Gang warfare in Glasgow escalated severely in the 1960s, leading to fears of American-style gangster activity. A youthful teacher at an approved school wanted to observe what motivated the boys and men in these gangs. He enlisted the help of one of his pupils, Tim Malloy, who was leader of one of the more notorious gangs, the Young Team. Tim introduced him as a newly approved gang member and James Patrick (which was not his real name) spent four months as part of the Team, between October 1966 and January 1967.
The main outlet for the Young Team’s aggression and hatred was its traditional enemy, the Calton Tongs; by all accounts, the most hated gang in Glasgow. Early on in our relationship, Tim’s attitude towards his main rivals was expressed as follows: ‘If Ah saw wan o’ thae Tongs lyin’ in the gu’er bleedin’ tae death, Ah’d stab him again. Ah’m swearin’ it. Ah’d run a right psychey. Nae Kiddin’! Ah wid.’ Such phrases were uttered almost in a scream, with his teeth grinding together in tension. At the same time, all manner of actions were performed; the word ‘stab’, for example, was accompanied by a flashing stroke of his arm …
The variety of weapons I saw was manifold, the types I heard of legendary. Hatchets, hammers, knives, meat cleavers, meat hooks, bayonets, machetes, open razors, sharpened tail-combs, all these were the regular chibs. Bottles of all sorts and tumblers and bricks and sticks were employed in emergencies. Berettas, double-barrelled shot-guns, swords, scimitars, and hand-grenades were lovingly described, but mercifully never appeared in my presence.
The sources for these arms were also various. The home provided such items as the bread knife, the coal hammer and the poke. Antique shops were ‘screwed’ and their armouries raided. A military store was reputed to have been emptied.… But apart from the home, the place of employment seemed to be the main supply depot. One job above all others was coveted in this respect. The butcher’s boy had access to the most terrifying weapons both for his own use and for sale to his mates. The approved schools continue unwittingly to place boys, known to be gang members, in the meat trade.
To be more particular, Dougie, the borstal boy I never met, had always been attached to hatchets. Convicted of carrying an offensive weapon, and having served his term of detention, he bought a new hatchet on his release and went out at night ‘tae break it in’. He walked into the centre of the city, claiming a total of thirty-three windows on his way, and was finally arrested ‘fir a daft wan doon the toon’.
‘Big M’, whom I found myself calling ‘wan o’ oor big boays’, dreamed up the following ruse to trick the police. His weapon was a clawhammer, carefully wrapped in brown paper and string, so that, if stopped, he could pretend to have just bought the tool for his work. I do not know what ironmonger’s he could have cited as being open at three o’clock on a Sunday morning.
The Malloy brothers had earned the revered title of ‘chib-men’. This was no honorary title, but one accorded few members of any gang. Not everyone ‘kerried’ by any means, and even amongst those who did, some used their weapons mainly on property, while others carried them only intermittently. Those who carried chibs or malkies (i.e. any kind of weapon) more often than not, and who had used them ‘successfully’ on people, were ‘chib-men’. The Malloys boasted of being able to outwit any policeman who searched them; Tim, for instance, claimed to have been ‘raked’ one night while ‘kerryin’ ’ and to have escaped arrest for possessing an offensive weapon. The trick he had picked up from his elder brothers, none of whom had ever been caught in possession. Before leaving the house, John used to tie a short blade to his wrist with a piece of string; he then concealed it by rolling down his shirt sleeve over the knife which rested alongside his forearm. Tim adopted the same technique, but in addition, was fond of carrying his favourite weapon – an open, lock-back razor …
I asked Tim how he kept his parents from knowing about his weapons. Mick and he shared a room, the door of which was always locked – ‘ma Maw wouldnae dare go in.’ The guns and knives were hidden in the dresser in this bedroom. Bill, the oldest son, had been in the habit of leaving his favourite malky, the coal hammer, in the fireplace and had thus been hoist with his own petard. For, climbing in the window one Saturday night, ‘steamin’ he wis’, he had been hit on the leg by his own weapon. His future brother-in-law had been sitting in the front room, ‘winchin’ ’ in the dark with one of the Malloy girls. Thinking someone was breaking into the house, he had hurled the hammer at the intruder and broken Bill’s leg …
When Jack Martin chibbed Marty, the leader of the Barnes Road, during the Christmas holidays, the Young Team had known that this meant open war. But, as the Barnes Road were inferior in numbers and had never ventured much beyond their boundaries before, Tim had felt the initiative lay with him. So he had been surprised to hear one night that the Barnes Road were on the move and heading along Maryhill Road. The pub in which the Young Team were sitting had cleared in a frenetic rush, as boys ran to collect their chibs and rouse the neighbourhood. I am not sure whether the Barnes Road and the Young Rolland Boys advanced deep into Young Team territory by chance or lack of foresight, or whether they were allowed to do so by design; in any case, within fifteen minutes of their vanguard being spotted, the Wild Young Team, numbering ‘over a hundred’, were on the streets, armed and ‘ready to go right ahead’. The Barnes Road and their allies were attacked from all sides; bottles and bricks were showered upon them; and Tim, Dave Malloy and others of the in-group led the charge which scattered and routed the opposition. ‘The streets wir black wi’ boays, runnin’ aw ower the place. It wis a laugh,’ commented Tim. ‘Ye go mad. Ye slash aboot at oaneywan. And that’s aw aboot it.’
Big Fry, the boy ‘wi’ aw the answers’, who was easily the most fluent and effusive member of the gang, described the sensation as follows: ‘See the feelin’ in yir belly goin’ intae battle, it’s like the feelin’ ye have when Rangers are attackin’ the Celtic goal. Yir heart’s racin’, ye feel sick; it’s better’n sex.’ The others agreed that gang fighting was what really mattered to them; sex came a poor second in their list of priorities.
Considering the number of boys reputed to have been involved, the list of casualties was infinitesimal.… Benny of the Barnes Road ‘goat twelve boatels ower his nut’, and two or three others were said to have been slashed, before Marty yelled to his team: ‘Get oan yir sannies’ (i.e. ‘Get off your marks’). The order was unnecessary, as the invaders were already pouring from the field, diving through closes, and dodging through traffic. The most frightening aspect of the whole affair had been the arrival of the team, moving across the city like a storm cloud, terrifying pedestrians with their weapons and chants, and totally out of the control of the constables on the beat. When the police reinforcements arrived in the shape of the riot squads, the Young Team had also dispersed, with the exception of Dave Malloy, who was ‘huckled’ while still screaming full-throated challenges in the middle of the street to the ‘fuckin’ shit-bags’ to stand and fight. He had tackled the first few policemen as if they were members of the opposing gang; perhaps his irrational behaviour is explicable in terms of a desperate effort to recover status and position within the gang. Harry Johnstone ended the discussion with a remark, loaded with meaning for me: ‘There hid been too many square-goes. We aw goat right intae it. An’ if ye shit yirsel’ in a ba’le, the boays get intae yir heid – wi’ weapons.’ Honour demanded that the Barnes Road should be invaded for reprisals. I began to prepare Tim for my imminent departure. I had had enough.