It took a while to get it in. I remember being surprised that it actually did go up, as opposed to straight in likes. Her fanny was wet and slimy but a bit tight and I had to bend my knees. After a few thrusts I shot my load inside her as my legs buckled and I fell onto the mattress. It was my first proper ride; my first wet ride. Being honest, it wisnae that much better than a dry ride, but at least I'd done it. I felt equals with Tony; both men of the world. I went to school next day with a confident swagger. Aw these cunts who called me Dumbo Strang; sitting in their bedrooms wanking over Sue Storm, The Invisible Girl in the Fantastic Four, while there was me, the ugly cunt who was getting his hole. It was funny, I used tae hate the thought of Sue Storm getting shagged by that Mr Fantastic Cunt, that Reed Richards. She could've done better for hersel than that boring cunt, though I suppose he had the power tae alter the shape and dimensions ay any part ay his boady. If he could dae it tae his cock then she'd be in fir a good fuckin time. I suppose they didnae call the cunt Mr Fantastic for nothing. If she had a sair heid though, she could jist vanish.
I'd talk to Tony about getting my hole; bullshitting about the number of shags I'd had and the things I'd done. I think he knew I was making most of it up, and I knew that he knew, but he let me go on and said nothing as it amused the both of us and passed the time.
Lesley Thomson though; she began to disgust me, she really did. The truth was that she always had. She wore these manky white socks which used to make me feel aroused but soon just made me feel clarty. She had that unmistakeable stale-cake smell of the scheme scruff. I hated the way she just stood there, never moving, always looking vacant and stupid. I fucked her a few times that summer, always vowing that each time was the last time but eventually succumbing to the temptation to shaft her again and hating her and myself for it.
There wis one time when she tried tae take ma airm, this wis durin the day, ootside the gates at the school, likesay ah wis sort ay gaun oot wi her. I had to slap the slag's pus thair n then. I had tae dae a bit crawlin later oan, but, soas I'd git ma hole. — Wir gaun oot thegither, ah explained tae her stupid face, — but just at night likes, right? Durin the day we dae oor ain thing.
The slag seemed tae understand.
While I was up to all this in the scheme, I was sticking in at school. The next year I went into hibernation to study for my O Grades. Dad insisted that ah wisnae tae be disturbed and Kim was enlisted to bring my tea up to my room on a tray. Although Tony was in a flat by this time, so there was mair room, Bernard was made to sleep on the couch so I could have the room to myself. It always surprised me that Bernard didn't move into a flat, he was out the house often enough with his queer mates.
John was adamant that no sacrifice was too much during my study time. He was proud that a Strang was sitting six O Grades, and he and my Ma would embarrass the fuck out of me by telling every cunt.
I passed all six. They wanted ays tae stey oan n take highers, but I wanted a job soas I could get some cash thegither n get a place ay ma ain. There was another party at the house to celebrate; mostly the auld man and auld girl's pish-heid mates who staggered back too fucked tae realise what they were celebrating. There was the inevitable sing-song. Dad serenaded Ma wi 'From Russia With Love' and 'Moon River'. She sang 'Nobody Does it Better', tae him.
Nobody does it better,
Makes me feel sad for the rest.
Nobody does it half as good as you do,
Baby you're the best.
Dad glowed coyly, his eyebrows rising marginally over those thick frames in a Bond-like gesture. I felt a bit sick.
I held out and got my ain way, immediately leaving the school to take up a traineeship as a systems analyst at the Scottish Spinsters' Life Assurance Company in George Street. I'd always been into computers, at the school n that likes. Ma and Dad were pished off at first that I wisnae steyin oan but they bursted with pride when they heard that I'd got what people termed a good job with prospects. I'm sure Dad saw it as a vindication of the Strang genes.
— Kent ye hud brains, son, he would continually tell me. — Computers, thing ay the future, he would say knowingly, as if he was privy to some secret information that had evaded the rest of the human race. This statement became an almost obligatory utterance in my family at any reference to me, replacing 'six O Grades' and 'university material'. So that was me set up.
I remember my first day at Scottish Spinsters'. I was impressed to the point of being overawed by the building. It was completely new on the inside, but it had retained its grandiose Georgian facade and opulent reception area with marble pillars, and the original oak-panelled rooms and corridors. This was where the boardroom was situated and where the high-up cunts had their offices. This older part of the building led onto an ugly newly-built structure which housed a series of bland, identical offices decked out in pastel colours and lit with migraine-inducing neon strip-lights.
I shared an office with four others. The door was marked SYSTEMS CONTROL and it bore three names; Jane Hathaway, Derek Holt and Des Frost. Myself and Martine Fenwick, the other trainee, were not considered senior enough to have our names on the door. It was that sort of a place. In the office across the corridor was a guy called Colin Sproul, who was our section head.
If the building impressed me, I never really thought that much of the cunts I worked with. Jane Hathaway was like the supervisor, Senior Systems Control Officer, she was called. She was quite overweight with longish brown hair, and glasses which reminded me of the auld man's. There was haughty malevolence aboot her; she was a sad cunt who seemed to thrive on exercising her power over the men in the office. She'd get you to take something doon tae the photocopying for her (which wisnae really ma joab) and then say: —Thank you, young man, in a patronising, jokey sort of way. But she was quite a snidey cunt because she never overstepped the mark to the extent that you could confront her and tell her to fuck off; she just nipped away under the surface, her asides leaving a bad taste in your mooth though you could never be quite sure why.
I got the vibe that Hathaway had the hots for Martine Fenwick, who was a trainee like me, but, unlike me, had been to the Uni. English literature or something: fuckin waste that, eh. Fenwick was an exceptionally skinny lassie with no tits whatsoever. I sometimes used to glance doon her open blouse when she was demonstrating something on the VDU, just tae see if I could spy a bit ay tit. But naw, it was like her bra was just an elasticated vest which housed only a nipple. She was a really nervous lassie. Hathaway and her used to go all girlish when they spoke sometimes, it was like that was their patter; and Fenwick would start giggling nervously and jerk and twitch and have to put her knuckles between her teeth to stop herself laughing like an imbecile. She was a gawky lassie, in no way a shag, yet she had a strange, obscure sexuality and I inexplicably used to wank about her.
Hathaway seemed to give Derek Holt a hard time. Derek was an ordinary guy; married with two kids, liked a pint at lunchtime, good at his job, would never blow his own trumpet. He was intae fitba and was a season ticket holder at Tynecastle. I'd sometimes spraff with him aboot it. I was never really intae fitba then, it was just something tae talk aboot. Hathaway seemed to find this guy deeply offensive, like he was some kind of caveman; she'd look at him with withering distaste and her tone would go harsher when she addressed him. Perhaps it was because he wasn't what she was; English, middle-class and a lesbo. Holt never really seemed to notice her behaviour though, or if he did he didnae bother.
Des Frost was quite a smooth cunt. He fancied himself but was detached and didnae get involved. I could tell that he gave Martine Fenwick the hots in a big way.
Anyway, that was the cunts in my office. I didnae really have much time for any of them, but they never bothered me much, eh.
Even though I wanted to find a flat, life in the hoose had got better. I was bringing in money and was treated like mair ay an equal than a silly wee laddie. Sometimes I'd go up the pub wi Dad and Tony and Uncle Jackie and some of their mates. I felt g
reat at times like that. A lot of the auld cunts crawled up my erse, John Strang's laddie, they called me. Winston Two would sit curled at our feet as we sat with our pints and dominoes.
For as long as I could remember, I had fantasised revenge on that fuckin dug for the savaging he gave my leg as a sprog. The animal learned to keep out my road, but I made sure I was never caught kicking him. Winston Two was revered in my family. Kim used to take him out a lot and she had composed a banal and nauseating mantra which was always sung affectionately when the animal had something in his mouth. It went:
Winners, Winners, Winalot,
Winners Winners, what you got?
This moronic rhyme quickly gained cult status in my family and it was repeated endlessly by everyone. Kim obviously took this gift for shite poetry from Bernard, who was particularly keen on her daft composition. I hated the way they all idolised that fuckin dog.
One evening I found myself alone in the house with the beast. The old boy had been dozing by the electric bar fire and was slowly coming around. I had been watching him, the rhythmic flare of his nostrils, the rising of the flap of skin at the top of his nose as he slept. I was imagining his long head as the ball on the penalty spot in the European Cup Final between Hibs and A.C. Milan. At the end of an exciting but goal-less contest, the boys in emerald green were awarded a penalty kick which their new signing, Roy Strang, confidently stepped up to take.
Winston's jaw crackled PHAKOH as I caught the bastard a beauty. — Strang . . . one nil! I said crisply, in a nasal English commentator cunt voice, — end shawly nahow the Chempeons' Cup is on its woy to Aistuh Road! The beast let out an injured yelp then whined pathetically, cowering under the sideboard. — Winners . . . Winners . . . I cooed in breathless affection, eventually enticing the terrorised creature back to my side. — You are going to die, Winners, I said soothingly, — as soon as I find a way to get you away from here: You. are. going. to. die. I stroked the old boy as he panted in servile contentment.
I quite enjoyed my new job. I was a bit in awe of all the snobby cunts there, but some of them were okay and the work was easy. Most of all, I enjoyed the salary. Dumbo Strang, making mair poppy than any of the cheeky schemie peasants who had once tried to torment him. My social life, though, was a bit of a drag. I found it harder to get my hole. I wanted a class bird, no just knee-trembling some schemie in a rubbish room. There was plenty of tackle at the work, but it was mostly snobby fanny, or what ah would call snobby fanny, and I felt too shy and self-conscious to talk tae them. So there was no action at all. I had never really fancied the idea of taking drugs, apart from a blow with Tony. Pete, Penman and Bri were always oot ay thair faces on something or other. Although I had the odd pint wi Tony or the auld man, drink did little for me, and I wasnae really intae getting pished. I'd seen alcohol as the drug of too many of the plebs I despised. So I suppose I sort of came to the conclusion that the best possibility for me in having a good crack was with the cashies. I had gone to a few Hibs games as a kid with Tony and my Dad, but always got bored quickly. Fitba seemed a drag to me. I identified it with my own lack of ability; too uncoordinated thanks to my gammy leg, courtesy of Winston Two. However, Dexy and Willie were running with the baby crew, and I started listening to some of their stories with interest.
But all this is nonsense.
Let's get DEEPER.
9 The
Praying
Mantis
Sandy toked hard on the spliff and inhaled powerfully. We were driving Dawson's shabby jeep out towards the Emerald Forest Park. I was at the wheel. I watched the dark, urban landscape of Jambola Park's dank and dingy parent city come to an end as a lush green hill appeared before us. Two young women came into view, hitching by the side of the road. One had honey-blonde hair, streaked by the sun. She was a little overweight, but very pretty. The other one had dark, cascading hair, lovely almond eyes, and a beautiful twisted pout to her lips. She was gorgeous.
— Stop! Sandy shouted, nodding over at them.
I increased speed. — Slags! Fuckin slags! The last thing we want are fuckin slags in tow tae spoil it fir every cunt, I snarled, surprised at the words that were coming out of my mouth.
What the fuck is this?
— We would've been well in . . . Sandy moaned.
— Plenty of opportunity tae get a ride . . . I mean, plenty of opportunity to enjoy the consort of attractive young ladies after we take care of business, Sandy, I said. For some reason I hated those women. The slags gave me the fucking creeps. Hitching like that. They deserved to get . . .
No.
In here I'm doing all the things I didn't do out there. I'm trying to be better, trying to do the right thing, trying to work it all out.
Sandy is not amused. He's well pissed off at me for not stopping. He starts prattling away, his hurt suddenly taking on a more abstract, conceptual bent: —Justice, he urbanely remarked, —is not a commodity we enjoy to any great extent. Yes, we strive towards it, but it seems to be the miserable lot of our wretched species that it persistently evades us.
I ignored him. We'd just had this conversation. When we first got into the town we had hit a bar where we watched some disturbing televised pictures of children starving to death. It was some famine, or a war, or whatever. I took it that Sandy had been moved by this, because he came out with exactly the same sort of stuff about justice. — Yes Sandy, I had agreed, — those poor starving children; a rather shabby show all round.
— Actually, I was thinking about the infamous handball incident in the Airdrie v Dunfermline League Cup Semi-Final at Tynecastle in September 1991 where a controversial refereeing decision . .
That was what he'd said then. Now, he's saying it all again, slavering that same shite in ma fuckin ear. I shook my head. Why did he have to bring this up? I'm losing control, I'm fucking well losing it here. — I think I've heard this story before, Sandy . . . I wasn't taking this from a cunt who wasn't real, just a character I'd created in my own mind, based vaguely on the outline of a footballer. Nothing is real, but everything is. I have only my perception to determine what reality is, and in here that perception is so vivid it makes up for my lost senses.
Sandy sulked and took the wheel after we stopped for a slash and a cup of stewed tea in an outlying village. On the other side of the Green Hill was the Emerald Forest Park. I picked up my copy of YOUTH IN ASIA, the book Dawson had given me. A cursory glance at the contents revealed a deeply philosophical work in which the author strove to find paths of self-deliverance.
Though far from a light read, it was just what I was after; I would recommend it to anyone grappling with the practical issues of personal political
need to do this to rise
Father is here. John Strang. Mother seems tae be here n aw. Verity Strang, nee Porteous. I'm starting to remember.
The game.
DEEPER
DEEPER
DEEPER – – – – – – – – I feel the sun on my face and see Sandy smiling at me. I feel a wonderous, euphoric warmth towards him; it's as if we've taken some MDMA capsules together and the whole world stops and ends at the positive force of love we feel in and around our bodies. We embrace.
After a long silence I say, — I'm sorry, Sandy. I lost the place a bit back there.
— The jeep's rather . . . eh, fucked, basically, he says, changing the subject to spare my embarrassment as we break our hug.
I stand back from him and my senses are overwhelmed by a montage of images in which I see my fist slamming into the twisted rubbery sick queer face of a poof. . . it's Bernard . . . no . . . it's Gordon, his sweet, pukey breath is now in my ear and my spine trembles . . . what the fuck . . .
Concentrate: get a fuckin grip.
Better.
Better.
I notice that we're no longer in the jeep but lying in our underpants by the side of the lake. I enviously give Jamieson's, muscular, athletic footballer's legs the once over. I've treated him badly during this hunt for th
e Stork, which definitely seems to have lost its momentum of late.
When Sandy looks up at the sun and exclaims, — It was never a penalty, I now fully understand what he's talking about. I've been trying to stage things too much in this little world of mine, trying to exercise total control over this environment, instead of trusting myself to react to events with dignity and compassion. So what if my two worlds are coming closer together? It may be the way I get closer to the Stork. Rather than cut Sandy off, I decide to go with it.
— I'm tempted to agree Sandy, I tell him.
He points to his bare chest, — I've been vindicated by the cameras. I curse that decision every fucking day of my life, Roy. It destroyed my best ever chance of a medal. It destroyed my place in the record books, my shot at footballing immortality. They had no right to do that to me. He gasped in exasperation. — What gave him the right? No man has the right . . . Tears rolled down Sandy's tanned cheeks.
No man has the right.
Where did I see that?
Where did I see that? I'm a little fazed, so I break into a nervy rant, — Come on Sandy, that type of setback's part and parcel of the game. Anyway, look at Scottish football and its dreary toytown sectarian status quo: pro-Rangers, masonic, bigoted, servile and backward. We're talking Scotland here, for God sakes . . .
SCOTLAND. NO. THIS IS SUPPOSED TO BE AFRICA OR SOMEWHERE OR EVEN INSIDE MY HEAD WHICH IS NOT A COUNTRY, IT HAS NOTHING TO . . .
I look at Jamieson, open-mouthed for a second. Fortunately he is too lost in himself to notice my gaffe. — Sandy, consider forgiveness. Consider human error. He may have just made a mistake.
Sandy thought about this, then turned to me in a state of some shock. — . . . Just a mistake? he said.
— Yes Sandy, human error.
Sandy looked up at me, a light in his eye and a smile on his face, — Yes! Of course! It was just a silly mistake. Only a game of football, twenty-two daft overgrown laddies kicking a baw around. No harm done.