Gallowgate Gangster

By J. J. Whelan

Franco was a bully from the beginning. Born into a hard-working Irish-Italian Catholic family in the East End of Glasgow, he was one of eight siblings crammed into a tenement where faith, discipline, and hard work ruled. But Franco? He played by his own rules.

In primary school, he was already feared, terrorising classmates for their lunch money and snatching their toys with a smirk. By secondary school, when he bothered to show up, the stakes had grown. Mobile phones, branded trainers, and cash all fed his growing appetite for thrills, especially alcohol.

He left school early and picked up a trowel to work alongside his dad on building sites, but he never stuck with it for long. Three days on, four days off. The rest of his time was spent chasing chaos, mostly in the name of football and alcohol. He followed a certain famous team from Glasgow, not for the love of the game but for the fights that often accompanied it.

He lived for clashes with rival gangs, with the police, and even with his own crew if they looked at him the wrong way. His adrenaline pumped when people talked about a fight; it wasn’t normal behavior for anyone, but that’s where he felt most alive, his break from the reality he lived. He wore his banning order like a badge of honor—he received this order for not being a grass against any of his crew. He was banned from every football ground in Britain for three years. What a boost to this egomaniac, alcoholic bully, who only cared about himself and his casual clothing.

His stories became legendary in the pubs—bruised knuckles raised like trophies, teeth knocked out like medals, and a mouth full of scars. Franco’s week was short-lived, much like his wages; by Monday, he was tapping more than a blind man’s stick just to get through the weekend’s exploits and to avoid a crash landing, seeking some respite from his anxiety. But his ego was brittle, and his drinking worsened. Bravado turned into bitterness.

He moved on and married a pretty, sophisticated young woman whom he thought would solve his problems; she would curb his alcohol intake and calm his passion for violence. He was blessed with two beautiful daughters, yet he still couldn’t walk away from the madness.

Then came the turning point. One morning, bloodied and hungover, on the brink of losing everything, he saw the light. He sat down at the kitchen table and wrote two letters—one to his wife and another to his daughters. Whether it was the sight of his daughters’ tears or the echo of his wife’s silence, something snapped inside him.

Franco walked into an A.A. meeting, unsure if he’d walk back out. He thought he could do this on his own, but within two weeks, he was back in the madness. This time, his wife had had enough; she packed the kids and left for her mother’s house. Franco was distraught. His ego and pride were battered, and feeling sorry for himself, he began to reflect on his wrongdoings. 

He swallowed his pride and attended another A.A. meeting, this time willing to do whatever it took to overcome his problem and win his family back. This time, he stayed. One day at a time, one foot in front of the other.

Now he’s twenty years sober—a family man, a working man, and most of the time, a man at peace.

But the bully still lurks in the shadows. The rage still rises like bile. And when it does, Franco breathes, remembers, and works to keep that darkness locked away. 

Because he knows better than anyone that the gangster never fully dies; he just learns to live with the man he has become.