Irvine Welsh - Skagboys

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 .