Tam’s lightin two fags n passin me wan n A’m smokin while we drive oot ae the village in silence n head ontae the M80 towards Glasgow. The tune playin is Wolfgang Gartner, ‘Redline’. It’s a new wan oot this year n sounds a bit space-age, but class nonetheless. Music is changing, people ir changing. The predicition hus come tae pass. It’s playin as we pass the Campsie hills on our right. They’re lit orange towards the west as the sun goes doon, castin their dark silhouette beyond the green fields. Ma eyes ir fixed on them till they fade oot ae view. They ir ma true north, the pilot stars that wull guide me home if A git lost, blue n forever.

The signs read ‘Airport’ noo, wae Glasgow stretched oot behind me n the Old Kilpatrick Hills n the Campsies towards the east n home. Before A know it, we’re in front ae the terminal. Big Kenzie is carryin ma bag over his shoulder n we’re smokin a fag walkin up tae the main buildin. ‘So, wee man, this is it!’ the big yin says.

‘Aye, mate.’

‘Knew this day wid come.’

‘Aye? A didnae.’

‘A always knew, fuck sake. Yir destined fur bigger n brighter things, Azzy.’

We reach the smokin bit in front ae the buildin n smoke another customary smoke before A head in. There’s a wee moment ae silence between us, both thinkin aboot our lives n how they’re aboot tae change forever.

‘Scary shit, int it, son?’

‘Aye fuck.’

‘Phffft. Bold as brass fuckin Young Team wans,’ he says n winks.

Wae that, Big Kenzie shrugs it aff n stubs oot his fag wae his trainer. ‘Right, ya fuckin slopin bastard. Git tae fuck, away yir fancy travels thinkin yir better than aw us.’ He puts his rough paw oot n A shake it. The big man turns n swaggers across the road n disappears among the hurryin crowds. He spins back roon wae his arms fuckin wide n shouts, so that everycunt outside the terminal turns tae look n two polis start marchin towards him,

‘AZZY BOY! FUCKIN YOUNG TEAM, YA BAM!’

‘The novel portrays lives rarely seen in fiction … the novel’s great strength is its use of the distinctive North Lanarkshire dialect, with its almost Northern Irish twang. Armstrong makes the language slam-dance and pirouette, using an endless variety of relishable words and phrases … The non-standard English forges a dazzling poetry of its own’

Jude Cook, Guardian

‘A riveting debut novel … it crackles with teenage energy, fuelled by the fact that with the exception of a few lines it is written in the sharp tang of irrepressible teenage argot and North Lanarkshire dialect … the book also casts an undeceived eye on life in the margins in post-industrial Scotland … has already engendered a buzz that many other debut novelists would kill for’

Herald

‘The Young Team is a landmark in Scottish literature. It reminds me of The Catcher in the Rye and The Great Gatsby’