Paddy and the Minotaur

 Paddy and the Minotaur

 Xander and Paddy came to the top of Rhymer Street, the cold winter wind nipping at their ears and seemingly unimpressed by their cheap, thin clothing. ‘It’s still frozen!’ Paddy said with an excited smile, immediately preparing to slide down the hill. The long slope of the street, which led to their secondary school, was indeed frozen as the Scottish winter kept its icy grip on the land. The pavement was coated in a translucent carpet of ice which was partly the result of an overflowing sewage drain. The two friends glided by seemingly unaware of the frozen shit and toilet paper which lay beneath the ice like undiscovered mammoth bones in the Siberian permafrost. They found a simple joy in such things and hadn’t yet reached the level of awareness to question the social conditions they found around them in one of Glasgow’s poorest areas. They reached the bottom of the hill and gingerly crossed the icy street to the school which sat like a foreboding prison waiting for them.

The playground was already full and the sound of laughter and loud debates already filled the cold morning air. Despite the icy conditions there were also shouts from a robust football game going on in one corner of the yard. ‘Paddy!’ shouted the familiar voice of Tam McGarrigle, ‘We still going tae the game the night?’ Paddy nodded, ‘aye, cannae wait, I hear the buses are going on strike. How ur wi getting there?’ Tam was about to reply when an orange Mouldmaster football travelling at high velocity cracked him on the side of the head. ‘Arrgghhhh!’ he screamed clutching his stinging ear as his two friends struggled to hold back their laughter. He blootered the ball back angrily towards the waiting footballers with the sage advice, ‘fuckin watch it, eh?’ Those involved in the rough football match responded with sniggers and one called out in that inimitable Glasgow style, ‘shut it ya fanny.’  Pride dented, Tam, still rubbing his ear, turned back to his friends who had composed themselves by now, ‘My uncle John’s taking me in his work’s van, I’ll ask him if he can squeeze you in the back.’ The bell interrupted further conversation but a rough plan was made and they agreed to meet up later that night.

The day dragged past in school as Paddy daydreamed about only his second trip to Ibrox. They had gone to the Celtic – Rangers match at Celtic Park back in the warm days of the summer when a late Celtic fight back secured a stirring 2-2 draw but since he and his friends had started going to games independently of their fathers and uncles this was to be only their second trip to the home of Celtic’s greatest rivals and it filled him with excitement and a little trepidation. The voice of Mr O’Donnell the Classical Studies teacher interrupted his thoughts, ‘Patrick, are you listening? I asked you about Theseus and the Minotaur. Who helped Theseus escape from the labyrinth?’  Paddy looked up at the teacher who regarded him with a patient smile. ‘Some burd gave him a ball of wool, sir.’  The teacher rolled his eyes as the room filled with laughter, ‘Yes, Ariadne gave him a ball of string to do what?’ Paddy thought for a moment, ‘He wis papped intae a maze wi the bull hing and the string wis tae help him find his way oot?’ The teacher nodded, ‘That’s the gist of the story and pray tell us what happened next?’ The room regarded Paddy with quiet amusement as he continued his recounting of the Greek myth, ‘His burd gave him a sword as well and when the bull guy came, he plunged him. Then he followed the string back tae the door and got oot the maze?’ Mr O’Donnell nodded, ‘thank you, Patrick. I think you covered the main points there though not necessarily with the words Plutarch or Horace would have used.’ The bell signalled the period was over and the teenagers packed their stuff noisily before heading to the lunch hall. Paddy crammed his things into his Celtic themed school bag. As the teacher watched them leave, he lamented to himself that they’d all be geniuses if they put the same passion into their learning as they did into their following their football team.

The November chill shrouded the city in freezing mist as Paddy and Xander sat on the metal fence outside Tam’s close on Royston Road. Both boys were well wrapped up against the cold and excited about the prospect of the big derby match. Tam opened his first-floor window and shouted down to them, ‘be doon in a minute. This’ll keep ye going.’ With that he placed a stereo speaker on the window sill and music began to pour into the cold dark street…

‘Hail, Hail the Celts are here,

what the hell do we care? 

What the hell do we care…’

The music did indeed keep the two friends going until Tam appeared at the close opening, wrapped up in a scruffy duffle coat, his Celtic scarf around his neck. ‘’My uncle John will be here in 5 minutes,’ he smiled. Before he could continue, his red-faced mother appeared at the first-floor window and the music stopped abruptly. Her hair was in rollers and her countenance was that of an angry woman. ‘You trying tae get me evicted? I’ll draw ma haun across your jaw if ye dae that again ya wee shite!’ Tam was a little embarrassed and mumbled, ‘It wisnae that loud, maw.’ The window slammed shut and the curtains were drawn. ‘Yer maw no like Glen Daly?’ asked Xander, Tam shook his head, ‘she likes aw that country shite. Jim Reeves, Boxcar Willie and aw that yodelling pish.’ Paddy smiled, ‘Boxcar Willie? Is that no a disease?’  Tam grinned, ‘If it is you’ll be catching it soon.’

Uncle John duly arrived in a van much smaller than they anticipated. He wound down the window and smiled at Tam with a cheerful moustachioed face, ‘Awright wee Tam, jump in the front and I’ll open the back for yer mates.’ He ushered Paddy and Xander in among the pipes and tools in the back of the small van. It stunk of grease and chips but the two friends were happy to rough it if it meant getting to and from Ibrox safely. They had chanced the Subway the year before and it had not been a pleasant experience.

It wasn’t a great game of football but then the tension ensures these games seldom are. On 12 minutes Bobby Lennox burst into the box and was scythed down by John Grieg. The referee immediately pointed to the spot as Lennox writhed on the grass his ankle broken. Paddy and Xander on the chilly terraces behind the goal screamed at the official like thousands of others, ‘fuxake ref, send that hacking bampot aff!’ To their astonishment the referee changed his decision to offside and as Lennox was stretchered off, Greig continued without so much as a warning.

The game thundered on with Paul Wilson replacing Lennox and it was grim viewing. It needed that touch of vision and only Kenny Dalglish seemed to have it. On 36 minutes he glided through the midfield and fed Roy Aitken. The big midfielder slid it to Craig who was 20 yards out with his back to goal. The striker feigned a move to the left before turning right and unleashing a powerful swerving shot towards goal. As the three friends watched transfixed and open mouthed, the ball arced through the air. Time seemed to slow as the ball, a white blur in the floodlights, curved beautifully towards the top corner of the goal to the keeper’s left as he dived despairingly. It slammed into the net and half the stadium erupted. It was a moment of sublime beauty amid the grim attrition of the derby match.

The Celtic end was going mad, strangers hugged strangers. Paddy grabbed a man in a long overcoat and roared, ‘Yesss! We’re gonna beat this fuckin mob! Mon the Celtic!’ In the split second after those words left his mouth, recognition flooded his mind. He was hugging his Classical Studies teacher, Mr O’Donnell. ’Fuck me! Mr O’Donnell, I never knew you followed the Celtic.’ He instantly regretted swearing but his teacher smiled back. ‘Life is not all Aesop and the Iliad, Patrick.’ They refocussed on the match as Rangers kicked off and songs poured from the Celtic end onto the field… ‘and if ye know the history!’ Paddy couldn’t resist a sneaky look at his teacher and was amused to see him singing along with all the rest on the chilly terrace.

Celtic were on top and they wouldn’t be losing this game. For the first time in over a thousand days they would taste victory against their ancient rivals. Despite the cold of a Glasgow November evening there was fire inside warming the Celtic support massed behind the goal.

A week later Paddy and Xander sat in Classical Studies with twenty other teenagers. Mr O’Donnell was warbling on about the battle of Thermpylae. ‘You should have read chapter six by now. The story tells us that King Leonidas led 300 Spartan warriors to block the Persian advance into Greece. What happened next?’ He scanned the room for a volunteer and his eyes met Paddy’s. ‘Patrick, perhaps you can tell us in your inimitable way?’  Paddy shuffled uncomfortably in his chair. ‘The Spartans were gem guys, never loast a fight. The Persians attacked them but couldny get through their defence. A bit like the huns last week.’ His teacher smiled slightly as he went on. ‘There wiz a path o’er the mountain and somebody grassed it tae the Persians. They sneaked behind the Spartans and attacked them. Everybody died, though somebody must have kidded on they wur deed so they could head back tae Sparta tae tell folk aboot the battle, otherwise how wid we know aboot it?’ The teacher nodded, ’Good point, and Leonidas? How important was a good leader like him?’ Paddy thought for a moment. ‘Every team needs a good captain. Look at King Kenny at Ibrox last week. The teacher smiled. ‘Thank you, Patrick. Once again you covered the main points.’