The Have’s An’ The Chav’s

Coatbridge 1979, and fresh fae the scheme, Mitchell Street never knew whit had hit it when ah landed. Every day wis an adventure. There were two types ae “weans” in the scheme, notably, “The Have’s” and “The Chav’s”. Fir yir sins, ye were either in wan camp or the other, and ne’er the twain should meet.

“The Have’s” were the university bound “wean’s” that reeked tae high heaven ae snobbery and entitlement. Fir us expendable “Chav’s”, the elite’s ae society had already run a finger down the index ae who we were, an’ wrote us aff.

'Ah’ll be goin tae uni wan day Maw!'

'Will ye… aye... an Ah’m the Queen ae Sheeba!' she squinted. 'Pipe down an’ let the clown’s hae the circus!'

'Whitever!'

'Git aff yir high horse!'

'Whit!'

'Uni’s fir that lot ae numpty’s up in Spam Valley, sittin’ in their two up two down, wi’ their central heating, an’ customary Ford Cortina on the driveway!' she squinted. 'An’ whit’s your mode ae transport ya clown… Shanks’s pony!'

'Shanks’s whit... naw… Ah’ve got “The Blisterin’ Bullet”!' Ah pointed out mah hame made bogey, highlightin’ that the craftsmanship and mechanics took a skilled hand tae master.

'Delusions ae grandeur… now away tae yir bed'

'Well its kindae a big deal actually!'

'Bed!'

'Haw Maw, ye want tae come up ‘shut that wardrobe… it’s lik’ flamin’ Narnia in here!' Ah hollered downstairs, ‘we’re Baltic, put some coal on!'

'D’ye ‘hink Ah’m Paul Daniels, hod on the now an’ Ah’ll magic a bucket out mah beak!' her dulcet tone echoed along the hallway. 'Ah don’t git paid ‘til Monday!'

'Brutal times!'

'Phone “Childline” or throw another duffle coat on if yeez are that cauld… end of!'

'Orite… calm it Janet!'

The reality wis, “The Have’s” and us “Chav’s” were poles apart.

Whilst “The Have’s” went hame tae guaranteed meals, some days mah Maw struggled.

'Whit’s fir dinner Maw?' Ah burst through the back door.

'Scotch mist if ye don’t nash tae Hughie’s wi’ they fag coupons afore he shuts!' she was up tae hi doe.

Stacked in the corner lik’ roulette chips, towered the Kensitas Club fag coupons mah Maw had saved tae trade for the bangin’ Tupperware set she had her eye on in the Kensitas catalogue. Every week wis a gamble.

Not only wis it deeply disturbin’ that she’d tae smoke herself half tae death fir a Tupperware set, but this wis borderline child protection.

Hughie wis the local newsagent, an extortionist by any stretch ae the imagination, he traded the coupons fir a shilling a hunner. Nonetheless, desperate times called fir desperate measures.

'Shift, he shuts at five!'

'She’s tapped!' Ah thought as Ah bolted tae Hughie’s.

'Orite chief!' I caught mah breath, 'mah Maw sent me wi’ these!'

Hughie’s eyes lit up lik’ fireworks. Wi’ the proceeds ae extortion, Ah got some bog-standard scheme cuisine, ae mince round an’ tatties, an’ we ate lik’ Lords.

School holidays landed wi’ a ripple effect. When “The Have’s” and “Chav’s” crossed paths round the swing park, tensions escalated. We dominated the monkey puzzle, whilst they picnicked.

Guilty ae the monstrous crime ae bein’ “Chav’s”, they tried tae make us feel invisible, but we didnae need their validation. Nonetheless, scheme protocol insisted we operate a zero-tolerance policy tae backchat… that wis a given.

'Look at they scaffies!' “Snooty Shirley” drew her eyes up an’ down our dirt-ingrained knees that came fae buildin’ our bogey’s as she stood there in her branded clothes. ‘They’re pure boggin!'

'Shift or Ah’ll bounce ye alang this park lik’ a space hopper!' Ah spat in the wind.

Afore long, they all disappeared on their swanky hollibobs, an’ we made our own adventures… well we had tae… we were brassic. What we had though, wis imagination!

The creator ae our own dreams an’ master ae our destiny, the school holidays lent themselves tae mischief, mayhem an’ unsolicited fun.

We were a rare breed, roastin’ the neighbours playing chap door run. At the top ae mah game, Ah took a deliberate position, as ringleader.

Skips were a must, an’ we’d rummage fir discarded treasures tae build dens down the glen. Our prized possession was the rope swing that spun ye for miles. At one wi’ nature, the leaves whispering in the wind reinforced a liberty unbounded. We wandered the glen, an’ the smell ae raw earth underfoot, an’ diesel fi’ the railway wis intoxicatin’, lik’ gravy fir the soul.

Our protected spaces were the strawberry path, a manmade walkway leading tae the time barrier, the space where childhood stood still.

The West End Park was the pièce de résistance. The high-rise flats dominatin’ the Coatbridge skyline, poked through the clouds wi’ all the glitz ae the Burj Khalifa. Up we’d rock wi’ oor ginger bottle filled wi’ water, an’ jam pieces wrapped in “Mothers Pride” paper.

Chillin’ west side, an’ hingin’ haphazardly aff the monkey puzzle, we laughed in the face ae danger. As the sun set, we traded our glass cheques in fir handfuls ae penny caramels an’ headed home.

Despite the hard knocks, they were the best ae times. The grass roots ae childhood was a space in mah life embellished in fond memories ae “Chav” life, the origins and everlastin’ light ae a bygone childhood groundin’ mah identity. We had nothin’ an’ took nothin’ fir granted. The scheme wis the dream, an’ unashamedly mah identity, an’ Ah wore it lik’ armour. Ah pay homage tae the kids Ah came up with. We had dirty knees an’ a clear conscience, an’ Ah wid dae it all o’er again, all day long.

Wherever ye go in life, there’ll always be “Have’s”. Nonetheless, heid up, be proud an’ wear yir identity lik’ a badge ae honour.

“The Have’s” had cash, but the moral ae the story is, the most expensive thing ye spend is yir time, cos there’s nae getting’ childhood back. So build yir dens and bogey’s and sail the high sea ae skips.

West Coast Slang

*Wean - child

*Glass cheques – ginger bottle