‘Aye like yooz don’t anaw!’

‘No aboot here, mate! When huv you ever seen a Hibs walk?’

We stayed in a majority Protestant town n the only places yi really seen a Republican walk passin by wis particularly Catholic areas, like doon Langloan in Coatbridge n up n doon the Gallowgate in Glasgow.

‘Mate, yees rub it in our faces constantly, n then git ragin when we complain aboot it!’

‘Danny, aw yees ever dae is complain!’

‘Aye right, eld Brother Alan. Son ae William n aw that! Eh, Gran?’

‘It’s true, Danny! Even fitbaw. Yees think the ref is a mason n aw that! Always cheated, never defeated!’

‘Don’t argue, boys! Ma family had two choices, stay in Ireland and starve in the famine or come tae Scotland and survive. Barely a choice ataw. Anyway, never matter! Dae yees want a poke ae chips?’

‘A’ll stick them on, Gran,’ Danny says wae a wink as he heads through tae the kitchenette. He tries tae slap me on the way past but A manage tae gee him a discreet baw-twang fur his troubles. Orange bastard! he’s mutterin intae the deep-fat fryer.

The Easter Holidayz

We’ve awready been aff fur our Easter holidays fur a week. We finished at half two last Friday. Ma maw’s still been workin aw week so A’ve lay in bed, smoked a bit ae dope n git a bottle two nights through the week anaw. Part fae that, it’s been fuckin borin. A’m lookin oot the windae at the sunny day n it’s inspirin me. There’s nae adventures tae huv aboot here. Yi wander aboot the streets endlessly kickin the dust fur hours, dreamin pointlessly aboot plans n shit we’re gonnae dae. The boredom is chronic. Campin, but naebody hus a tent. Go tae the go-karts, but we cannae git a run. Go tae the pictures like we used tae wae the lads, but it wis gay noo without burds. Cunts talked aboot paintballing but it never happened. Yir maw n that ir sick ae geein yi money, so yi huv fuck aw but a mere few quid fur a ten-deck n a bottle. Then, we’ll tick a bit ae dope n buy some Highland skins wae our last quid n bounce up the Mansion tae sit n smoke it. That’s yir North Lanarkshire adventure.

Holidays wur different when yi wur wee. We wid go up tae St Andrews wae ma maw n gran n granda. They wur long gone noo but A’ve git certain images aboot the place stuck forever in ma heed. The livin room n patterned sofa cushions ae a static caravan n a wee hotdog oot the shop at the East Sands. The eld ruin ae the cathedral in the end ae North Street, the thick harr n the smell ae seaweed n fresh salt. Lobster pots n St Leonards girls’ school, which is hauntit, apparently. The only groans n grunts we ever heard wur the big poshy burds playin rugby oot the back. The wee park at the East Sands hud the wee black motorbike n the red elephant. Then at night when it got cold, yi walked roon the harbour n across the wee bridge tae the wee cafe fur chips. It hud the wee RNLI charity box wae the movin boat. Before yi went home, yi wur allowed tae go tae the toy shop at the West Gate n buy a cap gun. The nice eld man wid show yi them oot the packet n they smelled like Bonfire Night. A used tae run aboot wae the wee polystyrene planes that yi hud tae poke the wings through the flimsy fuselage n attach a wee plastic propeller. These often crashed over the cliffs and ended up in the North Sea. If that happened, ma maw wid go n buy me another wan cos she loved me n wanted me tae be happy. That happiness belonged tae a different wee boy n those good times hud rolled on by.