To me, there was never anything really disrespectful about the term “being born a Catholic”. To my knowledge I wasn’t born a Catholic, I was born naked, wrinkly, and greeted solidly for the first three hours until I found succour back in the arms of the mammy.
Religion was later foisted upon me like great gloop’s of pigeon shite atop a standing statue. The only true God I ever worshipped wore the green and white hoops of my beloved Celtic.
During my infancy years, my brothers used to go across to the neighbouring schemes to watch the ‘other lot’ drape themselves in the Union Jack flag, and hurl apples down upon the Catholic mothers taking the weans to school.
We didnae understand the reasons behind the hatred of our parents chosen religions. Neither did we comprehend the violence aimed quite literally at ourselves and other wee bairns by people of the same age group as our parents.
We just loved collecting the fallen apples aimed at the ‘Taig’ divils.
It was not something we ever took much notice of until much later in our lives. To this day I can brush off many insults without so much as a fluctuation of pulse, but use the word ‘Taig’ in my direction at your own peril. Sadly, two lesser bloggers fae across the water like to use that particular word out of ignorance. It speaks volumes to many when they read these poorly penned attempts at humour using their self confessed knowledge of the whole Irish/Scottish/English situation.
It would be like me commenting on that 'George Washington' fella, you know the one... he was a wood cutter.
It’s a good rule to learn in life... sometimes an ignorant mouth can break your own nose.
One of the brothers left a lucrative business in Glasgow’s famous Barrowlands in the mid seventies after being slightly heavy handed with an individual involved in shouting the word ‘Taig’ at the mammy when her illness was about her. I believe the bigoted gentleman in question may have had the toes on one foot removed with a shovel as a reminder that sectarianism can be extremely hazardous.
It’s incredible how so many accidents can happen in market places in Glasgow under the cover of darkness.
Sadly it came at a time when the Strathclyde polis were under pressure to cut off (pardon the pun) all vigilante behaviour fae the Gallowgate area, and return to the beats. The ‘Barra’s’ has traditionally since 1921 always been an excursion into the more ‘colourful’ world of the Glesga underbelly.
To this day it is still notorious for selling counterfeit clothing, hastily copied CD’s, re-routed alcohol, and not forgetting a dazzling array of designer watches, all for under a tenner, and a lifetime guarantee of at least an hour.
The words ‘flea market’ is rather apt in this particular case. It's still one of the best places to visit for a pint!
The Chief Constable of Glasgow himself paid a high profile visit to the market one Sunday morning in June. He took along with him a legion of press photographer's, political administrators’s fae the council offices, and for some mysterious reason he also invited along a gaggle of visiting diplomat’s fae Tokyo.
All was well as the locals delighted and amused the visitors with their pure Glesga charm and patter. Trinkets were purchased, haunds were shaken, and the Chief Constable announced to the group of assembled press that “Glasgow was no longer a city of vagabonds and rogues”
I believe that the remains of his car were later found burnt out in the Black Hill area, just around the corner fae where the local kids were selling the covertly liberated luggage, video cameras, and even the tyres off of the Tokyo visitors coach. There wasnae a tree house or a den within a five mile radius of Provanmill that didnae have a designer leather coach seat adorning its interior after the CC’s famous visit.
They never did find the coach driver...
Such was Glesga... deeply dangerous at times, but always somewhere, the laughter and patter was never far fae the front of all activities. To the outside world it was a city divided by religion and bigotry. In reality it was a community rebelling against poverty, hardship, and striving to survive without stretching out a haund for the government’s free social security.
Proud people living through hard times, often make the most interesting of companions. When you lay down with dogs, you do have to expect a few fleas.
Times change, but people and habits do not.
My labour enforced exile will soon be at an end, the unquenchable draw of my city makes me hungry for hame. Just like small stray dogs in big dry shelters, the feeling of security overwhelms me with the desire to belong once more to my Glesga. Even the grimy back streets painted grey with the rain... the beauty is in the memories, the fire and the passion remain within the internal walls of our own laughter filled minds.
The Last Supper
1 hour ago










