by Irvine Welsh
‘It’s Wigan Casino.’
‘Same difference. Some night that must be! Cans ay juice!’
Andy n some other boys join in n ah jist take the slaggin cause it’s pointless arguing wi dozy auld fuckers aboot sounds. Ah feel like telling thum that Presley and Lennon are wormfood and tae git the fuck ower it, but naw, it’s a barry vibe oan the bus, and as ah say, nae point arguing.
Eventually, wi the help ay the polis, we get intae the village n park the bus in the main street, in a line wi aw the others. It’s weird, cause it’s that early, the sun’s still warming up as mair people assemble. The auld man slopes off tae a payphone, n ah kin tell by the expression oan his coupon what the gist ay the conversation is, n that it’s no good news.
‘Awright?’
‘Aye …’ he says, then shakes his heid. ‘Yir mother wis sayin that the wee felly hud a terrible night. They had tae gie him oxygen, the lot.’
‘Aw … right. Ah’m sure he’ll be okay,’ ah tell him, ‘they ken what they’re daein.’
Fuck. Even doon here that little cunt has tae spoil it aw …
Dad says something aboot how he shouldnae huv left Wee Davie as my ma doesnae dae the postural drainage right, n he worries that the nurses at the hospital are too busy tae spend enough time oan it. He shakes his heid, pain nippin his pus. ‘They cannae afford tae lit that fluid build up in his lungs …’
Ah cannae listen tae this same crap again. We’re in Yorkshire n the atmosphere’s still brilliant but it’s like the Cup Final feeling’s changed intae a sortay music festival vibe. Everybody’s upbeat as we march tae the field where the pickets are massed. My dad even cheers up n gits talking tae this Yorkshire boy, then swaps his AUEW badge for the gadge’s NUM one, baith ay them proudly pinnin the other yin’s button oantae his chest like it wis a medal.
We can see the coppers assembling ahead ay these barriers they’ve pit up. Thaire’s fuckin loads ay them. Ah eyeball the white-shirted cunts fae the Met; a boy oan the bus said they dinnae want tae use too many Yorkshire polis oan the front line, in case ay any divided loyalties. On oor side there’s banners fae every trade union and political group ah’ve ever heard ay joining the gathering. But ah’m startin tae feel edgy: thaire’s still mair polis. For every load ay pickets that swells oor ranks, the polis force seems tae increase tae correspond, and then some mair. Andy gies vent tae the growin sense ay trepidation in the air. ‘They’ve been preparing fir this for years, since the miners done ower Heath.’
Ye cannae miss the plant we intend tae blockade; it’s dominated by two huge phallic chimneys, risin out ay a series ay industrial Victorian buildings. It looks ominous, but the polis have goat us aw herded intae this big field on its north side. Then thaire’s a sudden stillness in the air as the chants fade away; ah look at the plant and it feels a bit like Auschwitz and for a second ah get the queasy notion that we’re gonnae be corralled intae it, like thaire’s gas ovens thaire, because no only are the polis outnumberin the pickets, they’re now positioned oan three sides ay us, and we’re cut off oan the fourth perimeter by this railway line. ‘These bastards know what thir daein here,’ Andy shakes his heid ruefully. ‘They led us right here. Something’s gaun oan!’
Ah sense he’s no wrong, cause up ahead there’s aboot fifty polis oan hoarseback and quite a few mair wi dugs. Ye kin tell they mean business, cause thaire wisnae a WPC in sight. ‘You stick close tae us,’ ma dad says, suspiciously clockin a group ay thickset boys wi Yorkshire accents, whae seem like they want tae get steamed in.
Suddenly a roar ay applause ripples through the crowd, as Arthur Scargill appears tae a rock star’s welcome, and the ‘Victory to the Miners’ chant starts up. That comb-over hair ay his flaps in the breeze, and he pulls oan this American baseball cap.
‘They say that there’s been a lot ay MI5 infiltrators doon here,’ this gadge called Cammy fae our bus is sayin tae Andy, as we bunch forward tae git a view ay Scargill.
Ah disliked that kind ay talk, cause ah preferred tae think ay British Secret Service cunts as bein like Sean Connery, decked oot in tuxedos in Monte Carlo, no sad fuckers snoopin roond pit villages in Yorkshire, pretendin tae be miners and grassin every cunt up. Scargill’s got the megaphone and he launches intae one ay his trademark rousin speeches that tingles the back ay ma neck. He talks aboot the rights ay working people, won through years of struggle, and how if we’re denied the right to strike and organise, then we’re really nae better than slaves. His words are like a drug, ye feel them coursin through the bodies aroond ye; moistening eyes, stiffening spines and fortifying hearts. As he wraps up, fist punched into the air, the ‘Victory to the Miners’ chant reaches fever pitch.
The miners’ leaders, including Scargill, are up arguing wi the top coppers, telling them that we’re no getting tae stand where we fuckin well need tae, in order tae properly picket, n we’re penned intae this field which is way too far fae the plant. ‘Might as well be in fookin Leeds,’ a big gadge in a donkey jaykit shouts at a pork-chop-sideburned copper in full riot gear. ‘You’re a fookin disgrace!’
The cunt stands impassive, lookin ahead, like he’s one ay they guards at Buckingham Palace. But the mood suddenly changes again, the tension seeming tae dissipate as a fitba gets kicked intae the crowd n some ay us get a game started up, using miners’ hard hats for goalposts. A surge ay euphoria comes ower me as ah clock that nippy wee cockney cunt, Nicksy; he’s on the baw, giein it loads, mouthing off, so ah steam in wi a dirty two-fitted tackle on him. ‘Take that, ya English bastard!’ ah’m shoutin as he goes doon, then he springs up howlin: ‘You farking MI5 or what, you farking Jock cunt?!’
The boys around us stop playin, as if anticipating a showdown, but instead we start laughin.
‘How goes it, Mark?’ Nicksy asks. He’s a wiry, busy-eyed wee gadgie, wi a floppy fringe and hooked nose, whae looks and moves like a lightweight boxer, perpetually shuffling and swaggering. The boy has some fuckin energy.
‘Awright, mate,’ ah say, lookin ower tae the lines ay polis. ‘Heavy stuff here the day but, eh?’
‘Too farking right. Came up ta Manchester on the train Friday, got a lift through here this morning. Place was farking crawling with Old Bill.’ He nods to the coppers’ lines. ‘Some of them divs was trained in new riot tactics after Toxteth and Brixton. They farking want it.’ His head whips round to me. ‘Who ya here with, san?’
‘Ma auld boy. Came doon oan the Scottish NUM bus,’ ah explain, as the baw flies ower our heids and we make a half-ersed attempt tae get back intae the game. But as mair numbers are assembling oan baith sides, the tension starts tae mount again. People stop chasin the baw as somebody shouts that the scab lorries are due soon, and we’re too far away fae the road tae stop them. Some boys mob up and start chuckin stanes at the polis, whae respond by bringin forward a cordon ay long-shielded polis in front ay the ordinary coppers. A cheer goes up as one polisman takes a healthy skelp on the coupon wi a bit ay brick. I feel sickness in the pit ay ma stomach, but there’s an electricity in me, overriding it, as a roar goes roond that the scab lorries are here tae pick up the fuckin coke fae the plant!
Every cunt steams forward tae try and get through the polis lines, n ah’m propelled right intae it aw, airms pinned tae ma side for a scary minute, and ah lose Nicksy n ah’m wondering in panic where ma dad is, suddenly rememberin what Granny Renton said. A space opens up and ah move intae it, then the mounted polis charge us and every fucker runs back. It’s like a row at the fitba, but it’s made room fir the lorries tae pass and we’re aw gaun fuckin mental! Ah’m shoutin right in the face ay a young copper, ages wi me, ‘WHAT YE FUCKIN DAEIN, YA SCABBY NAZI CUNT?!’
There’s another surge forward, but when the horseback polis charge again, the whole polis lines are right behind them. Stanes are hurled through the air at the cunts and a pig oan the tannoy warns that if we dinnae retreat a hundred yards, they’re gaunny steam in wi full riot gear. We can see them, gettin ready, wi their helmets, short shields and
batons.
‘This is outrageous,’ one old Yorkshire miner says, eyes seared with rage, ‘they ain’t used riot squads against pickets in this coontry!’
‘Them fookin small shields,’ another gadgie shouts, ‘they’re for aggro, not fookin defendin their sen!’
The boy’s called it right, cause as we stand our ground, the bastards charge forward and it’s fucking mental. Maist people are wearing ordinary clathes, a few have thick donkey jaykits, but naebody has weapons tae protect themselves and when the polis attack, waving their batons, there’s mass panic among the strikers, as it aw goes oaf. Ah git hit oan the back, then the airm, which makes me feel sick, then smacked in the temple. The blows feel different tae bein punched or kicked, ye kin feel them daein damage under the skin, but the adrenalin is the best anaesthetic, and ah lash oot, stickin the boot against a shield …
FUCKIN USELESS.
It’s fuckin no fair … it’s no fuckin right … whaire’s ma shield? … whaire’s ma fuckin bat, the crappin cunts? … it’s fuckin no right …
Ah’m punchin n kickin against the perspex, tryin tae brek through but it’s fuckin useless. Fuck this; ah turn back and run intae space n blooter a copper fae behind, a cunt whae’s stooried past us in pursuit ay a striker. He stumbles, lookin like he’s gaunny go doon, but keeps his footing and carries on after the gadge, completely ignoring us. Ah see one boy’s doon and gettin battered tae fuck by three polis. They’re bendin ower him, thrashing at him with their sticks. A lassie, about ages wi me, long, black hair, is screaming at them in appeal: ‘What are you doing!’
One of the cops calls her a miner’s slag and pushes her. She stumbles and faws oan her back, n gits pilled away by this aulder boy, who takes a stick acroas the shoulder for his trouble. Every cunt’s screamin and shoutin n ah’m standin, paralysed between thought and action, just jammed, and an aulder copper looks at me, glances at the younger polis, then barks right in ma face, ‘GET THE FUCK OUTTA HERE NOW, OR YOU’LL GET FUCKIN KILLED!’
The concern scares us mair than the threat; ah find masel movin away, forcing through the confused, shrieking crowds, tryin tae find my dad and Andy, or even Nicksy. It’s crazy everywhere ye turn; one huge, brawny gadge wi long biker’s hair n leathers is smashing the fuck oot ay a copper; even though the pig has a short shield and baton, the big gadge just overpowers and pummels the stupid cunt wi his huge sledgehammer fists. One gadge’s staggering around wi blood skooshin oot his heid, like he cannae see anything. Ah feel a sickenin thud acroas ma back n ma guts rising, but ah fight it and turn and see a panic-faced cop wi a stick n shield move away, as if ah’m a threat tae him. Everything is slo-mo now and ah’m pulsing wi anxiety aboot the auld boy, but at the same time revelling in the buzz, pumped up tae fuck. Thankfully the polis draw back, and the battered pickets reassemble and we move forward, eftir picking up stanes fae the side ay the field. Ah grabs a rock, reasoning that these radges are taking nae prisoners n ah fuckin need some sort ay weapon. But what ah really want right now is tae find ma dad.
What the fuck …
Suddenly, these searing wails ay rage are rippin through the air, people sounding so agonised that for a second ah think the polis have sprayed ammonia or somethin intae our eyes; but it’s the scab lorries; they’re starting tae leave the plant, full ay the coke. Another push, but we’re repelled by the polis, and Scargill walks in front ay the polis lines, shoutin through the megaphone, but ye cannae make it oot, it’s like a British Rail customer announcement. The scab lorries recede tae diminishing jeers and boos as the fight just drains oot ay everybody. Ah feel something hard and horrible freeze solid in ma chest, and ah’m thinkin, game over, and ah keep lookin for ma faither.
Please let him be awright proddy god pape god muslim god jew god buddhist god or any gods please let him be awright …
Some ay the pickets head oot the field taewards the village wi their injured comrades, but others just lie oot in the sun, looking that casual, ye couldnae believe they’d been involved in a mass brawl just minutes ago. Ah’m no like that; ma teeth hammer thegither n ah’m shakin like ah’ve goat a small motor stuck inside us. For the first time, ah can feel where ah’ve been hit, wi hard throbs in ma heid, ma back, and ma airm, which hings limply by ma side.
FUCKIN …
Ah feel like ma dad looks: a worrier. Like he looks now, no in the younger pictures ay him. Ah once mind ay askin him aboot it, why he eywis seemed that worried these days.
‘Children,’ he’d replied.
LET HIM BE OKAY!
Ah’m ready tae head back tae the village tae find the bus; ah supposed that the auld man and Andy would’ve gone there; but the next thing ah ken is that the polis riot squads are advancing taewards us, drumming oan thair short shields wi thair batons. Ah cannae believe it, cause it’s game over, the fuckin lorries are away! But they fuckin well charge right at us, we’re unarmed and heavily outnumbered, and ah’m thinkin: these cunts really want us deid, and the only thing tae dae is nash like fuck n scramble doon the embankment oantae the railway line. Every step jars ma fuckin back. Ah catch ma jaykit oan a fence and hear it tear. Oan the track beside us, thaire’s a chunky auld guy wi a rid face, whae’s limpin, and he gasps in this north ay England accent: ‘That’s … that’s … they’re tryin ter fookin murder us!’
Whaire’s ma fuckin dad?
We cross the line and ah’m helpin the auld gadge climb up the other bank. His leg’s fucked, but ma back’s giein me gyp, n it’s a struggle cause ma airm’s totally fucked n aw. The boy’s rabbiting in ma ear, in shock. He sounded northern tae me, but tells me his name’s Ben n he’s actually a striking Notts miner. He took a bad whack oan his kneecap.
My pain has been displaced by a sickness comin fae deep in ma belly. Cause fae the other side ay the track we’re witnessing this terrible carnage; the pickets that are left are bein clubbed like seals and lifted by the polis, some are game as fuck and still fightin back in spite ay it aw. A boy in a red lumberjack shirt, oan his knees, tendin tae his decked mate, gets smashed across the skull fae behind by a riot copper and collapses oan top ay his pal. It’s like an execution. At the overhead bridge a few pickets have grabbed stuff fae a scrapyard and are flingin it at the polis. Some boys have dragged a car fae the yard, and they pull it across the road and set it alight. This isnae about policing or containment, this is a war against civilians.
War.
Winners. Losers. Casualties.
Ah leaves the Ben gadge n gits back tae the road and ah’m relieved tae see my faither. He’s standin wi this boy whae looks weird; it’s like he’s wearin Batman’s cowl. Ah git closer n realise it’s aw rid-black blood, completely covering his face tae the extent ah kin only see the whites ay his eyes n teeth. I’m shocked when ah tipple it’s Andy; his heid’s been stoved in, big time. The polis are still advancin and they half chase, half herd us back intae the village. We get oan the bus, n a lot ay the boys look well fucked. Ma dad has a cut hand. He says it was fae a broken bottle thrown flung by a picket that didnae clear the lines. Andy’s in a bad way and needs treatment, but a polis cunt in the escort tells us that anybody stoaping at a hoaspital is liable tae arrest and that we should jist go hame. The arrogant, hate-filled faces: so different tae the beaming coupons that greeted us oan the way in.
The cunts set us up.
We’ve nae reason tae disbelieve the copper, but ah want tae get oaf n see if Nicksy’s awright. ‘My mate,’ ah tells ma auld man, but he shakes his heid and goes, ‘No way. The driver’s shut the door n he’s no openin it for anything.’
The bus starts movin, n Andy’s goat some boy’s shirt tied roond his heid tae try and staunch the bleedin. Ma dad’s sittin wi an airm roond him, makeshift bandage oan his hand as poor Andy mutters, ‘Never seen nowt like it, Davie … cannae believe it …’
Ah’m sittin thaire, lower back nippin in the seat, wonderin how far up this goes; the Chief Constable, Home Secretary, Thatcher … whether they gied the orders or no, they wir complic
it. Anti-union laws and big pay rises for the polis when everybody else in the public sector’s dosh and conditions are getting cut back … the cunts fuckin primed them for this …
It’s like a morgue oan the bus as it slithers oantae the motorway. Eventually the bevvy being dispensed n consumed wi a vengence starts tae kick in, and the defiant chants ay ‘Victory to the Miners’ gather force and conviction. But it doesnae feel glorious tae me. It feels like we’ve been cheated, like coming back fae Hampden and the referee’s gied the Old Firm club a nonsense last-minute penalty. It’s really hot ootside, but the bus has been blowin cauld air and it’s freezing in here. Ah’m sitting wi ma heid burrowed intae the windae, watchin ma breath steam it up. Ah’m feeling really sair now, particularly my airm, n every inhalation is like a punch tae that fuckin spine.
These boys at the back ay the bus start stampin thair feet n singin these Irish Republican ballads of defiance, then a couple of pro-IRA chants come into the mix. Soon they’re exclusively belting out Irish Republican ballads.
Ma auld man’s sprang up oantae his feet, pointin at them in denunciation, his hand bleedin through the rag wrapped roond it. ‘STOAP SINGING THAT SHITE, YA DIRTY IRA TERRORIST BASTARDS! THAT’S NO A SOCIALIST SONG, N IT’S NO A TRADE UNIONIST SONG, YA FUCKIN FENIAN SCUMBAGS!’
A skinny wee gadge gets up and starts shoutin back at him, ‘FUCK OFF, YA UVF TORY HUN BASTARD!’
‘AH’M NO A FUCKIN TORY … ya fuckin …’ Ma auld boy’s stormin doon tae the back ay the bus like a bull, n ah’m up in pursuit and grab ah hud ay his airm wi ma good yin. We’re the same height, but ah’m much punier and thank fuck Cammy’s up and helpin me restrain the auld radge. My faither and the cunts at the back are shoutin at each other, but they’re being urged tae calm doon, and me and Cammy are pullin him away, a spasm ay crippling pain comin fae ma back makin ma eyes water, as the bus wobbles oantae a slip road.
