First they hijacked the Skins then they came for “terrace dressers”. Two subcultures with origins in mixed race and the working class. Much like the Mods – working class lad or lass dresses up. Black and white unity if you like. A subculture. A movement. A trend. It’s 1983 and I’m walking through the Barrowlands in Glasgow on the London Road side. Me and a mate are dressed in post Two-Tone attire with wedge haircuts and baggy jeans.
“I’ve heard it said and I agree,‘Where’s the next scene?’ Nobody sees it coming, ah its over there.” – (Casuals DVD)
A Celtic fan walks towards us, “Cannae get moving for Aberdeen casuals lads eh?” We have no idea what he’s talking about. Then I see them – hundreds of lads walking past us dressed in sportswear and like us, they’re heading towards Celtic Park.
I didn’t know what I thought regarding the way they looked, it seemed almost mystical. It reminded me of rugby attire or perhaps skiing holidaymakers taking the wrong route. Although they looked like boy-next-door, you could see it had an edge which became apparent when they started having verbals with Celtic fans. History tells us the original idea to this look was anti-suss; not really intended to be stylish, it was more a disguise, replacing the bovver boy hooligan. This was a welcome change from stiff-arm boneheads.To cut a long story short, within months I was hooked. Hooked on the clothes, the fights and everything that came with it for many years. You started to see this new-found look at Celtic after a wee while, but it was more an individual look rather than a collective response until the 1984/85 season when Celtic first had its own crew of this new subculture. We wanted to know more about this new thing. With the clothes evolving every few weeks we wanted to be clued-up and a step ahead.
But where was the music attached to this? We were looking to London and the rest of England for its origins, initially we’re lead to believe it was born in Aberdeen, but how could it be? Aberdeen is remote and hardly trendsetting.
Casuals had NO right-wing origins. Right-wing cranks would have you believe it’s mutually exclusive for a modern day hooligan to be a one dimensional patriotic Stone Island geez who will have zero creativity. They will jump around to bands like The Specials; sing along to their lyrics as with The Farm, The Housemartins, The Clash, Paul Weller and The Beautiful South; ignoring or unprepared to check what their message is.
Before Waxy Lemon et al. you had the NF and BNP on a recruitment drive with football firms around the country. So we end up with the obligatory stiff arm salutes trying to hijack another subculture by the end of the 80s and into the 90s. So where does it start and finish?Fascism is anti-working class; it attempts to control and split them. Fascism is not compatible with original 80s football lads and lassies. We were rebelling against Thatcher’s Britain; it wasn’t even political to be a football casual, it was born out of football and there was no music or music bands originally attached to its origins, you had to look for music that fitted.
This started in the North West, particularly Liverpool, a working class city going through major hardship at the time. When Liverpool regularly played in Europe during the late 70s and into the 80s, their fans brought back with them these obscure sportswear labels. “A crocodile? What’s this all about?”With a bit of robbing on the way, it was working class lads on the take looking for their own one-upmanship. The trainers the Liverpool lads found were also obscure and were easy pickings given the fact they were normally on display outside shops.They then went on their own personal trips to bring back this new trend, usually sportswear such as trainers and tracksuits not really seen in the UK. When the lads kicked this off it started being worn at the football. Was this supposed to be stylish? No – it was anti-suss.
“By the time London has its own version of this, it’s Arsenal that lead the way, there certainly wasn’t much right-wing within their unit especially with the amount of black lads within their ranks and leading them.” – (P. Hooton; TAL Fanzine)
The London Casual was born from modern soul boys and dub music then onto the football terraces and had a lot of Afro-Caribbean chaps leading the way. “Casual style in London grew out of the late seventies soul boy scene this was inherently racially mixed – the idiots who wanted to be racists became boneheads. Our fanzine Boys Own was very left wing (mainly because of comrade Steve Mayes, who also went to Chelsea with me) and we deliberately set out to stir shit up”. – (T. Farley; Skiddle 3rd March 2016)
Casuals as a concept finished around 1989. The anti-suss part had been sussed and it went mainstream. After this you just had trendy hooligans, although you may ask “what’s the difference?”“I am a member of Football Lads and Lasses Against Fascism (FLAF) and believe that we as football fans have a duty to reject the hateful message of the ultra right. They are the tools of the ruling class and always blame the wrong people when the going gets tough. We can all support our own teams and even countries – although I’m not a patriot myself – but we also need to protect our own communities and those less fortunate than ourselves. As The Who said: we won’t get fooled again!”– (P. Thornton; FLAF article 27/8/19)
Four pairs of Glaswegian bed and breakfast owners put their reputations on the line by staying at each other’s establishments. They pay only what they deem to be an acceptable amount for the experience, with one of them being named best value for money.
Four-in-a-ned was not like the sister show “Four-in-a-bed” as this was based on how warm your Glaswegian welcome could be. For example, an ‘alright hen’ would be much more appreciated over a good morning.
Channel 4 have approached her to be part of Four-in-a-ned pilot series and being the landlady of the most prestigious B&B in the East End, how could she refuse. Looking out her Leopard skin full length coat and black high heels (al a Patsy Stone) excitement flooded over her and not the ‘tropical moments’ she was used too.
The Lady Langlee Bed and Breakfast, was situated at Parkhead Cross, within walking distance of St Michael’s Catholic Church, Parkhead G31 4DJ. Angie’s parish. The general clientele were labourers/tradesman working in the local area. It was also mobbed at the home games held at Paradise. The pub had been handed down to her from her grandmother Marcella, who founded the B&B in the early 50s, think local café/ice cream bar slightly renovated to become the B&B.
Being accessible from the ground floor, the old parlour was dated with tiled walls, still smoke stained since 2007. Angie called it character as were the 70’s toilets.
The Lady Langlee had three rooms; Billy McNeil suite at a cost of £35 per room including cooked breakfast. The Paddy Bonnor and Danny McGrain rooms were £25 per room owing to no hot water and a bowl of Weetabix (non-branded of course). The highlight was of course the Tommy Burns Bar which had “Where are the lads that stood with me when history was made” carved into the gantry. The bar was also frequented by the PK (self proclaimed Mr Adidas and the CSC baby crew).
Angie had been landlady at the local B&B most of her life shooting down punters with one look and at turning a certain age of wanted a new challenge. She ran the Lady Langlee with her daughters who were as wide as the Clyde. Many a time she had to swiftly get the punters out of the bar after last orders, a knack her ex-Biffa never mastered, such was the selfish profit consuming drinking and gambling bassa.
The other contestants were No2 from Castlemilk (Kevin and Alice) “The Oasis”, No3 Govanhill (Mick and Mary) “Blazenhead”; originally from Galashiels were intrigued by the origin of the Lady Langlee. Last but no means least No 4 Ibrox “the Klan” ran by (Hun and Senga).
Angie welcomed The Oasis first, and led them to the Billy McNeil suite, with an impressive “I was just thinking about you hen”. The Blazenhead and Klan following soon after.
Room inspections first:
The Oasis were impressed with the wood chip tri colour wallpaper and bare floorboards. The Blazenhead felt Paddy Bonnor had “added” character with the inclusion of the goalpost window frames. The Klan equally impressed with the lack of towels and hot water “Felt like hame” said Senga.
The welcome dinner would be held in the bar, on the menu were Frank Cross pies and Farmfoods frozen chips and Bird’s Eye peas, followed by Auntie Bessie jam roll poly and Ambrosia custard. Bound to be winner as this was lapped up by the other contestants. PK and the mob played pool whilst Bob Marley – Could you be loved blared from the jukebox, a Parkheid anthem in back in the day.
“Could you be loved and be loved? Could you be loved and be loved?
Don’t let them fool ya Or even try to school ya, oh, no We’ve got a mind of our own So go to Hell if what you’re thinking is not right Love would never leave us alone A-in the darkness ya must come out to light”
PK up on his feet and desperately not trying to spill his JD & Coke was well received. The evening’s activity also included a game of dominoes and some “Asda’s own crisps and peanuts”. No cheating was the golden rule but was never adhered too.
The next morning, they made their way down to breakfast (apart from the Klan who rampant hangovers). The Tommy Burns bar ‘again’ along with the hauf pint and a short brigade not long after the official opening of 11 in the morning. Eight in the morning if you added a roll n bacon or square slice to your drinks order (always left uneaten). The Oasis enjoyed the cooked breakfast of wee wullie winkies and spaghetti hoops and Angie and her girls also devoured the tasty breakfast. The “Weetabix” never made it to the table for No2 and No3.
Check-out was 1pm as usual to allow Angie a well-deserved nap as she had been up for days prior to this planning her television debut (washed her face and got the good china out of the pawn), and organising such a feast for her B&B peers.
Everyone seemed to enjoy their stay at the Lady Langlee. The feedback criteria (on the anonymous forms) was based on:
How are the HOSTS at Langlee B&B?
No2 – Salt of the Earth – couldn’t fault the ned welcome – pure class
No3 – Angie and the girls couldn’t have been more welcoming
No4 – What were their names again? Where are we?
How CLEAN is Lady Langlee B&B?
No2 – Impressive, although Castlemilk cockroaches are easier to handle.
No3 – As clean as our previous establishment in Gala ‘The Ghetto Woodcutter’
No4 – Spotless, toilet paper was a good idea, need to consider this at the Klan.
What are the FACILITIES like at Lady Langlee B&B?
No2 – The drunken rebel singers were an added bonus, as was the Hooch ‘al a Sara Heid’
No3 – couldn’t fault the single bed fur twa!
No4 – Slept like a baby, or was that the bottle of Bucky I smuggled into Danny McGrain?
How was your STAY at the Lady Langlee B&B?
No2 – Road facing window meant we memorised the 89 and 90 routes all night “nae bother”
No3 – We slept like the lambs on the Melrose Hills.
No4 – Gubbed
How was your breakfast at Lady Langlee B&B?
No2 – Spaghetti Hoops – and no the cheap wans either – superb
No3 – the leftover Frank Cross pies were delicious.
No4 – hauf pint and a short and a bacon roll at eight in the morning – standard
Would you stay here again?
No2 – Yes, the Billy McNeil suite was plush as fuck!
No3 – Yes – the spirit of Langlee lives on here.
No4 – Aye, even longer for a dominoes lock in with those two Angie’s lassies, who know how to fleece you without even remembering it!
Payment (judgement day)
No2 – Happily paid the £35 cost of the room
No3 – Paid the £25 and booked up for Angie’s Hogmanay bash
No4 – Paid the £25 per person, per room plus a tip owing to the back facing alley view £60 (overpayment of £35)!!
The melee that followed with Hun and Senga “having a domestic” and the noisy the departure of the guests was such that Four-in-a-ned pilot series was never aired on Channel 4, but her girls caught it all on their i-phones for prosperity.
Jimmy the Pipe was a curious character. Sporting a black fleece and flat cap, sitting drinking rum and peppermint tooting on his Golden Virginia in Andrew’s Hotel Bar most days. He also had that red weather-beaten face from working outside on the building sites for many years. It always kind of reminded me of strawberry, mainly the rough bits at the bottom where the pips were closer together.
The Hotel bar was centred in the Scottish Borders town of Soor Plooms and was shared by tourist residents and the locals which was a bit of a clash from time to time. The front of the hotel had one of those revolving doors, as you walked through the bar was to the left and the restaurant to the right.
The hotel was popular especially for tourists from Yorkshire passing by. It was circular shaped, fully carpeted with long couches and pictures of local landscapes on the wall. The place was very smart unlike the other bars in the area. We named the pub Andrew’s Bar only due to the fact our friend Andrew worked there, which was clever stuff. Andrew was one of our crowd and would let us drink in the bar. He knew a lot of us were underage but we were a unit and it was work, rest and play with all of us.
The town had that squalid gossip vibe that usually celebrates degradation like the place is falling to bits. Also, if you didn’t play or indulge in rugby you were a bit of an outcast; especially being from a working-class background. Personally, I liked to celebrate stupidity and absurdity when I lived in the town, I didn’t like the place. This was much reflected in the schooling system. I always had this wistful resignation, it felt their teachings were more selective to certain pupils. This made most of us malleable with passivity. I didn’t want what they had to offer, I had music, football and camaraderie. Most of the time I just wanted to go home.
It was a long hot summer in 1986 just before the World Cup in Mexico. Celtic had just won the league snatching it from Hearts on the last day of the season. Housemartins had released “Happy Hour” what a cool band they were, left-wing football lads who we could relate to.
What a good place to be Don’t believe it ‘Cause they speak a different language And it’s never really happened to me Don’t believe it, oh no ‘Cause it’s never really happened to me (it’s happy hour again) Don’t believe it, don’t believe it (it’s happy hour again) Don’t believe it It’s happy hour again, and again, and again It’s happy hour again, and again, and again It’s happy hour again, and again, and again It’s happy hour again
Normally there would be a crowd of mainly 16-year-olds that sat around the bar in Andrew’s Hotel. We would tell Jimmy stories that were outrageous, bizarre and never factual. He would always answer with an: “ayeee?” giving a kind of patronising expression. Jimmy seemed to just sit there consumed in his little personal nirvana giving a nodding dog response to us. However, if he was riled by anything he would eventually combust much like a high voltage capacitor.
There was a pub up the street named The Hope Tap, a miserable run-down cess pit usually occupied by heavy metal types and goths. We informed Jimmy that Dukes Barton had just taken over the joint and there was half-price rum and free custard pies on the bar; to which he gave his classic response: “Ayeeeee?!”
The humorous theme in Andrew’s bar was often centred around “custard pies” the subject title was originating for a local lad named Derek Barton. Tommy had also decided to christen him “Dukes Barton” this was all in honour of his face resembling a margarita pizza or of course mini custard pies. Dukes just clashed with our personalities his music appreciation consisted of the likes of Def Leopard or Whitesnake. Most days you would see him with his sleeves-rolled-up working on the same car outside his house, each to their own and all that. When he drove past us he would salute our mob with the middle finger. This was slightly bizarre as we never had any verbal contact with him. I suppose you could put it down to the jealousy symptom of anger.
Dukes’ auld fella was chief inspector Raymond Barton of the local cop shop. A talk wiry thin bloke in the mould of John Cleese with a thick black moustache and those shaded specs. He always seemed to be chewing gum probably thinking he’s more of a Brooklyn cop than a Borders policeman. Young Dukes’ would assist him by prowling the pubs and reporting underage drinkers. Therefore, Tommy felt no shame in christening his label. Luckily Dukes never ventured up to Andrew’s joint.
Jimmy the Pipe seemed to swallow the story regarding the rum and custard pies, so off he toddled to the Hope Tap. Around the same time, the evening tourists came into Andrews’s bar, none of which seemed to be under the age of 60. Andrew was giving them the small talk welcome with wind-ups asking where they hailed from, “Morley int Leeds” one answered, with his balding flopping teddy boy quiff and red whisky nose.
The Yorkshire chap then quizzed: “what types a lager ye got mate?” Andrew replied pointing his finger around the bar “Tenants; Carlsberg; Stella; Red Stripe; Custard Pies; McEwans!” The outspoken Yorkshireman seemed to clock Andrew’s hidden wind-up, giving a confused look: “Coooostard pies??” Andrew had to save the embarrassing scene by correcting him: “no, carling I said”. These were the kind of humorous pranks we would encourage out of severe boredom.
Tommy, I and the young crew decided to take a stroll up the street on a pub crawl. Tommy was a character, a real live wire, cool chap and loyal friend, popular with the ladies and never a dull moment well, apart from his choice in football teams … The Rangers.
As we arrived at the Hope Tap we were met with some altercation involving Jimmy the Pipe. He had the barman by the collar suggesting he had been “ripped aff”
“Free custard pies on the bar and half-price rum! A fellie was in here earlier and had that!” Jimmy was aggressively claiming.
The barman was the double of Gerry Adams wearing glasses, a white shirt and a thin red leather tie. Gerry was defensively claiming “we don’t do custard pies in here and certainly no half-price spirits!”
JTP proceeded by pulling at Gerry’s red leather tie asking “are e wattin this rammed up yer arse ya bastirt?”
Gerry was still in defence mode: “we’ve never done custard pies in here Jimmy, we do crisps, nuts or pickled eggs?”
“Yel get pickled egg rammed up yer hole!” JTP responded.
Sitting in the corner of the pub was Dukes Barton analysing the situation. His attire on this day was a t-shirt picturing Darth Vader quoting: “I am your father” also wearing those snow wash denim jeans and big white boots. When you looked at his smug little boat race you couldn’t help but want to chin or join the dots on it. He had already done his bit for the community by informing Gerry we weren’t old enough to be in the bar. Dukes was 18, this seemed to give himself some superiority over us. So we were all asked to leave despite the doormen letting us enter the pub.
We started to drag Jimmy the Pipe away from Gerry the barman. Tommy was then pushing him towards the door. Jimmy didn’t even clock it all being a wind-up and was bizarrely wanting back-up from Tommy to attack Gerry; when Tommy was the one that told him the false story.
Trigger Hume was another pub celebrity in the town. When he arrived in Andrew’s bar he would be straight over to sit with Jimmy as if they had comradeship and some sort of understanding. They were “the all-time greats” Jimmy would tell us. Trigger had a full head of white hair and would usually be wearing a black blazer, gold buttons with a badge displaying a picture of a boat stating: “perseverance” we believed this to be some sort of Masonic emblem. He also had a lisp much like Daffy Duck which added to our humour. I suppose they were just harmless auld twisters, sixty-year-old chain-smokers shuffling between the local pubs.
Young Shavaz would arrive in the bar from time to time. We would applaud when we saw him. He had one of those wee faces like a hamster with funny expressions; much like those wee rubber faces the kids used to have where you would stick your fingers in the back and change its grimace to suit.
Shevaz looked up to us all and would play to the gallery replicating our styles including designer sweatshirts and gazelle trainers. We loved him, and the fact he would do anything for a laugh. He would tell these jokes that didn’t make sense with dirty smut innuendo. Shevaz seemed to make them up as he went along and we’d all laugh in unison at how fucked up the whole thing was. Again, this was all the result of severe boredom and possibly the effects of many Jamaican woodbines over a few years. Shavaz would have spring in his step when he got us laughing, and rightly so.
Shavaz’s jokes were in full-flow one evening encouraged by us sitting at the bar. We were laughing infectiously before he’d even completed his stories. Trigger and JImmy were impenetrable to the whole situation, analysing the punchline in Shavaz’s jokes and were not impressed.
“Am thorry Shavathh a dinnae get that?” Trigger responded.
That seemed to crack us all up to a different level. Shevaz looking smug and nodding towards Trigger as if he was daft at not getting it. As the dead-end jokes flowed Jimmy looked to be getting to capacitor overload with his face appearing like he’d blown up a bus tyre.
Trigger then responds again: “Smoking drugth aye, Junkeeth aye, Junkeeth!” JTP was nodding in agreement with his pipe sticking out the side of his mouth. This resulted in complete hysterics from us.
Just at this moment in walks chief inspector Raymond Barton chewing his Wrigley’s with his colleague PC Brownlee. A total flat beer moment started to take effect. We can only guess that Dukes was doing his bit for the community once again. Not only did Raymond want to see our proof of age, but he also wanted to search us for drugs due to Trigger’s “Junkeeth” accusation. It also appeared Raymond and Trigger knew each other, possibly due to the “perseverance” badge and links to the lodge. They chatted about the upcoming rugger match between the neighbouring towns.
“Are you 18?” Raymond Barton asked Tommy.
“No I’m 19” Tommy replied.
This kicked off more hilarity. After no evidence of narcotics and no proof of age, they seemed to accept our false dates of birth, especially when Trigger backed up our story.
“They boythh are 18 Ray, guid boythh” Trigger pleaded. To our surprise, pub unity, our little gathering of loyalty came through. Raymond Barton seemed satisfied with this and off he toddled.
It was all quite tedious but comical at times which dragged us away from the daily quagmire of hunting for jobs or watching reruns of mind-numbing soaps. Even after leaving school, it was getting up every day yawning and conforming.
Much like the Yorkshire tourists we were all just passing by.
HWS welcome Justin and Steve from No Strings Attached with a tribute to Andy Weatherall.
ANDREW WEATHERALL 1963 – 2020 A year on since the passing of our dear friend, here’s a few words…
After many years owning many of his productions on vinyl, copies of mixtapes and travelling to hear him at various clubs up and down the country we finally got to meet Andrew in May 2000 as he agreed to play NSA’s 5th Birthday Party in our home town of Galashiels.
No matter the destination there is always an excitement when Andrew is in town so you can imagine the nervous energy between us when we were sitting waiting on the 9:30 flight from Heathrow to touch down at Edinburgh Airport. Let’s just say thank fuck he was flying that night as train stations charge to use toilets and given how frequent our visits were we could have probably bankrupted a small country between us.
Andrew was last off the plane which only added to our stress levels as we thought he was a no show but he finally arrived, greeting us with a quick “Hello Chaps. Nice to meet you” and we were on the road with the laughs starting from the offset mainly fuelled by his non stop highly amusing anecdotes, which we both really miss.
The hospitality on that first night amounted to a takeaway from our local Chinese, and although we thought we had screwed any chances of a return date nobody does Chicken Peking quite like The Happy House, and so a relationship was formed that allowed us to work together on many occasions over the next two decades.
Unfortunately, during this time we never quite got our act together to record his visits to NSA as we were always racing around putting together the final touches for the party but they were all very memorable in one way or another. That said, we think there is an old recording from The Venue and an unheard ALFOS from The Mash House kicking about somewhere and we do have one other mix we are very grateful for. Back in 2015 we asked him to contribute to our soundcloud guest mix series and once recorded he phoned to say it was ready and he was really pleased with the way it turned out. So raise a glass today to a great man and have a listen as it truly is a special one.
Like Billy Connolly said, you can never remember a comedians jokes when you leave the show despite laughing all night and it was like that with Andrew’s stories so here is a wee tale about us wanting to join him and Sean for their gig at Trouw in Amsterdam.
We had an eye on this upcoming night for a while but had written off our chances of going due to lack of funds following a gig that never worked out for us numbers wise, but with 2 weeks to go we were on the phone to each other and after talking about trying to win the money on a horse we scrambled about £40 between us and decided to go for it.
It was a miserable midweek evening and when making the drive to a betting shop in a neighbouring town we said we have to pick something that relates to Weatherall. Just by chance there was a race meeting at Windsor (the town Andrew grew up in), so the initial signs were already positive. Now let’s try and find a horse relating to music. Scanning the race card, we discovered a horse by the name of ’Starlight Symphony’. The trainer also went by the name of a Mr. Johnson (close enough to Johnston in a situation like this) This was it…
The horse won at 16/1. We were heading to Trouw for the ALFOS party with the added bonus of Ivan Smagghe also playing in the main room.
The next morning, we messaged Andrew to tell him what happened.. as soon as it was sent, the phone rings and he’s like “YES!!! That’s fucking amazing!!.. crying with laughter, he couldn’t believe the coincidence. “Ok call me when you arrive and we’ll meet you at the club”. Unknown to us the owners of Trouw had heard about the story via Andrews agent so when we arrived we were greeted by them at the door to the club and kindly given large handfuls of bar tokens.
What followed was one of the funniest 24 hours in Amsterdam and one of the best club nights either of us had ever experienced.
So from encounters in castles, clubs, bars, hotels and car journeys we can only look back on the last twenty years with really fond memories of all the fun filled times.
Although we are deeply saddened he can no longer be a part of it, as without his encouragement and connection we are under no illusion that NSA would never have lasted as long as it has or given us the opportunity to meet so many amazing people.
So here’s to you Dear Boy and in your own words “It’s more than just a disco”.
Get around town, get around town Where the people look good, where the music is loud Get around town, no need to stand proud Add your voice to the sound of the crowd.
Going with our subculture theme and ’80s terrace vibe, Scottish casual lassies came together through that very scene. Unlike the mod, punk, rocker ladies, the casual girl didn’t get as much exposure but they were certainly there as much as the other scenes.
Choo choo went for the “talent”; Katie for a fight with the nearest current bun. Diane and I were a mixture of both, but ultimately we all served the same purpose within the CSC to be one of the boys. Being accepted by a group of boys (we were all teenagers) was no mean feat. Being ever present at home and away matches from season 1985/86 and our love of Glasgow Celtic sealed the deal.
Some of the lads disliked girls at the football, some admired us but the majority want to kiss us, which would happen on occasion if were the “winch them” to fool the polis, or disguise the fact that they were steaming.
Diane used to go out with Tonto, he lived with his mum in Pollokshaws and we would play the Beastie Boys “You gotta fight, for your right, to PPAARRTTYY”.
Other than dressing like the boys (but with a female edge – see flares and cartoon duffel coats). Our pastel Gazelle trainers we would swap one shoe with each other for a laugh, this happened mainly in the Main Stand at Celtic Park once we’d fooled the St John’s ambulance from taking us from the Jungle to get treatment for a “sprained ankle”, aye right we came from the Stand. Us girls were useful to keep the edgy and give our mob the heads up from other mobs approaching.
This was most effective as Celtic were, renowned for owning the town at that point. Our gang hut being the Queen Street phone boxes were the huns and us would call each other from. No mobiles back then we were just street smart.
Choo choo (as she was known for talking 100 miles per hour) was a livewire always joking around. Katie on the other hand could take on the blokes as much as the next guy and she did. We had varied styles Choo choo opting for Benetton and Katie the leather/suede tunic. Diane and I would co-ordinate with Next cagoules and Fiorucci/Mexx tops, mostly purchased at the same time on a Saturday afternoon but in different colours that we would share. We often got the catalogues, Matinique being my favourite and put the posters on our wall.
As the seasons we went past, we were treating more like their sisters, often helping with relationship advice, or on some unfortunate occasions taking them to the Royal Infirmary.
My most memorable game has to be Rangers vs Celtic new year’s day 1986 mainly because me and Diane hid in her bed and listen to on the radio, avoiding her Dad who was annoyed with us as we were promoting nightclubs underage (Mardi Gras/Warehouse). We won 2-0 that day.
The best dash being after Celtic won the league at Love Street in 1986 and stole it off Hearts and we ran Rangers all over town after we got back from Love Street, no LSD that day ……
The ICF didn’t know what hit them and it was the talk of the Queen Street phone boxes for months.
Celtic did embrace girls from other mobs (not the huns though). Nikki came along with (Rusty top boy and boyfriend). Our first meeting was in 1986 standing outside the Country Corner. Me with the blonde boys wedge haircut with the her best friend Diane. Rusty introduced us.
I think it was 1985?. They were both at the Hearts vs. Celtic game Tynecastle on a Wednesday night, all stood under stood by the pylon floodlights (at the height of the AIDS scare); Nikki and Rusty were together as always (inseparable). At that point Hearts were determined to give her a hard time over the fence as Nikki defected! Nikki still Hearts loyal, caused massive problems back in the day. CSG gave it back but it got too much and us girls walked away. We did had the first of many CSG girl group hugs over the years, such is the bond with the casual girls.
One school night me Nikki, Diane and Co. Edinburgh again. This time against Hibs right proper kick off. Nikki with her half bar down her duffle coat, that wasn’t required as JOK saved the day. I was running all over the place.
Other mobs had girls too, most notably Sharon and Julie of Rangers who were ruthless in the pursuit of us girls to the point where they would show up on your doorstep. This happened to me once after school, no violence occurred by I held my ground verbally.
The violence side wasn’t restricted to the boys, we would get stuck in too. Katie being the instigator I would throw a punch and hide behind her. Although I did come a cropper once at Motherwell and was rag dolled with the dungaree straps.
Most of all both we are glad we experienced being a lassie casual as it keeps you grounded to this day, best of all we are still good friends to this day.
Er it is though! New Year, same sh*#e, same shenanigans, Some from Christmas… In & Out’s shake it all about. ICW with David Rosling productions …
Cold Water Therapy including ice baths outdoors
The idea of pizza vending machines.
Sacking alcohol Paisley pattern shirt comebacks. Timberlands at a decent price! Putting all yer wheelie bins out, instead of checking which one is due! Sticking anything in the nearest wheelie bin! Gerry Cinnamon – lyrical genius … Sun Queen Saying … Cheers now! instead of Happy New Year! Hibernating till the next Celtic match! POP 84 sale! The ‘Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey’ intro to Rasputin – Boney M.
Sorting liberty takers!
OUT: Black Mutt January – Black Mutt Covid January Tory Bar-stewards. Liberty takers! Blokes chanting ‘wohohohohohoho’ at Christmas night out, on the dance floor.
Lads doing press-ups, fag in mouth, to impress them ladies. No enough ladies wearing Gazelle and Burlington socks!
The loss of Weatherall Hipsters thinking they invented style! Five paragraphs of yadda yadda yadda The quote ‘some aren’t homeless, they live in a car!’
Peter Lawwell, Dermot Desmond and Neil Lennon.
That’s it for now. Cheers Now. Eat yer porridge, eat yer greens. Look for peace and not excitement. Get into a Boxing Club. Keep on Keeping on!
Nostalgia is one of humanity’s default settings. It is a way to drown out those inner critical voices and the tedious daily humdrum in modern-day living whilst attempting to get into some middle class box. The loss of personal bohemia causes nostalgia. Paradoxically, although nostalgia can be mentally draining for its practitioners, it is also part of what attracts the next generation of enthusiasts to a locale.
The streets around Celtic Park is where I feel I grew up. From a very young age, that is where I was on a Saturday — my second home. There is a residence to places and buildings, a definite spirit. Certain places have always triggered activity and emotions. Years of vibrations sent into buildings. That is how I see the streets around that area; which is why I could never accept moving to a new stadium. For me, when I am back at Celtic Park, I feel that homely thing, each street triggering a vivid memory.
Perhaps coming from out of town made the area and the football more of an escape. I was always more looking in, rather than looking out. The City of Glasgow was the birthplace of all the bands I was listening to as a kid, it was almost like a parallel universe with that underground mystique. I liked going there to Celtic, it is a symbol of how things used to be, and still remains. The bug I caught was as much to do with visiting Parkhead as it was to watch Celtic.
I think about the West Ham scenario where they have had to migrate to this new Olympic Stadium eyesore. The fans were sold a false dream, having to move from Upton Park and having the soul ripped out of them. I am by no means an architect, but I would have thought you could have easily built another 10,000 seats there.
A “great business opportunity” moving to the London stadium?
Outside the new ground you can find a van selling Domino’s Pizza, but you won’t find a decent bar. You can, however, purchase a beer in a plastic cup and an overpriced hot dog inside the stadium. All this resembling an American soccer arena. The place is soulless.
I have always had a soft spot for West Ham especially in the ’80s when Frank McAvennie played there. Celtic and West Ham were okay with each other. Their passionate fans, the community club, everyone’s second team. Their support is a mixed bag of cultures and politics but the colours are claret and blue. If there is one set of supporters not compatible with this corporate eyesore, it is West Ham United.
My soft spot for the Hammers has increased in recent times and that is mainly down to compassion for their support. Their club owners polarize everything wrong with modern day football. Mirthless — high on solvency, low on personality. I know a lot of old West Ham diehards that won’t go to the new London stadium. Part of their day out was the area they came from as a club: the streets, the pubs, the pie and mash shops, and the community. Then we have this progressive quote: “but we must move on”. But move onto what?
The fans were sold this London Stadium dream but the club has went backwards since leaving Upton Park. A club like West Ham should never lose its identity. For many of the supporters the club is about the fans. To take them from Upton Park to this “soulless bowl” could only happen with conditions. The support were promised next level football to convince this faithful support to move from their spiritual home. The promise was a world class stadium with a world class team.
When you see this new stadium from the outside it might look impressive but as soon as you set foot inside, it confirms to be an Olympic stadium not suited to football. The atmosphere has gone and the connection is going with it. With this, it seems that around 20,000 old school fans have left since the migration, finding it basically impossible to adjust to.
As I type this, West Ham are on a decent run of results and we can only hope this continues, keeping them above the relegation zone. The protests continue against the current board with the impressive “GSB OUT” banners on display outside most empty stadiums during the Covid-19 pandemic. The owners continue with lie after lie and false promises. They have taken a working class support into an Olympic stadium, where seating is a big distance from the pitch. It is also a significant distance from its spiritual home.