A shake ma heed it ma pal. The eld boy’s eyes ir as wide as two-pence pieces n as dark as them anaw. ‘Cheers, wee man,’ he says wae a pure crocodile smile.

‘Right, eld yin, in the shop fur six bottles ae Buckfast.’

‘Six bottles ae Buck. Nae bother boays, nae bother at aw,’ he says as he negotiates the lines on the road.

‘Fuckin auld cunt,’ Broonie says.

‘Fuck it, mate, that’s our drink sortit, ye ha!’

It’s always a nervous wait. Should wan ae yir maws or das come roon n huckle yi up the road, yir bottle is gone. Should two Strathclyde police officers appear, yir fucked. Should the eld alky steal the fiver and the six bottles ae wine, yir double fucked. Tense affair this n A kin see it on ma boys’ faces. This time he comes stoatin back wae the bag after a minute. There’s that wee moment ae euphoria, like yir first bottle again every time. Yir night ae madness wae infinite possibilities ae action n adventure lies within the cheap blue plastic bag, between a dirty hand wae long nails. He walks up n Danny snatches the bag right oot his hand.

‘Haw! There’s only four fuckin bottles in here.’

‘Four bottles wull be plenty fur yooz wee pricks.’

The other two bottles ir stuffed upside doon in his ripped and paint-covered jeans. We aw look at one another fur a wee moment. In the peckin order, yir still only a wee guy. Wan ae us hus tae say suhin but …

‘Listen, eld yin, git the fuckin bottles oot right noo.’

‘OR WIT, YA WEE CUNT?’ he roars in Broonie’s face.

‘Or yir gittin shot wae this fuckin firework, ya eld dick.’

We aw turn roon tae see Finnegan, hoddin a Sonic FX inside a long red chute. They’re single shot fireworks but the screech n the bang aff them is fuckin crazy. We aw stand back tae either side ae the lane. We hud aw seen them in action being fired at unsuspectin cunts n polis n fire brigade tryin tae put oot bonfires ae eld, built by our fair hands n defended bravely by the vanguard ae elder troops. Furget the fourth of July – Bonfire Night up here is fuckin Vietnam. The eld alky doesnae know wit tae say.

‘You try it, ya wee cunt … n A’ll … rip yi fae ear tae arse.’

‘Mate, you couldnae catch us in they eld chunky gutties! Ten-stripe turbos they ir oot Brantanamo warehoose!’ Danny shouts.

We aw burst oot laughin.

‘WIT? Yi think yir mad coz yir tall, wee man?’ the eld alky mutters n staggers away.

‘Fuck it, man, we’ve got a good swally here,’ Addison says.

‘Fuck that,’ Wee Kenzie hits back.

‘You’re right, mate,’ Finnegan says wae a nod.

‘HAW YOU, YA ELD ALKY BASTERT! LOOK AT YI WALKIN UP THERE WAE OUR BOTTLES LIKE BILLY THE FUCKIN KID,’ A shout. He stops n straightens up n sits his own bag doon. He spins roon wae his hands hoverin over the bottles.