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Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781843589587 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Bonnier Books UK |
| Publication date: | 06/01/2012 |
| Pages: | 248 |
| Product dimensions: | 5.00(w) x 8.00(h) x 0.70(d) |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Celtic Soccer Crew
What the Hell Do We Care
By John O'Kane
John Blake Publishing Ltd
Copyright © 2012 John O'KaneAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-85782-756-9
CHAPTER 1
There is nothing unusual about the way my parents met; my dad, Andy, was a bus driver with the Glasgow Corporation, while my mother worked in the same depot as a conductress. Romance blossomed and they courted for a while before announcing their engagement. This created a stir amongst both families, who voiced their concerns and misgivings. The reason for the commotion was the fact my mother came from a staunch Scottish Protestant family, while my dad was born to Irish parents who had moved from Derry to Glasgow when he was about 10. This was 1960s Glasgow, a city divided by sectarian bigotry and religious intolerance, where mixed marriages, although not unheard of, were frowned upon.
Despite all their problems, my parents went ahead with their marriage in 1962. The newlyweds set up home on the council estate of Castlemilk, which at the time was regarded as a modern and innovative estate which boasted such luxuries as inside toilets, with hot and cold running water in the bathroom. The reality was, Castlemilk was a sprawling neighbourhood, perched on the southernmost tip of the city boundary, which lacked the basic amenities such as shops and banks, and didn't have a pub up until the early 1980s. Despite the apparent oversight by the city planners, families flocked to Castlemilk, often from the slum tenements that had been earmarked for demolition in places like the Gorbals.
Not long after settling in Castlemilk, my dad gave up his job as a bus driver to take up a well-paid job as an engineer in the massive Hoover factory in nearby Cambuslang. My mum then gave up work after falling pregnant with my elder sister, Anne, who was born in February 1964. I am the youngest of three, born amazingly the same year as my brother, Andrew, who was born in February 1968 while I was born 10 days before Christmas.
It is hard to imagine how my mother coped with two babies and a four-year-old all demanding her attention. She also had to attend to the usual demands of the Christmas and New Year festivities. Things were tough, but my mum and dad managed without any major crises in the first year after I was born. However, the last thing my mum needed was a visit from the police on 3 January 1970. They had called to inform her about my dad having been arrested at the Old Firm game that day. My dad was an avid Celtic fan and had gone to the traditional Old Firm New Year's derby which was at Celtic Park that day. The policeman said my dad had been arrested along with his friend and was being held on a charge of breach of the peace for allegedly throwing a bottle at Rangers fans.
In those days, Celtic Park was one of the largest stadiums in Europe, frequently housing crowds of up to 90,000. The stadium consisted of a grandstand with sloping terraces behind each goal and was completed by the famous Jungle, which was a roofed enclosure that ran the length of the pitch opposite the grandstand. Back in the 60s, both Rangers and Celtic fans occupied the Jungle, separated only by a small wall and a thin line of police officers. This was also the time that supporters were allowed to take their own alcohol into the stadium, which usually resulted in them tossing their empties at the opposing fans, sometimes having first pissed in them. My mother was informed by the policeman that my dad and his mate were to remain in custody until the courts resumed following the festive break.
They eventually appeared at Central Glasgow Magistrates' Court, whereupon they pleaded guilty and received a substantial fine. However, their relief at getting fined was short-lived, as the magistrate announced that he was not prepared to allow my dad and his mate any time to pay the fine, which meant they were sent to the notorious Barlinnie Prison until such time that their family or friends could raise the money to pay the fines. My mum never tired of reminding me of how she struggled on and off buses and through the snow with three young children on her way to visit my dad in Barlinnie.
I think my dad and his mate spent a couple of nights in jail before the necessary amount was paid. I was obviously too young to remember anything about my first visit to Barlinnie, but unfortunately for me it would become an all-too-familiar place in later years.
We lived in Castlemilk until I was four, when, after a fire had gutted our house, my parents decided to move to Pollok, which was a similar housing estate on the south-west of Glasgow. Shortly after moving, my parents split up. I never got to hear the full story behind the split, but I do know that my dad didn't really want to move to Pollok as it was about 10 miles from his work, which was on the other side of the city.
The months that followed my dad's departure were particularly hard and saw my mum finding comfort with alcohol. I was by now at the same school as my brother and sister, which was St Monica's RC Primary School, one of the largest primaries in Glasgow. I enjoyed primary school and made it into the football team where I played in goal.
Home life was chaotic by the time I had reached Primary Year 7. My brother and sister were now at secondary school, while I was alone at St Monica's. To make matters worse for me, my brother had begun to take an interest in becoming a Jehovah's Witness, while my sister started to attend Rangers games. She even went to Hampden for the Scottish Cup Final in 1980, which Celtic won 1–0 after extra-time, which triggered a pitch invasion by jubilant Celtic fans. The Rangers fans reacted by joining their victorious rivals on the pitch, sparking the worst riot ever seen in Scottish football. My sister was on the pitch wearing a Rangers scarf. She claimed later that she wasn't aware of what was happening and had simply followed those around her.
Meanwhile, my mother was virtually bed-ridden. She had been knocked down by a hit-and-run driver, breaking her hip in the process. This created a lot of tension in the house, particularly between me and my mother. As a child, I suffered from various ailments that required medical attention, meaning numerous visits to hospital. My mum was now drinking daily and would, more often than not, be in no fit state to take me to my appointments.
Events eventually came to a head one day. I was due to attend another hospital appointment and, in an effort to ensure my mum wouldn't be too drunk to take me, I took the drink from her bedside cabinet when I thought she was asleep, and began to pour it down the toilet. My mum must have heard me when I was in her room because, as I was pouring the contents of her last can of lager down the toilet, she came barging into the toilet with her walking stick raised above her head. I was trying to stand up from the kneeling position I was in at the toilet pan, but before I made it to my feet the first of several blows landed on my body. I was in a panic and knew I had to escape before I suffered a severe beating. It wasn't the first time my mum had used her walking stick to hit me. I had required hospital treatment on one of the occasions, but there was something more sinister this time. There was nobody else in the house to stop my mum. I decided the only option was to climb out of the toilet window and into the porch at the front door.
I scrambled over the cistern, breaking some toiletries in the process as I escaped through the window. I had managed to get into the porch just as my mum opened the front door brandishing the walking stick. I made a dash for the open door behind her, knowing that I would probably be hit by the stick again, but also knowing that if I got into the house and locked my mum out I would be safe. I managed to get past my mum and slumped to the floor as the door slammed behind me, locking my mum out. She was banging furiously on the door for a while, before all of a sudden it went deathly silent. I didn't know what to think. I was terrified and in a great deal of pain as a result of the blows to my body.
It seemed like an age had passed when suddenly there was a chap at the door. I got up rather gingerly and looked through the spyhole, where I saw one of our neighbours. He asked me to let him in, assuring me that I would not be hit again. I was apprehensive, but believed I would be OK as my mum wouldn't dare hit me when there were witnesses there. I opened the door slowly, not knowing what to expect, when all of a sudden there was a push at the door so forceful it knocked me to the floor. The next thing I knew I was being pinned to the ground by two uniformed policemen. I was face down with my arms twisted up my back before the policemen put handcuffs on me. I was screaming and shouting for my mum to tell the police to leave me alone. However, all I got was a couple of knees in my back, which the police later referred to as 'restraining techniques'.
I was then dragged out of the house, down two flights of stairs and thrown into the back of a police van. I was taken to Pollok Police Station where the cuffs were taken off before I was put into a detention room. I couldn't understand what was happening; I was only 11 years of age and had never been in any sort of trouble before. I wasn't in the room for long before the door was opened and a policeman entered with a couple of social workers. One of the social workers I knew, as he had been involved with my family for the couple of months leading up to this incident. He explained to me that my mum had accused me of being out of her control and that I would be taken to appear at a Children's Panel to decide what was the best course of action for the social workers to adopt in dealing with this situation. The Children's Panel system is similar to juvenile courts and has the power to put children into care.
I was led out of the police station, placed into a black car and taken to an office building in the city centre where the Children's Panel hearing would be held. I was confused, feeling very alone and bewildered by the speed at which things were moving. I appeared in front of the panel, where the social worker gave an account of the events that led to me being taken from the house by the police. It transpired that my mum had accused me of refusing to go to school and smashing up the house before creating a siege situation. I was given an opportunity to explain my version of events, and I strongly denied the allegations made by my mother.
The panel decided that I would have to attend a hearing at the Sheriff Court because of the differences in my account compared to that of my mother. They told me that I would be placed in Larchgrove Assessment Centre for a period of three weeks. I was then put back into the black car and driven to Larchgrove. On arrival, I was taken into an office along with my social worker where I met the manager of the centre, who explained the day-to-day routine and then gave me a tour of the premises and its facilities. Larchgrove was originally a Borstal for young offenders. It was now an assessment centre for young people with a wide range of problems, ranging from boys accused of serious crimes including murder to youngsters like me who were experiencing problems at home. It was very intimidating. Here I was, a young boy who had never been in any trouble, mixing with serious young criminals, many of them who abused solvents such as glue and gas.
After a few days, when I had settled in, I was taken to the education department for school classes. I couldn't believe the work I was given to complete. I had recently started secondary school, but here I was being expected to carry out school work that was designed for Primary Year 3 or 4 children. I think the centre treated all the boys as illiterate delinquents. I pointed out to the school teacher that I wasn't happy with the lessons, prompting her to contact my school, who sent in appropriate work. Meanwhile, my three-week period had passed and I was no nearer to knowing where I would end up. This was due to the Children's Court hearing where the judge had dropped three of the allegations my mum had made against me, having chosen to believe my version of events. Eventually, after three months, it was decided I would be going to a children's home. This was a relief, as the alternative was a List O school, which is basically an approved school.
It was on my 12th birthday – so something you never forget – that I moved into Ganavan Children's Home, which is a big Victorian mansion in the affluent Pollokshields area of Glasgow. The children's home was a new life for me. I got new clothes and pocket money, and I was allowed to go to the football most weeks; all things that I rarely got in my mum's house. I think my mother, and more so my brother Andrew, resented this because when I went on home visits I always had money or new clothes, whereas he was still dressed in hand-me-downs. I also returned to my secondary school, Lourdes, which was in Cardonald, a couple of miles from Pollokshields.
My brother was in the year above me at Lourdes, and his becoming a committed Jehovah's Witness presented me with a few problems. Andrew was being ridiculed and having things thrown at him, and was basically a target for the bullies, but he wouldn't react at all so the bullies decided to turn their attention to me. I reacted the only way I know how, by taking the bullies on. The first year or two in school I was constantly fighting, but I was beginning to win more than I lost and soon the bullies turned their attention to other people, knowing they wouldn't get beaten up by them.
After a couple of years in Ganavan, I was moved to another home, Park Lodge, where I met my first girlfriend, Rita, who I went out with for about three years. I was 15 and doing very well at school, where I was in the football team, playing in goal. My grades were also quite good and I sat seven O levels, receiving Pass marks in five of them. Because of my birthday falling in December, I was required to stay on at school until my 16th birthday, which meant I had to go into the fifth year. I was planning to complete the full year and was studying hard for my Highers.
Then I received news that to this day I find hard to understand. The social workers in their wisdom decided I was to move out of the home and into my own tenancy shortly after my 16th birthday. This meant I had to leave school, as I couldn't continue with my education once I was in my house. This decision really annoyed me, and still does, because it denied me the opportunity to gain more qualifications. The obstacle which prevented me continuing at school was the benefit system at the time, which didn't make provisions for young householders who were also at school, meaning I had to sign on as unemployed in order to receive housing benefits.
I moved into my house in March 1985. It was located on the ground floor of a typical 1950s-built council tenement. I thought I would be able to cope on my own, but expected some support from the Social Work Department, if I needed it. However, my social worker moved to another post out of Pollok shortly after I had moved into my house. I wasn't allocated a new social worker or any other type of support and was basically left to fend for myself. It wasn't long before my house resembled a gang hut with my mates appearing most nights, drinking and playing cards into the small hours. Most of my mates were in the newly formed Pollok Bushwhackers which was the result of the amalgamation of two gangs, the Krew and the Kross. The majority of the lads in the Bushwhackers were also members of the Celtic Soccer Crew and adopted the name after some of us had gone to a Carlisle v Millwall match where we saw the infamous Millwall Bushwhackers. Gang fighting in this part of Glasgow was rife, with the Bushwhackers playing a very active part.
This could have cost me my life one night when, following a fight with a local gang in which one of the rivals got slashed, I was attacked in my own house. After the fight, a few lads came back to my house for a drink, before leaving at about midnight. I was preparing to go to bed when I was aware of a noise at the door. Thinking it was one of my mates who had forgotten something, I went to investigate. I was just about to open the door when all of a sudden it came flying off its hinges, knocking me to the floor. There was a group of about six strangers, all armed with long knives and baseball bats, lashing out in my direction. Fortunately for me, the door was on top of me, providing me with some protection. I can't say how long the attack lasted, but I consider myself to have been a very lucky man that night. One of my neighbours must have phoned the police, who arrived to find me sprawled on the floor.
I was taken to hospital where I received stitches, mostly to my arms and to where I had been stabbed through my top lip. The police had waited for me to be treated in the A&E Department and were expecting me to make a statement once I had been attended to. I told them I couldn't recall anything about the attack and didn't know of any motives. The police offered me a lift home, probably expecting me to offer more information, which I never gave them. I told them to take me to my mother's, as I didn't fancy returning to my own house. I was shocked when, after tapping at my mother's door, I was met with a barrage of abuse and refused entry. I didn't know where to go; it was after 2am. In desperation, I called my dad who, without any hesitation, told me to get a taxi to his house which he would pay for at the other end. My dad lived in Castlemilk, having returned there following the divorce from my mum. I hadn't had much contact with my dad and had only begun to see him on a regular basis after I had left the home.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Celtic Soccer Crew by John O'Kane. Copyright © 2012 John O'Kane. Excerpted by permission of John Blake Publishing Ltd.
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