Read Online Nipper by Charlie Mitchell - Free Book Online

thinking.
    Gran was a professional dancer in the Pally in Dundee years ago. She was Irish and Granddad met her in Ireland when he was playing football for Glentoran Football Club in East Belfast in the 1950s. Granddad was a Glaswegian. Then later he signed for United. After he had finished as a professional footballer he worked as a hospital porter but he was still involved in Dundee United, and the players used to come to his house for dinner sometimes – John Clark, Kevin Gallacher and many more.
    As Dad now manages the Dundee West Under-14s football team, we go up to Glenshee in the mountains every year with my cousin Shane and stay at the Spittal of Glenshee Hotel. Shane is six months younger than me and absolutely bonkers and hilarious at the same time. He has the kind of personality that means he has to say exactly what’s on his mind – he can’t hold things in for more than ten seconds at a time, and his laugh is infectious. When he starts, everyone does too. Such a likeable person.
    There’s loads to do apart from playing football – hillwalking, golfing, horseriding, shooting, mountain biking and even hang-gliding, but Shane and I just enjoy larking around.
    There’s also this little goalkeeper in our team called Willy. He wears old, worn but ironed pyjamas with creases in them and National Health glasses with Sellotape in the middle –he’s a right little geek and he’s useless in goal into the bargain. He must have let in about 15 goals a game – he’s a crap goalie, but at the same time a dead nice wee lad. A bit like Walter the Softie out of the
Beano
but harmless. In any case Dad doesn’t care how good his team is, he’s more interested in where they live as he has to pick them up or drop them off after a game.
    I’m seven on this particular occasion when we go to Glenshee and the news has filtered out of the radio on the way up here that there’s a murderer loose in the mountains who has been going around killing people. It must be about half nine at night and there’s a man sitting at the bar with a mack on and a big handlebar moustache and hat, and Shane and I whisper to Willy ‘That’s that murderer!’
    Willy’s shitting himself. ‘No, it’s not?’ he says, alarmed.
    ‘Yeah, that’s him. We’ve just seen his picture on the news.’
    Another guy sitting near us hears what we’re saying and knows we’re winding Willy up, and says, ‘Cut it out, lads.’
    But we ignore him and go on saying to Willy, ‘No, seriously, that guy – he’s definitely the murderer. Look at that moustache. I’ll bet he’s got an axe under that coat!’
    Just then the guy turns and looks at us and takes off out of the front door of bar. Even though I know it isn’t him, the man scares me. He couldn’t have timed it any better as he stares back towards us as he leaves.
    Meanwhile Willy’s in a blue funk. He tears off petrified in his PJs, while the barman looks on in shock at this skinnylittle ankle-biter whizzing past him like a skeleton on Pro-Plus. Willy’s eyes are even bigger than normal as a combination of pure blind panic and his thick milk-bottle glasses make him look completely demented.
    The bunkhouse we’re all sleeping in has a room on each side of a corridor with bunk beds in every room, so Willy crawls in there with sheets over him as he’s now terrified. But we crawl along the floor in the dark towards his bed saying, ‘The murderer’s gonna get you! The murderer’s gonna get you!’
    Shane’s one of those people who after you stop he’ll keep it going. He wound up this little lad Willy for hours and hours. Maybe it’s something in the family genes. Shane just enjoys spinning out a joke, while Dad enjoys spinning out the torture.
    Anyway, Willy’s in his bunk bed and Shane goes up and sticks a football sock over his arm and puts it over the top bunk of the bed and grabs Willy’s mouth with it.
    ‘Ahhhhhhhhhh!’ Willy screams. He’s only wearing his Y-fronts and terry