When I and Hanna was traveling around Scotland in the summer ’05 we met a strange couple of police officers.
They approached us as we were setting up our tent in the towns national park (yes, it actually is legal in Scotland).
“Heya! It’s totally OK that you camp here, in our fine town. Do ya mind if we ask how ya got here?”
“No, sir! We hitch-hiked here from Oban, with one of your fine politicians. A very nice old man.”
“Oh is that so? Well, we just wanted to welcome you to our town, but with a little warning!
The youth here is quite messy, adn sometimes they even stay up until 01:00 o’clock!
So, please be careful and keep an eye on yer tent”
“Why, what do ya think they will do?”
“Put it on fire, hit you, rob you, rape you… They can do whatever fucking crime there is.”

This actually frightened us.
Stay up late? Who DOESN’T?
We decided that we would find the youth of this very small town.
And so we did.

When we met them, they were burning some tires and cones, getting hammered with vodka and smoked some of that brown.
We approached them with a smile, introduced ourselves as drifters from Sweden.
“Where?”
“Ya know about Henrik Larsson? He’s a friend of ours!”
The last line is always a bit risky. Sometimes the Scots are fans of the Celtics, and sometimes they’re not.
“HENRIK LARSSON!?!?! HE’S OUR BEST PLAYER! Ya wanna drink?”

We talked to them about the police, and soon found out about the ongoing war between them.
“Yeah, you see. Every weekend it’s the same. We get hammered and the police beat us, steal our drinks and smokes and drive us home. We always fight them back, the best we can. Hey, by the way, what’s the price for a fiveish in Sweden…?”

They were no threat, and never was.
The only threat was the mind of those police who abused them every weekend.