Celtic Park -’Oor ain we corner’.
Years ago we vented our upsets our frustrations and our loss of innocence down by the Street corner.
We always complained vociferously when told to ‘move on sonny or else’ time and again, by the Polis otherwise known as the fuzz, the rozzers, the auld bill, the coppers or the Cruelty to mention but a few of the corner warning nicknames
In they days, they, ‘the polis’ didnay mind gist geen yay a ‘belt in the mooth’ tay perk yer ideas up, it seemed par for the course for the corner crew and it was what we expected and to be honest, needed at times.
Well who wur yay gonnay complain tay anyhow ?
Yer ma or da ?
Nay chance they’d have leathered yay as well for bein stupid enough tay get rumbled doin whatever you shouldn’t be doin.
Naybody ran tay their local MP or Human rights orgs either, they were just faceless and spineless words that didn’t meet many minds in the closes the wee mans pubs or street corners up n doon the land, everybody gist sucked shit up as part of normal life. We was awe in the same boat.
‘ But hey, wur we fkn bored man’.
Oor usual explanations for the gatherings would be but Mister..
‘ There’s bugger all to do or this harassment is a fuckin anti teenage agenda, it’s cos wur yung int it !’
What we didn’t realise, no come to think of it, we didn’t care about, was what a noisy destructive bunch we surely were as we kicked baws off the walls of somebodies hoose day and night.
We awe wanted tay score the winner in the European Cup final against Inter played oot in an auld drying green.
The constant thuddin must have drove the inhabitants nuts, no tay mention the ocassional winday smash, it took the best part of a year tay get the putty guy oot, n then we’d remove the putty out of curiosity and become Tony Hart creatives for a few hours.
Aye we was fkn pests to be sure, but we didn’t care, it was training.
We was potential soccer superstars or top athletes with awe the runnin we did when the panda car appeared, top speed was about 40 mile an hour.
Looking back I’m sure it must have felt the same on almost every street corner across the cities of the time.
The perception probably the same with the gangs of drink and drug fueled neds grouped together hell bent on wanton destruction and being as big a nuisance as possible, or so we were often accused, which we resented, cos oor ma’s wid have killed us if she fun oot.
Angel faced alter bhoys on Sunday makin yer mammy ever so proud, roving destroyers of forward progression the rest of the time, rebels indeed, mostly without a clue.
You see to us it was offered when challenged, as just youthful exuberance.
We got booked or apprehended for our cheek with many wide ranging excuses the favourite though in yer best innocent face was always being youthful high jinx, but that was no get out clause.
For a few adults, a few mind, it was indeed that youthful tendency that they themselves had displayed but now ignored in later life, perhaps with new found authoritative position.
‘He might have been a Janny or summit’.
With age came responsibility you see, until yer auld man was as pished as a fart, then it was ‘who fuckin cares aboot awe that shite man’.
‘ Leave the lads alone, you forget when you were a kid pal !’.
That was a common statement from the blind with rage parent, usually though, from the parent who’s kids could do no wrong, ever.
You know the ones I mean, it still goes on.
‘Naw pal, no ma boy, he widnay day that, noo fuck off afore a get pissed off n put yer lights oot !’.
‘ Hey man, it’s only some graffitti, a wee bit of spray paint, a coupla menshees, the kids is bored shitless.
It’s only some broken bottles and fag ends, fuck sake it, happens awe the time err a gathering of underage drinkers on their journey to manhood, don’t it, geeza break ya nosey fud’.
The rank smell of pish from the corner of the walls or shop shutters was normal, ‘so wit, it’s natural int it ?’.
‘ Wit you want dude, the kids tay pish thur bloody pants !!
Inside oor wee heads as we listened to the adult back-up bicker way the moaner, we was thinking, ‘Nah fuck you Mr Doogood, it’s oor scheme, oor street, oor fuckin corner, noo bolt ya dafty !.
All the squabbling, screaming and fighting of a weekend night was par for the course man, it was gangland kinda shit wint it, besides being outside of that on them mean streets was fatal man.
There wisnay many hapless victims in ma hood.
Mibee somebody finished the last sip a cider or vino or somebody got two’s up oan the last Capstan full strength or Woodbine throat choker that was nicked oot somebody’s granda’s tin without even declaring an interest in a smoke until that mornin.
But that was no reason for any of the senior citizens or educated proper folk way the best togs, nay mates and proper speak, tay fear poppin oot for a loaf, a bag a sugar or a newspaper, was it ?.
The street corner was as safe as hooses man, gist get some baws and get yer shoppin in ya dumplin.
Aye, them days was no half educational.
Mibee no the educationals we needed but they did teach us shit never the less, we learned how tay act big, be the toughest of the softest and curse in a variety of tongues.
‘No wit a meen, ya wanker’.
As we started to expand our horizons at the weekends, the majority of us fae the same school and same school of thought, would get a right few of us together and head tay parkheed for the game, done up in awe wur greenery..
It was the birth right you see, the real religious festival.
This deprived deluge of kids from the corners of destruction knew how to express their beliefs, we had voices and we was gonna use them, we believed in Celtic, we still do.
‘Hail Hail the Celts are here…and off we’d go, suns oot, troops are sorted, who geez a fuck’.
‘The hills are alive way the sound of… s a bastard’.
For it’s a Grand old team to….’ the sounds belted oot.
Naybody gave a toss, the modern day ‘ kettle’ hudnay been invented yet and the hospital casualty was a natural result of the acceptable chaos.
In they days, you could stand, sing, move, smoke, eat & drink, piss ootside and it wiz seen as normal.
This was pre-political correctness in the days when the law was catchin criminals not creating them.
Sure to us that other lot in blue was worse than we could ever be.
We awe ran the gauntlet of the fitba day oot, and loved it.
Back then real feedom wisnay a crime you see.
We could express, depress and produce the middle fingers with ease, the street corner had made us professionals at it.
We’d chip wur coins the gether, manage a couple tins of the ale, fags, wur fare for the rockin bus as pensioners covered their ears and hoped we would get aff next stop as we planned our way intay the sacred grun.
‘Here goes for the punty err, try n make yerself look smaller it usually worked a treat man’.
Some of the guys dane the liftin err ‘good guys that remembered their street corners’ some of them still livin there to this day having moved from the Eldee tay the buckie, near keeled err hauf the time liftin err these young looking adults and questioned ‘wit fkn age ur you pal ?’ usually tay the back of yer heed as you squeezed yer torso intay the grun and legged it to a rendezvous point.
‘Fanks mister Jimmy !!’
‘Hail Hail’ and off, past the stampede of other successful punties to catch up way who else goat in fae yer ain crew’.
‘For we will be mastered by no….. Lively crowd the day lads..!’
‘Geeza fag man eh, am gaspin.?’
‘Hail Hail the Celts are here…and off we’d go, suns oot, troops are sorted, who gives a fuck we’re in paradise’.
Years of that went on man, doggin school tay sneak a peek at the weekends upcoming project, who we playin next, where aboots, how do we get there ?.
We started properly shavin, gettin laid, gettin educated about the real meanin of Celtic, real priorities, we was get’n awe political and managin tay still make sure the street corner we held firm at the games remained the same.
‘Fuck the suits man, cos sure as fuck, they was fuckin us’.
Aye the street corner was an education it ‘husnay hauf’ expanded.
