‘Wee Kenzie is faster than the fuckin Roadrunner when the trouble starts!’

‘Fuck up, Azzy.’

‘Kenzie, yir talkin pish, mate.’

‘Naw, A’ve actually heard ae a cunt called Jamesy that git slashed.’

‘Aye so yi huv, Broonie!’

‘Yir fuckin maw.’

‘Mate A think your big brother’s Pinocchio. That big fuckin beak ae his anaw.’

‘Ma big brur wid smash you if he heard you sayin that.’

‘Phhft mate, yir big brur couldnae beat eggs.’

‘Mate, ma big brur wid batter your cunt in n don’t doubt it.’

‘Yer maw, ya wee dick.’

‘You dae go on aboot yir brur like he’s a hero but.’

‘Yer maw.’

That’s the way yi learned. As a wee guy, yi hear snippets ae information aboot everyhin. They don’t teach yi how tae survive oot oan the streets in school, or how tae shag, or drink or fight – aw the important stuff. Yi learn fae those that ir elder than yi, the elder wans. Furget PSE, social education. Yi learn fae yir pals, n the army ae big cousins, brurs n elder wans who feel it their duty tae lead and mislead yi tae the form ae truth that the streets offer. Even wee practical things aboot takin drugs, or advice aboot pullin lassies, reads like a ghost story or an urban legend. Exaggerated as fuck, and probably no true, n designed tae scare the shite oot wee boys like us.

Billy the Kid and the KO at the Coral

It’s Guy Fawkes Night n on a fuckin Friday anaw, jackpot. There’s fireworks burstin aw over the place. The six ae us ir standin outside the newsagents, waitin on somebody tae jump in fur our drink. We’re aw on a bottle ae Tonic each the night. We see an eld alky stoatin doon the lane in boggin jeans n ripped trainers. A walk across the road n whistle him over tae us. The boys slowly walk over anaw tae join us. These kinda cunts ir mostly harmless, but if they hud been takin ten diazepam as a side order tae their daily cider dosage then they kin be a harmless cunt takin their pet Kitchen Devil a walk. A stoat up tae him but ma swagger makes the eld cunt a wee bitty nervous. A reassure him wae a friendly bit ae chat. ‘Fancy jumpin in the shop fur us, eld son, n we’ll gee yi a pound each fur a few cans, eh?’ A say, actin pure sound wae the eld boy.

He counts the heads, there’s six ae us. Six quid, jackpot. That’s his full weekend sortit. These cunts drank bottles ae pound nasty, pure gut-rot dry cider that cost a quid each. He kin barely hold his excitement back. Our part in the bargain is a quid each. We aw rustle in our pockets. Danny swaggers up n pulls a fiver oot his new red Berghaus jakit. Celtic fans only ever went fur either the red or grey, never blue.

‘Here yi go, ma man, don’t spend it aw in the wan shop!’