The Have’s an’ The Chav’s Ae Coatbrig’

Coatbrig’ 1979, an’ fresh fae the scheme, Mitchell Street had never seen the likes ae me afore. Mischief ran through mah veins, an’ every day was an escapade…, a caper, a comedy sketch just waitin’ tae happen. In our scheme, there were two breeds ae weans, the ‘Have’s’, an’ us, ‘Chav’s’. Ye picked yir camp early on, an’ there wis nae crossin’ the divide. Poles apart, we were separated by more than a postcode. They had the cash, but we had the patter…., an’ better tales tae tell.

The ’Have’s’ were the university bound weans, reekin’ tae high heaven ae entitlement, cuttin’ about wi’ fancy blazers an’ headin’ home tae cheese toasties. Us ‘Chav’s’…, the Coatbrig’ elites had already run a finger o’er the index ae who we were, an’ wrote us aff. The ‘Have’s’ cruised ‘Spam Valley’ in Cortina’s, had houses wi’ central heatin’, an’ dugs wi’ designer names. We had threadbare carpets, houses caulder than Narnia, dinners that lived an’ died by whether the tin cupboard delivered, an’ dugs named after auld fitball legends. Brutal times…, but whit we had wis wan another.

'Maw!'

'Whit…., girdergob?' she belted intae the lentil soup wi’ a clapped-out wooden spoon, lik’ it owed her money.

'Ah’m gon’ tae uni wan day!'

'Aye..., an’ Ah’m the Queen ae Sheeba!' she drew her fag lik’ it wis medicine, 'delusions ae grandeur, ya wee bampot!'

That was love scheme style…, wrapped in sarcasm an’ held thegether wi’ loyalty thicker than the lentil soup we’d had three nights runnin’. We had nothin’, but somehow, it felt lik’ everythin’.

Mah wee squad…., me, Big Gogs, Wee Sandra, an’ Disco Dave, was built on jam pieces, scabby knees, secrets, an’ ‘the great rhubarb heist ae 79’. Four weans, four poly bags, an’ a ragin’ Mrs McGuire skelpin’ after us lik’ the wrath ae God. Leggin’ it cacklin’, we tore through the closes’, wi’ consciences as clean as our boggin’ faces, sookin’ rhubard that near turnt yir jaw inside out. Who needed money, when ye had mischief an’ mates.

Creators ae adventure an’ masters ae mischief, school holidays equalled unsolicited mayhem. We were a rare breed, roastin’ the neighbours wi’ chappie. At the top ae mah game, Ah led the charge. Skip rakin’ wis sacred…., lik’’ treasure huntin’ through Goatbrig’s forgotten junk. Aladin’s caves, full ae wonders we used tae build dens down the glen. That glen wis holy ground, the legendary ‘time barrier’ an’ ‘strawberry path’ lik’ a runway tae a whole other world, an’ a rope swing that flung us intae orbit. The glen wis our playground, the space where childhood stood still. The stench ae raw earth underfoot, an’ diesel fi’ the railway wis intoxicatin’, lik gravy fir the soul. At wan wi’ nature, the leaves whispering in the wind reinforced a liberty unbounded as we wandered paradise.

Us ‘Chav’s’ swung aff the monkey puzzle, an’ ruled the ‘The Wobbly Throne’, a creaky bench up the swing park. When the ‘Have’s’, showed up wi’ their picnic baskets and sidey-way looks, the air fair crackled.

Guilty ae the monstrous crime ae bein’ ‘Chav’s’, they tried tae make us feel invisible, but we didnae need their validation. Nonetheless, if they got lippy, scheme protocol kicked in…, that wis a given.

'Pure gadgies!' ‘Snooty Shirley’ rocked up, done up lik’ a lost page fae Littlewoods, eyeballin’ our knees, still clarted wi’ muck and glory fi’ bogey-buildin’, an’ the kindae childhood ye never wash aff.

'Shift…, or Ah’ll bounce ye alang this park lik’ a space hopper!' Ah spat in the wind.

Afore long, they vanished aff on their swanky hollibobs, an’ we cracked on wi’ the real adventures. Well…, we had tae..., we were brassic. Whit we had though, wis imagination. They cruised the Canaries, while we paddled the burn on homemade rafts built fae crates, kiddin’ on it wis the Mediterranean.

Money wis tighter, an’ dinner at ours wis either ‘Scotch mist’, or’ whitever got coaxed out the tin cupboard. But sit us round a wonky table wi’ a pot ae home-made chips an’ you’d ‘hink we were royalty. Wee Sandra wance gave me her semolina at school dinners, insistin’ it wis cos I’d split mah cheese piece wi’ her the week afore…but Ah knew it wis deeper than that. That wis friendship where we came fae. Quiet, solid, sacred. When we had nowt, we still showed up fir wan another. Huddled under hand-me-down duffle coats in the rain, crackin’ jokes, dreamin’ big, we’d belly laugh ‘til our ribs hurt. When Big Gog’s Da pegged it, we had our first greet. We’ve been thick as thieves ever since, through barneys, polis chases, an’ silences that only come when life knocks lumps out ae ye. Friendship in the scheme wisnae just who ye played wi’, it wis stickin’ by wan another through gid times, bad times, an’ through thick an’ thin.

The ‘Have’s’ measured life in holibobs an’ house prices. We measured it in jam pieces, daft dares, an’ the years stood shoulder-to-shoulder. We still dae.

Fast forward forty years, some ae us are still in Coatbrig’, an’ some drifted. But every year lik’ clockwork, we drag our creakin’ carcasses back tae that park, reclaim ‘The Wobbly Throne’, an’ howl about the time we got barred fae Woolies fir nickin’ pick-n-mix.

That bench creeks lik’ the rest ae us now, but still we show up fir wan another, ‘cos growin’ up wi’ nowt teaches ye that real treasure’s no in yir purse.

The ‘Have’s’ had shiny bikes, we had rattlin’ bogey’s, hammered thegither wi’ bent nails an’ wishful thinkin’. Mines…, the legendary ‘Blisterin’ Bullet’, wis a death wish on wheels. They flaunted wealth, we flaunted bruises, chaos, an’ had pals that’d walk through fire fir ye. We didnae hae comforts, we had connection, an’ plans…., naw…., we had wan another. An’ atween the two, Ah’d pick the latter every time, ‘cos when all’s said an’ done, it’s no about whit ye had, it’s who ye had wi’ ye.