudnae really seen Gemma properly fur a few weeks n any time A tried she wis patchin it. It wis a passin fling really, no much mare than that. A wisnae lookin fur love anyways, just chasin the buzz wae the elder chicks, as always fur the Azzy boay. If yi chase the bad burds n the elder wans, longevity isnae often guaranteed. Short n intense is best.
‘Wit’s the plan then, Azzy boy?’
The wee burds in the motor opposite ir geein us the eye, a wee blonde wan n a brunette n A’m nudgin Broonie tae look, but he’s stoned noo n jist gigglin away tae himself. ‘Plan is, draw ae that fuckin joint, ya mad hog!’
‘Oh sorry, swed. Didnae realise A hud fuckin puffed it away.’
‘Yi never dae, ya wee cunt!’
A start settin another wan up in the book. Everycunt is banterin away, shoutin tae be heard up the line ae motors n over the 6X9s n the sub’s heavy vibrations. A’m sittin wae the tunes on n Art of Trance, ‘Madagascar’ (Ferry Corsten Remix) is reachin the good bit. A’m lookin oot intae the water, stoned n fascinated aboot nuhin, dreamin aboot burds n checkin oot the tidies in the next motor. The sun is doon behind the other side ae the loch n it’s lit the sky aw orange against royal blue. The long summer nights ir absolute quality. It’s the end ae July noo but n the end ae summer is in the air. It makes yi feel restless, like yir runnin oot ae time again like those summers years ago that passed us by.
The Young Team Page 10