Glue (43 page)

Thir’s jist the bare sound system stacked up aroond a makeshift deejay area, but this rig looks like it could handle some noise. It’s fillin up n ah’m thinkin that ah’d love tae play here.

Sure enough, a bassline throbs across the space, ricocheting off the
walls in an echo, as the first tune gets dropped and the whole place ignites n that explosive excitement you can only get as part of a crowd.

Birrell seems tae chill oot in the gaff, even before wi git the radge aw pilled up. It’s like eh associates the vibe and the music wi peace. The German cunts are sound. Rolf’s thaire wi Gretchen; Gudrun and Elsa are present n aw, n ah’m highly delighted that Gretchen hus goat mates, quite a few ay them. They look Bundesliga fanny n aw, but every lassie does in ma state, as the pill soon starts tae dig in, cutting through the sludgy layers of alcohol, restorin some sharpness an clarity. I run intae Wolfgang with Marcia. — You will play some records, yes?

— Ah wish ah’d brought a bag, mate, I really do. Even the yins back at yours.

— There is always later, eh goes.

Marcia chips in at this point. — Your friend with the hair is very strange and noisy. In the night he was standing in our room at the bottom of our bed . . . I saw him in the darkness with all this hair . . . there was no clothing on him . . . I did not know who he was . . .

Wolfgang is laughing at this, and I am as well now. — Yes, I had got up to let him in the house earlier. I showed him the bed in your room, but you were asleep. I went back into my bed expecting that sleep would follow him . . . he would be having sleep. Then I hear the screams of Marcia, and I see him standing there above us. So, I get up and take him back to bed. But he says he wants to go downstairs for more beer. So I get him some and he will not let me go to bed. He is for talking to me all night. I could not really understand him. He is talking on and on about a lorry of juice. I do not understand. Why are you always for talking so much in Scotland?

— No us aw, ah protest. — What aboot Billy?

Marcia thaws a bit n smiles, — He is very nice.

— Perhaps he is German, Wolfgang smiles.

Ah laugh at this and pull them to me in a hug, anxious to vibe mair wi this Marcia. Wolfgang’s gaun, — Ohhh . . . ohhh . . . Carl my friend, but Marcia still feels a bit tense. I doubt that she’s had a pill. These E’s Rolf’s sorted oot are pretty fuckin good awright. You kin always tell a good ecky by the speed that the night flies past, but when the music does stop, tae loud gasps of exasperation, ah’m thinkin that this is ridiculous, they wirnae
that
good. Despite the eckies, ma thoughts are slow (probably the pish) and it takes a moment before it dawns on me that ma ain words have proved a wee bit too prophetic, as there’s some uniforms milling through the dancing crowds towards the decks.
The polis are quite mob-handed and they want us tae disperse. Terry shouts something, only to have the Germans aw turn roond n look in astonishment at the cunt. Rolf says tae ays, — You should tell your friend that in this country there is little to be gained in antagonising the police.

Ah’m aboot tae make the point that it’s the same in oor country, but that disnae stoap us, when ah suss that they boys are cool cause thir’s a Plan B oan the project roster here. We definitely aw want tae cairry oan. Besides, the polis here’ve goat shooters, n ah dinnae ken aboot Terry or any cunt else, but that makes a hoor ay a difference tae
ma
attitude. Ma lips have mysteriously formed a layer a Velcro and ah cannae wait tae git as far fae here as possible. It’s true that if ye fuck wi the polis anywhaire, thir’s generally only gaunny be one winner.

Rolf n ehs mates wir tellin us aboot how they wir gaunny huv another perty but they loast the doss they had earmarked. As we’re aw thinking aboot where tae go, the gear’s gittin loaded up in a series ay big vans and the perty seems tae clear away as quickly as it sterted. German efficiency; the same process wid take months ower in the UK: every cunt wid be stoatin aboot cabbaged. Thir’s a bit ay mild panic starting tae set in that that might be the end ay the night, especially fae the non-Germans. Thir’s an English boy wi a high, posh voice gaun, — Where are we orf to next then?

Birrell’s smiling coldly at him. — Tae dance. Tae fuckin dance, eh says, ehs heid noddin like a clockwork toy’s. The guy seems a bit nervous at this response and tentatively extends his hand tae Birrell whae, despite bein E’d up, shakes it in a wey ah thoat wis unnecessarily graceless.

Terry’s been listening tae aw the debate and chips in tae Wolfgang, — C’moan Wolfie-boy, lit’s git back tae your bit then, mate.

Wolfgang’s no that chuffed. — There are too many people and there is work to be done tomorrow.

— Behave yirsel, mate, Terry says wrapping one arm around him and one around a stiff, tense Marcia. — Wir buddies, we’ll see you awright back in Schottland. Mates, eh winks. Then eh announces tae everybody, — As soon as ah saw they cunts, ah jist thoat: mates. That wis it, one word thit sprung right intae ma mind: mates.

Billy looks at Terry and raises ehs eyebrows. — You wirnae even thaire, eh goes. — Eh wisnae even thaire, eh exclaims tae the posh English boy. Eh’s now decided that this boy’s awright n eh’s goat ehs
airm roond ehs new best mate’s shoodir. — This is Guy, eh sais tae me. — Eh’s some guy, eh laughs, and the boy nervously joins in.

Ah’m thinkin: ah wonder how many times the poor cunt’s heard that yin.

— If ah’d been thaire ah’d’ve helped n aw, Birrell, Terry protests.

— Helped yirself tae the contents ay the boy’s hoose, ya radge, Billy goes. — Eh even pished the boy’s mattress. You’re brutal, Lawson.

Terry smiles, and just disnae gie a fuck. Eh’s goat that look oan ehs face, like a dug that’s been lickin its ain baws and the taste is so good that nothing else comes up tae scratch. — Fuck off, Birrell. C’moan, a wee perty . . .

Ah think Wolfgang’s startin tae get the message aboot the mattress. — What do you mean . . . what is he saying? the boy asks, still a bit confused.

Terry pits ehs airm roond ehs shoodirs again. — Ah’m just windin ye up, mate. Bit we’ve goat plenty space back at yours, so lit’s git a move oan. Eh shouts. — Throw a fuckin perty! Spread a bit ay love! C’moan! Git the boys here tae bring the gear.

Rolf nods his heid, the unwitting stooge of the Saughton Mains Svengali. — Wolfgang’s is good for a party.

Ah’m thinkin aboot ma records back thaire, n gittin a shoat wi thum oan they decks, showin the German cunts a bit ay Jock style. Jock style . . . that’s a laugh, like Gally, eh’s bletherin shite tae Elsa and Gudrun. Eh’s taken ehs T-shirt oaf n flung it away. Thir aw eyes, teeth n smiles. Eh’s gaun oan aboot how thir hair is beautiful n how German guys urnae as romantic as Scots guys n ah’m laughin ma heid oaf, but ah suppose thir’s naebody as romantic as Gally E’d up. Except me.

— It would be a fuckin great place n aw Gally, ah goes at him, interruptin the cunt’s flow ay bullshit.

— Fuck it, Terry sais.

— But the police . . . Wolfgang protests.

— Fuck these cunts. They kin only brek it up again. Lit’s dae it fir disco!

Terry generally hus the last word, so we scramble intae a series of vans and motors, and the convoy heads off doon tae Wolfgang’s, who’s shitein it. Marcia’s almost incandescent in her silent fury. Rolf builds a spliff n ah take a toke, passin it back, avoidin Birrell whae waves it away anywey. Gally’s goat in between they two lassies n eh’s restin ehs heid on one’s shoodir.

We get back tae Wolfgang’s n set things up. Every other cunt’s waitin in the front gairdin. The balcony makes a barry deejay space. The boys uv goat enough cable for the speakers n ah’ve got the amp an mixer up wi ays. It takes aboot twenty minutes tae rig the whole thing up.

They kick oaf, wi this boy called Luther oan the decks. Eh’s no bad n aw. Ah’m itchin tae git oan, tae show they Jerry cunts whit ah kin dae.

Marcia’s still miserable, her distress compounded by Lawson’s haverings. — It’s awright, doll, a perty eh, Terry goes. — See, eh explains tae her, — we huv tae fight tae perty. The difference, eh elaborates tae her and the other bemused Germans standing around, — is that we’re West Edinburgh Hibs. We’ve hud tae fight fir years against the Jambos . . . eh turns and looks at me, — no sayin nowt against the likes ay Carl here, — but we’ve no hud it easy like aw they cunts doon Leith. They dinnae ken whit bein
real
Hibs is like.

This bullshit impresses nobody, far less the lassie. She has her hands ower her ears. — It is so loud!

Wolfgang’s nodding away in time tae the beat, eh’s vibin intae it. Eh’s well intae ehs techno. — Our Scotland friends must have their party, eh says, tae a big cheer fae Terry n me.

Gally’s got intae a wild, sensuous, ecstasy lock wi they two Bundesliga birds, it takes ays a while tae see it’s that Elsa n Gudrun. The three ay them are snoggin each other slowly in turns. Eh stoaps fir a bit and shouts at ays, — Carl, c’mere. Stand here. Elsa. Gudrun.

— Tell yis what, ah goes, — you two are the most beautiful-lookin birds I’ve ever seen in ma life.

— You’re no wrong there, Gally confirms.

Elsa laughs, but in an engaged way and goes, — I think that you are saying this to every girl you meet when you are taking ecstasy.

— Too right, ah tell her, — but ah eywis mean it. And ah do. Elsa and Gudrun, what a package. Aye, that’s what’s so great about these kind ay scenes. You can admire the beauty of a woman, but when you see a load of them standing together, the sheer, overwhelming effect really does just blow you away.

Eh positions ays close tae them. — Right, try this.

The lassies are aw smiles so ah go ahead, snoggin wi one bird, then the other. Then Gally snogs thum baith again. Then the two birds start snoggin each other. Ma hert’s gaun boom-boom-boom n Gally raises
they eyebrows. Women are so fuckin beautiful and men are such dogs, if ah wis a burd ah’d be a dyke for defo. Whin they brek oaf, one ay thum goes, — Now you two must do the same.

Gally n me jist look at each other n laugh. — Nae fuckin chance, ah goes.

— Ah’ll gie the cunt a hug, that’s aw, eh sais, — cause ah love the big bastard, even if eh is a Jambo cunt.

Ah love that wee cunt n aw, it wis good ay him tae include me in ehs wee scene thaire. That’s a true mate. Ah crush the fucker in a hug, whisperin ‘CSF’ sweetly in his ear.

— Git a fuckin mob, eh laughs, breakin off n pushin ays in the chest.

Ah head oaf back tae the decks tae check oot the sounds situ. Ah’m gled ah bought some records n eftir borrowin some fae Rolf ah’ve goat enough tae dae a good forty-five minutes quality mixin. Ah git ready tae hit the decks. The mixer looks a bit unfamiliar or maybe it’s just the pills, but fuck it, jist git in thaire.

Terry’s jumping aroond beside ays. — C’moan, Carl. Blow these German cunts away! N-SIGN Ewart. That’s ma man, eh sais, shakin this German guy n pointin at ays — N-SIGN. Ah gied um that stage name. N-SIGN Ewart!

Ah dunno what Terry’s daein talkin aboot German cunts, cause ehs ain Ma wis shaggin one ay thum fir long enough. Bit ah git oan, n line up Beltram’s
Energy Flash
. Instant explosion oan the flair! Ah’ve soon goat the punters gaun, the music’s flowing through me, through the vinyl, right oot the speakers and intae the crowd. Even though wi some of the tunes ah’m just hearing them in bits through the headphones, before ah play them, but it’s coming out fine. It’s a dug’s breakfast as well; I’m mixing UK acid-house rave tracks like
Beat This
and
We Call It Acieed
in with old Chicago house anthems like
Love Can’t Turn Around
and taking it right back up through to Belguim hardcore, like this track
Inssomniak
.

But it aw works; these shaking erses and the fill dance-space are sending me a message:

I am fucking right on it here.

Some cunt’s been oan the blower cause thir’s mair cars comin in n the whole party’s below me oan that front lawn wi thir hands in the air n ah’ve never felt sae good. This is the best yin ever. At the end ay it, every cunt’s ower, shakin ma hand, huggin me, fill ay praise. It’s real praise as well, no bullshit. Ye get soas ye can tell the difference. It
embarrasses the fuck oot ay ays when ah’m straight, but E’d up, ye just accept it.

Gally comes ower tae ays. Eh’s goat one ay they lassies by the hand n eh’s pointin ower at Wolfgang who’s dancin slowly, shakin ehs heid n huggin every cunt that crosses his path. — That Wolfgang, eh, a definite capital gadge!

Eh pills oot the eckies n tries tae gie ays one. — Ah’ll take it in a minute, ah goes, stickin it in the top poakit ay ma shirt. The pill ah hud earlier is runnin doon but ah want tae keep oan this adrenalin rush right now. Eh’s hingin aboot wi Rolf; thir talkin aboot gear, n quality n aw that. Ah look at Rolf; a mair pristine, German, less manic, less fucked-up Gally. What Gally might’ve been like hud circumstances been different fir um. Mind you, ye dinnae really ken the Rolf boy, it’s just that eh seems so sussed oot.

Galloway: what is that wee cunt like? The boy’s oaf ehs tits, talkin aboot lovin every cunt n this bein the greatest night ay ehs life. At one point eh stands oot oan the balcony tae a big cheer n gies a clenched-fist salute. Rolf just smiles, hudin oantae Gally’s leg, n helpin um doon.

The sun comes up and we’re tryin tae help by tidyin up the debris, while still pertyin at the same time. Thir isnae too much ay a mess, the punters have respected the hoose. Despite the warmth fae the sun, it’s mistier and caulder now. It’s startin tae feel like October; winter’s diggin in. Gally’s still up, as high as a kite, eh’s goat Gudrun oan ehs knee n eh’s talking shite. Ah’m sitting next tae them oan the couch, wonderin where that Elsa lassie has goat tae. Ah swallay the other pill and wait for it tae kick in. Thir’s still a few people left ower, though the main heads fae the system have packed up. We’re back oantae Wolfgang’s smaller amp, mixer and speakers. Rolf’s daein a mellow set, which sounds okay. Gally says tae me, — Ah’ve goat tae gie it tae ye, Carl, ye wir brilliant. You’ve goat something, man. Like Billy, wi the boxin. Ye kin mix a tune. The likes ay me, we’ve goat fuck all. You’re Business Birrell, eh nods tae Billy, whae’s sittin crouched oan the floor, then tae me, — n you’re N-SIGN.