Hugh Reilly: It's logical, neds are born under bad sign

Published on Monday 24 January 2011 21:56

TOUCH wood, I've never been the superstitious type. Rubbing the amputated foot of a rabbit or stalking a black cat for miles means nothing to a man whose life is ruled by logic. Experience has caused me to dismiss the irrational. For example, bad luck has dogged me all of my 54 years yet I don't recall breaking eight bathroom mirrors or having a Black Spot pressed into my palm at birth.

In the eyes of the gullible, 13 is considered unlucky (spookily my house number is 130) but, for me, 12 causes most ill-fortune. The number 12 First Bus is my 53-seater taxi into town. Some time ago, I narrowly escaped serious injury when youths smashed several windows. The passenger behind me was not so lucky - he received cuts to his face. You can imagine my fright when, on a night last week, a volley of missiles thudded into the bus as it passed the Red Road flats. To everyone's relief, the yellow and white trickles running down the windows confirmed the bus had been egged, not stoned.

However, two perma-tan women sitting near me started to loudly call the unseen perpetrators all manner of vile names. It only took approximately 40 seconds for one of the Sengas to utter that famous Glasgow phrase: "hingin' is too effin' good for them!" Call me a bleedin' heart liberal but imposing the death penalty for egging a bus seemed draconian. To be fair, she did receive moral support from a fellow passenger who nodded sagely at the wise words dropping from the ruby-red lips of the Oracle of Springburn. He had clearly enjoyed a tincture or two and carried a stick, that ultimate Incapacity Benefit claimee accessory.

Perhaps due to distorted body image, poor eyesight or the amount of alcohol he had drunk he appeared to believe a romantic interlude might be a possibility.

"Where are yeez aff tae, girls?" the Lothario enquired, struggling to talk and focus.

"We're gaun tae see Neds, then gaun for a bevy," she said. I stared into my haggard reflection on the dirty bus window and hoped for a lucky horseshoe to come crashing through and end this miserable existence.

PETER Mullan is the latest West of Scotland luvvie to cash in on the best wee country in the world's obsession with gang violence. Neds is Mullan's partly autobiographical account of his days as a gang member. Predictably, he professes that his slasher movie does not glamourise violence. I do wonder, however, if the two yobs who, last Saturday, left an innocent 31-year-old man with what police called "horrific" facial injuries, share his view.

As a teacher, I interface with teenage gang members on a daily basis. Thankfully, most of their violent behaviour falls under the title "after school activities". With the odd exception, these young thugs are poorly educated and come from dysfunctional families. Many have grown up witnessing domestic abuse and learn that aggression is the machismo way to settle disputes.In schools, we are fighting a losing battle to inculcate society's values in this underclass army destined for either the Job Centre or gaol.

Most of these young men, and, increasingly, young women, are salvageable. Running with a gang gives the status and self-esteem poverty and a poor upbringing denied them. For young people who have failed at school, it's a power trip knowing that your peers fear you while young bimbos find great sex-appeal in your bad boy image.

Most of these lads are not psychopaths intent on murder. The majority are content to stand for hours in freezing leisure wear outside the late-night Spar to intimidate any pensioner who dares pop out for a pint of milk. In sober moments, insightful neds realise having a police record and no qualifications means dire employment prospects. Even if a job materialises, venturing outside the territory they sprayed with gang slogans is dangerous.

Neds are born under a bad sign and have to live with the consequences.