Whaire’s ma fuckin dad?
We cross the line and ah’m helpin the auld gadge climb up the other bank. His leg’s fucked, but ma back’s giein me gyp, n it’s a struggle cause ma airm’s totally fucked n aw. The boy’s rabbiting in ma ear, in shock. He sounded northern tae me, but tells me his name’s Ben n he’s actually a striking Notts miner. He took a bad whack oan his kneecap.
My pain has been displaced by a sickness comin fae deep in ma belly. Cause fae the other side ay the track we’re witnessing this terrible carnage; the pickets that are left are bein clubbed like seals and lifted by the polis, some are game as fuck and still fightin back in spite ay it aw. A boy in a red lumberjack shirt, oan his knees, tendin tae his decked mate, gets smashed across the skull fae behind by a riot copper and collapses oan top ay his pal. It’s like an execution. At the overhead bridge a few pickets have grabbed stuff fae a scrapyard and are flingin it at the polis. Some boys have dragged a car fae the yard, and they pull it across the road and set it alight. This isnae about policing or containment, this is a war against civilians.
War.
Winners. Losers. Casualties.
Ah leaves the Ben gadge n gits back tae the road and ah’m relieved tae see my faither. He’s standin wi this boy whae looks weird; it’s like he’s wearin Batman’s cowl. Ah git closer n realise it’s aw rid-black blood, completely covering his face tae the extent ah kin only see the whites ay his eyes n teeth. I’m shocked when ah tipple it’s Andy; his heid’s been stoved in, big time. The polis are still advancin and they half chase, half herd us back intae the village. We get oan the bus, n a lot ay the boys look well fucked. Ma dad has a cut hand. He says it was fae a broken bottle
The cunts set us up.
We’ve nae reason tae disbelieve the copper, but ah want tae get oaf n see if Nicksy’s awright. ‘My mate,’ ah tells ma auld man, but he shakes his heid and goes, ‘No way. The driver’s shut the door n he’s no openin it for anything.’
The bus starts movin, n Andy’s goat some boy’s shirt tied roond his heid tae try and staunch the bleedin. Ma dad’s sittin wi an airm roond him, makeshift bandage oan his hand as poor Andy mutters, ‘Never seen nowt like it, Davie … cannae believe it …’
Ah’m sittin thaire, lower back nippin in the seat, wonderin how far up this goes; the Chief Constable, Home Secretary, Thatcher … whether they gied the orders or no, they wir complicit. Anti-union laws and big pay rises for the polis when everybody else in the public sector’s dosh and conditions are getting cut back … the cunts fuckin primed them for this …
It’s like a morgue oan the bus as it slithers oantae the motorway. Eventually the bevvy being dispensed n consumed wi a vengence starts tae kick in, and the defiant chants ay ‘Victory to the Miners’ gather force and conviction. But it doesnae feel glorious tae me. It feels like we’ve been cheated, like coming back fae Hampden and the referee’s gied the Old Firm club a nonsense last-minute penalty. It’s really hot ootside, but the bus has been blowin cauld air and it’s freezing in here. Ah’m sitting wi ma heid burrowed intae the windae, watchin ma breath steam it up. Ah’m feeling really sair now, particularly my airm, n every inhalation is like a punch tae that fuckin spine.
These boys at the back ay the bus start stampin thair feet n singin these Irish Republican ballads of defiance, then a couple of pro-IRA chants come into the mix. Soon they’re exclusively belting out Irish Republican ballads.
Ma auld man’s sprang up oantae his feet, pointin at them in denunciation, his hand bleedin through the rag wrapped roond it. ‘STOAP SINGING THAT SHITE, YA DIRTY IRA TERRORIST BASTARDS! THAT’S NO A SOCIALIST SONG, N IT’S NO A TRADE UNIONIST SONG, YA FUCKIN FENIAN SCUMBAGS!’
A skinny wee gadge gets up and starts shoutin back at him, ‘FUCK OFF, YA UVF TORY HUN BASTARD!’
‘AH’M NO A FUCKIN TORY … ya fuckin …’ Ma auld boy’s stormin doon tae the back ay the bus like a bull, n ah’m up in pursuit and grab ah hud ay his airm wi ma good yin. We’re the same height, but ah’m much punier and thank fuck Cammy’s up and helpin me restrain the auld radge. My faither and the cunts at the back are shoutin at each other, but they’re being urged tae calm doon, and me and Cammy are pullin him away, a spasm ay crippling pain comin fae ma back makin ma eyes water, as the bus wobbles oantae a slip road.
Fuckin Weedgies, they cannae dae nowt without bringin thair fucked-up fitba and Ireland shite intae everything …
We get him settled doon, n fair play, one ay the radges immediately comes up and apologises. It’s the skinny cunt, he’s goat practically nae chin and big, uneven teeth. ‘Sorry aboot that, big man, yir right, wrang song, wrang place …’
My faither nods in acceptance as the gadge passes him a bottle ay Grouse. The auld boy takes a concilatory slug fae it, then at Beaver pus’s prompting, passes it tae me, but ah wave it away. Fucked if ah’m takin a drink ay anything oafay these cunts, let alaine that shite.
‘It’s awright, emotions runnin a wee bit high,’ ma faither goes, noddin tae Andy, whae looks doolally, like he’s in shock.
Then they start talkin aboot the events ay the day, n soon thair airms ur roond each other’s shoodirs like they’re best mates. Ah’m feelin fuckin nauseated. If there’s one thing that’s even sicker than those sectarian cunts at each other’s throats, it’s when they start cosyin up thegither. Ah cannae sit here wi this fuckin back. Ootside ah sketches the road signs for Manchester, n no really kennin what the fuck ah’m daein, ah suppose half thinking aboot Nicksy, ah stand up. ‘Ah’m gettin oaf here, Dad.’
Ma auld boy’s shocked. ‘Whit? You’re comin hame wi me …’
‘Ye dinnae wahnt tae git oaf the bus here, pal,’ his new Chipmunk-choppered best china unhelpfully intervenes, but ah studiously ignore the cunt.
‘Naw,’ ah goes tae ma Dad, ‘but ah said ah’d meet some mates at Wigan Casino,’ ah lie. It’s a fuckin Monday at noon, and the Wigan Casino shut a few years back, but it’s aw ah kin think ay sayin.
‘But yir gran’s expectin ye back at Cardonald … wir gaunny git the train back tae Embra later … yir brother’s in hoaspital, Mark, yir ma’ll be worried sick …’ ma auld man’s pleadin wi us.
‘Ah’m oaf,’ ah tell um, n ah nip doon tae the front and get the driver tae pull up at the hard shoulder. He looks at us like ah’m a radge, but the airbrakes hiss and ah jump oaf the coach, ma back jarrin in sudden pain. Ah look back tae the hurt, uncomprehendin expression oan ma dad’s face as the bus moves away and ebbs intae the traffic. It hits me that ah huvnae goat a fuckin scooby what ah’m daein here, walkin by the side ay this motorway. But the back feels better wi me movin: ah just had tae get the fuck oot ay there.