So ah state ma case, ay which ah’m certain. — What’s the point ay huvin agreed procedures, ya hoor, if yuv made up yir minds awready? Twa sides tae ony story, neebs. Ah’ll go roond tae the boy’s hoose, ya hoor sor, plead ma case. Fling masel upon the mercy ay the coort!
— Naw, naw, naw, Jase, the Neebour goes, — you’re talkin aboot how things should be, but the high heid yins, once they’ve made up yir mind, that’s you snookered wi a capital ‘S’. N the thing is, eh says, shakin ehs heid, — we cannae even gie ye a game wursels, even jist muckin aboot like, cause that’s in breach ay the association’s rules.
Ah cannae believe whit ah’m hearin here! The table-top version ay the beautiful game n ah’ve been frozen oot. — Ya hoor sor, ah tells thum, — ah’m still the best table-football player Fife’s ivir produced!
Neebour pills me taewards um, droapin ehs voice soas Comorton cannae hear um. — Everybody kens you’ve goat talent, neebs. Naebodies disputin that. But yir yer ain worst enemy. N ah’m no jist talkin aboot metters ay discipline.
N now eh stands away fae ays n looks at Comorton. Ah shot the hoor a look ay betrayal. Yir men Strachan and McLeish might say thit auld Jock Stein wid huv taken yir Auld Firm intae the English Premiership if eh’d goat the chance, but everybody kens thit the Big Man wis a true Scot n cut fae different cloth thin the modern-day money-mad charlatans wi thir ego n ambition. Ah’m bein punished cause ahm a purist, an idealist oot ay time! Ah look at Comorton, the moneyman, whae clawed ehs wey tae Kirkcaldy call centre supervisory level n now spouts the doctrine ay wur ain Adam Smith as corrupted by yon Nazi Hayek cunt n that English Thatcher hoor; a man whae wid destroy the table-top version ay the beautiful game …
— We’re also talkin aboot yir resolutely dogmatic adherence tae the Fife style ay play, the quisling hoor says. — Everybody in the modern game gits a wee bit ay purchase, a wee bit ay slide oan the baw. Aw aye, ye kin beat aw ay us easy enough, but at the highest level the boy thit kin dae a disguised slide hus a competitive advantage. End of.
So ah drank up, sure ah did, sor. Suddenly, ah didnae like the company nae mair. In the big picture bit, it wis a guid thing ah vacated the premises cause ah heads doon the street n ahm thinkin thit ah might chap oan Kravy’s door, see if ehs ma’s oot ay the hoaspital yit. Then ah catches sight ay the two ay thum, up oan thir hoarses, trottin doon yon lane: Lara Grant n Jenni Cahill. So ah crotches doon behind the bus shelter tae lit them go past soas ah kin mibbe git masel a wee deek at they tight jodhpur-covered erses but it’s a walk, no even a trot, far less a gallop, n thir’s nae sign ah yon mawkit jakits ridin up tae expose the peaches below. Ah huv a sneaky wee rummage in the doonstairs department, n couldnae even git the heid ay it up! Ya hoor ye; perr source material!
So ah follays them, keepin in at the big stane waw wi the overhinging foliage, blendin in like that big Predator cunt, thon crab-couponed Rastafarian hoor fae space. Ah’m thinkin aboot how drugs’ve ruined ma sportin career, ah’m no gaunny git any serious copy in the Central Fife Times and Advertiser now; naw, thill only be the wee blurb Jason King dsql v J. Mossman, ya hoor sor. Aye, right next tae they equestrian notices tellin us aw aboot yon Lara n Jenni’s ‘mare’ substantial achievements.
A bit ay jiggery-pokery wid dae but, aw aye sor. Nivir mind the edge ay sexuality thit sportin success brings, ah’ll cut tae the chase n git the wee felly sucked dry right noo in anticipation ay greatness tae come, if it’s aw the same tae youse!
Ya hoor sor.
Ah could fair dae wi a wash n a chenge ay clathes eftir fuck knows how many days oan the black gold, ching, base and takeaways, but ah elect tae keep up muh pursuit ay ma intendit. Mind you, it’s poor stalkin terrain; soon we’re oot ay toon n ah’m exposed, walkin behind thum doon the country road. Ah thinks, thill huv left that dykey La Rue’s ridin skill n be headin for yon big house, the auld ferm thit the Cahills boat years ago. New money thon; the haulage business. Scab lorries fae the strike back in 1984 some say, well, ma auld boy tae be specific. Aye, ya hoor ye. Mind you, any cunt wi money’s bad money tae the auld boy.
Funny, but wee Jenni’s the snootiest yin oot ay the twa, bit they eywis say that aboot new dosh. Bit it’s an awfay state tae git intae. Ah’m waitin fir thaime tae go intae yon Clark Gables wi the horses n mibbe git a peek at thum, yon Lara n Jenni huvin that dirty fun thit ye ken aw lassies secretly want tae huv. Mibbe wi the hoarses gittin involved n aw! Aye, yon Scarlet Jester n yon Midnight.
Gittin between thir legs but, ya hoor sor!
So ah’m walkin doon the side ay the barn on ma tiptoes, making sure thir’s nae light in the kitchen ay the Cahill hoose, a bad bastard yon auld Tam, whin the big door swings open n thaire they are staundin thair, watchin ays! Rumbled, ya cunt! That Lara gies ays a wee smile n looks at ays while Jenni goes that snooty wey, — What do you want?
Ah’m well flustered here but ah tough it oot. — Eh, saw yis gaun doon the road n ah came by tae offer muh congratulations, aboot yir win ower in Ireland, ah sais tae Lara. Might be nowt ay her, bit what thir is hus gone tae the right places. Aye, she’s filled oot yon jodhpurs n that blouse since her n me hung aboot the gither, ah’ll tell ye!
— Thanks, Lara goes. N ah’m sure that wee yin must be a bit guilty oan hudin oot oan ehs in the minge stakes aw they years ago. As an apprentice jockey ah wis the local hero; could’ve split every fuckin gash in the Kingdom back then, ya hoor sor. Bit no me; goat aw worried aboot the size ay the wee felly here, n it took a dirty big auld hoor fae Ballingry tae pop ma cherry! Said tae ays it wis best sex she ivir hud in her puff n aw! Even allowin fir hoor’s licence, it wis fair balm tae the auld ego, ah kin tell ye that! So if ah’m gaunny talk masel intae a threesome now, ah’d better git the auld gab gaun. — Aye, ah read aboot it in the paper. 68.25% oan advanced test 106! Oan Scarlet Jester thaire, ah nods ower at the hoarse.
The Lara lassie looks at her Jenni mate wi a wee smile, then back at me.
N ah’m jist staundin thair, ya hoor ye, cannae think ay nowt else tae say. — Did you go ower tae Ireland as well then, Jenni? ah asks in mountin desperation.
She looks at ays n sweeps her dyed black hair back fae her face. Liked that wee yin better whin shi wis a blonde. The burden ay bein a gentleman, ah suppose. Mind you, she’s fair shaping up n thon fat’s no hauf been trimmed back. — I wasn’t competing, she says like shi’s upset aboot that. — My horse was lame.
Felt like tellin her ah’ve hud ma share ay lame rides n aw, but thir’s Goth talk n thir’s posh fanny, and yuv goat tae keep that wee bit sophistication gaun. Ah feel a bit sorry fir Jenni bein Lara’s mate: that yin isnae hauf ‘filly’ hersel.
Ah notices thir’s one ay they wee studs in Jenni’s nose. Aw aye, ah bet that wee yin could yaze thon ridin crock, ya hoor ye. — Ah hud a guid wee win at the table-top beautiful game, ah tell thum, — Aye.
— That’s good, that Lara goes.
— Aye. Thing is, they might be takin it oaffay ehs. Thir wis a bit ay difficulty wi the discipline, ah telt thum, n ah cannae take muh eyes oaffay that ridin crock yon wee Jenni’s hudin.
Ah’m wastin ma time thaire, ah’ll never be popular wi thon family. Thir wis a time when her faither came intae the Goth wi a couple ay fellys, one ay them fae the cooncil. One ay the boys wis sayin something aboot Kelty n of course ah couldnae keep ma big mooth shut. Ah goes, ‘Ya hoor ye, only hoors n miners come fae Kelty.’ So big Tom Cahill, this Jenni lassie’s faither, he looks at me aw hard n goes, ‘Ma wife comes fae Kelty.’
Weel, sor, ah jist says tae um, what pit does she work in?
Thoat the big cunt wis gaunny banjo ays right thaire n then in the Goth but everybody starts laughin so eh hud tae climb doon n join in. But Lara’s faither, the doaktir, he never hud a high opinion ay ays either. Whin ah wis workin at the warehoose, the hoor wid peer at ays ower the specs n go, ‘Surely not more back problems, Mr King.’
Now that Jenni’s lookin at ays aw that impatient wey, the yin the successful ay the toon tend tae display
in thir dealins wi the undercless. — So is there anything else, eh …
— Jason.
— Anything else we can help you with? she says again, n now that Lara’s starin right at ays, waitin oan a response, ya hoor sor.
— Eh, naw … ah’ll be oan ma wey up the street. Jist wanted tae say well done.
— Thank you, Jason, Lara sais, then turns tae Jenni quickly and goes, — I hope you manage to sort out that little discipline problem, and they baith huv a wee snigger tae each other.
Well, ah turns oan ma heel n ah’m doon that road aw hoat n bothered. If ah wis a sortay James Bond type ah’d uv went: ‘Well, there is a little something you could help me with, but I think we should all retire to the barn to discuss it, ya hoor sor.’
Oan the road back intae toon, it’s stertin tae pish doon. Thir’s some craws pickin ower a deid rabbit thit’s been blootered oaf by a passin car, so ah sooks doon a snottery gob n lits it fly n it slaps one craw oan the back ay the heid. They reckon (or at least the Neebour Watson does) thit it makes the other yins tear the cunt tae bits, bit the hoors’ve goat too much meat tae be bothered wi that the now so that particular hypothesis remains not proven. Disnae matter but, it wis a result, speed and accuracy, ya hoor, n ah sing in celebration: — Thir wis a wee cooper wha lived in Fife … nickity knackety noo the noo, eh goat ehsel a durty big hoor ay wife …
But then ah sees this van comin towards me n it’s slowin doon. It’s thon Tam Cahill, n the big cunt pills up n gits oot. — Aye, aye, eh goes.
Ah wanted tae say tae the boy that ah wisnae stalkin ehs lassie, it wis hur mate, ya hoor, strictly speakin it wis ma auld paramour Lara, but ah dinnae think eh’s the type whae worries about hair-splittin.
— You’re Jason, eh?
— Aye.
Eh nods n looks ays up n doon. — You trained as a jockey, eh.
— Long time ago now, neebs, ah tell um.
— What ye up tae work-wise these days?
— No much.
Eh does that slow nod again, but eh’s lookin at ays right in the eye. — How dae ye fancy daein some casual work for me? Nothin too taxin: jist some stable work, muckin oot, feedin n general stuff. Gie ye a bell when ah need ye, cash in hand, eh winks.
There wis me thinking ah wis gittin pilled n aw. Naw, but, it’s a fuckin stalkers’ paradise! Oan the firm, ya hoor! — Aye, sound.
— Geez yir mobile number, eh sais.
This occasions a wee bit ay embarrassment oan ma behalf. — Eh, muh mobby is oot ay commission right now. But ah’ve goat a landline.
The boy’s lookin at ays as if eh’s made a big mistake, seein the dirty drink n drugs grime oan ays, nae doot catchin the whiff fir the first time. — Geez it then, eh gasps aw exasperated. Kin awready tell eh’ll be a cunt tae work fir. But if eh’s daein ehs haulage shite n ah’m in the stables, it should be a sweet case ay neer the twain. — How dae ye git oan wi dugs? eh asks ays.
— Love thum, aw kinds, ah tell um. No thit ah hud yin since Jacob, the German shepherd-collie cross thit died wi a lump in ehs throat whin ah wis seven. Cut ays tae the quick, yon did. The auld girl said somethin aboot cross-breeds eywis dyin n wi should’ve went pedigree, n the auld boy called her a fuckin Nazi hoor. Aye, they wir nivir that close.
The auld boy said that she only wanted tae mairry him cause he’d goat her up the duff. She’d been dumped by this Greek waiter whae’d headed back hame eftir the family restaurant in Kirkcaldy went bust, brekin the auld mare’s hert. Eywis a speculative venture fir the seventies: back then the Chinky wis probably exotic. She suffered fae a bout ay depression but comfort ate her wey through it, pittin oan loads ay weight in the process. Then the auld boy fired intae her up the Miners’ Welfare and bairned the hoor n ah wis the result. So ah cannae really complain but what the fuck, ye eywis think thit what yir folks dae before ye came along is nowt tae dae wi you. Supposed tae be grateful tae them fir the gift ay life; fuckin nonsense. Wi aw intuitively ken that thir’s aw they souls in heaven thit ur gaunnae git allocated tae some cunts anyway, if they dinnae shoot one oaf.
So ah shakes Tam Cahill’s hand and ahm a semi-workin man again. Stable haundin wis nivir ma thing, but. Ah wanted tae be a jockey but ah wis never that keen oan fuckin nags; best appreciated fae Ladbrokes, they cunts. But it fair held ays back, that attitude did. N tae be honest ah eywis shat it when they bastards goat gaun fill pelt. Like Kravy oan thon fuckin Triumph Boneville bike; ah dinnae really like it oan the back ay that hoor.
Darkness faws like a workin hoor’s keks: sudden but yet predictable. Ah gits hame, n tae celebrate my new employ makes masel a fried egg sanny n hus a read ay the paper, which irritates the fuck oot ay me. The Central Fife Times and Advertiser says that Dunfermline Pathetic huv selt 3,500 season tickets so far. I’ll no be fuckin well addin tae that list any roads! Shouldnae be huvin information aboot they cunts in the Cooden media! Hoors’ve goat thir ain fuckin press!
The Auld Boy’s in; either here or the library ur the only places yill find um. The Goth n aw: but only around last orders. Nivir leaves the hoose much as eh’s badly disfigured oan yin side ay the coupon due tae a burnin accident. Back in 1989 eh set himself oan fire. He blamed the cheap, flammable shell suit eh wis wearin, while the auld doll blamed the fags. Dinnae think that the auld mare wis that sold oan ehs coupon any roads, so wee Shitey Breeks moved in n whisked her oaf doon the road tae a life ay Dunfermline decadence.
The auld boy looks at ays, then sits doon wi the Record and starts shakin ehs heid at the news. Eh’s soon back oan ehs favourite subject, the seventies and the betrayal ay the workin cless. — The tax rebate, ye nivir git thaim now. Eywis came at the right fuckin time n aw. Aye, the seventies. Great times, then along came that English hoor n fucked it aw up. It’s aw fir the rich now, the whole fuckin country. That’s nivir a Labour man, no wi a mooth like thon. That’s a hoor’s mooth thon. Must huv been worth a fortune at that posh Fettes school wi a mooth like that; aye, well sought eftir, ah kin fuckin well bet ye! That Eton Tory wanker that’s gaunnae replace um: a fuckin clone!
— Thir’s a loat tae be said fir progress but, Faither. Some ay they great auld seventies institutions wir bad bastards; like the chip-pan fire disaster. The microwave, deep-fat fryer n the late-night takeaway’s done fir aw that.
— Aye, ah suppose thir’s been some kind ay progress, eh sais as eh rips intae ehs Pot Noodles. — But ah blame Scargill, should’ve goat a fuckin mob doon they Hooses ay Parliament, torn it apart brick by brick and stoned every yin ay they public-skill cunts tae death wi the rubble.
— Elites’ll eywis try tae impose themselves ower time but, Faither. The day’s revolutionary vanguard are the morn’s rulin cless.
— Aye, bit that’s how ye need permanent revolution but, son; build a set ay non-hierarchical structures …
Ah’m lookin oot the windae n ah see thit the wheelie bins huv been left oot in the street n need pit back in the front gairdin. — Aw structures by thir nature ur hierarchical but, Faither. N people dinnae want permanent revolution, they want tae jist chill oot sometimes.
The auld boy slams the Pot Noodle carton doon on the table. Eh twists the fork tae gain control ay the stringy noodles thit dangle fae it. — So what’s the answer then? Drink, drugs, the chippy n mair Tory rule? The cornerstanes ay your life?
— Ah’m no sayin that.
— Defeatist talk, son, eh sais waving ehs noodle-filled fork around. — That’s the problem wi your generation, nae collective consciousness! Ye should be doon that library fillin yir heid wi political n social education soas yi’ll be well placed tae take advantage whin the upturn comes! The likes ay Willie Gallagher and Auld Bob Selkirk wid be turning in thir graves!
— Ah doubt they’d be much impressed wi your gangsta rap stuff either, Faither.
Eh turns they blazin een oan ays: — Thir’s mair real politics in yin line ay 50 Cent thin in a hundred albums ay that hippy poof that you listen tae!
Fuck sakes, thir wis me hopin tae en
joy my fried egg oan Sunblest n Lurpak, garnished wi HP Sauce and pepper, but that’s aw fucked now.
6.
ANNIVERSARY
ONE OF THE saddest things imaginable is seeing my mother in her workout gear, putting on an exercise DVD, getting about five half-arsed incompetent minutes into the forty-five-minute programme, then switching it off and going into the kitchen. You see the tear stains on her fat cheeks and her flustered air as you approach her. Then you check the chocolate biscuits in the big, plastic Tupperware box and they’re about 50 per cent down.
— It’s our anniversary today, Mum almost absent-mindedly announces as she starts to tend the plants with her clippers and watering can. I can see from the display on the DVD that the recording is still in the machine, playing away to nobody. Out of boredom I’m sitting on the couch with Indy watching cartoons on another channel.
— So how many years have you been married? Indigo asks.
Just then my dad comes in. Mum’s about to say something when he replies, — Who cares aboot that? Love’s aw chemicals, he snorts. — It’s aw just a big con, like that Valentine’s Day.
My God, he’s so crass. — You don’t know what you’re talking about, I tell him. — Besides, you’re a hypocrite. You’ve got Mum’s name tattooed on your wrist.
He looks at his wrist, and then gapes stupidly at the cartoons, Scooby Doo and Shaggy running from a very unscary monster, then turns to me with a tight smile on his face. — You’re idealistic, you’re young. You’ll see sense and grow oot ay it.
I glance up at him. — Like you did when you were young? Indy looks at him too.
— I was never idealistic, always a realist, me. He shakes his head, collapsing into the big chair. — I was too busy making money so that you and your sister could ride horses and grow to hate me, he laughs, reaching across and flicking Indy’s long tresses.