Imagine a slightly more argumentative version of Alf Garnett, throw in an almost pathological hatred of the Welsh, put it into a suit and tie, and you have a curious little git called Trigger Hume.

Trigger was from Hike in the Scottish Borders and loved nothing more than a good row – it was his hobby – only he often lost, which meant that his squabbles would sometimes take a sinister turn with him going home to ‘get his gun’.

Of course the gun didn’t exist, and no one really thought that it did. Gun crime was non-existent in Hike then and it still is now, which is hardly surprising if the underworld there are all trying to bust caps into each other with imaginary shooters .

Most days you would catch Trigger and his ‘henchman’ Hike Wattie (HW) in the White Swan playing dominoes, both wearing a suit and tie as they did every day of the year. At the end of each game, whoever won would sing to the other, ‘It’s like taking candy from a baybeeee’.

That Len Barry classic still gives me the scunner, like when Quint scrapes his finger nails down that blackboard in ‘Jaws’, or when Boris Johnson speaks.

Rumour has it that Trigger got expelled from the Army when he was 18 for ‘skelpin Welsh cunts’.  Now, being expelled from the Army for assaulting Nazi sympathisers or maybe even holding a grudge against one of their former enemies could be excused.  But the Welsh?  It’s like hating kittens or her out of Countdown – it doesn’t make sense.  But, for some inexplicable reason he had an issue with our Celtic brothers and he’s still bitter to this day.

Surely he can’t have believed all the rumours about the sheep?

However, for all his faults, Trigger did have a sense of humour, sort of.  He and HW would chuckle away at funerals, prompting an uncomfortable feeling within a morbid situation.

Every funeral wake they attended, the double act would approach the deceased’s family telling them, ‘They will be up there having a pirty.’  As if that was some kind of comfort. It’s up there with the classic:  ‘They’re in a better place now.’

The White Swan attracted other strange individuals, such as Flossy MacFarlane.  That, of course, is if you call sitting and staring at the regulars in the pub and claiming that you had hidden super powers strange.  I always thought Flossy would be ideally suited at leading a cult, but the pub was his place of worship.

I used to work shifts in the bar and listen to their mundane drivel.  Sometimes Flossy would sit with Trigger and HW while they were playing dominoes, in fact it was usually just the three of them in the pub during weekdays.  Flossy would use his powers to tell them that he knew who would win each game before they’d even started, but would keep the information to himself. Trigger would say, ‘He kens fack all!’

As well as trying to read your mind, Flossy would claim that he knew the lottery numbers for the upcoming draw, again keeping the info to himself. It should be noted, however, that during the whole time I knew him, the most he ever won was a tenner. Either some cruel punter had hidden some kryptonite somewhere in the pub to deliberately weaken his powers, or, as is more likely, he was talking a load of shite.

Every second year the Welsh rugby fans would arrive in Hike for the Home Nations match.  Many of our Celtic brothers would stay within the pubs and most of the locals would join them.  I’ve had a lot of liking for the Welsh most of my life and that seemed to be the general attitude with most of the locals.

However, Trigger could not contain himself if he saw ‘Welsh caaants’. The only other group of people who even came close to yanking his dick as much as the Welsh were anyone from the Sovr Plooms area, a town 18 miles away who were the sworn enemies of Hike folk.

One Friday evening in the pub, the Welsh crowd were in scooping up, all in-song with locals sharing and joining in. Trigger was looking over in their direction and may as well have been holding up a sign telling them all to fuck off. To him, they were about as welcome as a gay dance troupe dressed in drag at the Westboro Baptist Church’s Christmas Party.

After a while he decided to introduce himself to the exotic foreigners by aiming a punch at one of them while shouting, ‘Ya taffy bastirt,’ then missing before spinning around 360 degrees and punching the table as he fell to the ground.  A round of applause was the obvious response from the joyful, hectic pub.  True to form, Trigger tells everyone he’s away to get his ‘fackin gun’ and he was never seen again until midweek.

A few days later, it appeared that Trig had broken his wrist due to his boxing antics. When anyone enquired as to the cause of the injury, his comeback was, ‘skelpin Welsh caaants’ followed by a ‘kakakakakakaka’ smokers laugh, although, I’m not sure our Celtic guests would agree with the story.

Back in the pub midweek, Trig was struggling to play dominoes with HW due to his wrist being wrapped up, so they got their kicks from old singalong songs from the jukebox. When I was working in the bar it was quite soul destroying at times so I would sit with a wee notepad writing down what I saw and heard.  This was for amusement purposes in later days. At least the pub had a new fit barmaid who had started, a good soul named Sophia who was also very astute and sensible.

Hike Wattie always had this ‘I-know-more-than-you face’ when it came to music and would clash with Flossy on a regular basis.  It was my first shift of a humdrum week and I was hanging by a thread after a few days of alcohol and Collie dugs intake.  The three amigos were picking songs from the jukebox from days gone by such as Boney M and Alvin Stardust. They then had the notion to play us, ‘Ooh Aah … Just A Little Bit’ by Gina G; this whole situation was like a theme tune to my depression.  Any positive attitude was sinking back to that dark cobweb place.

To make things worse they started a threesome choir to the chorus, ‘Ooh Aah … Just A Little Bit, Ooh Aah, Just A Little Bit morrrre’ directed at the lovely fit Sophia behind the bar, they then proceed with the offer of, ‘Gees a coup’, which was their way of welcoming her.

Sophia was just smiling with that look of ‘heard it all before’ that all bar staff learn to do as I threatened to pull the plug on their shenanigans. Trigger’s reasoned that this was because I was, ‘Jist a Sovr Plooms bastitrt!’ The cringeometer was off the Richter scale by this time.

Later in the day after continuous pints of pale ale and shots of whisky, the three amigos were sitting putting the world to rights with Flossy gazing at them.  The odd bit of personal abuse was fired each way, then Trigger offers Flossy outside.  HW tells him to get away hame to his wife.  Trigs rejected this suggestion with, ‘Fack off!  I worship the grund that’s coming ae her!’ An average day in a Hike pub.

Blobby Chris was another celebrity ’round those parts.  He would wobble into the pub like an elephant seal who had just done a half marathon for charity.  I normally wouldn’t concern myself with his size and indulge in fattism but his choice of football team, severe right-wing politics and funny as toothache racist jokes, were suited to his big red raging face that always looked if he had just bought a massive bouncy castle and blew it up with his mouth.

He was also a miserable half-glass full type and whenever he replied to a question it was as if you had just woken him up from a snooze by teabagging him and hitting his genitals with the jaggy side of a hair brush. The only time you would see a grin on Blob’s face was when he was in the pub singing Rangers songs with his buddies.  This lot were of standard bluenose material, steeped in deep mediocrity and Herrenvolk Hubris with a compassion bypass.

You could argue and debate with this lot all day, but their white-flag moment will come when you are reminded that you don’t meet the requirements for being a ‘people’ like standard as themselves.  This settles their debate.

One glorious evening there was a young crowd sitting at the back of the pub being quite rowdy, although harmless.  Every so often I would ask them to simmer down.

Blobby Chris wobbled in as he normally would.  The young crew at the back decided to have a wee sing-along aimed at him.  To the theme tune of ‘Jim’ll Fix It’:

’10 bacon rolls was only the start of it

          Strawberry gateaux can’t get enough of it

          Chris will eat it 

           Chris will eat it for you

           and you and you 

           and pum pa pum …’

The other pub locals sung along in unison including Trig, HW and Flossy. Blobby Chris was eyeballing over in rage and giving them the middle bar, pork sausage style.  I must confess I would normally have stopped this disrespectful commotion, but I couldn’t bring myself to step in for some reason.  I let this catchy ditty continuously flow as I served him with his usual pint of cider.

The highlight of the Hike year was the Common Riding which happened in June. It was the annual town festival and it involved people riding horses through the town to mark some old historical traditions. When I say people, I should point out that women were banned from riding.  In fact it was easier to get a woman to ride John Barrowman than it was to get one to ride a horse during the Common Riding back then.

I didn’t pay much attention to this malarkey, but it seemed to be a topic of debate especially with Trigger, HW and any women arguing the case in the pub.  Although the double act would say, ‘Oo must stick wae oor tradtions of nae weemin’, they never actually left the pub to join in with the festivities.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Phil Thornton 01/06/2020

This is the self-declared “Michigan State Militia” who only a few weeks ago were allowed to walk freely right up to and inside a federal building armed with an array of automatic weapons. Once inside they shouted abuse at state officials and what were they so upset about?

Lockdown. See, they are Free Born (White) Americans and as such can disobey government restrictions, even during a pandemic that could if not controlled wipe out millions of their fellow citizens.

Now, Imagine if they were all black men carrying such weapons and a very real grievance that those supposedly employed to “protect and serve” their communities keep on, week after week, year after year, decade after decade, century after century, brutalising and murdering people of your own colour AND are supported in this by the white power structures that benefited from the enslavement of your ancestors.

How far do you reckon they’d have got before the police opened fire?

That’s the difference. Of course during a riot when for a few hours the normal laws and power structures and economic systems of oppression are no longer there, people will loot and take what they can.

Yes people will say “what if they trashed or torched your business then Mr Bleeding Heart Liberal?”!and i’d deffo be pissed off because ours is a community project but still i think i’d understand the motivation and justified rage manifesting itself in the only way it can: destruction.

Riots are not just acts of chaotic criminality, they are symbolic. Some would argue that violence achieves nothing and that all riots burn themselves out, the state elites will continue to rule, poor people will stay poor and the police will keep in protecting and serving people like them and brutalising and murdering people who they despise.

Poverty breeds crime. Simple. Power breeds crime. Simple. It’s all subjective. The President is a criminal on a whole different scale to that poor black kid grafting a pair of trabs.

Yet there is a feeling that THIS time the power elites aren’t so powerful as they once were and that the old orders both in the US, UK and Europe – ya know “The Free West” are crumbling away before our eyes.

usually when faced with a crisis of this magnitude the capitalist class will engineer a war of “nations” – flag waving, calls for patriotic duty against enemies real and imagined and then the circus keeps on moving along to the next town.

Send in the clowns. When there’s an accident, a tight rope walker falls to their death, a lion bites the head of its tamer, the circus master with his big whip sends in the clowns to distract the audience from the shit show.

Trump and Johnson are just a sideshow even if they don’t know it themselves.

Not on the telly only on HWS platforms, in out shake it all about!

In:

Lockdown story writing

Nine-in-a-row

Neil Lennon

Pinky out espresso drinking

Weatherall’s 11 o’clock drop

Ye auld Twisters

Paul Heaton — great man, great life

Dressing like an Afghan Hound during lockdown

Cleaning all your Adidas shoes while isolating

Magnum ice cream plain or mint

Doddsy’s social media Rebel nights

Two offices on Holywell Street after lockdown

Voodoo Ray pumped up on iTunes

Saffiyah Khan coming to HWS

Out:

COVID-19-1

Gareth McAuley

Toady from Neighbours

Gerrard arrogance personified

“It is what it is”

”everything happens for a reason” cosmic forces crap!

Herrenvolk Hubris

Cummings, Trump, Bojo

Nacho Novo — now he is a whopper!

Daily Record desperate for positive SEVCO news

Wee ponytail on beard types

Mental Health stigma

Snapback hats

 

That is all for now, thanks for checking in.
*Please note Holywell Street offices will be open for the public to visit after lockdown, come along and see us!  Bring the fuck-it bucket from KFC at the Forge. Speak to Paul Kealy for further details.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Is it me? For a moment,” Quadrophenia (The Who)

Therin lies the paradox of our age. The Lockdown?

What I have come to discover is that although isolation is badly stressful and has mental health implications to many people. I have also discovered “normal” isn’t very healthy.

To go back to normal as we put it is to return to the stress of modern day living and the anxieties that brings. “Normal” is not normal — it has become more apparent that the stress of modern day life — we are not equipped for.

Okay, a lot of us by the Grace-of-god have the luxury of working from our homes; why should a large number of us lose out. What has also become apparent is that a modern day capitalist society is not equipped for lockdown and isolation.

Call this a freak of nature — this is obviously the fault of nobody. But, a key worker can survive where as someone who perhaps works in a shop, a factory or has a small business can lose everything including their home?

Capitalism and the working class majority do not co-exist in present society. We are not all in this together.

The underprivileged and the sick suffer in a “normal” modern day society then suffer again during and after a pandemic lockdown.

Survival of the fittest I hear you say! No chance!

The virus pandemic has exposed underlying conditions of capitalism. I expect a prolonged period of economic depression.

With the market system now in meltdown the laws of capitalism are now kicked aside — production is paralysed and supply has fallen. So those who previously preached “efficiency” for a free market are now demanding big measures from the state to save capitalism.

We now have a world crisis of capitalism. Let us hope we see the light.

If returning to normal is to be a slave to a broken capitalism then normal is not normal.

Is it Me

Some styles going through the years at Celtic. We know there was not a music scene attached to the casual movement but we’ve listed bands we listened to at the time.

84/85 Season

Sportswear

Ski-Hats: Celtic, Celtic/Man Utd, Celtic/Everton. Kappa, Kickers, Sergio Tacchini, Fila, Ellesse, Adidas Cagoul, Nike Cagoule, Adidas Lendl, Diadora, Pringle, Lyle & Scott, Wedge Haircut, Nike, Patrick Cagoule.

Music: Electro, The Smiths, China Crisis, The Pouges, Pet Shop Boys, Echo & The Bunnymen.

85/86 Season

Dress Down

Lois Cords, Paisley Shirts, Paisley Jumpers, Chunky Knit Jumpers, Lacoste, Farah’s, Fishing Jackets, Benetton, Short Hair, Jeans or Cords (Slits), Mochassins, Desert Boot, Nike Omega, Brollies, Burberry, Berghaus, Barbour, Next Palm Tree Jumper, Adidas Shoes, Trim Trabb, Leather Patchwork Top.

Music: Housemartins, The Cure, Tears For Fears, The Waterboys, Loyd Cole, New Order, The Wolfetones.

86/87 Season

Next Outdoor Wear, Adidas Gazelle, Aquascutum, Dungarees, Ocean Pacific, Timberland Chunky Moccasins, Burberry Leather Jacket, Berghaus, Adidas ZX600, Armani Jumper, Cartoon Jean Designer Jacket.

Music: Hipsway, The The, The Men They Couldn’t Hang, Depeche Mode, The Silencers.

87/88 Season

Classic Nouveau, Armani Denim Jeans/Shirt, Valentino, Next, Chino’s, DM Shoes, Blazer, Polo Neck, Tweed Jacket, Checked Blazer.

Music: A Guy Called Gerald, Public Enemy, Eric B, Jungle Brothers, New Order – Blue Monday.

88/89 Season

Verte Vallee Jumpers, Paul Smith, Leather Bomber Jacket, Coach Jacket, Longer Hair. Middle Pattern, Polka Dot Shirt, Waist Coat, McKenzie Sweater, Timberland Boots, Puma State.

Music: Inner City, Doug Lazy, S Express, Joyce Sims, Raze, Ten City, Lil Louis.

89/90 Season

Long Hair, Bobbed Hair, Hooded Top, Kickers, Dance/Rave Scene Crossover, Ralph Lauren, Stone Island, CP Company, Head Bag, Duffer.

Music: Flowered Up, Happy Mondays, Stone Roses, Inspiral Carpets, Beautiful South, The Charlatans, Dance Music.

By Tony B – 12th May 2020

After weeks of posturing, threats, thinly (and some not so thinly) disguised insinuations from The Rangers and their lapdogs, the real motive for all the tantrums, bluster, attempts at intimidation and propaganda has been brutally exposed. (As if we never already knew why).

 

Plainly and simply, this was a The Rangers FC led revolt in a final, desperate attempt to try and do off the park what they failed miserably to do on it. Stop Celtic being crowned Champions of Scotland for the 9^th consecutive season.

 

From the minute the league was suspended all we have heard from The Rangers and their cohorts is that titles can only be won on the park. Where exactly do they suggest that Celtic built up a 13 point and 25 goal advantage before the cessation of the season if it wasn’t done on the park?

 

It’s undeniably true that the league wasn’t mathematically over. However, it’s laughable and highly unrealistic to suggest that a squad chock full of winners, who had won 8 league titles in a row, 4 league cups on the trot and were on course to win a 4^th consecutive Scottish Cup, a team who had dropped a grand total of 10 points in 30 games and hadn’t lost a domestic cup tie in 4 seasons were suddenly going to drop more points in their final 8 domestic games than they had in the previous 30, whilst a team made up largely of serial losers – with a captain without a single senior footballing medal to his name, a side who hadn’t won consecutive league games in their previous 9 SPFL matches were going to do something they haven’t achieved in the 4 seasons since they were finally promoted to the Scottish Premiership and win 9 games back to back. All this with a team who have wilted and capitulated in every single big game they’ve had where pressure was on them to deliver. It just wasn’t going to happen and Steven Gerrard must be eternally grateful that a global pandemic has been able to deflect from the fact that he has once again failed to deliver when so much was demanded from their support.

 

The silence from the Celtic board during this debacle has only served to emphasise that the chasm between the clubs off the park is at least as great as that between the clubs on it. For some time now Celtics boardroom has been made up of men who operate on a global platform. Genuine and firmly ‘on the radar’ billionaires like Dermot Desmond and Denis O’Brien have reputations, contacts and influence well beyond the UK’s shores. We’ve previously taken senior members of the UK cabinet, executives of blue chip companies, world leading economists and former Deputy Governors of the Bank of England and supplemented them with guys with a significant track record in performing at the highest levels in their various industries within the UK, Ireland and beyond. To a man the Celtic board has long been one that has been filled by men of significant substance. Professional men and the type of men who can and do lead and influence. In contrast, the Ibrox boardroom comprises of a gaggle of blinkered, occasionally bigoted West of Scotland businessmen.

 

Douglas Park is currently the biggest hitter in the Ibrox boardroom and has a more than respectable track record in business. He is a wealthy man on the back of his endeavours over nearly 50 years, but his wealth, influence and business history doesn’t even register compared to his Celtic counterparts. Indeed, one doubts if Denis O’Brien or Dermot Desmond would even have heard of him prior to his turning up in the Ibrox boardroom.

 

The Rangers fans will argue that they had Dave King, but despite being based in and having most of his business interests in South Africa, he could in no way be described as a global tycoon. He is a pariah in the business world now and like Park is a man with little influence and with limited contacts beyond SA and the UK. Indeed, where he does have contacts beyond those borders, they tend to be guys like fellow Ibrox board member, Hong Kong based, Barry Scott who have – to put it kindly – controversial business histories.

 

Not to put too fine a point on it, the board members at Celtic operate on a completely different plan to the ones at Ibrox. It’s therefore unsurprising that the Celtic board are shrewder, smarter and consistently outthink, outwit and outperform their Rangers counterparts in every area.

 

It’s a few weeks since HWS asked if I’d do this article to look at the voting and fallout from the SPFL vote on concluding the season and I’m sure most reading this will be familiar with the background to that story without going over it in detail here.

 

Few anyone would argue that there were some flaws in the SPFL voting process. There quite clearly were but what has followed from The Rangers and Inverness has been a vicious, undiluted and potentially libellous attack on the SPFL, its members and senior individuals on its board. When the dust settles, one would expect that serious SPFL charges – and possibly civil proceedings – will follow against both of those clubs and, in particular, Douglas Park, Stewart Robertson and Scot Gardiner.

 

In the case of Robertson, his place on the SPFL board must surely be untenable now. Arguably, his position at Ibrox should be too. What purpose does he serve if he is unable to represent The Rangers interest on the SPFL board or exert any kind of influence? The SPFL have claimed Robertson never spoke up or raised his alleged grievances or concerns at any point either during board meetings or in private. What the hell was he doing? Where was his voice? If you are operating at that level, you need people there who can speak up and assertively fight their corner and say things people don’t like to hear. We’re not talking about a modern apprentice or office junior sitting in on meetings to gain a wee bit of experience here. We’re talking about a highly experienced guy on the board of and representative of 2 major organisations.

 

The constant flow of contradictions, misinformation and vitriol from Ibrox and Inverness have been nothing short of a disgrace. Serious public allegations were made against the SPFL and its representatives. Despite the recent backtracking, the words ‘bullying’, ‘corruption’ and ‘coercion’ all originated from them. It is completely unacceptable in any line of business to make such damning comments and allegations and refuse to provide evidence to substantiate them. To go further and demand suspensions of senior board members without providing anything to support that request is incredulous. As well as their public utterances, Douglas Park is alleged to have made even more serious and damaging accusations in a private telephone conversation to Neil Doncaster. The nature of these comments were so serious that Mr Doncaster felt compelled to get the SPFL lawyer to draft and issue a cease and desist notice to Park.

 

As for the vote itself, The Rangers are unhappy that their own resolution to replace the SPFL motion on the table at that time was refused. The reason being – as the SPFL have gone on record as saying – is that Park’s motion was not legally competent but if they wished, they could have access to the legal representatives of the SPFL to produce one that was competent and could be which could put to the member clubs to vote on. This offer was refused. To date (at least 5 weeks later), no updated resolution has been put forward.

 

Another complaint was that the SPFL board tried to influence members. I struggle to see why this is being portrayed as unusual or underhand. This was a board resolution being put to its members, of course they would lobby for its acceptance. Any board putting forward a resolution will be hopeful that it passes.

 

The inference that there was any bullying or intimidation of clubs has also yet to be substantiated. If anything, and in light of this morning’s comments from other SPFL clubs, there has been more evidence of The Rangers and Inverness attempting to bully and influence other clubs than there has of anything else.

 

Rangers motive from the outset has been transparent, it’s never been about the good of the game or even self-interest for their club. Whilst Hearts, Partick Thistle, Falkirk and Stranraer can have legitimate grievances about their fate and are rightly voting for and fighting for what’s best for their club, The Rangers board and fans are absolutely consumed by the thought of Celtic winning their 9^th consecutive title. Their board are voting and rabble rousing based on hatred, bigotry and in defiance of all logic. They will gladly pursue a scorched earth policy if it means stopping Celtic. The end game has always been thus.

 

In Scott Gardiner at ICT, they have found a willing stooge. A long-time friend and colleague of Rangers 9-in-a-row stoater, John Brown, Gardiner’s allegiances and motives don’t exactly require a Deloitte auditor to work out.

 

A former employee of the original Rangers, rumours have abounded for some time that he now craves a job back at the new Ibrox club having rejected a chance to return to Edmiston Drive a few years back. Given his track record of failure at Dundee and Hearts (where he laughably oversaw the failure to order seats for their new stand, resulting in a delay in its scheduled opening), most Celtic fans will surely hope that he gets the chance to join that board of insignificant brothers mentioned above.

 

The Rangers, many of their fans and Gardiner will all deny it of course, but the thought of Celtic being crowned champions is tormenting their every waking moment right now. The Rangers fans social media pages, fan forums and websites have spoken of little else for weeks. As ever, Celtic and their continued success is forever prevalent in their minds. For them, there is no escape. Irrespective of how they try and dress it up or make excuses, their behaviour betrays their true emotion.

 

After 6 weeks of bitter infighting, 1 failed coup, 10s of thousands of words, several hundred newspaper articles, 1690 statements and 2 SPFL member resolutions and not a single peep from Parkhead, nothing can alter the fact that for the 9^th season running, Celtic are once again the best damn team in Scotland.

 

By Macaroon Bar 2/5/20

When Ian decided on the name ‘Knight Rider’ for his CB handle in the early 80s, little did he know that it would follow him around for the rest of the decade. As decisions went, it was up there with the day Katie Hopkins’ mum got pregnant then decided to keep it – a fucking bad one.

For the next few years, at every opportunity, we’d address him as ‘Knights!’, purely in the name of comedy. And he didn’t like it; he didn’t like it at all.

Of course we did this out of affection, but a different kind of affection; a piss-take sort of affection. That’s not to say he didn’t deserve it of course; he was a Bully Beef character so we felt as though the ribbing was truly justified even if he obviously didn’t.

It was almost a thrill when he’d counter our taunts by fixing us with a growling gaze and asking us, ‘Ee got a problem?’

 

Knights liked his semi – heavy metal attire of snow-washed denim jacket and jeans, big white mamma boots and shoulder length hair. Picture a member of a Norwegian soft metal band from the 80s and you’re about there. 

Straight out of the ‘furry dice brigade’, his favourite track was, ‘Who Made Who’ by AC/DC and it was this head-banger he’d have pumping out the open window of his Ford Cortina.

Once, in response to us reminding him of his nickname, he informed us that we were, ‘Aw mincemeat,’ which was actually quite an apt threat seeing as he worked in the local butcher’s.

He then charged at us like a raging bull, seemingly to attack, only to stop five-yards short, pointing, and shouting, ‘Ahhh ya cunts!’

Eventually, he got his revenge by looking in all the pub windows until he caught us underage drinking, then reported us to the cops.

Every day after school we would make our way down to his shop specially to shout ‘Knights!’ at him – it was the highlight of our day, at least until we got home and ‘Grange Hill’ came on.

Out of the goodness of our hearts, we would always let him know we were approaching by counting ourselves in: ‘A-one, a-two, a one-two-three-four – KNIGHTS!’

Startled and slightly bemused (or maybe impressed, it was hard to tell) all of the shop’s clientele would turn ’round and look for a moment, before carrying on as normal. Not Knights, though, who looked like he was about to burst like an overcooked sausage.

Waiting until his manager wasn’t looking, he menacingly pointed at us with a cleaver before telling us, ‘You, and you, and you – are fucking mincemeat.”

On a midweek night you’d see him doing a few hundred circuits of the town in the motor; elbow out the window, mirror shades on, chewing Hubba Bubba, and giving us a wee growl as he drove past.

If he had a lassie with him you could imagine him giving it a Brooklyn accent too, as if being a butcher’s assistant with a Cortina wasn’t impressive enough.

Knights had a pal we named ‘Beefburger’ who was also a bully beef type, resembling the wee short guy ‘Wellington Wimpy’ from the early Popeye cartoons.

If Beefburger was in the butchers we would shout his name out too, so as not to make him feel left out. His response was to run out to the door and inform us, ‘The police have just went by and they’re after you, you, you and you!!’, his face looking like he was  blowing up bus tyres.  

On one occasion we probably took it too far. We approached the butcher’s shop to do the usual drill, ‘A-one, a-two, a one-two-three-four …,’ then Blacklock runs into the shop with his gel back hair and on chant gives it, “KNIGHTS!!!”  

The result of this was that Knights was suspended for bringing unnecessary attention to the shop. 

Knights and Beefburger would eventually start drinking in pubs but it was usually when RFC were playing and it was on the telly. They would sit with their blue McEwan’s Lager tops on, drinking said lager with a pile of crisp bags — some empty, some full.

One evening we piled into the pub after a match and the gruesome twosome were there. The look on Knights’ face was a picture; as if the Jackson 5 had just walked into a Ku Klux Klan convention, and his welcome was what you’d expect: ‘Ya fenian bassas!!’ 

All of the emotions regarding the recent suspension spewed out of him like gravy squirting out of one of his steak pies and he flew for Blacklock, only to be held back by Beefburger. ‘Ah was due a promotion ’til that little cunt stuck his heed in the door and shouted “Knights”,’ he tells us while being held back and aiming kicks at his nemesis.

Then it was my turn: ‘Maybe you never shouted Knights, but you shouted: ‘A-one – a two – a-one-two-three-four…!’

As soon as it started, though, it was finished, and he sat back down to his McEwans Lager before informing us that – once again –  we were, ‘Aw mincemeat.’

Blacklock was in having dinner one evening at the Woodhouse Hotel with a lovely lady friend he was hoping to woo (pump), but unbeknown to him, Beefy had got himself a job in there as the head chef and Knights provided them with their meat. Which was exactly what Blacklock was hoping to provide to this lady back at his place if the date were a success. But it didn’t start well and it ended even worse.

Upon spotting each other through a wee hatch to the kitchen, Beefy greeted him with the middle bar and a red-hand salute.

A few minutes later, Blacklock and his guest were hoping to enjoy their romantic steak dinner, but no matter how hard they tried, they couldn’t cut their meat. It was literally impossible. 

Instead of complaining, they decided to go outside and round to the kitchen to confront Beefy. ‘What’s the story wi’ the steak?’, shouts Blacklock, to which Beefy replies: ‘Fuck all tae dae wi me!’

In a rage, he kicks the door in and could hardly believe his eyes. Beefy had been sawing bits off a tyre, which he’d served up to Blacklock and his lady as steaks!

This was obviously some sort of incredibly imaginative revenge, and it was not on!

Blacklock grabbed an apple and got Beefy in a headlock, ‘Aw aye! What aboot this aepple then, eh?’, and starts feeding it to him, ‘C’mon, eat yer aepple, eat yer aepple, yer no blawin up bus tyres now eh?’

Once the forced apple feeding was over and Beefy was once again a free man, he ran into the restaurant and shouts back to Blacklock: ‘Am phoning the polis.’

The next time we clapped eyes on the meat brothers was one Sunday evening in Bobbins, a pub with the usual 80s stuff in it: mirrors, disco balls, lasers, etc.  The main bar was quite empty but when we headed to the disco room through the back we saw only two people up dancing – Knights and Beefburger. The song …

The Wanderer …

“Oh well, I’m the type of guy who will never settle down

Where pretty girls are, well you know that I’m around
I kiss ’em and I love ’em cause to me they’re all the same
I hug ’em and I squeeze ’em they don’t even know my name

They call me the wanderer

Yeah, the wanderer

I roam around, around, around”

As they sang out loud and danced their ‘driving an invisible car dance’, they were oblivious to us; they danced as if no one was watching.

Until the song finished and they heard, with horror etched on their faces, the familiar refrain:

‘A-one, a-two, a one-two-three-four…!

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

By Angela 1st May 2020

Fur an auld wumman she was probably the biggest Celtic supporter you would ever meet in your life. Her name was Marcella, but was known affectionately as Cella. I was proud to call her “Grannie”.

Parkhead Glasgow was my second home apart from Castlemilk, as my brother and I would stay every other weekend regardless of whether the hoops played at home.

For home games, it was her flat at 164 Helenvale Street where a crowd of us would visit before and after the match; such was her popularity.

At 4:45pm on a Saturday, just as the Pope’s a catholic, the chip pan would be on lard not yet melted, tatties peeled.  Fresh homemade chip butties for all was common.  This not only filled you up but gave the crowds a chance to disperse before all heading home safely.

The view from 11 floors up you could see down both the length of London Road and Springfield Road viewing the crowds as matchstick men with the floodlights of Paradise glistening to the right.

My Grannie was a shrewd Business Woman (having worked all her days as a Dinner Lady, Clippy to Bingo caller). Being a War Widow as my Grandad was killed in WW2 there was no option, she never remarried.

When she eventually retired, the landing cleaning business began. The boss and her wee apprentice cleaning the landings for 10 out of the 14 floors in the building.

Along with a Saturday Syndicate for the horses with her flat buddies I learn to write out a bookies slip.

We often liked a “wee refreshment” and would be often found in the Oak Bar (AKA The Clansman or Jimmy’s) most Thursday for a whiskey; and a half shandy.
Whilst having a sing song with the other locals and reminiscing about the past, Cella often kicking things off with “I don’t know why I love you but I do” by Bobby Vinton, such was her devotion to my Grandad Josie. At the end of the night “I was never drunk Angela just tired”. Aye right!

The Celtic Football Social Club was always a highlight of her social calendar. When Tommy Burns won the Scottish Cup in 1995 (the only cup he won as Celtic manager) was another one until the photo was developed and the trophy appeared to be half way up her nose.  She was 81.

Marcella and I had a unique bond, beyond that of maternal granddaughter and grandmother. We shared secrets and memories, more than I did with my own Mum. She forgave me for chopping my long blonde hair to a Casual wedge when I was 14 when all she said was go for a trim. “Suits ye hen” she said after around 20 minutes stunned silence ……

Bobby Gillespie and Andrew Innes from Primal Scream were partying in Paris in the mid-90s, drinking champagne with their model friends Kate Moss and Helena Christensen.

Nearing the end of the night, with the ladies enjoying the company of the indie rock legends so much, Kate suggested they go to another party the following evening. The response from the chaps was: “Sorry hen, we’re gonnae see the Celts.” This was 9 May 1995 (the day before the European Cup Winners’ Cup match between Paris Saint-Germain and Celtic). Bobby and Innes had their priorities right; the supermodels were gutted.

By Angela 18/04/2020

It was 2016 when Gerry Cinnamon started selling out bigger venues in his hometown of Glasgow.  He now plays to sell-out crowds all over UK arenas including Hampden Park 50,000 which recently was sold-out in a matter of hours. It is, however, imperative to point out he went through this journey on his own without media support,  he was no fan of the music business, perhaps he has become what he didn’t set out to be, but his success is certainly through choice and not circumstances.  He is still,  the outsider in our opinion.

He is an artist that hasn’t and doesn’t do many interviews that is something we have always admired also his enormous recognition is bigger than any profile, at many of his gigs or festivals he will break into merriment as if he has just been busking and thousands of people have appeared and joined in.

The Bonny — his latest masterpiece, is what we were anticipating it to be, an immense piece of composition and with that, he has evolved no doubt.
When first upon hearing, ‘Where We’re Going’ it was a standout and far removed from his usual acoustic sets with a full band rather than a solo track; but on listening to the rest of the album there is quite a bit of variation.

The album title relates to times in Castlemilk when the local boys would yearly rival each other in the enormous bonfire stakes, the sad part you needed to learn, and accept, was that the bigger your bonny gets the more people would try and piss on it. As he puts it: “But, if you build it big enough there’s no c*** getting near it …  “The Bonny’s a metaphor for dreaming something into existence and building it bigger, and even if you don’t care enough about yourself to do it for your own good, maybe try doing it for the people you love.”

Sun Queen — remains the favoured track for us here at HWS, musically and lyrically.  The story going right through the track is uplifting then again you may adapt the story to what suits “Fakes in bands only wanna get wasted … They wear nice clothes, but they’ll never even taste it.”  We habitually played this all through the Christmas and New Year period and it ended up a captivating theme tune.

Head in the Clouds — is a track describing his insomnia and how it takes its toll after a few days, the voice is prominent in this track and despite the lyrics sounding he may have a despondent view on life, there is a small narrative of a love song to it as it proceeds.

It has been mentioned in music circles that the lyrics are simple, I totally disagree. His voice is lavish but effortless, a lyrical genius.

Full album tracklist:

1. Canter
2. War Song Soldier
3. Where We’re Going
4. Head In The Clouds
5. Dark Days
6. The Bonny
7. Sun Queen
8. Outsiders
9. Roll The Credits
10. Mayhem
11. Six String Gun
12. Every Man’s Truth

Castlemilk’s finest has seen it, done it and writes about, he doesn’t care about the sums oh and he is a creative musical genius – he could only be a Tim.

Holywell Street maintain: Celtic – music – threads are intertwined, Gerry Cinnamon ticks the boxes.