Glue (14 page)

We’re surrounded wi Huns. My hert’s gaun boom, boom, boom. Ah feel the blade in ma poakit. Ye feel like yir jist wantin it tae go radge now, cause the fuckin tension is unbearable. It looks weird bein in the groond fae this end. The Hibs fans raise thir scarfs in the air and start tae sing, but it looks pretty crap because they aw dae it in small groups rather than as one. Ye kin tell it’s Leith, Niddrie, Drylaw, Porty, Tollcross, Lochend n the like, aw daein it separately. Some ay them’ll be fightin each other soon. Thir’s some groups ay Hibs that’ll never git thegither, no even against Rangers. Cunts that huv been knockin fuck oot ay each other maist weekends and some weekdays since the year dot urnae gaunny pit thir differences aside for a couple ay hours oan a Setirday afternoon, even against Glesgay cunts. Against Herts, mibbe. Then they start singin
His Name is Georgie Best
. Thir’s a cheer as Hibs run oot n we aw look at each other. Best’s playin! The cheers are drowned by the boos amongst us which turn intae cheers as Rangers take the field.
Derry’s Walls
starts up. It’s funny lookin over tae the Hibs crowd, seein yirsels as the opposition see ye.

The game kicks off and eftir a bit ay chantin, the atmosphere settles doon. We start tae calm doon a wee bit. Wir checkin oot which cunts we want tae have, n thir’s this boy aboot oor age wi rid hair n white skinners, who’s goat plenty mooth oan um. Eh’s jist shoutin away aboot Fenian bastards this n IRA cunts that. Ye wonder what fuckin planet some ay they wankers are oan. — That radge is fuckin claimed, Dozo says. Gentleman nods.

Aboot the middle ay the first half Dozo signals us n wi go up tae the bogs. Thir’s a couple ay Huns daein a pish n Gentleman hammers one cunt. It’s such a sudden, ferocious punch tae the side ay the boy’s
heid, ah feel sickened masel for a couple ay seconds. The voddy burns in ma gut again. The boy’s decked n lyin n ehs pish as wi pit the boot in. Ah boot the boy’s leg, pillin ma kick, no wantin um hurt bad. The point’s been made. That Polmont cunt’s gittin a bit too keen n Billy pills um away. Dozo’s booted ehs mate in the baws. — We are the UDA, eh shouts in the boy’s face, then, — Or is it-ah-thee IRA?! in Johnny Rotten style. — Aye, that’s the yin, eh laughs, n wir aw pishin oorsels. The perr cunt’s bent double hudin ehs nuts, lookin up at us n tremblin. Carl gies um a wink, but that Polmont boy steps forward n slaps him in the chops wi the back ay ehs hand. Then wi move oot the dirty shitehoose n back intae the crowd.

Just as we git back tae oor place, Hibs score n the ground erupts at the other end. It’s so fuckin barry, n ye jist want tae go yehhhssss . . . but we’re sayin nowt, jist steyin cool n bidin oor time. Dozo laughs intae his sleeve. Then it happens; two Huns are arguin and one panels the other. The boy’s mate jumps in and it starts gaun radge!

This is our chance. Gentleman steps forward n batters the White Skinners cunt a fuckin beauty. The boy’s nose’s burst really bad n eh staggers back intae the crowd sprayin some cunts wi ehs blood. Ehs mates are hudin the boy up, n thir aw in shock n aw. One’s gaun, — C’moan boys, wir aw prawstints thegither!

Juice Terry runs in and gubs the bastard n Birrell just starts punchin every cunt. This big fucker who must’ve been aboot forty is up the terracing and n ehs pummellin Birrell but the daft cunt’s standin ehs groond, like pickin ehs punches, boxin the boy as the crowd separates. Ah run n kick the boy n the leg, aimin fir ehs baws, n Gentleman brings the half-boatil ay voddy doon oan toap ay ehs heid. Eh sort ay hit the boy fae its base n the boatil’s no broken bit the cunt’s felt it awright n eh’s staggered back.

We’re aw gaun fuckin mental now and Doyle’s right in the thick ay things, chargin intae a load ay boys. Begbie’s brar elbays a boy a sneaky cracker in the side ay the heid. This radge’s screamin at me fae a few feet away n eh’s runnin ehs finger doon the side ay ehs face in a slash mark. Ah hear aw they Glesgay accents gaun ‘out of order’ and ‘fuckin animals’ n it feels terrifyin but barry whin ye think ay aw the times they’ve chased us n battered us. Ah’m gaun up n doon like a fuckin yo-yo wi the surges in the crowd, tryin tae swing n charge n keep ma balance. Yir surrounded by flyin bodies one second, n the next yir in an island ay space which opens up oot ay naewhaire. Ah smack one
cunt in the chops, the daft fucker’s airms are pinned tae ehs side by the crowd pushin him forward against the crush barrier. The Huns are in a mess, nane ay the cunts near us want tae come ahead, but while thir jist standin thaire mouthin it, thir stoapin a load ay big fuckin bad bastards whae want tae git through fae gittin tae us. Carl gets splattered in the face wi gob, n the cunt goes mad, runs forward n batters this one boy. It’s funny, but nane ay the boy’s mates ur tryin tae stoap um, thir jist standin thaire watchin um leather the laddie. Ah see what’s surging taewards us and tae be honest ah’m fuckin well chuffed whin the polis git thaire first. A boatil flies past ma face but it hits a Hun behind me. Another yin smashes oan a crush barrier in front ay Tommy, showerin us aw wi broken gless. It’s like the Huns’ve finally sussed what we’re up tae and wir gaunny be trampled underfoot by the sheer weight ay numbers. Thank fuck the polis ur in though, formin a wedge. Ah nivir thoat ah’d be sae chuffed tae see they cunts!

Thir’s fuckin chaos wi every cunt pointin the finger at every cunt else n the cops’ve goat Gentleman, Juice Terry and Frank Begbie. They git dragged doon the terrace steps, n thir’s cunts spittin at them and tryin tae pit the boot intae them as they go past. The Begbie brother’s snarlin at thum, n tryin tae git free fae the polismen tae git at thaim, ehs Harrington jaykit’s aw ripped at the airm. Gentleman’s shoutin — IRA! n Terry’s jist laughin n blowin kisses tae the Huns. Mair boatils n cans fly n thirs paggers breakin oot aw ower the place. One boatil goes towards George Best oan the pitch, jist fawin short. Eh picks it up and makes oot tae drink fae it. The Hibs crowd cheer n some ay the Rangers are laughin n aw. They talk aboot players windin up the crowd, but ah reckon that Best, jist by daein that, stoaped a major riot. The atmosphere wis pure poison before. We’re oaf, Billy, Carl n me headin one way n the rest slopin oaf thir ain weys. Joe’s away wi Dozo n the Polmont boy. Polmont did fuck all, nivir flung a punch, jist stood thaire in the space lookin aw nervous whin every other cunt wis firein in. Ah wis surprised at Terry wadin in aw keen, cause the cunt never seemed that bothered earlier oan. That’s Terry though, anything fir a laugh n a bit ay sport.

Wi get through the crowd tae a space near the scoreboard whaire we see that Marty Gentleman, Juice Terry n Frank Begbie are gittin marched along the track by the side ay the pitch. A huge cheer goes up cause Terry’s managed tae pill oot ehs skerf n eh’s wavin it n the Hibs fans are gaun daft. The polisman’s just watchin um like a dippit cunt,
no even takin it oaf um. Then another cop comes up and snatches it fae him. Wee Begbie’s struttin like a gangster, lookin like that James Cagney boy gaun tae the electric chair n no giein a fuck, n Marty Gentleman’s goat ehs face hard n set n aw. Terry but, eh’s grinnin like that Bob Monkhouse cunt oan
The Golden Shot
.

An auld boy next tae ays says that they’re animals, n ah goes, — Aye, too right they are Jimmy, in a Glesgay accent. Wir watchin the rest ay the game in a satisfied silence.

Then George Best waltzes through some Rangers players in the middle ay the park. It’s no Hibs v Rangers, it’s Best v Rangers. They cannae git the baw offay him. Best changes direction, storms taewards the Huns’ goal and smashes it intae the net! Ah’m standin thair bitin the skin oan ma fingertips till it stings and bleeds. It seems like a fuckin age but the whistle goes. We’ve won!

We’ve beaten the cunts!

Carl keeps spittin oot gob ontae the groond, coughin like eh’s tryin tae make ehsel seek. It wis funny as fuck seein um wade intae that boy, cause eh sais that eh wisnae bothered, eh wis jist gaun fir the atmosphere.

We head oot n wir walkin wi a load ay mumpy Huns up tae the station. It’s almost like wi cannae look at each other. Ah’m shitein it in case any cunt wi done sees us and ah want away fae this mass ay red, white and blue as soon as possible. Thir wild as fuck n thir callin Best a traitor, sayin that eh’s an Ulster Protestant n eh plays fir Fenian teams, first Man United, then Hibs. How can they say Manchester United’s a Fenian team? Fuckin spazwits.

The cops are re-routin everybody by Abbeyhill but we veer oaf up London Road, headin for Leith Walk. At first it’s a fuckin relief tae be oot ay that crowd ay blue bodies but we find we’ve walked right intae a battlefield. It’s gaun oaf everywhaire at the top ay the Walk, wee groups ay cunts huvin it wi each other. Some Hibs boys are attackin a couple ay Huns’ buses that’ve been daft enough tae park in the wasteland beside the Playhoose. Then a bunch ay game-as-fuck Huns fae the buses come stormin up the hill, only tae be forced back by stanes n bricks flung at them. It’s mental, one guy’s goat eh’s heid split open beside this big poster ay Max Bygraves advertisin ehs Festival show in the Playhoose. The polis are gaun nuts as well, wadin in, n we decide tae call it a day, headin oaf back doon tae Spencer’s tae meet the rest ay them. Ma whole body’s throbbin aw the wey doon the
Walk. Ah’m dreadin any cunt gittin wide wi us now, cause ah’ve nae energy left tae stand up tae them, it’s like aw the hert’s been takin oot ay ays. Aw ah kin feel is the acid in ma guts and the fear in ma spine. Thankfully wir in Leith now n it’s aw Hibs, bit ye kin still git pilled up by cunts fae another part ay the toon.

Carl’s still coughin n gobbin aw the time. — What’s up, ah goes.

— That dirty Glesgay cunt gobbed at ays n ah could feel some ay it gaun intae ma mooth n doon ma throat. A big fuckin greaser n aw.

We’re laughin, but eh’s no jokin. — That’s fuckin dangerous, Gally, — ye kin git hepatitis fae that! That’s what happened tae Joe Strummer once. Eh wis in hoapital, the loat. Eh nearly fuckin well died!

Carl’s really upset, but ye cannae help laughin. Thankfully, wi git doon tae Spencer’s withoot any mair bother. Everybody’s high as fuck. That Polmont cunt’s the only one that’s no sayin much. Terry n some ay them git intae the pub, the one wi the Space Invaders. Ah try tae dae a sneaky yin, but the boy behind the bar clocks ays n starts shoutin, — Ah’ve telt you before ya wee cunt, git fuckin oot ay here! Yi’ll loas ays ma fuckin licence!

Terry laughs, but Billy comes oot wi ays. Ah gies um some cash n eh gits a boatil ay cider.

Wi hud oan doon in Leith, waitin fir the
Pink News
tae come oot. Billy n me’s sharin the boatil ay cider bit wir no wantin tae git too pished fir the night. Wir aw hingin aboot this pub, half ay us inside the other half ootside. Wi git some chips which helps tae settle the guts. Thir’s loads ay drunks aroond, singin Hibs songs, and
His Name is Georgie Best
. Eftir a bit, Carl goes tae the newsagent n comes back wi a
Pink
, n it’s barry, cause thir’s a mention aboot us in the match report:

this miss was the cue which sparked off a serious disturbance at the away end. It seems as if some Hibs supporters were in the wrong section of the ground. Police moved in quickly to remove the troublemakers.

Then, in the stop press, it sais thit thir wis eight arrests inside the ground and another forty-two ootside.

— Could’ve been better, Dozo said.

We wir chuffed though. Ah even gave that paupin cunt Carl some ay the cider.

Wi got the bus back tae the scheme, sittin in the wideo seat, right at the back oan the toap deck, giein the eye tae any gadges that came oan. Wi wir pumped up tae fuck again, aw the mair cause we wir headin back oot tae oor ain bit. Whin wi goat oaf, Birrell cut doon tae the Avenue tae get back tae his bit doon the auld hooses, but me n Carl hud tae go past Terry’s. The cunt’s Ma must have seen us cause she came oot oantae the doorstep n shouted oan us.

As we’re gaun up the path tae meet her, she’s comin doon it taewards us wi her airms folded acroass her chest. Terry’s wee sister’s come oot n she’s standin behind her. She’s goat they barry sky-blue hoat-pants oan, the yins wi the bib thit ah’ve hud a wank aboot. Ah’d shag Yvonne, if she didnae look sae much like Terry. It nivir bothered Birrell, but. — Yvonne, inside, her Ma goes n she troops in. — So what happened then? Me n Carl look at each other. Before wi kin speak, she goes, — Ah goat ah phone call fae the polis. They phoned ays at Mrs Jeavon’s next door. Thir chargin um wi breach ay the peace n assault. Said yis wir aw in the wrong end. What happened?

— It wisnae like that Mrs Laws . . . eh Mrs Ulrich, ah goes. Ah keep forgettin thit she’s Mrs Ulrich now, cause she went n mairried that German gadge.

— It wisnae Terry’s fault, or the other boys. Gen up, Carl sais. — Wi goat doon thaire late n wi just went tae that end soas we widnae miss the kick-off. Took our skerfs oaf n wi nivir even cheered Hibs, eh Andrew?

That must be the first time eh’s ivir called ays ‘Andrew’. N it’s no even his fuckin team, eh’s meant tae be a Jam Tart. Still, eh’s tryin tae help, so ah backs um up — Naw, bit these boys heard our accents n they started oan us. Spittin n that. One ay thum punched Terry n Terry punched um back. Then they aw started. The other boys jist went tae help Terry.

Mrs Ulrich hus lit her fag burn doon, and she drops it n stamps it oot, her heeled shoe twistin it intae the path. She lights another yin. Ah kin tell Carl’s thinkin aboot askin her fir one, bit ah dinnae think it wid be a good idea the now. — Eh thinks it’s awright fir him cause eh’s workin. Bit what does eh gie me fir ehs keep? Whae’s it thit’ll huv tae pey they fines? Me! It’s eywis me! Whaire um ah gaunny git the money tae pey bloody coort fines? It’s no oan . . . it’s jist no oan . . . she shook her heid, lookin at us like she expected us tae say something. — It’s jist
no good enough, she said, takin a drag ay the fag n shakin her heid. — This wis supposed tae be what him gaun tae the boxin wi Billy wis aw aboot, tae stoap aw this, aw this sort ay nonsense. It wis meant tae gie um discipline, that wis what they says tae me. Discipline bichrist! she stared at us n laughed, aw that nasty wey like. — Ah bet Billy didnae git lifted? Eh?