Life is a firecracker sometimes, and sometimes it’s a little bar like this. This just suits me down to the ground.
The Harbour Pub, it never stops surprising me just how many people it fits when it looks like someone’s front room. The library round the corner, quiet on a Tuesday afternoon. Get a book and come in here for a pint or two.
The river rolling on like it knows better than to stick around, door open in the summer with the sunshine fading out. In winter, the door’s closed and if you hold it open too long when you go outside for a smoke you’ll be sure to know about it.
Maisey behind the bar is my kind of woman, a little bit grumpy but honest, you know. Doesn’t have to be the centre of attention all the time so I get peace to read.
Friday lunchtime I go and get her and me a ticket for the lottery, £5 each and if we win we split it between us. We used to just go for it when the winnings went above £100 million. High rollers, eh. But now we just do it out of habit.
She says she wouldn’t change a thing if she won. Not a thing. I like that. I think we have that in common, though I would like to travel, visit a few places.
Walk through town. Tall buildings casting shadow under the winter sun.
Traffic queues up. Someone’s got the window down, making a phone call, and you can hear them half way up the street telling someone they need to get cream for those haemorrhoids.
Few folk laughing.
Walk past the pub. Looks like a good crowd in. The band is cranking out Sharp Dressed Man.
I’m either in a time machine or I’ve found the only other folk in 2026 who still love Billy Gibbons’ guitar tone.
I step inside.
The guitar player is ripping out a solo. A few folk dancing near the front. I find a spot by a pillar and watch them tear through the end of the song.
Then the guitar and bass drop out and it’s just the drummer, holding the groove.
The band look at each other. The bass player laughs. Then they lock in.
A few notice. Heads move in time. Most folk keep chatting.
The band turn their backs to the crowd and lock in with each other.
The drummer looks serious, pulling those faces only drummers pull when they are really feeling it.
A woman beside me starts dancing and bumps my shoulder. She turns, smiling. I smile back.
The song finishes. The crowd cheers and the band take a break.
I head back out to the street.
The shadows have grown. The sun is sinking. And I’m moving again.
Folk hurried through the Cross.
Shoppers, pub-goers,
chasing the sudden sun.
Stuart had the guitar.
Finding an E chord.
A scavenged piece of string
tied neck to base for a strap.
He had it slung over his shoulder,
like it had always been there.
People walked by,
didn’t pay him any attention.
The statue of Rabbie Burns
stood above him,
watching the Cross like always.
Stuart looked around.
Hair soaked.
Coat soaked through.
Drookit.
He took it off
and parcelled it up behind his feet
against the bottom of the statue.
“Right,” he said.
He smiled and started the riff to Seven Nation Army.
No one counting him in.
Just him.
Just the guitar.
Just the wet stone under his feet.
He started moving.
Shoulders going.
Head going.
The beat.
Always the beat.
No pick.
Hand to string.
Skin to string.
To fretboard.
People passed by.
Someone put a few coins
in the little cup he had set out.
He played.
Seven Nation Army.
Someone walked by
singing about Rory McKenzie.
Stuart smiled and sang:
“Oh, Rory McKenzie.”
He clapped the body of the guitar
with the flat of his hand
and played on.
They are playing a blues in A. Bobby points to another guitar and to me. I pick up and put the guitar strap over my shoulder. I touch the strings; it’s mic’d up. Through a little distortion pedal.
I’ll be where the music is playing.
This is no game.
No joke.
Fuck that.
Buried beneath the city, Buried beneath the ground. Buried inside us.
The world steals. Dignity. Hope. Life.
Fuck that. Fuck off. Fuck you. Fuck. Fuck.
Bobby nods at me, and I play that guitar with every ounce of life that I ever had.
I run up from the G on the E string, up to the high string… I feel them… the strings… every note.
We’re in a moment.
The world stops.
The noise stops.
And we are alive.
I hit the strings till my fingers bleed.
I remember the little room where I first picked up a guitar. Nights alone. Playing. John Lee Hooker Springsteen Steve Earle Rancid
To here
Life Love Connection.
I nod at Bobby, and I play the chords as he takes a turn, and he can really play. A blizzard of notes and then nothing but soulful, bluesy bends.
Then Rachel comes back in.
We can take a place. A moment. These guitars, And make a place of our own.
The little crowd cheers. Someone shouts from the bar.
“Here, yous can fucking play!”
I thank Bobby and Rachel.
They invite me down to the open mic and I of course say I will be there. I get back to my seat and for a moment I just breathe.
This is Chapter 8 from my story “Burn”, one of my favourites.
I walk back towards the ground. Under the bridge and there is the waste ground where The Craigie used to be. It was up there with Eddie’s as the best bar in town. Now it’s one of those modern flat blocks and some waste ground. There’s basically a big bush growing up against the fence.
I look over and just take the view in. Fuck sake, I remember nights in here. Power shandies, pool and fucking daft laughs. Faces been and gone. Real friends. That’s the way of the world I guess.
I’m looking over and hear a voice. “Ho you, ho Tam.”
I’m looking around. There’s a few groups of fans walking down to the crowd. Families. You get three generations of family coming to the games. It means a lot. I look around but no one is shouting at me.
“Tam. Tam.”
There it is again. I look down at the bush.
“Tam. It’s me. It’s the big man. It’s me.”
“What the fuck.”
“Listen, what the fuck is going on down there? I gave Moses clear and simple instructions.”
“What, what do you mean?” I laugh. I rub my hand across my face. Am I still high?
“Listen Tam, don’t pretend there is nothing going on between those lugs. I know you went to all those school assemblies where they banged on about all this stuff.”
I stifle a laugh. “What? You know when they used to bang on about thou shall not covet thy neighbour’s wife’s ass?”
The voice laughs a little bit. “You don’t sound much like God mate. In the movies, was it not usually James Earl Jones or Charlton Heston? You know, big booming voice.”
“Ach away man, that’s just Hollywood shit. Everyone knows that God is a Scotsman. No doubt.”
“That’s interesting,” I say, “but shouldn’t this be a burning bush? You know, like in the Bible?”
“Oh… er… aye you are right, but health and safety these days. Even the big fella has got to follow the rules.”
I laugh. “That’s fucking well you, Col.”
“No, no, no one here but the Lord your Saviour.”
“It fucking is you, eh mate? Come out.”
There’s a pause, a silence, then the bush starts to shake and a hand appears.
Col stands up, he’s laughing. Got a Kirkentoun FC scarf round his neck.
“You fucking arsehole,” I say.
“Sorry Tam, I seen you coming along the way.”
He climbs over the fence and walks over.
“The Lord says we will pump them today 5-0.”
We both crack up laughing. We get near the ground, there’s crowds of folk, someone has lit up a flare. But there’s a good vibe. We get in through the gates and take a spot up by the halfway line. Across the other side are the Kirkentoun Thistle fans. They are singing:
“This is a shitehole, I want to go home.”
“Aye well, away and fuck yourselves,” I shout across.
Then I spot him.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. It’s Shug. Standing right at the sideline across the pitch from me. Looking straight at me.
For a moment it seems like it’s only me and him there.
He’s looking at me. I’m looking at him.
I raise a fist and then give him a one-fingered salute.
He looks raging and he starts to walk across the pitch before he’s pulled back by a mix of fans and stewards.
I feel an arm go around my shoulder.
It’s Col.
He’s singing.
“Forever in our shadow, forever in our shadow.”
I join in and soon there’s a group of us singing.
The Thistle fans look raging.
There’s lots of pointing and shouting but we just laugh and then start to cheer as the teams come out.
I look over my shoulder and everyone is standing, singing, clapping and making some interesting “gestures” to the Thistle fans.
The first half goes by in a blur of two-footed challenges, yellow cards and…
Then in the 41st minute Big Steggy, or Peter Stegalopolous to his mum, rising above the Thistle defence and powers a header into the bottom corner.
Our side of the ground and the stand behind the goal goes mental.
Someone lights up a flare behind the goal.
The Thistle fans are on the pitch.
Oh, here we fucking go.
They are at halfway and running right towards us.
A couple of folk slink back. I look at Col and he looks at me.
Not on our fucking pitch.
We run and a few follow us. The players are diving out of the way. First person I run into I hit with a shoulder barge and they go flying, I’ve still got momentum and I throw a right at the next guy and catch him right on the chin.
I yell out something, I’m not sure what, and then I just catch a glance of something out of the corner of my eye, it’s like a flash, it’s heading towards me and before I have time to think I’m already falling backwards and land hard on the ground. The air escapes my lungs.
I look up.
I just see Shug’s snarling face as he lands on top of me. He sits back and I instinctively throw a punch and he barely moves. His arms come to my throat and I’m trying to pull them away when he disappears. I sit up. Col is on top of him. Throws a quick punch and then he’s up. “Come on, we need to get back, the polis are coming.”
There are people all over the pitch. Half the stand must be out here.
I stand up. Breathe in. Look around at the chaos. Look down at my body. I’m still alive. I’m still here.
I see Col disappearing into the crowd and follow him.
A voice comes over the Tannoy.
“Would supporters please return to their seats.”
We duck down and cut through the chain fence. I rub my neck. Col’s laughing.
“Game’s going to be called off. Fancy a pint?”
“Aye, go on.”
As we walk down the street we see two police cars speeding up the street towards the ground.
Paul Andrew Sneddon 