2026-11-05, 12:44 PM - Word count:
Rab McGlinchey opened his Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles themed curtains (to be replaced when Hell froze over, going from his parent’s lack of spare cash and general unwillingness to do up the flat) to a brand new day in Saracen Street, Glasgow. To his left, the sun rising above the flats on the other side of the road was doing it’s best to avoid being noticed by the city’s denizens by hiding behind a mass of grey clouds. To his right, a jakey was pishing against the window of the William Hill, with his dog, a scrawny mongrel with no tail to speak of, sitting in the run off. Straight ahead two neds, no older than 12, were smoking at the bus stop. One kicks a half drunk glass bottle of Irn-Bru at the dog, which shatters off the wall near it. They laugh and shout abuse at the jakey as he turns to drunkenly slur at them, the motion resulting in his dirty grey trainers getting something approaching a ‘hose down’.
He shuts the curtains again, and sighs as he can still see the neds through a tear in the fabric. One of them spots him and gives him the finger. “Robert Nazário de Lima de Assis Moreira dos Santos Edson Arantes do Nascimento McGlinchey! Ah’ll no tell ye again! Yur Coco Pops are oan the table!” His mum shouts through the wall to him, her Brazilian accent long replaced by the distinctive Glesga twang. He saunters through, stopping and stooping briefly in front of the dirty full length mirror in the hall to check his hair was still immaculately coiffed and scratches at stubble he vainly hoped would one day become an actual beard. He ducks as he enters the kitchen and slumps into a chair that creaks under his weight, taking a mouthful of cereal as he watches his dad, in an equally drunken state to the jakey outside, kick and hit the fridge while shouting “The cash machine isnae workin!”
“Huv ye thought aboot yur offers then son?”, his mum asks, ignoring the antics of her husband. He’d had a few youth contract offers sent in the last week, one each from the blue and green teams that dominated and divided the city. While every room in the house contained his dad’s memorabilia for the former team, Rab had his doubts about signing for either of them.
“Ah’m no fussed, Mum. I cannae be bothered wi the bother ah’ll get – ah’ll be jumped soon as ah step oot the door tae go tae trainin. This place is a goldfish bowl.” He was quite sure his dad would have had something to say on the matter – had he not been curled up on the floor, hugging the vacuum cleaner in a semi-conscious stupor.
“It’s just an aw then that there’s another envelope in the post this mornin, somewhere called Accra. Is that in Fife? Ye’ve got family oan yer dad’s side in Fife.” Rab’s eyebrows raised. He didn’t know where Accra was either, but he knew it wasn’t in Fife. His mum passed him the envelope and he clocked the ‘Ghana’ post mark. Africa? He opened it up and began reading, quietly skimming the page, and then doing so a second time. New city? New country? New life? And a start in football, outside Glasgow?
He picked up the letter and his mobile, retreated to his room, and dialled the number at the top of the letter.
He shuts the curtains again, and sighs as he can still see the neds through a tear in the fabric. One of them spots him and gives him the finger. “Robert Nazário de Lima de Assis Moreira dos Santos Edson Arantes do Nascimento McGlinchey! Ah’ll no tell ye again! Yur Coco Pops are oan the table!” His mum shouts through the wall to him, her Brazilian accent long replaced by the distinctive Glesga twang. He saunters through, stopping and stooping briefly in front of the dirty full length mirror in the hall to check his hair was still immaculately coiffed and scratches at stubble he vainly hoped would one day become an actual beard. He ducks as he enters the kitchen and slumps into a chair that creaks under his weight, taking a mouthful of cereal as he watches his dad, in an equally drunken state to the jakey outside, kick and hit the fridge while shouting “The cash machine isnae workin!”
“Huv ye thought aboot yur offers then son?”, his mum asks, ignoring the antics of her husband. He’d had a few youth contract offers sent in the last week, one each from the blue and green teams that dominated and divided the city. While every room in the house contained his dad’s memorabilia for the former team, Rab had his doubts about signing for either of them.
“Ah’m no fussed, Mum. I cannae be bothered wi the bother ah’ll get – ah’ll be jumped soon as ah step oot the door tae go tae trainin. This place is a goldfish bowl.” He was quite sure his dad would have had something to say on the matter – had he not been curled up on the floor, hugging the vacuum cleaner in a semi-conscious stupor.
“It’s just an aw then that there’s another envelope in the post this mornin, somewhere called Accra. Is that in Fife? Ye’ve got family oan yer dad’s side in Fife.” Rab’s eyebrows raised. He didn’t know where Accra was either, but he knew it wasn’t in Fife. His mum passed him the envelope and he clocked the ‘Ghana’ post mark. Africa? He opened it up and began reading, quietly skimming the page, and then doing so a second time. New city? New country? New life? And a start in football, outside Glasgow?
He picked up the letter and his mobile, retreated to his room, and dialled the number at the top of the letter.
![[Image: Barry-Mc-Glynn-Sig-2-0.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/C191CSW9/Barry-Mc-Glynn-Sig-2-0.png)
