Filth (35 page)

Masonic Outings

It’s there! Waking up from a maddening half-pished sleep and seeing the fuckin thing! It’s slithering out of my arsehole, lying across my hips. I touched it. Its black eyes. Its hooked, sucker mouth. Like a stick of tagliatelle with a head. I went to grab it only for it to be sucked up my arsehole like you eat a piece of spaghetti . . .

. . . and we are awake. I am awake. On the couch. The video’s on: the ones that Hector The Farmer got for me.
Vibrator Massacre
: the dykes who do the young lassies in the woods.

I can’t fuckin well breathe . . . I’m falling apart at the fuckin seams . . . we’re falling apart . . .

These cunts are trying tae kill us with this OT cutback because they know we cannae kip during the fuckin night, never could. They know we need very little sleep and that all we do in darkness is think and think and think. In order to stop thinking we have to fuck and then you get the complications; financial in the case of hoors, social in the case of slags.

I’m sitting up and waiting, praying for the light. I get through by reading ‘Tam o’Shanter’. It’s an apt that I’ll be asked to toast the haggis at the Lodge Burns supper this year, especially after the mess auld Willie McPhee made of it the last time. I know he’s done it for over fifty years, and it’s the only thing he lives for, but it’s getting beyond a joke and it’s time the auld cunt left the crease and embarked on that long walk to tae the pavilion. Eventually the light comes and I sleep for a few hours.

Then I’m up and into work. It’s the Christmas Party the night. I take some more of Rossi’s laxatives. We’ll flush this fuckin thing right out of Bruce Robertson, every last trace, sure we fuckin well will. It’ll be an early start the day alright; I want the first bevvy sank before midday and nae fuckin nonsense aboot deid coons or any ay that shite.

At the station everyone’s in a party mood. Inglis has already had a few, probably been drinking alone in the sad way of the closet homosexual. That, an inspector? I don’t fuckin well think so. A bum inspector, maybe. He’s fuckin well gettin it, I kid you not. The graffiti was only a start. Soon everybody’s gaunny ken what kind of a nancy-boy’s been sharing their cutlery in the cannie.

Karen Fulton and Amanda Drummond are the only fanny around so the prospects aren’t looking good. That big hoor the Size Queen has apparently been transferred up to the South Side. Karen says something about Clell’s hip, and Lennox asks: – What albums does he have? What clubs does he go tae? It’s above every spastic’s heid though.

Drummond coldly says that Clelland has been taken into the Royal Edinburgh Hospital, the Arthur Dow clinic. Apparently he tried to top himself again, while in the hospital! Pills and voddy job!

This puts me in high spirits.

We leave the office and we go to the restaurant for the Christmas curry. – This is the only kind ay networkin wi the wog community that ah’m interested in! Gillman says, raising his pint of lager. Cheers!

– Merry Christmas everybody! I toast loudly, raising my glass and cutting off Drummond as she’s about to pull Dougie up about his comment.

After the meal, we head up the street on a pub crawl. A loud party of pricks in suits and similarly power-dressed fanny stagger out of a Cockburn Street pub, struggling to keep their footing on the slope and the ice. One fat-chopped wanker with an Arthur Scargill hairstyle throws up in the gutter, sending kidney beans everywhere. A horse-faced bird looks at us in embarrassment and another rotund figure chides the puker in a high, squeaky voice, – C’mon Hank! Too much Christmas spirit!

This is a right spastics’ convention. I thought that I was with a sad bunch, but there’s always somebody worse than you. I spot Drummond giving a disapproving Toalesque gesture and this immediately instils a surge of goodwill in me for those part-time seasonal drinkers whom I had instinctively hated. I pull some Kleenex out from my jacket pocket. I always keep them handy for wanking purposes as you never know when the tight-arsed cunts at HQ supplies will run short. I hand the boaking mess a couple. – There you go mate.

– Thanks, the squeakoid says on his behalf.

– Office do? I ask.

– Aye, Standard Life.

Ah, Standard Life. The citadel of spare fanny in Edinburgh. You dinnae qualify as a fully-fledged male native of that city unless you’ve fucked at least a couple of birds from Standard Life by the time you’ve hit your quarter century. Mind you, the fanny on display here looks far from impressive, probably senior minge. Forget the models-in-suits bullshit in they women’s magazines. Generally speaking, the further up an organisation’s hierarchy you go, the uglier the birds get. This isnae because tidy fanny have less brains than dogs, it’s just that tidy fanny wi real brains always take the short-cut by marrying wedge and getting sorted out with some plastic before heading off with a tidy settlement. I look around and decide that we must be near boardroom level here.

We head into the pub vacated by the Standard Life crew. I get them in, ordering myself a vodka and tonic water. I’ve got the horn set up and I fancy firing into somebody later on. Fulton’s the obvious candidate, but she’s taking things quite easy. No like last Christmas or Princess Diana’s funeral when I got her three sheets and rode her back at her flat in Newington.

– Not firing on all cylinders yet Karen? I ask, noting her nursing her drink.

– I’ve gone off the drink a bit, she says. Drummond looks approvingly.

– Mind after Princess Di’s funeral? We were three sheets then!

I couldn’t resist that one, and I drink in Fulton’s visible cringing.

– We ended up back at yours . . .

– Oh aye, Inglis laughs, – tell me more . . .

Fulton winces again, but Drummond interjects, – That was a very sad and emotional day.

– Aye, Gus says. – I watched that Mother Theresa’s funeral again the other night. Ah wis checking tae see what old tapes ah could record ower. Ah watched it aw the wey through again, but it wisnae as good as Princess Di’s.

– Papes though, what dae ye expect, Gillman says.

– Mind you, the papes usually ken how tae pit oan a good funeral, ah’ll say that for them, Gus comments.

– Calcutta but, fuckin wogs eh, Gillman rasps, – what dae ye expect. They cannae fuckin well run the country withoot us, ye dinnae expect them tae be able tae dae a funeral withoot fuckin things up.

– I don’t think . . . Drummond begins.

Gillman dismisses her with a contemptuous scowl. – Fifty fuckin years they’ve hud tae git it right. If they’d goat it right they widnae need any Mother Theresas cause they widnae huv any slums and poverty in the first place.

– Well, Inglis says cheerily, – we’ve goat our ain parliament now. Lit’s hope we make a better job of it!

– That’ll be a load ay fuckin nonsense n aw, I snort. – Whose fuckin shout is it? If we cannae git organised tae get tae the bar wir no gaunny be able tae run oor ain affairs!

Inglis takes the hint and gets them in.

We lose the disapproving Drummond after a few drinks, but Fulton goes as well, which fucks up the prospects of a gang-bang later. Still, that’s force fanny: no worth the cock that’s pokin it. The crawl progresses down through town, to the St James Oyster Bar. I end up necking with some tart who’s groping my arse, and I only decide not to take her back for a shagging when Lennox points out to me that she’s a total fuckin hound. I sneak out the door and we head down the road.

Inglis makes some comment about dubious ladies, and I decide that that proof is too lippy and he’s fuckin well getting it. I arrange for us all to have a late night drink up at the casino, which I know is closed for refurbishment. It’s now freezing and we’re walking through driving snow.

– Shite, I moan, on seeing the boarded-up doors, – it’ll have tae be one ay they arse-bandit places, I tell them, pointing to the Top of the Walk.

– Ah’m no gaun thair, Inglis scoffs. – Doon tae Shrubhill tae the masonic . . .

– What have ye goat tae hide? Ray laughs. He’s taken his pint out with him and is drinking it.

Inglis looks at Lennox as if it’s him that’s the graffiti artist. – You sayin ah have got anything tae hide likes?

– Naw, Ray shrugs and takes a sip from his pint, – ah’m sayin nothing.

I smile at that.

– Look, c’moan, it’s jist for a fuckin drink, Dougie Gillman snaps.

Ray drains his pint and hurls his glass at a council gritting lorry. It smashes against its hull. – Spastics! he shouts.

We head into the club. The bouncer looks piercingly at us, but we get in as soon as he tipples we’re polis. It’s a drinking club full of all sorts of sad poofs. There’s the camp type, the seasoned scene-queens and the hard ex-cons who’ve got a taste for it in Saughton. There’s also a smattering of tourist puffs, wondering what the fuck they’re doing here. I go downstairs and spot the man of my dreams, Sinky, a mercenary wee Calton Hill rent-boy. I brief him on what to do before returning upstairs to the boys.

We’re having a good crack. Gillman’s already burst one queer’s mouth in the lavvy for looking at him funnily. After a couple of drinks, Sinky appears and heads down the floor towards Inglis. – PEA-TIHR! OH PEA-TIHR! he shouts camply, – LONG TIME NO SEE! Brought some friends along I notice!

– Ah dinnae ken you! Inglis shouts.

– Oh sorry . . . didn’t realise it was that kind of a scene . . . so exclusive . . . Sinky retreats, raising his eyebrows. – He can be sooo immature, he adds as an aside to several shocked parties around him. Gillman is looking at Inglis with sheer loathing and Lennox has moved slightly apart from him.

– AH FUCKIN DINNAE KEN HIM! Inglis squeals and makes to go for Sinky. I grab his shoulders. – Fir fuck sakes Peter, we’re polis! Dinnae cause a fuckin scene in here!

– Bit ah dinnae ken him! Inglis pleads.

– Well he seems take ken you, Dougie Gillman says, eyes narrowing into slits of hatred.

– You wrote that shite . . . Inglis accuses, his voice in exasperation going all high and fey like a pansy’s.

– Ah didnae write anything aboot ye, it wis probably one ay yir fuckin boyfriends . . . Gillman sneers, his chin jutting out.

– Ya cunt . . . Inglis swings at Gillman who steps back and bangs him on the side of the face. I grab Inglis and I’m hoping that Gillman will let fly again and smash that queer coupon, but Ray and Gus have got a grip on him and are restraining him. Gillman’s tidy and Inglis knows this, his struggle becoming more pathetic and those startled eyes making him seem more wretched than ever.

– Look, lit’s git oot ay here. Wir aw a bit pished. Lit’s jist git doon tae the masonic, I urge.

We stagger outside into the blizzard and Inglis is already away, a lonely figure trudging through the snow up Leith Walk. – C’moan Peter! Gus shouts.

– Leave the fuckin poof, Gillman says.

– Fuckin arse-bandit! Ray shouts after him.

– BIG FUCKIN NANCY BOY! Gillman roars, cupping his hands round his mouth. The rest of the boys might pass this off as just a load of drunken nonsense tomorrow, but Gillman’s tasted fag blood and he won’t let go of this now. We bay mocking lynch-mob laughter at the broken figure of the sodomite Inglis as his hunched back recedes up the Walk.

Ray has another glass in his hand. He chucks it in Inglis’s direction, but it falls a good few yards short and breaks with a muffled thud in the road, its impact cushioned by the thick snow.