First Prize a Coconut

By Holywell Street 2020

It was summer 1987 in a Scottish Borders rural town; an uninspiring place that most tourists may stop off at on their way to get to somewhere else. It was our town though and was by far the most cosmopolitan if you compared it to other towns in the Borders.

There was, however, a University and students from the bigger cities would move there for a spell. There was also a group of young lads who were maybe influenced by what these students wore as well as their musical tastes. More importantly, they attended football matches in Edinburgh and Glasgow so they were dressed in the terrace attire of the time. If this town had one thing, it had character, or should I say, it had characters; having said that you would only aspire to escape the place at the first opportunity, the town was famous for rugby and the usual divisions in the working class.

Music, football and clothes were linked and that’s what kept these young bods together, it was like a family unit with great camaraderie. But we weren’t the only ones; there was a rival town who thought they could match us but they were always miles and years behind, led by a bloke named McGhee. They all had this grating accent, kind of like finger nails being dragged down a blackboard and would pronounce him as ‘Mawgheeeee’. In our town we had some good level-headed chaps, one in particular being the “T-Bone”. There was never a dull moment with him, always a gag and a laugh. I used to get his lunch every day although mostly I didn’t know anything about it. Loads of  times after we’d stood in the queue at the bakers I’d find my hood stuffed with cakes and sausage rolls after I’d got outside.

Guid Auld

T-Bone and McGhee simply didn’t like each other and McGhee would often call the local phone box where we’d all hang about in the street and ask to speak to T-Bone. In his awful twang he would tell him, ‘yow are getting it’ but it was water off a duck’s back to him, he’d just keep telling McGhee that he was the continuous winner of the Ugly Man Contest and that his prize would arrive soon.

When I used to meet up with T-Bone we would visit ‘papa-don’t-preach’s house’, which was his granddad’s flat and a fine fella he was, a real good soul, just like a granddad should be, straight out of a “Werther’s Originals” advert.  T-Bone would sometimes borrow £10 from PDP, in fact, he would borrow £10 quite regularly. PDP, would always ask what this was for and at the age of 17, he’d tell him, ‘sweets and hings’.

One Friday night we were there before we went for our Becks session at a pub named The Bizz. So, T-Bone gets his ten-spot and off we go. The Bizz was like a disco bar with video jukebox, DJ and a real 80s vibe, which really is what you’d expect it to be like, seeing as it was the 80s. When we got there the place was packed to the rafters with fashionable types, as if we’d just walked into an episode of  “The Hitman and Her” but more importantly there would have been about 30 of our like-minded comrades already in. We had decided we were visiting a town in between ours and McGhee’s called The Bannock because it was their yearly festival which meant there was a funfair in town, or as we called it – “the shows”. The screeching Mawgheeeee had been annoying T-Bone most of the week by calling the phone box and informing him that himself and his equally screechy merry followers would be at the shows in The Bannock on this particular Friday evening; so off we went, leaving the Bizz and onto the bus.

T-Bone would like to “sail”, which was an arm movement starting with the hand – much like a Mexican wave and to the instruction of ‘saaiiling men’ we would all do it.  However, there was a random chap on the bus who resembled an angry Frank Carson and he seemed to be getting annoyed with ‘sailing men’ so T-Bone tried to get him involved in one of those ‘if you can’t beat them, join them’ kinda vibes. He was showing him the drill and movement of  “sailing” out of the goodness of his heart, but this just annoyed Frank and he goes nose-to-nose with him. The next thing you know, T-Bone’s left arm – which isn’t sailing – hooks him and knocks his big glasses off which fly across the bus. The two of them squared-up and Frank’s response is to slap at T-Bone as if he’s doing the bongo drums before one of our gang picked his specs up and respectfully put them back on for him. Frank, now with full vision, tried a punch and missed so resorted to the bongo drum again. T-Bone went along with this and the two of them end up dancing bongo drum style, Frank is smiling, not quite sailing, but they got there in the end, the bus stops in the Bannock and we hug him and jump off.

The Bannock was another one of those grey, soul destroying places, the bottom half was industrial and the top half housing with a lifeless main street, sort of like “Village of the Damned” but with a Spar. We made our way to the local showground but there didn’t seem to be any sign of Mawgheeeee and his screeching men as we walked around. A few little stand-offs with the locals were looking promising though, and we consoled ourselves a bit when T-Bone won a coconut at one of the stalls to a round of applause  followed by more sailing.

It was then a local lass told us that the screeching lot had just left the shows on their way back to their hometown. We knew there was a bus stop at a golf course on the top half of The Bannock where they’d be getting on at, so we headed up there. In the distance we could see Mawgheeeee and his followers standing at the stop like a bunch of scarecrows when their bus came along and drove past us. In the hope that we would get to them before they boarded we started to sprint but our luck seemed to be out as we saw them getting on, with the last being Mawgheeeee!  He was standing shouting obscenities, things that were not very nice, like ‘wonkers’ or something like that. As he turned to get on the bus T-Bone continued his run and in an Ian “Beefy” Botham bowl style he lobs the coconut to crack Mawgheeeee right on the side of the head, his prize had finally been delivered.




Friday Ins and Outs 50th Celebrations


Squashing mash potatoes into your  Mums shoes.

Deep House tinnitus amongst the over 40s and 50’s.

The Sun Queen

The standing section at Parkhead

Getting it right roon yiz!

Woody Allen-style corduroy suits

Singing Wonderwall down the pub with the auld boys after playing doms. 

Talking in ‘The Irishman’ style “It is what it is”

That Rotter Reece Mogg and his buffoon Boris

Cameron Diaz for black mutt provoking Scottish winters.

Being a whopper.

Asking the barman for a drink that awe the young yins drink these days!

Pint of Tenants down in two gulps.

Pogoing to Yeke Yeke with yer buddies.

Blasting the rebs on a Glesga bus.

Rubbing noses with yer dog and calling him an arsehole!

Stevie ‘let’s go’ bus – under you go.

Being 50

Awe the hings an that!

Weatherall’s full collection.

Holywell Street t-shirt.

A cirry oan wi a cirry oot.




Steven ‘let’s go’ Gerrard.

Annoying Oasis getting back together opinions.

Biffa Bacon – Bully Beef types.


Herrenvok Hubris

The quote: ‘what’s for you, won’t go by you’

Folk with the ‘price of a pint’ attitude to life

Anxiety stigma number 244: ‘why don’t you set yourself a worry period of 30 minutes a day?

Last train roasters.

Three days beer fear!

Losing Weatherall.

Horizontal freezing rain or sleet (still)

Being stuck on a train with sevconian moonholwers either side

The Voice (cringe fest)

Leaflets through the door every two days for dominoes pizza.

Dancing on ice (cringe fest)

5p a bag

A leg and a wing up the road after a cirry oan wi Kealy.

Lickspittle poninjays

Stiff arms twats.














How others see us …

By Ste Carter 4/1/20

I was brought up on a NW council estate in the ‘60s.

My Mum’s side were all Athlone Catholic’s. Fierce hard talkin’, drinkin’ swearin’ and fightin Aunties abounded. Parties as you can imagine were fucking great.


More of the above with the odd rebel LP banged on at the end of the night.

So you might think me a natural sympathiser to the republican cause and by proxy Celtic football club. Actually, nothing could be further from the truth.

I’d made my way over to you by way of my hard thought out political beliefs, and not by any sectarian ones.

See, I’m a socialist first and foremost.

I see life simply as a struggle between big capital, those who have, and Labour, those who don’t have.

Life is a battle, between the two competing interests.

It’s Them and us. It’s a simple as that.

If that is your basic starting block then there is no place there for monarchy within that frame of reference, and therefore sympathy for Irish, or indeed any, Republicanism is a natural precursor.

As far as football goes, I’ve no interest in ‘sectarianism’ in any form, but I vehemently oppose the idea that one of my friends has that the Glasgow Derby is ‘two cheeks of the same arse’?

Republicanism and Celtic FC represents to me anti fascism, anti racism and socialism ideals.

The sad fact is that the other side represents Unionism, at times blatant racism, and that hideous willingness to be subservient to unelected powers like the monarchy.

So They are a world apart.

It’s why I despise Gerrard.

Not because he’s a Kopite, but because, if we scousers, and I’m a poor one at that, stand for anything, it’s everything that he has seemingly rejected.



The Modern Day Plauge

By Ste Carter 22/11/19

Growing up in the ‘70s I didn’t actually know any who ended their life – it was only strange faraway people who yer mam vaguely knew.
Fast forward 45 years and there’s a biblical plague forstered upon us.
I often read the ‘post this to show someone’s listening’ posts and feel that, while they are wholly worthy that they are a cry in the dark from those of us who are blighted and unable to respond to forces beyond our control.
My own view is that this plague has roots in things that we can help to heal if not cure.
The plague is overwhelmingly male, though not exclusively.
In my view it comes from alienation, pressure to conform and disassociation from modern life.


Some of it comes from the fact that we have stolen the futures of our young – where is the social housing? Why are they bankrupt on leaving University? Why are there no lifelong apprenticeships? Why has the state seemingly/abandoned this generation while it panders to the old with ideas like Brexit?
Some of it also comes from the portrayal of totally unreal ‘perfect’ lives and the pressure to conform to them on social media ? Irony alert, you say?
Some of it also comes from the alienation people feel. As we become more digitally ‘connected’ we are more socially separated in reality.
I don’t have answers here, only questions – we need to change but people keep voting for a continuance of the same thing – manipulated by the old media influences.
Maybe the ultimate irony is that they will die and we’ll all be saved by the new.

Monday’s ins and outs instead of Friday. Not on the telly, HWS platform only, in out … shake it all about


Growing a Jeremy Corbyn beard.

Castlemilk’s finest.

Liam Gallagher’s Celtic Supporters Club.

Francie back at Celtic Park.

The marvellous Eadi Hunter

Necking a whole box of Go Ahead Bars.


Putting all yer wheelie bins out at once so they get the correct one.

A wanna be Edouard song!

Johnny Marr being a Tim.

Saying ‘Cheers now!!’ as you leave the workplace!

Shouting ‘it’s maself’ as entering the workplace!!

The Tiswas theme tune revamped.

Starring at the the tropical fish in Dobbies.

Stocking up on BURLINGTON socks.

Jeremy Corbyn.

Reading the Morning Star on the commuter train.

All the smashing fellas and lassies.

Aff the sauce.

Wim Hoff method – cold showers.

Shaun Ryder necking a whole box of Zantec.

Having a sideways glance walking passed the Agent Provocateur Shop in Glasgow.



Black mutt provoking weather.

Current Buns nipping at heals.

The price of a chippie!

The big bloke of The Chase!

Toady from Neighbours!

Bully Beefs.

Biffa Bacon types!

Hipsters with wee pony tail on beard.

Fascist bassas.

Modern day soccer tourist clubs.

Any song by Simply Red.

Morrissey – attention seeking plum!

People dressing up as a poppy!

Folk who say ‘I’m not being funny but …’

Obligatory airport pint photos!


The quote ‘think positive things and positive will happen!’ Aye!!?

Having a ‘wee cheeky Nando’s’ or ‘wee cheeky pizza’ type comments.

‘Flight booked for hollibobs’ attitude to life quotes.

Not being able to find Brannigans Ham and Mustard crisps.

That’s awe the hings an that.  Read it, report it, embrace it but keep on Keeping on. Eat yer greens and turn aff everything at night. 


Glasgow’s Tin Pan Alley.

By Red Casual 26th October 2019

Opening  in late 1989, Tin Pan was the first club in Glasgow to play the new sounds coming from Belgium and Detroit at the time. Split across three floors, the club was hidden away on Mitchell Lane and was Year Zero for techno in Glasgow. It launched the careers of Slam and established classic nights like UFO and The Orb. Negotiating all those stairs was a bit of a whitey though.

I was taken there by a good friend Frank Paterson in the late eighties I was an out-of-towner.

This was the first time I’d mainly heard beats only in a Club for the majority of the night. This wasn’t rave or house as such, more like electronic beats. This was also before any ecstasy scene had kicked off. It would be a Football Terrace clubbing crossover.  A three floor dance club with a connecting staircase, you’d always meet a good section of clubbers

The crowd were cool, Glasgow always had the unique style of matching up between casual or tailored threads and of course a few permanent sun-tans.  This was a place where you just wanted to dance, no chemicals apart from a Red Stripe or maybe a shlitz.

It was here I first heard dance tracks like White Horse – Laid Back, although the track was old I’d never heard it before especially in a club. Also Electrical Salsa by Off.

I was also introduced to some good pubs in the City which seemed to be the crowd that would later be at Tin Pan. Carnegie’s was a great little joint and again a good crowd, always on a good vibe. It was here I noticed  remixes of Ten City also Joey Negro – Promised Land.

Tin Pan was a club that was hidden away in Mitchell Lane. Theres not many tributes or photos that justify it’s excistence, but it was certainly a catalyst to a lot of major clubs and DJ’s that came about in the 90s.

Holywell Street would like to pay tribute to Glasgow and it’s Night Clubs and of course Frank the legend.

Following on …

Holywell Street would like to welcome Ste Carter in again for another contribution to the blog.

By Ste Carter 26th October 2019


Following on from the last article, ‘There is more that unites us than divides us’  I can only echo, in some small way, the thoughts and feelings expressed there by expanding slightly on some of the themes.

It’s really tough to love modern professional football. It’s tough to love your club, even when that’s all you know, and that’s all that you can do. But it’s really tough to love a club in the English Premiership League.
This is a league that has aped so perfectly the global capitalised model of neo-liberalism that I totally despise.
As an Evertonian growing up in the sixties, it was oh, so, different. I still remember (with fondness) our beloved winger, and working class legend, Johnny Morrissey, getting pinched for storing stolen ciggies, in what was an absolute world away from the multi-millionaire mercenaries that dominate my club today, and who live in constructed bubbles that see them with almost no social or emotional connection to the club they ‘play’ for.
Now I know this blog is read by a mainly Celtic support so I’ll (by way of ingratiating myself) mention the great Lisbon Lions. No matter what side you see out on the park these days, it can’t, and never will, hold the place in the pantheon of greatness, that the 11 local lads who buried themselves for the shirt, immortalised themselves in the club’s history, and who lived the very dreams of the working class people who loved them, merit.
These were your people and they did for you something that we all know can’t happen today.

So what’s my point?

As an Evertonian, I utterly despise Liverpool FC. Yet as a proud working class socialist there’s has never been a second when I have not been 100% behind the #jft96 campaign.
Why? Because this is what unites us, not divides us.
Hillsborough was nothing but an unprincipled establishment attack by Thatcherism, with its disgraceful attempt to cover up working class deaths at the hands of state sponsored tools, and as such, is much, much bigger, than any petty football rivalries.
That’s why I applaud all attempts by fans united in their desires to reduce ticket prices; untied in their desires to promote community work to include young people in the future of our clubs; united in cross partisan attempts to stand up against all forms of terrace fascism- all of these actions are also valid attempts try to cling on to the working class coattails of our wonderful game, which is increasingly distant from its roots, which are our roots.
My final point is work with working class Hibbies; work with working class Dons; work even with working class fans of clubs you despise if their motives are class based and always anti–fascist.
As we’ve already been told correctly, there’s more unites us than divides us, and if we the working class fans are to have a future with and for our clubs, it’s now more important than ever.