Read Online Greyhound for Breakfast by James Kelman - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Kelman
Ads: Link
McGoldrick.
Aye, see I’ve left the lid off the tin and that.
Yeh, the thing is Mr McGoldrick . . .
His pal was smiling and nodding. They were both holding christian stuff, Mormons probably.
Being honest, said McGoldrick, I dont really . . . I’m an atheist.
O yeh – you mean you dont believe in God?
Naw, no really, I prefer taking a back seat I mean, it’s all politics and that, eh, honest, I’ll need to get back to the painting.
Yeh, but maybe if you could just spare Ricky and myself one moment of your time Mr McGoldrick, we might have a chat about that. You know it’s a big thing to say you dont believe in God I
mean how can you know that just to come right out and – hey! it’s a big thing – right?
McGoldrick shrugged, he made to close the door.
Yeh, I appreciate you’re busy at this time of the day Mr McGoldrick but listen, maybe Ricky and myself can leave some of our literature with you – and you can read through it, go
over it I mean, by yourself. We can call back in a day or so, when it’s more convenient and we can discuss things with you I mean it seems like a real big thing to me you know the way you can
just come right out and say you dont believe in God like that I mean . . . hey! it’s a big thing, right?
His pal had sorted out some leaflets and he passed them to McGoldrick.
Thanks, he replied. He shut the door and locked it. He remained there, listening to their footsteps go up the stair. Then he suddenly shook his head. He had forgotten to mention Allende. He
always meant to mention Allende to the bastards. Fuck it. He left the leaflets on the small table in the lobby.
The coffee was stone cold as well. He filled the electric kettle. The music blasting; another of these good dancing numbers. Before returning to the paint he lighted a cigarette, stopping off at
the bathroom on his way ben.
Samaritans
Heh what d’you make of this man I’m standing in the betting shop and this guy comes over. Heh john, he says, you got a smoke?
A smoke . . .
Aye, he says.
So okay I mean you dont like to see a cunt without a smoke. Okay, I says, here.
Ta.
Puts it in his mouth while I’m clawing myself to find a match.
Naw, he’s saying, I dont like going to the begging games . . .
Fair enough, I says, I’ve been skint myself.
Aw it’s no that, he says, I’m no skint.
And out comes this gold lighter man and he flicks it and that and the flame, straight away, no bother. Puffs out the smoke. I’m waiting for the bank to open at half one, he says,
I’ve got a cheque to cash.
Good, I says, but I’m thinking well fuck you as well, that’s my last fag man I mean jesus christ almighty.
Foreign language users
A wise man resists playing cards with foreign language users. This is a maxim Mister Joseph Kerr should always have been well aware of. So how come he had succumbed to
temptation yet again? Because he thought he would take them, that’s how. If you had discussed the point prior to play he would have nodded in a perfunctory fashion – that’s how
much a part of him the maxim was. And yet he still succumbed. Of course. Gamblers are a strange breed. In fact, when he noticed his pockets were empty he frowned. That is exactly what he did, he
frowned. Then he stared at the foreign language users who by this time had forgotten all about him. And the croupier was shuffling the deck for a new deal. And yes, she was also concealing her
impatience in an unsubtle way, this croupier, and this unsubtlety was her method of displaying it, her impatience.
Mister Joseph Kerr nudged the spectacles up his nose a wee bit, a nervous gesture. His chair moved noisily, causing the other players to glance at him.
But what was he to do now? There was nothing he could do now. No, nothing to be done. It was something he just had to face. And yet these damn foreign language users had taken his money by
devices one could scarcely describe as being other than less than fair, not to put too fine a
Aye, see I’ve left the lid off the tin and that.
Yeh, the thing is Mr McGoldrick . . .
His pal was smiling and nodding. They were both holding christian stuff, Mormons probably.
Being honest, said McGoldrick, I dont really . . . I’m an atheist.
O yeh – you mean you dont believe in God?
Naw, no really, I prefer taking a back seat I mean, it’s all politics and that, eh, honest, I’ll need to get back to the painting.
Yeh, but maybe if you could just spare Ricky and myself one moment of your time Mr McGoldrick, we might have a chat about that. You know it’s a big thing to say you dont believe in God I
mean how can you know that just to come right out and – hey! it’s a big thing – right?
McGoldrick shrugged, he made to close the door.
Yeh, I appreciate you’re busy at this time of the day Mr McGoldrick but listen, maybe Ricky and myself can leave some of our literature with you – and you can read through it, go
over it I mean, by yourself. We can call back in a day or so, when it’s more convenient and we can discuss things with you I mean it seems like a real big thing to me you know the way you can
just come right out and say you dont believe in God like that I mean . . . hey! it’s a big thing, right?
His pal had sorted out some leaflets and he passed them to McGoldrick.
Thanks, he replied. He shut the door and locked it. He remained there, listening to their footsteps go up the stair. Then he suddenly shook his head. He had forgotten to mention Allende. He
always meant to mention Allende to the bastards. Fuck it. He left the leaflets on the small table in the lobby.
The coffee was stone cold as well. He filled the electric kettle. The music blasting; another of these good dancing numbers. Before returning to the paint he lighted a cigarette, stopping off at
the bathroom on his way ben.
Samaritans
Heh what d’you make of this man I’m standing in the betting shop and this guy comes over. Heh john, he says, you got a smoke?
A smoke . . .
Aye, he says.
So okay I mean you dont like to see a cunt without a smoke. Okay, I says, here.
Ta.
Puts it in his mouth while I’m clawing myself to find a match.
Naw, he’s saying, I dont like going to the begging games . . .
Fair enough, I says, I’ve been skint myself.
Aw it’s no that, he says, I’m no skint.
And out comes this gold lighter man and he flicks it and that and the flame, straight away, no bother. Puffs out the smoke. I’m waiting for the bank to open at half one, he says,
I’ve got a cheque to cash.
Good, I says, but I’m thinking well fuck you as well, that’s my last fag man I mean jesus christ almighty.
Foreign language users
A wise man resists playing cards with foreign language users. This is a maxim Mister Joseph Kerr should always have been well aware of. So how come he had succumbed to
temptation yet again? Because he thought he would take them, that’s how. If you had discussed the point prior to play he would have nodded in a perfunctory fashion – that’s how
much a part of him the maxim was. And yet he still succumbed. Of course. Gamblers are a strange breed. In fact, when he noticed his pockets were empty he frowned. That is exactly what he did, he
frowned. Then he stared at the foreign language users who by this time had forgotten all about him. And the croupier was shuffling the deck for a new deal. And yes, she was also concealing her
impatience in an unsubtle way, this croupier, and this unsubtlety was her method of displaying it, her impatience.
Mister Joseph Kerr nudged the spectacles up his nose a wee bit, a nervous gesture. His chair moved noisily, causing the other players to glance at him.
But what was he to do now? There was nothing he could do now. No, nothing to be done. It was something he just had to face. And yet these damn foreign language users had taken his money by
devices one could scarcely describe as being other than less than fair, not to put too fine a
Similar Books
