Skagboys Read Online Free Page A

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
.
    Fuckin Weedgies, they cannae dae nowt without bringin thair fucked-up fitba and Ireland shite intae everything
…
    We get him settled doon, n fair play, one ay the radges immediately comes up and apologises. It’s the skinny cunt, he’s goat practically nae chin and big, uneven teeth. ‘Sorry aboot that, big man, yir right, wrang song, wrang place
…’
    My faither nods in acceptance as the gadge passes him a bottle ay Grouse. The auld boy takes a concilatory slug fae it, then at Beaver pus’s prompting, passes it tae me, but ah wave it away. Fucked if ah’m takin a drink ay anything oafay these cunts, let alaine that shite
.
    ‘
It’s awright, emotions runnin a wee bit high,’ ma faither goes, noddin tae Andy, whae looks doolally, like he’s in shock
.
    Then they start talkin aboot the events ay the day, n soon thair airms ur roond each other’s shoodirs like they’re best mates. Ah’m feelin fuckin nauseated. If there’s one thing that’s even sicker than those sectarian cunts at each other’s throats, it’s when they start cosyin up thegither. Ah cannae sit here wi this fuckin back. Ootside ah sketches the road signs for Manchester, n no really kennin what the fuck ah’m daein, ah suppose half thinking aboot Nicksy, ah stand up. ‘Ah’m gettin oaf here, Dad
.’
    Ma auld boy’s shocked. ‘Whit? You’re comin hame wi me
…’
    ‘
Ye dinnae wahnt tae git oaf the bus here, pal,’ his new Chipmunk-choppered best china unhelpfully intervenes, but ah studiously ignore the cunt
.
    ‘
Naw,’ ah goes tae ma Dad, ‘but ah said ah’d meet some mates at Wigan Casino,’ ah lie. It’s a fuckin Monday at noon, and the Wigan Casino shut a few years back, but it’s aw ah kin think ay sayin
.
    ‘
But yir gran’s expectin ye back at Cardonald … wir gaunny git the train back tae Embra later … yir brother’s in hoaspital, Mark, yir ma’ll be worried sick …’ ma auld man’s pleadin wi us
.
    ‘
Ah’m oaf,’ ah tell um, n ah nip doon tae the front and get the driver tae pull up at the hard shoulder. He looks at us like ah’m a radge, but the airbrakes hiss and ah jump oaf the coach, ma back jarrin in sudden pain. Ah look back tae the hurt, uncomprehendin expression oan ma dad’s face as the bus moves away and ebbs intae the traffic. It hits me that ah huvnae goat a fuckin scooby what ah’m daein here, walkin by the side ay this motorway. But the back feels better wi me movin: ah just had tae get the fuck oot ay there
.
    The sun’s pummellin doon and it’s still as warm as fuck, a really beautiful summer’s day. The cars shoot past us headin north, as ah rip the COAL NOT DOLE sticker fae ma denim jaykit. The tear oan the sleeve isnae too bad; it kin be stitched nae bother. Ah lift ma airm, stretchin it oot through the nagging ache in my shoodir. Ah climb up the bankin oantae this overpass, n look ower the railins doon the motorway at the cars n lorries ripping by underneath me. Ah’m thinkin that we’ve lost, and there’s bleak times ahead, and ah’m wonderin: what the fuck am ah