The Glasgow Resurrection (I.P.)

“Come on Sean, put your back intae it. We huvnae got aw day,” said Archie, looking over his shoulder to make sure there was no police about.

Having not worked a full shift since Ravenscraig closed down; Sean wasn’t used to this sort of physical labour. He too looked over his shoulder just in case anyone from the Social was snooping on him.

“It’s you who’s no pulling their weight,” said Sean. “Put your scarf doon for a start and use both hands, then we might get somewhere. I don’t want ma money getting stopped. I’ve got a bad back, you know.”

“Sake!” said Archie. “You lot are nothing but a drain on this country. Just wait…”

“Tiocfaidh ár lá, Archie. Tiocfaidh ár lá.”

“Look at you. You cannae even speak English. Is that because it’s the Queen’s English?”

“Just put your scarf doon and let’s get this thing shifted.”

Archie let his red, white and blue scarf roll out to its full length before lovingly folding it back up and laying it on the grass. Together they tried once more to move the massive boulder blocking their way. Ten seconds later Sean almost broke sweat and stopped pushing before his pulse rate rose enough to be measured.

“Sake! Whit’s up with you noo?”

“I think I need to sit doon, Archie. I’m feeling a bit dizzy.”

“Sake! Nothing but soap-dodging layabouts the lot of you. If I could do this myself I’d tell you where tae go, no mistake.”

“Look. There’s somebody coming up the hill. We’ll suss them oot first and ask them to give us a hand if they don’t look like a grass.” He signals towards Archie’s bag. “Get a bottle of wine oot and we’ll have a quick swally while we’re having a wee rest.”

“Open one of your own bottles, ya stingy roaster. I’m keeping these for me and the big man. Or have you just brought holy water, hoping to get it turned intae a cheap bottle of wine?”

“Gerrit up ye,” said Sean, pulling a bottle of chardonnay from his Asda bag like a rabbit from a hat. “Touch of class, son. Touch of class.”

“You probably stole it while you were stealing Trevelyan’s corn to feed your forty weans."

Sean ignored Archie’s last remark and pulled out a set of crystal wine glasses from his other Asda bag. “Well, do you want one then?”

“Aye, go on,” said Archie, impressed by Sean’s choice of beverage but still staunchly proud of his own selection from the Co-op.

By the time the glasses were filled the other morning visitor to Glasgow’s Necropolis was almost upon them. An elderly man dressed in black suit with a dark grey shirt and white dog collar.

“Good morning, gentlemen. Good to see you up early on this fine day and paying your respects to lost friends. May God bless the both of you.”

“Good morning, Father,” said Sean, raising his glass in a toast. “And may God bless you too…and the Pope John Paul.”

The old priest chuckled to himself before correcting Sean. “I think you mean Pope Benedict.”

Archie rolled his eyes and whispered to Sean. “Call yourself a catholic? You’re nothing but a thick-as-mince tattie-muncher.”

“And Pope Benedict, Father… of course…and all the other popes too…right back to Peter,” said Sean before turning to the side and whispering to Archie. “And you call yourself a Christian? Where are your manners in front of a man of the cloth?”

“Papists…men of the cloth? Don’t get me started. Just ask him to give us a hand moving this before he has to head off and do a ten hour mass.”

“Aye, alright. Eh, I don’t suppose you could give us a wee hand for a minute, Father. If you’re not too busy that is.”

“Of course, brother. Of course. Is that a spare glass you have there?”asked Father Malone as he spied the Asda Extra Special Range packaging with its contents glistening in the sun like bayonets. “It’s a fair hot morning and my throat’s a little dry, if you know what I mean.”

‘Typical,’ thought Archie. ‘Nothing for nothing with this lot.’

“It would be a pleasure to share a wee glass of refreshment with you, Father.” Sean hurriedly got out another glass and by the time he reached for the bottle in the bag Father Malone was already standing beside him looking like he’d won a watch.

They all clinked glasses and sat watching the one solitary fluffy cloud ambling its way over the city. At times it seemed to stop and change direction before regaining its bearings and heading to the hills in the distance.

With thirsts quenched and spirits lifted the three men tried once again to move the huge rock blocking their way. They huffed and puffed, and grunted and groaned all to no avail. The rock stood solid, all powerful over the efforts of men united in effort but still divided by thought.

Again it was Sean who called a halt to proceedings. His pulse rate was now higher than it had been since his last Benefits Appeal in front of the fascist medical panel. Archie was also feeling the pace but in light of the company couldn’t display any weakness in his work ethic.

“Do you fancy another wee glass, Father? It’s thirsty work all this pushing, is it not?”

Father Malone gave his watch a cursory glance before holding his glass up for a refill. Archie watched as the last few drops of chardonnay half-filled the priest’s glass. He shook his head as Father Malone drank that half while Sean opened another bottle to top him up.

They settled down again, not saying much but enjoying the heat of the sun on their faces and the refreshing gentle breeze that floated through the Necropolis. The three of them drifted into their own thoughts for a while until a voice startled them.

“Hello there! I must say. Isn’t this just a wonderful day?”

Archie turned around first. Before him stood a middle-aged gentleman wearing a straw boater hat, dressed in grey suit, light blue shirt and white dog collar.

“Hello there yourself, Reverend,” said Archie. “It’s always good to see one of God’s people, especially on a day as beautiful as this.”

Sean shrunk a little and half-attempted to hide his glass before acknowledging the newcomer. “All right there? Lovely day right enough.”

“Pleased to meet you, Reverend,” said Father Malone, offering a friendly hand. “I’m Jim Malone.”

“Likewise I’m sure,” said the Reverend. “I’m Bernard Smythe. Church of Scotland.”

“Can I get you a wee refreshment there, Reverend?” asked Sean, trying to sound enthusiastic about sharing his rapidly depleting carry-out but keen to show his Christian values. “I hate to see a man of the cloth looking thirsty, no matter what his particular persuasion.”

“If you have a spare glass I’d be delighted to join you for wee drink and perhaps some friendly banter. What brings you all here on this fine Easter Sunday anyway?”

While Sean poured a glass for Reverend Smythe Father Maloney drained his own glass in time for a top-up. Seeing that, Archie finished his drink and also held his glass out for a top-up. Sean emptied the second bottle and cracked open the third, which by then was warming-up a tad in the late morning heat.

Once all glasses were filled Sean proposed a toast. “To the most beautiful city in the world – Glasgow.”

“Glasgow,” they all said as one before the sound of gulping was heard above the lone blackbird singing in the distance.

“So,” said Reverend Smythe, settling down on the grass with his legs crossed in the Lotus position. “Why do you all look as if you’ve been exercising?”

“I’m just giving the lads a hand,” said Father Malone. “I go where God points me. And today he has pointed me in the direction of these fine gentlemen. And when God’s work is done here I will go and have a lie down.”

“You haven’t even done anything,” said Archie under his breath.

“I had a vision last night, Reverend,” said Sean.

“Aye, and so did I,” said Archie.

“Oh, what a coincidence,” said Reverend Smythe. “And what kind of visions were they?”

“Well,” said Sean, topping everyone’s glasses. “An angel appeared to me and told me to get my arse up here first this morning and everything would become clear once I got here.”

“Sake! That’s my story you’re stealing,” said Archie. “Here’s what really happened, Reverend. An angel appeared to me last night and told me I had to get here before they did.”

“Oh, really,” said Reverend Smythe, swirling his wine in the glass before making the top half disappear in one gulp. “And who are they?”

Archie gave a subtle nod in the direction of Sean and Father Malone. “Them.”

Father Malone emptied his glass down his throat. “I think I’m going to need another top-up before I give my measured response to that sort of ludicrous claim.”

“Tut! said Archie before getting up to retrieve his Co-op bag from the shade and pulling out the Buckfast. “Here, this is a wine suitable for God himself. That’s why it’s made by monks in an Abbey.”

Once all the glasses were refilled the conversation took a theological twist which was way above Sean and Archie’s heads as both Father Malone and Reverend Smythe debated the nuances of each faith in a calm, respectful manner. It was only once the second bottle of Buckfast ran out that both priest and minister turned their attention back to Sean and Archie and their original quest.

“Now then, lads,” said Reverend Smythe, picking himself up after stumbling over a vase of flowers on his way back from a pee behind one of the smaller mausoleums. “How did you both manage to end up at the same spot here in the Necropolis?”

Archie pointed to the inscription on the tomb.

‘Here lies Jesus McChrist until his resurrection’.

Reverend Smythe screwed his eyes and moved forward for a closer look but fell over Father Malone who was sprawled out on the grass, waking him up in the process.

“Right,” said Sean, picking himself up and offering a hand to Father Malone. “Let’s get this show on the road, Father. Once we get the big man oot we’ll find out once and for all whose side he’s on. Let’s give it one last final push.”

“Aw no you don’t,” said Archie, looking at Sean and almost dragging Reverend Smythe up by the neck. “C’mon Smythe. We cannae let these tattie-munchers do it without us.”

The four men took up their positions and pushed and shoved the rock with all their might. Sean and Archie’s faces were beetroot, and sweat rushed from every pore as they pushed and heaved for the cause. Hundreds of years of wondering who’s right and who’s wrong would be answered if only they could budge that rock and free the entrance to Jesus McChrist’s tomb. They all knew that if they could get it to move a single inch it would roll down the hill and help usher in the second coming and a new golden age for at least two of them. Time passed slowly and they were almost sober when they approached the point of exhaustion.

Two twelve year old girls dressed in opposing football tops dribbled their way through the Necropolis, playing one-twos with the gravestones and commentating on their progress as they worked as a team.

“Oh marvellous pass by James Buchanan to young Tracy McKenzie. He might have been dead since 1836 but he’s never lost that silky touch that made him one of the greats. Oh and that’s another magnificent piece of vision by that old stalwart of the Boer War, Colonel Stevenson. Who would’ve thought that after losing both his legs he would still be a valuable asset to any team? Just shows you what can be achieved if you put your mind to it.”

Their concentration was broken by the sight of four old men screaming at each other about who was not doing their fair share of the pushing. When they stopped to look more closely they noticed one was a priest, one a minister, one wearing a Rangers top and the last one wearing a Celtic top. They all seemed drunk. Both the priest and the Celtic top were at one side of a huge boulder and the minister and Rangers top were at the other side. One pair pushed in one direction and the other pair pushed in the opposite direction, blind to the fact they were locked in a never-ending futile battle with themselves.

The young girls giggled as they watched those old dinosaurs make a fool of themselves in the midday sun.

“Why don’t they get together and aw push fae the wan side?” asked young Tracy McKenzie. “Surely it’s obvious they’re never goany get anywhere if they keep doing whit they’re doing.”

“God knows,” said her friend Mary, kicking the ball off a headstone and checking the time on her mobile phone. “Och, who cares anyway?”