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A village near Belfast. An innocent riot. A guilty graveyard and for a while Hell for me beneath it. A dribble of red messed the shine on the hospital floor. Funny, no pain, yet. The tartan could hold no more of my blood.

“Nurse, I need bandaged, Quick!”

“Breathe easy, won’t be a moment,” she said.

 I’m sixteen and a hard man. I can take it more than most.

An account of true events set in the early nineteen seventies.

I know them to be true, because I am there, once again, reliving it you could say. It is November 1973; that’s Bowie’s ‘Queen Bitch’ playing from a bedroom. There’s talk of civil war around the village too. Even an operative ‘RA’ cell preparing to car bomb the fuckin’ heart of our wee village, is in town they say. Blood from my slashed hand is dripping off the tips all my fingers. Yet no pain. Mustard it is, not feelin’ pain. Give me pain; I prefer it. That way I know I’m okay.  From the knife fight I just had with a Taig who came looking for our acquired ford van. We hid it in a field. He tried to run.  I’m known for that shit. Haven’t much time. They usually call the Fuzz when we turn up here. Known around here as Glasgo, I have a story for ya. Oh and this is not one of those whimsy tales for those who are hoping for some breathin’ space or an attempt to be a local hero. Me, well I just wanna remember, okay. Record its importance you could say. Be warned though, tis a true story of hard men and violence. The hardest men I will ever know. Most of them will not live beyond the troubles. There is something else, shit, now its hurtin’. But it was beyond me then, still is. So hang in there. You think things are mustard crazy today. Maybe, or maybe nah, not like then, not with these fellas, I’ll tell ya.