The Boldness Inside

We wander up the lane, buzzin wae the Friday Feelin, a force wae almost supernatural powers. It’s obvious that last week is on everywan’s mind. This Friday we’re gonnae join the actual troops instead ae our wee mad squad up the Mansion. We wurnae oblivious tae the main gathering’s existence before. On Friday nights before we tended tae just say ‘awright’ tae them n go on our way. It wisnae an official thing, yir just fae that area n know them aw fae school. Then yi come ae age n it’s accepted that yi hang aboot wae them n become a YT wan, oot gittin a smoke durin the week n on-it at the weekend wae the troops n the tidy burds who hang aboot anaw.

They call theirsels the YT Burds or the Team Lassies. They huv their ain enemies, the lassies who jump aboot wae other young teams. They mostly move aboot the town freely. A tidy is a tidy, after aw – regardless ae wit scheme she comes fae. There’s gorgeous scheme queens n then the loyal crazy burds that ir practically troops. They’re mad anaw n would fight wae guys as easily, n wur nae less mental. Every young team hus at least wan burd who’s a juggernaut in a tracky. She wis never a looker but yi would never say it tae her face. If yi tried tae batter in tae her mad-wae-it regardless, she would probably punch yir cunt in … if yi wur lucky.

‘Mon, Addison, ya dick,’ Broonie says. Addison is standin on the phone tae a lassie. He wis always dain this. He’s a good-lookin, trendy kinda guy – a perfume boy drenched in Ultraviolet n always wearin the best ae gear. Popular wae the lassies, hence the constant telecommunications wae them, but that doesnae earn yi the respect ae the streets.

‘A’m coming, fuck sake, Broonie.’

‘Hurry up, mate.’

We reach the top ae the park. There’s nae park really. Crash mats cover the ground round the swings n they’re littered wae black n blue blobs, where wheelie bins hud been burnt n melted. The swings huv been vandalised tae the extent that the council huv removed the chains n seats. Noo aw that’s left is the bare frames, which ir like notice boards, aw penned n tippexed like fuck. The climbin frame is spray-painted like fuck anaw. YT, scrawled aw over it n names ae ghosts fae young teams past. The place is fucked, plain n simple. The council huv long since gave up tryin tae fix it fur the weans. It, like the whole place, is forgotten.

Aw the troops sit on the other side ae a wee metal fence behind a wee shelter belt ae trees. A kin see waterproof jakits n fitbaw trackies n a mix ae Rangers n Celtic taps. There’s a few lassies standin n we kin hear the din the rest ir makin, shoutin, singin n laughin. The elected edgy hus obviously alerted the team tae our presence. Big Kenzie, Eck n Taz appear at the front n somebody shouts, ‘Chill oot fuck, it’s only the younger wans.’ As this passes aboot the group, more heads appear fae behind the bushes n trees fur a swatch. There’s aboot twenty-five young wans congregated. Roughly fifteen guys, and aboot ten lassies. We walk through the trees the-gither, the six ae us. Our wee clan among these tribal chieftains and the eligible lassies. Wan ae the lassies is hoddin a wee MP3 speaker n switchin between ‘Dancing in the Dark’ n ‘I’ll Get Over You’. That’s the extent ae hur repertoire. ‘Fuck sake, we runnin a crèche noo, troops?’ some dafty says, gittin a laugh fae the crowd.