that, aye! Away ye go, hurricanes, back tae whaire ye came fae! Wi dinnae want ye in Scotland! Aye, ah fine well mind ay Hank sayin whin they went tae Florida, Orlando, sur, thit thaire wis an awfay hurricane. The trees wir bent right back. Ah’d said, ‘Bent back, Hank?’ N Hank hud went, ‘Aye, Jonty, they wir bent back right enough.’
Bit it wis jist palm trees, no real trees but. Real Scottish trees widnae pit up wi that, hurricane or nae hurricane. Aye, they widnae try that wi real trees!
So ah pit oan
Coronation Street
, wi that nice-lookin lassie, the yin thit looks a bit like wee Jinty, n ah’m sayin tae masel in ma heid: come hame, Jinty, jist come hame or geez a phone tae tell ays yir safe, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .
9
REFUGE IN THE PUB WITH NO NAME
AH’M SITTIN IN the back ay that cab, a satisfyin throb between my legs, nicely in tune wi the vibration ay the motor oan the seat. Wir rumbling doon Daly Road, n it’s fair pishin doon wi fierce gales startin up. — You jist lit ays oaf here, ah sais tae that Terry.
— Strong winds but, he goes. Christ, even wee Jonty, whae could be a fuckin machine, nivir cowped ays like that animal! But ah’m no sayin nowt tae Terry cause he’s goat a big enough heid as it is, n eh really fancies ehsel.
Ah look back at him. — What’s it tae you, son?
Terry looks a wee bit stung at that. — Thing is, you’re obviously gaun intae The Pub Wi Nae Name. Eh points acroass the street tae the boozer. Ah kin see Deek McGregor outside, huvin a fag. — Well ah am n aw. Ah’ve a wee message tae droap oaf.
— Whae fir?
— You’ll no ken thum.
— Bet it’s one ay the Barksies! Evan!
Terry rolls his eyes like ah’ve goat um thaire, n goes, — Amongst others.
— Ye goat ching?
— Aye . . .
— Ah pure want tae dae a line.
— No here. Terry looks oot through the windaes at the deserted streets, hardly even any motors oot. — It’s ma livelihood . . . or one ay thum.
He drives the car doon an unpaved side alley acroas fae the pub. — You ken a loat ay they secluded spots, ay, son, ah goes, cause ye kin tell eh does the shaggin n drugs big time.
Eh jist smiles n gits oot the cab, n comes through the back again, ehs hair aw whipped up wi the wind. — Christ, that’s a fuckin wind awright, eh goes. — Here . . . Eh hands us a wrap. — That’s yours.
Ah fuckin well gies um a look like ah’m no happy, cause ah umnae. — Ah might be oan the game but ah wisnae workin whin we wir daein it, son!
— Hi, Terry goes, — chill oot, Jinty. Ah ken that. It’s a present. Huv a white Christmas. N listen, eh leans in close, — mind what ah sais aboot makin a wee scud movie if ye fancy it. Decent dosh.
— Think ah could?
— Easy. Ye’d huv tae git rid ay that wee pot. Eh pokes ays in the stomach wi ehs finger, but gently. — Ah like it, ah think it’s sexy, but fir the video ye’d need tae cut the carbs oot for a month n git tae that new gym at the Commie. Ye’d be ripped in nae time at aw, then the cameras would roll . . . n eh bats ehs eyes. — Here. Eh looks around. Then eh pits a bit ay ching fae a placky bag oantae the edge ay his credit caird n nods tae me tae git doon oan it. Dinnae need tae be asked twice!
Yessss.
Then Terry takes a hit for ehsel. — Gittin another fuckin root oan awready . . . could gie you another fuckin seein-tae right now . . . His hand faws oan ma thigh.
— Aye, right, cool yir jets, son. Ah brushes it oaf. Ah could go mair boaby, fuckin surein ah could, but wee Jonty could come by any minute. N besides, laddies like Terry, ye keep thum keen. If ye gie thum thair hole oan demand, they start takin the fuckin pish. Been thaire, done that, boat the fuckin T-shirt.
— Moantay fuck! Eh laughs.
— Hud yir hoarses. You jist git in thaire. Ah points taewards the boozer.
Terry grins, cause eh’s a rerr-natured felly under it aw, n eh kin take a tellin, no like some. That fuckin Victor and Kelvin. But wi kin barely
Bit it wis jist palm trees, no real trees but. Real Scottish trees widnae pit up wi that, hurricane or nae hurricane. Aye, they widnae try that wi real trees!
So ah pit oan
Coronation Street
, wi that nice-lookin lassie, the yin thit looks a bit like wee Jinty, n ah’m sayin tae masel in ma heid: come hame, Jinty, jist come hame or geez a phone tae tell ays yir safe, aye sur, aye sur, aye sur . . .
9
REFUGE IN THE PUB WITH NO NAME
AH’M SITTIN IN the back ay that cab, a satisfyin throb between my legs, nicely in tune wi the vibration ay the motor oan the seat. Wir rumbling doon Daly Road, n it’s fair pishin doon wi fierce gales startin up. — You jist lit ays oaf here, ah sais tae that Terry.
— Strong winds but, he goes. Christ, even wee Jonty, whae could be a fuckin machine, nivir cowped ays like that animal! But ah’m no sayin nowt tae Terry cause he’s goat a big enough heid as it is, n eh really fancies ehsel.
Ah look back at him. — What’s it tae you, son?
Terry looks a wee bit stung at that. — Thing is, you’re obviously gaun intae The Pub Wi Nae Name. Eh points acroass the street tae the boozer. Ah kin see Deek McGregor outside, huvin a fag. — Well ah am n aw. Ah’ve a wee message tae droap oaf.
— Whae fir?
— You’ll no ken thum.
— Bet it’s one ay the Barksies! Evan!
Terry rolls his eyes like ah’ve goat um thaire, n goes, — Amongst others.
— Ye goat ching?
— Aye . . .
— Ah pure want tae dae a line.
— No here. Terry looks oot through the windaes at the deserted streets, hardly even any motors oot. — It’s ma livelihood . . . or one ay thum.
He drives the car doon an unpaved side alley acroas fae the pub. — You ken a loat ay they secluded spots, ay, son, ah goes, cause ye kin tell eh does the shaggin n drugs big time.
Eh jist smiles n gits oot the cab, n comes through the back again, ehs hair aw whipped up wi the wind. — Christ, that’s a fuckin wind awright, eh goes. — Here . . . Eh hands us a wrap. — That’s yours.
Ah fuckin well gies um a look like ah’m no happy, cause ah umnae. — Ah might be oan the game but ah wisnae workin whin we wir daein it, son!
— Hi, Terry goes, — chill oot, Jinty. Ah ken that. It’s a present. Huv a white Christmas. N listen, eh leans in close, — mind what ah sais aboot makin a wee scud movie if ye fancy it. Decent dosh.
— Think ah could?
— Easy. Ye’d huv tae git rid ay that wee pot. Eh pokes ays in the stomach wi ehs finger, but gently. — Ah like it, ah think it’s sexy, but fir the video ye’d need tae cut the carbs oot for a month n git tae that new gym at the Commie. Ye’d be ripped in nae time at aw, then the cameras would roll . . . n eh bats ehs eyes. — Here. Eh looks around. Then eh pits a bit ay ching fae a placky bag oantae the edge ay his credit caird n nods tae me tae git doon oan it. Dinnae need tae be asked twice!
Yessss.
Then Terry takes a hit for ehsel. — Gittin another fuckin root oan awready . . . could gie you another fuckin seein-tae right now . . . His hand faws oan ma thigh.
— Aye, right, cool yir jets, son. Ah brushes it oaf. Ah could go mair boaby, fuckin surein ah could, but wee Jonty could come by any minute. N besides, laddies like Terry, ye keep thum keen. If ye gie thum thair hole oan demand, they start takin the fuckin pish. Been thaire, done that, boat the fuckin T-shirt.
— Moantay fuck! Eh laughs.
— Hud yir hoarses. You jist git in thaire. Ah points taewards the boozer.
Terry grins, cause eh’s a rerr-natured felly under it aw, n eh kin take a tellin, no like some. That fuckin Victor and Kelvin. But wi kin barely
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