The Clatrell Leisure Suite
was a barn. Jugs of lager and drunken grab-a-granny nights were its speciality.
Dug was a regular. However, he tended to give Fridays a miss. Friday was
Rapper’s Delight Night, when all the young Falkirk hip hoppers donned their
baseball caps and tried to bring a different kind of ghetto to Glebe Street.
He
was on his way to meet some characters he knew were anything but fictional.
‘Awright,
Dug?’ Clatrell was on the door, trying to keep out the riff raff. He was almost
wearing a tracksuit – the zipper on the jacket was straining fit to burst. He
looked jolly but apprehensive, like the Michelin Man contemplating
Weightwatchers. ‘Strange seeing you here on a Friday,’ he said.
Dug
checked his bag into the cloakroom and was handed a wee ticket. A scuffle broke
out in the doorway.
‘I’ve
telt you before,’ Clatrell wheezed. The way he was gripping the boy by the
collar had him sweating. ‘No Doc Martens on a Friday night! Away hame and get
changed!’
Dug
went through to the bar. It was immediately apparent that Stark wasn’t there.
Three teenagers in shell suits were strutting around the dancefloor like bored
pigeons while the funkiest groove ever throbbed out of the walls. Friday nights
at the Clatrell were for the real hard core rap fans. The only music was the
Sugar Hill Gang’s ‘Rapper’s Delight’ played continuously for five hours until
the bar shut at eleven and the Falkirk Peely-Wally Posse went for chips.
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