A poem, sent in by Catherine Davner
Suited and Booted, on a Friday night, the Blantyre boys are ready,
hey shouts one where are we going the night bouys, to get a good bevvy.
Lets go doon the Red Lion fur wan, see if theres any burds tae fancy,
maybe get a lumber later oan, if were no staggering too much fae ah the pints ah lager.
They come down blantyres streets, in the pub they go, over to the commercial then down to teddies, worked hard all week, spending their readies, voddy, whisky by this time they are well oiled.
Posers, punks and rockers all amidst the throng, hey shes ma wuman get yer hands aff, one of them shouts, before long there all outside having a boxing bout.
The Blantyre boys don’t fight for long, there all shaking hands, as long as its not any other clan.
They value their patches, the Tyre boys, they fight like men, the tyre boys are here they shout, when there dealing with the burnbank louts.
But not tonight, time for a bag of chips and down to Ziggys for more whisky, its time to get a little frisky.
In they go if there too drunk they are shown the door. Big Russ sorts them out, takes no lip, and tells them hey mate just keep yer mouth zipped.
A bit of a dance and a lumber, will they make up the road with her ahhh I wonder.
Telling no tales is the name of the game, but many a good marriage and kids have come out of these meetings all of the same.
In later years, the Blantyre Boys will laugh at the memories they once shared acting as though they did not care.
But deep down if you got to know them, you would be shocked, nowhere can you find such a nicer bunch, salt of the earth is what they are, The Blantyre Boys are leagues ahead by far.
Pictured in 1984, is Blantyre Harp AFC, looking VERY “suited and booted!”
Catherine told me, “This is a poem of the men I grew up with in the 80s. ”
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