‘Community policing,’ another gadge laughs.
Ma dad looks oot at a row ay smiling coppers, one ay whom waves at us wi an ear-tae-ear grin. ‘Ah dinnae like this. This isnae right.’
‘As long as they dinnae stop us gettin they scabs sent back,’ ah goes.
‘You’ll keep the heid,’ he warns us in a low growl, then frowns. ‘Whae’s this mate that yir meetin up wi then?’
‘Just one ay the boys fi London ah used tae stey in the squat at Shepherd’s Bush wi. Nicksy. He’s awright.’
‘Another wan ay they dippit punk rockers, ah’ll bet!’
‘Ah dinnae ken what music he’s listenin tae now,’ ah tell him, a bit irritated. He can be a daft auld fucker sometimes.
‘Punk rock,’ he laughs tae his mates, ‘another fad he got bored wi. What’s the latest yin, this aw-night soul stuff? Gaun doon tae Bolton Casino n drinkin Cokes!’
‘It’s Wigan Casino.’
‘Same difference. Some night that must be! Cans ay juice!’
Andy n some other boys join in n ah jist take the slaggin cause it’s pointless arguing wi dozy auld fuckers aboot sounds. Ah feel like telling thum that Presley and Lennon are wormfood and tae git the fuck ower it, but naw, it’s a barry vibe oan the bus, and as ah say, nae point arguing.
Eventually, wi the help ay the polis, we get intae the village n park the bus in the main street, in a line wi aw the others. It’s weird, cause it’s that early, the sun’s still warming up as mair people assemble. The auld man slopes off tae a payphone, n ah kin tell by the expression oan his coupon what the gist ay the conversation is, n that it’s no good news.
‘Awright?’
‘Aye …’ he says, then shakes his heid. ‘Yir mother wis sayin that the wee felly hud a terrible night. They had tae gie him oxygen, the lot.’
‘Aw … right. Ah’m sure he’ll be okay,’ ah tell him, ‘they ken what they’re daein.’
Fuck. Even doon here that little cunt has tae spoil it aw …
Dad says something aboot how he shouldnae huv left Wee Davie as my ma doesnae dae the postural drainage right, n he worries that the nurses at the hospital are too busy tae spend enough time oan it. He shakes his heid, pain nippin his pus. ‘They cannae afford tae lit that fluid build up in his lungs …’
Ah cannae listen tae this same crap again. We’re in Yorkshire n the atmosphere’s still brilliant but it’s like the Cup Final feeling’s changed intae a sortay music festival vibe. Everybody’s upbeat as we march tae the field where the pickets are massed. My dad even cheers up n gits talking tae this Yorkshire boy, then swaps his AUEW badge for the gadge’s NUM one, baith ay them proudly pinnin the other yin’s button oantae his chest like it wis a medal.
We can see the coppers assembling ahead ay these barriers they’ve pit up. Thaire’s fuckin loads ay them. Ah eyeball the white-shirted cunts fae the Met; a boy oan the bus said they dinnae want tae use too many Yorkshire polis oan the front line, in case ay any divided loyalties. On oor side there’s banners fae every trade union and political group ah’ve ever heard ay joining the gathering. But ah’m startin tae feel edgy: thaire’s still mair polis. For every load ay pickets that swells oor ranks, the polis force seems tae increase tae correspond, and then some mair. Andy gies vent tae the growin sense ay trepidation in the air. ‘They’ve been preparing fir this for years, since the miners done ower Heath.’
Ye cannae miss the plant we intend tae blockade; it’s dominated by two huge phallic chimneys, risin out ay a series ay industrial Victorian buildings. It looks ominous, but the polis have goat us aw herded intae this big field on its north side. Then thaire’s a sudden stillness in the air as the chants fade away; ah look at the plant and it feels a bit like Auschwitz and for a second ah get the queasy notion that we’re gonnae be corralled intae it, like thaire’s gas ovens thaire, because no only are the polis outnumberin the pickets, they’re now positioned oan three sides ay us, and we’re cut off oan the fourth perimeter by this railway line. ‘These bastards know what thir daein here,’ Andy shakes his heid ruefully. ‘They led us right here. Something’s gaun oan!’
Ah sense he’s no wrong, cause up ahead there’s aboot fifty polis oan hoarseback and quite a few mair wi dugs. Ye kin tell they mean business, cause thaire wisnae a WPC in sight. ‘You stick close tae us,’ ma dad says, suspiciously clockin a group ay thickset boys wi Yorkshire accents, whae seem like they want tae get steamed in.
Suddenly a roar ay applause ripples through the crowd, as Arthur Scargill appears tae a rock star’s welcome, and the ‘Victory to the Miners’ chant starts up. That comb-over hair ay his flaps in the breeze, and he pulls oan this American baseball cap.
‘They say that there’s been a lot ay MI5 infiltrators doon here,’ this gadge called Cammy fae our bus is sayin tae Andy, as we bunch forward tae git a view ay Scargill.
Ah disliked that kind ay talk, cause ah preferred tae think ay British Secret Service cunts as bein like Sean Connery, decked oot in tuxedos in Monte Carlo, no sad fuckers snoopin roond pit villages in Yorkshire, pretendin tae be miners and grassin every cunt up. Scargill’s got the megaphone and he launches intae one ay his trademark rousin speeches that tingles the back ay ma neck. He talks aboot the rights ay working people, won through years of struggle, and how if we’re denied the right to strike and organise, then we’re really nae better than slaves. His words are like a drug, ye feel them coursin through the bodies aroond ye; moistening eyes, stiffening spines and fortifying hearts. As he wraps up, fist punched into the air, the ‘Victory to the Miners’ chant reaches fever pitch.
The miners’ leaders, including Scargill, are up arguing wi the top coppers, telling them that we’re no getting tae stand where we fuckin well need tae, in order tae properly picket, n we’re penned intae this field which is way too far fae the plant. ‘Might as well be in fookin Leeds,’ a big gadge in a donkey jaykit shouts at a pork-chop-sideburned copper in full riot gear. ‘You’re a fookin disgrace!’
The cunt stands impassive, lookin ahead, like he’s one ay they guards at Buckingham Palace. But the mood suddenly changes again, the tension seeming tae dissipate as a fitba gets kicked intae the crowd n some ay us get a game started up, using miners’ hard hats for goalposts. A surge ay euphoria comes ower me as ah clock that nippy wee cockney cunt, Nicksy; he’s on the baw, giein it loads, mouthing off, so ah steam in wi a dirty two-fitted tackle on him. ‘Take that, ya English bastard!’ ah’m shoutin as he goes doon, then he springs up howlin: ‘You farking MI5 or what, you farking Jock cunt?!’
The boys around us stop playin, as if anticipating a showdown, but instead we start laughin.
‘How goes it, Mark?’ Nicksy asks. He’s a wiry, busy-eyed wee gadgie, wi a floppy fringe and hooked nose, whae looks and moves like a lightweight boxer, perpetually shuffling and swaggering. The boy has some fuckin energy.