A sixteen year old Belfast youth tormented by home abuse finds temporary solace escaping the violence only to find violence outside the home.
Glasgo, tired of being disenfranchised, seeks the company of his friends in east Belfast at time of looming civil war between the protestant loyalists and Irish republicanism. With nativity and boundless energy he goes off to have what most youths from the Irish divisions in the seventies wanted. Risque sex and devil may care attitude skirting the perimeters of the powerful paramilitaries. But soon they are on the radar of some unsavory Paras, who are sniffing out plants amid their own ranks. When Angel, big Georgy and Glasgo have made amends to appease their dangerous slip-ups, they find not all things are that kosher with some off their antagonists.
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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.
FIFTY SHADES OF ORANGE CAN BE FOUND , Not by E.L James but by James Grey
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Nothing succeeds like success, and nothing fails so successfully as a performance fails to succeed,, from the memorable and imminent Oscar Wilde,, an Alfa among inferiors,,,R.I.P