Liberties (Part One)

‘HAIL HAIL, THE CELTS ARE HERE, WHAT THE HELL DO WE CARE, WHAT THE HELL DO WE CARE!’ loud singin comes boomin intae ma room fae the street below. The time oan the alarm cloack reads 10:33. ‘COYLE! LET US IN YA FANNY!’

Openin the curtain wide, ah shield ma eyes fae the daylight an see McDade, wan airm roon Pearcey, the other aloft, haudin a kerry oot in a poly bag. Fuckin mad wae it, they ur.

Ah wave them in, buzzin them intae the buildin at the intercom. The jinglin ay boatles latticed wae a murmur ay drunken sniggers meets me when ah open the door. ‘Fuck sake, dae yies know whit time it is?’ ah sais, as they appear oan the landin. McDade’s wearin a bran new green an white Lacoste trackie, wae a pair ay matchin green an white Adidas, Stan Smith trainies an a Notre Dame, Fightin Irish basebaw cap. He’s no widely acknowledged fur understatement, oor McDade.

‘Aye ah know whit time it is. Do you know whit day it is? Oh, Danny boy. . .’ he sais, dain the last bit like the song. ‘. . . the pipes, the pipes are calling!’ Pearcey joins in.

They must’ve been oan it right through fae McDade’s birthday. Ah’d managed tae catch up wae that burd, Tracey; the wan ah’d been talkin tae afore aw the handbags spilt oot intae the car park, an goat her number. Ah phoned her, an took her fur a drink last night doon at that San Myle in Tollcroass.

Floppin doon oan tae the bed, Pearcey lies back, shuttin his eyes an mutterin somehin aboot just restin them. McDade’s openin a boatle ay Bud Ice wae his teeth that he gies us afore adeptly spittin the lid back intae the poly bag. ‘We’ll go six points clear at the tap ay the table if we beat them the day Danny boy!’ McDade sais, hoarsely. ‘Ye gettin on it?’

This disnae really require an answer. The chance tae go six points clear at the tap ay the table, beatin the currant buns at their grun in an unprecedented season; wan wae the opportunity tae stoap them gettin ten-in-a-row; the same ten-in-a-row that wid eclipse an surpass oor record set in that glorious run fae 1966 - 1974 -- afore ah wis even born. Dis a duck wae wan leg swim in circles?

‘Course ah’m ur, but fuck sake man, it’s the back ay ten in the mornin. Pearcey, you’re lyin there like a burst couch. Huv yous even been tae sleep since Friday?’ ah sais, posin another question that requires nae answer.

‘Aaahhh you don’t know! PEARCEY, HE DISNAE KNOW!’

‘Don’t know whit? Fuckin tell me then.’ ah sais.

‘Ah’ve goat the three ay us a ticket fur the gemme.’ he sais.

‘Aye right, hink ah’m daft? Huv ye fuck, it’s at Ibrox.’ ah sais.

‘He hinks ah’m at it Pearcey, tell him.’ he sais tae Pearcey, sittin up noo, takin a stank ay his wine.

‘He’s no at it, he’s goat us tickets. Mone the tic!’ Pearcey sais, hiccupin.

‘How the fuck did ye manage that? They’ll be like gold dust.’

‘Ma Uncle John goat them in the ballot. Him, his mate an his mate’s boay but they’re away tae a stag weekend in Benidorm so cannae go, well the boay’s no but he sais it’s awright if we huv his an aw. Ah’ve awready squared them up aff ma birthday money. Fuckin intae these cunts man. Yaaaasss!’

‘We’re gaun tae the gemme?’

‘We’re gaun tae the gemme!’ he sais, fannin the tickets oot in front ay his face like wan ay they game show cunts, ‘FOR IT’S A GRAND OLD TEAM TO PLAY FOR. . .’ the three ay us start singin an ah’m jumpin aboot wae McDade an Pearcey’s bouncin aboot oan ma bed gien it laldy.

‘Whit in the hell’s gaun oan in here Daniel!’ ah turn roon an ma Ma’s staunin in her housecoat at the door, ‘Is that a beer you’ve goat in yer haun? It’s no even eleven in the effin mornin.’ she sais, dain the no-really-sweerin, sweerin she dis. She’s goat tae be the full fuckin ragin tae commit tae actual profanity.

‘McDade’s goat us tickets fur the gemme, Ma. Rangers. At Ibrox.’ ah sais.

‘At Ibrox? Yous better be careful oer there, dae ye hear me? An ye better get somethin tae eat in yer stomach afore ye start aw that boozin. Ur yies hungry, boays? Get yer claes oan Daniel an away doon tae the shoap an get rolls, McGhee’s wans. Ah’ve goat some square sausage an haggis, an bacon an eggs in the fridge.’ ma Ma sais afore anybody kin answer. No that it wid matter; she’s decided that’s whit’s happenin, so it is. Ah widnae say naw tae a roll an sausage an haggis anywaiy, it’s yer duty oan a Sunday mornin, nae danger.

 

When ah get back fae the shoap wae the rolls (they two arseholes staiyed in ma room smokin a joint an watchin the cartoons), ma Ma sorts us oot wae some breakfast an ah get a shower an get ma gear oan. Ah’m just takin ma scarf cos ye kin just take that aff an put in in yer poakit if the need arises.

We skin up a couple ay pre-rollers each an me an McDade grab another few boatles. Ah end up wae his an aw cos ah’m the only cunt wae the fuckin sense tae be takin a jayket wae me. Pearcey sais he’s no wantin any, he’s just gonae stick wae his wine. ‘Yous watch whit yer dain oer there,’ ma Ma shouts efter us as we head oot the door, ‘there’s ayeways trouble at they gemmes.’

 

We head roon tae the bus stoap oan Shettleston Road, the plan bein that we’ll head intae the toon an take it fae there, as comprehensive a plan as kin reasonably be expected, the state these two ur in.

A motor rolls alang the street wae aw that sash bashin shite blarin oot the windaes; flutes an military drums. It rolls tae a stoap, the traffic backin up fae the lights forcin it tae. There’s two cunts in the motor, ages wae us, Rangers scarfs adornin the dashboard, drummin their hauns oan the side ay the motor in vague acknowledgement ay the beat.

They’re starin straight aheid, oblivious tae whit’s happenin ootside their wee hateful vacuum in their Vauxhall Nova an McDade’s glarin at thum, his stare burnin intae the side ay their heids, willin wan ay them tae turn roon.

The passenger turns an catches his gaze. He stoaps drummin his haun an eyeballs him fur a couple ay seconds afore drappin his heid an turnin, face front again. Shitein cunt. Say whit ye want aboot McDade but he’s goat that look doon tae a tee; that scowl that invites cunts - naw, that fuckin dares thum - tae say somehin. The motors in front start tae pull away as the lights chainge an they’re off, beepin the horn an bangin the doors an roof again, suddenly fuckin wide cunts noo that thur disappearin doon the road. ‘Get it up yies, fuckin Orange bastarts! Tiocfaidh ár lá!’ McDade sais, gien thum the “wanker” haun signal.

Pearcey’s trailin behind tryin tae light a joint, staggerin aff the pavement oan tae the road when a van buzzes by his arse, pullin oer tae the kerb. ‘Whit’s this fuckin cunt wantin?’ McDade sais.

‘Fuckin nearly hit me there, that prick!’ Pearcey slurs.

Joggin ahead, ah tell they two tae hing back an ah approach the passenger door. Ah kin see Joe’s big coupon, laughin in the side mirror. Ah thoat it wis him. ‘Joe, ma man! Whit ye up tae? Ye watchin the gemme?’ ah sais. He’s goat his wife wae him, she’s aw done up, pristine an immaculate, in stark contrast tae the interior ay the van. She’s goat jet black hair in a wee bob kind ay do an she’s wearin tight denims, mare like leggings, wae hunners ay prints ay Marilyn Munro aw oer thum, alang wae a leather jayket. She’s goat a face like thunder though an ah’m gettin the distinct impression she’s no diggin the pleasantries. Joe’s goat the same mastic blootered denims an rigger boots he’s hud oan every day since ah met him.

‘Ah’ll need tae make dae wae listenin tae it oan the trannie.’ he nods tae the dashboard, ‘She’s goat plans fur me the day. Whit yies dain yersels?’   ‘We’re gaun tae it!’ ah sais, a bit too excitedly fur ma, or his wife’s liking, judgin by the look she gies me. She’s tidy though, in a stuck-up cow kinda waiy, ah mean ah’d ride her, nae danger. Well, ah widnae cos it’s Joe’s wife but ah still wid, know whit ah’m sayin? ‘Ma mate managed tae get the three ay us a ticket.’ ah sais.

‘Aye? Result wee man. That’ll be you a non-runner fur the morra, nae doubt.’ he sais, revertin tae the gaffer / worker dynamic fur a minute.

‘Ah’ve no let ye doon yet, huv ah? Ah’ll be there, nae danger.’ ah sais.

‘Yer big mate’s takin a chance cuttin aboot like that, is he no? He might as well be dressed up like a bastarn leprechaun. Listen, we’re oan wur waiy oer tae Hillington tae that big industrial estate; a builders’ merchants, she’s wantin the kitchen done. We go right by Ibrox. Jump in the back if yies want.’ he sais, tae his Misses’ obvious annoyance.

 

Ah flick oan the wee interior light an McDade opens another couple ay beers wae his teeth, Miller Genuine Draught this time. He’d tanned his auld boay’s gairden shed, where he keeps his swally. If he just takes two or three boatles ay different kinds, he’s never any the wiser, hence the varied assortment ay piss watter.

Ah’d be surprised if his da even knows he’s gaun, never mind that he’s tannin his beer. His auld man’s a High Heid Yin in the Masons. Broke his heart when McDade announced his allegiance tae the tic when he wis a wean, ah dare say he tried tae knoack it oot him mare than wance. McDade was resolute though, cos me an Pearcey hud Celtic taps, he wanted wan. His maw hud wanted him tae be raised a Catholic like she wis, so he went tae St. Paul’s same as us. His da wis pissin in the wind fae then oan, if ye ask me.

 Staunin up, he goes tae gie us a beer oer but he flies through the air, landin oan tap ay me, when Joe flings it roon a coarner. ‘Get aff us ya fuckin fat cunt. Much dae you weigh fur fuck sake?’ ah sais, strugglin tae push his carcass aff me.

‘Fuckin pure Scotch beef ya cunt.’ he sais, an Pearcey spits oot the mooth fae ay wine he’s guzzlin in response, the crimson liquid pishin oot his nose.

Ah’m fuckin burstin fur a pish but ah’m keepin a knot in it. Ah’m fucked if ah’m mentionin it either, they two cunts will just make it worse. There’s an empty turpentine container ah’m eyein up as a possible receptacle.

Ah’m tryin tae keep ma mind aff it, just huvin the craic wae them an sippin the beer, nursin it like, but it’s just makin it worse an ah’m startin tae gie serious consideration tae the empty turps boatle, when we come tae a stoap.

The back door opens an ah rush by Joe, oot tae the street where there’s wee poakits ay supporters millin aboot, aw huns, ye kin smell the cunts. We’re doon Govan Road waiy, near tae the auld dockyerds.

A wee boay walks by wae his da wavin a Union Jack wae an image ay Brian Laudrup printed oan it an ah think aboot ma Da, an wonder if we’d huv went tae the fitbaw the gither like them if he hudnae died when ah wis a wee baby. The da gies me a funny look but ah’ve awready spied the wee lane next tae some industrial unit ah need fur ma purposes an ah sprint oer tae it, ma bladder feelin three times its normal size.

Sheer relief overcomes me as ah expend the pish tae the cobbled stanes ay the lane, so much so that ah miss the commotion at the van. McDade’s oot, swingin a sweepin brush aboot at a cunt an Joe’s pullin him back. It’s a couple ay huns but wan’s no interestit in fightin an he’s haudin his mate back, gesticulatin at the cunt an shoutin, tellin him tae leave it.

There’s another group ay them that ah walk straight intae as ah exit the lane. ‘Here, check this Fenian bastart. You fuckin loast ya Micky cunt?’ wan ay them sais, a big speccy, ginger cunt wae a Stone Island jayket oan, an ah realise ah’m still wearin ma scarf.

Breakin intae a sprint, ah race through them, shooderin wan ay them oot ma waiy, intae the wire mesh fence ay the warehoose. ‘GET THAT WEE TARRIER CUNT!’ ah hear fae behind me an a hauf brick flies by ma heid, hittin a parked motor.

The other scuffle at the van’s calmed doon an the two currant buns ur walkin away. Joe seems tae huv just aboot convinced McDade tae get back in the van. ‘Hurry up, get fuckin in. Move!’ he sais, an ah dive in the back, the door slammin shut behind me an the engine roarin intae life moments later.