Aye!
It’s wee Jonty. Oor eyes ur poppin oot oor heids n Barksie pits one hand ower ma mooth, n a finger acroass ehs ain lips.
— Ah ken yir in thaire, Jake n Sandra fae behind the bar telt us, aye they telt us likes, aye, aye, aye . . . in thaire, Jinty . . .
— Jonty, ah’m jist huvin a wee bit ay a livener . . . ah tells um. Ah cannae even be bothered tryin tae pit ma blouse back oan, ah’m fuckin melted.
— Jinty! Come oot! Come oot! Dinnae touch thon bad stuff, please dinnae, Jinty . . . n ehs wee voice is brekin up.
— Ah’ll be oot n a minute, dinnae trouble yersel, Jonty! N ah’m lookin at Evan n wuv both goat oor hands ower oor mooths now, tryin no tae laugh oot loud!
Wee Jonty’s voice is that high, it’s like somebody’s cut his perr wee baws oaf! — Ah kin see another pair ay feet in there! Under that door! Aye sur, aye ah kin, aye. Ah ken it’s you, Barksie! What ur yis daein? What ur yis daein in thaire?
— JONTY, GIT TAE FUCK! Evan shouts. Ah shakes ma heid n starts laughin.
— What ye daein . . .? What yis daein in thaire? Come oot! JINTY!
— Wir jist powderin our noses, Jonty, ah goes. — Ah ken you dinnae like it whin ah dae that, so you go ben that bar n git ays a Bicardi n Coke, n we’ll be oot in a minute . . . ah goes, n ah starts shuttin up ma blouse.
— Nup! Come oot! JINTY! PLEASE! Please come oot, Jinty darlin, aw please, aye, aye, aye . . .
Evan Barksie’s face screws up again. — JONTY, AH’M FUCKIN WARNIN YE! SHUT IT!
— AYE, ah goes, cause eh’s startin tae git oan ma nerves, embarrassin ays like that, — GIT HAME OR GIT UP TAE THE FUCKIN BAR! A FUCKIN BICARDI N COKE, WELL!
Then thaire’s a bang, then another, n the door comes flyin in! Eh’s burst the lock! Ah’ve goat ma wrists in front ay ma tits tryin tae cover masel. — JONTY!
— YOU . . . Eh looks at me, then at Barksie, then back tae me. — Jinty, come hame! COME HAME WI US NOW!
Evan Barksie steps forward n pushes Jonty back oot. — Git tae fuck, Jonty, ah’m telling ye!
— This isnae right, Jonty’s gaun, n eh looks at us, then looks at the flair. Eh’s shakin his heid gaun, — Naw, naw, naw . . . n eh turns n runs oot the bogs.
Ah’ve goat ma blouse back oan, n ah’m gaun eftir him. Evan Barksie grabs ays by the wrist n goes, — Leave the fuckin wee muppet, n eh tries tae kiss us, but ah pushes him away.
— Git tae fuck, n ah goes outside intae the bar, but it’s mobbed, n ah sees Jake opening the doors n Jonty gaun ootside. N ah gits thaire n Jake goes, — ANYBODY WANT OOT GIT OOT NOW! AH’M LOCKIN US IN TILL IT STOAPS!
— YA FUCKIN BEAUTY! somebody shouts.
A chant goes up: — BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG! BAW-HAW-BAG, BAW-AW-BAG . . .
Ah dinnae ken what tae dae, but whin ah turns roond n sees Evan Barksie wavin a big bag ay ching n shoutin, — Perty time, ah ken ah’m gaun naewhaire fir a bit, ay.
10
THE BAG OF THE BAW
TALK ABOOT FUCKIN warnin bells! It’s pishin wet wi they gales, n thaire’s this lassie oot, walkin doon Queensferry Road, which is fuckin deserted. She’s headin taewards the Forth Road Bridge! At this time, and in this fuckin weather! A fare’s a fare but, ay, n besides, the jumpers are usually gadges: very seldom dae ye git fanny tryin tae top itsel that wey. Aye, sent us oan a fuckin course, soas we could spot the hari-kari crew. They telt ye aw the things ye need tae say tae try n stoap thum. Like counsellin n that. No that ah ever fuckin well bother; cunt wants tae jump, lit thum fuckin well jump, ay. Fuck aw that nanny state George Bernard’s; some cunt’s made thair mind up aboot it, they must huv good fuckin reasons. It’s no fir the likes ay a total stranger tae say any different. Wouldnae be me anyway! Jump oaf a cliff, then some burd phones ye up the next day deciding she’s gaunny gie ye yir hole eftir aw? Naw, fuck that! Too much tae live for, me but, ay. Mind you, ah kin understand how some gadges that urnae gittin a ride wid
It’s wee Jonty. Oor eyes ur poppin oot oor heids n Barksie pits one hand ower ma mooth, n a finger acroass ehs ain lips.
— Ah ken yir in thaire, Jake n Sandra fae behind the bar telt us, aye they telt us likes, aye, aye, aye . . . in thaire, Jinty . . .
— Jonty, ah’m jist huvin a wee bit ay a livener . . . ah tells um. Ah cannae even be bothered tryin tae pit ma blouse back oan, ah’m fuckin melted.
— Jinty! Come oot! Come oot! Dinnae touch thon bad stuff, please dinnae, Jinty . . . n ehs wee voice is brekin up.
— Ah’ll be oot n a minute, dinnae trouble yersel, Jonty! N ah’m lookin at Evan n wuv both goat oor hands ower oor mooths now, tryin no tae laugh oot loud!
Wee Jonty’s voice is that high, it’s like somebody’s cut his perr wee baws oaf! — Ah kin see another pair ay feet in there! Under that door! Aye sur, aye ah kin, aye. Ah ken it’s you, Barksie! What ur yis daein? What ur yis daein in thaire?
— JONTY, GIT TAE FUCK! Evan shouts. Ah shakes ma heid n starts laughin.
— What ye daein . . .? What yis daein in thaire? Come oot! JINTY!
— Wir jist powderin our noses, Jonty, ah goes. — Ah ken you dinnae like it whin ah dae that, so you go ben that bar n git ays a Bicardi n Coke, n we’ll be oot in a minute . . . ah goes, n ah starts shuttin up ma blouse.
— Nup! Come oot! JINTY! PLEASE! Please come oot, Jinty darlin, aw please, aye, aye, aye . . .
Evan Barksie’s face screws up again. — JONTY, AH’M FUCKIN WARNIN YE! SHUT IT!
— AYE, ah goes, cause eh’s startin tae git oan ma nerves, embarrassin ays like that, — GIT HAME OR GIT UP TAE THE FUCKIN BAR! A FUCKIN BICARDI N COKE, WELL!
Then thaire’s a bang, then another, n the door comes flyin in! Eh’s burst the lock! Ah’ve goat ma wrists in front ay ma tits tryin tae cover masel. — JONTY!
— YOU . . . Eh looks at me, then at Barksie, then back tae me. — Jinty, come hame! COME HAME WI US NOW!
Evan Barksie steps forward n pushes Jonty back oot. — Git tae fuck, Jonty, ah’m telling ye!
— This isnae right, Jonty’s gaun, n eh looks at us, then looks at the flair. Eh’s shakin his heid gaun, — Naw, naw, naw . . . n eh turns n runs oot the bogs.
Ah’ve goat ma blouse back oan, n ah’m gaun eftir him. Evan Barksie grabs ays by the wrist n goes, — Leave the fuckin wee muppet, n eh tries tae kiss us, but ah pushes him away.
— Git tae fuck, n ah goes outside intae the bar, but it’s mobbed, n ah sees Jake opening the doors n Jonty gaun ootside. N ah gits thaire n Jake goes, — ANYBODY WANT OOT GIT OOT NOW! AH’M LOCKIN US IN TILL IT STOAPS!
— YA FUCKIN BEAUTY! somebody shouts.
A chant goes up: — BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG, BAWBAG! BAW-HAW-BAG, BAW-AW-BAG . . .
Ah dinnae ken what tae dae, but whin ah turns roond n sees Evan Barksie wavin a big bag ay ching n shoutin, — Perty time, ah ken ah’m gaun naewhaire fir a bit, ay.
10
THE BAG OF THE BAW
TALK ABOOT FUCKIN warnin bells! It’s pishin wet wi they gales, n thaire’s this lassie oot, walkin doon Queensferry Road, which is fuckin deserted. She’s headin taewards the Forth Road Bridge! At this time, and in this fuckin weather! A fare’s a fare but, ay, n besides, the jumpers are usually gadges: very seldom dae ye git fanny tryin tae top itsel that wey. Aye, sent us oan a fuckin course, soas we could spot the hari-kari crew. They telt ye aw the things ye need tae say tae try n stoap thum. Like counsellin n that. No that ah ever fuckin well bother; cunt wants tae jump, lit thum fuckin well jump, ay. Fuck aw that nanny state George Bernard’s; some cunt’s made thair mind up aboot it, they must huv good fuckin reasons. It’s no fir the likes ay a total stranger tae say any different. Wouldnae be me anyway! Jump oaf a cliff, then some burd phones ye up the next day deciding she’s gaunny gie ye yir hole eftir aw? Naw, fuck that! Too much tae live for, me but, ay. Mind you, ah kin understand how some gadges that urnae gittin a ride wid
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