Page 132 of Playing to Win

“But there are plenty of Yes people here.” Andrew pointed to the Saltire-draped folk on a nearby grassy area. “Not to mention police.”

“The toff’s right,” Liam said. “Glasgow polis have got loads of experience with unruly crowds. Besides, I’m not letting this scum take our square.”

Colin sighed. “It’s not ours, mate. They’ve as much right to be here as we do.”

Liam flicked a glare between him and Andrew, then spoke to Colin. “First he’s wearing your Yes shirt, now you’re sympathizing with No voters. I cannae take this Bizarro universe.”

“Right, listen up!” Andrew let his voice turn imperious. He was sick of all this dithering.

The others looked at him. Miraculously, even Liam shut his mouth.

“We’ll stay for ten minutes,” Andrew continued, “then review the situation. We keep each other and the police officers in sight at all times. Agreed?”

They all nodded mutely.

“Good,” he said. “Now let’s go comfort our people.” Andrew stalked off in the direction of the Saltires, passing a sign written in neon blue chalk on the gray tarmac: GLASGOW SAID YES.

Which of course he immediately Instagrammed.

= = =

Two nights ago, and for weeks before, George Square had been a place of hope for Colin. Last night, its monuments had stood in silent witness to his despair.

Tonight, it was a war zone in the making.

He and his mates had joined a large group of Yes voters on the edge of the square, on the same grassy area where Colin had wallowed last night. For the past hour, they’d all wiped one another’s tears, traded sympathetic hugs, and told stories of where they were when they heard about Clackmannanshire.

With each passing minute, however, the Yessers became a smaller island in the sea of Unionists. Colin wanted to leave before things turned mental, but his boyfriend was enjoying his first taste of revolutionary solidarity.

Andrew scowled at a parade of thugs draped in Union Jacks heading for the center of the square. “I never thought the sight of that flag could give me chills in a bad way.”

Colin glanced over his shoulder to ensure the police were still standing nearby. Over on Cochrane Street, a troop of officers on horseback were approaching the square, which was getting so loud, Colin could barely hear his friends.

Katie burst into laughter. “Oh my God, that Unionist dude has a cutout of the Queen over his face.” She leaned over to Robert and pointed. “See? I don’t think there are even any eye holes. I gotta get a picture.”

Colin suddenly remembered his phone. He needed to document this, for himself and for the world. “Stay here,” he told Andrew, then moved closer to the center of the square, climbing onto a bench to get a better view.

In front of him, Yes and No voters were screaming at one another, separated by a row of police officers. On the No side, a row of men made the Red Hand of Ulster gesture—which bore an eerie resemblance to a Nazi salute—as they sang “Rule Britannia.” On the other side, a crowd of drunken, sleep-deprived Yessers shouted “Who are you?” at their opponents, probably due to a rumor that some Unionists had been bussed up from England by a group of far-right skinhead types.

Whoever these blokes were, their numbers were still growing.

Colin took several photos of the screaming match, cursing the wobbly bench beneath him. He posted the best one to Instagram and Twitter, adding a simple caption:

This is Glasgow. This is not Glasgow.

A voice behind him said, “Aren’t you Lord Andrew?”

Colin turned to see his boyfriend beaming at a young pixie-cut blonde like she was a loyal subject. “Technically, yes. For the moment.”

“I saw your tweets,” she said, her lip curling. “Suddenly now you want to be one of us? Too little too late.”

“You’re right.” Andrew spread his hands. “I should’ve had the guts to say it sooner.”

“You’re a fucking poseur, you are! You’ve no right to wear this.” She tugged on Andrew’s blue Yes Scotland T-shirt, which matched her own.

Colin leaped over the back of the bench to join Andrew, but the lass’s mates had walled him off, shouting things like “Fucking toff!” and “Posh faggot!”

He could hear Katie’s strident voice telling them to “Back the fuck off!” but the crowd of Yessers grew louder, turning on her now for being a “Yank” and a “dyke.”

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