Smells like team spirit

 

Smells like Team Spirit 

‘This is gonnae be another long season, Paddy,’ Scott said as he filed out of Celtic Park on a cold, dark St Andrew’s day in 1991. ‘Yon Marshall couldnae catch flu in an epidemic and that Cascarino couldnae score in the proverbial barrel, I’d play Gerry Creaney every time.’ Paddy nodded, ‘Aye, mate. Tommy Coyne saved the bacon there, but fuck me, we really struggled tae beat Dunfermline at home. That says it all.’ As they reached the end of Janefield Street, the two friends stopped for a final word before parting company. Scott looked at his friend, ‘mind we’re heading up the west end tae see this band tonight. Jacqueline bought the tickets and she’ll not be pleased if we hit the Don Revie and miss it.’ Paddy grinned, ‘aye, we need cheering up after that game. I hope they’re no shite. I’ll get ye at Buchanan Steet underground at 7 and we’ll jump the subway.’ The two friends headed off into the gathering darkness of a Scottish winter’s night.

Scott McArdle looked at himself in the mirror, making sure he hadn’t missed any part of his chin when shaving. ‘Where are you aff tae the night?’ his old man enquired as he passed the bathroom. ‘Up the west-end da, seeing a band in wan of they student joints.’ His old man, the pink sports Times in his hand, his black glasses with one leg taped on with white tape grinned, ‘did I tell ye I saw the Beatles in the Odeon in 1963? They were back up band tae tae yon Yank with the dark specs.’ Scott looked at his father, ‘you saw the Beatles?’ ‘Aye, no bad at aw. That Lennon was a gallus guy.’ As Scott watched, his old man bizarrely started to shuffle about in his slippers and sing, ‘shake it on baby noo, twist and shout.’ Scott laughed out loud as did his father. ‘Anyhow, ye can use my Old Spice, it’s in the bathroom cabinet,’ his old man said as he shuffled off towards the kitchen. Scott shook his head, ‘yer aw right, da. I’ve got some of my ain stuff here.’ He heard his old man mutter, ‘aye, fuckin Linx Africa. Cat’s pish if ye ask me.’

Scott met Paddy by Buchanan Street underground as planned and they jumped the train to Byres Road. The train was quiet and they sat in quiet conversation. ‘Has this place got a bar or should we smuggle in a hauf bottle?’ Paddy enquired. ‘Student unions have always got a bar and they’re usually cheap. Jacqueline and her pal, Clare are meeting us and we’ll head up for a pint before the band comes oan.’ Paddy looked at him, ‘this Clare a student like yer burd?’ Scott nodded, ‘aye, another daftie that wants tae teach bammy weans.’ Paddy nodded, thinking the night might have some unforeseen opportunities.

They met the two young women outside the subway station and headed through the back lanes towards Queen Margaret’s Union. Paddy gawped at an odd shaped sculpture they passed on the way. ‘What’s that meant to be?’ Clare, a short, blonde girl with a keen mind replied, ‘it’s part of the geology display the university have dotted about the place. The stone is a grey granodiorite from Ballachulish and contains xenoliths of dark Ballachulish Slate. It used to be part of a culvert on the railway.’ Paddy looked at her blankly before replying, ‘granodiorite? I think I drank a bottle of that in Benidorm.’ Clare had the grace to smile. As they continued on in the darkness, Paddy muttered to Scott, ‘looks mer like a stone vag, tae me, mate.’ Scott laughed. ‘Never change, Paddy.’

 

They passed a couple of skinny looking students who were manning the door and headed into the Union. The girls excused themselves and headed off to the toilets as Scott and Paddy headed for the bar. The main band won’t be on for an hour, I say we listen tae the first lot fae here & have a few drinks?’ Paddy ventured. Scott nodded and joined him in the queue at the bar. Paddy looked at the guy in front of him, who stood at least 6 feet 6. ‘Fuckin hell, wit dae they feed these students oan?’ The tall man took his drinks and sat with his two friends nearby. Scott bought drinks for himself and his company and turned to see an empty table by the big guy. ‘Anybody sitting here, big man?’ he enquired. ‘No, help yourself the tall man said in an American drawl.’ They sat and sipped their pints. ‘This band better be good. I’m knackered after that fitbaw the day,’ he said to the American who looked at him as if he was talking Chinese. ‘I’m sorry, your accent is a little heavy.’ Paddy cut in, like a half cut UN interpreter, ‘he’s just saying we were watching Celtic today and his daft burd suggested we come watch some band she’s intae.’ ‘Oh, right, I got you now,’ the big American said. ‘So, you were watching, like a sports team today?’ Paddy nodded, ‘aye, Celtic. They’re a bit Lillian Gish these days but we live in hope they’ll get better.’ The tall man laughed, gesturing for Paddy to translate. ‘Lillian Gish?’ Paddy obliged, ‘aye, pish, rubbish, ye know?’ The blond man on the big guy’s right, wearing dark sunglasses, cut in, laughing, ‘sounds like the Seattle Sounders.’ The big guy nodded, ‘I gotcha now.’

Before the conversation could continue the girls returned from the toilet. Jacqueline’s eyes widened, ‘Krist! Oh, my God. Why did I not bring a camera!’ She glanced at the other two Americans, her face reddening. Scott looked at her, ‘is this the band?’ She nodded, ‘aye it bloody is!’ Paddy looked on none the wiser, ‘I thought it wiz just mer students- no bad c*nts by the way.’ A voice called, ‘sound check guys,’ and the three Americans drained their glasses and stood. Krist Novoselic towered over Jacqueline and smiled, ‘gotta go. Enjoy the show.’ When they had left, Jacqueline and Clare looked at the two confused young men sitting drinking their beer. ‘You were talking to them? I want to know every single word they said!’

An hour and a few drinks later they were in the midst of a heaving mass of sweaty bodies as the American band filled the hall with their raging guitar sound. Paddy and Scott bounced around like everyone else, fuelled by drink and the exuberance of youth. As the band finished ‘Floyd the barber,’ to a huge cheer, the lead singer, whom Clare had informed Scott and Paddy, was called Kurt, said with the hint of a smile, ‘this one’s for all of you whose sports team is Lillian Gish.’ Paddy grinned as the guitars and drums filled the air again. The singer began to sing above the clashing instruments as the room danced as one…

‘Load up on guns, bring your friends
It's fun to lose and to pretend
She's over-bored and self-assured
Oh no, I know a dirty word

Hello, hello, hello, how low
Hello, hello, hello, how low
Hello, hello, hello, how low
Hello, hello, hello

With the lights out, it's less dangerous
Here we are now, entertain us
I feel stupid and contagious
Here we are now, entertain us
A mulatto, an albino, a mosquito, my libido
Yeah, hey, yay…’

The following morning, Scott awoke, his head still pounding like the big American’s drums. ‘Aw man, I need tae chuck the drink.’ He walked to the bathroom in the pale, Sunday morning light, trying to remember the night before. The band were great. He recalled Paddy and Clare snogging like a pair of hungry bulldogs eating their dinners. He looked in the mirror and a pair of bloodshot eyes looked back. ‘Did that band mention the Celts being Lillian Gish?’  He splashed cold water on his face. ‘Back tae bed, it’ll come back tae ye later.’ He stumbled into the bedroom and folded like a deckchair onto the bed. ‘No a bad band, that lot. No bad at aw. No a patch on Celtic though.’ No matter how bad your team got- they were always your team. Sleep overtook him as he heard strains of ‘teen spirit’ echoing in his head.

Remembering Nirvana at Queen Margaret's Union. St Andrew's day 1991.