By P. Thornton 13 July 2022

I left Helsby Grammar School in Cheshire for the final time 40 years ago never to return. I never wanted to go there in the first place as all my junior school mates were off to the local comp just down the road. Parental pressure was applied however and so I ended up either a ‘grammar snob’ or a ‘grammar puff’ for the next five, long years.

Like most grammar schools, there was a pecking order both within the teaching staff and the pupils. The ‘rough’ kids with Runcorn accents were often ridiculed by teachers whereas the posh kids from Frodsham, Helcy, Kingsley, Manley, Tarvin and other strange villages in the sticks were indulged.

The grammar was a laughable institution with an inflated sense of its own importance. The head teacher wore a gown and a mortar board when she went for assembly. There was still a separate boys and girls class system but only one head. The girls played hockey, the boys rugby (Union!) and believe it or not we still did Latin for a year although all I can remember of it is ‘Marcus pulsat Septimus’

Nothing had prepared me for the culture shock of the grammar school and I tolerated until 1982 then left at the first opportunity after achieving four GCSEs.

The day I went to pick up my results was the same day we left for a family holiday in Paignton of all places. We never usually got further than Rhyl so heading down to Devon with me mum, dad, me, our Claire, our Gaz and our Ste all in the back of some arl banger was a bit of an odyssey for us.

Summer 82 – it was fucking hot! The ‘82 World Cup had started and our hotel (not just a B&B!) had a lounge where we watched tge match and me dad allowed me a few pints of Tartan bitter.

It was England’s first finals for 12 years and the Bulldog Bobby Brigade were there in Bilbao and then Madrid where they got wellied by the Guardia Civil.

A few random memories of that holiday.

The Basil Fawlty owner passing us the cheeseboard on our first night and us demolishing it. He came up to me mum and whispered loudly ‘do you mind if tomorrow you could leave some cheese for the other guests?’

Me having too much Tartan and pissing the bed that I was sharing with our Gaz (he was aged around 10 so I swapped places and blamed it on him and he got took the rap.

Buying the 12 “ version of Me No Pop I on Ze at a record fair. Still got it now. Still love it to this day.

Noticing local lads were wearing similar clothes to the scals back home. Blacmange Swedes ( curly perm on top, shaved at the sides, kickers and Hunter leathers)

Going to watch Airplane at Torquay cinema. Funniest film I’d ever seen.

Getting mad Sun burn on the last full day before we went home.

In the footy, By the time we were leaving, the Italians and Germans had reached the final.

My older cousin and her husband lived on the outskirts of Bristol and we went into the city centre on tge Saturday afternoon for a mooch. I saw my first body poppers in the UK there – it could well have been the Wild Bunch.

Back at our Lorraine’s I slapped camomile lotion all over my bright red scar tissue and settled down for the final. To be honest, I don’t remember much about it although what I DO remember was Alien being on after.

Aah Alien ! Maybe with The Thing the best sci-fi movie of the 80s. The gore is justified, the production values are amazing.

When I got home, our youthy had got an Alien style pin ball machine and Bulldog Bobby was another false dawn for the inept English national squad.

82 was a momentous year for me. I finally left school and went to the local college to do an Art A level but jibbed it after year 1 (ok I was booted out) and ended up on a YTS scheme.

I’m sure me mam and dad were devvo’d that their first born with Great Expectations of university and success ended up in a council warehouse grafting VHS tapes.

Je ne regret rien.

By Phil Thornton 7th July 2022

Boris Johnson was always a creation, a kind of anti-politician cartoon character that appealed to the type of people who complain that ‘all politicians are the same.’ These ‘new populists’ – the Johnsons, Trumps, Macrons, Bolsonaros, Orbans – are always rich and right wing opportunists using the familiar tricks of the demagogue to whip up hatred against others in order to divert attention away from their own criminality. Migrants, gay people, indigenous people, women, strikers, single mums, benefit claimants, poor people, ill people, football fans. They don’t care who they target as long as their pet mass media propagandise on their behalf. 

Suddenly all these defenders of Johnson have discovered he’s a lying, manipulative narcissist willing to throw anyone under the bus to save himself.  Yet, even as panic grips Downing Street, the loyal, embedded mass media will do its utmost to protect their paymasters. Public Service Broadcasting is a myth, what it amounts to is state funded propaganda and both the BBC and Channel 4/ITN are as embedded as Sky or any number of US channels that never deviate from the accepted state narrative. The middle ground play offs between all three main parties will yet again result in consensus stasis after the next election.  Red Mist is one place we hope to break this stranglehold upon public opinion, what those self-elected arbiters of social discourse decide what is within their imposed boundaries of acceptability. Don’t expect the Guardian or the Mirror or any of the middle-class liberal rags and broadcasters to reflect ‘our’ culture and our outrage.

LIARS A-E   “The Conservative Party is an organised hypocrisy” so said Benjamin Disraeli.    Boris Johnson is merely the latest and arguably the most blatant Tory Prime Minister to use his position as a way to further enrich himself, reward his chums, bask in the glow of senior office and lie and cheat his way through office regardless of how many other people his actions destroy.   He and Cameron were the conjoined twins of Neo-Etonian privilege, the Tweedle Dumb and Tweedle Dumber of Tory rule since 2010.  Cameron was merely a bag man for his own family interests and those of his fellow off-shore tax avoiding pals.  Johnson is by comparison, a pickpocket of the public purse, brazenly lining his own pockets as he bounced from one scandal to another, all the while no doubt still convinced of his own unique abilities and talents.   Neither Cameron or Johnson have ever had to hold down a real job. They’ve moved from one shoe in position to another aided by their old school ties and political connections. They exist in an upper-class cocoon that has protected these dim witted, mediocre men and women for centuries.   Johnson’s reputation as a so-called ‘vote winner’ was based upon his displacing of Ken Livingstone as London mayor in 2008 and then by usurping the Tory leadership by any means necessary and fighting the 2019 general election on one issue; Brexit. That he was in favour of EU membership before the election was by the by, this, he knew would resonate with voters across the political spectrum, not only those ever reliable xenophobes and racists in his own party but those xenophobes and racists in the Labour ‘heartlands’ who had backed Brexit in massive numbers.       Johnson’s tenure as PM will end very soon but will also allow the Tories to re-group and re-brand themselves in time for the next general election. Once the middle class begin to feel the pain of ‘the cost of living crisis’ (never austerity for these people), then any support for sneering toffs soon evaporates. The likes of Rees-Mogg and Johnson symbolize a rotten, decadent culture that truly wants to return to the class deference and ‘values’ of the Victorian/Edwardian era.   In many ways, I don’t blame them because if the British public are too stupid or timid to accept these maggots as their political leaders, then why should anyone expect decency and honour and discipline and truth and responsibility and wisdom and energy and morality and competence?

By Phil Thornton 5th July 2022

Sometimes it’s easy to see why some people become so utterly sickened and frustrated with the political system that they retreat from society.

The communes and squats of the 60s, 70s and 80, now seem almost quaint as we are corralled into house ownership and then entrapped by mortgage repayments and the demands of keeping a home warm and safe and furnished and people fed and clothed and cars fuelled and serviced and repaired.

We have been slowly but surely taken over by the banking system enabled by digital technology and a political system that has absolved its responsibilities to the bankers and their bag men in the city.

There is NO escape from direct debits and on line payments, cards and plastic currency – even if you wanted to avoid it you couldn’t unless ofcourse you are totally self sufficient.

The communal life seems appealing as we reach the final end game of modern capitalism. These Etonian morons in charge of the country are only the latest bunch of self serving parasites urging we lesser mortals to do as they say not as they do.

THEY can lie and cheat and sexually assault people and claim obscene expenses and blag wallpaper and treehouses from donors and take cocaine and get caught getting a nosh and taking bribes to give their pals knighthoods and peerages and medals because they have brought up to believe they are invincible.

As the west rattles around showing off it’s muscles, the fact is however enlarged NATO becomes and however much the west spends on ‘defence’ the old empire is dying before us. War is always a way out for the capitalist class – it worked in 1914 when the spectre of the Bolsheviks haunted the wealthy elites. These same elites encouraged the fascists and Nazis as long as they didn’t come after THEIR dough.

All this would be bearable if our mass media would atleast allow real debate and a range of opinions that truly challenged their state narrative but the hypocrisy runs so deep that the BBC have a department devoted to exposing ‘fake news’ even as it skews its own nauseating propaganda.

There’s no turning back from the upcoming collapse as western capitalism seeks to cream off as much as it can before the entire state structure collapses in on itself.

There are now almost 9 million people in the UK classified as “economically inactive” that is not in work but not claiming unemployment benefit.

These hidden millions are never mentioned when our media and politicians boast about record rates of employment (a five hour shift as an agency worker in a warehouse – you have a CAREER!).

I used to work for ONS and saw with my own eyes how the stats were fiddled and a narrative created that was favourable to the government of the day – first under Major and then Blair.

When everything around you is a lie or a manipulation of the truth how can we even begin to argue otherwise? We can call out their hypocrisies and lies and corruption but in the end Johnson and Raab and Patel and Gove and all the other slimeballs will end up richer than ever and content that their revolting names will last as a testament to their evil.

by Red Casual 4th May 2020

Football, Music & Politics

Gil Heron

He was the first black player to play for Scottish club Celtic and was the father of poet and musician Gil Scott-Heron.

Spotted by a scout from Celtic when the club was on tour in North America and he was signed by the Scottish club in 1951 after being invited over for a trial. Becoming the first black player for Celtic, and one of the first to play professionally in Scotland, Heron went on to score on his debut on 18 August 1951 in a League Cup tie against Morton that Celtic won 2–0. Heron only played five first-team matches in all, scoring twice. He was released by the club the next year after making one appearance in the Scottish football (having been unable to displace the established John McPhail and joined Third Lanark where he played in seven League Cup matches, scoring five goals but did not appear in the League. 

It’s a very important part in Celtic’s history, culturally and also musically. At Holywell Street we have big affection for Gil Scott Heron the son of our famous player.

Gil Scott-Heron

Scott-Heron’s work has influenced writers, academics and musicians. His work during the 1970s influenced and helped engender subsequent African-American music genres, such as hip-hop He has been described by music writers as “the godfather of rap”

Throughout the 1970s and early 80s, Scott-Heron used his songs to rail against the Vietnam war, the drugs and alcohol, the Watergate scandal and racial injustice.

Going with the culture and music vibe. Holywell Street would like to pay tribute  to both legends one the player and one the musician/political activist.

By David R, 2nd July 2022

The things I know about myself today are a direct result of embarking on the 12 steps of recovery.
Prior to this I lived a life of self pity, of self seekin, selfishness and co-dependency.
I was never the problem, it was all of you. Aye, even you readin this.

To the outside world, all seemed good wi me. Part of a football casual scene, good job, designer clothes, patter, confidence, family, a mortgage. Sounds good eh, sounds a good life. A life to be grateful for. And whilst I was grateful, it still wasn’t enough. I needed more, like my drug takin, nothin was ever enough. Nothin could be enough to fill this hole in my sole. Deep in the malady!

The designer clothes became less to make way for designer drugs. The goin out to the fitba became less as isolation took over.

I lost the mortgage, lost my family, through my selfishness, self pity. Still wasn’t my fault though. I was so far removed from reality it was insane.

In my head, this TV drama I played out in my daft head, I was a jack the lad, fitba casual wi the world, and all of you at my feet. In reality, I was sittin in a dark room, curtain twitchin, nose twitchin, hopeless case.

It was still all your fault.

My most common answer when i was asked why I had done something, when I had fucked up was “ah don’t know”. It used to frustrate everyone, myself included.

The truth is, I didn’t know. I genuinely didn’t know.

Today, with the gift of the 12 steps I know, and more importantly, accept the character defects I have. I have awareness when these defects come into play these days and can quickly correct this.

That hole in the soul? Today’s thats filled, and stays filled as long as I work my 12 steps. I can notice when I’m tryin to fill that hole with all the wrong things (ooooh matron) and rectify that before I’m back at step 1.

I have an illness, an illness of addiction. It was easy to admit I had an addiction. Accepting it was far, far harder. Took me a while to get to that part. Relapse, courage, willingness and action got me there though.

Ridding the things that I had previously used to fill that void, casual life, designer clothes, constant people pleasing, Co dependent relationships, self seekin, approval from others, I had to let them go.

I had to grieve for them. I remember 4 days after my last relapse, all the crew down in London for the Scotland v England game and me sat at home and the penny dropped.

I went upstairs and cried, that crying ye do that takes yer breath away. It was a release, letting go, grieving.

Acceptance. And knowledge that it was gonna be ok. More than ok.

Recovery isn’t living the mundane life. Recovery is just life in its most beautiful form. Its feelin and showin gratitude. Its bein of use to others without lookin for anything back.

Today I have a beautiful life. Not perfect and problems do turn up. I don’t have bad days, I have wee tricky moments in days but I can cope wi that.

All I do is keep it simple.

Keep on keepin on

Business As Usual.

By Phil Thornton 28 June 2022

Rap has never really adapted to the big stage until recently. The art form is too personal, too intricate and down to Individual skills that projecting this into a live performance for thousands is difficult to achieve. Maybe Public Enemy, NWA and Wu Tang could pull off big shoes because they had the numbers.

Hip hop wasn’t designed to be a stadium stunt and so as rappers got richer, the circus act elements got ever more convoluted.

Glastonbury is primarily a white middle class indie rock playground for posh British kids with no accent to claim as one of their cocooned experience packages.

That it sells out so quickly only underlines the target audience it appeals to: those with a lot of disposable income and time on their hands. They may love Kendrick as much as Macca and Billy, they may know all the words and pull ‘street’ poses as they frug along but they will never truly understand the reality of Kendrick’s position.

And neither do I.

I watched King Kenny at home (my caravan in fact) and was mesmerised by his performance. Rap as ballets not bullets. It was a bold move and obviously had been very well rehearsed and prepared. It takes a lot for a rapper however skilful he or she is to hold the stage but Kendrick did it, not by showboating or jumping all over the place but with a quiet, still dignity.

His team of dancers weren’t a distraction but an enhancement, themselves using their bodies as poetry and a narrative for his ingeniously structured takes of trying to do the right thing but failing and expressing his rage at the forces aligned against the black American community. Those who curtail their advancement and co-opt their success.

The Jesus stuff, I can do without. I don’t think Kendrick is messianic like Kanye. He’s not claiming to be The Son Of God but he is a very naughty boy.

One of his rhymes concluded that there must be a God because who else would design a jellyfish?

This displays an absence of reason and understanding of evolutionary science that most God botherers spout to defend their ‘Creator’

The crown of thorns bleeding down his face and shirt routine was visually stunning but also marked him out as another rapper feeding into the notion that God Will Provide! No, he won’t lad!

This apart, Kendrick took rap as an art form to a new level. Better because it was paired back and not bombastic.

As a rapper he’s halfway between Kanye and Common, better than either of them and certainly superior to other superstars like Jay Z or Drake. He’s up there with Nas and Doom and Rakim for sheer versatility even if he is a bit crossover for some tastes.

Billy Eilish speaks to the millennials in their own language of slogans and cliches. ‘Sir’ Paul McCartney is first and foremost one of the greatest musicians of the 20th century. For all his royalist arse licking and establishment pandering, he remains a genuine icon ( literally an icon, made of gold and wood) whereas Kendrick spoke to all of us and delivered his message whilst being all too aware that his adoring Glaston Berry audience had no clue to the context of his lyrics.

That’s the rap game in a nut shell. Get successful and sell out to the man or keep it real and be a poor local hero.

Cha’bang!!

By HWS 17th January 2024

Once again, the unwelcome guest has jumped into the passenger seat of the car.

So it’s analyse – paralyse. Just ignore him, treat him like that old drunken fool who shouts at you in the street.  Just think about something else… but this garbage keeps coming and the walls go higher.

The unwanted guest has taken control, leaving your mind spinning. The unwanted guest is now in the driving seat and he’s driving a100-mph garbage truck. He is sifting through your memory, selecting insignificant and irrelevant files from as far back as twenty years ago, all in an attempt to make you feel unhappy and inferior. The number of problematic files seems to be increasing rapidly, and the voice of doubt in your head grows louder, constantly throwing new piles of garbage at you, alternatively known as the inner critic.

Then it’s okay again, “what if” has been replaced by “so what” and we are climbing up the ladder with a more positive and neutral mindset towards the future. However, we need to take care of ourselves and maintain good health to avoid any setbacks. Confident it will be fine.

Then its on again, relationships, friendships, family and the garbage is all over the news, and it’s already affecting our daily lives. Our jobs are at risk, and people are striking for better living conditions while the government continues to push up inflation. Half of the adult population on medication, and fuel prices keep rising. Energy companies are competing for a better deal for us, not for themselves of course. Even though gas and electricity come out of the same pipe, it doesn’t seem to matter. Guilt, fear, and doubt are like a hamster on a wheel, the cycle repeats, it feels like we’re falling down the snake.

The unwanted guest is sitting at the bottom in his garbage truck, and we fall into the passenger seat and we’re off. Reaching 100 mph … we then feel like a piece of dog toffee, unloved, useless, and it’s all going to go pear-shaped. Then we try to think of something positive, but the garbage truck wall comes higher again, and it throws more bin bags at you, including the belief you are weak, then incomes the paranoia. You feel like you have “weirdo” in flashing lights written on your forehead.  The truck and the Socks up Psychiatrists will add to that garbage!

The garbage truck is a liar.

If the truck is gathering speed, feel free to come and visit: Keep the Heid every Sunday from 2-4pm at the Hub, 80 Calder Street, Blantyre. Glasgow G72 0AX

Contact Us

I’m sick of those browns coming stealing our benefits Bill says to Bob. I’m sick of them scrotes stealing our benefits and them disabled’s!

But I don’t mind having surgery for free on the NHS cos I smoke 20 a day, binge drink every weekend and put three for 100 up my conk whenever the wife lets me out.

“More Gammon and Carling Bill?”

“Right you are Bob”

“Another thing Bill, I’m getting really riled with them lot vandalising and trying to knock over our statues, I’m sick of it. It’s usually them paki lovers.”

“You are so right Bob and if anyone says otherwise they should be threatened and attacked on the spot”

Just because we wave our Union jacks it does not mean we are right-wing.

“Bill, you see all them foreigners coming over and stealing our jobs? If I could work I would be picking that fruit and picking up them spuds night and day myself”

“You are correct Bob, they’ve spoilt it, but listen mate, we are going on us hollibobs soon with our wives. I’m reading Majorca has the best Sunday Roast eatery in the whole of Spain, it’s run by a bloke from Morley in Leeds. He also does proper breakfast’s with proper bacon and British butter and has Carling on draft. I wouldn’t mind moving there myself”.

“Good idea Bill”

“I’m glad they got Brexit done though Bob, it’s been like our Independence Day and we have a blue passport to show for it”

Poppy the Bulldog is sitting foaming at the mouth, this could be down to heavy breathing, distress, agitation or anxiety.

“Give him some Carling Bill“

“Great idea Bob. Looking forward to the Jubilee mate?”

“Yes, my son!”

By Macaroon 12th February 2023

It looks as if Paul John Dykes might have struck gold with his latest book The Celtic Jersey.

The gallery and stories of the Celtic jerseys of the past is his fourth publication following on from …

The Quality Street Gang, Smiler and Hoops Stars & Stripes.

Here at HWS, we are nostalgic about all things Celtic from major to minor detail. I and Paul Kealy were recently discussing which hooped tops went with which player and which years, Being the trainspotter I am, I recently decided to invest in all the remakes of the kits I wore as a kid from around 1980. This is why I’m eager to see PJD’s gallery.

“A match worn jersey from virtually every one of the home and away shirt variations worn by the club over the last 90 years”

Paul John Dykes’ second book named Smiler was a tribute to club legend Neilly Mochan. This was also an exciting read, being very well presented with an artistic front cover. The research into this book recording immense detail on Mochan’s life was one of the best I’ve read on Celtic’s past legends.

The Celtic Jersey will be another piece of excellent work. A coffee table book basically shows a gallery of the Celtic jersey, what is not to like; it is a keeper.

Order from Amazon …

By Macaroon 21 May 2022

On the 4th December 1982 Celtic win their first League Cup since 1974 against Rangers at Hampden. This trophy always seemed to be a bit of a bogey for us. The only player from that ‘74 win still with us was Danny McGrain.

I always recall Rangers being no threat to Celtic in the early ‘80s. It was Aberdeen and Dundee United that were our challengers for the league. However, Rangers always seem to win this trophy despite coming forth in the premier league on occasion.

So, although we were the reigning League Champions and a far better team, I didn’t know how this would pan out. The weather was appalling, heavy rain on a cold December. The north terrace at Hampden was closed for repairs so the crowd wasn’t capacity, just the two terraces behind the goals and the main stand. The Celtic terracing was uncovered and theirs sheltered in line with their superiority complex with SFA deciding to not cover the Mount Florida end of the ground.

I reminisce to the 1981 and 1982 years when the song “we’ve won the league again fly the flag” was born. This was to the tune of the British Airways advert “we’ll take good care of you”. The Rangers end had their version this day: “we hate the I.R.A. fuck the pope” which was quite a standard reaction for them.

I remember the old Hampden terraces being made of wood and grit which meant if a goal was scored there was like a smoke would go up and on a day of horizontal rain it certainly was not ideal. No way was it a normal warm cup final spectacle.

Into the match and Celtic are very dominant and showing why they are the champions. On the 22 minute mark Charlie Nicholas receives a pass from Davie Provan and he finds the smallest of gaps to squeeze in the opening goal. The Celtic end erupts and stops the Rangers end singing one of their sectarian ditties about the IRA. Nicholas was my hero, the coolest player from that era with a cracking wedge haircut. He was an outstanding talent and on the radar of many English clubs and was promoted as the next Kenny Dalgleish

It was around the 30 minute mark that Murdo McLeod put us two up with a complete thunderbolt. Celtic were cruising and Rangers could not get a grip on the match. They had one shot on goal in the first half.

Just into the second half Jim Bett scored for Rangers with a free-kick that completely caught the Celtic defence out and Pat Bonnar perhaps being out sighted looked stranded.

There was a few shaky moments in the second half, but Celtic were worthy winners with a 2-1 win. The man of the match for us was Davie Provan. He didn’t just set up our two goals his passing and movement throughout the game was immense.

The match https://youtu.be/zkSUfNJyHZ8