Don’t Stop the Dance

Celtic v Aberdeen – 14 September 1985

The above song recorded by Bryan Ferry was playing on the tannoy before the match.  Every time I hear it now, my vivid memory shoots to that day.

The match was my first day out against Aberdeen, I had been at a few games with crew on the lead up to this.  I remember seeing calling cards going about stating:  “Congratulations you just have met the Celtic Soccer Trendies” although the mob were chanting “Celtic Soccer Crew” so we seemed to have settled on CSC.

I got to know faces from the terraces over time, they told us we were occupying the bottom of the main stand at Celtic Park next to the old Rangers end (the away end) so a few of us headed there.  As this was against the famous Aberdeen — it was always going to be interesting especially with the fact the Aberdeen Soccer Casuals (ASC) had been coming to Glasgow for a few years and were considered the originals of the early-80s

This was an era where you could pay to get into the match and you could choose where you wanted to be.  So, we get in quite early and take up our seats in the bottom tier of the main-stand.  A few impressive faces we knew start coming in from the off — numbers were increasing, we were always crowd watching — checking out the latest styles.  The threads had moved on from sportswear to cords and footwear; also Paisley pattern shirts, fishing jackets were the new chosen attire a few of the crew were carrying the wee black brolly accessory.  Hair was now short!

This was a total buzz being among the likeminded lads.  Celtic’s own brand of this counterculture was up and running, the new style stemming from football.  I was wearing a said “paisley” shirt buttoned up to the top with cords slit at the bottom and desert boots; boys were becoming men.  The Celtic fans thought they had got rid of their casuals due to the fact they couldn’t locate the ski-hats on the terraces anymore; but what was developing opposite them in the main stand was a bigger crew that had evolved.

Some Aberdeen supporters took up seats in the row at the back of us wearing their red and white scarfs, they must have thought they would have the comfort of a nice view from sitting down instead of the terracing; until the mutton brains saw us.  There was a slightly odd feeling to this match as it was days after our legendary manager Jock Stein had lost his life in Cardiff whilst managing Scotland.  There was a minutes silence before kick-off that was observed impeccably by both sets of supporters, also a top gesture was displayed from the Aberdeen fans as they laid out a red and white wreath behind the goals in memory of Big Jock.

During the match we were looking over at the away end to locate the Aberdeen casuals among their support: they had brought a lot of fans down as they always done.  The  league was usually a race between us and them so they would always fill one half of the old away end.  Celtic took the lead in the first-half and the stadium erupted we were all bouncing up and down in main stand chanting: “Celtic Celtic Soccer Crew” hoping to be noticed, a few of our lads couldn’t resist flipping back and landing on the laps of the Aberdeen mutton brains in the back row of the bottom section.  Some of the Celtic lads were pretending to be stuck as they tried to push us off “get aff” in that Oberdeen occent was the cry, while signalling to the police.

After all this had calmed down we became aware to our right that a load of ASC had come into the no-mans-land (which was a wee section of terracing that was usually kept clear between the away end and the main stand) but they had moved in to check us out.

To give them credit they had big numbers but we started chanting at them they started hand signalling mocking the size of us compared to them, they did have a few more older lads, but we knew that was always the case in these early days.  Aberdeen were smartly turned out wearing a lot of darker colours looking very anti-suss.  Just then the police moved into them and pushed the ASC ushering them back to the main part of the away end.

Aberdeen equalised late in the game which was about to become a flat beer moment, with this being a top of the table clash and of course the smuggy mutton brains in our face chanting: “Oberdeen Oberdeen Oberdeen” like a theme tune to the depression!

With minutes to go, as was the Celtic way; Brian McClair scored the winner (2-1), with utter delirium in the ground we tried to accidently fall back on the muttons in the back row again but they were running to get out the stand — a poor show as we only wanted a kiss and a hug!

Celtic won the match; it was now game on with the ASC, we left the ground together and tried to turn left passed the old Celtic shop but we noticed a barrier was up to stop this so we headed straight down and gathered at the bus stop opposite the London Road Primary school.  There was was a lot Celtic fans leaving the ground moving both ways on London Road, about five minutes later we notice the mounted police moving from the away end towards us, that was when we knew they had the away fans and the ASC with them as they tried to keep them at the other side of the road.

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Given the amount of scarfers it was quite easy to mingle so we went on the move towards Aberdeen as we became face-to-face with them, they used their experience from fighting our fans previously and they charged at us first, backing us off, also fans with their kids fled as that was the only option they had.

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We gathered again across the street just up from the bus stop and we moved up London Road.  A few of our main faces grabbed us and we get switched on.  This time we lead the charge at Aberdeen the mix of apprehension and adrenaline at 15 years-old and we’re having it toe-to-toe with the ASC, this is Glasgow and it’s Celtic at home so we aren’t budging.  There is a few hundred going for it but it was lucky if we could land more than a couple punches. I can also recall seeing the “infamous” golf ball with nails in it flying through the air as well as being cracked with a few black brollies. I recall taking a few dull ones but not feeling a thing this became quite an addiction from this season onwards.

A few of our lot were getting grabbed by the plod and being told it was our last warning, due to the big numbers back then we outnumbered the police on a big scale, it was a nightmare for them.

The plod managed to contain us and the ASC on either side of London Road as we walked further towards Bridgeton, we were now just posturing and getting a good look at the ASC, you could check out their look, no bright colours, very anti-suss with a lot of obscure Adidas trainers.

Out of nowhere someone in our mob lobbed a bottle of Irn Bru into the middle of the Aberdeen mob and with that we followed through over to them. They certainly stood their ground and again it’s kicked off, nobody gets a result as we are all eventually split.

This was my first real taste of it and I was hooked on all of it – Don’t ever Stop the Dance.

In memory of Rab Mcgivern.

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Gerry Cinnamon: The Bonny Review

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.

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Ye Auld Twisters

By Holywell Street 17/4/20

Frank Winston was a curious individual, he was initially from the West Coast of Scotland and was quite a grumpy chap with a short fuse who could flip at the smallest thing. To promote his hard man persona, he’d walk around as if he were pushing an invisible wheelbarrow or was carrying a ‘fitba’ under each oxter, but in saying that, he was okay with us most of the time.

I say most of the time, because one evening, Blacklock and I went up to his house to see if his son ‘Fresh Winston’ was ‘coming out to play’, and it turned out to be one of the most bizarre incidents either of us had been involved in.

Frank answered the door wearing a string vest and told us to come in and wait, so we sat in the front room while he was painting the walls with a roller.

It appeared that he didn’t have his false teeth in, so we could only really try and guess what he was saying to us. As he was painting away he asked Blacklock, ‘Pil payin pitba pum?’ Both of us tried to keep our laughs in while at the same time looking as if we had been asked to explain Einstein’s theory of relativity by one of the Clangers. Blacklock gambled his reply with, ‘Aye.’ It became apparent he was asking, ‘Are you still playing football son?’ So, the gamble luckily paid off, this time.

Frank’s next query was, ‘Pae payin pir pow?’ Blacklock gambles again with, ‘Aye.’ It was the wrong answer, our luck had ran out. His short fuse had been lit and and he turns round, roller in hand and demands, ‘Widdae e mean – aye?’ He had a look in his eyes like that of a young woman on a first date who’d just been told by her boyfriend that he wanted to take her home and do a shit in her hair. He was ragin’! After what seemed like an eternity it eventually dawned on us that he was asking, ‘Who are you playing for now son?’ Blacklock answered, ‘Hutchison Vale FC’, and the tension instantly disappeared.

We hoped that was the end of the interrogation, and we could breath again and return to a certain degree of normality when we noticed that the telly was showing a video of ‘Hungry like the Wolf’ by Duran Duran. Now, we both quite liked it and innocently let our feelings be known, not thinking for a second that it would set Frank off again. ‘Aye? Pair o poofs aye?’

Now, whatever he was asking we assumed it was a rhetorical question. Therefore, our response was, once again – ‘Aye.’ It instantly became obvious that this was the exact opposite of what he wanted to hear, and he exploded with rage, screaming, ‘Widdie e mean aye!?’ 

Obviously we had inadvertently triggered some sort of homophobic allergic reaction within him and although he didn’t actually say, ‘square go, ya cunts’, it was written all over his face. It was at this point that Blacklock and I decided to make a dignified exit. Well, as dignified as we could manage after he flew for us and chased us out of the house while giving Blacklock a white paint makeover as he ran along the lobby.

‘Al Tell Ye’

… was another pub celebrity who would regularly be sitting in the Auld Coin Inn most days of the week. There was a part of the gaff that he and his cronies would sit at and they named it ‘Sunshine Corner’. The pub was situated near the sea front in Burntisland but the only sunshine, if you were lucky, was outside near the ‘ship yairds’.

We named his right-hand man ‘Hael Tell Ye’ because when he was looking for back-up to his thrilling stories he would nod in the general direction of this other wisecracking character for validation of his shite. They sat there scooping up all day – usually Pale Ale or whisky, philosophising to anyone sitting near.

If the young crowd were looking bored they would include us in the chat with a shrewd and wise look telling us their thoughts, as if they were letting you into a massive secret, like it was privileged information. This wisdom was habitually the daftest, most lazy-minded, clichéd pile of drivel you would ever hear, but then what do you expect from a bunch of auld twisters who have sat in the pub for the last 50 years?

One of their buddies we named, ‘Whisky-Nose’ because he was the spitting image of Sid James with his red cricket ball hooter, which we suspected was down to many years tanking the nips that he described as ‘Mother’s Milk’. He would be the main instigator in the gang for hand crushing or demanding arm wrestling contests.

The pub had a jukebox which they would all sing along to; one of their favourites was ‘Rasputin’ by Boney M, and in the name of fun they would all slap the table at the intro to a chorus of, ‘Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey Hey.’

Now and again women would pop in for a light refreshment and if any of them happened to be on the larger side, they would be welcomed to a chorus of, ‘Hey fatty boom boom, hey sugar dumpling.’  

Despite never having attended a football match in their lives, they were all keen supporters of the ‘Raaaiiinjurz’ and would shout at the telly when they were on, as if somehow the players could hear their pearls of tactical wisdom.

Although claiming to be ‘guid proddies’, none of them went to church and were christened to the total-up figure of zero, but, they had a deep dislike for ‘kaffliks’ which seems indicative to these Caledonia small towns.  Sometimes, they would break the mould and go on a pub excursion to Cowdenbeath for a pint with the Young Defenders Flute Band — it was, as the say, their culture.

Whisky-Nose used to tell us that, like himself, his good lady was in the orange order but he, ‘worshipped the grund that is coming ae her’, as he put it, due to her constant nagging. The couple would often be seen frequenting the prize bingo at Burntisland shows, trying to win the most outrageous tat after playing for most of the day, before heading back to the pub.

One afternoon a coach load of day trippers from the Borders arrived on their annual pilgrimage to the seaside as was common then. The men would go on a pub crawl ending up at the ‘ship yairds’ and pile into the Auld Coin Inn. As usual, Al Tell Ye and his merry followers were supping away in Sunshine Corner when these outsiders came in.

It wasn’t quite like the scene in ‘The Slaughtered Lamb’ at the start of ‘An American Werewolf in London’, but it wasn’t a kick up the arse off it. However, as the pints and halves started flowing in the now busy bar, the Auld Twisters were starting to thaw out and even mixing with their new friends.

Calling themselves ‘Brers wi hands across the sea’ and ‘Ye all-time greats’ they demanded their Boney M song and ‘Hert o’ Gless’ by Blondie so they could all sing in unison. But this new spirit of friendship didn’t last long when Whisky Nose decided to ask them, ‘Ah hope yiz are aw real brers.’ Despite it being highly improbable, the tourists all agreed in drunken camaraderie that they were indeed ‘all real brers’ despite, I suspect, not knowing what he was on about.

‘How come he’s wearing a fackin hang-glider then?’, shouts W.N., pointing at one bloke, ‘that’s no brers!!”

With most of the bar now looking confused apart from the locals in Sunshine Corner, it became apparent that he was calling out one of the visitors for wearing a crucifix. The place then fell silent at the new arrived tension as W.N. seemed very aggrieved; the tourist wearing the crucifix is a wee Italian bloke called Pablo who then asks W.N. for an explanation to his so-called crime to the reply: ‘Ye cannae whoopsy poopsy in here pal, this is a proddie shoap and that hang-glider is persona non grata!’

Pablo is now nose-to-nose with him but Al Tell Ye saves the day by swaying over and calmly addressing the crowd: ‘Listen, oor awe-time-greats – am a right or am a wrong?’ This almost Gandhi – like intervention of peace diffuses the situation instantly and the ambience return as if by magic.

In an incredible twist of fate, a track we put on the jukebox by The Gap Band — ‘say oops upside your head, say oops upside your head’ started at just that moment and everybody joined in.

One of the young regulars thought it would be a great idea to get as many of the Auld Twisters up for a dance as possible, ‘c’mon ehh’, she shouts, as she encourages them to a half-hearted rendition of ‘away ye go!’

Then it happens, she’s done it! The tourists, Sunshine Corner and awe the young yins are on the floor sitting in a long line with Whisky Nose at front in song, arms in the air, swaying side-to-side then rowing, doing a version of the ‘Ship Yaird Boat Dance’ while singing, ‘oops upside your head say oops upside your head.’

Gandhi himself would have been proud.

It is true what they say – ‘All you need is love.’

BeerGlass

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Adventures of Yellow Ears

By Holywell Street 12/04/20

Old Eddie was by far the best out of all the characters in ‘no-man’s land’ and was considered a true legend round these parts. I say no-man’s land due to our hometown’s proximity between main cities and at best it was no more than a tourist stop-off spot for most people.

But it did have some plus points. Visitors could go on one of the many ‘exciting’ mill tours before spending the evenings at a restaurant or even the local pictures, which was actually quite a stunning building but by the ’80s had been covered in a bland black and white plastic facade. It was the equivalent of trying to improve the Mona Lisa by colouring in her face with felt tips.

It was the bookies and pubs, however, where you’d find the real personalities and Ed was certainly one of them. Originally from Manchester, he was one of the very few people, I suspect, to support both Man Utd and City. Sporting his long coat and flat cap he’d spend his days in the boozer where rum or pints of bitter were his favourite tipple.

When he wasn’t in the pub he’d be in his other place of worship – the bookie’s, and would regularly be chucked out after it was said that he was ‘too bloody cheeky to folk’ when the results weren’t going his way. This, of course, was only after they’d taken all of his money. We witnessed this ritual once when, after he was ‘politely asked to leave’ he told us, ‘Trap one to beat trap two, trap two won and one was second! Ye can never beat these basstits!”

During the mid – ’80s under a rancid Tory government there was a unit of like-minded lads who would hang around the main street between John Menzies and the phone box. Among these young bods were Tommy Trekket, “The Leopard”, Sid, Craig B and Blacklock, who, as well as being working class and bored, were very, very clued up and loved a laugh or two.

Ed was without doubt an eccentric, probably alcohol induced, but an eccentric nonetheless, and he did peculiar things. A case in point being when tourists would pull up at the phone box seeking directions and he would inexplicably send them in a completely different direction to where they needed to be. One day we asked why he did this; his response – with his classic stare – was, ‘Because they are nosey basstits.’

Whenever Ed saw us he’d always play to the gallery, usually by singing or walking backwards and in unison we’d be shouting over at him with outstretched arms as he belted out his favourite song, ‘Begin the Beguine’ by Julio Iglesias. I guess we all just loved him but the grown-ups, the unfriendly, stony-faced locals would always look down their noses at him, which definitely made us take to him more.

One day, when we were standing at the phone box, Ed approached us with what can only be described as a Charlie Chaplin walk. Well, we assumed (or hoped) he was doing a Charlie Chaplin walk because the only other alternative would have been that he’d shat himself. Which, to tell you the truth, wouldn’t have been outwith the realms of possibility. Just then, Tommy Trekket suddenly greeted him with, ‘Ahhhhhhhh – yellow ears!’ There was no clever, hidden meaning in this new nickname. Tommy called him ‘yellow ears’ because – probably due to decades of puffing Regal King Size – his ears, teeth, and some of his fingers had literally turned yellow. In fact, he was well on the way to transforming into a cast member from ‘The Simpsons’.

For some reason he didn’t think it was nearly as amusing as we did and the response from him was not good. In his Manc twang he shouts, ‘Ye getting too blodda cheeekaa’ and started chasing Tommy around the phone box. After a few laps in which he failed to get near him we managed to calm him down. Blacklock persuaded him that ‘Yellow Ears’ was actually a really affectionate term and from that moment on he seemed to revel in his brand new name.

In between John Menzies and the phone box was Fine Fare, which was where Tommy Trekket worked at the deli-counter wearing his white hat. One afternoon we were all in there chatting to him when Yellow Ears staggered in pissed and falling about while singing his favourite song. Once he’d bought his Fine Fare yellow pack cider (which incidentally went with his ears) he noticed us and was over like a shot. Tommy used to give him free stuff from the deli and this day he handed him some sliced ham with a smiling teddy bear image on it, the kind you give to 3-year old kids to make them eat it. Free or not, Yellow Ears wasn’t finding this funny and he stared at Tommy with a kind of, ‘I-know-more-than you’ look, while asking him, ‘Are ye trying rip me off?’ Although, how you can rip someone off with free ham is anyone’s guess.

Another curious character drank in a pub called The Sticky Glue, which was situated in a narrow one-way street where cars would drive by every three or four minutes.  Due to him finding his own jokes or stories absolutely hilarious he would burst into a hysterical laugh after he’d told one, which sounded like a Tommy Gun being let loose on a German trench during the First World War (kakakakakakakakakakaka).

It of course earned him a nickname which was every bit as shrewdly observed as ‘Yellow Ears’. We decided to call him ‘Machine Gun’.

Machine Gun’s stories were only amusing in his own head and really the only funny thing about them was his laugh, which was incredibly infectious; like herpes. For some reason he and Yellow Ears didn’t really see eye-to-eye, but they would still stand together at the bar in the afternoon with the usual nine or ten other customers.

The Leopard and I were in one afternoon and we observed that Machine Gun and Yellow Ears were playing some bizarre game which consisted of betting 50 pence on the colour of the next car to drive past the pub. Yellow Ears seemed to lose every time to a chorus of ‘kakakakakakakakakakaka’. Eventually auld yella grabbed Machine Gun by the throat, pushed him up against the wall and called him a ‘cheating basstit!’ (fuck knows what was floating through their heads). It was almost as if we were caught in the middle of the last act in an old John Wayne movie, set in the wild west. The tension; the drama; the feeling of raw, unadulterated terror as the two main protagonists were set to battle it out to the death in the bloody, climactic scene.

Well, it felt like that right up until the barmaid shouted, ‘Pack that in ya silly auld bastards or eer no gettin’ back!’

Of course there are still characters like that now. But they broke the mould after they made Ed. The King. The Elvis Presley of characters – except with yellow ears.

 

EDDIE (002)

 

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.

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Friday Ins and Outs 50th Celebrations

IN:

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.

 

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OUT:

Steven ‘let’s go’ Gerrard.

Annoying Oasis getting back together opinions.

Biffa Bacon – Bully Beef types.

Coronavirus

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.

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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.

Peace.

 

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.

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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

IN:

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.

Nitcham

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.

OUT:

Nazio

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!

‘Wowzers’

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.

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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.