‘Right, so tell me this then, sayin we’re being honest. Wit ir you dain goin wae some mad gimp fae college? Probably some pure perfume boy, nae doubt!’
‘Cos Dominic is different—’
‘Dominic? Riiight! Up eh road!’
‘Let me finish, Alan! If I needty choose between a guy like him n a guy that’s a pure ned—’
‘Aye you’ll go wae the money!’
‘It’s absolutely nothin to do with money!’
‘Wit is it tae dae wae then?’
‘I can’t spend the rest of my life runnin about with all the dafties of the day. I need to make choices n even if that’s maybe not who I would choose first, I’ll settle cos he’ll treat me right. He won’t break my heart by gettin the jail or gettin himself slashed or stabbed. Plus, he’ll dress nice n take me out. We can actually do stuff n go places. That’s not as mercenary as it sounds. A girl gets tired runnin after bad boys – much as it is fun for a while.’
We share a second ‘one of those looks’ ae the evening. A’m that bad boy. These feminine subtleties irnae lost on me. A don’t yit meet hur reasonable expectations. We both know that. She hud given me a million chances tae stop n choose hur awready but A’m no that clever.
‘You know I always liked you, Azzy.’
You could have had me if you wanted me, her eyes say, flickerin wae a million possibilities. She looks doon n back up. This is wit you could huv hud, son. That kinda blow hits hard, cuts yi deep aboot life choices. The Young Team n aw the carry-on is more important than me, she says wae those dark green eyes. There’s nuhin more A kin say.
Fantasylands
Saturday, 15 November 2008. Godskitchen main arena, Fantasylands at the Royal Highland Show Centre, Ingliston. There’s two halls, the Highland and the Lowland, n a massive outdoor arena wae tents holdin the smaller stages. 6 p.m.–6 a.m. We’ve been here fae half-six. It’s just gone midnight. A’m back in the water, crashin waves ae colour, sound, light. A took six rocket swedgers n A’m fleein, double duntin aw the way. A’ve still git another four tae take. Ma come up wis fuckin mad but A’ve levelled oot enough tae talk tae yees n guide yees through this dreamland.
There’s been aw sorts ae big fuckin DJs here the night. Yoji, Woody van Eyden, Stoneface n Terminal n Lange. ‘Godskitchen’ is the main arena, pure trance fest. Ferry Corsten is headlinin later on. There’s aw different groups here tae runnin arenas. ‘Back to the Future’ wae the boay, the man, the legend, Mallorca the Lee, Bass Generator, Mark EG, Marc Smith n Kutski. The ‘HTID’ area’s git Breeze n Styles n Hixxy. The last is ‘Polysexual’, wae Phil York n Andy Whitby. Fuckin some mix ae classic cunts n newer wans. These attract the eld Rez crew – there’s elder cunts divin aboot in their forties, hardcore cunts that never threw in the towel. It’s different fae Braeheed up here. Yir on the way intae Edinburgh, headin east up the M8. It’s at the airport by Ratho Station. Yi kin see the control tower on yir way in, a big hourglass-shaped fuckin thing. Yi wid be able tae hear the planes takin aff n landin if it wisnae for the hundreds ae thousands ae amps runnin through the systems, shakin the place tae bits wae heavy bangin tunes.
The YTP troops ir here givin it some. Patricia is floatin aboot somewhere anaw. A lost everycunt ages ago. Look away fur a second n the surgin n swellin crowd swallows them up n casts them adrift somewhere else. A’m floatin aboot no givin a fuck who A meet, ridin the wave. Everycunt is yir pal in here. Maybe it’s cos we’re aw fuckin oot our nuts on pills that we’re feelin the love. The ecktoplasmic euphoria n fellowship wae our common man. Harmony wae aw humanity. A love the strangers next tae me n they love me back. Peace n love tae aw mankind. Utopian society.
A’ve git a white paintin overall tied at the waist n a light blue tracky top on. It’s November n fuckin freezin ootside. The contrast in temperature is unbelievable. Yi walk intae the main arena n it’s like a wall ae heat. You’ve git aboot eight thousand sweatin, dancin n ecstasy-heated bodies in the wan room. Yir peelin yir layers aff doon tae yir bare back. There’s big curtains at the back ae the hall. Yi walk through them n yi see the event in its entirety. The name wisnae sellin it short. No a sea, but a fuckin ocean ae people aw bobbin n weavin, knitted together by sound, ecstasy n passion fur the tunes. It sways to n fro tae its ain motion n seems tae take on a form ae unity, everycunt connected in a rhythmic state. The crowd is a single entity, a cult, n our deity behind the decks. There’s three big screens at the front wae alternatin images, like a wean’s kaleidoscope. The big screen in the middle hus the DJ’s name on it in big white letters, n the line-up list flashes occasionally tae let yi know wit’s on later. Everycunt is dressed in mad shit, masks, tutus n furry boots, hotpants, white boiler suits, breathin masks, wigs n multicoloured motherfuckin dreamcoats. Lassies huv git big eyelashes on aboot three inches fae their face. They remind me ae spiders n freak us oot fur a second but A’m Johnny Bravo, fuckin surfin that wave n the ecstasy inside me is calmin ma soul, huh! It’s mucky n muddy wae a thousand trainers tramplin n shoes stampin, bouncin tae the fuckin beat.
It’s a sensual experience aw this. Yir walkin wan minute n a lassie grabs yi n starts kissin yi. Yi kin feel the net vest she’s git on when yi put yir hands on hur hips. Yi kin taste the Blue WKD she’s been drinkin n yi kin feel yir own sweat runnin doon yir neck but yi don’t care. Basic instincts ir firin on aw cylinders. Yir reachin fur the ceilin cos it’s an anthem then the annihilating rhythm drops n yir bouncin. It’s a shift but nae pain, nae gain. The lasers above yi look alien n otherworldly, a green tartan in the sky. Kin yi see them? It’s beautiful. The tunes ir trance, then drifting. ‘Drifting Away’, Lange feat. Skye. Yi feel warm, irritable but orgasmic. Every touch n sensation heightened. Yi choke fur a smoke but yi barely taste it goin doon n it’s smoother than smooth, too smooth maybe. Yir body is wet wae that eckto sweat n yir just dancin. Yi git loadsa wee thoughts n yi think Did A just think that?! Yir minds goin too fast fur yi tae keep up. Confusion in the membrane. Yi forget where yi ir, who yir wae n who the fuck yi ir. A’m Azzy W – dancin machine, WKD n Coors tanner, glowstick raver, eckto muncher, renegade master.
A keep thinkin A’m in Braeheed but n A’m lookin aboot fur the seats n they’re no there, then A remember. Aw A kin dae is dance. A’m a fuckin ravin machine n ma petrol is Coors n Blue WKD. They hand oot cups ae water somewhere n yi tan them tae just stay alive. A’m floatin through the crowd. If yir headin oot, yir no wan ae the cult. Yir a trespasser in a foreign land. The only acceptable way tae go is forwards n praise the idol wae an offerin, a sacrifice ae sweat n youth, oh sweet n forgotten youth. A’m pushin against the current, goin against the grain. The rain in Spain falls mainly on the plain. Pure random thoughts n mince n tatties in the brain.
Phasers tae stun, troops, we’re goin in. A take the last four pills oot ma pocket n gub them aw in the wanner. In aboot twenty minutes, A’m gonnae feel it. After the big come up, the ascension, takin mare pills just prolongs the dunt. Yi never peak again, never feel that rush. Yi flow along on a high, but never that nought tae a hunner sensation ae leavin the normal n headin fur the stratosphere. Hydrate n taper aff, ya sexy ride yi. Replace salts fae sweat. Minimise alcohol. Hydrate n survive. Salt. Water. Minerals. Hydrate, but no too much. A pint an hour, when sweatin profusely. That is the government advice. A know A’m gonnae feel these four. If yi took a number at wan time, yi git hit wae the hammer. Sometimes it’s overwhelmin, too much. Pleasure passin, vergin on sickness, dizziness, sinkin feelings n the bad times slippin in …
A’m maself among thousands noo n A don’t feel so good. Those four pills huv fucked me up. A’ve git a sick feelin in ma stomach n ma heed is light n dizzy. A bend over n spew. A’m only bringin up water n swally n foul tastin stomach acid n bile. Ma throat is burnin n A’m washin it doon wae a Blue WKD n lightin a fag. A feel ma heed droppin. A’m exhausted, shattered n broken – a casualty of our war against the system. A steward is pickin me up n usherin me towards the buildin. A cannae fight him n A don’t argue. A catch a
glimpse ae the toilets. Queues ae folk standin waitin in the cold. They irnae smilin anymore. A see faces A huvnae seen before. They’re oot it, eyes rollin in their heeds, soakin n freezin. Lassies huddled intae guys who ir laughin. Cunts growlin at us n makin us para. Fuckin Young Team, ya bams, A think wae nae conviction. A’m cuddlin intae this fuckin steward in a hi-vis jakit. He’s ma saviour leadin me through the masses n A’m swirlin in the whirlpool. G4S, ma Redeemer is here.
A’ve went too far. A’m gone, fleein right oot ma dial. Pure spinnies n sick comin up again. Ma face n skin feels weird tae these alien eckto spider hands. A’m thinkin aboot Patricia in here somewhere n Monica, but she’s no here. A’m sure she’s no here. A wish wan ae them wis here tae look after me n ma baws ir tinglin. Even in this nick, A’m gittin rushes ae sexual pleasure fae deep within n a long, fuckin yearn n burn tae feel the mad eckto love wae wan ae them, or both – why no. Anyhin is possible fur the drug generation. The love generation, world – hold on. A’m led inside n told tae put ma fag oot. It’s been burnin away between ma fingers n ma hands feel funny. Ma eyes ir rollin in ma ain heed n A’m staggerin. The feelin is too much. It’s no pleasure anymore. Pleasure wis a few mile back. This is suhin else, some darker place. THE DRUGS DON’T WORK, YA FUCKIN FANNY. Trippin oot ma fuckin bush, man. They rockets ir dipped in acid, so rumour hus it.
A’m definitely no rollin anymore n A’m drownin in these sensations. The steward takes ma bottle n chucks it in the bin. A’m no in the rave anymore. Game’s a bogey, man, gees ma baw. There’s a wee room wae chairs n inflatable beds. It’s a wee meetin ae the totally fucked cunts, a conference ae sorts. There’s lassies sittin wae spew buckets. Boys sittin wae their tongues hangin oot n eyes naewhere tae be seen. It’s the fuckin gouch couch. A’m puttin ma hands in the air n tryin tae dance, cunts ir laughin if they kin laugh n just keepin being, keepin conscious n tryin no tae lose it cos hearts ir racin in here.
‘WELCOME TAE THE GOUCH COUCH!’ A’m shoutin like a fuckin idiot. The hi-vis sentinel hands me over tae the health n welfare cunts in red fleeces. They feel like sheepy sheep, A think as A’m sat doon next tae a lassie who’s just as fleein as me. A feel like sleepin but A’m being woken by an angel in red. She’s wavin a single finger tellin me tae stay awake. A nod like a wee lost puppy. A’m still sweatin n soakin. There’s a blanket put roon ma shoulders n A’m being handed a packet ae KP nuts n a can ae Coke. ‘Eat them n sip at your can. No sleepin, son.’ A nod n start stuffin the nuts in ma gub. Eatin’s cheatin, doll. They’re dead salty n A’ve nae saliva tae digest the things n ma mooth’s fulla dry nut crumb. The lassie tries tae smile at me but hur face is fucked n twisted wae pills. This isnae beauty, man. Cunts ir sparkled, faces mutated n unhuman wae drugs. This is the few that went wrong, took too many. The lassie’s hair is soakin wet n she’s git on the same blanket as me. Our humanity seeks support n comfort, aw beauty n colour forgotten. We don’t know each other but we’re united in our common sufferin. We, the refugee children of the chemical revolution.
‘Yi awright?’ she asks us.
‘Course A’m ir! A’m Azzy fuckin Williams!’ A slur.
She’s laughin n shakin hur heed. ‘A’m Emma.’
‘Happnin, Emma.’
‘Wit happened tae you?’
‘A’ve took ten sweeties. The last four A’ve gubbed in the wanner. Tae be honest A’m no sure how A got in here.’
‘Me neither. A lost aw ma pals n started being sick, out ma dial.’
‘Fuck sake. Where yi fae?’
‘Coatbrig, you?’
‘Up that way anaw!’
‘Did yees git a bus?’
‘Aye, there wis fifteen ae us. Lost everycunt hours ago.’
A look around n take in this wee room before us. It’s still blurry under the harsh halogen lamps. It’s a wee anteroom. There’s pipes n tubes runnin aw over the place. It’s some kind ae storage room. The night it’s been converted intae a gouch couch. It’s a place ae sanctuary fur cunts like me who huv taken a bad wan on drugs. There’s paramedics in the corner, green uniforms n a big red bag n stretcher. The rest ir the volunteers in red fleeces. The casualties ir varied. There’s a guy sittin wae his burd. He’s oot it, sittin lickin his lips, but she’s far gone. Hur heed is in hur hands n she’s being sick in a basin. The two ae them ir boggin. In fact, we aw ir. Almost up tae the knees, everyone is covered in pure rave muck. Ma eld Lacoste trainers ir fucked, pure mockit. The lassies ir still sittin in their tutus n multicoloured dresses n taps, some wae wee shorts or hotpants on. Their legs ir filthy up tae the shins. The looks on these young cunts faces ir horrible. A try no tae look at them cos they’re geein me the fear. The early charm ae seein cunts wae big pupils n smiles hus long faded. We’re aw stuck wae these feelings until our systems work the substances oot. It’s a long process when yir feelin like this. Yi feel like yi could die n the thoughts in yir brain disconnect fae that previous sacred life yi hud. If yi went tonight, yi wid go thinkin a lot ae nonsense, sweatin n wishin fur things lost – that forgotten paradise ae the normal. The everyday mundane, that beautiful fuckin boredom n family shite.
Me n ma new pal Emma ir sittin sharin the packet ae nuts n sippin water. Faces twisted n unhuman wae drugs. A think fur a moment if A’ve said that awready or just thought it but A cannae be sure. This hour has finally slowed. It’s half three. There’s two n a half hour left. A know Ferry Corsten wull be on soon but A still cannae remember if A’m at the Braeheed Arena or Ingliston. A honestly dunno where the fuck A’m ir. Aw time n space drift away fae me n A’m Y T FUCKIN P. The gang, the battle. They’re aw here somewhere but A’m marooned on this desert island. Robinson Crusoe. Gennaro Gattuso. Rangers Football Club. Take me home, somecunt. Back tae the island. Country Roads. Jungle Run. Fun House. Move it, fitbaw heed. Hey fuckin Arnold. Haw! Lavi heed, you’re gettin it!
The ecstasy is calmin doon. The wallop ae those four pills knocked me fur six. Yi feel close tae death when yir like this. Feelins ae paranoia n fear n pure confusion n repetition. Yir heart is constantly beatin hard n fast. Yi start hearin it, like a bongo drum in your hollow chest. Yi feel physically empty inside. Just a vacant shell wae a void where yir internal organs should be. Yi try not tae think how they work at moments like this or even the fact that you’ve got any n ir basically a skin machine. Yi scare yirsel wae thoughts like that. Yir brain is racin, thoughts sparkin like electricity meetin water. Even thinkin that yi huv a brain in yir skull is a mad thought the noo. Class As ir strange n send yir thoughts on a weird fuckin journey through yir consciousness. Ma wee gouch couch pal Emma glances over tae me n kisses ma cheek, bringin me back tae humanity, sexuality n feelings ae love, family n security, a future n a life. Life, beautiful life. Choose life? That kiss saves me. Choose love. A try tae smile at hur but A’m still fleein n A just put ma arm roon hur n stare at ma boggin trainers n the floor.
Time passes but A’ve lost the concept ae its construction. Minutes ir hours n hours ir minutes n seconds ir days n days ir aw the ages of men. A hear everywan screamin. We both know wit’s happnin. Ferry Corsten is startin in the main arena. This wee room led intae it. A wee smile crosses Emma’s face n she cuddles intae me. We’re both trance lovers n fanatics tae our ravin religion n we’re missin it cos ae chasin this chemical happiness. It’s aw synthetic, no even real.
‘Where yi fae?’
‘Coatbrig.’
‘Awright, Emma. Half an hour in the main arena n A’ll drop yi aff in the mighty brig. Time tae boost this fuckin roost.’
A smile crosses the wee blonde’s face. ‘Right then, Azzy.’
A stand tae ma feet as if A’m on a surfboard cos the room’s spinnin n the rockets ir dipped in acid, so rumour hus it. A extend a hand n pull hur up. A de-toga, swingin the red blanket over ma heed. A stand before the senate tae plead ma case. This will be a gouch couch ae the people, by the people – fur the people. Emma chucks hers over hur shoulder. We walk oot the-gither n back intae the jungle fur wan last game ae Jumanji. A’m h
oldin hur hand n we’re walkin towards the big hall. Our pupils don’t need tae dilate. It’s pitch black, Sunday morning. We know where we’re going. Through the defeated hordes headin towards the gates n a thousand buses n taxis, we’re pushin onwards, loyal and true tae our cause. The cult hus us noo n they welcome us home. Intae the main arena in the Highland hall. Our god, at the front, wae his hands raised. We follow the lead. Take our place in the middle tae worship wan last time. Ferry Corsten, ‘Punk’. The lights ir blue n purple, lasers green. Emma holds me tight n pulls me closer towards her lips n A think, just fur a moment, that it could be love.
PART IV
Corroded
85M BILL FOR CRIME IN THE BUCKFAST TRIANGLE
The local authority which is home to the ‘Buckfast Triangle’ spent a massive £85 million tackling alcohol-related crime last year.
Shocking new statistics found that North Lanarkshire recorded almost 6,000 offences involving drink last year, around one every two hours, costing almost £250,000 a day.
The area was found to be home to several of the worst eight areas for drink-related deaths, and incorporates the so-called ‘Buckfast Triangle’ of Coatbridge, Airdrie and Bellshill, where there are markedly high sales of the strong, caffeine-high tonic wine.
The Young Team Page 14