This is Glasgow of the 1980s.  Don't think I'm going to let you into
that big secret piece by piece, like some crime writer.  It's not
that kind of city, and this is not that kind of story.  Sure, Glasgow
is miles better, but they don't tell you what it's better than.  A kick
in the face, maybe?  Well, take a wrong step in Glasgow and you'll still
get that, in spite of what the city fathers tell the tourists.

It's strange, though.  Glasgow folk, they're friendly enough, mostly
older people though.  Unless you look like a real psycho just out of
Carstairs, you'll always find a wee grannie perfectly willing to tell
you about her feet, at any bus stop in the city.  And even if you do
look a bit like a character from some nuclear holocaust movie, they'll
give you the benefit of the doubt.  Most of the time.

It's always struck me a wierd, Glasgow with its No Mean City
reputation, but the folk are always willing to butt in, help you
if they can.  I've changed tyres on just about every motorway in
Britain, but only in Glasgow do three guys jump out a car with
jump leads, ready to push us to the garage if needs be.  Violence
breeds a polite society, some say. But a friendly one?  There's
more to it than that.

It has its fair share of cruelty, though.  I don't want to paint
the city in colours too bright, like some rueful expat pining for
his youth.  The streets of the east end are littered, because some
people just don't give a shit.  Most of the closes are having these
security doors fitted, not for security, but mostly to stop the
drunks pissing at the dunney door.   It can be a dirty place, but
people still take an irrational pride in it.  Most of these houses
are bought, along Alexandra Parade, Tollcross Road, Shettleston,
people have put their money into hundred-year-old tenement buldings,
the sort that the Corporation were knocking down as health risks
only ten years before.  Renovate not relocate.

It's along one of these red sandstone streets that Sammy always
walked on his way into work at the City Bakeries.  He wasn't the
only one in his group of pals who was working, but his job was
the best paid, and his creaky new leather bikers jacket gave him
a sort of workingman's respect among the other guys.  It didn't
matter that he had bought it out of his mothers catalogue and would
be paying for it at thruppence a week for years yet.  Living with
your parents was no big shakes, as long as your old folks didn't
give you any grief.

Sammy liked living in the east end.  Good buses into the town,
nice parks.  Play a wee bit of golf up the Ally Park if the
weather was good.  Take a bus out to Hogganfield Loch, lots of
nice lassies in the summer.  Life was fine for him, good job,
some leftover rolls and buns at night for his mammy, and some
change in his pocket for fags or whatever he fancied.  He couldn't
complain.

Arthur, his best mate when he was still at the school.  He could
complain.  And often did. It's strange how opposites attract at
school.  Psychologists and other learned people tell us that you
get friendly with people who you are most like.  But all I see is
fat tumshee guys with fellas like rakes for a best mate.  Or the
really tall quiet guys with the short aggressive mates.  Arthur
was much the same size and build as Sammy, but they were as apart
as chalk and cheese.

The thing with Arthur was hard to explain.  He wasn't a bad boy,
Sammy didn't run with the really bad boys in the area.  Arthur's
mammy had died when he was young, and his older sister had sort
of dragged him up, and his father was a bit of an alky.  Quite a
big bit of an Alky, in fact.  Arthur didn't like to be reminded
of it, but there was that time at the school when his father came
to the gates with that ribbon tied around his wullie, half-pissed
and swearing... and sometimes Arthur had bruises, but he didn't
talk about them either, and mates don't mention things, not if
they are good mates.

Sammy didn't quite swagger, but there was a sort of adolescent
style about the guy as he walked down the road.  The sort of
happy stride of a working guy on Friday morning, with the thought
of a virgin wage packet at the end of the day and the weekend
streching out in front of him.  Brilliant.

------------
Gets in a fight with a bunch of eejits who were drinking on the
corner, runs away with another gang who try to get him drunk.
Arthur gets left behind and they get caught up in a gangwar.
The other gang hold Arthur and Sammy is forced to murder one
of them.  He is wracked with regret, but Arthur is drawn and
excited into the gang life.