Ronnie was face-fucked when we all met up in the Gorgie-Dalry Oyster Bar. What's that cunt like. He was awake, but was lolling his tongue around his mouth and rolling his eyes like he was having some kind of stroke. I was a bit angry at being put in this position. Olly and I had shagged a lot that afternoon and my genitals felt very raw and sticky with our juices. I hadn't been into washing. I always felt disorientated after sex, always wanted to be alone. We'd smoked some hash, and that part was good, but now all these people were around me in this bar.
I said nothing in the bar, nor anything in the taxi up to Clermiston. Tina and Olly blethered away, ignoring me, while Ronnie stared out of the window. I heard him say: — Clermiston, mate, to the driver when we were already halfway there. The driver took no notice; nor did anyone else. Ronnie just kept whispering: — Clermiston, mate, and giggling under his breath. The cunt was getting on my fuckin tits.
— Try to be civil, Olly hissed at me, clocking my sour puss as Tina's ma let us in.
It was embarrassing. Ron just flopped down on the couch and twisted his head, taking in the room with one eye. I sat beside him, Olly sat next to me and Tina curled up at our feet. Her father sat in a chair facing the television and her mother put some drinks and snacks out on the table. She then settled down in another chair and lit a cigarette. The telly was still on and it took all Tina's dad's attention.
— Dig in, he mumbled, — we dinnae stand oan ceremony in this hoose.
I grabbed a somosa and a couple of sausage rolls. The blow I had smoked with Olly after our shagging session had given me the munchies really bad.
Ronnie started to snore, but Tina elbowed him and he shuddered awake. Her old man was very unimpressed. I should have sat back and enjoyed this, but I seemed to be all on edge. — Backshift, I said stupidly, — that's the problem, eh Ron? The backshift. Yir like the livin dead comin oaf the backshift.
Ronnie looked perplexed; in fact he looked stupid and subnormal.
Tina's father snorted at her, — Ah thoat you sais he wisnae workin?
— He's been daein a wee bit wi me, no through the books or nowt like that, I cut in. — Fittin smoke alarms. Wi aw they tenement fires, everybody wants yin. We've been daein the Sheltered Housing schemes for the council, ken? Long shifts.
Her father nodded in apathetic acknowledgement. Tina, her mother and Olly blethered about the sales and the old man fell asleep. Ronnie was also soon back in the land of the nod. I just sat stuffing my face, bored and hash-greedy. It seemed like the worst evening I'd ever spent. I was elated when we got ready to leave.
After we taxied back to Dairy, Olly wanted to go home and fuck. I wanted to go to Ryrie's and get drunk. We argued and went our separate ways. In the pub I met Roxy and The PATH. The PATH was just on his way out to meet this woman in the Pelican. — Come doon, he suggested.
— Mibbe later, I said. I needed a drink. I needed several. He left us. Roxy and I got a good lash on, without once mentioning Blind Cunt.
After a bit we decided to go to the Pelican. A smarmy English middle-class student-type cunt was on the door and wasn't going to let us in, but fortunately Rab Addison was coming out and let on to us. He gave the wanker a steely look and the poor cunt almost shat himself. Roxy and I walked in like the Duke and Duchess of Westminster.
The place was mobbed out, and we couldn't see The PATH, although we could hear him.
— ROXY! BRI!
Looking in the direction of the sound I could only see this large, fat woman smiling at me. She was absolutely gross, and had a bloated red face, which was nonetheless very kind and pretty looking. The PATH's head poked out from the side of her. I realised that he was sitting on her knee.
— This is Lucia, he said, slurping on a pint.
— Hiya, Lucia, I said.
Lucia turned to The PATH. — Ye want ays tae suck yir mates oaf n aw? she said, in a high excited voice. I couldn't catch The PATH'S reply.
Then she put her hand on Roxy's thigh. — What's it they call you?
— Loads ay things, doll, he smiled. She felt him up for a bit through his troosers, his cock n baws. He seemed amused, yet unaroused. I was quite turned on. My head was starting to swim with the thought of the three of us fucking this big cow at the same time. The PATH gave me a lecherous wink.
Lucia then pressed her face close to mine and put a tongue which tasted of sick into my mouth. I sat transfixed as she slurped around inside my mouth. She flicked her tongue in and out for a bit, men pulled slowly away. — See you n yir mate here? she nodded at Roxy, — ah could bring yous oaf in nae time at aw!
— You already have, I told her.
She liked that, letting out pneumatic-drill laughter which cut through the loud buzz of the surrounding conversations. Then her elbows thrashed at The PATH, who had his hands up her skirt from the back, right between those meaty, cellulite thighs.
We drank on. The PATH told a joke about a guy who had an arsehole transplant and we all laughed loudly. I laughed, even though I'd heard it before. Lucia laughed the loudest. She laughed so much she started gagging. She drank back some Guinness from her pint, then threw it up, back into her glass. She looked only momentarily upset, then she slung the mass of blackened vomit back down her gullet in a oner.
— That's ma doll, said The PATH, and they French-kissed languidly.
I was into fours up, no question about it. I nodded to Roxy, — Your place?
— Like fuck, he scoffed. — Tell ays you're no sick, by the way. Ah widnae touch that wi a fuckin bargepole. Nae wey eftir The PATH had been thair.
That was a consideration. I got some more drinks up, and got some speed from a guy called Silver who was alright. I whizzed around the bar, talking shite. I was talking shite anyway, but now I was talking it with more purpose and conviction.
We didn't see The PATH go, but when we came up Anderson's Close we could hear his and Lucia's voices. He was bouncing on top of her like a football on a spacehopper. He's screaming: TAKE THE FUCKIN LOAT YA BITCH! YE COULDNAE TAKE MA FUCKIN COCK! SPLIT YE IN TWO!
She's saying: THIR'S FUCKIN WELL NOWT THAIR! GEEZ IT WELL! IS THAT YOU STARTED HA HA HA.
We walked past them, then stopped to watch for a while. Lucia rolled the PATH over and got on top. Her wobbly flesh hung over him.
— MOVE THEN IF YIR GAUN OAN TOAP! MOVE, YA BASTARD! he roared.
She shook her flesh over him, then looked up at us, — Yis want tae help urn oot boys?
— We'd nivir git in the wey ay true love, Lucia, Roxy smiled.
We walked up the close a bit and pished. Our two steaming rivulets joined together and sped towards them, around the PATH's head, neck and shoulders. They kept shagging. Two guys walked nervously past us.
— Depraved wee cunt, The PATH, Roxy shook his head.
— Yeah, real fuckin slag.
I was feeling horny, and I was tempted to go to Olly's. Roxy was into more beer. There was a way to kill two birds with one stone: Olly would probably be at this party a friend of her's was having, a trendy, posey cow named Lynne.
Roxy never let me down at the party; he detests that sort of scene. We installed ourselves in the kitchen and freeloaded as much drink as possible. When Olly arrived she was in the company of some cunts and cold-shouldered me. We'd been shagging during the day, now she treated me like I was a stranger. Yet it somehow made sense. Life was a weird gig.
I woke up on the floor the next morning, to the sound of people cleaning the flat. Roxy lay next to me.
— God, thir's some fuckin foul taste in ma mooth, he said.
— That's ma fault, I shrugged, — ah shouldnae huv given The PATH one up his shitter before ah goat you tae gam ays.
— So that's what happened. Well, that makes sense. There's fuck all memorable aboot gammin you.
Lynne was clearing up; throwing cans and emptying ashtrays into bin-liners, flashing us looks which said: LEAVE IMMEDIATELY.
A merchant-school voice pleads, — C'mon lads, get up and give us a
hand with the tidying up.
— Suck ma fuckin cock, ya radge, Roxy snapped. The boy moved away, taking this as a sign that he was on his own with the tidying. — Tell ays that cunt wisnae wide. That's fuckin Edinburgh, fill ay fuckin English bastards and snobby rugby cunts. Treat ye like a fuckin peasant in yir ain toon. Well, fuck them, lit them clean up oor shite, it's aw the cunt's are fuckin good fir! he boomed.
I got to my feet and found some bottles of beer. We staggered out of the flat, down the stair and into the street, drinking. — Whair is this? I wondered.
— Stockbridge, Roxy said, — ah mind gaun through the New Town last night.
— Naw naw. I remembered. It was Lynne's. The South Side. We emerged onto South Clerk Street.
Roxy's mouth opened.
— Aye, Stockbridge, right enough! I said. — What are ye like!
We decided to head for the Captain's Bar, which opened at seven o'clock, about three hours ago. My nerves were starting to fray and I just wanted a few beers inside me to take the edge off things.
I was shaken to the core by a blood-curdling scream: — BRIAN!
Mad Audrey stood propped up against a bus-shelter. She wore a long black imitation-leather trenchcoat with padded shoulders. Two greasy flaps of black hair hung on either side of her white pimply face. Her sharp, vicious features contorted as she slurped from a carton of milk, some of which trickled down her front.
— WHAIR'S THE FUCKIN PATH?!
— Eh, no sure Auds. We left him last night, at the Pelican.
— TELL UM HE'S GITTING FUCKIN STABBED WHEN AH SEE UM! HE WIS WI THAT FUCKIN FAT SLUT! TELL UM HE'S FUCKIN DEID! N HUR N AW! MIND, YOU'D BETTER FUCKIN TELL UM!
— Eh, aye, ah'll mention it tae him, likes, I tell her. We don't stick around. The Captain's Bar had been calling loudly; now it was screaming.
— MIND N TELL UM! she shouted after us. — N TELL UM TAE COME DOON TAE THE MEADOW BAR AT SEVEN!
I waved back at her. Roxy said, — When The PATH dies, aw the repulsive hing-oots in toon should git the gither n build a monument tae the cunt.
— Aye, wi a vibrating prick they can impale themselves oan.
A few in the Captain's did the trick. I went back to Roxy's and had a good long kip on his couch. When he woke me I was fucked. — The PATH phoned, he told me. — He's meeting us doon the Meadow Bar at seven.
— The Meadow? What did ye say that fir... you, ya bastard, I laughed. This would be a good one.
— Ah telt um tae bring big Lucia along n aw. Audrey versus Lucia, some fuckin swedge that would be. A dog-fight in the Meadows. Who needs Hank Jansen? Cannae wait tae see The PATH's face. Tell ays he'll no be shitein his keks.
I missed out on it, simply because I couldn't move. I got an account from The PATH though. Audrey was more vicious, and scored Lucia's face heavily, but eventually the larger woman used her superior strength and power to subdue Auds and pound her into the turf. She was lucky it was a square-go and Audrey wasn't tooled. Apparently, while the swedge was going on, The PATH was rubbing his crotch discreetly. He went home with the winner.
12
CAREER OPPORTUNITIES AND FANNY LICKING
Cliff from London got in touch and told me that Simmy had got put away. Cliff himself had moved into a new flat, over in Hanwell. There was a space for me, he said. My bags were packed and I was back down to the Smoke.
It was a good gaff. I was on the floor in the front room for a couple of weeks, but I picked up a temporary job in the offices of Ealing Council. It involved keying information on planning applications into a VDU. They had put in all this new technology, but needed dogsbodies to key in all the manual records. Myself and four middle-aged women were taken on. The work was not interesting.
A bloke called Graham moved out of the flat and I got his room. He was a bit of an alcoholic and his mattress smelled badly of pish, so I got a new one on the Sunday, and was looking forward to a good night's kip before work on Monday. I'd never been able to kip properly in the front room; too many people coming and going at all hours.
— Wakey, wakey! Cliff shouted to me, poking his head around my door. I'd had no drugs the night before, not even hash. I'd gone to bed early and it was like I had only slept for an hour.
— It's surely no yon time already, surely tae fuck, I whinged.
— Yeah, seven-fifteen. C'mon mate, rise n shine!
I rose, but didn't shine. It was brutally cold as I made my way to the bathroom in my t-shirt and pants. I had to get to work on time. Gleaves, the office manager, was watching me. However, I was going to May and Des's for tea tonight, god bless them, so I decided to wash my cock, balls and armpits in lukewarm water. It wasn't a comfortable experience. I brushed my teeth, squeezed a couple of spots, pulled on my ripped jeans and my cashmere sweater. I laced up my Doc Martens and stuck on my Oxfam overcoat and my scarf and mittens. No breakfast; it's hi ho hi ho . . .
Work is a fuckin drag. Gleaves thinks I'm demotivated. That's how he describes me. Gleaves recruited me: rather than say I picked a duffer and couldn't pick my nose, he persists in this delusion that inputting into a VDU, stuffing papers in envelopes and photocopying will sort me out. I'd bought a guitar and was jamming with Cliff and Darren in the flat but this job was costing me valuable practice time. However, I need the money for that amp. Stardom is surely just around the corner.
When I get in May says softly to me, — Mister Gleaves wants to see you, love. As soon as you get in, he said.
Fuck me. What now? Is that cunt tapped or what.
Penny has a gleeful expression on her face. That cow has hated me since I was too out of it to fuck her at somebody's leaving party. Women hate these things. If they're going to lose control and go away with someone, they figure they might as well get a good shag out of it. If they go away with someone and the someone can't get it up, well that's a big fuck-up: the worst of all worlds.
Gleavsie, as I call him in a Chinese accent (the Slaint and Gleavsie), is a small, overweight man with glasses and a Russian-style beard. He has a small, stumpy cock, the kind that is practically all cherry, but which is hopefully more formidable when erect. (I stood next to him in the latrine in the staff toilets to check it out.)
— Mister Gleaves, I smile, taking a seat.
— I want to talk about your dress, Brian.
— Which one is that? The yellow chiffon one, or the blue print number, I ask rolling my eyes.
— I'm deadly serious, Gleaves sombrely informs me, sounding like a character in a middle-class soap opera. Big fuckin drama queen. — For God's sake Brian, the arse is hanging out of your trousers.
That was true. My purple pants were clearly visible. My bum was freezing. My cock and balls were shrivelling up. They'd invert to a fanny by the end of the month. Next pay cheque it's Carnaby Street. I shouldn't travel so light.
— Well, at least when I'm famous you can say with justification you knew me when the arse was hanging out of my trousers.
— I'm not sure you understand the gravity of the situation...
— Okay okay. It's healthy having this circulation of air. It keeps me ventilated.
— You're either deliberately missing the point or you've lost the sense God gave you. I'm going to have to spell it out for you. At Ealing Borough Council we try to maintain certain standards of dress and behaviour. The local citizen, after all, pays our wages and it entitled to ...
— I'm a local citizen n aw. I pay my poll tax, I lied.
— Yes, but.. .
— Whose standards are we talking about here? Just who's setting themself up as the big fashion consultant here?
— We're talking about corporate standards! The standards we expect from all employees of this authority.
— Listen, man, ah cannae afford tae buy a tin flute. Ah choose tae dress functionally, tae dress in gear ah feel comfort able in, soas ah kin perform better in ma joab. Ah couldnae hack wearin a tie, man, that's a pure phallic symbol, a compensatory psychological device for men wh
o feel insecure about their sexuality. I cannae get into that sortay arena. I cannae be made to conform to the mass psychological hang-ups of Ealing Borough Council's male employees. What are yis like?
Gleaves shook his head in exasperation. — Brian. Please be quiet for a second. Look. I understand how you feel. I know what you're about. You're an intelligent guy, so don't act the fool. It'll get you nowhere. You've got the potential to get on within this organisation, he tells me, his tone changing to one of encouragement.
That was a statement which would have been humorous had it not been so frightening. — To do what? I asked.
— To get a better job.
— Why? I mean, what for?
— Well, he began in tone of slightly smug self-justification,
— the money's not bad when you get to my level. And it's a challenge being involved in the full range of council activities.
He stopped, sensing his growing ridiculousness in my eyes. - Listen, Brian, I know you think you're some kind of big radical and I'm some reactionary, fascist pig. Well I've got news for you: I'm a socialist, I'm a union man. I know you just see me as an establishment figure in a suit, but if the Tories had their way, we'd have kiddies down the mines. I'm every bit as anti-establishment as you, Brian. Yes, I own my own home. Yes, I live in a desirable area. Yes, I'm married with two children, I take two foreign holidays a year and drive an expensive car. But I'm as anti-establishment as you, Brian. I believe in public services, in putting people first. It's more than just a cliché for me. For me, being anti-establishment is not about dressing like a tramp, taking drugs and going to rave-ups or whatever they're called. That's the easy way out. That's what the people that control things want; people opting out, taking the easy route. For me it's about knocking on doors on cold evenings, attending meetings in school halls to get Labour back in and Major and his mob out.
— Yeah...
This guy makes the term arsehole redundant.
— Well, I've almost had it with you, Brian. Unless you buck up your ideas, your behaviour and your dress, you are on a disciplinary. Look at you. Worse than a tramp. I've seen better-dressed people in cardboard city.