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GLUE
Irvine Welsh lives in London.
By
the same author
fiction
Trainspotting
The Acid House
Marabou Stork
Nightmares
Ecstasy
Filth
DRAMA
You'll Have Had
Your Hole
SCREENPLAY
The Acid House
GLUE
IRVINE WELSH
Glue is the story of four boys growing up in
the Edinburgh schemes, and about the loyalties, the experiences - and the
secrets - that hold them together into their thirties. Four boys becoming men:
Juice Terry, the work-shy fanny-merchant, with corkscrew curls and sticky
fingers; Billy the boxer: driven, controlled, playing to his strengths; Carl, the Milky Bar Kid, drifting along to
his own soundtrack; and the doomed Gaily - who has one less skin than everyone
else and seems to find catastrophe at every corner.
As we follow their lives from the
seventies into the new century - from punk to techno, from speed to Es - we can
see each of them trying to struggle out from under the weight of the
conditioning of class and culture, peer pressure and their parents' hopes that
maybe their sons will do better than they did. What binds the four of them is
the friendship formed by the scheme, their school, and their ambition to escape
from both; their loyalty fused in street morality: back up your mates, don't
hit women and, most importantly, never grass - on anyone.
Despite its scale and ambition, Glue has all Irvine Welsh's usual pace and
vigour, crackling dialogue, scabrous set-pieces and black, black humour, but it
is also a grown-up book about growing up - about the way we live our lives, and
what happens to us when things become unstuck.
JONATHAN GAPE
LONDON
Published by Jonathan Cape 2001
2468 10 97531 Copyright © Irvine Welsh
2001
Irvine Welsh has asserted his right under
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of
this work
This book is sold subject to the condition
that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be
lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than
that in which it is published and without a
similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent
purchaser
First published in Great Britain in 2001
by Jonathan Cape
Random House, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road,
London SWiV 2SA
Random House Australia (Pty) Limited
20 Alfred Street, Milsons Point, Sydney, New South Wales 2061, Australia
Random House New Zealand Limited 18 Poland
Road, Glenfield, Auckland 10, New Zealand
Random House (Pty) Limited Endulini, 5A
Jubilee Road, Parktown 2193, South Africa
The Random House Group Limited Reg. No.
954009 A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British
Library
ISBN o 224 06126 7 (Paperback) ISBN o 224
06172 o (Hardback)
Papers used by The Random House Group
Limited are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable
forests; the manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations
of the country of origin Printed and bound in Great Britain by Mackays of
Chatham PLC
This book is dedicated to Shearer, Scrap,
George, Jimmy, Deano, Mickey, Tarn, Simon, Miles, Scott and Crawf for sticking
together even when falling apart
1. Round About 1970: The Man of the House. 5
Terry Lawson. The First Day at
School
Billy Birrell. Two Royal Pests
Andrew Galloway. The Man of the
House
2. I980ish: The Last (Fish) Supper. 11
Billy Birrell. Sex as a Football
Substitute
Make Me Smile (Come Up and See
Me)
3. It Must Have Been 1990: Hitler's Local 50
The Persistence of Shagging
Problems
4. Approximately 2000: A Festival Atmosphere. 93
Somewhere Near the Blue
Mountains, New South Wales, Australia
Too Heavy On The Mint Sauce, Ms
Joyner
Blue Mountains, NSW, Australia
Blue Mountains, NSW, Australia Wednesday
1.37 am
Edinburgh, Scotland Wednesday 8.30 pm. Memories of Pipers
DiSCOTec
Blue Mountains, NSW, Australia
Wednesday 7.12 am
Edinburgh, Scotland Wednesday 8.07 pm. Air-brush It
A Welcome Alternative to Filth
and Violence
Sydney Airport, NSW, Australia Wednesday 11.00 pm
Edinburgh, Scotland Thursday
12.41 am. The Bitterest Pill is Mine to Take
Edinburgh, Scotland 8.26 am Our
Bona Fide Guests
Bangkok Airport, Thailand 4.10
pm
Edinburgh, Scotland 10.17 am.
Young Cunts
Heathrow Airport, London,
England 6.30 pm
Edinburgh, Scotland. 2.02 pm The
Business Bar
Edinburgh, Scotland 6.21 pm Git
Her Shoes Oaf! Git Her Slacks Oaf.
Reprise 2002: The Golden Era144
glue: gloo, n. an impure gelatine
got by boiling animal refuse, used as an adhesive.
Chambers 20th
Century Dictionar
Contents
I
ROUND ABOUT 1970: THE MAN OF THE HOUSE
Windows '70 3
Terry Lawson 1 he First Day at School 6
Carl Ewart The Works I 2
Billy Birrell Two Royal Pests 20
Andrew Galloway The Man of the House 25
2
I980ish:
THE LAST (FISH) SUPPER
Windows '80 29 Terry
Lawson juiced
Up | Uncle Alec | Sally and Sid James 32
Billy Birrell Sex as a Football Substitute | The
Referee's a Bastard | Copper Wire 49
Andrew Galloway Lateness | The Sporting Life | Clouds | A (Virgin) Soldiers Song | The Rockford Files v. The Professionals | No Man of the House 68
Carl Ewart Sex Education | Make Me Smile (Come Up and
See Me) | Jews and Gentiles | Drinking to Forget | Debut Shag 116
3
IT MUST HAVE BEEN 1990: HITLER'S LOCAL
Windows '90 153 Billy
Birrell The
Hills | Memories of Italia 159
Andrew Galloway Training | Nightmare on Elm Row |
Limitations 176
viii
Terry Lawson Part-timers | Domestics | Home on the Grange | The
Wheatsheaf | The Persistence of Shagging Problems | Freedom of Choice |
Clubland | Competition 194
Carl Ewart Ich Bin Ein Edinburgher | Contingency
Planning | Foreskin | Now That's What I Call Chorin | The Munich Beer Festival
| Fight for the Right to Party 229
4
APPROXIMATELY 2000: A
FESTIVAL ATMOSPHERE
Windows '00 293
Edinburgh, Scotland Abandonment
| A Fringe Club 295
Somewhere Near the Blue
Mountains, New South Wales, Australia 301
Edinburgh, Scotland Post Mother, Post Alec | The Balmoral |
Cocks Oot fir the Lassies | Record Company | I Know You're Using Me 302
Blue Mountains, NSW,
Australia 320
Edinburgh, Scotland Scum | The Replica Shirt Problem |
Marketing Opportunities | Richard Gere 325
Blue Mountains, NSW,
Australia 335
Edinburgh, Scotland Memories of Pipers DiSCOTec 337
Blue Mountains, NSW,
Australia 340
Edinburgh, Scotland Air-brush It | An Urban Myth | Pished,
Drugged, Laid | A Welcome Alternative to Filth and Violence | Gimme Medication
| The Rabbit | An American in Leith | Stone Island 345
Sydney Airport, NSW,
Australia 367
Edinburgh, Scotland The Bitterest Pill is Mine to Take | Taxi
| Stars and Cigarettes 369
In-Flight 385
Edinburgh, Scotland Our Bona Fide Guests 388
Bangkok Airport, Thailand
399
Edinburgh, Scotland Young Cunts | Wanking 404
Heathrow Airport, London,
England 413
Edinburgh, Scotland The Business Bar | Islands in the Stream 419
Glasgow, Scotland 436
ix
Edinburgh, Scotland
Git Her Shoes Oaf! Git Her Slacks Oaf! | Baberton Mains | Slipping | Fucked and
Hassled | The End 440
REPRISE: 2002:
THE GOLDEN ERA 465
1.
Round About 1970: The Man of the House
Windows 70
The sun rose up from behind the concrete
of the block of flats opposite, beaming straight into their faces. Davie
Galloway was so surprised by its sneaky dazzle, he nearly dropped the table he
was struggling to carry. It was hot enough already in the new flat and Davie
felt like a strange exotic plant wilting in an overheated greenhouse. It was
they windaes, they were huge, and they sucked in the sun, he thought, as he put
the table down and looked out at the scheme below him.
Davie felt like a newly crowned emperor
surveying his fiefdom. The new buildings were impressive all right: they fairly
gleamed when the light hit those sparkling wee stanes embedded in the cladding.
Bright, clean, airy and warm, that was what was needed. He remembered the
chilly, dark tenement in Gorgie; covered with soot and grime for generations
when the city had earned its 'Auld Reekie' nickname. Outside, their dull,
narrow streets nipping with people pinched and shuffling from the marrow-biting
winter cold, and that rank smell of hops from the brewery wafting in when you
opened the window, always causing him to retch if he'd overdone it in the pub
the previous night. All that had gone, and about time too. This was the way to
live!
For Davie Galloway, it was the big windows
that exemplified all that was good about these new slum-clearance places. He
turned to his wife, who was polishing the skirtings. Why did she have to polish
the skirtings in a new hoose? But Susan was on her knees, clad in overalls, her
large black beehive bobbing up and down, testifying to her frenzied activity. -
That's the best thing aboot these places, Susan, Davie ventured, - the big windaes.
Let the sun in, he added, before glancing
4
over at the marvel of that wee box stuck
on the wall above her head. - Central heating for the winter n aw, cannae be
beaten. The flick ay a switch.
Susan rose slowly, respectful of the cramp
which had been settling into her legs. She was sweating as she stamped one
numbed, tingling foot, in order to get the circulation back into it. Beads of
moisture gathered on her forehead. - It's too hot, she complained.
Davie briskly shook his head. - Naw, take
it while ye can get it. This is Scotland, mind, it's no gaunny last. Taking in
a deep breath, Davie picked up the table, recommencing his arduous struggle
towards the kitchen. It was a tricky bugger: a smart new Formica-topped job
which seemed to constantly shift its weight and spill all over the place. Like
wrestling wi a fuckin crocodile, he thought, and sure enough, the beast snapped
at his fingers forcing him to withdraw them quickly and suck on them as the
table clattered to the floor.
- Sh . . . sugar, Davie cursed. He never
swore in front of women. Certain talk was awright for the pub, but no in front
of a woman. He tiptoed over to the cot in the corner. The baby still slept
soundly.
- Ah telt ye ah'd gie ye a hand wi that
Davie, yir gaunny huv nae fingers and a broken table the wey things are gaun.
Susan warned him. She shook her head slowly, looking over to the crib. -
Surprised ye dinnae wake her.
Picking up her discomfort, Davie said, -
Ye dinnae really like that table, dae ye?
Susan Galloway shook her head again. She
looked past the new kitchen table, and saw the new three-piece suite, the new
coffee table and new carpets which had mysteriously arrived the previous day
when she'd been out at her work in the whisky bonds.
- What is it? Davie asked, waving his sore
hand in the air. He felt her stare, open and baleful. Those big eyes of hers.
- Where did ye get this stuff, Davie?
He hated when she asked him things like
that. It spoiled everything, drove a wedge between them. It was for all of them
he did what he did; Susan, the baby, the wee fellay. - Ask no questions, ah'll
tell ye no lies, he smiled, but he couldn't look at her, as unsatisfied himself
with this retort as he knew she would be. Instead, he bent down and kissed his
baby daughter on the cheek.
Looking up, he wondered aloud, - Where's
Andrew? He glanced at Susan briefly.
5
Susan turned away sourly. He was hiding
again, hiding behind the bairns.
Davie moved into the hall with the
stealthy caution of a trench soldier fearful of snipers. - Andrew, he shouted.
His son thundered down the stairs, a wiry, charged life-force, sporting the
same dark brown hair as Susan's, but shorn to a minimalist crop, following
Davie through to the living room. - Here eh is, he cheerfully announced for
Susan's benefit. Noting that she was studiously ignoring him, he turned to the
boy and asked, - Ye still like it up in yir new room?
Andrew looked up at him and then at Susan.
- Ah found a book ah never had before, he told them earnestly.
- That's good, Susan said, moving over and
picking a thread from the boy's striped T-shirt.
Looking up at his father, Andrew asked, -
When can ah get a bike, Dad?
- Soon, son, Davie smiled.
- You said when ah went tae school, Andrew
said with great sincerity, his large dark eyes fixing on his father's in a
milder form of accusation than Susan's.
- Ah did, pal, Davie conceded, - and it's
no long now.
A bike? Where was the money coming from
for a bloody bike? Susan Galloway thought, shivering to herself as the blazing,
sweltering summer sun beat in relentlessly, through the huge windows.
Terry Lawson. The First Day at School
Wee Terry and Yvonne Lawson sat with juice
and crisps at a wooden table of the Dell Inn, in the concrete enclosure they
called the beer garden. They were looking over the fence at the bottom of the
yard, down the steep bank, contemplating the ducks in the Water of Leith.
Within a few seconds awe turned to boredom; you could only look at ducks for so
long, and Terry had other things on his mind. It had been his first day at school
and he hadn't enjoyed it. Yvonne would go next year. Terry said to her that it
wasn't very good and he'd been frightened but now he was with their Ma, and
their Dad was there as well, so it was okay.
Their Ma and Dad were talking and they
knew their Ma was angry.
- Well, they heard her ask him, - what is
it yuv got tae say?
Terry looked up at his Dad who smiled and
winked at him before turning back to address the boy's mother. - No in front ay
the bairns, he said coolly.
- Dinnae pretend tae care aboot thaim,
Alice Lawson scoffed, her voice rising steadily, implacably, like a jet engine
taking off, - yir quick enough tae walk oot oan thaim! Dinnae pretend that!
Henry Lawson shuffled around to check
who'd heard. Met one nosy gape with a hard stare until it averted. Two old
fuckers, a couple. Interfering auld bastards. Speaking through his teeth, in a
strained whisper, he said to her, - Ah've telt ye, they'll be looked eftir.
Ah've fuckin well telt ye that. Ma ain fuckin bairns, he snapped at her, the
tendons in his neck taut.
Henry knew that Alice was always driven to
believe the best in people. He fancied that he could summon enough controlled
outrage,
7
enough injured innocence into his tone of
voice to suggest that her audacity in believing that he (for all his faults, of
which he'd be the first to admit) could leave his own children unprovided for,
was overstep-ping the mark, even accounting for emotions running high in the
break-up of their relationship. Indeed, it was just those sort of allegations
that had practically driven him into the arms of Paula McKay, a spinster of the
Parish of Leith.
The fine Paula, a young woman of great
virtue and goodness which had repeatedly been called into question by the
embittered Alice. Was not Paula the sole carer for her father George, who owned
the Port Sunshine Tavern in Leith and who was stricken with cancer? It would
not be long now and Paula would need all the help she could to get through this
difficult time. Henry would be a tower of strength.
And his own name had been continually
sullied, but Henry was graciously prepared to accept that people tended to say
things they didn't mean in emotionally fraught times. Did he not also know the
pain of the breakdown of their relationship? Was it not harder for him, he being
the one who had to leave his children? Looking down and across at them Henry
let his eyes glisten and a lump constrict his throat. He hoped Alice caught
that gesture and that it would be enough.
It seemed as if it was. He heard burbling
noises, like the stream below them, he fancied, and he was moved to put his arm
round her shaking shoulders.
- Please stay, Henry, she shuddered,
pressing her head into his chest, filling her nostrils with the scent of Old
Spice still fragrant on his cheese-grater chin. Henry was not so much a
five-o'clock-shadow man, as a lunchtime-shadow man, having to shave at least
twice a day.
- There, there, Henry cooed. - Dinnae you
be worryin. We've got the bairns, yours n mine, he smiled, reaching over and
tousling young Terry's mop of curls, considering that Alice really should take
the boy to the barber's mair often. He was like Shirley Temple. It could cause
the laddie to grow up funny.
- Ye never even asked how he got oan at
school. Alice sat up straight, fused with a new bitterness as she focused again
on what was happening.
- You never gave me the chance, Henry
retorted in tetchy impatience. Paula was waiting. Waiting for his kisses, for
that comforting arm that was now round Alice. Crying, puffy, sagging Alice.
What a contrast with Paula's youthful body; tight, lithe, unmarked by
childbirth. There really could be no contest.
8
Thinking, beyond his words, smells and
strong arm, about what was actually happening and letting the pain pulse hard
and unremit-tingly in her chest, Alice managed to snap, - He cried and cried
and cried. He gret his eyes oot.
This angered Henry. Terry was older than
the rest of his class, missing a year's schooling due to his meningitis. He
should have been the last one to
cry. It was Alice's fault, she spoiled him, still treated him like a baby
because of his sickness. There was nothing wrong with the boy now. Henry was
about to mention Terry's hair, about how she had him looking like a wee lassie,
so what else could she expect from him? But Alice was now staring at him, her
eyes blazing in accusation. Henry looked away. She stared at his jawline, his
heavy growth, and then found herself looking at Terry.
The laddie had been so ill just eighteen
months ago. He'd barely survived. And Henry was walking out on all of them,
walking out for her: dirty, flighty wee hoor.
She let the savage realisation just throb
in her chest and didn't try to cower and brace herself for it.
BANG
Still upright and proud, Alice was feeling
his arm limp, across her shoulders. Surely the next pulse of racking sickness
wouldn't be as bad as that one
BANG
When would it get better, when would the
horror abate, when would she, they, be somewhere else
BANG
He was leaving them for her.
And then the anchor of his arm was gone
and Alice was drowning in the void of the space around her. In her peripheral
vision she could see him, swinging Yvonne in the air, then gathering up the
children and huddling them together; whispering important but encouraging
instructions, like a school football coach giving his players a half-time pep
talk.
9
- Your daddy's got a new job so he'll be
working away a lot. See how upset Mum is? Henry didn't see Alice first sit up
rigid, then slump in defeat at his words; it was as if she'd been kicked in the
stomach. - That means you two have tae help her out. Terry, ah don't want tae
hear any mair nonsense aboot you greetin at the school. That's for daft wee
lassies, he told his son, making a fist and pressing it under the boy's chin.
Henry then fished in his trouser pockets,
producing a couple of two-bob bits. Crushing one into Yvonne's hand, he watched
her expression stay neutral while Terry's eyes went wide and wild in
anticipation.
- Mind what ah sais, Henry smiled at his
son, before giving him the same treatment.
- Will ye still see us sometimes, Dad?
Terry asked, eyes on the silver in his hand.
- Of course, son! We'll go tae the fitba.
See the Jam Tarts!
This made Terry's spirits rise. He smiled
at his dad, then looked again at the two-bob bit.
Alice was behaving so strangely, Henry
considered, checking that his tie was straight as he planned his exit. She was
just sitting there, all buckled up. Well, he'd said his piece, given her every
reassurance. He'd be round to check on the kids, take them out, a shake at the
Milk Bar. They liked that. Or chips at Brattisanni's. But there was little to
be gained in talking further to Alice. It would only antagonise her and be bad
for the kids. Best just slip off quietly.
Henry nipped past the tables. He gave the
old cunts the eye again. They looked back at him in contempt. He stole up to
their table. Tapping his nose, Henry told them with a cheery coldness, - Keep
that oot ay other people's business, or yi'll git it fuckin broke, right?
The old couple were speechless at his
audacity. Holding his stare for a second, Henry gave a beaming smile, then
headed through the back door to the pub, without stopping to look at Alice or
the kids.
Best not cause a scene.
- Bloody nerve, Davie Girvan shouted and
stood up, making to follow Henry before being restrained by his wife Nessie. -
Sit doon, Davie, dinnae git involved wi rubbish. That's just trash, that.
Davie reluctantly took his seat. He didn't
fear the man, but he didn't want to make a scene in front of Nessie.
In the bar, on his way out the front of
the pub, Henry exchanged a few nods and 'how's-it-gaun's. Old Doyle was there,
with one of his
10
laddies, Duke he thought, and some other
nutter. What a clan of gangsters; the old boy, bald, fat and twisted like a
psychotic Buddha, Duke Doyle with his wispy, thinning hair still teased up,
Teddy-boy style, his blackened teeth and the big rings on his finger. Giving
Henry a slow, shark-like nod as he passed. Aye, Henry considered, the best
place for that crowd was out here; the scheme's loss was the toon's gain. The
reverence the other drinkers had for the men at that table hung heavily in the
air, with more money changing hands for a casual game of dominoes than most of
them made at the local building sites and factories in a month. This had been
the pub Henry had used since they'd moved out here. Not the nearest, but his
preference. You got a decent pint of Tartan Special. But this would be his last
visit for a long time. He'd never really liked it out here, he thought, as he
headed out the door; stuck in the middle of nowhere, but no, he wouldn't be
coming back.
Back outside, Nessie Girvan was recalling
the images of Biafran famine on the telly last night. They wee souls, it would
break your heart. And there was that rubbish, and there were loads like him.
She couldn't understand why some people had kids. - That bloody animal, she
said to her Davie.
Davie was wishing he'd reacted quicker,
had followed the bastard into the pub. The man had been a real rogue mind you;
olive-skinned, with hard, shifty eyes. Davie had taken on a lot harder before,
but it was all some time ago. - If our Phil or Alfie had been there, he
wouldnae have been so bloody smart, Davie said. - When ah see rubbish like that
ah wish ah wis younger maself. For five minutes, that's aw it wid take . . .
christ . . .
Davie Girvan stopped in his tracks, unable
to believe his eyes. The wee kids had got through a hole in the wire fence and
were scrambling down the bank towards the river. It was shallow at this
stretch, but it had a sloping gradient and the odd treacherous pocket of depth.
- MISSUS! he shouted at the woman on the
seat, pointing frantically at the space in the wire meshing, - MIND YIR BAIRNS,
BI CHRIST!
Her bairns
BANG
In blind terror Alice looked at the space
to her side, saw the gap in the fence and ran towards it. She saw them standing
halfway down the
11
steep bank. - Yvonne! C'mere, she pleaded
with as much composure as she could.
Yvonne looked up and giggled. - Nup! she
shouted.
BANG
Terry had a stick. He was lashing at the
long grass on the bank, chopping it down.
Alice implored, - You're missin aw the
sweeties n juice. Thir's ice cream here!
A light of recognition filled the
children's eyes. They scrambled eagerly up the bank and through the fence
towards her. Alice wanted to batter them, she wanted to thrash them
she wanted to thrash him
Alice Lawson exploded in a sob and hugged
her children in a crushing grip, anxiously kneading at their clothes and hair.
- Whaire's the ice-cream but, Ma, Terry
asked.
- Wir jist gaunny git it, son, Alice
gasped, - wir jist gaunny git it.
Davie and Nessie Girvan watched the broken
woman stagger away with her children, each one gripped firmly by the hand, as
jerky and full of life as she was soundly crushed.
Carl Ewart. The Works
The particles of filed metal hung in the
air, as thick as dust. Duncan Ewart could feel them in his lungs and nostrils.
You got used to the smell though; it was only when it had competition that you
became aware of it. Now it was duelling with the more welcome scent of sponge
and custard which wafted through the machine shop from the canteen. Every time
the swing doors of the kitchen flew open Duncan was reminded that lunch was
closer and that the weekend was approaching.
He worked the lathe deftly, cheating a bit
by lifting the guard slightly, to get a better edge on the metal he was
turning. It was perverse, he thought, but in his role as shop steward he'd bawl
out anybody who tried to cut corners by flouting the safety regulations in this
way. Risk losing some fingers for a bonus for a bunch of rich shareholders
living in Surrey or somewhere? Fuck that, he was mad. But it was the job, the
process of actually doing it. It was your own world and you lived almost
exclusively in it from nine till five-thirty. You strived to make it better, in
every way.
A blur pulled into focus from the edge of
his sight-line as Tony Radden walked past, goggles and gloves off. Duncan
glanced at his new space-age watch. 12.47. What the fuck was that? Nearly
ten-to. Almost lunch hour. Duncan considered again the dilemma he faced, it was
one he'd encountered many Friday mornings.
The new single from Elvis, The Wonder of You, was out today. It had
been constantly previewed this week on Radio One. Aye, the King was back
bigtime. In the Ghetto and Suspicious Minds were better, but they'd
both peaked at number two. This one was more commercial, a sing-a-long ballad,
and Duncan fancied it to go to the top spot. In his head he could hear people
drunkenly singing along with it, see them slow-
13
dancing to it. If you could make the
people sing and dance, you were on a winner. Dinner hour was sixty poxy
minutes, and the Number One bus to Leith and Ards record shop took fifteen
minutes there and the same back. Sufficient time to buy the record and get a
filled roll and a cup of tea from the Canasta. It had been a straight choice
between purchase of the single or the leisurely enjoyment of a pie and pint up
at Speirs's Bar, the nearest pub to the factory. But now the teasing canteen
smells announced that it was Friday, and the big nosh was coming into the
picture. They always made a special effort on a Friday, because you were more
inclined to go to the pub at dinner time then, which made high productivity and
the final afternoon of the week uneasy bedfellows.
Duncan clicked the machine off. Elvis
Aaron Presley. The King. No contest. The record it would be. Looking at his
watch again, he elected to head straight out in his overalls, impatiently
punching the clock and sprinting to catch the bus outside the factory gates.
Duncan had negotiated with the management to provide lockers, so that workers
could travel in 'civvies' and change into their working gear. In practice, few,
including himself, bothered, except if they were heading straight out into town
on Friday after work. Settling down upstairs at the back and recovering his
puff, Duncan lit up a Regal, thinking that if he got a copy of The Wonder of You he'd play it tonight up
the Tartan Club with Maria. The purr from the engine of the vehicle seemed to
echo his own contentment as he basked in the warm fug.
Aye, it was shaping up to be a good
weekend. Killie were over at Dunfermline the morn and Tommy McLean was fit
again. The Wee Man would provide the crosses that Eddie Morrison and this new
boy Mathie thrived on. Mathie and that other young guy, McSherry they called
him, they both looked promising players, Duncan had always liked going to
Dunfermline, considering them a sort of east-coast version of Kilmarnock: both
teams from small towns in mining areas who'd achieved real glory in the last
ten years and had battled with some of Europe's finest.
- These bloody buses are useless, an old
guy in a bunnet, puffing on a Capstan shouted over at him, breaking his
thoughts, - Twenty-five minutes ah've waited. They should never huv taken oaf
the trams.
- Aye, right enough, Duncan smiled, easing
slowly back into his anticipation of the weekend.
- Nivir huv taken oaf the trams, the old
guy repeated to himself. Since his Edinburgh exile, Duncan generally divided his
Saturday
14
afternoon time between Easter Road and
Tynecastle. He'd always preferred the latter, not for convenience but because
it always brought back memories of that great day back in 1964 when, on the
last game of the season, Hearts only had to draw with Killie at home to win the
championship. They could even afford to lose one-nil. Kilmarnock needed to win
by two goals to lift the flag for the first time in their history. Nobody
outside Ayrshire gave them much of a chance but when Bobby Ferguson made that
great save from Alan Gordon, Duncan knew it was going to be their day. And when
he stayed out drinking for three days after they won, Maria didn't complain.
They'd just got engaged, so it was out of
order, but she took it well. And that was the marvel of her, she understood
that, knew what it meant to him without him having to say, knew that he wasn't
a liberty-taker.
The Wonder of You. Duncan thought of Maria, how touched by magic he was, how blessed he was
to have found her. How he'd play the song to her tonight, her and the wee man.
Alighting at Junction Street, Duncan considered how music had always been the
fulcrum of his life, how he always throbbed with a child-like excitement when
it came to buying a record. It was Christmas morning every week. That sense of
anticipation; you didn't know if what you wanted would be in, or sold out or
whatever. He might even have to go up to Bandparts on Saturday morning to
secure it. As he headed towards Ards shop, his throat began to constrict and
his heart pounded. Pulling on the door handle, he got inside and made for the
counter. Big Liz was there, thick make-up and helmet of stiff, lacquered hair,
her face lighting up in recognition. She held up a copy of The Wonder of You. - Thought ye might be
lookin for this, Duncan, she said, then whispered, - Ah kept it back for ye.
- Aw brilliant, Liz, yir a genius, he
smiled, eagerly parting with his ten-bob note.
- That's a drink you owe me, she said,
raising her eyebrows, a serious underlay to her flirty banter.
Duncan forced a non-committal smile. - If
it gets tae number one, he replied, trying not to sound as disconcerted as he
felt. They said you always got the come-on more when you were married, and it
was true, he reflected. Or maybe you just noticed more.
Liz laughed far too enthusiastically at
his throwaway line, making Duncan all the more keen to leave the shop. As he
went out the door he heard her say, - Ah'll remind ye aboot that drink!
15
Duncan felt a bit uncomfortable for
another couple of minutes. He thought about Liz, but even here, just in the
street outside the record shop, he couldn't remember what she looked like. Now
he could only see Maria.
But he'd got the record. It was a good
omen. Killie would surely win, although with these power cuts you didn't know
for how long football would be on as the nights would start to draw in soon. It
was a small price to pay though, for getting rid of that bastard Heath and the
Tories. It was brilliant that those wankers couldn't take the piss out of the
working man any longer.
His parents had made sacrifices,
determined that he wouldn't follow his father down the pit. They insisted that
he was apprenticed, that he got a trade behind him. So Duncan had been sent to
live with an aunt in Glasgow while he served his time in a machine shop in
Kinning Park.
Glasgow was big, brash, vibrant and
violent to his small-town sensibilities, but he was easy-going and popular in
the factory. His best pal at work was a guy called Matt Muir, from Govan, who
was a fanatical Rangers supporter and a card-carrying communist. Every-body at
his factory supported Rangers, and as a socialist he knew and was shamed by the
fact that he, like his workmates, had obtained his apprenticeship through his
family's Masonic connections. His own father saw no contradiction between
freemasonry and socialism, and many of the Ibrox regulars from the factory
floor were active socialists, even in some cases, like Matt, card-carrying
communists. - The first bastards that would get it would be those cunts in the
Vatican, he'd enthusiastically explain, - right up against the wa' wi they
fuckers.
Matt kept Duncan right about the things
that mattered, how to dress, what dance halls to go to, who the razor-boys
were, and importantly, who their girlfriends were and who, therefore, to avoid
dancing with. Then there was a trip to Edinburgh, on a night out with some
mates, when they went to that Tollcross dancehall and he saw the girl in the
blue dress. Every time he looked at her, it seemed that his breath was being crushed
out of him.
Even though Edinburgh appeared more
relaxed than Glasgow, Matt claiming that razors and knives were a rarity, there
had been a brawl. One burly guy had punched another man, and wanted to follow
up. Duncan and Matt intervened and managed to help calm things down.
Fortunately, one of the grateful benefactors of their intervention was a guy in
the same company as the girl Duncan had been
16
hypnotised by all night, but had been too
shy to ask to dance. He could see Maria then, the cut of her cheekbones and her
habit of lowering her eyes giving an appearance of arrogance which conversation
with her quickly dispelled.
It was even better, the guy he befriended
was called Lenny, and he was Maria's brother.
Maria was nominally a Catholic, though her
father had an unexplained bitterness towards priests and had stopped going to
church. Eventually his wife and their children followed suit. None the less,
Duncan worried about his own family's reaction to the marriage, and was moved
to go down to Ayrshire to discuss it with them.
Duncan's father was a quiet and thoughtful
man. Often his shyness was confused with gruffness, an impression accentuated
by his size (he was well over six foot tall), which Duncan had inherited along
with his straw-blonde hair. His father listened in silence to his deposition,
giving the occasional nod in support. When he did speak, his tone was that of a
man who felt he had been grossly misrepresented. - Ah don't hate Catholics,
son, his father insisted, - Ah've nothing against anybody's religion. It's
those swines in the Vatican, who keep people doon, keep them in ignorance so
that they can keep filling thir coffers, that's the scum ah hate.
Reassured on this point, Duncan decided to
keep his freemasonry from Maria's father, who seemed to detest masons as much
as he did priests. They married in the Register Office in Edinburgh's Victoria
Buildings and had a reception in the upstairs rooms of a Cowgate pub. Duncan
was worried about an Orange, or even a Red speech from Matt Muir, so he asked
his best pal from school back in Ayrshire, Ronnie Lambie, to do the honours.
Unfortunately, Ronnie had got pretty drunk, and made an anti-Edinburgh speech,
which upset some guests and later on, as the drink flowed, precipitated a
fist-fight. Duncan and Maria took that as their cue to head off to the room
they had booked at a Portobello guest house.
Back at the factory and back at the
machine, Duncan was singing The Wonder of
You, the tune spinning in a loop in his head, as metal yielded to
the cutting edge of the lathe. Then the light from the huge windows above
turned to shadow. Somebody was standing next to him. He clicked off the machine
and looked up.
Duncan didn't really know the man. He had
seen him in the canteen, and on the bus, obviously a non-smoker, always sitting
downstairs. Duncan had an idea that they lived in the same scheme,
17
the man getting off at the stop before
him. The guy was about five-ten, with short brown hair and busy eyes. As Duncan
recalled, he usually had a cheery, earthy demeanour, at odds with his looks:
conventionally handsome enough to be accompanied by narcissism. Now, though,
the man stood before him in an extreme state of agitation. Upset and anxious,
he blurted - Duncan Ewart? Shop Steward?
They both acknowledged the daftness of the
rhyme and smiled at each other.
- I art Ewart shop steward. And you art?
Duncan continued the joke. He knew this routine backwards.
But the man wasn't laughing any longer. He
gasped out breathlessly - Wullie Birrell. Ma wife . . . Sandra . . . gone intae
labour . . . Abercrombie . . . eh'll no lit ays go up tae the hoaspital . . .
men oaf sick . . . the Crofton order . . . says that if ah walk oaf the joab ah
walk oot for good . . .
In a couple of beats, indignation managed
to settle in Duncan's chest like a bronchial tickle. He ground his teeth for a
second, then spoke with quiet authority. - You git tae that hoaspital right
now, Wullie. Thir's only one man that'll be walkin oaf this joab fir good n
that's Abercrombie. Rest assured, you'll git a full apology fir this!
- Should ah clock oaf or no? Wullie
Birrell asked, a shiver in his eye making his face twitch.
- Dinnae worry aboot that, Wullie, jist
go. Get a taxi and ask the boy for the receipt and ah'll pit it through the
union.
Wullie Birrell nodded gratefully and
exited in haste. He was already out the factory as Duncan put down his tools
and walked slowly to the payphone in the canteen, calling the Convenor first,
and then the Branch Secretary, the clanking sounds of washing pots and cutlery
in his ear. Then he went directly to the Works Manager, Mr Catter, and filed a
formal grievance.
Catter listened calmly, but in mounting
perturbation at Duncan Ewart's complaint. The Crofton order had to go out, that
was essential. And Ewart, well, he could get every man on the shop floor to
walk off the job in support of this Birrell fellow. What in the name of God was
that clown Abercrombie thinking about? Certainly, Catter had told him to make
sure that order went out by any means necessary, and yes, he had actually used
those terms, but the idiot had obviously lost all sense, all perspective.
Catter studied the tall, open-faced man
opposite him. Catter had encountered hard men with an agenda in the shop
steward's role many
18
times. They hated him, detested the firm
and everything it stood for. Ewart wasn't one of them. There was a warm glow in
his eyes, a sort of calm righteousness which, when you engaged it for a while,
seemed to be more about mischief and humour than anger. - There seems to have
been a misunderstanding, Mr Ewart, Gatter said slowly, offering a smile which
he hoped was contagious. - I'll explain the position to Mr Abercrombie.
- Good, Duncan nodded, then added, - Much
appreciated.
For his part, Duncan had quite a bit of
time for Catter, who had always come across as a man of a basically fair and
just disposition. When he did impose the more bizarre dictates from above, you
could tell that he didn't do it with much relish. And it couldn't be too much
fun trying to keep bampots like Abercrombie in line.
Abercrombie. What a nutter.
On his way back to the machine shop,
Duncan Ewart couldn't resist poking his head into the pen, boxed off from the
factory floor, which Abercrombie called his office. - Thanks, Tarn!
Abercrombie looked up at him from the
grease-paper worksheets sprawled across the desk. - What for? he asked, trying
to feign surprise, but his face reddened. He'd been harassed, under pressure,
and hadn't been thinking straight about Birrell. And he'd played right into
that Bolshie cunt Ewart's hands.
Duncan Ewart smiled gravely. - For trying
to keep Wullie Birrell on the job on a Friday afternoon with the boys all
itching tae down tools. A great piece of management. I've put it right for ye,
I've just told him to go, he added smugly.
A pellet of hate exploded in Abercrombie's
chest, spreading to the extremities of his fingers and toes. He began to flush
and shake. He couldn't help it. That bastard Ewart: who the fuck did he think
he was? - Ah run this fuckin shop floor! You bloody well mind that!
Duncan grinned in the face of
Abercrombie's outburst. - Sorry, Tarn, the cavalry's on its way.
Abercrombie wilted at that moment, not at
Duncan's words but at the sight of a stonyfaced Catter appearing behind him, as
if on cue. Worse still, he came into the small box with Convenor Bobby Affleck.
Affleck was a squat bull of a man who had a bearing of intimidating ferocity
when even mildly irritated. But now, Abercrombie could instantly tell, the
Convenor was in a state of incandescent rage.
Duncan smiled at Abercrombie and winked at Affleck before
19
leaving and closing the door behind them.
The thin plywood door proved little barrier to the sound of Affleck's fury.
Miraculously, every lathe and drill
machine on the shop floor was switched off, one by one, replaced by the sound
of laughter, which spilled like a rush of spring colouring across the painted
grey concrete factory floor.
Billy Birrell. Two Royal Pests
Duncan Ewart had his young son, Carl,
dancing on top of the sideboard to a Count Basie record. Elvis had been pretty
much worn out that weekend and Duncan had a good drink in him, having just got
back from Fife where Killie and Dunfermline had shared the points. He and his
son were now the same height, and the boy was mimicking him dancing. Maria came
into the front room and joined them. She picked the lively kid off the
sideboard and whisked him across the floor while singing, - Real royal blood
comes in real small amounts, I got two royal pests, I got Carl, I got Duncan .
. .
The boy had the Ewart straw-blonde hair.
Duncan wondered whether or not Carl would get stuck with his own factory
nickname, 'The Milky Bar Kid', when he started school. Duncan hoped, as Maria
lowered the boy to the floor, that neither of them would need glasses. Feeling
Maria's arms sliding round his waist, Duncan turned and they shared an embrace
and a long kiss. Carl didn't know what to do, and feeling left out, he grabbed
at their legs.
The doorbell went and Maria headed out to
answer it as Duncan took the opportunity to put on Elvis once more, this time In the Ghetto.
Maria saw a slightly startled-looking,
square-jawed man on the step. He was a stranger to her and he was clutching a
bottle of whisky and a picture, which seemed to be drawn by a child. He was obviously
a bit drunk and elated, though a little self-conscious. - Eh excuse me Mrs, eh,
Ewart, eh, is your man in? he asked.
- Aye . . . hold on the now, Maria said,
calling Duncan who quickly ushered Wullie Birrell in, introducing him to Maria
as a friend from work.
Wullie Birrell was gratified but a bit
embarrassed at Duncan's
21
familiarity. - Mr Ewart, eh, Johnny Dawson
gied me your address. . . jist popped roond tae say thanks for everything the
other day, Wullie coughed nervously. - Ah heard Abercrombie was a laughing
stock.
Duncan smiled, though in truth, he'd been
feeling a bit guilty at his part in Abercrombie's humiliation. The man deserved
to be taken down a peg, and aye, Duncan had wanted to gloat. Then he saw the
pain on Abercrombie's face as he walked across the car park at finishing time.
Tarn Abercrombie was normally last to leave but that tea-time he couldn't get
out the door quick enough. One thing Duncan's father had told him was to try
not to be too quick in passing judgment on others, even your enemies. You never
knew what kind of shite they had going on in their own lives. There was
something about Abercrombie, something crushed, and by something a lot bigger
than that day's events.
But fuck him, Wullie Birrell's wife was
having a baby. Who the fuck was Abercrombie to say he couldn't be with the
woman? - Nae mair than he deserves, Wullie, Duncan grinned waspishly, - and
it's Duncan, for christ sake. Aye, the queer felly wisnae too pleased, but
let's no mention his name in this hoose. But how's the missus? Any news? he
asked, looking Wullie up and down and knowing the answer.
- A wee boy. Seven and a half pounds. It's
our second wee laddie. Came oot kickin and screamin, and eh's never stoaped
since, Wullie explained with a nervous grin. - No like the first yin. He's
quiet. Ages wi this yin here, he remarked, smiling at Carl, who was examining
this stranger, though staying close to his mother. - Ye got any mair?
Duncan laughed loudly and Maria rolled her
eyes. - This one's mair than enough, Duncan told him, then dropped his voice. -
We were gaunny pack it aw in before he came along, get two tickets tae America,
hire a car and drive across it. See New York, New Orleans, Memphis, Nashville,
Vegas, the lot. Then we had our wee accident here, he rubbed Carl's milky-white
head of hair.
- Stop callin um that Duncan, he'll grow
up feeling unwanted, Maria whispered.
Duncan regarded his son. - Naw, we
couldnae take back wur mad wee March Hare, could we, pal?
- Pit on Elvis, Dad, Carl urged.
Duncan basked in the boy's promptings. -
Great idea son, but ah'll just get a few beers and some glesses and we'll wet
the bairn's heid. Export okay, Wullie?
22
- Aye, fine, Duncan, and get some wee yins
for the whisky here n aw.
- Sounds fine tae me, Duncan nodded, heading
for the kitchen, winking at Maria as Carl followed him.
Wullie half-apologetically passed Maria
the picture he was holding. It was a child's balloon and matchstick painting of
a family. Maria held it up to the light and studied the accompanying words.
It was a story
|
a new baby by
William Birrell age five saughton primary school told to Wendy hines aged
eleven and written out by Bobby Sharp aged eight. my name is
William but i git cald Billy my dads Billy two an we will hav a new baby, i
like football an Hibs ar the best tim dad take me to see them but no the new
baby cos of it been in a kot still play sin johnsin mum has a fire an her nom
is Sandra Birrell fat cos of baby. i live in a big
hoos with a windo i hav a gurlfrend call Sally she is age sivin in a big clas
mister colins next dor is old |
- It's great, Maria said to him.
- Thir brilliant at that school. They git
aw the different ages tae help the teachers help the wee yins, Wullie
explained.
- That's good, cause oor yin's gaun at the
end ay the summer, Maria told him. - Your eldest, eh must be a bright kid, she
cooed.
Pride and drink conspired to lend Wullie's
face a healthy flush. - Eh hud it done for me comin back fae the hoaspital.
Aye, ah think Billy's gaunny be the brainy one, and this new yin, Robert wir
callin him, he'll be the fighter. Aye, eh came oot kickin n screamin, tore the
wife bad . . . Wullie said, then blushed in Maria's presence, - eh sorry ... ah
mean . . .
Maria just laughed heartily, waving him
away as Duncan returned
23
with the drinks on a Youngers tray he'd
taken one drunken night from the Tartan Club.
Billy Birrell had started the school last
year. Wullie was proud of his son, though he had to constantly watch him with
matches. The laddie seemed obsessed with fire, lighting them in the garden, on
the wasteground, anywhere he could, and he'd almost set the house ablaze one
night.
- It's good that he likes fire though
Wullie, Duncan said, the drink taking effect, topping up what he'd already had,
- Apollo, the god o' fire is also the god o' light.
- Good, cause thir'd've been light awright
if they curtains had gone up ...
- It's that revolutionary impulse though,
Wullie, sometimes you've goat tae destroy it aw, just burn the bloody lot doon,
before ye can start again, Duncan laughed as he poured more whisky.
- Nonsense, Maria scoffed, looking grimly
at the large measure Duncan had poured, splashing lemonade into the glass to
dilute the spirit.
Duncan passed another tumbler over to
Wullie. - Ah'm jist sayin ... the sun's aboot fire, but it's aboot light and
healing as well.
Maria was having none of it. - Wullie'd
need healin awright if eh woke up wi third-degree burns, she told him.
Wullie was feeling guilty that he was
being unintentionally a bit hard on his son, in front of people he hardly knew.
- Eh's a good wee felly but, ah mean ye try tae teach thum right fae wrong ...
he slurred, himself now feeling the drink and the tiredness.
- It's a difficult world now, no like the
yin we grew up in, Duncan said. Ye never know what tae teach them. Ah mean,
there's the basic stuff like back up yir mates, never cross a picket line . . .
- Nivir hit a lassie, Wullie nodded.
- Definitely, Duncan agreed sternly, as
Maria looked at him with a you-just-try-it-pal expression, - Nivir shop anybody
tae the polis . . .
- ... neither friend nor foe, Wullie
added.
- That's what ah think ah'll dae, replace
the ten commandments wi ma ain ten commandments. They'd be better for kids thin
that Spock, or any ay thaim. Buy a record every week, that'd be one o' mine ...
ye cannae go a week withoot a good tune tae look forward tae ...
- If you want tae give yir sons some kind
ay code tae live by, what
24
about try not tae line the pockets of the
brewers and the bookies too much, Maria laughed.
_ Some things are a lot harder than
others, Duncan ventured to
Wullie, who nodded sagely.
They sat up most of the night drinking,
reminiscing about where they'd come from before the slum-clearance flats. They
all agreed that they were the best thing that had happened to the working
classes. Maria was a Tollcross girl, while Wullie and his wife came from Leith
via the West Granton prefabs. They'd been offered Muirhouse but they went for
this cause it was nearer Sandra's mother who had been ill and who lived in
Chesser.
- We're across in the aulder part ay the
scheme but, Wullie said semi-apologetically, it isnae as smart as this.
Duncan tried not to feel superior, but
that was the consensus in the area: the newer flats were the best deal. The
Ewarts, like other families in the area, enjoyed their airy flat. All their
neighbours commented on the underfloor heating, where you could heat up the
whole flat with just a click of the switch. Maria's dad had recently died of TB
from Tollcross's damp tenements; now all that was a thing of the past. Duncan
loved those big warm tiles under the carpet. You put your feet under that
fireside rug and it was sheer luxury.
Then as winter set in and the first bills
came through the post, the central-heating systems in the scheme clicked off;
synchronised to such a degree it was almost like they were operated by one
master switch.
Andrew Galloway. The Man of the House
It wis when it wis one ay the best times
whin ah'm kneelin oan the flair n ah hud the Beano
oan one ay the big chairs soas that naebody could bother me n ah've
got a chocolate biscuit n a glass ay milk oan the wee stool n muh Dad's sittin
in the other chair, readin ehs paper n muh Ma's making the tea n muh Ma, she's
the best cook in the world cos she can make the best chips n muh Dad's the best
dad in the world cos he could batter anybody n he was once gaunny batter Paul
McCartney cause muh Ma likes him and he was gaunny marry Ma but Dad mairried
her first n if eh hudnae ah'd've been in the Beatles.
Sheena's in her cot . . . makin a noise,
her face aw rid. Cry cry cry ... that's her n she's sometimes always greetin,
jist like Christmas, ma Dad sais, no like me cause ah'm big, ah'm at the school
now!
Ah wis in the war.
Terry gret at the school oan the first day
ah nivir gret but Terry did, gre-tin-fae-haced Teh-ray . . . sittin oan the
platform whaire Miss Munro hus her desk and eh gret n gret.
Miss Munro hud him oan her knee and that
was lucky for Terry. Ah'm gaunny marry Miss Munro because she smells nice and
is kind n ah pit ma airm roond Terry cause eh's ma pal n ah telt um tae try n
be a big boy n Terry wis feart that ehs ma widnae come back but ah kent mines
would cause she said we'd go for a cone at Mr Whippy's.
Auntie May-ray had a canary . . .
Paul McCartney's gittin battered! Eh's
gittin battered right up by me n ma Dad! Bang! Phow!
Miss Munro said that it's awright Terry,
yuv goat Andrew here. Ah wis bein big.
Up the leg ay her drawers . . .
26
Batter ehs heid in. If ah goat ma temper
up ah could batter aw the Beatles.
Dennis the Menace ma Dad calls me cos ah
want a dug like his one bit my Ma sais no till Sheena gits bigger cause some
dugs eat babies. That must be why their breath is very bad, because babies
smell of pee and sick. Dugs should eat vegetables and chips and good
beefburgers, not the cheap ones.
It widnae come doon till the month ay June
. . .
Ah ate ma biscuit, ate it aw cos it was
one of the good ones that taste of wheat with the chocolate nice and thick. The
cheap ones never taste so good. Thir wis a knock at the door. Ma Dad went n
goat it. Then when eh came back in, two men came with him cos they were
policemen n one looked bad, the other one wis nice cos eh smiled at me, patted
ma heid. Ma Dad's sayin that eh had tae go, eh had tae go n help the policemen,
but eh'd be back soon.
Paul McCartney and ma can't make a baby
because there's Sheena now and she's in her cot.
She sat on the gas and burnt her arse . .
.
Muh Ma's greetin, but Dad says it's
awright. Eh says tae me, - Ah've got tae go n help these policemen. You look
after yir Ma now n dae as yir telt. Mind, you're the man ay the hoose.
and that wis the end ay her drawers . . .
When eh went away, ma Ma sat ays oan her
knee and held me n ah could hear her greetin, but ah didnae greet cos ah wis a
big boy and ah nivir gret! Ah wis a bit sad at first cause ah hud ma comic and
it was meant tae be the best time, jist after school, before tea bit ah didnae
greet cause ah knew that muh Dad would be comin back soon, once he'd helped the
policemen put the bad men away n eh'd help them batter the bad men n ah'd help
him cos ah'd batter Paul McCartney if he tried to be my Ma's boyfriend n even
if muh Dad wis away a long time, it didnae bother me, because it meant that ah
wid be the man ay the hoose.
2.
I980ish: The Last (Fish) Supper
Windows '80
It seemed like the entire tenement
building hissed and shook as the whistling drafts of cold air shot through,
leaving it crying, creaking and leaking, as if it were a lobster thrust into a
boiling pot. Those high-pressure blasts of dirty chilled wind from the gales
outside gatecrashed relentlessly; via the cracks in the window frames and under
the sills, through the vents and the spaces between the floorboards.
Then suddenly, with a contemptuous,
twisting whip, and dragging a clutter of cans and rubbish in their wake, the
winds deigned to change direction, offering Sandra some respite. As the fibres
of her body and soul seemed about to relax, drunks materialised in the streets
outside, spilling into the soundless void, filling it with their screams and
chants. The wind and rain were now dead, so they could come home. But those
vendors of misery always seemed to stop outside her door, and there was one
particularly persistent guy who had inadvertently taught her every verse and
chorus of Hearts Glorious Hearts over
the last few months.
It never used to bother her, all this
noise. Now she was the only one, Sandra Birrell, a mother, a wife, living here
in this place, who didn't sleep at night. The boys slept like logs; sometimes
she'd go through to check on them, to marvel at their peace, and how they were
growing up.
Billy would be away soon, she just knew
it. Even at sixteen, he'd have his own place within a couple of years. He
looked so like her husband in his youth, even if his hair was closer to her
blonde. Billy was tough and private, he had his own life and guarded it
closely. She knew there were girls hanging around, but she found his lack of
expression hard to deal with, even when she marvelled at his
30
unsolicited kindnesses, not just to her,
but to relatives and neighbours. You would see him, in a garden over in the
pensioners' war houses, cutting the grass, refusing point-blank, with a stern
shake of his close-cropped head, to take any money in return. Then there was
her Robert: he was a rangy wee colt, but growing fast. A dreamer, without
Billy's busy sense of purpose, but also unwilling to share the secrets in his
head. When he left, what would be there for her and her man Wullie, slumbering
deeply next to her? Then what would she be? Would after them be like before
them? Would she be like Sandra
Lockhart again?
It seemed crazy, but what had happened to
Sandra Lockhart? The pretty blonde who was good at school, who'd gone to Leith
Academy when the rest of her family, the Lockharts of Tennent Street, had all
went to D.K. - David Kilpatrick's, or 'Daft Kids' as the locals cruelly called
it. Sandra was the youngest of the clan, the one child from that parish-booted
band of wideos who seemed to be going places. Vivacious, bubbly and spoiled,
she had always seemed a bit too big for those boots, continually appearing to
look down on everybody in the tenemented streets of the old port her family
came from. Everybody, except one, and he lay next to her.
The drunks had gone now, their voices
tailing off into the night, but only to herald the return of the flagellating
winds. Another ferocious blast and the window bellied in like Rolf Harris's
wobble-board, briefly teasing her with the possible drama of fracture, the one
event that would surely waken her dozing husband beside her and force him to
act, to do something. Anything. Just to show her that they were in this
together.
Sandra looked at him, sleeping as soundly
as the boys next door. He was fleshier now and his hair was thinning, but he
hadn't let himself go like some, and he still suggested Rock Hudson in Written on the Wind, the first proper film
she'd seen as a girl. She tried to think about how she looked, and she felt her flab and cellulite, the touch
of her hands on her body bringing both comfort and revulsion. She doubted if
she put people in mind of Dorothy Malone any more. That was what they had
called her then, 'The Hollywood Blonde'.
Marilyn Monroe, Doris Day, Vera Ellen;
she'd hinted at them all with one hairdo after another, but none more than
Dorothy Malone in Written on the Wind. What
a joke. Of course, she'd never known about this moniker at the time, at the
Gappy concert and places like that. If she had, she'd've been so insufferable,
Sandra conceded to herself. It
31
was only Wullie that had told her, not
long after they started going out, that he was dating the lassie all the other
guys knew as 'The Hollywood Blonde'.
With sudden violence the rain thrashed
like stones on the window, so hard that her heart seemed to split in two, one
part rushing for her mouth, the other to her stomach. There was a time, she
thought, when it all meant nothing; the wind, the rain, the drunks outside. If
only Wullie would wake up and take her in his arms and hold her and make love
to her, like they used to, sometimes all through the night. If only she could
close the distance between them, just shake him awake and ask him to embrace
her. But somehow, these were not the words either of them expected to come from
her tongue.
How had the few inches between them become
such a chasm?
Lying in the bed gazing at the featureless
ceiling, with panic slicing through her in waves, a dazzling fissure opened up
in Sandra's mind. Through it, she could almost feel her sanity sliding into an
abyss, leaving her a zombiefied shell. And she was on the verge of embracing
it, comfortably, just to be like her husband, Wullie, who would sleep and sleep
and sleep right through the mayhem until morning.
Terry Lawson. Juiced Up
Stevie Bannerman can be as wide as fuck.
It's awright fir him sittin in the van aw day, it's me that's oot in aw
weathers humpin fuckin crates oaf the back ay this lorry in the rain, stoapin
at the pubs and clubs, then door-tae-door back roond the schemes here. Cannae
complain mind you; thir's loads ay birds gaun past, and bein oot here n the
fresh air, checkin them oot, it's the spice ay life. Too right.
They wanted ays tae stey oan as well, sais
ah could dae a couple ay O grades if ah pit ma mind tae it. But what dae ye
want tae stey oan at school fir when yuv already rode jist aboot every bird
thair that'll go? Waste ay fuckin time. Ah'll huv tae git ma mate, the Milky
Bar Kid, telt aboot that.
Goat the horn bigtime this mornin. Eywis
the same eftir ah've been up the Classic the night before, watchin the dirty
movies. Ah wanted tae go doon tae Lucy's eftir, but her auld man'll no lit me
stey ower. Supposed tae be fuckin well engaged n aw. Time enough fir that whin
yis are mairried, the cunt goes. Aye, like him n Lucy's ma ur bangin away aw
day?
That'll be right.
We're back at the scheme n Stevie's
stoaped the lorry at the waste. Ah couple ay auld fuckers come up tae ays. Thuv
goat they toothless mooths thit pit ays n mind ay that pair ay worn oot auld
dessy boots ah've goat in ma wardrobe, the one's wi stitching burst in thum. Ah
boat a new pair wi ma first week's wages but ye cannae bring yirsel tae chuck
the auld yins oot. - Two boatils ay orange, son, one wifie sais. Ah pull oot a
couple ay boatils ay Hendry's fae the toap crate, n take the pound and gie the
change back. Sorry, missus, ah ken the juice you're needin pumped intae you n
it disnae come in fuckin boatils.
33
Yir no gittin it offay me anywey, missus!
They git oan thir wey n then ah see yin
thit might be gittin it offay ays. Ah ken yon bright wee face next tae ays,
it's Maggie Orr. She's wi ehr mate, another ride whae ah've seen aboot but whae
ah dinnae ken. Well, no yet anywey.
- A boatil ay lemonade n a boatil ay Coke,
wee Maggie sais. The year below ays at the school. Mair meat oan a butcher's
knife. Used tae feed her up whin ah wis monitor oan the school dinners. Ma mate
Carl, the Milky Bar Kid, he's goat the hoats fir her bigtime. Thoat eh wis in
thaire cause eh wis hingin aboot wi her n Topsy wi that daft band that thir
meant tae be in, n aw that crowd fae the Herts bus. Heard eh made a bit ay a
cunt ay ehsel in front ay her last Setirday. Mibbe that's how eh's aw keen tae
come wi us tae Hibs oan Setirday. Ye ken the wey ehs mind works, that cunt.
- They tell ays ye like yir Coke right
enough, ah goes tae her.
She sais nowt, disnae really git the joke,
but blushes a bit anywey. Her mate does n aw, but makes oot she's squintin in
the sun, pittin her hand up tae her face. Long black hair, dark eyes, n thick,
full rid lips. Aye . . .
Good bit ay tit oan it.
- Youse should be at the school, ah goes,
- wait till Blackie hears aboot this.
Maggie frowns at the mention ay that
cunt's name. Nae wonder.
- Aye, ah goes, - me n Blackie still keep
in touch, ye ken. Good buddies, now thit wir baith workin men thegither. Eywis
asks ays tae keep um informed aboot which ay ehs pupils urnae behavin
themselves. Ah'll keep ma mooth shut cause it's you, but it's gaunny cost ye
mind.
Her mate's laughin at this, but perr
Maggie's half sortay lookin at me as if ah'm serious. - Ah'm oaf sick. Ah'm
jist oot fir some juice but, she goes, like ah'm gaunny grass her up tae a
fuckin truancy officer or something.
- Aw aye, ah laughs, n looks at her pal,
thir is a barry bit ay tit thair
awright. - N your sick n aw, eh.
- Naw, she's left, she wis at Auggie's,
Maggie explains before her mate can answer. She's aw nervous n bothered, lookin
aboot tae see whae's watchin her bein oot.
Her mate's much cooler. Ah like they big
eyes n that long, black hair. - No workin doll? ah ask the lassie.
34
This yin wi the tits gits tae speak up fir
the first time. - Aye, at the baker's. But it's ma day oaf, she says.
The baker's wir gittin now, is it? Well
ah'd pit a fuckin bun in the oven for her anywey. Nae danger. Nah, she's no
fuckin shy, no way, she's jist workin ays oot.
_ Veh-ry nice, ah say. - So's that youse
in aw oan yir lonesome? ah ask them baith.
_ Aye, ma Uncle Alec's oot n muh Ma n Dad
are doon at Blackpool, Maggie tells me.
Blackpool. Fuckin barry doon thaire oan
that Golden Mile, aw the pubs n that. Plenty fuckin shaggin doon thaire. Me n
that bird fae Huddersfield, n the yin fae Lincoln n aw. The Huddersfield yin,
Philippa, she wis the best but. Banged that much wi broke the fuckin bed.
Cheeky bastard wanted tae charge us fir it, an auld chipboard kip half smashed
tae fuck awready. Ah telt the wanker tae fuckin blow. Malky Carson wanted tae
knock ehs cunt in. The breakfast wis shite n aw; they gied ays a sausage oan ma
plate like Wee Gally's tadger.
That Pleasure Beach wis brilliant but. Ah
wis right up the tower n aw. The third thing ah goat right up whin ah wis doon
thaire! Fuckin cauld though, that wind oaf the sea. N the scabby Orrs've went
south n left wee Maggie oan her tod. - They no take you doon thaire wi thum? ah
ask.
- Nup.
- Aye, ah smiles, - they ken thit they'd
huv tae keep an eye oan ye. Ah've heard aw aboot you!
- Git away, she laughs, n her mate does n
aw. So ah turns tae this black-haired yin. - So she's lookin eftir ye then,
Maggie, eh?
- Aye.
Ah winks at her mate, then turns back tae
Maggie. - Well ah'll need tae come by, later this affie whin ah'm finished.
Visit the sick patient, likes. Bring ma ain special remedies.
Maggie jist shrugs. - Up tae you eh.
- Aye but, ah tells her, - thorough
examination. Second opinion, ah sais and points at masel. - Doctor, then at her
wi the black hair, - nurse, then at Maggie, - patient.
The black haired yin's aw hoat n bothered
cause she's jumpin oan the spot n she's goat they tits jigglin away in that
lilac toap when she moves. - Whoa Maggie! Hear that! Doctors and Nurses! Yir
favourite game!
35
Maggie looks back aw cauld at me, her
airms still crossed, and puffs oan her fag, brushin her floppy broon fringe oot
her eyes, - Aye, you jist keep oan giein yir mind a treat son, she says turnin
away.
They walk away aw snooty fir a bit, but ye
kin tell the wey they look back sniggerin that they wee cunts are as shag-happy
as fuck. Baith ay thaim are gittin it later oan, that's fuckin well guaranteed.
- Aye, ah kin dae that awright, just thinkin aboot you fine ladies, ah laugh.
Then ah shout, - See yis later but, jist fir a fag n a wee cup ay tea but eh.
- Aye, right, Maggie shouts back, but
she's laughin now.
- See yis, girls! Ah wave, watchin thum
go. That Maggie, if they Biafran cunts saw pictures ay her oan thaire news,
they'd be huvin a whip-roond tae git some crates ay rice shipped ower here.
Tidy erse oan that mate ay hers but; it's like two bairns fightin in a
pillaycase in they white troosers.
A total fuckin pump.
That Stevie's some fucker. Cannae pass a
bookie's. Aw eh does is flick through the racin pages. Eh's an edgy cunt wi a
big dago moustache. One ay they boys that's aw serious n nippy at work, n
disnae lit ehsel go until eh's finished n eh's in the boozer. Ah dinnae hud wi
that sort ay patter: as if ye huv tae be aw torn-faced tae drive a fuckin lorry
the right wey. Ah'm wantin tae take ma test n git masel a motor, jist fir the
shaggin likes. Birds eywis go for the guy wi the motor, no thit ah need one tae
git ma hole, unlike some ah could
mention. A van's eywis useful but.
When wi knock oaf, Stevie wants tae go tae
the Busy Bee for a pint. - Naw, ah've goat other plans, ah tell um.
- Suit yerself, eh goes. Eh starts gaun
oan again aboot the round no makin money. Who gies a fuck aboot that? Ah git
enough money oot ay it, n ye git roond tae check oot aw the fanny. That's mair
important than money, gittin the chance tae chat up different birds n find oot
which ones go n which ones dinnae. Ye want clathes, ye snowdroap thum offay
some cunt's line, or git a wee fucker tae dae it fir ye.
But the main thing fir me is fanny. Ah
gied wee Lucy a ring oan her finger, jist tae keep her quiet likes. She's eywis
gaun oan aboot ays bein oan the juice lorries like it's no good enough fir her.
Ah ken whaire it aw comes fae: her auld man's a snobby cunt n aw. Drives a
fuckin bus for the corpie n thinks eh's middle-class. Cunt only goes n
36
says tae ays one time, - Juice lorries,
thir's no many prospects thaire,
is thir?
Ah jist sat n said nowt, but ah wis
thinkin tae masel, yir fuckin wrong pal, ye git tons ay prospects in that joab,
n your wee lassie wis one ay them. Ah cannae fuckin well move fir prospects!
Spice ay life!
Well that Maggie's a prospect awright and
ah'm straight roond tae her hoose when ah finish. She's in the same stair as
the Birrells but she's one flair up, so ah git the gen oan her auld man n auld
girl offay Billy. Fuckin pish-heids. Ah sniff the airmpits tae make sure ah
dinnae smell fae luggin they crates, then ah knock at the door.
She conies tae answer n she's standing
thair, her airms folded, lookin at ays as if tae say, what are you wantin.
Ah ken what ah'm wantin awright. - Can ah
come in fir a cup ay tea well? Sustenance fir a thirsty working chap?
- Awright, she goes, lookin ower ma
shoodir, - but jist for a cup ay tea, n jist fir five minutes.
We go ben the front room and it's jist her
n the other lassie hame. - Ye ken Gail, Terry? Maggie asks as ah crash the ash.
She's goat that 'ah'm sure ah ken you fae
somewhaire' look oan her face.
- Ah've no hud that pleasure, ah say,
noddin ower at Gail n winkin. - No yit, anywey, ah add, as Maggie sniggers and
Gail hud's ma gaze fir a bit. Birds like laddies wi a sense ay humour, n see
me, ah've goat that Monty Python-type sense ay humour. At the school whin me n
Carl n Gaily started fuckin aboot nae cunt could understand us. They aw thoat
wi wir mental n ah suppose wi wir. The thing Carl doesnae ken but, n that's how
eh disnae git ehs hole, is thit, aye; ye need a sense ay humour but yuv goat
tae be mature aroond lassies n aw, no like the daft laddie aw the time. Look at
they Monty Python cunts; they might be mental, but thir no like that aw the
time. They aw went tae fuckin Cambridge or wherever, n ye dinnae git in thaire
unless yuv goat brains. Ye kin bet they didnae start daein silly walks n aw
that shite in thir exams. Naw. The thing is, ah am mature n aw. Ah mind ay that
one teacher in art, that Miss Ormond, she says tae ays, - You're the most
immature young man I've ever taught. Ah hud tae jist tell her straight, ah am
mature miss, ah've been fuckin well shaggin fir years n ah've shagged mair
birds thin any other cunt in this school. Nippy cow only went n sent ays tae
Blackie's fir the fuckin web.
They've goat the efternoon telly oan, some
repeats ay The Saint. It's the
other cunt, the one that looks like the real Saint's wee brother. Ah
37
settle doon oantae the couch and Gail sits
in one armchair n Maggie oan the airm ay the other. Ah'm lookin at the show ay
thigh comin fae under Maggie's wee tartan skirt and ah'm thinkin aboot that
American Express advert: that'll dae nicely. - So, tell ays aw yir adventures
girls, ah ask, takin a long draw ay ma Embie Regal. - What yis been up tae?
Mair importantly, ur yis gaun oot wi anybody? Ah'm wantin aw the scandalous
gossip mind.
- She wis gaun oot wi Alan Leighton,
Maggie says, pointin tae the Gail bird.
- No now though, ah hate um, Gail goes.
- Dinnae really ken the boy, ah smiles,
thinkin that Leighton's a mate ay that Larry Wylie's so she's double-bound tae
take the doady if she's been knockin aboot wi yon crowd.
- Eh's a wanker, Gail says, in a wey which
ye'd be daft no tae read as: ah'm no shaggin him anymair, but ah need a length
ay cock pretty bad, so come ahead big yin.
This is Terence Henry Lawson, interpreting
for the badly needing shagged.
Spice ay life.
Funny aboot this Gail lassie, ah'm still
tryin tae place her. Ah think she might be one ay the Bankses. Ah'm sure she's
a mate ay Doyle's sister. Nah'm sure she used tae wear glesses, nice
gold-rimmed glesses that made her look even dirtier and sexier than she is now,
if that's possible. Mibbe it wis her mate ah'm thinkin aboot. But aye, she'll
go, nae bother, ye jist git soas ye kin tell. Ah turns tae Maggie, whae's lookin
a bit left oot. - Surprised that you're no spoken fir Maggie, ah say, watchin
her blush a bit again. - Ah mean, ah'm no complainin, mind you, it's great news
fir me. See, ah've eywis fancied ye!
Gail throws back her heid n laughs. Then
she rolls her eyes n goes, - Whae-hae!
Wee Maggie though, she sortay joins her
hands thegither n lowers her eyes aw shy n says, her voice gaun aw low, - But
you're gaun oot wi Lucy Wilson.
Fuck me, it was like she wis in a church
or something. She's foolin nae cunt wi that shite. She's a proddy, which means
ye nivir go tae church. - Naw, that's aw past now. So if ah wis tae ask ye tae
go oot wi me, wid ye?
She looks aw crimson. She turns tae Gail,
n laughs, no sure whether ah'm takin the pish or no.
- Terry's askin ye a question, Maggie!
Gail says aw loud.
38
- Ah dinnae ken, she says back aw
irritated, but a wee bit coy at the same time.
The thing is thit thir's gaun oot n gaun
oot. Sometimes whin ye say yir 'gaun oot' wi somebody it jist means thit yir
ridin thum. Other times it's a bit like 'gaun steady'. That's fuckin daft, like
ye wir gaun crooked before. Naw, Lucy's a bird ye go oot wi, eywis well-dressed
n a virgin until ah goat a hud ay her. Thir's birds like her, the ones ye go
oot wi, n thir's ones like Maggie n that Gail, ones ye jist ride.
- Well if you dinnae, naebody else does,
eh Terry, Gail says and gies me a wee wink.
She's a fuckin ride awright. Ah'm really
no that bothered aboot Maggie now, ye eywis go wi the goer, n even though
they'll baith go, that Gail's defo. Ye kin tell right away.
The thing is but, it's Maggie's hoose, n
wir no wantin flung oot. - Mibbe ah could convince ye, ah sais tae her. - Ye no
gaunny sit oan ma knee?
She looks aw doubtful.
- C'mere, ah say. - C'moan, ah twist ma
heid.
Gail looks up at her, eggin her oan. -
Eh's no gaunny bite ye, Maggie, she tells her. Ah like this lassie, fill ay
mischief. Exactly ma type. Mind you, thir aw
ma fuckin type.
- Dinnae kid yirsell, ah laugh at them. -
C'moan Maggie, ah say, a wee bit mair impatient. A lassie gaun aw shy's nice
for a wee while, but then it becomes borin n ye want them stripped fir action.
Naebody loves a cockteaser eftir aw. She comes ower and ah pill her doon oantae
ma knee n start movin ma legs, rockin her thin wee body up n doon. Ah gie her a
wee kiss oan the mooth. - There, that wisnae sae bad. Ah've wanted tae dae that
for a long time, ah kin tell ye that.
Tae any fuckin mooth that is. Humpin
crates aw day when ye should be humpin fanny. Maggie's intae it, she pits her
hand roond ma neck and runs her fingers through the hair at the back ay ma
heid. Ah'm lookin at the auld tiled fireplace wi the gas fire that aw they
scruffy auld tenement hooses huv goat. No aw modern n electric, like us, the
snobs, ower in the new flats.
- Ah like the wey yuv goat yir hair, she
goes.
Ah smile, that wee shy smile that ah've
practised in the mirror every day, n ah kiss her again, a longer, slower yin
this time.
Ye kin hear a loud breath as Gail stands
up. We brek oaf fir a bit. - Since you two are gittin aw lovey-dovey, ah'm gaun
upstairs fir a bit, tae play that tape, Gail says aw snooty, but it's sort ay
pit oan, cause
39
ye can tell that she kens that her length
is as good as guaranteed, which it is, if no now then eftir.
Ye see, ah ken every baker's shoap in West
Edinburgh. That's the beauty ay workin oan the juice lorries.
Maggie sort ay half-heartedly protests as
Gail goes. - Goan pit the kettle oan, she asks, but Gail's already oot the
door, cause ah watched that tight erse in they white troosers vanish oot ma
sight n aw ah wis thinkin aboot wis gittin a hud ay it later oan.
First things first but. That wis one thing
ah did learn at the school, way back in the primary. They daft sayins thit they
gied ye. A bird in the hand is worth two in the bush. Ah make it different but;
a bird's bush in your hand is worth two wi thir clathes oan. - Ah'll pit the
kettle oan, ah say tae her, - but only if ah git another kiss first.
- Git away, she goes.
- One wee kiss, goan, ah whisper.
One wee kiss, that'll be right. After
snoggin for aboot ten minutes, ah've goat that daft cardy then her toap n bra
oaf n her wee tits are bouncin up n doon in the palms ay ma hands and she's
looking at them like she's never seen them before.
Whae-hae ya cunt that ye are! Ah'm fuckin
guaranteed here!
Ah settles her doon oan the couch giein
her the stinky-pinky for a bit, slidin ma hand up that wee kilt and inside her
pants, enjoyin her groans as she starts tae work herself oantae ma stiff little
fingers. Ah'm thinkin aboot that band and wonderin if the dirty cunt that made
the name up wis ivir thinkin aboot some bird eh wis friggin oaf. Here's an
Alternative Ulster fir ye hen! Spice ay life!
Time for action, ah pill doon the pants
ower her knees and then her ankles, and pill her oantae me. She's tremblin as
ah gits ma ain breeks doon ower ma thighs n ma cock oot. Ah've goat her wee
erse in one hand and her tits in another as her hands rest oan my shoodirs. Nae
need fir her tae try n play the wee virgin, she's been done before, by maist ay
Topsy's crew ah reckon. Nivir hud a pole like this in her but, that must be
guaranteed. She's dead wee, even mair so than Lucy n so ah start oaf fuckin her
slowly until she's gaggin for mair so ah step up a gear giein it tae her
goodstyle. - Aye, Aye, ye fuckin well like that eh? Eh? ah goes, but she's no
savin nowt until she gies oot a wee cry when she gits there. Ah start makin
daft squeaky wee sounds like a dippit wee tart masel, but, well, that's the
heat ay passion n aw that.
She'd better no say nowt tae nae cunt
aboot me makin they noises. A loat ay boys think thit lassies dinnae talk like
that tae each other,
40
thit it's aw sugar n spice, bit that's
crap. Thir jist like us. Fuckin worse, if the truth be telt.
Ah hud her for a wee while, cause in ten
minutes ah'll be ready again, but it's like she's in a trance. Nae point wastin
time. - Ah'd better go up n take a wee leak, ah tell her.
As ah stand up n pill oan ma shreddies,
then ma jeans n T-shirt, she's staring oaf intae space, then wrappin her
clathes roond her.
Ah go upstairs, mountin the blue
threadbare-carpeted steps two at a time. In the bog thir's a shite thit husnae
flushed away. It makes ays feel funny aboot peein in it, as if the shite's
gaunny fly up ma piss-tube, so ah pish in the sink then gie ma tackle a wee
wash. When ah finish ah clocks this spider in the bath so ah blasts the cunt wi
baith taps, flushin the fucker away, before gaun in tae the bedroom next door.
Gail's lying oan the bed, face doon. She's
goat the headphones oan, thir coming ootae the music centre fae a long cord,
trailin doon the back ay her toap, n across one ay they nice buttocks, so she
cannae even hear me come intae the room. Her erse looks great in they white
troosers, ye can see the pant line stretchin oot ower the buttocks n vanishin
right intae that erse n fanny crack. She's readin this book oan the pillay, her
long dark hair hingin doon. She's goat a good body awright, chunkier than
Maggie's, much mair fuckin womanish.
Thir's a big poster ay Gary Glitter oan
the waw above her. That cunt's barry. Ah like that bit whin eh goes: ah'm the
man thit pit the bang in gangs. He's the fuckin boy. Ah mean, ah like The Jam n
the Pistols now but him n Slade are the only cunts fae the auld days ah still
go fir.
Ah stand and take in the view for a bit,
giein Gary a wee wink. Ah'll show the cunt how tae pit the bang in gangs
awright. So that's ays as stiff as a fuckin rock again. Ah move ower n turn the
volume doon n watch her spin aroond n pill oaf the headphones. She's no surprised
at aw tae see me. Ah'm surprised tae see her, cause she's wearin they
gold-rimmed glesses. That should turn ye oaf, but it jist makes me hornier than
ever. - Awright four-eyes, ah goes.
- Ah jist wear mum fir readin, she sais,
takin thum oaf.
- Well ah think thir sexy as anythin, ah
say, movin right ower tae the bed, thinkin that if ah grab her and she kicks up
fuck, ah'll jist let go n tell her ah wis only jokin. But thir's nowt tae worry
aboot here, cause ma tongue's in her mooth n thir's nae resistance, so ah've
goat ma cock oot, n she's goat her hand oan it, well fuckin game.
41
- No here . . . we cannae now . . . she
goes, but she isnae in any big hurry tae lit go ay ma knob.
- Fuck it, c'moan, Maggie kens the score,
ah tell her.
She looks at ays for a second but ah'm
gittin ma gear oaf n she's no far behind. We're right under the covers. Ah'm
feelin great n it's barry thit ma cock's still hard even though ah shot ah fair
auld bit ay wad intae Maggie. The likes ay Carl or Wee Gaily, they'd be up in
the Royal in intensive care eftir a wank, nivir mind a bird. Disnae bother me,
ah could fuck aw day.
Ah'm impressed by this Gail's attitude;
nae fuckin aboot, the keks n the bra are oaf straight away. Ah loat ay birds leave oan the keks as
sortay insurance thit thi'll git a bit ay foreplay, but it's only a toss-bag
whae'd jist try n stuff' it straight between a lassie's legs whin thir's plenty
other fun tae be had first.
So auld Gary
Glitter's lookin doon at us as ah've goat rna tongue between Gail's
legs. She's tryin tae push ma heid away at first, but it becomes a rub oan ma
scalp then a tug oan ma hair as ah starts lappin her up and she relaxes her
grip and she's right fuckin intae it. Ah've goat ma hands under her buttocks,
gittin a good grope at her ersecheeks, then ah slide ma finger inside her and
start giein her fanny a wee frig. Ah'm tryin tae twist roond, cause they big
lips ay hers wir meant fir sookin oan ma knob but the covers're slippin oaf us.
The trick is tae keep her oan the boil, but tae make it soas she's goat tae
take ma cock in her mooth. She's intae that though, she's still runnin her hand
the length ay it, pillin the foreskin back.
- That's great Terry, this is mad, we're
mental . . . she gasps.
- Spice ay life, ah grunt back at her, -
ah want ma tongue right up your holes, one eftir the other, ah tell her. That
wis what this boy said in this dirty video that Donny Ness had. Ah eywis try
tae mind ay aw they best lines, and the best moves.
So there's me straddlin her
sixty-nine-style, and she's goat ma cock in her mooth n she's suckin hard oan
it, and by Christ, this lassie can gam. Ah'm pullin her wee flaps apart and
giein it big postage stamp licks n fingerin her cunt first, then her ersehole
which smells aw moist and earthy, then ah'm back oantae her clit which feels
big and stiff enough tae be a mini-cock, and she pills ma knob oot her mooth n
there wis me thinkin she wis gaspin fir air, but naw, it's her comin in jagged,
shocked spasms, ma finger jammed oantae that wee love-button ay hers like it
wis stuck oan the dial ay a good radio station.
So she's gaspin as her shudders run doon,
but ah'm no finished wi
42
her yit, n ah twist roond n pill ehr up
and her face is in a wide, mental shock n ah'm oan the bed but ah've goat her
heid doon oan ma cock, and she's gammin ays like fuck, her big eyes lookin up n
watchin ays, spillin wi gratitude cause she kens that wis jist the starter n
she's gittin well fucked in a second or two. Ah've goat her hair in ma hands,
twistin they dark locks, n ah'm pillin her tae me, then away fae me, adjustin
the pace n range so she gits it right n aye, she kens what she's daein, cause
her heid settles intae the right rhythm n ah dinnae even need tae thrust ma ain
pelvis in time or nowt like that. She's gaggin a bit and she pills away, which
is a good thing cause ah wis decidin whether or no ah wanted tae blaw it intae
her mooth n save fuckin her in the fanny till later oan, keep the wee hoor aw
hoat n bothered. Bit ah think, naw, ah'll gie her it fine style right now. Ah'm
oan toap ay her n gittin in, n she's sayin, - Aw Terry, wi shouldnae be daein
this, no the now . . .
Ah've heard that song before. - Want ays
tae stoap then, ah gasp.
Ye dinnae huv tae be that Bamber Gascoigne
cunt oot ay that University Challenge tae
ken the answer tae that. Aw ah git is another, - Aw Terry ... in reply, n ah
take that as ma fuckin starter fir ten awright.
So there's me right up, n ah'm startin tae
git intae ma stride now n this Gail looks away n tenses up briefly, then lets oot
a low laugh n pills ma heid tae her, n thir's a strange expression oan her
face. Ah looks up n sees that Maggie's come intae the room.
Maggie pills her airms in the shape ay a
croass ower her chist. It's like she's jist been shot. She stands thaire fir a
bit sayin nowt, her wee mooth aw twisted. - Yi'll need tae go, ma Uncle Alec's
here, she finally whispers at us, lookin aw uptight n worried.
Gail turns away again, facin the waw, n
goes, - Aw god, ah cannae fuckin stand this! She's grippin the bed clathes,
then clawin them like she's a fuckin cat.
Ah'm still fuckin solid but and nae cunt's
gaun naewhaire till ah've blawn ma muck. - Shut up the now, ah goes tae Maggie,
but still lookin at Gail as ah keep thrustin, - you go doon n see yir Uncle
Alec . . . we'll be ...
Ah hears the door slam n then Gail starts
gaun fir it again n within a few mair strokes she's makin they noises, n ah
wanted tae git her oan toap fir a bit, then mibbe even try n stick it in her
other hole tae finish up, but that'll have tae wait now cause ay that dopey wee
Maggie cow, but fuck it, it'll gie ays something else tae look forward tae
later oan, so she's screamin n moanin n ah'm makin they gaspin sounds n she's
43
comin like a trooper n ah am n aw, n thank
fuck Maggie's taken the hump n went oot the room as we explode cause yon Gail's
gaun oaf like a pint ay milk left oot in the Sahara Desert. - Aw Terry . . .
you're a fuckin animal . . . she screams.
Fuck-ahrrrrr . . .
Ah gasps n then jist huds her, giein her
every droap ay it thit's in ays. Then, lettin ma breathin settle, ah starts
thinkin aboot her bein at Auggie's n a pape n that, n ah'm hopin tae fuck she's
oan the bun. Ah gies her a slobbery kiss on they big lips, then ah arch masel
up oan ma airms n look her in the eye. - We've goat fuckin chemistry doll. Ye
dinnae turn yir back oan that. Ken whit ah'm sayin?
She nods.
That's a great line, it came fae one ay
they films ah saw at the Classic in Nicolson Street. Percy's Progress, ah think it wis. The one aboot the white
boy thit goat the darkie's cock pit oan him.
Ah git oaf her n wi start gittin dressed.
Then Maggie's back in, - Youse huv tae go,
she nearly squeals at us, her eyes aw rid, twistin a lock ay her ain hair in
her fingers.
Gail's lookin for her knickers, but ah'd
goat thaire first n done a sneaky yin n stuck thum in ma poakit. Souvenir. Like
ah did wi that Philippa fae Huddersfield ah shagged in that guesthoose. A
souvenir ay Blackpool. Why no? Each tae thir ain. Yir better ridin birds thin
trams, better lickin fannies thin sticks ay rock. That's what ah say anywey.
This Maggie's well nippy but. - C'moan
Maggie, what's the problem? Yir Uncle's no gaunny bother us up here, ah tell
her. - Yir no jealous ay Gail ur ye?
- Fuck off, she spits oot. - Jist you git
oot ay here son!
Ah shake ma heid as ah lace up me dessie
boots. Ah cannae stand immaturity in a lassie whin it comes tae issues ay the
cock n fanny. If ye want a shag, huv a shag. If ye dinnae, jist say naw. -
Dinnae be gittin aw fuckin wide, Maggie, me n Gail here wir just huvin a wee
bit ay fun, ah warns the dippit wee cow. Every cunt's entitled tae some
enjoyment. What's the big fuckin problem? Ah should've sais that line fae Emmanuelle, ah think it wis, whaire the
boy goes: don't be so hung-up and repressed, baby.
- That's aw it wis, Maggie, Gail says,
still lookin fir her pants, - dinnae go aw funny aboot it. You've no even been
gaun oot wi Terry.
Maggie grits her teeth at Gail, then turns
tae me, - So does that mean yir gaun wi her now? she asks, aw hurt. Dinnae
fight girls, dinnae
44
fight, thir's enough tae go roond fir
everybody! Guaranteed! Dinnae be sae repressed and hung-up, baby!
Ah turns roond tae Gail n winks at her. -
Naw . . . dinnae be daft, Maggie. Like ah wis sayin, it wis jist a daft bit ay
fun. Eh, Gail? Ye goat tae huv a laugh, eh. C'mere n gies a wee cuddle, ah says
tae Maggie, pattin the bed. - You me n Gail here, ah whispers. - Yir Uncle
Alec's no gaunny bother us.
She stands her groond, lookin aw hard at
ays. Ah mind whin me n Carl Ewart wir monitors at the school dinners, servin up
the grub tae oor table. Cause eh fancied her, the Milky Bars wir oan him
awright, n Carl used tae make sure she goat a good load, seconds as well. Wi
probably kept the scruffy wee cow alive Carl n me, n this is the fuckin thanks
ah git.
Bet ye oor Mr Ewart wid huv liked tae huv
served up the wee hing-oot wi the portion thit ah jist did! Guaranteed!
- Terry, you seen ma pants? Gail asks. -
Ah cannae find ma fuckin pants.
- Naw, thir no ma size, ah laughs. They'll
be right under ma pillay the night! Sniffity-sniff-snifl!
- Try fuckin well keepin them oan
sometime, ye might no lose thum sae easy, Maggie hisses at her.
- Aye, jist like you did, Gail snaps back.
- Dinnae git fuckin wide wi me, hen, jist cause yir in yir ain hoose!
Maggie's eyes've gaun aw that watery wey
again. Every cunt kens thit Gail wid batter fuck oot ay her in a square go.
This is some wee show right enough. Ah've goat ma keks oan n ah'm ower tae
Maggie n ah've goat ma airms roond her. She's tryin tae push ays away but she's
no tryin that hard, if ye ken what ah mean. - Wi wir jist muckin aboot, ah
tells ehr. - Now lit's jist aw sit doon n relax.
- Ah cannae relax! How kin ah relax! Muh
Ma n Dad's doon in Blackpool n ma Uncle Alec's here! Eh's eywis drunk n eh's
awready set ehs ain hoose oan fire! Ah've goat tae watch him aw the time . . .
it's no fair, she greets, n she's really blubberin away now.
Ah tries tae comfort ehr, while watchin
Gail pull her breeks oan wi nae knickers. She might try tae steal a pair fae
Maggie later, cause ah think that big black bush ay hers might jist show
through they thin cotton troosers otherwise. Mind you, ah didnae think she's
that far tae git hame.
- Nivir mind yir Uncle Alec, Maggie. Gail
shakes her heid. Aw she's interested in is her pants. Mind you, that makes two
ay us!
45
Maggie's a bit feart ay her Uncle Alec.
She'll no go doon and face um, even tae make us a cup ay tea. - You dinnae ken
urn Gail, eh's eywis drunk, she slobbers. Mibbe it's an excuse, mibbe she kens
that as soon as she goes oot the door ah'll be right up yon Gail again.
- Awright, ah'll go doon n say hiya, n
make some tea. bring it up here. Wi a wee biscuit, ah goes, imitatin the wee
Glesgay laddie oan that British Rail advert. Perr wee cunt thought it wis a big
deal tae git a biscuit oan a train. Probably is through thaire though, thi'll
be like gold dust for they fuckin scruffs. Aye, Glesgay patter, ye cannae beat
it, or so they keep tellin any cunt daft enough tae listen.
Ah head doonstairs hopin that the boy's no
one ay they psycho cunts. Thing is, it's nice tae be nice n ah find that maist
cunts are usually awright by you if you're awright by thaim.
Uncle
Alec
It's a mawkit fuckin hoose this, it hus
tae be said. Muh Ma's no goat much money, but even whin she wis oan her ain,
before she took up wi that German cunt, she hud oor place a palace compared tae
this. Maggie's room is the best in the place, it's like it belongs in a
different hoose.
It's funny, but when ah git doon the
stairs intae the front room, ah find that ah recognise the boy. Alec Connolly.
A right tea-leaf eh is n aw.
This Alec boy looks at ays wi what muh Ma
calls a real drinker's face, aw flushed n wi liver spoats crawlin up the neck.
Still, ah'd rather huv somebody like that aroond thin that yon German cunt that
she goes wi. Steys in aw the time, nivir drinks, n grumbles at me if ah come in
steamin oot ay ma heid. The sooner me n Lucy git a place ay oor ain, the
better. - Aye, aye, the Alec gadge goes, aw sort ay frosty.
Ah jist winks at the auld cunt. - Awright,
mate. How's it gaun? Jist up the stair wi Maggie n her pal thaire, playin some
records.
- So that's what ye call it now, is it, eh
says, but it's a sortay laugh. This cunt's awright: he disnae gie a fuck
really. Ah'm sure this room's goat even mair boggin since ah wis last in it. Ma
soles stick tae the cracked lino, n tae the fusty square ay cairpit in the
middle ay it.
Alec's sittin in a battered ermchair tryin
tae roll a fag wi shakin hands. Oan the coffee table in front ay him thir's
piles ay cans, a half-
46
empty half-boatil ay whisky n a big gless
ashtray. Eh's wearin a worn blue suit n tie, it's nearly the same colour as the
cunt's eyes, which stand oot in ehs ruddy coupon. Ah jist shrug. - You're Alec,
aye? Ah'm Terry.
- Ah ken who ye are, ah've seen ye oan the
lorries. Are you Henry Lawson's laddie?
Uh-aw. Eh kens the auld cunt. - Aye. Ye
ken um?
- Ah ken ay
um, bit eh's goat a few years oan me. Drinks in Leith, eh. How's eh
daein?
Whae gies a fuck aboot that cunt. -
Awright, ah mean ... ah dinnae ken. Seems tae be fine. We dinnae really git
oan, ah tell this Alec gadge, but ah think eh tippled that as soon as the auld
bastard's name was mentioned.
This Alec grunts somethin, it's like eh's
clearin ehs throat. - Aye, eh sais eftir a bit, - families. That's whaire aw
the problems come fae. Bit what kin ye dae, eh? You tell me, eh goes, spreadin
ehs hands oot, the rolled fag stuck in one mitt.
Thir's nowt ye kin say tae that. So ah
jist nods n goes, - Ah'm jist makin yir niece n her friend a wee cup ay tea. Ye
want yin?
- Fuck the tea, eh lights the fag and
points at the stack ay cans oan the table. - Huv a beer. Goan. Help yirsell.
- Ah will later oan, Alec, a wee beer n a
blether likes, but ah dinnae want tae be rude tae ma company up the stairs, ah
explains tae him.
Alec shrugs n looks away as if tae say, aw
the mair for me. Thir's somethin aboot this auld fucker, ah like the cunt, n ah
will huv a bit ay a chinwag wi him later. Aye, keep um sweet soas ah kin keep
oan gittin up Maggie n Gail roond here. N they aw say up the Busy that eh does
a loat ay duckin n divin aroond. Useful cunts tae ken, they sort ay fellays:
contacts n that.
Ah gits through intae the kitchen, nearly
fawin n breakin ma neck oan a bit ay loose lino. Ah starts tae bile the kettle.
It's no a plug-in yin, so ye huv tae dae it oan the gas. Eftir a bit ah head
back upstairs wi a pot ay tea, where these dirty wee cows are waitin for ays.
Maggie's sittin wi a cassette case, writin the tracks ontae the caird fae this
album she's been tapin. She's makin a meal ay it; it's an excuse no tae talk
tae Gail.
- Tea up, ah goes. Then, as Maggie looks
up at ays, ah sais: - Dinnae ken whit yir worried aboot Maggie, that Alec boy's
sound.
- Aye, but you dinnae ken um like ah do,
she warns ays again.
47
Gail's still harpin oan aboot her
knickers. - This is daein ma heid in, she sais.
She'll no be needin thum if she's gaunny
be hingin aboot wi me, that's fuckin well guaranteed.
Sally and Sid James
Ah wake up in the bed, sweatin like fuck,
n ah realise ah'm oan ma ain. Ah looks n sees the two ay thaim, lyin sleepin
oan the flair. It aw comes back tae ays; in the night ah managed tae git in the
middle ay thum, thinkin aboot threes up, like in the films. Ah tried tae gie
thum a wee frig, the pair ay thum at the same time, but they both goat a bit
funny. Neither ay thum would lit ays up thum eftir that, too shy in front ay
the other yin. So ah'll jist need tae keep daein them separately for a while,
then thi'll be intae a threes up. Guaranteed.
Aye, ah tried it oan aw night, but they
widnae huv it, so eftir tryin tae kick ays oot ay bed, n thir wis nae fuckin
chance ay that, they baith gave up n went oan tae the flair tae kip. So ah jist
hud a good fuckin wank tae masel n drifted oaf tae sleep. It wis a wee bit ay a
frustratin night but a good kip suited ays cause it's the fitba the day n the
dancin the night. Spice ay life.
It wisnae easy tae git oot ay bed in the
mornin but, the root ah've goat oan, wi they two jist lyin thaire dozin oan the
flair. Ah hus another wee wank ower thum, catchin maist ay it oan the carpet,
though a bit went on the airm ay Gail's blouse. Then ah creeps doonstairs n
sees Alec, still in the same armchair, watchin that Tiswas.
Her wi the barry tits is oan it. - That
Sally James, a fuckin ride, eh? ah goes.
- Sally James, Alec slurs.
It could be fuckin well Sid James for aw
that auld cunt kens. The whisky boatil's empty now, n ah think maist ay the
cans are n aw. - Ye want some tea? eh asks.
- Well Alec, ah wis wonderin if that wee
offer ay a drink wis still oan?
- Huv tae be the pub, eh goes, pointin tae
the pile ay empties oan the coffee table.
48
- Sound by me, ah tell um.
So we head doon the road taewards the
Wheatsheaf. It's a bramer day n ah'm lookin forward tae the ritba. Thir's been
a loat ay talk aboot gittin a wee mob thegither fae the scheme the day, wi
Doyle n aw that bunch. Maist ay the boys in oor scheme support Herts, it bein
this end ay toon, but thir's a good few Hibees sprinkled aroond. If ye could
git aw the local Hibs thegither, it would be quite a wee team cause ye goat the
likes ay Doyle n Gentleman n me n Birrell that's Hibs. Thir's eywis talk but, n
that's usually aw it is. Whatever happens though, we'll huv a laugh. That's one
thing aboot Doyle; eh's a crazy cunt, but yuv eywis goat a tale tae tell wi
him. Like that time wi choried aw that copper wire, that wis fuckin radge.
Cunt's still no peyed us fir that but. Ah turns tae Alec as we pass by the
park, the pub comin intae sight. - So yir makin sure thit Maggie disnae git up
tae any nonsense while ehr Ma n Dad's doon in Blackpool?
- Aye, ah'm no daein a very good joab ay
it, um ah? Eh laughs, aw sarcastic.
- Ah'm a gentleman, Alec. Wi jist sat up n
blethered aw night. Ah left thaim tae crash. Maggie's a nice lassie, she's no
like that.
- Aye, right, eh goes, no believin a word.
- Naw, that's gen up likes. Ah think ehr
mate might be a bit ay a raver oan the quiet, bit no wee Maggie, ah explains.
It's best no tae lit the cunt think thit yir takin the pish. Eh's thinkin aboot
this, cause thir's a bit ay silence as we go intae the pub. Ah orders a couple
ay pints and that pits a smile back oan ehs face. Ye kin tell that Alec's a
right peeve artist ay the first degree. - So how long ur ye steyin thaire fir?
ah ask um.
Eh stares oaf intae the distance. - Dinnae
ken. Thir wis a fire in ma hoose. The colonies at Dairy. Bad wirin. The whole
place went up: ma wife's in the hoaspital, the loat, eh explains. Then eh
starts gittin narky. - The fuckin gas board are the cunts thit ur tae blame . .
. ah'm gittin a lawyer, take the cunts tae coort.
- Too right, Alec, thir's bound tae be a
bit ay compensation fir thit. It's yir fuckin entitlement mate, ah tells um.
- Aye, eh smiles aw grimly, - whin ah git
that insurance claim sorted oot ... it'll be all systems go.
Billy Birrell. Sex as a Football Substitute
Ah hears the rattlin ay boatils in thir
crates so ah goes tae the windae n pills back the curtain. It's Terry's juice
lorry n ah kin hear um giein it the patter. Jist when ah think aboot shoutin
oot the windae or gaun doon fir a blether, ah see thit eh's talkin tae Maggie
Orr n this other lassie. That's just brutal; so ah dinnae think ah'll bother.
No that ah've nowt against Maggie, she's awright, but ah hud this shoutin match
wi her auld man the other week.
The tosser eywis comes back pished wi ehs
wife fae the boozer, n they huv a big fight in the street. It keeps muh Ma
awake. Ma auld man'll no dae nowt, so ah goes tae the door n hus a word. The
boy goat wide, sais ah wis jist a daft wee laddie. Ah telt um ah'd show um whae
the daft wee laddie wis if eh came ootside. Eh wis gaunny n aw, till ehs wife
stepped in n pilled um back. Whin ah saw Maggie thaire ah left it, cause she
wis upset n aw n ah didnae want tae embarrass her; it's no fair, she's done
nowt wrong.
Terry's giein her n her mate the chat. Ah
ken eh disnae like it that ah've been daein it wi Yvonne. It's awright fir him
tae shag anything thit moves, whin eh's meant tae be engaged n aw, but if ehs
sister does it eh gits aw stroppy. That's Terry Lawson but: brutal.
Yvonne's awright, a good lassie tae be
Terry's sister. Terry's ma mate, but ye widnae like tae go oot wi a lassie thit
wis like him. If yin existed. No that ah'm gaun oot wi Yvonne. Like ah've tried
tae tell her.
Huv tae stoap messin wi her though. That's
three times now, n only once wi a flunky n aw. Brutal. What a thought: bairnin
Yvonne n bein stuck wi Terry fir a brother-in-law. Brutal beyond belief.
Naw, ye dinnae want tied doon. No tae a
lassie whae jist steys a
50
couple ay streets away. Mibbe tae some
bird fae Spain, or California or Brazil. Even fuckin Leith or somewhere, but no
fae roond here.
Up the toap ay ma stair the first time; a
knee trembler. Nae wey wid she be up the stick fae that, cause aw the spunk
jist faws oot. Eywis a chance mind, cause yir right up thum whin it skooshes
oot. The next time wis doon Colinton Dell, up against the waw again, doon the
tunnel, n the third wis in her bedroom whin wi took the eftirnoon oaf school.
Yazed a rubber johnny thair but. We hud loads ay time, a whole packet, but ah
jist did it the once cause ah wis telt thit it fucks up yir legs fir the
trainin.
It's barry sittin here in the hoose oan ma
ain. Ah love Friday dinnertimes, comin hame n huvin the place tae masel. Rab at
the school dinners, muh Ma n faither baith at work. It gies ye time tae think.
Maggie n her mate go away n Terry's lorry
drives off. Thir's some wee first-year lassies gaun past now. Thir aw skinny,
except one thit looks mair like a third year; tits n erse n aw that. Lookin at
thum, ah starts tae feel a bit sorry fir the lassie. She's really jist like her
mates, ye kin see it in her eyes: a bairn like the rest ay thum. Cause she's
goat aw the paddin but, they'll aw be gaun up tae her, dirty cunts like Terry n
that, gaun phoah, gie's a ride, touchin her up n aw that. Ah think that's
brutal. If ah hud a sister n any wanker tried that wi her, ah'd go n batter
thir heid in.
Mibbe Terry thinks it's like that wi me n
Yvonne, cause she's jist second year.
Drastic! Here she's comin doon the road n
aw. Her hair's tied back in a pony tail, n she's goat this skirt oan thit's a
good few inches above the knee.
She's no croasin ower, which means she's
comin fir me. She must ken ah'm at hame, or mibbe she's jist nipped roond oan
the off chance. Brutal.
Ah could ride her now. In ma ain bed, a
ride in ma ain bed.