‘Well yir maw doesnae complain, when we aw turn up at hur door!’ A say wae a cheeky smile.

People ooh n ah, the lassies giggle, n Big Eck walks up tae me. A stand brave, still smiling. ‘YASS! You fuckin tell ’um, wee man,’ as he extends a hand. The guy who made the comment, Peter Dickson, walks forward, tryin tae growl at us. Eck slaps him across the face. ‘Sit doon, Dickson, ya fuckin dick.’ He looks ragin. ‘That’s Kenzie’s wee brur n his pals, ya dafty.’ Big Kenzie swaggers over at the mention ae his name.

‘HAW, YOOZ!’ Big Kenzie shouts, addressin the masses. ‘This is ma wee brur n his pals, nae cunt, n A mean nae cunt, gees them shite, understand?’ The crowd mutters assurances n goes back tae their own chats. Our six split n start mixin wae the troops. Eck winks at us, n him n Tam start talkin aboot an elder lassie who’s pickin them up in hur Seat Ibiza. The ages range fae us at fourteen n fifteen, right tae eighteen n nineteen. Big Kenzie n Eck ir seventeen n eighteen, respectively. They ruled the roost, but they’re aff. They both disappear, back up the red ash path n oot ae the park. Our only real friend left is Taz, but he’s distracted, tellin two lassies the tales fae last week. He waves me n Danny over tae chat.

‘Happnin, ma main wee muckers! YASS, these ir the boays A wis tellin yi aboot, ladies.’ The two lassies turn n smile at us. They’re both a couple ae year elder than us. A recognise the two ae them fae our bit. The first is tall fur a lassie, aboot five eight. She’s a brunette, wae fair highlights runnin through hur straightened hair. Hur long legs ir standin crossed against the cold. She’s git on a red puffer jakit, wae ripped, faded jeans. Hur face is gorgeous, high cheek bones n big green eyes. She’s git on the perfect amount ae make-up. Most lassies caked themselves in the stuff, their necks generally a different colour fae their faces. They huv that plasticky look, like somebody’s moulded them fae plasticine n smoothed oot the edges. Monica Mason is a stunner, nae denyin it. She’s git the kinda face yi turned back tae look at but she doesnae pure know it.

Guys around the other ir like flies around shite. Patricia Lewis always hus a wee entourage ae admirers buzzin around hur, usually the tap men n everyone else fallin in behind. Big blue eyes, natural platinum blonde, big boobs n slim. She’s git big hoop earrings n a cheek piercing. There’s a millimetre gap between hur two front teeth. Underneath an Inter Milan tracksuit top, there’s the green n white hoops ae a Celtic fitbaw tap. She’s wearin white Adidas tracky bottoms n wee pink Lacoste trainers. Hur lip gloss is pink and glittery. The two ae them pass a half bottle ae Glen’s vodka between them straight, then take a swig ae Irn-Bru tae git the taste away. A laugh as Monica screws hur face up. Patricia hands hur a draw ae a Lambert & Butler, which obviously helps. The two ae them look up at us. Patricia glares wae hur usual scowl, but smiles n winks. Monica gees us a wee cheeky smile anaw. Yolt. ‘Wit’s yir name then, wee man?’ Patricia asks us.