Working Class Boy by Jimmy Barnes

I’m lucky that I joined a band and didn’t end up in jail or dead. The Scots we knew only had one way of solving problems and that was with their fists or a lump of wood. For years I thought that was the only way to deal with stuff and sometimes under pressure I still want to revert to that way of dealing with shit. I know it doesn’t work – but for a moment, in the back of my head, I think using my fists will help. Thank God I don’t behave like that anymore. I’m a pacifist now. Well, sometimes I am.
    In 1980, my Glasgow cousins took me to a wedding with some of their friends. It took place in a little hall not far from where we lived. Halfway through the night there was a bit of a commotion at the next table. I looked over just in time to see a man hit a girl in the face with a glass. I was shocked and outraged by this,but my cousins told me not to say anything or get involved, as it could get dangerous for all of us. I had to stop myself from reacting. I wanted to belt him but that would have been dealing with things his way I guess.
    Later on in the night, as I was walking out of the toilet, a guy walked in and proceeded to pull a baseball bat out of his trousers and break it over the head of a guy who was standing at the urinals. I shook my head and kept walking. I went back to the table and thought about the whole evening. This was a wedding, a celebration of love. What the fuck was going on? So I said to my cousin, ‘I want to get out of here, this is just way too violent, even for me.’
    We had a few drinks in another bar, not talking much at all. I think that even they were in shock. This couldn’t have been normal, could it? I finally said to them, ‘Do you guys know any peaceful people in this town – some fucking hippies who smoke pot, because after tonight I need a joint.’
    I’m not a pothead but I needed something to calm me down. They said yes and took me to one of their friends’ houses, a guy who’d also been at the wedding. Anyway, we get to the house of the only pothead they knew in Glasgow. He seemed like a nice enough guy and we hit it off straight away. He was a big AC/DC fan and he had heard I knew the boys, so I became his best friend for life, immediately.
    After a ridiculous amount of pot, I was sitting listening to Dirty Deeds Done Dirt Cheap for the twenty-fifth time that night, when he turned to me and said, ‘It’s nearly daylight and I’ve got somethin’ tae do.’
    I wondered what it could be at that time of the morning. Maybe he had to go to his job or something? I thought I’d better get out and let the poor guy get ready for work.
    Then he told me something that made me sit bolt upright in my chair.
    â€˜I was at that wedding last night and some bastard hit a friend of mine in the face wi’ a glass. She’s a lovely lassie and he cut her bad, so I went oot tae ma car and got the baseball bat that I carry fur emergencies. Naebody plays baseball in Glasgow.’ He laughed. ‘I went back in and smashed it over his heid in the toilet. I didnae want tae do it in public and ruin the celebration,’ he said thoughtfully.
    By this point I was starting to straighten up so fast that I was getting whiplash. Anyway, he went on to tell me that in Glasgow, if you beat someone up when they’re pissed, the right thing to do is to go around when they are sober and do it again. Besides, he said, it would be fun.
    â€˜I’m goin’ roon tae his hoose first thing and I’m gonnae knock on the door. When it opens, I’m gonnae burst in and beat everythin’ that’s breathin’ tae a pulp wi’ a lump o’ wood.’
    He asked, ‘D’ye want tae come and watch? Or, if ye feel like it, ye could help me oot.’
    I calmly said, ‘No, you’re obviously very capable and you don’t need me getting under your feet, especially if you have to kick someone’s