Glue (37 page)

— That’s a delightful costume, Terry sais tae her as she pits the drinks doon. The lassie jist grins at him.

Ah didnae like the wey eh wis starin doon her cleavage. Ah’ve worked in restaurants n bars n ah hate cunts that think that yir just
nowt, yir jist an object or a skivvy that’s only pit oan this earth tae meet their gratification. When she went away ah goes: — You shut the fuck up, jist git the fuck oot ay here wi yir delightful dresses.

— Whit the fuck are you oan aboot? Jist passin a compliment tae the lassie, Terry goes.

Ah’m no huvin that, cause Lawson, one ay the crudest cunts on God’s Earth, has been a bit too high and mighty aboot aw that Nazi nonsense. That cunt is tae moral and intellectual high groond what Paul Daniels is tae comedy. — Listen, man, the lassie’s forced tae wear that gear. It’s no what she’s picked oot for herself. She’s at the beck n call ay cunts like us aw night, we wave oor lazy mitts and she’s right ower. Oan toap ay that she’s aw trussed up like that wi her tits hinging oot jist tae fuckin well please the likes ay us. If the lassie hud’ve picked the fuckin threads hersel, then, aye, by aw means gie her a genuine compliment, ah’m no sayin nowt against that, but no when the lassie’s been forced tae dress that wey.

— Look, Terry said tae ays, — you’ve no hud yir hole here n it’s makin ye nippy. Dinnae fuckin well take it oot oan ivray other cunt. The lassie cannae understand a fuckin word wir sayin anywey, eh goes, linin up a shot.

Terry always did huv a wey ay reducin a principled stance right doon tae the base drives.

— Disnae metter aboot the language, man, lassies ken whin thir bein leered at by some fuckin half-pished creep. That’s an international language.

Mr Outraged of Saughton Mains isnae huvin it. — Dinnae
you
start. You’ve nivir goat yir fuckin hands oaf lassies whin yir oot back hame. Pawin cunt. Whae’s the creepy lecherous cunt then? Ehs face twists in accusation as ehs bottom jaw shoots oot an extra couple ay inches. Naebody can accuse like that cunt. Should’ve been a crown prosecutor.

— Different, ah goes, — cause that’s whin ah’m E’d up. Ah’ve nivir goat ma hands oaf any cunt then. Ah git tactile . . . it’s the fuckin E’s. Ah wis even pawin your black velvet jaykit one night, mind.

Eh’s ignorin me though, cause eh’s doon at the table and ehs cue runs along that jaw as the baw’s potted in a smooth stroke. I’ve got tae hand it tae the cunt, he can play pool. Mind you, aw the time eh spends oan pool tables in pubs, if eh
couldnae
play thir wid be something wrong.

— Look youse, Gally cut in, — wir here oan the sniff, lit’s no kid
oorselves. Personally, ah’ve nivir shagged a German bird n ah’m no gaun hame before ah’ve done yin, even if it’s any auld hound. This cunt, he points tae Billy, — brought us here under false pretences. Telt us German birds wir gantin oan it. Worse thin the English, eh goes.

Billy protests at this. — Well they wir in Spain last year, ah wis fightin thum oaf, eh sais. Billy’s lookin a bit mumpy now cause it seems like Juice Terry’s gaunny gub um again. Billy’s no up tae much at pool, but eh hates tae lose at anything.

— Aye, right, Spain. Big fuckin deal. Every cunt’s gantin oan it in Spain, Gally scoffs.

— Course. That’s why birds go thair, tae git thir hole, well, thir cock . . . bit ye ken what ah mean. It’s different when thir in thir ain back yard; the lassies dinnae want tae git called slags. Yuv a better chance ay baggin oaf wi anybody but German birds here, Terry goes.

Ah shakes ma heid. — It’s no the fuckin birds, n it’s no the Oktoberfest. It’s jist one big fuckin pick-up joint, ah goes. — It’s us. We’re the problem. Huv tae try tae stey oaf the fuckin sauce a bit mair. Wir no used tae it now wi aw this fuckin ravin. N you, what’s up wi you? Ah turned on Billy, — Did Ronnie Allison say thit ye wirnae allowed tae git yir hole six weeks before a fight?

Terry’s ready tae pot the black.

— Did eh fuck, Birrell says. — The reason ah’ve no goat ma hole yit is cause ah’m stuck wi you ugly, pished-up wankers in tow.

Ah laughs at this, and Gally rolls his eyes doubtfully and exhales sharply, letting a farting sound wobble out through his lips.

— Oh, Terry pouted, dismissively smacking the black baw hame, — hark at fuckin cunty-baws Birrell thaire. Hope yir fuckin boxin’s better thin yir pool, mate, eh laughs.

— Naw, it’s true, yir crampin ma style, Billy nods at Terry’s mop, — the Albert Kidd–Bobby Ball look’s oot nowadays or has naebody telt ye?

This gits Terry’s gander up a wee bit. — Right then, we’ll fuckin well split up, eh says, aw brisk n cocky. — See whae’s scorin the night! Dinnae wait up the night back at the digs, he goes wi a swagger, hingin ehs cue oan the waw rack n downin ehs Steiner, — cause ah’m oan the fuckin prowl, boys, ah kin tell yis. N it’s gaunny be a loat different now thit ah’m freed fae aw this tiresome baggage.

He looks us up n doon, raises ehs heid haughtily, then skips oot wi this jaunty wee flourish.

— That cunt been oan the speed or something? Cheeky fucker him eh, Gally moans.

— Sounds like it eh, ah goes.

Gally’s lookin a wee bit nippy. Eh shakes ehs head n starts fiddlin wi ehs earring. Ye ken when that cunt’s goat something oan ehs mind, the earring gits tweaked aw the time. Since eh packed in the fags. — Eh shouldnae be actin that wey wi Viv back hame thaire, Gally goes.

— Git away, Gally, Billy laughs. — It’s different when yir oan hoaliday. It’s 1990 ya radge, no 1690.

— Unfortunately, ah goes, n Billy glares at ays.

Gally jist shakes ehs heid sternly. — Naw, Billy, it’s oot ay order. She’s a nice lassie, too good for that fat fucker. Jist like Lucy wis before her.

Billy n me look at each other. It wisnae exactly easy tae argue wi the cunt oan this point. The thing is, boys git the birds they git, no the ones that they deserve.

— Ah mean, Gally continues, — it’s awright fir us, we’re free agents.

— Billy isnae a free agent, Gally, eh’s steyin wi Anthea, ah remind the Wee Man.

— Aye, Billy says doubtfully.

— Is it fizzlin oot a bit wi you n her then, Billy? Gally asks.

— Nivir really fizzled in that much in the first place, eh sais.

Ah noticed eh wisnae wi her up at Fluid a couple ay weeks back, n ah’m sure eh said somethin aboot her steyin longer doon in London.

— Aye, Gally goes; — awright, but you dinnae bore every cunt aboot yir relationships, Billy. Nae cunt here does. Terry’s different. Only a few weeks ago, eh’s gaun oan aboot how special it wis wi her. We’ve hud tae listen tae aw this shite fir ages: Vivian this, Vivian that. ‘Ah love wee Vivvy.’ Bullshit.

— Terry’s Terry, ah shrugs, turnin back tae Gally. — Yi’ll stoap the Pope fae prayer before yi’ll stoap that cunt wantin tae git ehs hole. Gally goes tae speak but ah carry oan ower um, — Ah like Viv, n aye, ah think it’s oot ay order, but it’s thair business. What gits me is the wey eh uses the prefix ‘wee’ every time eh mentions a lassie’s name. It’s fuckin patronisin. But as far as him n Viv goes, like ah sais, it’s thair business.

— Internal affairs, Billy smiles. — Eh’s a bad boy, bit wi aw are given the chance. Thir’s naebody here thit kin say thit thuv eywis done right by a bird.

Gally nods, concedin the point, but the wee cunt’s no happy. The fingers’ve gone up tae that lobe again.

This specky student boy’s sticking fliers on the tables: a big, skinny, fair-heided laddie wi gold-rimmed glesses perched oan a sharp beak. It’s funny how many Germans under forty wear glesses; namely, ivray fuckin one ay the cunts. You’d think it would be the aulder fuckers likes: ‘I never saw anything, I mean, look at my eyes!’ But naw, it’s aw the young cunts. I look at the flier eh puts in front ay me. It’s a party night, for the morn; the same one that boy Rolf wis giein oot.

Ah gets talkin tae the boy, and ah buys um a pint. Wolfgang, eh’s called. Ah tell him about the day and eh says, — It is a small world, Rolf is my best friend. We have this place which is good to hang out in. You and your friends should come back and we can all smoke hashish.

— Sounds good tae me, ah say, but Billy n Gally arenae takin that much interest. This changes at chuckin-oot time, and wee Gally wants tae carry oan. Billy looks a bit dubious, no doubt thinkin aboot ehs run the morn. Gally looks at me and shrugs. — Nice tae be nice, eh sais.

We head out the pub and down the road, changing from U-Bahn to S-Bahn. It’s about twenty-five minutes oan this train. When we get off, we seem to be walking down the road for ages. It’s like we’re in an auld toon that’s been eaten up by the suburbs. — Where are we gaun here, mate? Gally asks, then turns tae me n moans, — this is a long way tae come tae hing oot in Corstorphine.

— No, Wolfgang goes, ehs long legs makin big strides doon the road, — we are not far. Follow . . ., eh repeats, — follow . . .

Gally laughs. — Yir a fuckin Hun awright, mate, then eh starts singin, — faw-low, faw-haw-low . . . we will follow Wolfgang, everywhere, anywhere . . .

Fortunately, it seems almost impossible to insult this Wolfgang boy. Eh looks aw deadpan, no understanding what the fuck the wee cunt’s oan aboot, marching along at speed, us struggling tae keep up wi him. Even Birrell, for fuck sake, and eh didnae huv
that
much tae drink. Maybe eh’s conserving energy fir ehs run.

I was thinking this place would be a pokey wee flat. It turns oot tae be a huge, rambling, suburban villa, standing in its ain groonds. Best of all, one room has twin decks, a mixer, and a load ay records. — Sound gaff, mate.

— Yes, Wolfgang explains, my father and mother, they are divorcing. My father lives in Switzerland and my mother in Hamburg.
So I’m selling this place for them. Only I am taking my time, yes? eh smiles slyly.

— Ah’ll bet ye are, mate, Birrell says, looking around aw impressed, as we crash oot in this big decks room, sittin oan some beanbags, lookin oot ower a patio wi plants, intae a big, back gairdin.

Ah’m straight oan the decks, spinnin a few tunes. Thir’s a good selection here; maistly Eurotechno stuff ah’ve no heard ay, but one or two Chicago House and even some old Donna Summer classics. Ah pit oan some Kraftwerk, a quirky track off
Trans-Euro Express
.

Wolfgang looks oan approvingly. Eh does this wanky wee dance, which Gally, sittin oan a white beanbag, sniggers at, and Birrell smiles as well. The Wolfgang’s no giein a fuck but. — This is good. You are a deejay back in Scotland, yes?

— The best. Gally cuts in, N-SIGN.

Wolfgang smiles, — I too like to play, but I am not so good. There must be more of the playing . . . the practice . . . then, eh points tae himself, — good.

Ah bet that’s bullshit n the cunt’s excellent. Eh doesnae seem tae need the money, the spoilt rich fucker, so ye bet eh’s never oaf the decks. But eh’s brought us oot here, so fair fanny’s tae the boy. Now we’re getting a wee tour of the hoose. It’s a barry gaff, fill ay spare rooms. Eh tells us that eh’s got two wee sisters n two wee brothers, n thir aw in Hamburg wi ehs ma.

The doorbell rings and Wolfgang goes tae answer it, leavin us upstairs.

— Acceptable, Mr Ewart? Gally asks.

— Most palatial, Mr Galloway. — Ah’m just fuckin relieved that Juice Terry’s no here, the cunt would’ve cleaned the place oot by now.

Gally laughs, — Eh’d have hud Alec Connolly over fae Dalry wi the van!

The front room is brilliant, oak-panelled, furnished olde-worlde style. It’s like one ay they rooms that ye see some plummy-voiced twat sittin in, when they’re being interviewed on BBC 2 or Channel 4, just as you’re staggering in pished. They’re usually telling us how we’re scum, or how brilliant their mates are. ‘In some ways Hitler could be termed the first post-modernist. He should be reclaimed as such, as we’re already starting to do with Benny Hill.’

Hitler.

Heil Hitler.

I was so fuckin stupid. Drunk and farting about with the boys from
the old Last Furlong bus, in a wee trip down memory lane. Some arsehole with a camera working as a freelance recognised me fae this article in the music press, on the club. He asked if we were fascists and a couple of us did the John Cleese thing as a piss-take.

I was stupid. Stupid no tae realise that they can be as ‘ironic’ as they like, but schemies are never allowed to be the same. Even if it’s what we grew up on, only we just called it taking the piss.

But fuck that, this room’s bigger than ma auld man n auld girl’s auld council place and thir new Baberton Mains shoeboax pit thegither. Now Rolf’s in wi his girlfriend Gretchen and these three other lassies; Elsa, Gudrun and Marcia. Gally’s so uncool when eh fancies a bird, it’s like ehs eyes jist go flying oot ehs heid, n ye can tell that eh’s mental oan that Gudrun lassie. But aw these lassies look great, thir’s nowt tae choose between any ay them. It’s that wall-tae-wall effect ay class fanny
en masse
that just blaws ye away. Ah feel as if ah’m struggling tae be cool, but at least Birrell behaves wi some dignity, getting up and shakin everybody’s hand.

Thir’s some joints ay grass and hash oan the go, and we aw have a good puff, except for Birrell, who politely declines. This strangely impresses the lassies. Ah explain that Billy’s got a fight coming up.

— Boxing . . . is that not very dangerous?

Birrell’s got his line for such occasions. — It is . . . for anybody daft enough tae get intae the ring with me.

We all laugh, and Gally does the wanker sign. Billy gives a curt, mock self-deprecating bow.

Ah’m tryin tae work oot whae’s shagging whae, so ah’ll no step oan any taes by accident. As if reading my mind, this Marcia lassie says, — I am Wolfgang’s girlfriend. I stay here with him.

I’m delighted aboot that, cause, on closer examination, this lassie seems a bit straighter and more severe than the others. I know the one called Gretchen is Rolf’s bird, I met her earlier. That leaves Gudrun and Elsa.

As the night wears oan ah get a vibe aboot that Marcia; ah dinnae think she quite approves ay us. Specifically, she’s no keen oan Galloway, who’s getting a bit loud. — Munich’s great, it’s different fae Edinburgh, eh rants, — n ken how? It’s cause the older cunts, eh, the aulder people n that, are much nicer. Then eh starts speakin in German, and they can understand the wee fucker n aw.