Glasgow Stories

Jimmy De Niro – Glasgow Taxi Driver

2009-06-24T11:28:00.003+10:00

Ur you talkin tae me?

Ur ye talkin tae me?

Eh?

Ur ye talkin tae me ya bawbag?

Who ur ye talkin tae?

Ye talkin tae me?

Well ah’m the only wan here.

Ur ye talkin tae me or whit?

Eh fannybaws?

Little Red Riding Hood - The Glasgow Version

2009-05-21T16:05:00.003+10:00

Little Red Riding Hood was gaily skipping through the forest on her way to visit her grandmother. The early evening sun shone through the leaves and sprinkled golden sunbeams here and there on the undergrowth. As the young girl danced and whistled, her basket of freshly-picked shiny red apples swinging to and fro, a family of squirrels were joined by a number of bunny rabbits as they ran alongside her, stopping and starting as they kept pace with the happy young girl.

As she approached a large oak tree, Little Red Riding Hood suddenly came to a halt. Her small furry companions stopped instantly and stood looking up at her, their whiskers fluttering inquisitively.

“Come out now Mister Wolf. I can see you,” she called.

The Big Bad Wolf stepped out from behind the oak tree and smiled nervously, baring his large, menacing teeth.

“Hllawrerr hen,” he began. “Ah didnae see ye comin. How did ye know ah wiz there?”

“I could see your big long hairy feet sticking out from behind the big oak tree.”

At that, Little Red Riding Hood set off again along the leaf-covered footpath, hotly pursued by her little friends, whose number was increasing as they progressed.

After another few minutes, as she passed a row of bramble bushes, Little Red Riding Hood once again skidded to a halt and stood looking sternly into the darkness.

“I can see you Mister Wolf. Come out here right this minute.”

A red faced Big Bad Wolf slowly emerged from the bushes, again forcing a smile.

“Eh . . . Hullo again lass.”

“I could clearly see your big brown ears sticking up above the bushes, you naughty, naughty Mister Wolf.”

She wagged her finger as she scolded him, before picking up her basket and moving off quickly towards the riverbank with her guard of honour. The young girl sang merrily as she skipped beside the flowing river, the salmon leaping here and there as if to catch a glimpse of the happy scene. As they passed a cave beside the river, Little Red Riding Hood stopped and peered into the darkness. Slowly she stepped forward a few paces, her hand on her heart as she strained her eyes to focus.

“Mister Wolf,” she cried, her voice echoing into the blackness. “I can see the whites of your big eyes shining in the darkness. Come out of there right now Mister Wolf.”

Now it was an angry Big Bad Wolf who emerged from the cave.

“Jist whit the fuck is it wi you?”

“I’m Little Red Riding Hood,” she gasped, stepping back as the rage in his voice shook her to the core.

“And whit the fuck are ye daein aw alane in the wids?”

“Why, I’m on my way to visit with my grandmama.”

“Well, Miss Little Red Riding-fuckin-Hood,” he growled with teeth bared as he moved menacingly towards the girl. “I suggest ye git a bliddy move oan then'n stoap interruptin me. Cos ah’m burstin for a shite!”

An American Dream

2009-05-21T09:24:00.004+10:00

Last night I had an amazing dream. I dreamt I was in a bar, an American bar. You know the type. You’ve seen it thousands of times in the movies. Smoke-filled atmosphere; busty hooker peddling her wares; a line of drunks and half-drunks addressing non-existent barmaids; the gang of roughnecks at the pool table, struggling to be heard above the thumping country rock beat from a tired old juke box. I sat in a corner reading the Wall Street Journal, quietly contemplating the day ahead, when in walked two gun tottin’ cops, real cops with real guns. A voice cried “Freeze!” Instantly the bar room was enveloped in a deathly hush. The pool players stopped their game, one frozen in a stooped position, ready to take a shot. His gum chewing companion stood with mouth agape, having stopped in mid chew. Even the juke box fell into silent obedience, and the celluloid image was complete.

Everyone froze except me. I strode forward, placed my empty glass noisily on the bar and demanded another scotch. The bartender hesitated momentarily, glancing first at the cops and then at me before relenting. I felt the icy stare of every eye in the bar room as the cold barrel of a .38 Wesson caressed my temple.

“Why did’n y’all freeze when I toad you to boy?”

The gun seemed to be speaking as the bartender filled my glass, his hand shaking so much he spilled some of the whisky over my hand. As he moved away I grabbed his arm, indicating that he should leave the bottle. My defiant gesture brought the spectators to life as they quickly backed away from the bar, one or two bar stools being knocked over in the rush. The bartender left the bottle beside me and retreated to the far end of the bar. Calmly I raised the glass to my lips, swallowed the smooth golden liquid in one swift movement and licked the spilled whisky from my hand. Once again I placed the empty glass on the bar with a thud, wiped my mouth with the sleeve of my jacket and, without looking round replied, “Cos it’s ma bliddy dream pal. That's why”

McNulty's Law

2009-05-21T09:14:00.003+10:00

As soon as I pinned the large rosette to my lapel I immediately felt less than comfortable. I should have followed my instincts there and then by tossing it into the waste bucket. Instead I gallantly forced myself to take to the streets, convinced that my duty to humanity was infinitely more important than childish vanity. I felt the first pangs of embarrassment as I strode along Stevenson Street, aware that I was being followed by a couple of young neds.

“Haw mister, there’s a big floo’er stickin oot yer jaicket.”

“Geeza sook at yer lollipop Jimmy.”

They took it in turns to assault me with their cruel taunts. I halted the tirade by turning sharply as if to pounce. They scattered in different directions, one up a close and the other down towards the end of the street. Yet still I failed to get the message. My sense of purpose overpowered any discomfort as I made my way towards the first close at the end of the road. First call was a door with a hand-written cardboard nameplate which showed G McNulty. I knocked hesitantly. The door opened and I was faced with a haggard old man wearing blue and white striped pyjamas and a battered bunnet.

“Good evening sir, I represent . . .”

The old codger pushed me aside and rushed out into the street without acknowledging my greeting.

“Well, whit is it?”

I turned once again towards the open door and looked into the eyes of a great bulging battle-axe of a woman. She glared at me with threatening eyes and bared teeth. She had one hand on her hip while the other held onto the door. Her forearms were muscular and hairy. Her neck could have belonged to a heavyweight wrestler.

“Good evening madam, I represent the independent . . .”

“Get lost pal.”

The muscular arm slammed the door inches from my face. The violent thud reverberated into the street. I pressed the doorbell across the landing. I waited. I tried again. I waited. I turned to leave but stopped as soon as I heard the faint sound of a lock being turned from inside the house. A muffled voice came from behind the door.

“Hold on, I won’t be long.”

I listened as a snib was unsnibbed, a chain was unchained, a latch was unlatched. The door swung open very gradually to reveal the head of a petite old lady. Warm, inquisitive eyes peered up at me. Her crackled face bore the merest hint of a smile.

“Good evening madam, I represent the independent candidate . . .”

“Come away in out of the cold son.”

She stepped back and beckoned me with a wave of her hand.

“Come in and sit by the fire.”

“If you’re sure it’s no trouble.”

“No trouble at all young man. Come in and tell me all about it.”

Soon I found myself in a small sitting room. Well perhaps it wasn’t so small, but it seemed that way. The place was packed with all sorts of furniture, ornaments, lamps and candlesticks. Every wall was covered with pictures and ornamental mirrors. The room was a veritable treasure trove of tastefully arranged hardware.

“Sit yourself down. I’ll just put on the kettle.”

“I don’t want to put you to any trouble.”

“Nonsense. It’s not often I get visitors. Make yourself at home.”

She disappeared into the kitchen as I returned to admiring the room. The only modern fixture was a small television set. The only seating was an ancient but well preserved settee which I had to share with a fluffy white cat. He lifted his head and eyed me suspiciously as I took my place next to him. After a few moments he settled down again and curled up into a furry ball. Evidently I had met with his approval.

“Here we are then. Help yourself young man.”

She placed a tray on the table in front of me. I poured from an expensive china teapot.

“Biscuit?”

She held a plate in front of me.

“No thank you. I’ve only just eaten.”

“Well, if you change your mind, no need to ask.”

I sipped my tea and mulled over what to say next.

“Who did you say you were?”

She saved me the trouble.

“Ah yes.”

I placed the cup and saucer on the table and continued with my usual enthusiasm.

“I represent the independent candidate in the . . .”

“No, no, never mind all that. What is your name?”

“Oh, I see. Harry, Harry Lawson.”

I was grateful to her for putting me right.

“I’m Sarah Ramsay and this is Ginger.”

She introduced me to her feline companion. I opened my mouth to ask why her snow-white cat was called Ginger but decided against it.

“I bet you’re wondering why I call him Ginger aren’t you.”

“Er, yes, it did occur to me.”

“Belonged to my late husband you see.”

She stroked his furry coat affectionately as she spoke.

“Blind as a bat he was. I tried to tell him but he wouldn’t listen. He was political you know.”

“Really?”

“Yes. He fought in the Spanish Civil War. He was badly wounded there as well.”

“How awful.”

I was genuinely shocked.

“Is that how he lost his sight?”

“He was blinded during a pub crawl in Govan.”

I spat at a copious spray of tea and spluttered uncontrollably.

“I’m terribly sorry Mrs Ramsay. I don’t know what came over me.”

“Och don’t concern yourself about it son. Help yourself to a wee biscuit while I switch on the television.”

I tried to compose myself and disguised my embarrassment by nibbling on a chocolate cookie.

The television came to life after some hesitant crackling and the picture settled down to reveal what appeared to be an opera. The English sub-titles suggested it was in Italian but I could not be sure as there did not appear to be any sound.

“I like the opera don’t you Mr Lawson.”

“Er, yes, yes I do,” I lied, more concerned at the dryness of my throat as I struggled to devour the biscuit.

“Is there something wrong with the sound on your television set Mrs Ramsay?”

I hoped I might be of some assistance.

“No, it’s nothing like that. I like to follow the story but I just can’t abide that awful singing.”

I choked on the biscuit, splattering crumbs all over the cat. I decided it was time for me to move on.

“I really will have to dash Mrs Ramsay.”

“Oh must you? I really do enjoy having the occasional visitor.”

“It’s been a pleasure Mrs Ramsay but I really do have a lot of people to see.”

My grateful host followed me to the door and rushed to hold it open for me.

“You must come back and see me when you feel like a chat.”

“Yes, thank you. I will.”

I forced a smile and bade her farewell.

“Who did you say you were?”

“Harry Lawson.”

“No, not that. The politics.”

“Oh, I see. I represent the independent candidate in the forthcoming by-election.”

My introduction was well rehearsed. I never expected to be reciting it as I left a voter’s residence.

“Independent you say.”

“That’s right. George Harvey, local school teacher. Do you know him?”

“Which side does he swing to?”

I can’t imagine why at this precise moment my personal tailor should suddenly spring to mind.

“He’s more or less in the middle I suppose. The voice of moderation you might say.”

“I’m very glad to hear it.”

She sounded quite sincere.

“I simply can’t stomach those Marxist-Leninist Trotskyites.”

“Quite.”

“Even less those petty-bourgeois landowners.”

“Well, I couldn’t agree more.”

I made a poor job of concealing my astonishment.

“You tell your nice Mr Harvey he can rely on my vote.”

“I’m delighted to hear it. Goodnight.”

I made my way towards the front of the close. I’d had enough.

“Remember what I said. Drop in any time now.”

I heard the door close and the locks, snibs and chain being secured. The old man in the striped pyjamas was sitting on the steps at the mouth of the close.

“She’s a right bampot that yin.”

“Mrs Ramsay?”

“Naw, naw. McNulty. That eejit that slammed the door in yer mug.”

I sat on the step beside him and breathed in the cold night air.

“Are you Mr McNulty then?”

“Whit? Are ye kiddin? Nae chance o that pal.”

He looked at me for the first time and eyed me up and down as though questioning my sanity.

“D’ye think ah’d marry that aul scunner? Naw, whit is it youse young yins cry it? Co-habitation? Aye, that’s us.”

“How long have you been together?”

“Six years on an off. But ah’ll never marry the aul bag. Ah’m no that daft. Did she show ye her parrot?”

“Mrs McNulty?”

“Naw, aul Mrs Ramsay fucksake.”

I could scarcely keep up with this exchange of pleasantries.

“No. But I did meet her cat though.”

“Never mind the bliddy cat. She shoulda showed ye her parrot. Swears like a bliddy trooper so it diz.”

He spat on the step and cleared his throat. I cringed visibly.

“Hid enough then?”

“Sorry?”

“Canvassin. Aw that politics lark.”

“Yes. I think I’ll call it a day.”

“Yer wastin yer time Jimmy. Naeb’dy cares aboot aw that rubbish roon here.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Gaun then. Surprise me.”

“Old Mrs Ramsay. She cares. In fact she sounded rather well versed on the subject if you ask me, and she gave me her support.”

The old man snorted his disapproval and toyed with his dentures, allowing them to pop out from between his lips and perform a merry jig before disappearing back into his mouth once again.

“Listen pal. If ye telt her ye’d git her a cooncil hoose in the black hole o Calcutta wi an ootside cludgie she’d still gae ye her support fucksake.”

I got to my feet and wiped the dust from my trousers.

“Anyway, I’ll have to be moving. It’s getting late.”

“Take ma advice son. Nix time stay in the hoose. Ye’ll get nae thanks fur tryin tae save the world.”

“I appreciate your concern.”

My tone was somewhat cynical but at the same time I wondered just how near he was to the truth. I looked back in time to see a muscular arm appear from inside the close and grab the old man by the scruff of the neck. He yelped like a pig as he was dragged into the darkness, his feet leaving the ground as he was hauled away like a rag doll.

“Git back in that hoose an dae they dishes ya lazy aul get.”

The voice boomed out into the street to be followed by the familiar slamming of the door.

“Some fuckin close this eh?”

I looked round to see a parrot perched on a cage behind Mrs Ramsay’s open window. I decided there and then that I certainly would pay her another visit.

Me and that bird are going to have a little chat.

Devil's Desire

2009-05-21T08:43:00.002+10:00

Rita caught me totally by surprise. In all our twenty-seven years together I had seldom come across such a display of uncharacteristic benevolence. The taxi cab had stopped in the heart of Oxford Street where we were deposited in the midst of a throng of shoppers. I watched as crowds converged on busy pavements which made Argyle Street seem like a village market. People rushed from shop to store, all busily engaged in the incessant pursuit of spending money. I had resigned myself to an afternoon of trudging this jungle of bartering and greed. I watched as the beasts surveyed their prey with ravenous eyes, licking their lips at the colourful offerings laid bare before them.

I glanced towards the other side of the road where a tall street sign caught my eye. Soho. The name immediately conjured up all sorts of images in my mind. I pictured an assortment of beautiful girls, all eager to pander to my every whim. Shops and cinemas which promised all kinds of inducements aimed at the healthy, red-blooded male. And there I was. My first and last time in London and I stood within the shadow of that monument to manhood. Yet it might as well have been a million miles away as far as I was concerned.

“Get a move on Sandy. And stop day dreaming. We’ll never get another chance to see these famous shops so lets make the most of it.”

“Yes dear.”

I could not help sounding less than enthusiastic as I rushed to catch up with her. There hardly seemed to be any justice left in the world. After all, who was it who won the competition in the first place? Who filled in the entry form, bought the stamp and posted the envelope? A weekend for two in London. I wanted to take my pal Tony along with me. I don’t recall anything in the rules which said that I had to take my missus at all. The way she was foaming at the mouth at the sight of all those shops and department stores, I had a feeling that the prize was going to turn into a penalty. We had already spent her share of the two hundred pounds spending money which went with the plane tickets and the luxury West End hotel.

“Wid ye just look aw all these shops Sandy,” she could scarcely contain her excitement. “I just don’t know where to start.”

“Howz aboot the nearest boozer?” I ventured to dampen her enthusiasm.

“Is it no excitin? Look at aw these people.”

Either she ignored my question or failed to hear it above the confused babel all around us. Either way I found myself trailing at her heels in my customary state of passive obedience.

“My goodness. Wid ye have a look at those beautiful dresses.”

She came to a halt and gasped at an elegant window display. My eyes were fixed on a dark, bronzed Goddess who slinked seductively towards me, her black, silky hair flowing in the breeze. She swayed her hips with expert rhythm and her long legs moved in slow, sensuous strides. She smiled warmly in my direction. A long, inviting smile which revealed brilliant, white teeth, contrasting sharply with her smooth, dark skin. My mouth began to water and I allowed a smile to form on my lips in response to her own obvious gesture of admiration. My smile disappeared and my heart sank as a smart, well-groomed muscle man emerged from behind me. My Goddess threw her arms around him and they embraced at length before strolling off arm in arm to some secret harem.

“Sandy,” my fantasy was interrupted by Rita’s bidding.

“Yes dear.”

“Why don’t ye find yersel a quiet wee pub and I’ll meet ye later. Yer heart’s no in this.”

I could hardly believe my own ears.

“Besides, it’ll give ye a chance to buy me an anniversary present. Ye havnae forgot have ye?”

“Course no,” I lied. “Will ye be awright on yer ain then?”

I risked feigning concern at her well being above my own ecstasy.

“Don’t you concern yersel wi me. Just make sure yer back here by six o’clock on the dot.”

Four hours. I was to be set loose on my own for four long, wonderful hours. I watched her disappear into the crowds before I turned on my heels and skipped towards Soho. I was like a prisoner just released from a long stretch as I dodged in and out of the crawling traffic. I clasped my hands together and whooped with joy.

“Ok girls, here I come.”

A couple of nuns stood back and eyed me suspiciously. I raised my cap instinctively as I passed. I rushed beyond the street sign and strolled along a narrow, busy road. The wide, sprawling thoroughfare was replaced by tight, bustling alleyways. Lights flashed constantly and huge, dinner-jacketed doormen vied for custom with promises of ‘girls, girls and more girls’. Shop fronts advertised a vast array of books, videos and an assortment of peculiar utilities aimed at the modern man. Girls stood here and there in doorways and street corners. Each one watched me closely as I passed.

“Looking for me darling?”

I turned to face a young lady of oriental appearance. She smiled invitingly as I involuntarily examined her ample wares. She placed her hands on her hips and jutted her bosom in my direction. I felt a sudden dryness in my throat.

“Er . . . good afternoon miss,” I stammered foolishly and raised my cap as I backed away from her.

She laughed aloud as I turned and walked off with hurried steps. In my haste I allowed myself to be enticed into a brightly lit doorway. The doorman had no trouble guiding me into a long, narrow corridor. I glanced up at the notice in large red letters. Live peepshow. Oh well, I thought, it can’t possibly hurt. I walked into one of a row of empty booths, each about the size of a telephone box. In front of my eyes was a kind of letter box. Beside this was a coin slot above a drawing of three pound coins. I got the drift and eagerly pushed the coins into the slot. I listened as they dropped, the last one triggering off a series of mechanical reactions before the letter box slid open. I moved my head forward and peered into the darkness. There she was. A tall, well built lady cavorted before my very eyes. She seemed to be in the process of changing for dinner. I watched mesmerised as she danced and writhed unashamedly. All around her I could see other pairs of hungry, leering eyes watching her from the darkness. Bloody peeping Toms, I thought to myself. Suddenly the girl seemed to abandon her exotic dance as her eyes met mine. I felt my heart pound with excitement as she moved slowly towards me. My hands trembled as I moved my ears closer to the letter box, straining to hear what she wanted of me.

“Close the bleedin door you plonker.”

I turned round to see a group of men leering over my shoulder. They all stood with gaping eyes, their tongues licking their boots.

“Whit the . . . get the hell oot o it ya shower o perverts!”

I scrambled to close the door and had to use all my strength to shut out a couple of persistent gatecrashers. I turned round again just in time to see the slot close with a thud. I cursed out loud and decided against wasting any more of my hard earned cash.

I moved out into the busy street and made a beeline for the pub which stood prominently at the corner opposite.

“Geeza wee hauf wid ye Jimmy.”

“Do what mate?”

“Eh . . . sorry pal. Could I have a whisky please?”

I was beginning to lose track of myself in all this excitement.

“Make it a large one please mister.”

I looked round the smoke-filled bar room. People stood around in little groups, chattering noisily. The Juke Box boomed out Rod Stewart’s Do Ya Think I’m Sexy?. A couple of pretty girls sat at the other end of the bar, their eyes fixed on me. I sent a friendly smile in their direction. They both crumbled into fits of laughter and turned away from me.

“That’ll be four pound eighty please,” said the barman.

“How much?” my voice registered alarm.

“Four eighty.”

“You must be joking. I asked for a glass, not a bottle.”

“Four eighty it is my friend.”

He looked menacing as he moved his face towards me, baring his teeth as he spoke. I handed him five pounds.

“There ye go big yin. Keep the change.”

I tried to sound like some big shot. Somehow his glare contradicted my sense of charity.

A strong scent hit me very suddenly. I screwed up my nose and sniffed at my whisky. The dreadful pong caught the back of my throat and I gulped at my drink in an attempt to erase the powerful stench from my nostrils. It smelled of old socks. I turned round slowly and followed the trail. I jumped as my nose came into contact with the chest of a large framed female. She towered over me and I looked up into a strong, heavily made up face. Her false eyelashes flashed messages at me. Her hair was dyed blonde and her large, square shoulders heaved as she moved in on me, allowing her body to press against mine. I retreated until I was pushed against the bar and could retreat no more. She stopped inches away from me and the stinging aroma was almost unbearable.

“Hi. Me Helga. Me from Bavaria.”

She offered an outstretched hand of friendship.

“Hello. Me Sandy . . . er, I’m Sandy. I’m from Carfin.”

My hand ached as I accepted her greeting.

“You go with me. I give you plenty panky hanky, no?”

I could not decide whether she was asking me or telling me.

“No thanks hen. No the day if it’s aw the same wi you.”

I made to turn towards the bar once more but she pushed herself more forcefully against me. There was no escape. She was all of six feet tall and with a build to match.

“You no like Helga? Me from Bavaria.”

“Naw . . . I mean aye. I like. Ye’re dead nice, honest tae God. y’are.”

I broke out in a cold sweat as the smell of old socks overpowered my senses.

“Ok you come with me no? How much you pay?”

I let out a long gasp and nervously loosened my tie. I searched frantically for a way out.

“Five pounds,” I replied. I prayed she wouldn’t accept.

“Five pounds?” she cried. I felt all eyes on me as I tried desperately to conceal my embarrassment.

“Five pounds?” she repeated in an even higher voice. “Scheisse. You only get ugly pig for five pounds. Scheisse.”

She moved away and I sighed with relief as I watched her disappear into the crowd. I finished my whisky and ordered another. In my panic I had forgotten how extortionate the tipple was in this particular establishment. But I was so relieved to escape from the clutches of the crazy German that I did not care what it cost. I devoured the strong liquid with a new found relish and promptly ordered yet another. Several refills later I decided I’d had enough for now. I walked into the gents and made for the cold tap. I could still smell the old socks and I did not want Rita to start asking awkward questions. I washed my hands vigorously but the more I scrubbed them the stronger the pong. I began to panic as I imagined the horrible smell sticking to me for days on end.

“Me Helga. Me from Bavaria.”

I let out a guttural cry and leapt back against the wall as I caught sight of the large Bavarian girl. Some girl. There she was standing in front of the urinal, her skirt hitched up at the front, in the process of relieving herself, just like any ordinary bloke. I cursed aloud and raced for the exit as fast as I could. I heard it calling after me as I fled.

“Five pounds. Scheisse. Ugly pig for five pounds.”

I was in a state of apoplexy. I spent the next half hour taking in the sights and sounds of Soho as I gradually came back down to earth.

I watched the flashing lights grow in intensity against the darkening sky. Tough looking men drew crowds at street corners. I watched them trick several unsuspecting tourists into parting with ten pound notes at the turn of a card, and wondered at the apparent ease with which some people were prepared to throw away their cash.

An obese gentleman of middle-eastern appearance performed a perilous fire-eating trick to the delight of an appreciative audience. A street peddler hawked items of cheap jewellery and perfume from a battered old suitcase while an accomplice kept a look out for the law.

The strong whisky had given me a taste for more and I moved off in search of another watering hole. My eyes fell upon a large neon sign surrounded by flashing red lights. Live Sex Show. I moved closer and examined the small print. £5 membership, Licensed Club, Topless Girls, Live Show.

I took a deep breath and entered the dimly lit interior. A large doorman, completely bald and with a massive frame, stood at the top of a flight of stairs. I found his presence somewhat menacing and turned to leave.

“Excuse me sir.”

He grabbed me by the arm. His grip left me in no doubt as to his dedication to the job. I had no choice but to turn to face him.

“Would you care to avail yourself of some of our wonderful hospitality?”

He stood aside and raised his free arm, inviting me to descend the stairway. I felt trapped.

“Are you a member sir?”

His voice was a lot friendlier than his manner and I began to feel a bit easier.

“Naw. I’m a visitor. Down for the weekend. Know whit I mean?”

I must confess my tone was somewhat apologetic.

“Then let me welcome you to my humble establishment. For five pounds you can become a member for life. When you see our beautiful girls you will not regret such a small investment.”

The bald eagle led me down the steps towards a darkened foyer. Almost immediately a buxom girl emerged from the gloom and led me through a swing door into a dark and sleazy bar.

“Welcome sir. Please take a seat.”

She invited me to install myself at one of the many free tables. The place was in semi-darkness and I had to strain my eyes as they became accustomed to the change of light. It was then that I noticed my hostess was completely topless. I nervously averted my gaze as I manoeuvred myself into a seat by the wall.

“Would you care for some company sir?”

She stood over me with hands on hips, her large breasts swaying seductively in front of my eyes.

“Naw thanks. I’m fine by masel if it’s awright wi you.”

What the hell am I doing here, I asked myself. She’s younger than my own daughter for heaven’s sake.

“That will be five pounds please.”

Her voice assumed a more businesslike tone. I fumbled nervously in my pocket while she took out a notebook and pencil from the front of her apron and stood poised to take my order.

“Now what would you like to drink sir?”

I remembered the exorbitant price I had already been charged for a glass of whisky and decided to settle for something a bit less painful to the wallet.

“A lager please thanks hen.”

I watched her disappear into a darkened room and sat back in my seat. I looked round the cramped, stuffy room. An elderly gentlemen watched me intently from the far corner. He sat on a chair and crouched forward, his hands resting on a walking stick.

He wore a grey raincoat and sun glasses. I thought he looked like a character from a Le Carré novel. At another table a couple of topless girls were helping themselves to a Chinese Takeaway. I wondered what might happen if some of the hot meat were to spill onto their vital assets. A West Indian disc jockey sat in a cramped booth, drinking from a bottle and listening to records through a set of earphones, obviously intent on keeping the sounds to himself.

“Will there be anything else sir?”

The topless girl returned and placed a can of lager and an empty glass on the table in front of me.

“Don’t you have any draught lager?” I protested.

“I’m sorry. We only sell cans.”

She sounded unsympathetic and quite irritated at my obvious disappointment. I emptied the contents into my glass. I tasted the lager and was further annoyed to discover that the liquid was warm and tasteless. Never mind, I consoled myself, at least cans are a lot cheaper than draught. I took a large mouthful.

“That will be eight pounds sir.”

I spluttered uncontrollably and spat out a copious spray of lager all over the table.

“How much?” I cried out in disbelief.

“Eight pounds.”

She stood back to avoid being drenched.

“You’re jokin aren’t you.”

My heart raced and my stomach heaved violently as she repeated the words.

“I only asked for one lager. There must be some mistake lass.”

“There’s no mistake,” she assured me. “It’s eight pounds for one lager.”

I tried to laugh as I looked around me. The old man with the walking stick still stared at me. I managed to force a nervous giggle as I gathered my thoughts.

“Aye Ok, very good. Very droll. You really had me goin there for a minute. Now how much is it really?”

The girl sighed and shifted her weight onto one leg. She was obviously trying very hard to keep her cool.

“Look mister. I ain’t bloody joking. Either you cough up eight soddin quid or I call the manager.”

My heart thumped and my bottom lip trembled as I contemplated my predicament. I looked over her shoulder and caught sight of bald eagle as he loitered at the one and only exit.

“That’ll no be necessary hen.”

I reluctantly took out my wallet and handed over a ten pound note.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll bring your change.”

How could I have been so stupid? I cursed myself as I tasted the warm lager. Ugh! This has got to be the worst brew I’ve ever put to my lips, I told myself. I felt like picking myself up and storming out of the place. But I decided against that. I decided instead to face up to it and make the most of my eight quid. I wanted to show them that I would not be messed about easily. Besides, I was still owed two pounds change. Two fingers to you bald eagle.

A beautiful maiden with long golden hair emerged from the shadows and stood at the end of the bar. She wore a black leather mini skirt and red stiletto heels. On the top half she sported a heavy gold chain necklace and nothing else. Her breasts jutted invitingly as she glanced around the bar.

Her eyes rested on me. Like the smitten fool I am I raised my glass and smiled. She did not waste any time as she slithered towards me, swaying her hips in an exaggerated pose. She became more voluptuous the closer she got.

“Hi there. I’m Angie. What’s your name?” she pouted in a voice I had heard many times in Hollywood movies.

“I’m Sandy. Howzitgaun hen?”

“May I join you?”

“Be my guest.”

Well, after spending eight pounds on a warm can of monkey’s urine I thought, what the hell.

“Would you care for another drink?”

She snuggled close to me and I felt her hot breath on my face as she spoke. A cold shiver ran through my body and the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as her naked breast touched my arm. Another drink? You better believe it baby.

“Aye Ok. I’ll have a wee whisky.”

I tried to sound calm and in control of myself. In a second the waitress appeared on the scene with notebook at the ready.

“A Scotch for my friend please Susie and I’ll have a Devil’s Desire.”

Devil’s Desire eh? This I must see.

“You’re Scotch aren’t you.”

Angie brushed my leg with her hand as she spoke. My brain registered approval as my head began to spin and I knew it had nothing to do with the quality of the lager.

“Aye, that’s correct. How did ye guess?”

“Your accent. We get a lot of Scotsmen in here you know. I just adore Scotsmen. They’re so manly and sexy and they know how to treat a woman.”

“You do surprise me.”

“Here we are then. Thanks Susie.”

Angie came to life as the waitress returned with the drinks.

“A whisky sir,” she said as she placed the glass in front of me. “And a Devil’s Desire for me. Thank you very much Sandy. You’re very kind.”

A black shadow ran across my eyes and my stomach turned upside down as the realisation hit me.

“What d’ye mean I’m very kind?” I looked at Susie and then Angie with dread in my eyes. “It is your shout hen isn’t it?”

“No way love. I only work here. I don’t buy the drinks.”

She picked up her glass and proceeded to drink through a straw. I panicked. Action had to be taken and fast. I grabbed the drink from her and pushed it back towards the waitress along with my whisky.

“I’m awful sorry. I didnae realise. You’ll have to take these back.”

“You what?” cried Angie.

“No way,” said Susie. “You should have said before I took your order. It’s too late now.”

“But it wasnae my order. It was hers.”

My voice trembled as I pointed an accusing finger at my companion.

“Look, I’ve just about had enough of you,” cried Susie, raising her voice in exasperation. “I suggest you settle your bill and we’ll call it a day.”

My whole life flashed before me. I felt as if I was floating on air as my head spun and my heart pounded. I wanted to reach inside my head and tear out the nightmare which tormented me to the point of despair.

“How much?”

I lowered my head and closed my eyes as I prepared myself for the verdict.

“One hundred and two pounds exactly.”

My mouth hung open and my lips moved but no sound came. I felt a warm wetness between my legs as I stared at the bill in front of me. I could not see anything. My body refused to function. I was paralysed with a mixture of fear and incredulity. I must be dreaming, I told myself. One hundred and two pounds for a drop of whisky? No, it can’t be real. Cold sweat covered my hands and face. I felt sick. I wanted to run to the toilet.

“Are you all right Sandy?” said Angie.

I tried to respond but all I could do was utter indecipherable grunts, my eyes transfixed on the piece of paper detailing my account.

“I’m getting out of here,” said Angie. “He’s a real weirdo.”

She picked up her drink and moved off to join the two girls with the Chinese meal.

“Is everything Ok?”

It was bald eagle’s turn to witness the pathetic spectacle.

“One hundred and two pounds,” I managed to squeeze the words from my lips.

“That’s correct,” said Susie. “Look, here is a price list.”

She walked to the bar and picked up a sheet of paper and placed it in front of me.

I read the words on the neatly typed document.

1/2 Pint Beer £4.00 Pint Beer £8.00
Coke, Lemonade, Orange £3.50
Glass German Wine £9.50 Bottle £35.65
Whisky, Gin, Rum £7.35
Devil’s Desire £33.00

Then I ran through the small print at the foot of the page.

25% Service + Vat added to all bills
All totals rounded up to nearest pound.

Then there was some more small print.

Hostess Company Fee £30.00
All drinks bought for the hostess must include a hostess fee.
Seated conversation with the hostess is an acceptance to pay the full fee.

Then to rub salt into the wounds, the daddy of all small prints.

All drinks de-alcoholised.

I started to laugh. At first it was short, controlled giggles. then it developed into hysterical, fitful outbursts. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I took out my wallet and counted one hundred pounds in ten pound notes.

“Here, take it.”

I placed the bundle of notes on the table.

“You owe me two quid fae ma last drink. Take it. Ye deserve it. Ah cannae argue.”

I finished my drink and made my way towards the exit.

“Good day to youse all. It’s been smashin. We must dae it again wan day.”

I was now in raptures. Bald eagle helped me up the steps to the darkened street. I walked back towards Oxford Street. Passers by stared at me as I continued to laugh hysterically.

Rita was waiting for me and the sight of her standing there with bulging shopping bags brought me quickly back down to earth.

“Well, did ye have a nice time then?” she handed me her bags as she spoke.

“Marvellous,” I replied. “See these Londoners. They’re some crowd ah’ll tell ye.”

She grabbed me by the arm and led me back in the direction from which I’d come.

“Where are we goin now?” I cried.

“Don’t you know what that place is ower there? It’s Soho. We cannae very well leave London withoot taken a walk roon Soho now could we?”

“Is that right.? Well fancy that.”

As we entered the narrow streets I shuddered at the memory of my recent nightmare.

“My God wid ye look at them,” she said, pointing at a group of women standing just ahead of us.

“How can they live wi themselves?”

As we approached the small gathering I wanted to die as I recognised the smell of old socks. I tried to avoid her eyes but it was too late. She broke off from her friends and spoke in a husky voice.

“Me Helga. Me from Bavaria. You come with me?”

Rita tugged at my arm and stepped up her pace.

“Ignore her,” she commanded. “She’s no even worth a second glance.”

“Scheisse. I told you,” her voice boomed out after me. “I told you you only get ugly pig for five pounds.”

Never Again

2009-05-21T08:39:00.000+10:00

The morning after
The night before
Drunk as a skunk
On the bathroom floor
Tongue of fur
Throat of stone
Penniless, cold
And all alone
My head is sore
My body aches
Wasp in my ear
My mind awakes
Memories of noisy cars
Smoke-filled clubs
And crowded bars
Pouting wenches
Sultry dames
Telephone numbers
Mating games
Sick in the cab
Left by the road
Memory gone
No fixed abode
Stiletto heels
Marching past
Answering questions
I never asked
Bovver boots
Filthy gob
Telling me
To get a job
A copper stoops
And asks my name
Black book in hand
Records my shame
Now here I am
Like a garden gnome
Can’t remember
How I got home
Back on my feet
Recalling when
I last told myself
Never again

Until
The
Next
Time

Tall Boys and Wide Girls

2009-05-20T17:07:00.002+10:00

It’s strange how you can see death in some people’s eyes, like an eerie sort of sixth sense that allows you to share some perverse metaphysical secret. I saw death in the man with the yellow hair. I wasn’t frightened by such insight but calmly sipped my whisky without taking my eyes from the sad figure. He returned my gaze and I detected a hint of fear in his eyes. Perhaps he saw in me an image of his own self. Was that why I could see so deeply into his soul? I tried to shut him out. I averted my eyes and looked down at the golden liquid in my glass. I raised it to my lips but again I met the cold stare of the stranger. My stomach turned and I placed my drink noisily on the bar. I closed my eyes and allowed my thoughts to flow freely, ignoring the dark images which haunted my tired mind. Such ghosts no longer held any terrors for me. Over the years I had become immune to the strange faces, contorted in pain, or was it anger?

Eventually I forced the warm liquid into my body. I felt it’s soothing hands caress my insides and my head began to spin. The man with the yellow hair coughed and spluttered noisily. He pushed a rolled-up cigarette into his mouth. His whole body retched violently as he inhaled at length. All the time his eyes were fixed on me. I estimated him to be in his late thirties but his state of disarray made such guesswork hazardous. I attracted the barman’s attention and requested a refill. He served me in silent disinterest. He was small and stout with a bushy red moustache and thick, unkempt hair. He had a pale, sickly complexion and ugly, protruding eyes. I found his whole being quite repulsive and he reminded me of a garden gnome.

“In the old days a barman took pride in his profession. Not like these amateurs today eh?” I complained to no-one in particular.

“I didnae ask tae work here big man,” he pushed the glass in my direction. It stopped perilously close to the edge and I silently admired his aim. “An if ye don’t like it, ye know whit ye can dae wi yersel big man.”

I watched him throw the money into a drawer, all the time shaking his head in disgust.

“See what I mean,” I took great pleasure in turning the screw. “It’s hard working, upstanding gentlemen like us who keep plebs like you alive.”

The man with the yellow hair let out a snigger which set him off in another fit of coughing. I felt pleased with myself as I watched the barman scurry into a corner and hide his embarrassment behind a tattered old newspaper. The bar was enveloped in an atmosphere of despair and deprivation. Broken glass littered the floor and the bar was covered in circular beer stains, sticky and hard set through time and neglect. An old paper plate overflowed with cigarette ash, discarded fag ends, spent matches and scraps of rotting food. I pulled my coat tightly to me and consoled myself with the thought that it was safer in the grubby bar than out in the deserted streets. My nerves were on edge and I was spoiling for a fight as the whisky began to take effect. I called the barman three times before he stopped pretending not to notice.

“I’ll have a bottle of the hard stuff and don’t give me any shit.”

“Ye’ve already had yer ration pal.”

“Look mister, there are only two punters in this boozer. Forget the rations and give me a fresh bottle.”

He turned his back on me and walked away, scratching at a gaping sore on the side of his neck.

“How much can I have then for fucksake?”

I began to regret my earlier outburst.

“Two glasses and nae mair.”

“Oh come on old boy. A bottle. Who’s to know?”

He turned and moved swiftly towards me.

“Don’t gae me that old boy patter big man. Ah know and that’s aw that needs tae know.”

I was getting nowhere. My mind raced as I contemplated my next move. I looked across at the man with the yellow hair.

“Hey you.”

I snapped my fingers and he jumped like a nervous kitten.

“What’s your name my friend?”

I moved slowly along the bar and placed my hand round his back. He turned his head and glanced nervously at my hand which rested on his shoulder. He was scared out of his wits.

“Don’t be shy now mister. I’m Stanley Goodfellow. My friends call me Stan. What about you?”

“Vincent,” he whispered.

“Ok barman, how much whisky can you allow my friend Vincent here?”

“He disnae drink whisky.”

“Oh yes he does. Don’t you Vincent.”

I tightened my grip and he shifted nervously.

“I don’t mind giving it a try.”

“How much whisky barman?”

He turned away once again, still scratching his neck.

“Ah’ll gae ye a bottle then if it’ll shut ye up.”

“Shut me up?” I whispered to myself and Vincent. “I’m only just warming up for my usual Friday night.”

I paid for the bottle and poured two generous measures. Vincent was reluctant to avail himself of my hospitality.

“Go on my friend, down the hatch.”

I emptied my glass in one swift gulp. Vincent smiled and raised his glass to his lips, pausing for some moments before following my example. Another fit of painful coughing quickly ensued. The barman looked up from his newspaper and shook his head disdainfully.

“Never mind him Vincent. He’s only jealous because he’s stuck behind the wrong side of the bar.”

“It’s years since I’ve tasted this stuff,” said Vincent.

He covered his glass with his hand as I tried to top it up.

“I’d better not. I’m not used to it.”

“Please yourself,” I replied, filling my own glass to the brim.

I stepped sideways away from the man. His clothes were caked in dry mud. His breath was stale and his few remaining teeth were black and badly misshapen. Our temporary acquaintance had served its purpose. I examined the whisky bottle. I had long since given up complaining about the absence of a label. As long as it tasted like the real thing I cared little for the brand.

A blast of cold air hit the back of my neck. I turned round and watched the two militia men enter the bar. They stopped and looked round the dark and untidy room. The barman jumped to attention like a scared rabbit.

“What can I do for you lads?”

His mouth was contorted in a sycophantic smile. The two men ignored him and started to walk slowly round the bar. They sported the customary blue uniform and protective helmet with yellow stripes. The younger of the two wore mirrored sun glasses. He held his truncheon in his right hand, hitting it against the palm of his left hand as he progressed. The barman nervously followed their every move.

“I don’t think I’ve ever been in this place sarj,” said the one with the shades.

“I remember it well Malky.”

They examined the decor with disapproving shakes of the head.

“I used to drink here when I was a student back in the nineties.”

“Is that a fact?” replied Malky, sounding genuinely impressed.

“Thing is,” continued the sergeant. “I’m buggered if I can remember the name of the joint in those days. Hey mister.”

The garden gnome jumped to attention.

“How long have you worked in this hell hole?”

He scratched his neck as he tried to remember.

“Just over six months.”

“Six months,” the sergeant sounded disappointed. “What happened to old Charlie then?”

“He died some months back.”

“Is that a fact?”

The two men resumed their tour of inspection and the barman breathed a sigh of relief.

“Look at the state of this place,” said Malky. “I wouldn’t bring a dog in here?”

They had now reached my friend Vincent. He lowered his head and tried to appear disinterested. The two men stood behind him, one on either side.

“What’s your name mister?” said the sergeant, eyeing him up and down as he spoke.

“Vincent,” he whispered.

“Speak up,” commanded Malky.

“Vincent O’Donnell.”

“You’re not a bloody Paddy are you?”

He stood back and turned up his nose as he inspected the man.

“You’re a bloody mess pal. What the hell have you been doing with yourself? What have you got here then?”

He moved his truncheon forward and tapped it against the knapsack which lay at his feet. Vincent glanced down at the bag, then at the soldier, then at me. I turned my head sharply away and sipped at my whisky. He was on his own and I could not afford to get involved.

“My work,” he finally replied.

“Your work,” said Malky. “What kind of work?”

“I’m an artist.”

I detected a hint of sarcasm in his reply.

“An artist eh?” mocked the sergeant. “We don’t come across many artists in our line of business do we Malky?”

“Can’t say we do sarj. Let’s have a look then.”

They feigned respect and admiration as they pressured the man. I was reminded of a couple of school bullies deep into my past and all the time my contempt for the two soldiers grew in intensity. Vincent bent down and raised the knapsack onto the bar. He moved his hand inside but the sergeant grabbed him roughly by the wrist. Without a word he pulled the bag towards him and emptied the contents. Scrolls of paper and an assortment of pencils and brushes landed in an untidy heap. One or two fell to the floor and Vincent crouched down and carefully gathered them together. The sergeant began to unfold a canvas and slowly spread it across the bar.

“Well, well. What have we here then?”

He used a couple of empty beer glasses to hold it flat. I moved over a few feet, careful not to attract attention to myself. The painting was about six feet by four. It took some moments for my eyes to focus properly in the dark atmosphere. I was not disappointed. The painting showed a steep hill which stretched high and far towards the horizon. On top of the hill stood Edinburgh Castle, it’s walls sprinkled with gaping holes, it’s ramparts crumbling with decay.

A cold shiver ran through my body as I took in every detail. Starting at the top of the hill and spreading out towards the front of the picture, thousands of people fled in apparent terror. They began as unrecognisable specks in the distance, growing in detail as the eye followed the progress of the crowd. As the faces revealed greater detail I realised that they were screaming in obvious terror as they tried to escape some untold horror towards the castle itself. I shuddered as I took in the sheer revulsion and fear in the faces of the crowd. The two militia men were clearly similarly moved as they stared at the scene in silent astonishment.

“What the hell is this all about mister?” said the sergeant, his voice betraying his nervousness.

“I swear I’ve never seen anything so grotesque in all my life,” said Malky, no less inspired. “Why’d you paint it then man? What does it all mean?”

“It’s entitled Tall Boys and Wide Girls and I painted it for a very close friend,” said Vincent with a new found air of confidence.

For the first time I took in the peculiar shapes of the people represented in the painting. Each male was extremely tall and thin while the women were short and fat.

“Why are all the guys tall and the dames fat? What’s going on at the top of that hill?” Malky’s tone demanded answers.

“You’ll have to look further into the picture to see what it’s about,” replied Vincent with an air of superiority.

I watched the two men lean forward in unison, straining their eyes to look behind the walls of the crumbling castle. The artist stood aloof, clearly enjoying the moment. I suddenly found myself admiring him for the first time.

He was making fools of the two soldiers, despite the fact that they had clearly set out to intimidate him. Malky was first to raise his head from the painting.

“Well I sure as hell can’t see nothing. What are you trying to pull here mister?” he would not be appeased.

“It’s bullshit,” shouted the sergeant.

He pushed the painting away with both hands. The two beer glasses went with it, smashing noisily to the floor. He looked straight at Vincent and raised his right hand, pointing a finger inches from his face. His eyes stared wildly and sweat ran down his face.

“It’s nothing but bullshit and you know it,” he screamed.

I could sense a feeling of panic in the sergeant’s voice, like he was trembling inside, his words of anger trying to outweigh some inner torment. Vincent returned his gaze with a knowing grin which I found unnerving. The atmosphere in the bar room was decidedly edgy and I braced myself for whatever was to follow.

“Come on. Let’s get out of this shit hole.”

The sergeant pushed past his colleague and headed for the door. I breathed a sigh of relief and swallowed a large mouthful of whisky.

“Wait for me sarj,” cried Malky as he quickly followed. We watched them scurry out into the snow-covered street.

Vincent carefully rolled up the canvas and placed it in his knapsack along with the rest of his work. All the time a contented smile lit up his face and I wondered what was going through his mind. The garden gnome snatched angrily at the man’s glass and gave him a hate-filled stare.

“Ya fuckin smart arse. Who the hell d’ye think ye are comin in here an noisin up the polis?”

Vincent’s face resumed it’s former sadness. He threw the knapsack over his shoulder and walked out into the street.

“Bliddy troublemaker,” he continued to berate the artist after he had gone. “He’s probably wan o they Edinburgh bastarts himself.”

“What if he is? Some of my best friends come from Edinburgh,” I said, happy to contradict his tirade.

“Och ye know whit ah’m on aboot,” he continued, raising his voice as he turned his back on me. “It was them that started it aw. Can ye no remember? Them an their bliddy festival. Whit did aw that arty fartin aboot ever dae for us eh?”

He turned towards me once again and advanced slowly and deliberately.

“It was bad enough wi the Aids thing. But this? They should’ve quarantined the whole bliddy lot o them afore it was too late. We should’ve abandoned the bastarts and stuck wi the English when we had the chance. If we’d done that then nane o this wid ever a happ’ned.”

“I think you’re overreacting old boy.”

I poured another measure of whisky and tried to control the rage which was building up inside my head. Before the barman could respond the doors burst open behind me and once again I winced against the icy blast on the back of my neck. The barman took one step to his right and glanced over my shoulder. The look of fear in his eyes told me he did not like what he saw.

“Can I help you sir?” he resumed his pathetic, frightened voice.

“Where is he?”

I recognised the voice of Malky, the junior of the two militia men. I turned round and had to shield my eyes against the brilliant white sunlight which bounced off the snow covered street. The soldier stood with his arms outstretched, holding the two swing doors wide open. His dark silhouette gave him a sinister appearance.

“Where’s who?” said the barman.

“The artist. The man with the painting.”

“I say would you mind coming in and closing the door old boy before we all freeze to death,” I said, having consumed enough of the hard stuff to risk bringing unwanted trouble on my already overburdened shoulders.

Nevertheless he duly complied. The young man stepped into the room and removed his sun glasses. He was sweating profusely as he glanced round the bar.

“He’s gone. You just missed him,” I informed the agitated soldier.

“Where did he go? Did he say where he was headed?”

“He just picked up his possessions and walked,” I was beginning to slur my speech.

“What’s the problem sir? Is there anything I can do?” said the barman.

“It’s my colleague, Sergeant McLeish.”

He removed his helmet and sat on the edge of a grubby table. He wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his jacket.

“He’s dead. He just dropped down and he . . . in a few seconds he was gone. Just like that.”

I poured another drink and raised the glass to my lips.

“Ah well,” I sighed. “Here’s to Sergeant McLeish. He was obviously an objectionable bastard but, well, he died like a true soldier. May Auld Nick torment his soul forever more.”

“You bastard!”

Before I could drink to the memory of the fallen soldier, Malky leapt from the table and raised his arm. Just in time I managed to move my face wide of the heavy truncheon which closed in on me. The momentum of his lunge threw him face down on the bar. I quickly moved behind him and threw my right arm tightly round his neck. With my left I grabbed the half-empty bottle and held it in front of his face.

“Look mister,” my mouth was pressed against his left ear as I spat out the words. “If your mate’s kicked the bucket then there’s bugger all I, you or the disappearing painter can do about it.”

He was crying like a baby as I pressed the bottle against his face. Through the side of my eye I could see the terrified barman slowly back away. I was very close to the edge and I knew that one wrong word from the soldier would send the bottle crashing down on his skull.

“I just want to speak to him that’s all,” he whimpered.

“Your partner looked very much alive when he left here five minutes ago. What makes you think the artist can help you now?”

“Before he died, he said something about the painting.”

He began to choke but I felt no inclination to relax my grip.

“He said he had to destroy the painting. Then he just dropped dead.”

I finally let him go and he slumped to his knees. He held his head in his hands and his whole body shook in great heaves as he wept. I jumped over the bar. The garden gnome was cowering in a corner, busily chatting on the telephone. I grabbed the receiver from him and ripped the telephone from the wall, bringing lumps of masonry and clouds of dust down with it. He crouched on the floor with his face hidden between his knees, covering his head with his hands as I stood over him.

“The keys. Give me the keys,” I shouted.

He made no sound. I grabbed him violently by the hair and forced him to look up at me. I still held the telephone receiver in my hand. He could not be in any doubt about my intentions as I raised it above his head. He let out a muffled cry and reached into the pocket at the front of his apron. I pulled the keys from his hand and moved over to the safe. I tried several keys before the door moved easily towards me. I helped myself to three bottles of whisky and several hundred Government issue cigarettes. I found an old sack. Quickly I dropped my loot into the bag and tossed it over my shoulder. There was no way of knowing how far the barman had got with his call for help so I had to move fast. I pulled the cash box out of the drawer and emptied the contents over the bar. Several coins spilled onto the floor. I picked up all the notes and pushed them deep into my coat pocket.

Quickly I scrambled back over the bar. Malky looked up at me with tear stained face. As I turned to leave he reached out and grappled frantically with my legs.

“Don’t leave me,” he begged. “Please don’t leave me.”

Both my hands were occupied and I had great difficulty freeing my legs from his determined grip. Somehow I managed to pull my right leg away from him and with one swift movement I kicked him with all the strength I could muster. The end of my boot caught him under the chin and I heard a sickening crack as the back of his skull crashed against the sharp corner of the bar. I took his wallet and thrust it into my pocket. I afforded myself one last look as I edged backwards through the door. The soldier lay lifeless, strange gurgling sounds coming from the back of his throat. The barman scrambled across the floor, frantically trying to retrieve some of the coins which had spilled out of the cash box.

I slipped several times as I plodded through the snow towards George Square. As I turned into Queen Street I nearly fell over a body lying face down in the snow. I turned him over and looked down into the wide, staring eyes of Sergeant McLeish. I had witnessed many dead bodies before but never had I seen such an image of abject horror captured by the camera of death. My hair stood on end as I looked down at the pitiful face. I wanted to be sick but quickly forgot such feelings as I heard the distant wailing of a military siren. I rifled the sergeant’s pockets and soon his wallet joined that of his colleague Malky.

In a second I was scampering towards the old railway station. I was gasping for breath as I walked along the concourse in the direction of the disused rail carriage. I closed the door behind me and with a sigh, I slumped onto the cold, damp floor. I lay motionless for several minutes, gathering my thoughts and my strength. I must have fallen asleep. When I opened my eyes I was in complete darkness. My head throbbed and my muscles ached. I groped inside the battered old suitcase where all my worldly possessions were stored. I felt the soft, smooth body of a candle and found a book of matches amongst an assortment of bits and pieces collected during my years on the run. My hands were trembling with cold as I struggled to strike the match. Eventually I succeeded and I rubbed my hands together in front of the protesting flame.

I emptied the contents of my coat pocket and counted the money. Suddenly I heard a noise. I blew out the candle and lay on the floor, not daring to move. I could hear slow, steady footsteps move along the platform. Each door was opened and closed as the footsteps progressed. My heart raced as I knew the door to my sanctuary would soon be opened. I heard the shuffling of feet and the creaking of the door as it gradually gave way. There was a long, agonising pause. The only sound was the pounding of my own heartbeat. The silence was broken by a loud click and in an instant the carriage was lit up by the bright beam of a torch. I kept my eyes firmly closed and prayed for the first time in years. I could sense the beam moving slowly round the carriage and my whole body tensed as the light penetrated my tightly closed eyelids. The beam seemed to rest in that position for an eternity and I finally resigned myself to my fate.

“Have you any more of that whisky Mr Goodfellow?”

I looked up at the man holding the torch. The bright light blinded me and I had to rub my eyes for some moments before recognising the face.

“Why you . . . I swear I thought my time had come. Where the hell did you come from?”

Vincent closed the door behind him and sat on the floor facing me. I opened a fresh bottle and swallowed at length before passing it to my friend. He accepted gratefully and raised it to his lips.

“Who are you anyway? Have you any idea the trouble you’ve caused tonight?”

He ignored me and carried on drinking. For someone who didn’t touch the stuff he was sure performing an impressive disappearing act with my whisky. Suitably watered, he passed the bottle to me and with deep breaths began rummaging through his knapsack. Then he made an announcement.

“Tonight, under cover of darkness, I intend to make my way southward.”

“You’re joking,” I sat up sharply. “You’ll never make it. They’ll cut you down at the border. That is if you make it that far, which I very much doubt.”

“I’ve no choice. If I stay around here I’m finished.”

“What do you mean finished?”

A smile of indignation formed on his lips.

“You mean you’ve got the B-Strain?”

“I’ve got one month, maybe two, I don’t know. But if I can get to London I can maybe buy my life.”

“But how? You’ll never make it. It’s the middle of winter and in your condition . . .”

“I know. But what’s the alternative? London is my only hope. I’ll think of something.”

All of a sudden I felt immense pity for the man. At the same time I could not help admiring his courage and resolve. I knew that if I was in his shoes I’d probably have blasted my brains out by now. I watched him pick at a crust of bread and wipe a tear from his eye.

“Look mate,” I sat up on my seat and looked down at him. “If there’s anything I can do, anything, I’ll do it.”

Despite my words I felt completely helpless. His silence was ample response. I decided to be more positive.

“What will you do when you get to London?”

“I’ve got friends there. Once I’ve sorted myself out I’ll make contact. It’s strange to think . . .”

His eyes lit up as he sat deep in thought.

“Go on,” I knew he wanted to talk.

“Ten years ago, before they closed the border, I lived in London. I was a student at the Royal College of Art. I even managed a few exhibitions of my work. Everything was clear then. I met a girl and fell in love. We bought a nice studio flat in Chelsea. She was beautiful. Monica her name was. A wonderful concert pianist. We were going to be married. Then it all went wrong. I was knocked out by a brick during an anti Government riot. I was rushed to the infirmary and, well, the blood tests told their own story. Within twenty-four hours I was taken back across the border. I wasn’t even allowed to say goodbye to Monica.”

He laughed in defiance of the tears which now ran down his cheeks. I reached into my pocket and found a torn handkerchief. I handed it to him and watched in silence as he wiped the tears from his face. Then very suddenly, he leapt to his feet and gathered his belongings.

“Anyway,” he said. “There’s no sense in dwelling on the past. I’d better get moving fast.”

“Hold on Vincent. I’m coming with you.”

I opened my battered old suitcase and carefully placed the whisky and cigarettes inside.

“What are you running away from?”

“I’m wanted for helping the resistance. As we speak there’s a huge price on my head. If I can get to London . . . I’ve got friends there too.”

“But the border patrols. Wouldn’t you be better off without me holding you back?”

“I’ve got two Military ID cards and border passes. It would be a shame to let them go to waste now wouldn’t it. Apart from that I’m an old soldier myself so I know the drill.”

“Then what are we waiting for?”

Vincent laughed and threw his knapsack over his shoulder. He stepped back and raised his arm, inviting me to lead the way. We both had a spring in our step as we marched along the dilapidated station concourse towards George Square.

“With army documents we can be in London in under a week,” Vincent enthused, clearly excited at the prospect.

“This treatment, you do realise it’ll cost you a lot of money.”

“No problem,” he replied, patting his knapsack with the palm of his hand. “My paintings will fetch a tidy sum down south. Especially now that I am officially a dead artist.”

We both laughed easily as we strolled through the dark, snow-covered streets.

“While we’re on the subject of art,” I assumed a more serious tone. “That painting you took out in the bar, the one with the castle and the tall boys and wide girls, I think you called them.”

“My masterpiece,” he replied, raising his voice above the sound of thick snow crunching under our boots.

“What was it all about? I know I’m a bit of a philistine when it comes to art, at least the visual arts, but why did the sergeant get so worked up about it? His partner seemed to think it had something to do with . . .”

“I know.”

“What do you know? How could you possibly know?”

“The picture was actually painted by one of the aliens.”

“I thought you did it?”

“I did, in a sense. The alien took over my mind and well, I guess you could say we both painted it.”

“But what does it mean?”

“The poor creature was dying fast. He wanted to repay me for hiding him and protecting him from the authorities. So he asked me to let him into my mind. Then I painted my masterpiece.”

“Yes. But you still haven’t told me what it’s all about?”

“I’m not really sure myself. But what I do know is that every time someone tries to do me harm, all I have to do is show them the painting and, well, somehow my enemies have a nasty habit of dying soon after.”

“You mean it casts some sort of spell on them?”

“You could say that. It is only when they look deep into the picture. I don’t know. There’s something there. Something that protects me.”

“Boy I’ve heard some wacky tales in my time. But this sure does take some beating.”

Snow began to fall. It was very light at first but soon developed into a fierce blizzard. We settled for the night in a run-down farmhouse near Bothwell. We filled ourselves with whisky and sang ancient folk songs well into the night.

Five days later I arrived in London, tired and alone. I had buried Vincent in Epping Forest the previous evening. He was so near and yet so far. His demise was swift and painless. I held him in my arms as he died. He told me to take his works and sell them in the city. I took them to the Royal Academy. The faceless vultures were falling over themselves with glee. I had to endure their ceaseless fawning with a smile but laughed triumphantly as I left, fourteen million Dollars richer.

I’m happily married now with two young children. We own a large science farm in Berkshire and my native Scotland is now only a distant memory. Vincent’s painting still hangs pride of place in my drawing room. Several big international dealers have offered me millions of dollars to part with it.

“Why don’t you just sell the thing and be done with it?” my wife has pleaded time and time again. I know for sure that Vincent would have approved of my marrying his Monica but no amount of money would make me submit to the final sell-out. Vincent was right when he described her breathtaking beauty and I knew that one day I would have to tell her the truth and risk losing her the way he once did.

“It’s of great sentimental value my dear,” I would tell her for the hundredth time.

“I can’t imagine why,” she scoffed. “It’s so full of pain and suffering.”

I now look back over the past twenty years. The pain and suffering is all too clear in my mind. One day I’ll return to my native home. Monica will find out the truth. The whole world will finally know and my country, my people, will be repaid with interest.

A Glasgow Dynasty Part 7 - The Black Hole

2009-05-20T16:42:00.003+10:00

It was dark by the time Tam and Balf left the pub. They held each other upright as they meandered along the country road, singing a song about a prostitute from Maryhill. Only the light of a full moon stopped them from rolling into a ditch where, due to their state of inebriation, they would undoubtedly have spent the night, unable to recover a vertical position of any sort.

“Where’s that bliddy taxi?” said Tam, for the third time.

“Ach Tam ah telt ye,” said Balf. “Ye threw yer guts up in the taxi and the driver kicked us oot on the street. Can ye no remember?”

“Me sick? Are ye sure? Where are we?”

“Don’t you worry Tam. Ah know a shortcut hame fae here. C’moan. Ower this fence.”

Balf quickly grabbed the top wire of the fence and lifted his right leg over and fell down on to the soft grass on the other side. Tam followed his friend without protest. The fence consisted of three steel wires attached to wooden slats about ten feet apart. Somehow Tam managed to entangle himself in the wires and found himself suspended above the ground, swaying to and fro as he tried to maintain his balance. His cigarette caught one of the wires and flew from his mouth only to land inside his jacket.

“Ya bastart ye,” he cried as he let go of the wires and tried to retrieve the burning cigarette. Red embers flew in all directions as he finally landed with a thud on the other side. Balf had wandered off without him.

“There’s a big fuckin hole in ma shirt bay fuck,” he said as he caught up with his friend. “Whit are ye starin at?”

Balf had stopped walking and was scratching his head as he stared at the ground about ten yards in front of him.

“See that?” he said finally.

“Whit?” said Tam, straining his eyes in the general direction of Balf’s gaze.

“That wisnae there yesterday?”

“Whit wisnae?”

“Thon big fuckin hole,” he replied, moving forward slowly now as he surveyed the scene.

Tam followed his friend and soon he too saw the black circle. It was a hole in the ground, about four feet across.

“Fuck me Tam, some poor sod could easy have fell in there nae bother. It could’ve been wan o us come tae think of it. Who the fuck wid dig a hole an jist go away n leave it like that?”

“Aye right enough,” agreed Tam. “Any cunt could end up wi a broken neck or worse.”

“I wonder how deep it is,” said Balf as the two men stood about ten feet from the hole, neither having dared to move any closer.

“Fuck knows pal but ah’m no hangin aboot tae fun oot,” said Tam as he moved to walk round the hole. Balf grabbed him by the sleeve.

“Haud oan a wee minute there Tam. Let me try sumfin.”

Balf bent down and picked up a stone, about the size of a golf ball. He stepped forward a few paces and lobbed the stone into the black hole. The two men bent forward and listened intently. After a few seconds, Balf turned and scratched his head.

“Not a sausage.”

“Whit d’ye mean Balf?”

“Did ye hear that stane landing? Did ye hear a splash or a thud when it hit the ground?”

“Naw.”

“Naw, me neither. That’s wan fuckin deep hole.”

“Aye ok, nice experiment Balf. Now can we get the fuck oot o here?”

“Jist a wee minute Tam.”

Balf walked back towards the fence they had just climbed over and picked up a discarded fence post. It was five feet long and six inches thick. Pointed at one end and flat at the other. He carried it back towards the hole and dropped it into the darkness. Once again the two friends stood, leaning forward, their ears turned towards the hole as they awaited the thud or splash. After about thirty seconds of silence, Tam shook his head and stamped his right foot.

“Some bastard’s takin the pish here. Is someday hidin there wi a fuckin camera or whit?” he shouted towards the bushes which were about twenty yards on the other side of the hole.

“C’moan Balf ah’m fuckin starvin. Let’s get hame.”

“No fucking way wee man. Ah’m gonnae get tae the bottom of this.”

“Aye that’s whit ah’m afraid of,” said Tam.

Balf walked towards the bushes as Tam lit another cigarette and pulled down his zip, fumbled inside and proceeded to urinate into the hole. He stared up at the moon and exhaled smoke into the still air as he emptied his bladder in an impressive arc down into the black emptiness below.

“It’s a fuckin full moon as well fucksake. That’s aw we need.”

“Tam.”

Tam nearly jumped out of his skin as his friend’s booming voice broke the stillness of the night.

“Whit?” Tam replied in a hoarse whisper.

“Heeza haun wi this fucker.”

Tam did up his flies and walked towards the bushes where he found Balf lifting one end of a disused railway sleeper.

“Aw fucksake Balf can ye no let it rest?”

“Shut up n grab that end wid ye?”

Tam took hold of the other end and together they managed to tip the heavy wooden railway sleeper down into the hole. This time they both stood, again bent in half, looking directly down into the hole. They both held their breath as they listened.

A rumble.

It was very faint at first, and Tam and Balf looked at each other as the sound seemed to be getting louder.

Footsteps. Running footsteps.

The two men stared at each other with wide eyes and mouths agape as their minds raced to understand the sound.

Racing footfalls, coming closer and closer.

Just in time they realised the sound was coming from behind them. They glanced round and screamed in unison as an animal leapt into the air at them. Balf leapt back one way and Tam the other as they watched the beast leap down into the black hole. The two men sat trembling as they listened to the animal scream in terror, the sound getting further and further away as the poor animal descended deeper and deeper into the abyss.

They did not stop running until they both collapsed on the steps of Tam’s close. They were covered in mud and grime and Balf had lost a shoe. After taking time to catch their breath, Tam was first to speak.

“Whit the fuck was that aw aboot?”

“Dunno Tam,” replied Balf between gasps for air. “It was a big fuckin goat. Did ye see it?”

“Sure ah fuckin saw it. It was a goat awright. Jumped right intae thon big fuckin hole. Whit did it dae that for ye reckon?”

“Who knows. Aw ah know is a wisnae hingin aboot tae fun oot. Smells tae me like some sort o black fuckin mass or something goin on doon there. Ah lost ma bliddy shoe anaw fucksake. Ah’ll need tae go back n find it.”

“Ye’re no goin back the night are ye?” said Tam, his voice registering alarm.

“Am I fuck. It’ll wait tae the morn. Nae way ah’m goin back there the night.”

Next morning, Balf woke up in bed beside Malky.

“Whitr you doin here?” said Malky as he rubbed his eyes to a new day.

“Ach me’n yer da got pished last night. Hope ye don’t mind sharin yer bed wi me son.”

“Naw nae bother Balfy boy. Any fags?”

Tam entered the room in his underpants.

“Geeza fag Balf.”

The three men lit up and savoured the first cigarette of the day as Tam sat on the end of the bed.

“Are ye goin back doon there tae get yer shoe?” he said.

“Aye ah better mate,” said Balf. “She’ll kill me if a go hame wi wan shoe.”

“Whit the fuck’ve you ewo been up tae?” said Malky.

“Never you mind,” said Tam.

“Ach me’n yer da fun this big whore ay a black hole in the middle ay the field on the way back fae the boozer last night. We were jist lookin at it when some cunt chased us an a lost ma shoe.”

“Whit d’ye mean a big hole?”

“He means a hole,” said Tam. “As in a big fuckin hole in the grun. Dae you know anything aboot it? You’re always hingin aboot doon there. Is that no where the tossin school is?”

“Ah’ve no been tae the tossin for a while. Anyway, whit de ye mean some’dy chased yous. Was it the polis?”

“Naw it wisnae the polis,” said Balf. “Let’s just say there’s mair tae aw this than meets the eye.”

Tam went back to his room to get dressed. Balf got out of bed and groaned when he saw the dried mud on his trousers.

“Have ye got an auld pair o trainers ah could borrow Malky?”

“Aye there’s a couple a pair in thon cupboard there Balf.”

Soon Tam returned, dressed and ready to go.

“So it’s straight doon tae the field, grab yer shoe and away again right?”

“Too fucking right,” said Balf as he strained to tie the laces on the training shoes. “No way am I hingin aboot there again.”

“Where’s yer maw Malky?” said Tam.

“She stayed at oor Peter’s last night. She said she’ll be back first thing so ye better get yer arse in gear.”

“Don’t you say fuck all right?”

Malky ignored his father and turned towards the wall and pulled the blanket up over his ears.

“Can ye remember where the hole is Balf?” said Tam.

“Aye ah think so. Should’nae be too hard tae find.”

“Ah’m no sure ah could on ma ain.”

“Ach don’t worry. We’ll find it. Let’s go.”

It wasn’t at all easy to find the mysterious black hole. They wandered into three different fields before finding the correct one. They could see the fence at the far end of the field and the row of bushes where they found the railway sleeper.

“This is it Tam,” said Balf. “Let’s just nip ow’er there n grab the shoe n get tae fuck.”

“Suits me pal.”

“Where are you two going?”

“Aw fucksake,” cried Tam as he turned round to face two uniformed police officers sitting in a police patrol car on a dirt track which ran along the side of the field.

“Ye made me jump there officer,” said Tam.

The two policemen got out of the car and approached the two friends.

“I’ll ask you again. Where are you going?” said the taller of the two constables.

“We’re jist takin a wee shortcut tae the pub,” said Balf, forcing a smile.

“Which pub would that be then?” asked the short, obese policeman.

“The Bay Horse,” said Tam.

“At eight o’clock in the morning?”

“Aye, we’re meetin a couple a mates there, then a bit ay scran, study the gee gees, pit a bet on, then intae the pub fur openin time.”

“No this way you’re not,” said the big cop.

“How no?” said Balf.

“Cos it’s private property,” said the short fat cop.

“Oh right,” said Balf. “Didnae realise that. Thanks for lettin us know. We’ll jist be on oor way then.”

The two men made to walk back towards the fence and the roadway.

“Not so fast,” said the big cop, stopping them in their tracks.

The two policemen manoeuvred themselves so that they stood between them and the road.

“You often use this as a shortcut then?”

“Naw, naw,” said Balf. “It’s jist. It’s a nice enough morning like, an we fancied a wee walk rather than takin the bus. Fresh country air n that know?”

“Aye,” said the big cop, eyeing them suspiciously.

“Did yous take a shortcut back from the pub last night?” said the fat cop.

“Last night? Naw no last night. We were at the pub right enough but we got a taxi hame. We widnae come this way in the dark wid we Tam?”

“Naw, no way,” said Tam. “Bad enough staggerin hame in the street lights withoot wanderin aboot here in the dark.”

“So what way have you come then? Just now I mean?” said the big cop, his tone now more relaxed and friendly

“We jist walked fae the scheme and alang past the graveyard and doon West Farm Road an into the field. Why whit’s up?”

“You sure you weren’t around this way last night?”

“Positive.”

“And neither of you have seen anything suspicious this morning?”

“Naw,” said Balf. “Whit dae ye mean suspicious?”

“Ach, old farmer Milligan’s doin his head in. You haven’t seen a goat running around wild have you?”

“A goat?” said Balf.

“A goat?” said Tam.

“Aye. Apparently it’s some sort of prize goat worth a few thousand quid and the old farmer’s in the lodge and we’ve had the chief constable on our backs this morning. Seems his prize goat’s done a runner.”

“Well fancy that,” said Balf.

“Ye widnae credit it wid ye?” said Tam.

“Aye well. If you do see the beast in your travels, give us the nod then will you?”

“Aye. Aye of course officer,” said Tam as the two policemen walked back to their car.

“Excuse me officer,” said Balf.

“Aw fucksake Balf fuckin leave it,” groaned Tam.

The two policeman stopped and faced Balf.

“This goat that’s escaped. Where exactly did the auld farmer leave it?”

“In that field over by the bushes,” said the big copper, pointing. “Seems he left it tied securely to a big heavy wooden railway sleeper.”

Brenda arrived home from a night spent with her eldest son and daughter-in-law. She found Tam’s muddy clothes lying on the floor beside her bed.

“The clatty get,” she said, picking up the clothes and tossing them into a laundry basket in the corner beside the door. “How the hell did he get intae this state?”

She marched into Malky’s room.

“Haw Malcolm. Has your father been here this morning? And don’t you lie to me cos ah’ll fun oot.”

“Aye he came hame last night wi Balfy.”

“And where are they at this time in the morning?”

“Away lookin for their hole.”

Brenda leapt on to the bed and slapped Malky across the bare flesh of his back.

“Don’t you dare use that talk in this house ya wee bugger ye.”

Malky winced as he felt the sharp pain after a few seconds.

“I’ll deal wi you later,” she said, before slamming the door behind her.

“Whit did ah say?” he shouted after her. “Whit the fuck was that for?”

A Glasgow Dynasty Part 6 - Erchie's First Sale

2009-05-20T16:33:00.001+10:00

Malky lay spread-eagled on the couch. He wore a red Liverpool football top and a pair of shiny blue shell suit bottoms. On the floor beside him lay three empty cans of lager and an ashtray which was overflowing with cigarette ends and ash, some of which had spilled onto the thick shagpile.

In his left hand he held a magazine while his right hand was buried down the front of his shell suit bottoms, busily exercising his wrist with frantic downward motions. In his state of blissful concentration he failed to hear the entrance of his mother. Brenda grabbed the magazine and smacked him forcefully across the head with it.

“Ah ya!” cried Malky, using his arms to shield any further blows. “Whit the fuck . . .”

“Put that away ya filthy wee sod that ye are. We’ve got visitors.”

Brenda pushed the magazine under the sofa and stood back to welcome her guests.

“Come on in Jinty. In ye come Erchie.”

“Ma bliddy heid,” said Malky.

“Whit did ah tell you about wipin yer nose on ma new shagpile? Ah’ll deal wi you later ya dirty wee pervert ye,” she told Malky as he rushed past her, rubbing the pain on the side of his head.

The couple entered the brightly decorated living room and removed their coats.

“Aw Brenda yer livin room’s smashin,” said Jinty.

“Aye that’s right. Ah forgot ye’d no seen it since it was done.”

“Did Tam and the boys do it then?” asked Archie who had sat down on the couch beside his wife.

“Whit that lot? Ye must be jokin. Naw me and oor Peter done it ower wan weekend. Ye’ve met ma brother Peter haven’t ye. Och he’s great wi his hauns like ye know. He’s got him’n thon stuck up wife o his livin in a palace. Honestly Jinty ye should see it.”

“Where’s Tam the noo. Is he no in then?” said Jinty.

“He’s away doon the bookies,” said Malky who had returned with a couple of cans of lager.

“Fancy a wee swally Erchie?”

Archie hesitated as Jinty glared at him in silent reproach.

“If it’s all the same to you son, I’d better not.”

“Are ye still spendin aw yer time doon at the library?” said Malky.

“Not so much now since I started work again.”

“Ah see thon Salman Rushdie’s brought out a follow up tae Satanic Verses.”

“Really. I hadn’t heard. What’s it called?”

“Buddha’s a fat bastard”.

“By the way Malcolm,” said Brenda. “Who were thon two men ah met at the gate?”

“Two men?” replied Malky.

“Aye. The two men wi the overalls and the wee blue van.”

“Och them. Ah’ll tell ye later.”

He nodded in the direction of Jinty and Archie. Brenda got the message and quickly changed the subject.

“Awright Erchie. Let’s have a look at this vacuum cleaner then.”

Archie got to his feet and moved out into the hallway. In a few seconds he returned with a large cardboard box which he placed on the couch and began to open carefully.

“Aw ye’ll jist love this Brenda,” enthused Jinty. “Ah’ve got wan o ma ain. It’s a dawdle so it is.”

All three looked on intently as Archie patiently put the pieces together and placed the machine gently on to the floor. With a contented smile he held the flex and handed the plug to Brenda.

“If you would do the necessary Mrs Mitchell.”

Jinty took the plug and carefully pushed it into the socket behind the television.

“Ma. Ah better have a word wi ye,” said Malky.

“No the noo son. Can ye no see ah’m busy.”

Brenda stood facing Archie, the shiny new vacuum cleaner standing proudly between them.

“How do ah switch it on then?”

“First things first Mrs Mitchell.”

Archie checked her eagerness with the raise of a finger. He calmly bent down, picked up the ashtray and poured the contents all over the new carpet.

“Ma!”

“Haud yer weesht the noo wid ye?”

Next Archie moved across to the fireplace, picked up the shovel, swept up a pile of coal ash and soot and emptied it all over the floor beside the contents of the ashtray. Jinty’s heart raced as she watched in silent admiration. In her excitement she did not notice Malky quietly rise from his chair and move towards the door.

“Have no fear Mrs Mitchell. This brand new deluxe model will very quickly swallow up every last piece of dirt,” said Archie. “It is indeed a wonderful machine.”

“It bliddy well better be,” exclaimed Malky as he opened the door to leave. “Thon two men wi the overalls were fae the electricity board.”

Archie was now puzzled as to why the machine would not come to life when he switched it on.

“We’ve jist had our electricity cut aff,” declared Malky before he raced upstairs followed by his frantic mother.

“Why’n God’s name did ye no tell me?” she cried as she ran after him. “Malcolm! Come oot here tae ah speak tae ye.”

A Glasgow Dynasty Part 5 - Slappin a Polis

2009-05-20T16:13:00.002+10:00

Tam stood at the bar of the Railway Tavern and ordered a double whisky and a half pint of heavy. Henry the barman stood with his back to him as he pushed the glass under the optic. Tam felt his mouth begin to water as he watched the golden liquid drop down into the glass.

“Howzit gaun the day wee man?”

“Och no bad Henry. Ye cannae complain can ye?”

Henry placed the glass in front of Tam and moved along the bar to pour the heavy. Tam lifted the glass to his lips and swallowed a large mouthful. He stood for some moments letting the strong spirit warm his insides. He grabbed the glass of heavy from the barman before he could place it on the bar. Tam gulped down the lot and pushed the empty glass towards the barman and wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket.

“Another hauf pint please Henry.”

The barman started to pour another half pint.

“Christ Tam. Yer fair knockin them back the day are ye no?”

“Had a rough night last night so ah did,” said Tam.

He swallowed a mouthful of the second glass of beer and leaned with his elbows on the bar as Henry stood waiting.

“Ah take it ye want them pit oan the slate then?”

“Aye if ye don’t mind Henry. Ah’ve got a bit of a cash flow problem. Ma missus spends aw the cash an ah go wi the flow.”

The toilet door opened and a young man emerged, adjusting his zip and carrying a rolled up newspaper under his arm.

“Aw it’s yersel Tam.”

“Aye awright Geordie,” replied Tam, half turning round to look at him. “Have you been in there pullin yer plonker ower page three again ya cunt?”

“Aye very good y’aul bastart. At least ah still know how tae use mine.”

Geordie stood at the bar next to Tam where a pint of lager was standing. He took a sip and opened a brand new packet of cigarettes. He offered one to Tam.

“Aw cheers pal.”

“How’s Malky?” said Geordie. “Ah’ve no seen’m fur donkeys.”

“Och ye know whit he’s like. Ayewiz full o big ideas.”

“Is e no workin the noo?”

“Naw, he cannae work. He’s sufferin fae yon SM.”

“SM?” said Henry. “Whit the fuck’s that when it’s at hame?”

“Sticky mattress!”

Geordie let out a sardonic laugh and opened the racing section of his newspaper. Henry turned away groaning, his hands on his head.

“Ah don’t believe it,” he cried. “Ah faw fur it every time.”

Tam screwed up his face and held his stomach.

“Are you still sufferin fae last night?” said Geordie.

“Ach it wiz thon Chinese cairry oot. It wiz too much efter the bevvy like.”

“Ah widnae eat wan o them if ye paid me,” said Geordie.

“Whit’r ye on aboot noo?”

“Ma sister’n law Rosie . . .”

“Aw here we go . . .”

“Naw, naw listen. Her pal went tae a Chinky’s furra night oot wi the lassies fae the work like.”

“Aw aye, it’s ayewiz a friend of a friend of a friend innit.”

“Naw listen. She ordered chicken sumfin or other. When she tried tae eat it it tasted funny. So she took a bit hame in a bit o napkin or sumfin.”

“An she knew this scientist,” said Tam in a low voice.

“Anyways, her boyfriend jist happened tae work in a laboratory. He got the thing analysed an ye know whit it wiz?”

“A dug?”

“A fuckin dug it wiz.”

“Naw,” said Tam acidly.

“Are ye callin me a liar?”

“Naw, naw. Ah widnae dae that son,” replied Tam with a smile. “But wan thing puzzles me.”

“Whit’s that?”

“Ah’ve heard that yin aboot a hundred times an ye know, these Chinky’s must be really bad business men.”

“Howd’ye mean?” said Henry.

“Well, chicken. It’s cheap, it’s easy tae git, ye can buy it doon the road by the ton an sell it at a great big bliddy profit.”

“So,” said Geordie.

“Well, why is it that the Chinkies cannae be ersed goin doon tae wherever the fuck it is ye go, tae buy in a van load o chickens? Naw, they’d raither go oot durin the night an hunt doon stray dugs, capture them, get them back tae the shoap, kill them, skin them, cut them up’n cook them, kiddin us oan it’s really chicken. Now that’s much merr fun innit?”

“Well ah’m only tellin ye whit a wiz telt.”

The door opened and in walked two young men wearing green and white football scarves. Tam and Goerdie looked round automatically as Henry moved to serve them.

“Ye’ll hiv tae take yer scarfs aff lads. Nae fitba colours allowed.”

“Aye nae bother mate,” said the taller of the two. “Two pints o lager please.”

The two men removed their scarves and rolled them up before pushing them into the back pocket of their jeans.

“Celtic’n Rangers the day innit?” said Henry as he poured the first pint.

“Aye,” said the shorter of the two.

“Should be three easy points then eh?” said Henry.

“Aye ah hope sae. Ye can never tell wi these games but.”

The two men picked up their pints and moved away from the bar and sat at a table in the corner.

“Ah’m sure the wan wi the white shirt’s Davie Blackadder’s son,” said Tam, rubbing his chin as his eyes followed the pair back to their seats.

Geordie was engrossed in the Racing Section as he meticulously studied the form and marked selections with a short wooden bookie’s pencil.

“Are you still throwin yer money away on they donkeys?” said Tam.

“Och aye. Ye know whit it’s like bit.”

“Too fuckin right ah dae. It’s a crook’s gemme nooadays. There wance wiz a time ye knew ye were gittin a fair run fur yer money. Even if ye loast like. But no noo. The bookies’ve got it aw sown up atween them. The ordinary punter hasnae got a cat in hell’s chance these days. They’re aw fuckin bent the cunts.”

“Ye’re talkin shite Tam.”

“Ah’m fuckin tellin ye.”

“Jist cos you couldnae pick a winner.”

“Jesus son are ye blin? Can ye no see ye’re bein taken furra ride? Christ they’re fuckin quotin the favourite fur the National at five tae fuckin wan. Whit the fuck diz that tell ye?”

Geordie continued to study form as Tam shook his head and muttered to himself.

After a few seconds Geordie raised his head from the newspaper and screwed up his face as the horrible stench reached his nostrils. He stood for a couple of seconds and sniffed, then quickly grabbed his pint and moved along the bar, away from Tam.

“Aw fucksake Tam that’s fuckin gowpin.”

“Ah telt ye. It’s the fuckin curry.”

“Jesus sufferin fuck!” cried Henry as the dreadful pong reached him and he too retreated to the other side of the bar.

“Aw that’s fuckin boggin,” said Geordie.

“Christ Tam,” said Henry.

“Ach,” muttered Tam. “Ah’ll away furra shite then.”

They watched him scurry into the toilet and shook their heads as they laughed.

“E’s some fuckin man aul Tam,” said Henry.

“Aye fuck,” said Geordie. “Wan o the best right enough.”

Geordie winced as an icy blast hit the back of his neck. He turned to see the sillhouette of a man against the bright spring sunlight of the doorway. It wasn’t until the door was closed that he regocnised him.

“Aw fucksake look whit the wind blew in.”

“The usual Balf?” said Henry, holding a pint glass in his hand as he waited for confirmation.

“Aye geeza pint,” said Balf in his customary loud, clear voice. “Fuckit ah’ll hiv a rum’n pep anaw.”

“Whit’s wrang wi the bowlin club the day then Balf?” said Geordie.

“Ach a jist fancied a wee change. Fuckin quiet the day is it no?”

“It’s early yit,” said Henry as he placed a pint of heavy in front of him and proceded to pour a dark rum.

“Aye’n ah’m here fur the fuckin day, ah’ll tell ye that.”

Balf swallowed a few mouthfuls of beer which left a white coating of foam on his ginger moustache.

“Is wee Tam no been in yit?”

“Aye,” said Henry.

“E’s away furra shite,” said Geordie.

“Aw fuck me. That means the bog’ll be oot o bounds fur six fuckin weeks ya cunt. Who’s the fuckin Tims?”

Balf nodded in the direction of the two Celtic Supporters.

“We think wan o them’s Davie Blackadder’s boy,” said Henry, handing him his change.

“Yer fuckin jokin,” said Balf, looking intently at the two men. “They baith look quite normal anaw.”

“Watch whit yer sayin Balf. Ye never know the minute,” said Henry, who now stood at the bar, facing Balf and Geordie, his hands inside his apron.

After a few minutes Tam returned.

“Ah widnae go near that bog fur another six fuckin weeks bay fuck,” he declared.

“Aye ah can imagine,” replied Balf.

“Aw jeezo look who it is,” said Tam, holding out a hand which Balf shook warmly.

“Aye’n you’re a fuckin sight fur sore eyes,” said Balf.

“So whit brings ye doon here then? Barred fae the bowlin club again?”

“Naw, naw. The wife’s away tae visit her sister ower at Greenock. Ah’ve got a few readies in ma back pocket so a thought . . . an speakin o which.”

He took out his wallet and counted four crisp ten pound notes.

“This is fur yersel wee man.”

Balf stuffed the notes into the top pocket of Tam’s blazer.

“Whit’s this fur?” said Tam, removing the notes and holding them in front of him.

“Remember thon last time a took ye tae the club.”

“No really, but on ye go.”

“D’ye no remember buyin the tote tickets?”

“Naw. Ye don’t mean . . .”

“Aye, ye won the tote. Forty fuckin smackeroos.”

Tam laughed and did a little childish skip as he counted out the four notes.

“That’s whit a like tae hear. Well done Tam,” said Henry.

“Fucksake,” said Geordie.

“Right Henry,” said Tam, slamming a ten pound note on to the bar. “The drinks are on me.”

One of the Celtic supporters approached the bar and Henry moved to meet him.

“Same again?” said Henry.

“Aye please. And two bags o crisps. Wan cheese’n onion’n wan salt’n vinegar.”

“Are you Davie Blackadder’s boy?” said Tam to the youngster.

“Aye.”

“Used tae work doon the docks?”

“Aye, that’s right.”

“Och ah knew it. Ye’re awfy like’m ye know.”

“Don’t fuckin tell’m that,” said Balf.

The youngster laughed.

“Wiz yer aul man no a bluenose?” said Geordie.

“Aye. Still is.”

“Fuck me, it must be a bundle o laughs in your hoose on a Setterday night,” said Balf.

The man picked up the two pints and returned to his friend.

“Tell yer auld man ye were talkin tae Tam Mitchell fae Partick.”

“Aye.”

“Is that Blackadder that used tae drink in here?” said Geordie.

“Aye, e’s barred noo but.” replied Tam. “Nice enough bloke like. But he couldnae handle the vino. Wan minute he wiz nice as ninepence, the nixt e’s staunin on some poor cunt’s napper.”

“Fucksake,” said Geordie.

“Aye ye couldnae have that in the pub,” said Henry. “E’s barred oot o jist aboot every boozer in Glesca.”

“Ah wiz walkin doon Dumbarton Road wan Friday night aboot six o’clock,” said Tam. “Ah wiz oan ma way oot furra jar like. Then ah sees Blackadder. He’s got this polis by the scruff o the neck against the waw. E’s fuckin slappin the polis across the face an callin’m aw the cunts under the sun.”

“Fucksake,” said Geordie.

“Aye. As ah walked past he stopped hittin the man. He keeps haudin’m by the throat like against the waw. He stops hittin’m an says, howzit gaun Tam, no bad Davie says I, zat’ye gaun furra wee swally, he says, aye, says I, see ye later then Tam, he says, aye see ye, says I, then he turns roon’n starts slappin the polis again. Ah couldnae believe ma eyes.”

“Aye that’s Davie awright,” said Balf.

“Fucksake.” said Geordie.

“Will you stoap sayin that?” cried Tam.

“Whit?”

“Fucksake.”

“Whit’n you don’t swear like?”

“Course ah dae. Ah gae it a bit o fuckin variety bit.”

“Talkin aboot swearin Tam,” said Henry. “Gordon McVittie wiz in the other night. E wiz staunin at the bar wi a couple of mates. Apparently e’s workin as a proof reader wi Collins the publishers.”

“A proof reader?” said Balf.

“Aye. E spends aw day checkin ower manuscripts’n stuff like that. Lookin fur mistakes like, afore they go in fur printin.”

“Sound like a cushey wee number tae me,” said Geordie.

“Forget it wee man,” said Tam. “Ye need tae be able tae read furst.”

“Awe aye, funny fuckin funny.” replied Geordie.

“Aye, but wait tae hear this,” said Henry. “E wiz tellin e’s mates aw aboot it an how e spends aw day readin. So ah says tae’m, ye must find that improves yer vocabulary eh? D’ye know whit e says? E says, aw fuck aye.”

All four men went into fits of laughter.

“Aw Christ Henry, that says it aw, diz it no?” said Tam.

“Ah wiz in a cafe a couple’a Sundays ago doon in Govan,” said Balf. “It wiz early mornin efter an aw night party like. Me an Patsy O’Flynn went in for a coffee while waitin furra bus. The wee wummin handed ower the coffees an we sat doon. Patsy took a sip o e’s coffee and says, aw that’s fuckin nectar. The wee wummin looked across and shoutit, if ye don’t bliddy like it ye don’t hiv tae drink it.”

This time Tam’s fit of laughter turned into a fit of coughing.

“Aw Christ Balf,” he spluttered. “That’s fuckin priceless so it is.”

“Tell ye whit Tam,” said Balf. “They fags’ll be the death o ye wan o these days.”

“Och don’t geezat patter. Ye can jist as easy git kil’t croassin the road.”

“How’s that then?”

“Ah’m sayin ye could walk oot here the night an be flattened by a bus or a truck or whitever.”

“Can ah let ye into a wee secret Tam?” said Balf.

“If ye must.”

“Well pal, the secret is, ye croass the road when it’s clear an there’s nay fuckin buses or lorries or whitever.”

“Bit see when ye’re talking aboot bein barred fae pubs,” said Geordie. “Did ye hear your Malky’s barred oot the White Swan?”

“Naw,” replied Tam. “The wee cunt never telt me. Whit’s e been up tae noo?”

“Och Tam it was hilarious. E hid the hale pub in an uproar. The place wiz rockin wi laughter. It wiz priceless so it wiz.”

“Well are ye gonnae fuckin share it wi us or whit?” said Balf.

“Aye,” said Geordie. “We were aw staunin at the bar, me an Charlie Dempsey an Barney McFarlane an wan or two others. Who else wiz it again?”

“Aw fur fucksake,” said Tam in exasperation. “Spare us the minor details wull ye?”

“Anyway, Angie, the owner’s wife wiz behind the bar. We were aw dain wee tricks n’that an Malky says tae Angie, ah bet ye ah can make yer tits wobble withoot touchin them. So everybody sits up an takes notice like, well ye’ve seen the size o big Angie’s knockers. Anyway, she looks at him. We’re aw lookin at him, wonderin whit wiz comin next like.”

“So am ah,” said Tam.

“Fuckin me tae.” said Balf.

“Well, Angie says, ye’re sayin ye can make ma tits wobble withoot touchin them. Aye, says Malky. Whit’s the bet, says Angie. Dunno, says Malky Angie says make it a double Vodka then. So Malky tells her tae stand in front o im wi er chest stickin oot. So she does an Malky waves his hands in front of her tits, bit no touchin them. Then aw a sudden he grabs them both in his hands an shakes them up an doon and side tae side. Angie lets oot a scream an backs away sharpish. Malky puts his hand in his pocket’n pulls oot his wallet an says, will Smirnoff dae ye?”

Balf and Geordie and Henry were doubled up in laughter an Tam just shook his head and sipped his pint.

“The cheeky wee bugger. Wait tae ah see im.”

The telephone rang. Henry moved to the other side of the bar and picked it up.

“Tam? Aye e’s here.”

Tam looked up.

“Don’t tell me that’s fur me.”

“D’ye want tae speak tae’m?” said Henry. “Aye, aye ah’ll tell’m.”

Henry replaced the receiver and called Tam across. Tam quickly moved to meet Henry who was leaning against the bar.

“That was Wullie Dunn,” he bagan, his voice almost a whisper. “Hiv you still goat that thing on yer electric meter?”

“Whit? Yon magnet thing that fuck’s up the readin?”

“Aye. Only Wullie says tae tell ye the electric boys are oan tae ye.”

“Ye’re fuckin jokin.”

“Ah’m no Tam. E says ye better git yer arse hame fast and get shot o the thing. The boys are on the way right noo.”

“Aw Christ ah knew ah shouldnae’ve listened tae that cunt.”

Tam turned and walked quickly out of the pub.

“Whit’s up Henry?” said Geordie.

“Where the fuck’re ye gaun?” cried Balf.

“Ah’ll tell yous later guys.”

A Glasgow Dynasty Part 4 - Pissin up a Close

2009-05-20T16:04:00.002+10:00

Ringo sat impassively in the waiting room at Glasgow Sheriff Court. All around him were an assortment of individuals. Opposite sat a respectable looking woman. Ringo guessed her to be in her late fifties. She had been rummaging through her handbag for about ten minutes, her head lowered, her hands trembling. Ringo put her strange behaviour down to nerves. She was probably new to this situation, he thought. The shame of her predicament probably ate away at her sanity.

He began to wonder what her crime was. Shoplifting, he told himself. The great equaliser. The one indiscretion that can befall the most respectable of people. Then they find themselves sitting in places like this. Cold, dark, unfriendly. In the company of muggers, rapists, murderers . . . and shoplifters.

“Hullo Richard.”

He hadn’t noticed the girl enter the waiting room. He looked up at her for some moments before jumping to his feet and, taking her by the arm, he led her abruptly out into the corridor.

“What are ye doin here Sarah? Ah thought ah said ah’d meet ye later.”

“I know but, well, I just thought you could do with some moral support.”

“But ah told ye. It’s only a minor offence. Ah’ll probably get off wi a ten pound fine.”

“I know that but still. It can’t be nice for you having to come to a place like this.”

Ringo was not inclined to tell her that he had been in places like this many times before, and he found her innocence rather touching.

“I know.”

His tone was calmer now.

“And ah do appreciate it. C’mere.”

He planted a kiss on her lips and they embraced.

“Look, ah’ll need to go now. You go over to the cafeteria and have yersel a cup of tea. Ah’ll join ye jist as soon as ah’m free.”

“You haven’t changed your mind have you?”

She held his hand and looked deep into his eyes.

“About the mortgage I mean.”

“Aw no of course not,” he reassured her. “Ah can’t stand it in that house any mair. Two o’clock the appointment’s at. We’ve got bags of time. On ye go. Ah’ll be with ye shortly.”

Ringo smiled as he walked back to the waiting room. He had taken little convincing that he and Sarah should buy their own flat. After all, he told himself, they were both in steady jobs and together they could easily afford a modest property. Today they would see the bank manager and get things moving, he reminded himself, then he would take great pleasure in announcing it to his folks.

“Richard Mitchell.”

His dreams were interrupted by the voice of the court usher which seemed to reverberate throughout the building. Ringo paused momentarily and instinctively straightened his tie before calmly strolling into the courtroom.

He was led to the dock where he stood in silence for several minutes while the court officials whispered amongst themselves. He looked towards the public gallery which was almost filled to capacity. All eyes were on him and he began to imagine himself as the condemned man.

“Richard Mitchell.”

The clerk of the court looked at him over half moon spectacles.

“You are charged with urinating in a public place. How do you plead?”

“Well it wasnae really a public place . . .”

“Please just answer the question,” said the bewigged and berobed Sheriff. “You’ll have ample opportunity to speak up.”

“How do you plead?” the clerk of the court repeated his request.

“Guilty,” replied Ringo.

Some more whispered conversations ensued before the clerk of the court called out for Constable McCallum. Ringo watched as the police officer entered the court and walked stiffly towards the stand. He picked up a card and read out some sort of oath which Ringo could not hear. Then the Procurator Fiscal began to speak.

“Constable McCallum. You are the arresting officer in this case are you not?”

“That is correct,” said Constable McCallum in a gruff, rehearsed voice.

“Could you please tell the court what happened on the night in question.”

“May I consult my notebook your honour?”

“By all means.”

Constable McCallum already had his notebook in his hand, opened at the right page. He let out a cough and scratched the tip of his nose before proceeding.

“I was mobile with my colleague Constable Smith in Dumbarton Road at approximately twenty-three fifty hours when I observed the accused, who had been walking with a group of youths, break off from the group and enter a close which led to a number of occupied dwelling houses.”

He paused and coughed once again as he turned the page.

“Suspecting that the accused was possibly about to commit an offence, Constable Smith and I walked over to the building and entered the close. I went first and at the back of the close, which was dimly lit, I observed the accused urinating against the wall. I approached the accused, placed my hand on his shoulder and, thinking that I might let him off with a warning on this occasion, said ‘Do you realise that could cost you a fiver?’ whereupon the accused put his hand in his pocket, pulled out his wallet and replied ‘How much for a crap then?’”

At this point pandemonium broke out in the court. The public benches were in an uproar as hysterical laughter filled the court room. Even the court officials were at great pains to suppress their laughter. The sheriff was clearly trying his best not to join in the merriment and after composing himself he called for silence in the court. All the while Ringo stayed calm, not wishing to incur the wrath of the court.

“Thank you Constable McCallum. That will be all,” said the Procurator Fiscal.

The policeman’s face was bright red as he turned to leave the witness box.

“Stay where you are for now constable,” said the Sheriff with some urgency. “We shan’t detain you much longer.”

Constable McCallum resumed his former position and glanced nervously at the Fiscal, who merely coughed and sat down once again.

“Mr Mitchell.” He removed his glasses before continuing.

“You have a record of petty offences and normally I would have no hesitation in fining you accordingly. However, on this occasion I am prepared, in view of the welcome degree of levity you have brought to the proceedings this morning.”

At that the court officials laughed momentarily in a gesture of agreement while, to Ringo’s utter astonishment, the sheriff was actually smiling broadly.

“I am prepared to fine you the modest sum of five pounds.”

“Do you require time to pay?”

It was the Clerk of the Court’s turn to speak.

“Yes. I mean no,” said Ringo, reaching for his wallet.

“Can you change a twenty?” he said, looking at the sheriff as he held the note in his hand.

More laughter reverberated through the public gallery.

The Sheriff glowered at him.

A court official handed him a note and gestured that he should leave the dock.

“You may pay the fine at the cash office Mr Mitchell.”

He walked through the body of the court, past the members of the public and as he did so, groups of people burst into fits of laughter. As he walked through the exit door he heard the sheriff call for order.

“Silence in court. The fun is over, now may we take the next case?”

A Glasgow Dynasty Part 3 - Broken Biscuits

2009-05-20T15:57:00.002+10:00

Brenda sat behind the checkout at the Woolworth store in Dumbarton Road. The shop had only been open a few minutes and the first customers had yet to arrive. There were only two checkouts operating. The other was occupied by Jinty Campbell, Brenda’s lifelong friend.

“So is the money awright then?” asked Brenda.

“No tae start wi,” replied Jinty, filing her nails as she spoke. “But he says that the mair he sells the mair he gets. Commission like.”

“Well it’s goaty be better than bein idle innit. How long wiz Erchie oot o work then?”

“Three’n a hauf years. Aye it’s been murder so it hiz. But thon trainin scheme’s done’m the power o good. Ye know, confidence wise n‘at like. As a matter o fact,” she lowered her voice now. “It’s done wonders fur oor sex life, know whit ah’m sayin?”

Their schoolgirl giggles were interrupted as a customer approached Brenda’s checkout. It was an elderly man with white straggly hair which looked too long for his age. He held a walking stick in one hand and a packet of biscuits in the other.

“How much are these missus?” he asked in a hoarse, unsteady voice. Brenda ran it over the bar code scanner a couple of times before it registered.

“Thirty-nine pence,” she replied.

“How much is that in auld money?”

“Whit? I dunno mister.”

“Aboot eight shillings,” said Jinty, still filing her nails.

“Eight bob furra packet o biscuits. That’s a scandal,” the old man declared.

“D’ye want them then?” said Brenda, growing impatient.

“Ah loast ma wife. Ah don’t know aboot these things. She did aw the shoppin. Eight shillins ye say.”

He searched his pocket.

“Thirty nine pence.”

Brenda raised her voice as she tried to get the message home.

“Ye don’t need tae shout missus. Ah might be auld but ah’m no deef.”

Jinty walked towards the man who now held a number of coins in his hand.

“There ye are mister.”

She used her index finger to separate four ten pence pieces.

“That’s forty pence. A penny change.”

The man handed over the money, took the biscuits and the one pence and shuffled towards the exit.

“Sorry aboot yer wife mister,” Jinty called after him. “When did she die?”

“Twenty wan years ago.”

The two women shook their heads as they watched him shuffle towards the exit.

“Eight bob furra packet o biscuits,” he muttered to himself.

“Poor auld sowel,” said Jinty as she returned to her checkout and the nail filing.

“Ah wish ah hid your patience ye know Jinty,” said Brenda, swivelling her chair round to face her colleague. “Ah’ve got too short a fuse that’s ma trouble.”

“Och it’s aw part o life innit. Ye’ve jist goaty keep remindin yersel that wan day ye’ll be auld’n decrepit yersel.”

“Aye ah suppose ye’re right. So whit exactly is it your Erchie’ll be sellin then?”

“Och electrical goods, tellys. videos, washin machines, hoovers, that sort o thing. Why, wid ye be interested?”

“Aw naw Jinty ah wisnae meanin that. It’s aw ah can dae tae feed that shower at hame never mind splashin oot on new toys. Nae offence but know whit ah mean?”

“Aye but he’ll gae ye terms.”

Jinty discarded her nail file as she let the idea take shape.

“Ye’d be his first customer. An ah’m sure he’d gae ye a rerr discount cos ye are his first customer. Aw gaun Brenda, whit d’ye say?”

“Aw ah don’t know Jinty. There’s that much ah dae need but, och ah jist don’t know.”

“Ye know when ah wiz a boy.”

The old man had returned and stood just inside the door.

“When ah wiz a boy, we used tae come intae Woolies’n ask fur broken biscuits an the wummin wid gae’s a big bag fae furra farthin.”

A Glasgow Dynasty Part 2 - Pissin in the Sink

2009-05-20T15:49:00.001+10:00

Ringo had spent an unusually long time in the bathroom, a fact that was not lost on Tam, who was now knocking on the door.

“Haw Ringo, hiv ye fell asleep in there or whit?”

“Ah’ll no be a minute,” he replied, his voice muffled as he dried his face while he spoke.

“Ye said that five minutes ago,” said Malky, who had now joined his father in the hallway.

“Aw it’s up?” exclaimed Tam, looking disdainfully over his shoulder at Malky who stood in nothing but a pair of grubby underpants.

“Ah’m burstin by the way,” he announced, both hands tucked inside his pants, his body crouched forward to ease the pressure on his bladder.

“Forget it pal,” said Tam. “Ah’m furst.”

“Aw fur fucksake da ah’ll no be a minute. Ah’m desperate.”

“An ah’m no like?”

“Are you want’n a pish or a shite then?”

“Mind yer ain business.”

“Och ah’ll away doon an pish in the sink then.”

Malky turned and proceeded down the stairs, one hand still inside his pants while the other held on to the banister.

“See’n take the dishes oot the sink furst this time ya mucky wee bugger ye.”

Tam heard the click of the lock being freed and he stepped back as the bathroom door opened. Ringo emerged and Tam was surprised to see that he was wearing his one and only suit and a crisp white shirt. His hair was neatly combed and his breath smelt of toothpaste.

“Jeezo whit’s aw this?” said Tam. “Ah hardly recognised ye there. Fur wan horrible second ah thought ah wiz in the wrang hoose.”

“Ah telt ye last night da. Ah’m up afore the Sheriff the day.”

“Oh aye. Ye got done fur pishin up a close didn’t ye.”

Tam stepped into the bathroom as he spoke.

“D’ye think tartin yersel up like a bliddy poof’s gonnae impress they bastarts?”

“Can ah borrow a tie?”

“A tie anaw? Ye’re gettin done fur pishin son, no mass murder. A collar’n tie’s no gonnae make much odds is it?”

“Look can ah hiv a tie or no?”

“Aye on ye go,” said Tam as he closed the door between them. “Take wan oot the wardrobe.”

He screwed up his nose as the strong scent of cheap aftershave suddenly hit him.

Ringo stood in front of the bedroom mirror and fiddled with the tie. It took him four attempts to get it right before he finally pulled down his shirt collar and adjusted the knot. He stood back and half turned to examine his whole appearance. He took his comb and ran it through his hair which felt shinier and smoother than he could ever remember. He then licked his index finger and ran it across his right eyebrow. He wasn’t at all sure why he did it but he had seen film stars do it and that was good enough for him.

His posturing was brought to a sudden and dramatic halt by the sound of a woman screaming, followed by Malky shouting, “Jesus Christ” then the crash of shattering crockery.

Ringo raced downstairs and into the kitchen where Malky was spread-eagled on the floor amid a mess of broken cups and plates and an upturned stool. He rubbed at his knee and uttered a string of curses as he gently got to his feet and stood in front of the sink, leaning forward to look out of the window.

“Ah wiz hivin a pish ya silly auld cow,” he yelled, his face red and contorted with a mixture of pain and rage.

“Whit’n God’s name’s gaun on here?” said Ringo.

He looked out of the window in time to see old Mrs McDermott from next door rush frantically along the path and through the gate as though she was fleeing some untold horror.

“Ah’m staunin on the stool pishin in the sink,” protested Malky, still rubbing his aching knee.

“When aw a sudden that auld eejit appears at the windae. Ah wiz lookin doon, ye know, watchin whit ah wiz dain like. Then ah heard this God almighty scream. Ah nearly shit masel an before ah knew whit wiz happ’nin ah loast ma balance an doon ah went.”

Ringo tried hard to suppress his laughter.

“Ye better get this lot cleared up afore ma da comes doon. Ah’m off.”

“Aye awright,” replied Malky, bending down to pick up the shattered debris. “The silly auld bugger. Ah could’ve broke ma bliddy neck bay fuck.”

A Glasgow Dynasty Part 1 - The Man Fae the TV Licence

2009-05-18T13:36:00.001+10:00

Tam’s day started off badly and quickly went downhill. Brenda, his long suffering wife, interrupted his peaceful slumber by tossing a bundle of mail on to the bed. One particularly bulky item caught him a direct hit on the bridge of his nose. The sudden pain caused him to jolt his head back involuntarily, only to crack his skull against the wooden headrest.

“Jesus wummin are ye tryin tae finish me aff aw the gither?” he cried, rubbing both his nose and the back of his head at the same time.

“Don’t tempt me,” replied Brenda as she sat on the edge of the bed and pulled on her boots.

Tam yawned and let out a rasping cough as he gently raised himself to a sitting position. He lit his first cigarette of the day and began to tear open the mail.

“Fuckin bills. Is that aw ah ever git these days, fuckin bills?”

“Whit’s yer problem?” replied Brenda. “It’s no you that has tae pay them is it?”

“Aye too bliddy right it’s no,” shouted Ringo from the bedroom across the hall.

Ringo had already got to his feet and was stretching himself, releasing the cobwebs in preparation for the day ahead. He looked down at his younger brother Malky who shared the double bed.

“Are you no gonnae get up’n look furra joab ya lazy wee shite?”

Malky grunted some sort of reply and began to roll a cigarette. Ringo rubbed the pain in his back and cursed under his breath.

“Haw ma,” he shouted. “Ye’ll hiv tae git me a new bed. Ah cannae sleep on they springs any mair.”

“It’s awright fur you,” complained Malky. “Ah’ve goat tae lie here aw bliddy day.”

Having surveyed the day’s mail and discarded it on to the floor, Tam lay back again and drew on his cigarette as he stared at the ceiling. Brenda’s attention was drawn to the loud red print on what was clearly a bill which was well overdue. She leaned forward and picked it up. She read the contents with some trepidation.

“Is that yer answer is it,” she said. “Jist toss it on the flair’n hope it’ll go away?”

“Whit’re ye oan aboot?”

“This,” she raised her voice, waving the document in front of him. “It’s a final demand fae the electricity board.”

“Thank God,” said Tam. “Ah thought the bastards wid never gae up.”

Brenda threw the bill back on to the floor and got to her feet, cursing under her breath.

“Any spare dosh on ye hen?”

“Aye that wull be right.”

“Ah’m seein wee Hughie doon the road aboot a joab, honest. Ah cannae very well walk intae a boozer wi nae readies noo can ah.”

“You must think ma heed button’s up the back,” replied Brenda.

Tam watched her pull on her coat and rush out of the bedroom.

“Ah’m gonnae be late if ah don’t get a move on.”

As she opened the front door she was met by two men, one in his middle years and carrying a briefcase. The other, whom Brenda imagined to be in his mid twenties, held a clip board under his arm.

“Mrs Mitchell?” said the older of the two, his manner both officious and unsmiling.

“Who wants tae know?” she replied, eyeing them both up and down suspiciously.

The man produced an identity card.

“Television Licensing Authority. We called last week.”

“Oh aye that’s right, sorry, ah didnae recognise ye withoot the red mist in ma eyes.”

“Did you manage to buy a licence as promised?”

It was the turn of the younger man to speak.

“Aye, ah did that. If ye don’t mind ah’m in a hurry, ma bus’ll be alang directly.”

“It won’t take a minute,” he would not to be put off. “If we could just see the licence.”

“Look, the door’s no locked. Jist go right in, up the sterrs, first bedroom on the right. Ye’ll find the licence in a shoe box under the bed.”

The two men watched her scurry along the road for some moments before entering the house and proceeding nervously up the stairs. The older gentleman entered the bedroom and silently raised his arm, indicating that his colleague should wait in the hallway. He got down on his knees and quickly located the shoe box.

“Whit the . . . who the hell are you?” exclaimed Tam.

The two men had failed to notice his presence under the crumpled blankets.

“Oh . . . er . . . Mr Mitchell, we’re from the Television Licensing Authority. We’d just like to check your licence.”

“Whit the fuck are ye doin doon there then?”

“It’s ok Mr Mitchell. The licence should be in this shoe box under the bed.”

“Holy Jesus,” declared Tam. “That’s some bliddy detector van you’ve got.”

The Bet

2009-05-14T18:29:00.000+10:00

Andy and Tojo work in a packing plant in Glasgow. Andy is a Celtic fan while Tojo is a Rangers fan. They both go their separate ways when they finish work at four o’clock every Friday, to return the following Monday, their respective moods determined solely by the weekend’s football results.

The week leading up to a Celtic versus Rangers match is particularly fraught, as each tries to outdo the other with audacious forecasts about what one team is going to do to the other, and indeed, the following week is enveloped in gloom and despair for the loser, and gloating triumph and joy for the victor. The state of mind of each protagonist is further enhanced, or exacerbated as the case may be, by the ritual wager. This means, in short, that if Celtic come out on top, Tojo gives Andy twenty pounds on the Monday morning, while on the other hand, if Rangers triumph, the money changes hands in the opposite direction.

Over the years this arrangement has proved to be a matter of honour for, no matter whether one side claims to have been robbed of victory by a biased referee - and this would appear to be the case every time, if Andy and Tojo are to be the judges - no matter how often the two of them argue over a penalty that ‘never was’, or a goal that was ‘clearly offside’, the loser always pays the winner promptly, during the Monday morning tea-break, and no arguments.

This was the situation until one Friday lunch break when Andy, Tojo and several work mates were eating sandwiches or smoking cigarettes and sipping cups of coffee, tea, or cans of ginger, whilst chattering happily about the weekend ahead. Andy was sitting on the floor of the rest room, his back against the wall as he rolled a cigarette. Tojo was in whispered conversation with another, much younger colleague.

The following is, verbatim, a description of the conversation which brought both the betting arrangement and a twelve year friendship to a sudden and irreconcilable conclusion.

Tojo approaches Andy and squats on the floor in front of him.

Andy, you know our wee bet.

Aye, whit aboot it?

Well, Frankie boy’s auld man’s got a dug runnin at Shawfield the night.

Aye, so?

Frankie tells me it’s a cert like. Cannae lose, know whit am sayin?

Am very happy fur yeez. As a matter o fact, a might hiv a wee bit on it masel. Whit’s the dug’s name?

Silver Bullet. It’s runnin in the fourth race. It cannae lose.

Silver Bullet? Ye’re pullin ma plonker.

Nae kiddin man. It’s a stick on.

Aye well, we’ll see then. Thanks fur the tip.

The thing is Andy. Am a bit barassic ye know. Ah’ve got forty quid comin fae wee Sammy the morra. But right noo am......

How the fuck can ye be skint? We only got paid yesterday.

Aye a know but a wiz intae the missus fur the rent a spent last week’n that.

How much ye wantin?

It’s no a loan mind ye Andy.

How much?

Jist the twenty.

Hawd oan a minute.

Whit?

Whit d’ye mean it’s no a loan?

Och a wiz thinkin. Ye know how we’ve got oor bet fur the morra.

Aye.

Well a wiz thinkin......

So ye keep tellin me.

If ye gae me the twenty the day, if the Gers win then we’re aw square. Ye won’t hiv tae gae me it on Monday.

An if the Tims win?

Well obviously a’ve tae come across wi forty. But that’s no a problem is it?

Aye but it bliddy well is a problem Tojo.

How? Ye’ve seen me awright in the past an a’ve never lit ye doon huvva?

Ah bit dae ye know see? If a gae ye this score on the basis ye’ve jist telt me, am puttin the mockers on the Tic fur the gemme.

How?

Fucksake Tojo. Think aboot it. Ye’re sayin tae me, gimme twenty quid an if Rangers win we’re aw clear.

Aye so?

Jesus man. That means......if a gae ye the money noo am as good as sayin, Celtic’s gonnae get fucked anyway so here ye are.

Naw, naw big man. A wisnae meanin it that way.

Maybe naw. But that’s the way it is.

So whit’re ye sayin then?

Am sayin......aw fuck man if ye’d only jist said, haw Andy geeza lenny twenty quid tae Monday, a’d a gave ye it nae sweat.

Whit? Are ye jokin man?

Naw am no fuckin jokin. Can ye no see? If a done that an we got humped the morra ah’d be gutted man. Gutted.

So ye’re no wantin tae gae me the money then.

Naw Tojo fuck. Aye a want tae gae ye the dosh. Only the way ye asked fur it is aw fucked up, right.

Awright Andy. Could ye lend me twenty quid tae Monday?

It’s too fuckin late noo.

Whit are ye on aboot?

Ye’ve planted the seeds in ma heid. It still means if you bastarts win ye don’t hiv tae pay me back. I’d still have paid oot on the bet afore the gemme.

So am no gettin the twenty then?

Naw. I mean aye. Aw fucksake how can I? If ye’d only jist asked me withoot mentionin the bet. Whit the fuck did ye hiv tae bring the bet intae it fur?

But if youse cunts win, or it’s a draw, ah’ll still gae ye twinty quid back fuck.

Ye’re no listenin are ye? The bottom line is, am still payin the bet afore the event. Och aye, if we win aw well’n tickety-fuckin-boo like aye. But fucksake fuck. Why did ye hiv tae mention the bet?

Fuck it then.

Whit?

A says fuck it. Stick it up yer fenian arse.

Hawd on a wee minute there Tojo......

Away’n stick it in the plate on Sunday ya cunt.

Ya fuckin orange fucker ye. Efter aw a did fur ye.

Fuckin shove it ya papish shitebag.

Ah’ll fuckin molocate ye ya wee loyalist arsehole ye.

Fuck off yan IRA bastart.

So it’s like that is it. Efter me’n the boys rescuin ye fae that bunch o sheep-shaggers doon the toon.

A only asked fur a sub fuck.

Naw ye didnae. Anyhow, a telt ye the money wisnae the issue. It’s the fuckin way ye asked fur it.

Aye so ye said fuck.

Aye well let’s caw it a day then.

Catholic scumbag.

Gonnae fuckin cut that out?

How?

Cos that’s how.

Away hame’n play wi yer rosary beeds ya cunt.

Right that’s it.

Aw fuck man, wid’ye dae that fur?

Cos a felt like it.

That wiz ma fuckin lunch ya rotten bastart ye.

Fuckin good.

Fucksake a cannae eat it noo.

Fuckin even fuckin better.

Imagine emptyin an ashtray ower a man’s piece fucksake. It’s fuckin everywhere ya cunt.

Probably done ye a fuckin favour man.

How?

Well, a’ve seen the shite that wife o yours feeds ye.

Whit’re ye sayin noo ya bastart? Are you castin aspirations on ma Jessica?

Jessica fuck aw. Her name’s Jessie. Don’t gae me that shite.

Never mind aw that. Whit’ve ye got tae say aboot ma Jessica?

Ye’re always moanin’n greetin aboot’er yersel fucksake.

A’ll moan aw a want aboot ma ain wife. It disnae gae you the right but.

Aw hawd yer weesht.

Naw a wullnae. You fuckin Mickey bastart are aw the same. Fur ever pokin yer noses inae other cunts business.

Aye well, if a gaed ye twenty quid’n Celtic lose a’d never forgive ye. An if we win ye’ll come in on Monday an say, here’s the twenty fur the bet, a’ll gae ye the other twenty nixt week. Then ye’ll never pay it back.

Aye a wull.

Naw ye wullnae.

Aye a wull.

Ye wullnae.

How wull a no?

Cos ye’re no gettin the fuckin money.

And so it went on, on on, and on . . .

Heroes and Sinners

2009-05-08T16:18:00.000+10:00

My grandfather was a wonderful storyteller. I spent many a winter’s evening sitting on the floor in front of a roaring coal fire as he looked down at me from his brown leather armchair. The red-yellow, flickering light from the flames lit up his long, wrinkled face in the darkened room. His one good eye glistened animatedly while the other stared straight ahead, lifeless and sinister. His whole appearance emitted an eerie sense of menace as he told me in exquisite detail how, as a mere seventeen year old, he fought hand-to-hand combat with a German soldier for more than an hour before, completely exhausted, they both crawled off in opposite directions through the mud and water and blood of Flanders.

My grandfather instinctively knew how to scare me with his stories, just enough to make the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end, but always at the same time making me feel safe and secure in his care, like flying with both fear and exhilaration through the night sky under his strong and reassuring grasp.

My grandfather’s name was Thomas Duffy. I called him Granda. My grandmother’s name was Elizabeth, née Renwick. I called her Nana.

My Granda was born in Drogheda on 14th February 1898, St Valentine’s Day. My Nana was born in Gateshead on 21st April 1905, an ordinary Tuesday. Soon after his father, my great grandfather, died of Tuberculosis, my Granda moved to Motherwell at the age of six with his mother Margaret, to live with her brother, my Granda’s uncle Patrick and Patrick’s wife, my Granda’s auntie Bridget.

My Granda lost his left eye during the Great War. He told me how, with his right eye, he last saw his left eye as it dangled from the end of a bayonet being held by another German soldier, who was apparently frozen in terror at the sight of my Granda’s eye hanging there in front of his own eyes, looking at him unforgiving and unblinking, dripping with blood. The German soldier stood screaming for several seconds before a bullet caught him on the right shoulder, knocking him to the ground. He screamed no more and my Granda once again escaped with his life, and my future, intact. Later he confessed to me that he could not possibly have witnessed the horrific scene as he was unconscious throughout, and put his robust memory of it down to the great and gory detail in which it was described to him by his comrades as he lay in the field hospital, his veins flowing with morphine.

Nurse Renwick tended to my Granda back in the field hospital before he was shipped back to Scotland, where he was delivered unto the care of his mother. After the war, nurse Renwick returned to Gateshead and decided to visit my Granda in Motherwell. He had given her his address before escaping from the madness and mayhem. They were married within the year, my uncle Tommy already on the way.

My Granda felt betrayed by the country he had served so bravely and at such a cost, as he was left to his own devices with a badly infected wound which took eighteen months to clear. It was three years before he was afforded the luxury of a false eye made of balsa wood and crudely painted. He told me how it was cold and uncomfortable, though much better than the ugly, gaping hole or the eye patch which frightened the lieges. Women and boys alike would turn and flee, and men would cross the street at the sight of his approaching.

“I sometimes think o thon German soldier,” he once told me. “The wan I had the fight wi. Did he survive the war? Is he still alive the day? Could he be sittin doon right noo somewhere in Bavaria, telling his ain grandchildren how he fought for an hour wi a crazy British sojur?”

His eye glazed over as he stared into the fire. I think I saw him wipe away a tear but I said nothing and I too gazed into the fire.

“Such a waste,” he whispered. “Such a waste ae gid young lives.”

To me, my Granda was a hero.

When I was twelve, I was playing football with my fellow street urchins one warm Sunday evening when I spotted him walking along the street with that familiar stoop and his hands clasped behind his back. He sported the usual battered old bunnet and worn-out hounds tooth jacket as he walked slowly and nonchalantly, seemingly without a care in the world. I called out his name and he stopped and, on recognising me, raised his arm to wave. He stood for some minutes watching the game, occasionally shouting words of encouragement.

“Good baw Thomas . . . gae it tae Thomas . . . great goal Thomas . . .”

At half-time I went over to speak to him.

“Are ye gaun tae oor hoose Granda?”

I wiped beads of perspiration from my face.

“Naw son,” he replied. “Jist oot furra walk n a bit ae fresh air.”

He pulled a white paper bag from his pocket and held it towards me.

“Hiv a mint Thomas.”

“Aw ta Granda.”

He always carried a supply of rock hard white mints.

“Ye lookin furrit tae Hampden oan Setterday then?” he said, after waiting for his dentures to negotiate the hard sweet.

“Aye Granda, a cannae wait. Ma first cup final.”

“A can still remember ma first final.”

He looked at his feet and shook his head as he spoke.

“Celtic’n Rangers it wiz. A well remember no bein able tae sleep the night afore, a bit like yersel Thomas.”

“Am glad it’s Dunfermline no Rangers this time,” I said. “Mum widnae lit me go if it wiz Rangers.”

“Aye it’s a shame aw this bigotry nonsense still goes on. A wish they could enjoy the rivalry withoot aw that baggage. Ach well, that’s religion fur ye. Mair folks’ve died oer the heid ae religion than onythin else in this world ah’ll tell ye.”

My friends were now preparing to resume the match.

“A better git movin,” I told him.

“Aye, ah’ll away then Thomas,” he said. “See ye soon then.”

“Aye, see ye Granda. Take care.”

I moved towards my friends but was stopped in my tracks.

“Jist a wee minute Thomas,” he called after me and I turned to face him once again.

“Whit is it Granda?”

“If onybody asks,” he said. “If yer Nana asks like . . . well . . . ye never seen me, right?”

I looked at him in silence.

“If Nana says onythin, don’t lit ona ye seen me, right?”

“Sure Granda, a wullnae say a word.”

I didn’t ask for an explanation but he offered me one anyway.

“It’s jist that, ah’m supposed tae be it six o’clock Mass. Couldnae be bothered gaun. She’ll gae me merry hell if she funs oot.”

“Nae problem Granda,” I reassured him. “She’ll no hear it fae me.”

“Good lad,” he smiled warmly. “Go on then. Enjoy yer gemme.”

I felt a great surge of pride in the realisation that my Granda, the great hero, had shared a secret with me and that my silence would protect him from a nagging, or worse. At the same time I wondered how it was that my Granda, who had fought hand-to-hand combat with a German soldier for more than an hour; who had lost an eye under the piercing blow of a German bayonet; who had stood up to the Protestant gangs who stoned him and his family as they walked to Mass every Sunday morning in Edwardian Motherwell; who had stood shoulder to shoulder with his fellow workers and battled with the riot police during the General Strike; how could this great hero be walking the streets alone, rather than tell his wife, my Nana, that he couldn’t be bothered going to Mass?

Three years later, just days after my Nana’s funeral, my Granda was telling me what a wonderful and strong woman she was. For the first time I asked him about that Sunday night and he told me he remembered it well.

“A bet ye were wonderin why a couldnae jist tell ur a wisnae gaun tae the chapel.”

I admitted that the thought had crossed my mind.

“When ye git tae oor age Thomas, me n yer Nana a mean. When ye git tae oor age, ye start thinkin aboot death n'at. No the actual dyin. No, a mean the passin oan, ye know, whit’s waitin fur ye oan the other side.”

“Like Heaven n Hell?”

“Aye, that’s right. It’s jist that, a havnae believed ony ay it since a wiz your age.”

“Ye mean ye don’t believe in God?”

“Well, it’s no as simple as that. It’s jist this gaun tae Mass oan a Sunday thing. A jist don’t think it’s such a big deal if ye decide tae gae it a miss noo n again. Bit tae listen tae yer Nana, it wiz hellfire n eternal damnation fur me if a so much as mentioned stayin in the hoose when a should be tt the chapel. The thing is Thomas, she believed in it aw the way, an if a committed a mortal sin, as she seen it like, bay missin Mass, she’d jist worry herself sick that ah’d drap doon deid n go tae Hell before a hud the chance tae go tae confession or change ma underpants. She even telt me ah’d spoil it fur hur cos she’d go tae Heaven n couldnae enjoy it knowin a wiz burnin away in the Bad Fire.”

“So ye don’t believe in the Bad Fire eether?”

“Mibbe there is a Bad Fire, mibbe no Thomas, bit if there is, a cannae believe God wid pit some'dy there jist fur missin Mass oan a Sunday. Bank robbers n murderers aye, bit no fur missin Mass or tellin the odd white lie or usin bad language or stealin a loaf ae breed or, or whitever. Surely the God Nana an yer mother worship every Sunday cannae be that cruel.”

To me, my Granda was now a hero and a sinner.

“So ye preferred a quiet life rather than upset her.”

“Aye Thomas, that’s it exactly,” he said with a smile. “That n the fact she wiz English intae the bargain.”

My Granda was a great Rabbie Burns fanatic. He could, and often did, recite the whole of Tam O’Shanter from start to finish. Though he was a Burns fanatic, he wasn’t boring with it, and didn’t ram it down our throats. He would quote the great man in everyday life and always in proper context.

My friend Owen Kelly and I spent hours preparing for the school Christmas dance. Our Lady’s High School was an all-boys establishment, a legacy of the traditional thinking of the Catholic hierarchy in the first half of the twentieth Century. The more intelligent Catholic boys were not to be distracted from their education by the testosterone challenging proximity of girls in the classroom. So the annual arrangement was that girls from the Catholic Convent School would be bussed in for the evening, lest we should be tempted by the apparently greater evil of dancing with boys.

As I stood before my mother and my Nana, my curly hair caked in brylcreem in a fruitless attempt at straightening it in defiance of the laws of both physics and physiology; my winkle-picker shoes shining proudly following their first polishing since the previous Christmas; my face and neck blotchy red and stinging under the cheap and malodorous after shave; and the top three buttons of my shirt unfastened to reveal an expanse of scrawny white skin under the merest sprinkling of fluffy chest hair, I felt like I was being briefed in advance of a dangerous and important mission.

“Button your shirt up Thomas or you’ll catch the death of cold.”

“Comb your hair Thomas. It’s sticking up at the back.”

“Don’t let any of those Convent lassies drag you out the school.”

Chance would be a fine thing.

“And if they kiss you, keep your mouth shut.”

No fear. If I get kissed, I’ll not be telling any of you lot.

They started prodding me, tugging at my collar, buttoning my shirt, patting my hair.

“What’s wrong with curls anyway Thomas? You shouldn’t try and hide them.”

“Aye, it doesn’t look natural son.”

Oh wad some Pow’r the giftie gie us
Tae see oursels as others see us !

Quoth Granda from behind his Motherwell Times.

“Just you read your paper and mind your own business,” said Nana.

“And don’t be late Thomas. Don’t get carried away and miss the last bus.”

We think na on the lang Scots miles,
The mosses, waters, slaps and styles,

That lie between us and our hame,
Where sits our sulky sullen dame,
Gathering her brows like gathering storm,
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm.

At the party, a girl called Elspeth dragged me out the school. She led me by the hand round to the dark side of the ancient building. My jacket was still hanging on a peg in the cloakroom and I shivered in my shirt sleeves. Elspeth leaned back against the wall and pulled me towards her. She wrapped her arms around my neck and proceeded to kiss me ferociously. After a few minutes she let me up for air and rested her head on my shoulder. Soon she was licking the inside of my left ear, which sounded like I was being eaten alive by a giant slug, and felt like it too. Then, with a swift movement of the head, she pushed her soft wet tongue into my mouth where it wriggled around like a hooked salmon. Gasping for air and wishing to rid the inside of my mouth of the nauseatingly fleshy intrusion, not to mention the strong taste of fresh ear wax, I pushed her away and, after gulping down a large portion of air and exhaling at length, I wiped my lips with the sleeve of my shirt.

“Whit’s wrang wi you,” I said. “Lost yer chewin gum?

“McLaughlin.”

I was rescued by the gruff voice of Mr Healy, my English teacher.

I pushed Elspeth away and watched as Mr Healy peered round the corner.

“Put that young lady down and get back indoors,” he commanded. “Now.”

I was only fourteen then. It was the last time I was happy to be rescued from the clutches of an amorous young lady.

In the Summer of 65 my Granda took me, my Ma and my Nana to Glasgow to see The Sound of Music. I set off in trepidation as the whole idea of such an outing filled me with feelings of horror and embarrassment. I was eleven years old and wanted to be playing football or kick-the-can or chap-door-run-away with my friends. My street credibility took a nosedive as I was dragged off on the big bus to watch a film about singing nuns in some far-off country full of hills and girls with flowery frocks and men in leather shorts.

The venture was organised by Father Logue, the parish priest of St Luke’s. He had placed an advert on the notice board at the back of the chapel, requesting that parishioners should append names and numbers by a certain closing date. On the big night we all duly gathered in the chapel hall - me and a collection of people, whose ages ranged from an elderly twenty-five to an ancient eighty-eight.

My Granda reckoned I would enjoy the picture because he perceived that I had, at a very early age, shown a healthy interest in music. He owned a very impressive radiogram in those days. It resembled a shiny wooden box, rather like a child’s coffin, on four wooden legs. When you opened the lid of the box, there was on the right hand side a radio set with all manner of buttons to push and knobs to turn. A glass panel had various markings painted over it, with lines and numbers and strange words such as Luxemburg, Hilvershum and Vienna. To the left was a turntable which spun at various speeds round a vertical six inch metal spindle which held up to eight vinyl records, dropping each in turn on to the turntable, or the previous record, where the arm, which seemed to have a mind of its own, would retreat and, when it saw that the next record had been dropped into place, would swing back, stopping at a precise point at the edge of the now spinning record, before slowly and gently lowering itself and the needle on to the black, shining disc and, after a few hesitant but rhythmic crackles, my ears would be filled with the sound of music.

I used to spend hours lying on my back with my head beneath the body of the radiogram, between the two front legs, listening to record after record, but if my Granda reckoned that filling my ears with a constant diet of Frank Ifield, Perry Como, Frank Sinatra and The Bachelors represented a healthy interest in music then who am I to argue?

The big bus took an hour to trundle its way through Lanarkshire towards the big city. Father Logue passed the time by moving slowly along the passageway, spending a few moments with his parishioners. I spent the whole time with my nose against the window as I took in the sights and sounds of the countryside, then small towns, more countryside, until the towns got more frequent and bigger and the countryside got sparser and before long we were rolling noisily through the east end of Glasgow. I knew we were in Glasgow when my Granda excitedly pointed out the four gigantic, towering pylons which were the floodlights of Celtic Football Ground. For many years to come I would feel time and time again that familiar feeling of awe and breathless excitement as I saw the very same floodlights, shining like a beacon, growing nearer and nearer as our bus approached on match days.

The cinema was packed to capacity and the audience was peppered here and there with a collection of priests and nuns of all shapes and sizes, giving the auditorium the feel of the main stand at Celtic Park. Some months earlier, on a Saturday morning, I had queued outside the Rex Cinema in Motherwell, along with a hundred or so excited youngsters, waiting to see One Million Years BC. I began to imagine a hundred priests and nuns lining up outside the picture house on the first showing of The Sound of Music. This set me wondering whether the priests got in for nothing, like they did at Celtic matches.

My Granda once told me how he and my uncle Tommy spent much time and effort designing two makeshift dog collars which they wore with suitably adjusted black shirts and jumpers. They managed to see six matches, free of charge, before my Granda forgot himself and rose to his feet to berate a linesman with language that would make a coal miner blush. As a policeman came to eject him, uncle Tommy stopped him with a right hook which sent him sprawling across three rows of seats and about half a dozen spectators, at least two of whom were bona fide priests. Their scam was rumbled and, after a weekend in the cells and a Monday morning visit to the Sheriff Court and a ten shillings fine, they had to walk the fifteen miles or so back to Motherwell.

They sang Irish rebel songs as they sauntered through the mining village of Viewpark, where they got into a fight with a trio of local Orangemen and were promptly arrested yet again. The Motherwell Celtic Supporters Club organised a whip-round and a committee member was despatched to bail them out and return them to the safety to their families. Safety? My Granda suffered a headache for four days, courtesy of my Nana’s rolling pin.

The incessant babble which filled the auditorium subsided as the house lights were dimmed. Several rows behind me a mother berated her young daughter in hushed but audible tones. “For heaven’s sake Angela,” she cried in exasperation. “Why wait till the film starts before wanting a pee?”

I burst out laughing and all around me, a dozen grown-ups said, “Ssshhh!” in perfect harmony.

“Don’t you tell my grandson to Ssshhh,” Nana snapped back.

“But ah’m burstin,” pleaded Angela, who sounded like she was straining to hold back the torrent for a few seconds longer.

“Ssshhh!”

On screen, an exuberant fresh-faced lady was running up a grassy hill under a clear blue sky. The music began to rise with her. First, soft strings, like a breeze blowing through your hair. The lady reached a certain point before raising her arms and spinning round in circles as the music rose to a crescendo. She smiled a most wonderful smile before breaking into song. Her voice was exquisite and the music and the colours were mesmerising. From that moment I was hooked. For three hours I was transported to the sights and sounds of Salzburg and the Tyrolean Mountains. You could almost smell the edelweiss and taste the clear, fresh air. I saw the splendour of the castle as it looked down majestically over the town, little knowing that thirty years later I’d be standing at the walls of that very castle, gazing down at the colourful and picturesque town that was the birthplace of Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart.

I sat in silent awe until the very end. I was spellbound by the colours, the breathtaking scenery, the beautiful children, the acting, the singing, the music, the songs, the dancing. It was a whole new world for me. Oh, and I fell head over heels in love with Brigitta.

On the journey home, we all sang the songs from the film, led by Mrs McTaggart, who seemed to know all the words as she stood in the middle of the passageway, grinning widely and swaying from side to side as she conducted the choir. She must have been on some sort of medication, for several times in the cinema I saw her swig from a plastic bottle when no-one else was looking. Even I was so enveloped in the whole atmosphere that I found myself standing on my seat and singing more and more robustly as I became familiar with the songs. I was even seen to wave my arms exuberantly and, before dropping off to sleep that night, the excitement having dissipated somewhat, I remember thinking, was that really me?

Father Logue sat down beside me on the bus and we talked for a while, about the film, school, football and the fact that he was looking to recruit a handful of altar boys and, would I be interested? I wasn’t keen at first but felt unable to refuse a priest so agreed to attend a meeting of all the altar boys after ten o’clock Mass on Sunday.

Next morning, my Granda quickly removed any doubts from my mind.

“Ye should go tae the meeting Thomas,” he enthused. “Becomin an altar boy is quite an honour ye know.”

“I thought ye wernae too keen oan religion,” I reminded him.

“Aye well that’s me Thomas. Ah’m an auld man. You’ve goat yer whole life in front ae ye. Lit me put it this way laddie.”

He moved forward and sat on the edge of his seat and clasped his hands together.

“Whin ye grow up n leave school ye can decide fur yersel, bit while yer in the care o yer mother n father, ye must listen tae them n dae wht they say. Bit apart fae aw that, servin as an altar boy is jist another wan ae those interestin experiences ye meet in life. It’s no every boy thit gits ast ye know. Ye’ll hiv a bit o responsibility in front ae aw those people an it’s aw good experience fur future life. It’ll make ye mentally tougher believe you me, an ye’ll learn a fair bit ae Latin.”

Confeteor Deo omni potente...

I have to confess, he was right.

On Sunday, after ten o’clock Mass, myself and two more new recruits were debriefed by Father Logue, who spent some time putting us at ease and informally talking about the Mass stage by stage and at various points, outlining our duties. We were informed that we would be required to attend several practice sessions over the next few weeks before being allowed to serve a full Mass. We were also supplied with Mass books which contained the priest’s script in black print and the altar boys’ responses in red, all in Latin. We were told to practice at home and to learn the words by heart.

I had to go the full hog.

Each evening I would go to my room, dress in my newly acquired sitan and surplice, kneel on the floor in front of the mirror, hold the Mass book in front of me and, in what my mother, even to this day, describes as the voice of a wailing cat, I recited the whole Latin script from start to finish, only looking at the book when my memory demanded it.

Before long, I was a fully trained altar boy. My whole family turned out on the morning of my first Sunday Mass. Even my Granda the sinner was there. While the priest stood on the pulpit, delivering his sermon to the packed church, the two altar boys were required to sit, facing the congregation, on the carpeted steps leading up to the altar. This I found unnerving, as I imagined all eyes were fixed on me. I began to blush and lowered my head, avoiding the sea of eyes.

Father Logue was lecturing his parishioners on the use of “foul and abusive language”.

“It is the responsibility of every parent,” he said in a loud and commanding voice. “To ensure that their children, given to them by the love of God, are not subjected to cursing and swearing.”

“See mammy, a telt ye,” said a young boy in a high-pitched tone as he tugged at the sleeve of his mother’s coat. “You n ma da hiv tae stoap swearin aw the time.”

Father Logue paused for a few seconds as the rest of the congregation shifted uncomfortably. A few muffled laughs could be heard here and there.

“Be quiet James,” said the boy’s mother, her face now crimson, and I was grateful as all eyes were now on them instead of me.

“Bit ye’re aye shoutin n swearin it each ither.”

“Will you shut up?” she raised her voice which registered panic.

Father Logue continued speaking in an even louder voice, obviously trying to save the woman’s blushes by drowning out her son. I lowered my head again as everything returned to normal. Then I was aware of a commotion in the congregation. I looked up once again to see my Granda, who was sitting in the front pew, doubled up and clutching his stomach. His head was lowered and his shoulders were shaking. I was fearful that something terrible was happening and instantly I felt a weight in the pit of my stomach. After a few seconds, he raised his head and his face was bright red and his whole body trembled as he began to laugh hysterically, tears welling in his eyes.

Father Logue stopped speaking and looked down at my Granda with a most thunderous look. My Nana thumped him on the shoulder with her umbrella, her face as thunderous as the priest’s. I could see that it was a gargantuan effort for him to stop convulsing and after a while, all was quiet again as he sat, head lowered, gritting his teeth and clearly using all his willpower to control his emotions.

“Whit the bliddy hell ur you laughin at y'an aul bugger?” shouted the mother of the small boy.

This sent my Granda sprawling to his knees in a very loud spurt of suppressed laughter. This time there was no stopping him as he got to his feet and edged swiftly along the pew, past giggling children and embarrassed parents. Father Logue watched in silent astonishment and heads turned throughout the congregation as my Granda fled from the chapel, still laughing hysterically and holding his stomach, hotly pursued by my Nana, who was waving her umbrella menacingly. My own and my fellow altar boy’s giggles were brought to an abrupt halt by the look which Father Logue sent in our direction.

I quickly lowered my head and once again avoided the stares of the congregation.

That afternoon, as we all sat down at Nana’s to Sunday dinner of mince’n tatties, we waited for Nana to finish her silent grace. All that is except my Granda.

Some hae meat, and canna eat,
And some wad eat that want it;
But we hae meat and we can eat,
And sae the Lord be thankit.

The next time my Granda entered the chapel was for his own Requiem Mass, less than two years later. He had not been the same after the death of his wife, my Nana, nurse Renwick.

He had recently moved in with us as he was no longer able to care for himself. I knew he was on a downward spiral when, one evening, I heard him shouting from his bedroom. I went in to see him and he said, “Who is it?”

“It’s Thomas,” I replied.

“Aye Thomas, when ye go tae the Shire the ight, tell them am no well.”

The Shire was a colloquialism for the Lanarkshire Steelworks, where my Granda and his son Thomas, my uncle Tommy, worked together many years earlier. I wiped away a tear at the realisation that he thought I was his son and that he was now transported back to his working days.

I told my mother and she asked me to help her undress him and get him into his pyjamas and into bed.

It took some time and effort as his lifeless body moved unprotesting at our prompting. All the while he spoke in riddles and he did not recognise his daughter and grandson.

Yet still I could hear his calling.

O Thou unknown Almighty Cause
Of all my hope and fear !
In whose dread presence, ere an hour,
Perhaps I must appear !

If I have wander’d in those paths
Of life I ought to shun ;
As something, loudly in my breast,
Remonstrates I have done ;

Thou know’st that Thou hast formed me
With passions wild and strong ;
And list’ning to their witching voice
Has often led me wrong.

Where with intention I have err’d,
No other plea I have,
But Thou art good ; and Goodness still
Delighteth to forgive.

My mother looked in on him at regular intervals. I offered to accompany her on more than one occasion, but she would not allow it. I felt sure then that she knew something I didn’t. It was after the sixth or seventh visit, which lasted much longer than the previous visits, that she returned with tears streaming down her face. She held me to her and hugged me tightly. She did not say a word, but her quiet sobs were enough to tell me that my Granda, the hero and sinner, had passed on to the other side, whatever that was.

O Thou, great Governer of all below !
If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee,
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow,
And still the tumult of the raging sea ;
With that controlling pow’r assist ev’n me
Those headlong furious passions to confine,
For all unfit I feel my powers to be,
To rule their torrent in th’ allowed line ;
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine!

For his sake, I hoped and prayed that he was wrong and that there was a Heaven, where my Nana would be waiting for him, alongside a German soldier with a welcoming smile and an outstretched hand.