Glue (13 page)

— Aye, in yir dreams, the lassie goes back.

— Mibbe see ye in Clouds but, Terry insists.

— Aye, mibbe, she goes, but the dirty cunt’ll be ridin her the night, nowt surer.

Sometimes ah wish thit ah wis like Terry, eywis kennin the right things tae say, kennin how tae act. Ah worry sometimes thit wi me lookin that young, thit ah jist hud back the likes ay him n Billy, n even Carl. It jist makes ays mair determined but, tae show thaim, n the likes ay Dozo n Gentleman, that ah’ll no be hudin back whin we meet some Glesgay cunts.

We piled oot the Wimpy, feelin the strength that bein part ay a crowd gave ye. Thir’s eywis been cunts that fight at the fitba whae can dae it in a mob, but shite oot in a square-go. Ye cannae huv too many ay thaim. Ye feel good bein wi these cunts here though, cause it’s some ay the hardest cunts fae the school n scheme here. Ye ken they’ll no shite oot, even against yir widest fuckers fae the Gorbals or wherever these thievin blade-merchant scruffs come fae. Even against men, cunts that are like twenty-one n aw that. Ah’m gled ah kept ma earring oot. If some cunt grabs it, that’s you fucked.

Wir oaf!

My herts gaun fuckin boom-boom-boom, bit ah’m tryin no tae show it.

Ah sees Doyle slip somethin tae Billy, n it looks like some notes. Eh says somethin aboot coppers n nicked, so mibbe it’s fir fines if wi git done! That’ll be it, plannin ahead. Real gangsters, us n the Doyles n that!

Carl’s aw funny aboot this though, ye kin tell eh wants tae ken what’s gaun oan. Eh kens better thin tae ask in front ay Doyle but.

Doon Rose Street first. Wir walkin in wee groups ay three n four. Ah’m wi Dozo n Terry n Martin Gentleman. Ah call um Marty cause only ehs real mates call um Gent. Ah glances intae a pub n sees thit thuv goat Asteroids. — So ye goat a k.b. then, Terry, eh? Ah wind the cunt up.

— Like fuck. She wis fuckin wantin pumped, her wi the teeth. She’s gittin the stinky-pinky if she’s up at Clouds the night, tell ye that fir fuck all, eh goes, n wi aw huv a laugh.

— That Caroline Urquhart’s a ride. She hud a couple ay buttons oan her blouse undone and ye could see a bit ay the tit. In English yesterday, ah goes.

Ah looks intae the next pub n it’s goat Space Invaders, which is barry. Ah’d never git served in thair but. Some auld guys n Hibs skerfs walk oot the pub, shakin thir heids n disgust. A few Huns at the bar are
singing and one, a skinny guy wi long hair, aboot thirty, steps oot intae the street and shouts, — Ya dirty auld Fenian bastirts! eftir the auld boys, whae dinnae look back.

Ah look tae see if the boys ur botherin, but naw, we’re eftir cunts oor ain age.

— Caroline Urquhart . . . she’s a fuckin stuck-up wee hing-oot, Terry sais tae ays.

— You’d ride her if you goat the chance, ah tells um.

— Naw ah wouldnae, Terry goes, and eh sais like eh means it.

— Ah’d fuckin ride her n a minute, Marty Gentleman goes. — Bit ah’d shag that Amy Connor first.

Gentleman could probably bag oaf wi Amy Connor, cause eh looks aulder n eh’s a big hard cunt. No wi Caroline Urquhart but, she’s mair snobby, well, ah widnae say snobby, but likesay classier. But ah’m thinkin aboot this, aboot who’s the biggest shag between the two. Dozo’s aw irritated but. Eh’s noddin ower tae some
Sash
-singing cunts. We up our pace n faw in behind thum. Thir’s aboot five boys, drapped in Union Jacks. One’s goat
ARDROSSAN LOYAL
in white letters oan it. Eh’s wearin nine-inch Docs. Dozo boots this one in the heel n one leg wraps roond another n eh crashes ontae the cobblestones. Gent boots the cunt on the deck n shouts in a Glesgay accent, — Briktin Derry! Naebody starts
The Sash
’cept us!

It works a treat! They back off, n one nashes right ower the road. The rest aw go quiet. Aw the other groups ay Huns look confused but dinnae make a move. If we’d hud the colours oan, we’d be stomped. They’ll tear anything apart in green, but they think this is jist Hun v Hun, a civil war. Now the other cunts dinnae want tae ken! It’s workin, that plan wi agreed! Isolate the cunts, even up the odds by makin it personal, us against thaim, instead ay fitba, Hibs against Rangers.

We git a wee bit cairried away at the bus station. It’s like any cunt oor age is gittin it now. Joe Begbie blooters a guy whae wisnae a Hun, or even gaun tae the fitba, jist a punk guy wi a mohawk. — Skinheids rule, he goes, as the guy stands in shock, hudin ehs burst nose. Ah agree wi this though, cause ah dinnae like punks. Ah mean it wis awright fir a laugh back then, tae shock every cunt n that, like in the First Year, bit it’s only really posh cunts whae want tae dress like scruffs. That’s the games they play. The punks hing aroond the Gairdins in Princes Street, fightin the mods on Setirdays. If thir’s any ay thum aroond eftir we’ll huv thaim n aw.

Ah shite masel though, ma hert skips a beat. Ah see a gadge lookin
at us, n lookin at the punks that we blootered. Eh’s goat this wee lassie wi um, who’s jist starin. It’s muh Uncle Alan wi muh wee cousin Lisa. Ah mind um sayin tae muh Ma that eh wis takin Lisa up toon tae git a present fir her birthday. Ah move away, behind a bus. Ah dinnae think eh saw me but.

— Wis that no your uncle back thaire, Gally? Terry teases ays. — Go back n say hiya!

— Fuck off, ah say back tae him. But ah’m gled tae git oot the bus station.

It’s heavin as we get doon tae Leith Street, wi groups ay Huns everywhere, comin oot fae the back ay the station at Calton Road n mergin wi the earlier teams that have been hittin the pubs in Rose Street. Thirs a few groups ay Hibs over the other side ay the road tauntin them. We’ve merged wi the bulk ay the Rangers supporters but there’s too many polis tae try n start anything n it’ll be the same story until wi git tae the groond, so we keep oan doon tae Leith Walk as they cunts aw turn oaf London Road for the away end. It’s still early doors, so it’s gaunny be a full house.

We head doon the Walk tae Pilrig and thir’s some Hibs boys standin aroond, laddies aboot our age. It’s Begbie’s brar, Frank ah think eh’s called, and a couple ay his mates. One’s that boy Tommy thit ah kent fae the BBs yonks ago, he’s okay, and this boy Renton, and this other skinny, scruffy cunt ah dinnae ken.

Carl clocks the Renton boy’s Hibs skerf. — Ah thoat you wir a fuckin Herts supporter mate.

— Am ah fuck, the Renton boy sais.

— Yir brother’s a Herts fan but. Ah’ve seen um at Tynie.

The boy Renton jist nods. Joe Begbie goes, — Jist cause ehs cunt ay a brother’s a fuckin scumbag, it doesnae make him a Jam Tart, eh no, Mark? Boy’s entitled tae support the team eh wants.

The Renton boy jist shrugs, but it shuts Carl up. Anyhow, that’s by the by cause Dozo’s giein the orders. — Take oaf yir fuckin skerfs n pit thum up yir juke n come wi us. Wir gaun tae the Huns end n wir gaunny start a pagger. Will git thum ootside eftir n aw, eh smiles, then eh rubs ehs face wi ehs finger tae gie himself an imaginary scar. Eh does a wee dance. — Had man, had. They cunts are fuckin well had.

Begbie’s brar n Tommy dae it, then Renton n the other guy, Murphy ah think the boy’s name is. The boy’s already goat something up ehs juke.

— What’s this this cunt’s goat? Carl asks. Carl’s gittin a bit wide
cause eh thinks eh’s hinging aboot wi Dozo n Gent, the scheme hard-men. Thinks that’s him quoted now. Eh should fuckin well mind thit eh’s a Herts supporter n that cunt Topsy’s mate, n eh’s only here cause we’re vouchin fir um.

That scruffy cunt pills something doon fae his jumper; a packet ay frozen peas n a packet ay fish fingers. — Eh, ah choried thaim fae this shoap likesay . . .

— Fling thum away Spud, fir fuck sakes man, Tommy sais tae him. Frank Begbie grabs the frozen peas fae his hand, tosses the packet intae the air and boots it oan the volley, splitting it open. Every cunt laughs as the peas scatter doon the road. — Pooroot! Franco shouts.

This Spud boy jumps back n sais, — Ah’m keepin the fish fingers likes.

Frank Begbie looks at the boy Spud, like the cunt’s ehs mate n eh’s embarrassed um. — Fuckin scruff. That’s the only fuckin tea these cunts git. That’s one fuckin fish finger fir each ay the fuckin gyppo cunts, eh goes, then eh laughs at Tommy and Renton, — That’s the fuckin Murphys fir ye!

Joe Begbie’s awright, but ehs wee brar thair fancies ehself a bit ay a wide cunt since eh gave one ay the Sutherlands a doin. Everybody heard aboot it. What ye might call a shock result.

— Leave um alaine, Joe sais, — at least the boy’s showed up. No like a loat ay they cunts thit wir sayin they wir gaunny be here n then dinnae turn up. Nelly n Larry n that crew. Whaire the fuck are they cunts? Then eh looks at ehs brar, — Whaire’s the Leith gaun before the game?

— Peasbo wis sayin that they wir gaun tae Middleton’s, Frank Begbie goes.

The Leith boys, the real Leith, wouldnae be hanging aboot wi daft wee laddies. They’d huv thir ain day planned n they wouldnae be tellin the likes ay us aboot it. Wir aw jist showin oaf here, name-droppin n that.

— Dinnae need any cunt thit disnae want tae be here, Dozo sais. — Every cunt here’s game, eh goes, lookin roond us aw like a challenge.

— Dinnae want too many either, the polis’ll tipple n it’ll jist spoil it, Jamieson adds.

— Jist a few game cunts, Doyle repeats softly, lookin us aw ower, noddin slowly n smilin away. That cunt gies ye the creeps sometimes.

We wir aw lookin at each other. Ah didnae feel that fuckin game, ah kin tell ye that. Ah wish we could jist say, we goat a wee result, up the toon thaire, lit’s just quit while we’re ahead n enjoy the match. Eftir aw, George Best’s in the team, that’s if the cunt disnae git stuck in the boozer. Fuck gaun up against loads ay half-pished Glesgay cunts auld enough tae be yir faither.

Dozo n Joe Begbie n big Marty Gentleman had it aw arranged though. N tae tell the truth, ah’d rather wade intae a mob ay Huns n take a bad panellin, thin shite it n huv tae face they radges ootside the school gates oan Monday mornin. So we wir gaun roond tae Doogie Spencer’s hoose wi a cairry-oot. Fuck standin in the groond an ooir before the game’s started. That’s awright whin yir tryin tae take or defend an end but the polis huv goat aw the segregation well sorted oot now. So we went roond tae the Paki’s n goat some beer n cheap wine. Wir aw under-aged, but Terry n Gent look about twenty-five so thir wis nae bother thaim gittin served. It suits me cause ah nivir get served in any ay the pubs. We didnae want tae git too bevvied, but ah wis definitely needin it fir Dutch courage.

Doogie Spencer wisnae too pleased tae see us at first. Eh wis a loat aulder thin us, in ehs twenties. Eh hung aboot wi Dozo n Gent n Polmont n the Leith boys, but ye could see thit they thought eh wis a wanker n they wir jist usin um cause eh hud a flat ay ehs ain. Eh wisnae that chuffed aboot the mob ay us comin up, bit eh soon warmed tae me n Carl n Billy cause we sat n listened tae ehs stories aboot the paggers wi Herts in the late sixties and early seventies, while Dozo’s crew jist looked at um like eh wis a cunt. Ye could tell Carl wis itchin tae say something cause eh’s a Jambo, and eh goes wi a squad fae oor wey sometimes. Herts might be the top mob now, but ah reckon wi some ay the young boys that are gittin behind Hibs, that it could be changin again soon.

Ah went fir a pish, n when ah went intae the hall, that Polmont wis through thair oan ehs ain. Eh turned away fae me, it wis like the cunt wis upset. Like eh’d been fuckin greetin or something. — Awright mate, ah goes. The boy said nowt though, so ah jist went intae the bog.

Even though ye could tell that ah loat ay Spencer’s stories wir shite, along wi the wine n beer they goat us aw fired up by the time wi hit the streets taewards the groond. We wir wanderin through the Hibs crowd but when wi goat tae Albion Road, wi went tae whaire the street turned roond the back ay the stand and crossed the barriers and
walked past the polis on the hoarses. — Youse Rangers supporters, boys? A big cop asked us.

— Course wi are, big man, Dozo said in a soapdodger accent, and we walked across the fifty yards ay no-man’s land passin through the other cordon tae merge wi the Huns crowd and tae git intae the Dunbar end. Carl had taken oot the Rid Hand ay Ulster flag n drapped it roond ehs shoodirs. Wir gittin looks awright, cause thir’s this mob ay us wi nae colours n aw the Huns are done up like thir gaun tae the school pantomime; flags, skerfs, badges, tammies n caps, T-shirts, bit ye could tell that at the worse they thoat thit wi wir Herts cunts takin thaire side.

Dozo’s sneaked in a half-boatil ay voddy. Eh passes it roond as wir in the queue. It comes tae me n ah take a swig. It feels cauld, nippy n methy in ma mooth but whin it hits ma guts ah nearly heave up ma Wimpy burger. Fuck drinkin voddy neat. Ah pass it tae Tommy as we keep checkin oot the cunts aroond us, tryin tae work oot ages, hardness, whae’s in a squad n aw that sort ay thing.

Some ay thaim looked fuckin mingin; thir clathes n aw that. Rollers star jerseys n aw that fuckin stuff that nae cunt here’s wore since punk. Nae Fred Perry, hardly any Adidas or fuck all. The scary thing wis thit the cunts aw looked dead auld. It’s funny, cause everybody says that Glesgay cunts really dress up, like when they go up the toon at night n that. They dinnae fuckin well dae it durin the day anywey, no if these fuckers are anything tae go by. Ah suppose they wir lookin at us n aw, jist cause wi wir much better dressed thin thaim, maist ay us wi capped sleeve T-shirts n skinners or Levi’s. Even though maist ay us came fae schemes or tenements, wi wir still a cut above these dirty fuckers. Half the cunts thair hud nivir fuckin seen soap n water, that wis a cert. Ah suppose it wisnae really funny, in fact it wis a shame fir them, livin in slums n huvin nae hoat water or tellies n that, bit it’s no oor fuckin fault n they shouldnae come through here takin it oot oan us.

As wi wir gaun in, Dozo led oaf a chorus ay ‘we are the Briktin Derry fuck the Pope n the Virgin Mary’ n a loat ay they Hun cunts joined in. Wi wir laughin at how easy it wis tae git thaim gaun, jist like windin up a fuckin clockwork toy. Ye kin tell some ay these cunts are no sure aboot us though, n thir relieved tae join in a proddy song wi us as we go through the turnstiles intae the Dunbar, and up the terraces. We had loast Renton the Jam Tart’s Brother, n that cunt Spud, they hud sneaked away, probably went intae the Hibs end, fuckin shitein
cunts. Ah dinnae mind ay them comin through the barriers wi us. No that it bothers me. That cunt Murphy’s as much ay a scruff as any Glesgay fucker. Fuckin embarrassment, it hus tae be said. So it’s me, Birrell, Carl, Terry, Dozo, Marty Gentleman, Ally, Joe Begbie, Begbie’s brar n Tommy n that funny cunt thit says nowt, the cunt fae Polmont. McMurray, ah think they call him. Eh’s a year aulder than me, but eh looks young n aw. Cannae figure that boy oot. Ye see um lookin at Dozo Doyle aw the time, eh seems tae be aboot the only cunt the boy talks tae. Wi take oor places tae the right ay the goal, near the middle ay the terracing. The voddy boatil comes roond again n ah stick ma tongue in the spout, jist pretendin tae drink. Ah still nearly retch up though, jist the fuckin methy smell ay it. Ah pass it tae Gent.