Friendship and Fear: Why Glasgow Boys Hits So Hard

Being Scottish myself, and having grown up not so far from where Glasgow Boys is set, this book hit close to home in more ways than one. Margaret McDonald has captured the raw grit and heart of Glasgow in a way that feels both painfully real and deeply tender. There’s something about the way she paints the city—not just the grey of the weather and the brutalist architecture, but the undercurrent of survival and resilience in its people—that makes you feel like you’re walking the same streets as these boys, hearing the same accents, and breathing in that same damp, cold air.

The story follows a group of young men trying to find their place in a world that seems determined to crush them. Life in Glasgow isn’t exactly a walk in the park—it’s a fight for survival. These boys are tough because they have to be. Violence, poverty, and addiction loom over them like a storm cloud, but McDonald balances the bleakness with moments of unexpected warmth and humour. The banter between the boys is spot on—sharp, dry, and laced with that signature Scottish wit—but beneath the laughs is a heavy undercurrent of fear and vulnerability.

At the heart of the story are Finlay and Banjo, two boys from the same rough Glasgow streets but with completely different coping mechanisms. Finlay is the quiet one, the thinker. He’s got this heavy emotional weight about him—an underlying sadness that you can’t always put your finger on, but you know it’s there. He retreats inward, observing the world from a distance, trying to make sense of where he fits.

Finlay’s questioning of his sexuality is one of the most tender and heart-wrenching parts of the book. McDonald handles it with such care and subtlety. It’s not about big declarations or dramatic coming-out scenes—it’s about those quiet moments of realisation, the ones where your stomach drops because you suddenly understand something about yourself that you wish you didn’t. For Finlay, it’s terrifying. Growing up in Glasgow, there’s this toxic pressure to be a certain kind of man—tough, unemotional, heterosexual—and Finlay’s not sure where he fits into that. His crushes on boys creep up on him slowly, almost unwillingly. He doesn’t want to be different, but he also can’t help the way he feels. That inner conflict is so palpable it hurts.

Banjo, on the other hand, is pure survival mode. He’s the loud one, the funny one, the one who always seems to be getting into trouble. But it’s a mask. Banjo uses humour and bravado as a shield. He’s always cracking jokes, always picking fights, always trying to prove he’s the toughest one in the room. But underneath that tough exterior is a scared boy who just wants someone to see him for who he really is.

The friendship between Finlay and Banjo is so beautifully complex. They’ve known each other since they were kids, and they’ve got that unspoken bond that comes from growing up in the same trenches. Banjo’s the one who protects Finlay when things get rough, and Finlay’s the one who sees through Banjo’s front. There’s a scene where Banjo gets into a fight defending Finlay after someone makes a comment about his sexuality, and it’s just gut-wrenching. Banjo’s loyalty to Finlay is fierce, almost protective to the point of self-destruction. But Finlay doesn’t want Banjo to fight his battles—he just wants him to see him, to understand him.

What McDonald captures so well is the tension between survival and vulnerability. In Glasgow, there’s no room for weakness. These boys are conditioned to keep their heads down, take the hits, and never let anyone see them cry. But the cracks are there. Finlay’s quiet longing to be accepted for who he is, and Banjo’s desperate need to be loved despite his tough exterior—it’s heart-breaking because you know that in their world, softness is dangerous.

The book doesn’t shy away from how isolating this environment can be. The boys are surrounded by a culture that views vulnerability as a weakness. Teachers and authority figures see them as trouble before they even open their mouths. There’s this constant sense that the boys are on their own, and it’s only each other that’s keeping them from completely falling apart.

And then there’s the fear of being different. For Finlay, the weight of his sexuality feels suffocating because he knows exactly how his community would react if they found out. The homophobic undercurrent in the boys’ social circle is always there—casual slurs, offhand comments, the constant need to prove your masculinity. For Banjo, the pressure is different but equally brutal—he’s expected to be hard, to fight, to never show weakness. They’re both trapped by the same toxic culture, but they respond to it in different ways.

Despite the heavy themes, Glasgow Boys isn’t completely bleak. McDonald gives her characters these small, fleeting moments of relief that feel almost sacred. A shared laugh over a stolen cigarette, a quiet night sitting on a rooftop watching the city lights, the brief touch of a hand that says I see you without needing to say a word. Banjo and Finlay’s friendship is messy and complicated, but it’s also the one thing keeping them tethered to hope.

There’s this gorgeous moment toward the end where Finlay finally opens up to Banjo about how he feels, and Banjo doesn’t say much—he just sits with him, lets him be vulnerable without turning it into a joke. That’s the beauty of their relationship—they don’t need to fix each other; they just need to be there.

Reading this as someone who grew up not too far from Glasgow, it felt like a love letter to the city and its people—the good, the bad, and everything in between. McDonald doesn’t romanticise Glasgow, but she captures its soul with unflinching honesty. This book made me feel protective of these boys—wanting to pull them out of the pages and tell them it’s okay to be soft, it’s okay to be scared, and that love doesn’t make you weak.

Glasgow Boys is a story about survival, but it’s also about the quiet rebellion of vulnerability. It’s about breaking free from the mould of what you’re expected to be and daring to hope for something more. This book will sit with me for a long time. It’s a reminder that even in the hardest places, connection and understanding can be found—even if it’s messy, even if it hurts.