Author: Holywell Street

Hailing from Wigan and Leigh, they first catapulted to the top of the North West music scene in 2005; becoming notorious for energy packed raucous live performances and winning an army of devoted fans, known as the DC Elite, giving the band football terrace style support. With an impressive CV including a label deal with Columbia Records, work with Hacienda Legend Mike Pickering, a tour support slot to Madchester royalty Happy Mondays, and a very special appearance at Glastonbury Festival, they’re back for round 2 and seem to have something of a point to prove.

HWS have been following their progress for some time; Paul Kealy part of our forwarding thinking progressive editorial team put us onto them last year.

The re-released album What Doesn’t Kill You Makes You Worse was released on 4 March 2019. The story behind this record could be made into a film.  The successful band having been dropped by their major record label, the demos go missing for a 10 years and are rediscovered on an old computer drive and re-mastered.  Class.

Originally a six piece band they returned as a four piece in 2017 to sold out shows and excited public; this was after meeting up at Stevie (Ahern)’s wedding mainly for a piss up.  The other boys Floyd and Ian didn’t want to do it any more. Respect.

Christopher ‘Binnsy’ Binns (vox)

Stephen Ahern (guitar)

Jon Hollingsworth (bass)

Ryan Whittle (drums)  

Dirty Circus made their Glasgow debut at the world famous McChuills on 30 October 2021; free entry as well. This spurred on local bhoys Acid Ultra’s to remix one of their singles ‘Sunshine’ Premiered on 22 Oct 2021 via You Tube.

J. J. Whelan

In Paradise the banners rise,
Green and white beneath the skies,
The faithful gather, heart to heart,
From every corner, worlds apart.

Through wind and rain, through joy, through pain,
The anthem lifts, a sweet refrain,
Chorus born of soul and stone
You’ll never walk this road alone.

The Lisbon Lions carved the way,
Their memory still echoes today,
From Hampden’s roar to Europe’s stage,
Their story written, page by page.

When the voices join as one,
The fight is fought, the battle won,
For Celtic’s more than just a game,
It’s love, it’s life, it’s in the name.

So raise your scarves, let voices soar,
Together stronger evermore,
For in this song our spirit’s shown:
At Celtic Park you’ll never walk alone.

IN:

Arm wrestling yer cat

The Hoops Bar Tenerife

The Brannigan Crisp lorry driver

Doing the school run dressed as an Afghan Hound

Priya Sharma from Emmerdale

The Celtic 

Shouting out: “er she/he is though!” to everyone that walks into the workplace.

Jimmy Whelan on the team

Speaking through yer nose on a conference call.

The all-time greats.

Having a Cirry oan 

Beard gardens, only allowed entry with a beard.

OUT:

Paddy from Emmerdale 

Brexit 

Kris Boyd (only in the studio for a cirry oan)

That Simply Red song: “Lovvvve the thought … lovvvve the thought!’ and “I lovvvve the thought of coming home to you …”

Song lyric: “I didn’t think I was hungry til I tasted you” 

The price of a chippie 

The quote: “everything happens for a reason” cosmic forces crap!

The words “Holliebobs” and “Amazeballs” 

My hollibobs was amazeballs

Face walking into cobwebs first thing in the morning.

Man bun and massive ear lobe rings. 

That’s that then!  Don’t take it serious. Love it or leave it, delete it, report it, avoid it or embrace it.  Have a decent weekend.  Switch off everything at night.

Holywell Street offices are located at 95 Holywell Street adjacent to Celtic Park. Pop along and see us! Bring awe yer mates. Paul Kealy make’s tantalising Lamb Buhna.

By J. J. Whelan

We were all burst, the night before had been heavy. Same spot in the park, cans everywhere, carry-outs from the night before half gone and half spewed back up. Some of the boys hadn’t even shut their eyes, others were crouched behind bushes giving large wae the dry boke, still trying to neck Buckie like it was Lucozade. My stomach was in bits, couldn’t even face a drink till near 11am pure nerves, pure dread. The Police didn’t bother us because we were controlled and all in the one place.

But the buzz was different. New gaffer. Martin fuckin’ O’Neill. Could he be the one to finally put a stop to that mob? All the chat was ifs, buts, maybes. Mickey with his Tourette’s was rattling on, wanker, Fanny baws, big nose and several other profanities, calling everyone in sight while trying to talk serious about tactics. Had us doubled over laughing, but he didn’t even know why.

We mobbed down to the train station, swaying about, singing rebel tunes at the top of our lungs. Folk staring, but nobody cared. That march to Paradise felt like we were going to war. We were half drunk, half terrified, but ready.

You need to get this we’d had years of false hope. Centenary double, St Paddy’s massacre, Lubo’s 5-1. Aye, magic nights, but Rangers always came back, swaggering with their big signings and their shite patter in the papers. They thought they were untouchable. Brown brogues and all that pish. We were written off before we even got through the turnstiles.

Then bang Chris Sutton 57 seconds in 1-0 which led to a Six-two victory. Let that sink in. We destroyed them. Not edged them, not a lucky break, pure demolition.

And Larsson… The King of Kings. That chip. Still gives me goosebumps. We’re 3-1 up, nerves still jangling ’cos you know that mob always nick something. Then Henrik glides through them, cool as ice, and just dinks it over Klos like he’s playing five-a- sides. Ball hits the net and the place goes fucking mental. I’m hugging strangers, camouflaged drink flying, grown men crying. That wasn’t just a goal that was the dagger. Game dead. Rangers finished.

O’Neill played a blinder. All week he’d been saying, “Rangers are the benchmark,” talking like we’d be lucky to sneak it. Aye right. He knew what he had. And he unleashed it.

That day changed everything. You could feel it in your bones. For us, it was like someone had lifted the curse. For them, it was the start of their slide. The exact moment it flipped? Henrik’s chip. That’s when the world changed.

And I was there. Singing till my throat bled, steaming, sweating, crying, raging, loving it. We were all singing the Oasis song Roll With It as someone had spotted Noel Gallagher in the crowd with a Celtic scarf.

By the time we stumbled out of Paradise we were bouncing. Six-two. Couldn’t believe it. The whole place was electric, folk staggering about like they’d just witnessed a miracle, which we had. We’d smashed them. Humiliated them.

We made a beeline for the Gallowgate, thousands of us spilling down the road, still singing, still hugging strangers. Rebel songs belting out every doorway, tricolours flying from pub windows, taxis crawling through the crowds beeping their horns in celebration. The whole street felt alive, like a festival, only better because it was us, and we’d just destroyed the mutants.

Into the pubs we went. Sticky floors, plastic pints sloshing everywhere, jukeboxes drowned out by a thousand voices screaming Hail Hail in unison. Some of the boys were too burst to stand, leaning on the bar ordering trebles like they were waters. Mickey with his Tourette’s was in full tilt again, calling barmaids “fannies, big tits” then telling them they were beautiful in the same breath, and somehow still getting served.

I don’t even remember how many pubs we hit. One after another down the Gallowgate, the noise never letting up. Every time someone came through the door it was another roar more handshakes, more hugs, more “did you see Henrik’s chip?!” like it wasn’t burned into all our skulls already. Folk were dancing on tables, pint glasses smashed but nobody caring, just laughing and singing louder.

By the end of it half the boys were done in. Heads on tables, jackets for pillows, while the rest of us soldiered on with sambucas and vodkas like champions. I remember standing outside getting some air at one point, looking up the street at all the madness, and thinking this is it. This is the night we’ll still be talking about in twenty years. The day Celtic rose again. The day we broke them.
I ended up in Ricky’s snooker hall as always as I knew I would never be turned away and there was always a bit of powder to square me up before heading home.

I made it home God knows when, voice gone, shirt stinking of beer, ears still ringing with rebel tunes. But I didn’t care. Six-two. The demolition derby. One of the best days of my life.

The next day nursing a massive hangover I took the dog for a walk to clear my head. I ventured over the bridge to Bothwell and I see Henrik the King out walking his dog as though nothing had happened the day before. I was in awe of this man. My hero then and still is to this day.

Fate
Up against your will
Through the thick and thin
He will wait until
You give yourself to him

Under a blue moon, I saw you
So soon you’ll take me
Up in your arms, too late to beg you
Or cancel it, though I know it must be
The killing time
Unwillingly mine

I believe that 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 the same vibe. When looking back at terrace culture it seems it was very grounding. I have always been a bit of a flaneur so looking for the next locale was perfect timing.

I first seen it in 1983, I’m walking through the Barrowlands in Glasgow on the London Road side of the market. Myself and a friend are dressed in post -Two-Tone attire with wedge haircuts and baggy jeans. Aberdeen appear.

I’ve heard it said and I agree, “Where’s the next scene?’ Nobody sees it coming, ah it’s over there.” – (Casuals DVD)

Eighties

It was every Saturday in the mid to late ‘80s. Glasgow City Centre seemed to be occupied by us the (CSC “the Celtic Soccer Crew”) A lot of the time I’d recognise a face and a nod was given. Other times you would approach a group and anticipate it could go off. Some lads would interrogate by asking your authenticity with “say the Hail Mary”. However, as time proceeded into the late ’80s it just seemed to always be Celtic in the city centre.

Inevitably, before any home games; it was a dash from George Square, along the end of Argyle Street and it would kick-off on a big scale at the island in the middle of the road at Trongate. From there, the away firm would head onto the London Road side of the Barrowlands we would go the other way (the Gallowgate). The drill was to go through the Barras and catch the away mob as they walked up the London Road side of the market. Many a time on the corner a crowd of mods were gathered at the ice cream kiosk. I vividly recall the young ginger baby crew member from Posso would tag the first one and the rest would follow through. Mods, yesterdays subculture especially that second generation type, one dimensional with targets on their back, what did they expect.

Most weeks when Celtic played at home we would approach Bridgeton Cross there would be a mob gathered at the bandstand. Like clock work about 10 of the crew would make a dash over to this Bridgton Derry lot and they would bolt before any of us remaining had even followed through.

Beginnings

Celtic first went out as a crew in a Scottish Cup match in 30 January 1985. This was away to Hamilton under the name (RCC “the Roman Catholic Casuals”) which was not a decent or suitable moniker I think we can all agree.

My first outing was a couple of months later on 20 March 1985 at Celtic Park v Hearts. We numbered around 50 and we had positioned ourselves next to the Hearts fans in the old Rangers end at Parkhead. This was just before they put a fence and plastic screen down the middle of the terrace. All there seemed to be was police segregation. The attire was sportswear and those half ‘n’ half ski-hats which wasn’t exactly anti-suss; but I think at this stage we actually wanted to be noticed. I recall over hearing a Celtic supporter commenting: “I didn’t realise we has so many casuals” this would be on the assumption it was an Aberdeen thing or perhaps Motherwell.

At the age of 15, I was just loving the camaraderie, the labels worn but I am posturing as a foot soldier. It was also a good game to have chosen for antagonising the away support. Hearts took the lead and were two nil ahead within 30 minutes. However, Celtic pulled one back through Mo Johnston just before half-time. Late into the second half Murdo MacLeod equalised, then on 92 minutes Brian McClair scores the winner for Celtic. The raging Hearts fans are trying to break through and attack, they still have this Gorgie aggro Skinhead look among their support mixed in with their firm.

Going into the 85/86 season things were starting to change and grow. Sportswear was replaced by shirts and cords, more dress down anti-suss. An umbrella was an accessory for some and more shoes being seen then trainers. Boys were becoming men. The Celtic ski-hat had gone. The Celtic support thought they had got rid of their casuals. However, there was a much sinister not so obvious crew sitting opposite them at the bottom of the main stand at Celtic Park.

.

By Macaroon 23rd May 2018

Celtic Casuals

One of my most memorable days out with the Celtic Casuals was a Wednesday night match against Rangers at Celtic Park on May 1, 1985. This fixture was originally scheduled for March of that year but had to be postponed.

These were the days of ski hats and sportswear, with plenty of Sergio Tacchini and Fila attire. We had positioned ourselves at the edge of the jungle, next to the old Rangers End, so we could see and taunt our rivals. The usual chants echoed back and forth as we spotted the Rangers ICF on the other side of the segregation. As the match began, a bottle of Irn-Bru was thrown from the Rangers supporters and shattered right in front of a copper. At that time, there was no mesh fence separating the jungle from the old Rangers End, which stirred up some tension, and we tried to push forward.

Two minutes into the match, Celtic were awarded a penalty, which Roy Aitken scored. However, the spot-kick was ordered to be retaken, and Aitken missed it.

In the 60th minute, Alan McInally scored for Celtic to make it 1-0. Shortly after, in the 71st minute, Ally Dawson was sent off for an off-the-ball incident involving Mo Johnston. This left Rangers with only nine men, as Davie Cooper had been sent off earlier in the match. we were were ecstatic and letting the Buns know about it. However, late into the game with approaching the last 10 minutes Rangers are awarded a penalty after a handball in the box by Roy Aitken. Ally McCoist steps up to make it 1-1. The end result. This result was hard to absorb as we had not beaten Rangers in a long time. Furthermore, the result basically hands Aberdeen the league. So an interesting game leading up to a so called “riot”.

Leaving the Ground

Our plan was to head to the Barrowlands and attack Rangers as they approached the London Road side. As we leave the ground and onto Janefield Street the Celtic fans numbered quite around 10,000. As we reached halfway down Janefield Street a small number of the supporters were giving us abuse, perhaps looking to take the result out on us. There was a small chant of “casuals get to f*ck” and “Celtic and Casuals don’t go” this was nothing new and normally fizzled out and the tension receded as predicted. Nothing happened.

Horses

At this point, a Celtic fan appears to have stepped back into a horse and agitated it, which prompted a loud cheer from the crowd. Meanwhile, the Strathclyde Police Mounted Division seemed to take that as a disturbance developing, although all involved later denied this. The officer in charge, orders five mounted police horses to charge through the crowd, leading to chaos. The horses strangely turned at the top of Janefield Street and charged back down, causing a 100-yard brick wall with railings outside the flats on Janefield Street to collapse under the weight of the crowd. People were led into neighbouring houses for safety, and women and children were lifted onto balconies. The street had become a bottleneck. This “balaclava-style” charge through the overcrowded street was completely unnecessary, resulting in many injuries, with innocent supporters being arrested and many casualties lying on either side of the road.

Aftermath

Results of Police Inquiry published December 1985 exonerate police – no action was to be taken. Witness statements from residents in Janefield Street had witnessed a ‘peaceful’ but crowded exit onto the street and only saw a cavalry style charge by the police.

No police or anyone connected to the incident was ever brought to justice. It seemed to us that it was simply more convenient to blame the Celtic casuals. Even the Celtic board at the time seemed to be happy to go along with this story. This was to be known as the “Janefield Riot” the only riot we are aware of that night was caused by the police themselves.

Teams

Celtic: Latchford W McStay MacLeod Aitken McGugan Grant Provan McStay Johnston McClair McInally (Colquhoun) Sub: McKechnie

Scorer: McInally 60

Rangers: McCloy Dawson Munro McPherson Johnstone Durrant Russell (Burns) E Ferguson (I Ferguson) McCist Cooper

Scorer: McCoist pen 77

Attendance: 40,079 

By J.J. Whelan

Frank was born and raised in Spam Valley, a private housing estate that sat like a sore thumb on the edge of the old mining village. It was where the incomers lived, folk who didn’t belong but fancied themselves a cut above the rest. They had bought houses there because they were considerably cheaper than any other place because of the location. The locals never trusted them, and the “Spam boys,” as they were known, didn’t help their case with their shiny Choppers, tidy haircuts, and stuck-up attitudes.

But Frank was different.

His old man was pure Gorbals, sharp, tough, and straight-talking. That fire ran in Frank’s blood. While the other Spam boys were polishing their trainers and pretending they were middle class, Frank was down the schemes, loitering outside the chippy with the local lads and sneaking into the youth club where the real life was happening. He never fitted in with the ones he was supposed to, and he didn’t care to. He liked it rougher round the edges.

At twelve, Frank discovered drink, cheap cider mostly, passed around in a field or behind the shops. He loved the feeling it gave him, the buzz, the boldness, the escape. He started robbing coins from his mum’s purse, just enough to go unnoticed and by the weekend, he had enough for a carry-out. A couple of bottles of El Dorado or a flagon of cider, and he was flying.

Football was his other obsession. Celtic, of course. His Da was a big Hoops man, and though he didn’t like the crowd Frank ran with, he loved that they shared the same team. So he gave Frank money for the games. While the other boys were scamming, stealing, or skimming to scrape together the fare to Parkhead, Frank had it handed to him on a plate, new scarf, money to get in and sometimes even a wee bit extra for chips and Irn Bru on the way home.

Frank was the only child of two working parents, his mum was a nurse and his Da foreman at the local factory so he never wanted for much. Spoiled, some would say. But his parents didn’t see it that way. They saw a happy, clever lad with a sparkle in his eye. Something they never had. They didn’t like the direction he was heading, the drink, the circles he was frequenting, the late nights but they thought it was just a phase.Let him find his own way, his Da would say. He’s a good boy deep down.

But the schemes had their own gravity. Frank, for all his privilege and posh postcode, was already drifting toward the pull of the excitement and the buzz created from all the chaos.

By the time Frank hit sixteen, the drink wasn’t enough.

He’d left school with nothing to show for it as he rebelled against the authorities. A couple of warnings, a record for fighting, and the respect from the lads who mattered to him. His parents still clung to hope. They thought he might settle, get a trade, find a good lady friend and be content. But Frank had other ideas. He was chasing the greater buzz, faster, harder, darker.

The schemes were his second home now. He’d bounce between flats like a stray dug on a trampoline, sleeping on couches, necking cider for breakfast, and dabbling in whatever was getting passed around. E’s at the weekend. Whizz through the week. A bit of prop when he had the money, which wasn’t often. He’d fallen in with older boys, the ones with connections, not gangsters, but lads who knew how to work the system: shoplifting, benefit fraud, selling fake gear, bouncing cheques and dodgy credit cards.

Frank had charm. He could talk the talk, and that Gorbals courage gave him edge. But behind the patter, he was slipping. His Da caught him once, bombed out his nut in the kitchen, and nearly flung him through the back door. His mum cried for days. They tried tough love, then soft love, then just silence. They didn’t know what else to do.

At eighteen, he was caught shoplifting with a blade in his pocket. Said it was for protection. The judge didn’t buy it, eighteen month suspended sentence. Frank treated it like a warning shot and kept going. The parties got darker, the nights longer. He was mixing vodka with Valium now, waking up in stairwells or not remembering how he got home. Total blackout material.

By nineteen, he was selling to feed his habit, not big-time, just bits of hash, maybe a few pills. But it was enough. In a stupid drunken fight the Police were called and he was lifted, caught in possession with intent. The court wasn’t lenient this time.

Nine months in Polmont.

Jail hit him like a Glasgow winter, sharp, brutal, and full of silence. The bravado didn’t count for much inside. You kept your head down, found your crew, and watched your back and arse. Frank learned quickly. He wasn’t the biggest, but he was smart and street wise, nobody pushed him far.

Letters came from his mum every week. His da didn’t write. Just one visit at the start, where he said, “you’re better than this son. Prove it“Then nothing.

Frank did his time, but the damage was done. He left Polmont at twenty, skinny, twitchy, and harder behind the eyes. The Spam Valley lad who once got money for Celtic games was now a jailbird, with a habit on his back and nowhere to call home.

Still, somewhere deep down buried under the chaos a voice kept whispering, “you’re better than this son. Prove it.”

Frank came out of Polmont thinking he’d seen it all.

But nothing prepared him for what came next the cold streets, the no-one-wants-you-here looks, the pals who’d moved on, and the ones still stuck in the same rinse-and-repeat cycle. He bounced back into the schemes like nothing had changed but everything had. His habit had him tight now. The drink came first, then the gear, then anything that numbed the ache of being alive.

He tried staying at his parents’ place, but that lasted two weeks. His mum begged. His da gave him one last speech, but when Frank nicked his mum’s engagement ring to sell for smack, the door closed for good.

The next few years were a blur.

Sofas. Hostels. Floors. Park benches. He burnt every bridge he had, robbed folk he called friends, sold stolen tools, made promises he never meant to keep. He tried to take his own life twice. The second time, he woke up in a hospital in the city, a priest at his bedside and a nurse with eyes full of pity.

That should have been the wake-up call. But it wasn’t.

His rock bottom came later, in the back stairwell of a tower block, shoeless, teeth smashed from a beating over a debt he couldn’t pay. He lay there for hours, half-conscious, soaked in his own blood, shit and piss, wishing he just wouldn’t wake up.

And yet… he did.

He staggered to the local rehab.
The Peter Wilson Centre not out of hope, but hunger. They fed him, gave him a warm blanket and a choice. Keep going as he was or try something different.

That was the start.

It wasn’t pretty. It wasn’t fast. It wasn’t some big Hollywood moment. It was meetings. Withdrawals. Raging headaches and rage at the world. It was shaking on the floor of a shared room. It was admitting, out loud, “My name’s Frank, and I’m an addict.”

He relapsed once, twice, actually. But he kept going back. One old guy at the meetings said, “Stick with the winners.” Frank didn’t know what he meant at first, but he figured it out. The lads who stayed clean? They weren’t saints. They just kept showing up.

After a year clean, Frank was a different man. Not perfect. Still skint. Still scarred. But steady.

He started working in the very rehab centre that helped him. Volunteered at first, making tea, mopping floors. Then a paid gig. His mum came to see him speak at a recovery night. First time they’d hugged in years.

His Da was slower to come round, pride’s a hard wall to climb over but one day, Frank turned up at Parkhead with two tickets for his Da and him. They stood side by side in the stands, scarfs around their necks, and said nothing. It was enough.

Frank still lived in the shadow of Spam Valley, but now he stood in the light.

Not because he escaped his past but because he owned it.
His Da’s words echoed within “you’re better than this son. Prove it.”

J. J. Whelan

The Twelfth Lion Sleeps Tonight (John Fallon)

A fearless lion left us today,
With grit and grace, he led the way.
A keeper bold, a Celtic soul,
Whose hands and heart would guard the goal.

For those in green, you’ll never fade
A name etched deep where legends stayed.
With every cheer and thundered cry,
The Holy Goalie soars the sky.

He wore the Hoops with pride and fire,
Through rain and storm, he’d never tire.
Two finals graced on Europe’s stage,
A hero carved on football’s page.

His Irish roots he held so dear,
Sligo’s call rang strong and clear.
A passport gained in twilight years,
Fulfilled the dream he chased for years.

He once told me a tale so rare
Of angels clad in green out there.
They walk among us, watch and guide,
Forever with the Celtic side.

Ah, but referees his lifelong feud,
A stubborn curse he’d not elude.
With heartfelt laughs and honest fight,
He made his mark in green and white.

And now with tears we say goodbye,
Our lion rests beneath the sky.
Goodnight, God bless, your spirit’s free
The Holy Goalie, eternally.

Slán go fóill

This Celtic legend joined the club on December 11, 1958, and fulfilled a lifelong dream, signing for the club he had supported passionately as a boy, and which he continues to support with the same passion to this day.

He made his debut in a 1-1 draw against Clyde in September 1959, and went on to make a total of 195 appearances before leaving in 1972.

John won six league titles, five League Cups and two Scottish Cups, including the 1965 triumph at Hampden, which was the club’s first trophy under Jock Stein and which kicked off the club’s golden era.

And, of course, he also won a European Cup medal on May 25, 1967 as part of the club’s legendary Lisbon Lions squad.

HWS has recently taken a strong interest in the clothing site Under the Scene. The site offers high-quality apparel, particularly the Paninaro range, which features hoodies, t-shirts, and sweaters adorned with cool images such as the Paninaro gatherings on bikes outside Italian sandwich bars.

“Passion and love and sex and money / Violence, religion, injustice and death”

However, the owner of the site has faced significant adversity to reach this point of success. In 2018 he suffered a significant brain injury, his initial recovery included speech improvement, mobility and memory. The result of this has left him with epilepsy with some memory lapses. During his recovery, he began experimenting with various designs and artwork. Over the past year, he has taken his passion more seriously and has certainly evolved in his craft. His resilience and creativity have come together harmoniously, and here at HWS, we appreciate a strong working-class story that has emerged from any type of hardship.

BORN OF PASSION, MADE WITH PRIDE

“In life, there are moments that change us forever, moments that awaken our passions and drive us to create something extraordinary”

Welcome Dave, and thanks for speaking to us. So, where did the title Under the Scene come from?

 It actually came from the Mrs.  I started doing some artwork when I was recovering from a head injury.  It wasn’t something I’d ever done before.  It was a great way of learning a new skill; the majority of the first ones were rotten.  But like I said it was a learning curve.  But the Mrs saw some of them and suggested I put them on for sale.  I was really apprehensive about it.  Sticking something you’d done out into the public.  The name was chosen as I worked in the music industry for a long time.  You get bands and artists that are all part of a certain scene, well, I’d work with the outcasts or acts that were trying to resurrect their career.  So, I was under the scene

Your resilience has driven you onto your creativity can you tell us more about your journey?

So, back in 2019, I was at a real low point.  I’d lost my business in music, my marriage had ended, and I was in a kind of spiral.  I was out on my usual booze session, saw a sexual assault, so I intervened to stop it.  I ended up with four guys knocking seven bells out of me.  One stuck my head on the kerb and stomped on the back of it.  It has left me with a lifelong brain injury and post-traumatic epilepsy.  After the attack, I really went into a spiral.  Boozing and other stuff got really bad.  I carried a lot of anger around it.  Ended up getting arrested a few times.  It was dark.  I then met a great Irish woman who pointed me in a more positive direction.  It pretty much got me to stop whining and feeling sorry for myself, and let a single incident define the rest of my life.  So here I am.

Being from Kilmarnock, there has always been a connection to the name Paninaro, is that why you have a passion for designing those t-shirts, etc?

Yeah, so I’d go to a fair few games over the years.  I was first taken to Rugby Park back in the 80s.  They must have been in the second division back then; it was the old ground.  Then later, I went back and started seeing the Paninaro banners around the ground. So yeah, the stuff came from being at the football and seeing the guys dressed well with the banners.  Years later, I bumped into a few of the guys and we started talking about stuff like that.  That’s when I decided to stick it on a t-shirt.

When did your love of terrace labels start?

Probably around the age of 14–15.  I was a wee scruffy ginger kid right into grunge stuff.  Oasis and OCS, Cast and The Verve played Irvine Beach Park back in 1995.  I’d never really seen folk dressed like that.  There was no internet back then, and NME and other publications were still covering the American grunge movement.  So, after that, I was off. I worked at Fred Perry, adidas, and Sergio ended up doing two paper rounds and caddying on weekends to afford a Stone Island effort.  It took me about 3 months to get it.

We see you link music, football and subculture in your webpage. These are our passions, also. Can you share your musical influences with us?

Music yeah always been a big thing for me.  I’ve had the pleasure of working with some great guys. However, it did start with music playing at home constantly.  My mate’s big brother, Andrew, would have stuff like The Smiths, Jesus and the Mary Chain, and things like that on.  My mum was right into Squeeze.  Over the years, my own taste came out.  By the time I was in my mid-teens, it was the Britpop era that led me to look back at music, including groups like the Pistols, the MC5, the Beach Boys, and then soul and northern soul, as well as proper old-school hip-hop, such as Grandmaster Flash and the Furious 5 and Run-DMC.  The music also sent me in a different direction when it came to movies, books and artwork.  So, it has been an ever-changing thing.

Is this the first time you have put together canvas prints when you started your site?

Yeah it was. Like I said before some of the early ones were awful. I still remember where I was when the first one sold. It was a Joe Strummer canvas. I was sat in my partners parents kitchen in Ireland having breakfast. The site had been live for a few months and nothing sold. Then I got this ping through on my phone. I was actually a bit scared to send it to the fella in case he thought it was shite after he bought it. It does still amaze me that folk have prints and canvas of mine in their houses. Or wearing my clothes.

We always ask this one: What would be your top three trainers?

Nike Pegasus Omega flames,

Adidas Trimm Trab rivalry pack with the Stanley park coordinates on the inner collar , Puma Roma 1968 gotta be in the blue and yellow.

It was cool to see Eddie Clarke in a recent interview wearing one of your Paninaro sweaters.

Yeah, Eddie had bought one of the earlier sweaters and with some of them the quality was questionable.  He sent a message to complain.  I knew I had to act, as he wasn’t the only one.  I went and found a new manufacturer, and he popped up when the new stuff went on sale. He was a bit sceptical about buying one.  So I sent one over, and his reaction was totally different, but he’s not been back on the site to buy anything yet.  So give him a nudge to get that sorted.

We see we have a mutual love for house music; do you have a favourite DJ?

I loved Greame Parks, guys like Ron Hardy, Jesse Saunders, Grandmaster Flash, Lee Scratch Perry stuff.  But it’s gotta be Pat Sharpe all time favourite from funhouse to the clubs.

How do you view the recent return of Oasis? Were you interested?

It’s great for the younger guys that didn’t get to see it first time round.  For guys my age it’s great for those memories.  It’s great for Liam and Noel, let’s face it the tour is paying for Noel’s divorce.

What does the future hold for your good self?

No idea, I’d love to expand the shop and have a team with me on it.  As I do not have a clue what I’m doing.  I’ve just been making it up as I go along.   In the immediate future, I’m going to catch Craig Charles in Milngavie and have a great catch-up with the Sugarhill gang and the Furious Five in Glasgow.

Thanks for speaking to HWS mate.

No probs.

Under the Scene can be visited here: Under the Scene