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The Brew That Satan Drinks

October 14, 2012

CHAPTER [1]The brew that Satan Drinks

A village near Belfast. An innocent Riot. A guilty Graveyard and for a while Hell under it. An account based on true events set in the early nineteen seventies. I know them to be true, because it so happened that I am there, once again, reliving it, you could say. It is November 1973, and Bowie’s ‘Queen Bitch’ is playing from a bedroom. There is talk of civil war around the village. Myself, known around here as Glasgo, has a story to tell. Oh, and this is not one of those whimsy tales for those who are hoping for some slack or an attempt to be a local hero. Me, well my aim is to remember and record its importance. Be warned though, this is a true story of hard men and violence. The hardest men I ever knew. Oh Yea! There is something else, but it was beyond me then, and 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.

I remembered how things were and believe me, these were days of absolute madness. Like I said, tis all true, give a bit of bullshit here or there.


So let’s take a wee walk, trust me, there is nothing to be afraid of, just follow me. I’ll tell ya more about the cause on the way, okay, eh? Aye the cause,” said I, “here, wanna a wee Wrigley? Hey, like my blade, eh? Hey! Where are ya goin’? HEY, lost your nerve, eh?


“HEY‼‼! COME BACK HERE,,, fuck, damn, shit, ya wee Fenian cunt.” screamed me, though the drink had a lot to do with it.

A village Barracks jail is too cold for some men to stay awake. They are forced to sleep in order to avoid the cold chill of a winter’s night finding any exposed flesh.

[A] Police= RUC=Peelers   [B] Drink=Liquor=Booze


“Are ye awake?” the voice kept sayin’. “Who did that, Glasgo?”

My head, which pained me no end, dug deeper into the straw pillow and stayed there until the mono scumbag RUC voice went away, yet again. Below, unbeknown to me, blood seeped into my clothing from no apparent painful wound.  As much as I had tried, I could not find or feel its cause. One part of me wanted to panic, sensing my life perhaps at risk. Then he came back again. “Are ye awake?” That Peeler scumbag kept askin’, over and over again, allowin’ me no fuckin’ kip, I’ll tell ya.

Certainly not words from my mates, or words coming from my tiny wee bedroom, or the tiny living room where sometimes I dropped off. They were not from a mate who found me before the enemy Tartan had, least not this time, as my luck held. The sense of dread sown down inside me is hard to make out with the pain surging in my head. It offered no leeway. So I dropped one that Georgy gave me for moments like this. I fell right back to what seemed like my own nightmare. mustard it is. The drum remained. At first, it tapped, then faster to a beat from a distant bedroom. Then pitched a little louder, a flute, until then another bigger drum banged to the world from another part. I knew from the echoes that ricocheted here and there, like rattles in my head, worse is to come. I do remember the night before though; and there is where my nightmare led me. Pieces of jigsaw at first, then patches of scenes and then emerge the voices of men. Protestant voices, because of their Fenian slurs. Then came familiar ones and then more relief, then ‘chill out’, as my dodgy dream told me,

‘Sleep Glasgo sleep.’ ‘The Brits and RUC scum have gone home.’

                                                       [A]Kip=Sleep                              [B] Dodgy= Suspicious



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One Comment
  1. That is a bad-ass book dude,, You write like Quarentino of the movies ,,

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