David F. Ross’s new novel, The Weekenders, takes us to the underbelly of 1960s West of Scotland where who you know determines how much you can get away with, including murder. With his trademark black humour and sharp dialogue, it’s another brilliant slice of Glasgow life that delves deeper and darker into the city and its past. In this extract, we are introduced to Stevie ‘Minto’ Milloy, footballer turned journalist.

The Weekenders
By David F. Ross
Published by Orenda Books

Nervous initially, Stevie Milloy relaxes a little when he smells the newsroom. He has missed the dressing-room stench of alpha-male body odour. But it’s present here, and it’s comforting to him. He sniffs it all in, the stinking socks and putrid farts. The hair tonic and Brut 55. The cigarette smoke and alcohol stench. And, bi­zarrely, the Algipan. For the lumbago, most likely.

Introductions over. The odd handshake. Nods from some. A squad of fifteen here. Almost obscured by the fog of fag smoke. Everyone stooped and out of shape, and looking a decade older than they probably are. He sees monochrome tones. Frayed, off-white shirts. Trussed-up ties. Regulation short back and sides. Cheapside Street formality. In comparison he’s a peacock.

For half an hour there is an impromptu press conference with his new teammates:

‘Ye ever kick a baw these days, Stevie?’

‘Wis it sair when the leg went, Stevie?’

‘Did that cunt Geordie McCracken ever say sorry, Stevie?’

‘How much wid ye have been on at Stamford Bridge, Stevie?’

‘Who d’ye think’ll win the World Cup, Stevie?’

‘How the fuck did ye end up here, Minto?’

The last one was a question he has been asking himself since waking up in the Victoria, left leg in plaster from ankle to thigh.

He should have moved to England the previous season. Every­body said so. But he stayed. Because Denice didn’t want to go. London was so far away, she’d said. He stayed at Thistle. Turned down Chelsea. Turned down the chance to play with Ron Harris, John Hollis, Eddie McCreadie. Buying his clothes from King’s Road boutiques. Drinking in Soho pubs alongside The Beatles and The Stones. He decided to wait until Denice was ready. And while he waited, she was warming the bed of two of his interna­tional teammates.

After the injury, the Chelsea deal was off, naturally. Thistle stood by him. But he knew it was over the minute he looked down at his snapped leg. You don’t come back from a compound frac­ture like that. A rapid descent. No fans standing him a drink anymore. No handshakes at the players’ entrance. No requests for autographs. Not even the baiting from rival supporters. Just pitied looks and weary shakes of the head. Nowhere to go except the boozer. And the bookies.

Then the money ran out.

Luckily, he pulled out of the tailspin just in time. Took old Alf’s advice and joined a local library. Found the days disappear­ing. But in a good way. Time spent in the stimulating company of George Orwell. D.H. Lawrence. Barry Hines. Colin MacInnes. Time spent being inspired by words. Sentences. Paragraphs. Chapters. Fiction. Non-fiction. Values. Ideology. Social justice. Reconnecting with an education he had left behind. Spirits lifted instead of lifting spirits.

His was a life of two halves.

The whistle sounds.

The second half begins.

‘Milloy!’ A howitzer voice. A six-letter shell. Cascading off the walls. Even though its owner isn’t in the room. It puts a stop to the questions from the assembled hacks.

Stevie follows the reverberation to its source: a small office off the press room.

‘Jesus Christ, whit the blazes are you wearin’?’ asks Gerry Keegan as Stevie enters. Keegan runs the press room.

‘Casual, boss,’ says Stevie.

They size each other up. Both wondering if the other will be too much trouble for the wages.

Keegan shakes his head. ‘Ye done much writin’ before?’

‘No’ really, Mr Keegan. Notes in the Thistle programmes, that sorta thing. But ah’m a quick learner.’

‘That right?’

‘Ah’ve still got the contacts, an’ obviously ah’ve played the game.’

‘Mibbe so. Playin’ fitba an’ writin’ aboot it, they’re worlds apart.’

‘Did ye see me play, Mr Keegan? Mibbe the Scotland games?’

‘Look, Milloy, ye’re here cos some high heid yin oan the top floor vouched for ye. No’ ma idea, obviously, but ah’m nothin’ if no’ fair-minded.’

‘Ah understand that, Mr Keegan.’

‘That’s ma squad oot there. They might no’ be up for a Nobel Prize for Literature but they put a decent shift in. They know how tae get the job done. Tae cut corners. Tae file copy oan time. Tae work tae The Man’s plan. Ah trust every single yin ae them.’

‘They look like a decent bunch, Mr Keegan.’

‘Trust has tae be earned, Milloy.’

‘Totally agree, Mr Keegan.’

‘Havin’ an ability tae kick a baw willnae make ye a sportswriter.’

‘Aye, ye said.’

‘Aye. Ah did.’

‘Well, proof’s in the puddin’, Mr Keegan.’

‘The proof’s in the eatin’, son. If yer gonnae use expressions, use them right.’

‘Appreciate the tip, Mr Keegan.’

‘Aye. Right. Well. Then.’ Gerry Keegan sits. ‘Noo’ that we’ve got that oot the way, ye’re goin’ tae Ayrshire on Thursday. The Brazilians are there. Get some exclusives. How’s Pele feelin’ about their chances? Who’s starting against Bulgaria. Who’s injured? That sorta thing. Elsie’s got yer pass, an’ ye can take one ae the motors.’

‘Great,’ says Stevie.

‘An’ then, if ye dinnae fuck that up, ye’re shadowin’ Meikle for the rest ae the month. Got it?’

‘Aw’right, Mr Kee — ’

‘An’ drap aw that “Mr Keegan” stuff, right? It’s “boss”, or “gaffer”.’

‘Got ye, gaffer!’ says Stevie. ‘Oh an’, gaffer … ’

‘Whit?’

‘You can call me “Minto”.’

Gerry Keegan’s hardman exterior crumples. He rubs his chin. He sniggers. ‘Aye. Right.’

Stevie Milloy smiles. He winks at his new manager.

He is back in the first team.

Inside left.

Socks rolled down.

The baw at his feet.

Goal gaping.

The Weekenders by David F. Ross is published by Orenda Books, priced £9.99.